Millbank as a depot for convicts sentenced to transportation—Identified with a large proportion of the criminals of the day—Notorious robbers who spent some period of their sentence there—Burglars—Jewel robberies—The receivers of stolen goods—Thieves at the Custom House—Great Gold Dust robbery—“Money Moses”—Fraudulent shipwreckers—Forgeries to obtain stock—Gentlemen convicts—Gigantic commercial fraud—A modern Bluebeard—A racing parson—“Men of the world”—Striking the Queen—Bank of England robbed—Cauty, “father of the robbers”—A famous receiver—The Police Officers’ gang—Some female thieves—Alice Grey or “Brazil”—Emily Laurence—Daring thefts.

For some time past Millbank had doubled its uses; a penitentiary for reformation and a depot for those awaiting transportation quickly beyond the seas. It had ceased to receive only selected prisoners and worked under the general system of secondary punishment; and many of the most notorious criminals of the day made it a temporary resting-place. We have seen in previous chapters how persistently turbulent were the inmates of the prison and we shall better understand this by a survey of the most prominent offenders of the time, and the misdeeds for which they were in durance en route to penal exile. Criminal methods for the most part remained unchanged or the same crimes flourished under different names.

Although highway robbery was now nearly extinct, and felonious outrages in the streets were rare, thieves or depredators were by no means idle or unsuccessful. Bigger “jobs” than ever were planned and attempted, as in the burglary at Lambeth Palace, when the thieves were fortunately disappointed, the archbishop having, before he left town, sent his plate-chests, eight in number, to the silversmith’s for greater security. The jewellers were always a favourite prey of the London thieves. Shops were broken into, as when that of Grimaldi and Johnson, in the Strand, was robbed of watches to the value of £6,000. Where robbery with violence was intended, the perpetrators had now to adopt various shifts and contrivances to secure their victim. No more curious instance of this ever occurred than the assault made by one Howard upon a Mr. Mullay, with intent to rob him. The latter had advertised, offering a sum of £1,000 to any one who would introduce him to some mercantile employment. Howard replied, desiring Mr. Mullay to call upon him in a house in Red Lion Square. Mr. Mullay went, and a second interview was agreed upon, when a third person, Mr. Owen, through whose interest an appointment under Government was to be obtained for Mullay, would be present. Mr. Mullay called again, taking with him £500 in cash. Howard discovered this, and his manner was very suspicious; there were weapons in the room—a long knife, a heavy trap-ball bat, and a poker. Mr. Mullay became alarmed, and as Mr. Owen did not appear, withdrew; Howard, strange to say, making no attempt to detain him; probably because Mullay promised to return a few days later, and to bring more money. On this renewed visit Mr. Owen was still absent, and Mr. Mullay agreed to write him a note from a copy Howard gave him. While thus engaged, Howard thrust the poker into the fire. Mullay protested, and then Howard, under the influence of ungovernable rage, as it seemed, jumped up, locked the door, and attacked Mullay violently with the trap-ball bat and knife. Mullay defended himself, and managed to break the knife, but not before he had cut himself severely. A life and death struggle ensued. Mullay cried “Murder!” Howard swore he would finish him, but proved the weaker of the two, and Mullay got him down on the floor. By this time the neighbours were aroused, and several people came to the scene of the affray. Howard was secured, given into custody, and committed for trial. The defence he set up was, that Mullay had used epithets towards him while they were negotiating a business matter, and that, being of an irritable temper, he had struck Mullay, after which a violent scuffle took place. It was, however, proved that Howard was in needy circumstances, and that his proposals to Mr. Mullay could only have originated in a desire to rob him. He was found guilty of an assault with intent, and sentenced to transportation for fourteen years.

At no period could thieves in London or elsewhere have prospered had they been unable to dispose of their ill-gotten goods. The trade of fence, or receiver, therefore, is very nearly as old as the crimes which it so obviously fostered. One of the most notorious, and for a time most successful practitioners in this illicit trade, passed through Newgate into Millbank and beyond. The name of Ikey Solomons was long remembered by thief and thief-taker. He began as an itinerant street vendor at eight years of age, at ten he passed bad money, at fourteen he was a pickpocket and a “duffer,” or a seller of sham goods. He early saw the profits in purchasing stolen goods, but could not embark in it at first for want of capital. He was taken up when still in his teens for stealing a pocket-book, and was sentenced to transportation, but did not get beyond the hulks at Chatham. On his release an uncle, a slopseller in Chatham, gave him a situation as “barker,” or salesman, at which he realized £150 within a couple of years. With this capital he returned to London and set up as a fence. He had such great aptitude for business, and such a thorough knowledge of the real value of goods, that he was soon admitted to be one of the best judges known of all kinds of property, from a glass bottle to a five hundred guinea chronometer. But he never paid more than a fixed price for all articles of the same class, whatever their intrinsic value. Thus, a watch was paid for as a watch, whether it was of gold or silver; a piece of linen as such, whether the stuff was coarse or fine. This rule in dealing with stolen goods continues to this day, and has made the fortune of many since Ikey.

Solomons also established a system of provincial agency, by which stolen goods were passed on from London to the seaports, and so abroad. Jewels were re-set, diamonds re-faced; all marks by which other articles might be identified, the selvages of linen, the stamps on shoes, the number and names on watches, were carefully removed or obliterated after the goods passed out of his hands. On one occasion the whole of the proceeds of a robbery from a boot shop was traced to Solomons’; the owner came with the police, and was morally convinced that it was his property, but could not positively identify it, and Ikey defied them to remove a single shoe. In the end the injured bootmaker agreed to buy back his stolen stock at the price Solomons had paid for it, and it cost him about a hundred pounds to re-stock his shop with his own goods.

As a general rule Ikey Solomons confined his purchases to small articles, mostly of jewelry and plate, which he kept concealed in a hiding-place with a trap-door just under his bed. He lived in Rosemary Lane, and sometimes he had as much as £20,000 worth of goods secreted on the premises. When his trade was busiest he set up a second establishment, at the head of which, although he was married, he put another lady, with whom he was on intimate terms. The second house was in Lower Queen Street, Islington, and he used it for some time as a depot for valuables. But it was eventually discovered by Mrs. Solomons, a very jealous wife, and this, with the danger arising from an extensive robbery of watches in Cheapside, in which Ikey was implicated as a receiver, led him to think seriously of trying his fortunes in another land. He was about to emigrate to New South Wales, when he was arrested at Islington and committed to Newgate on a charge of receiving stolen goods. While thus incarcerated he managed to escape from custody, but not actually from gaol, by an ingenious contrivance which is worth mentioning. He claimed to be admitted to bail, and was taken from Newgate on a writ of habeas before one of the judges sitting at Westminster. He was conveyed in a coach driven by a confederate, and under the escort of a couple of turnkeys. Solomons, while waiting to appear in court, persuaded the turnkeys to take him to a public-house, where all might “refresh.” While there he was joined by his wife and other friends. After a short carouse the prisoner went into Westminster, his case was heard, bail refused, and he was ordered back to Newgate. But he once more persuaded the turnkeys to pause at the public, where more liquor was consumed. When the journey was resumed, Mrs. Solomons accompanied her husband in the coach. Half-way to Newgate she was taken with a fit. One turnkey was stupidly drunk, and Ikey persuaded the other, who was not much better, to let the coach change and pass Petticoat Lane en route to the gaol, where the suffering woman might be handed over to her friends. On stopping at a door in this low street, Ikey jumped out, ran into the house, slamming the door behind him. He passed through and out at the back, and was soon beyond pursuit. By and by the turnkeys, sobered by their loss, returned to Newgate alone, and pleaded in excuse that they had been drugged.

Ikey left no traces, and the police could hear nothing of him. He had in fact gone out of the country, to Copenhagen, whence he passed on to New York. There he devoted himself to the circulation of forged notes. He was also anxious to do business in watches, and begged his wife to send him over a consignment of cheap “righteous” watches, or such as had been honestly obtained, and not “on the cross.” But Mrs. Solomons could not resist the temptation to dabble in stolen goods, and she was found shipping watches of the wrong category to New York. For this she received a sentence of fourteen years’ transportation, and was sent to Van Diemen’s Land. Ikey joined her at Hobart Town, where they set up a general shop, and soon began to prosper. He was, however, recognized, and ere long an order came out from home for his arrest and transfer to England, which presently followed, and he again found himself an inmate of Newgate, waiting trial as a receiver and a prison-breaker. He was indicted on eight charges, two only of which were substantiated, but on each of them he received a sentence of seven years’ transportation. At his own request he was reconveyed to Hobart Town, where his son had been carrying on the business. Whether Ikey was “assigned” to his own family is not recorded, but no doubt he succeeded to his own property when the term of servitude had expired.

No doubt, on the removal of Ikey Solomons from the scene, his mantle fell upon worthy successors. There was an increase rather than an abatement in jewel and bullion robberies in the years immediately following, and the thieves seem to have had no difficulty in disposing of their spoil. One of the largest robberies of its class was that effected upon the Custom House in the winter of 1834. A large amount of specie was nearly always retained here in the department of the receiver of fines. This was known to some clerks in the office, who began to consider how they might lay hands on a lot of cash. Being inexperienced, they decided to call in the services of a couple of professional housebreakers, Jordan and Sullivan, who at once set to work in a business-like way to obtain impressions of the keys of the strong room and chest. But before committing themselves to an attempt on the latter, it was of importance to ascertain how much it usually contained. For this purpose Jordan waited on the receiver to make a small payment, for which he tendered a fifty-pound note. The chest was opened to give change, and a heavy tray lifted out which plainly held some £4,000 in cash. Some difficulty then arose as to gaining admission to the strong room, and it was arranged that a man, May, another Custom House clerk, should be introduced into the building, and secreted there during the night to accomplish the robbery. May was smuggled in through a window on the esplanade behind an opened umbrella. When the place was quite deserted he broke open the chest and stole £4,700 in notes, with a quantity of gold and some silver. He went out next morning with the booty when the doors were re-opened, and attracted no attention. The spoil was fairly divided; part of the notes were disposed of to a travelling “receiver,” who passed over to the Continent and there cashed them easily.

This occurred in November 1834. The Custom House officials were in a state of consternation, and the police were unable at first to get on the track of the thieves. While the excitement was still fresh, a new robbery of diamonds was committed at a bonded warehouse in the immediate neighbourhood, on Custom House Quay. The jewels had belonged to a Spanish countess recently deceased, who had sent them to England for greater security on the outbreak of the first Carlist war. At her death the diamonds were divided between her four daughters, but only half had been claimed, and at the time of the robbery there were still £6,000 worth in the warehouse. These were deposited in an iron chest of great strength on the second floor. The thieves, it was supposed, had secreted themselves in the warehouse during business hours, and waited till night to carry out their plans. Some ham sandwiches, several cigar-ends, and two empty champagne bottles were found on the premises next day, showing how they had passed their time. They had had serious work to get at the diamonds. It was necessary to force one heavy door from its hinges, and to cut through the thick panels of another. The lock and fastenings of the chest were forced by means of a “jack,” an instrument known to housebreakers, which, if introduced into a keyhole, and worked like a bit and brace, will soon destroy the strongest lock. The thieves were satisfied with the diamonds; they broke open other cases containing gold watches and plate, but abstracted nothing.

The police were of opinion that these robberies were both the work of the same hand. But it was not until the autumn that they traced some of the notes stolen from the Custom House to Jordan and Sullivan. About this time also suspicion fell upon Huey, one of the clerks, who was arrested soon afterwards, and made a clean breast of the whole affair. There was a hunt for the two well-known housebreakers, who were eventually heard of at a lodging in Kennington. But they at once made tracks, and took up their residence under assumed names in a tavern in Bloomsbury. The police lost all trace of them for some days, but at length Sullivan’s brother was followed from the house in Kennington to the above-mentioned tavern. Both the thieves were now apprehended, but only a small portion of the lost property was recovered, notwithstanding a minute search through the room they had occupied. After their arrest, Jordan’s wife and Sullivan’s brother came to the inn, and begged to be allowed to visit this room; but their request, in spite of their earnest entreaties, was refused, at the instigation of the police. A few days later a frequent guest at the tavern arrived, and had this same room allotted to him. A fire was lit in it, and the maid in doing so threw a lot of rubbish, as it seemed, which had accumulated under the grate, on top of the burning coals. By and by the occupant of the room noticed something glittering in the centre of the fire, which, to inspect more closely, he took out with the tongs. It was a large gold brooch set in pearls, but a portion of the mounting had melted with the heat. The fire was raked out, and in the ashes were found seven large and four dozen small brilliants, also seven emeralds, one of them of considerable size. A part of the “swag” stolen from the bonded warehouse was thus recovered, but it was supposed that a number of the stolen notes had perished in the fire.

The condign punishment meted out to these Custom House robbers had no deterrent effect seemingly. Within three months, three new and most mysterious burglaries were committed at the West End, all in houses adjoining each other. One was occupied by the Portuguese ambassador, who lost a quantity of jewelry from an escritoire, and his neighbours lost plate and cash. Not the slightest clue to these large affairs was ever obtained, but it is probable that they were “put up” jobs, or managed with the complicity of servants. The next year twelve thousand sovereigns were cleverly stolen in the Mile End Road.

The gold-dust robbery of 1839, the first of its kind, was cleverly and carefully planned with the assistance of a dishonest employee. A young man named Caspar, clerk to a steamship company, learned through the firm’s correspondence that a quantity of gold-dust brought in a man-of-war from Brazil had been transhipped at Falmouth for conveyance to London. The letter informed him of the marks and sizes of the cases containing the precious metal, and he with his father arranged that a messenger should call for the stuff with forged credentials, thus anticipating the rightful owner. The fraudulent messenger, by the help of young Caspar, established his claim to the boxes, paid the wharfage dues, and carried off the gold-dust. Presently the proper person arrived from the consignees, but found the gold-dust gone. The police were at once employed, and after infinite pains they discovered the person, one Moss, who had acted as the messenger. Moss was known to be intimate with the elder Caspar, father of the clerk to the steamship company, and these facts were deemed sufficient to justify the arrest of all three. They also ascertained that a gold-refiner, Solomons, had sold bar gold to the value of £1,200 to certain bullion dealers. Solomons was not straightforward in his replies as to where he got the gold, and he was soon placed in the dock with the Caspars and Moss. Moss presently turned approver, and implicated “Money Moses,” another Jew, for the whole affair had been planned and executed by members of the Hebrew persuasion. “Money Moses” had received the stolen gold-dust from Moss’ father-in-law, Davis, or Isaacs, who was never arrested, and passed it on to Solomons by his daughter, a widow named Abrahams. Solomons was now also admitted as a witness, and his evidence, with that of Moss, secured the transportation of the principal actors in the theft. In the course of the trial it came out that almost every one concerned except the Caspars had endeavoured to defraud his accomplices. Moss peached because he declared he had been done out of the proper price of the gold-dust; but it was clear that he had tried to appropriate the whole of the stuff, instead of handing it or the price of it back to the Caspars. “Money Moses” and Mrs. Abrahams imposed upon Moss as to the price paid by Solomons; Mrs. Abrahams imposed upon her father by abstracting a portion of the dust and selling it on her own account; Solomons cheated the whole lot by retaining half the gold in his possession, and only giving an I. O. U. for it, which he refused to redeem on account of the row about the robbery.

Moses, it may be added, was a direct descendant of the Ikey Solomons already mentioned. He was ostensibly a publican, and kept the Black Lion in Vinegar Yard, Drury Lane, where secretly he did business as one of the most daring and successful fencers ever known in the metropolis. His arrest and conviction cast dismay over the whole gang of receivers, and for a time seriously checked the nefarious traffic. It may be added that prison life did not agree with “Money Moses;” a striking change came over his appearance while in prison. Before his confinement he had been a sleek round person, addicted obviously to the pleasures of the table. He did not thrive on prison fare, now more strictly meagre, thanks to the inspectors and the more stringent discipline, and before he embarked for Australia to undergo his fourteen years, he was reported to have fallen away to a shadow.

As the century advanced crimes of fraud increased. They were not only more numerous, but on a wider scale. The most extensive and systematic robberies were planned so ingeniously and carried out so cleverly that they long escaped detection. Among the earliest of the big operators in fraudulent finance was Edward Beaumont Smith who uttered false exchequer bills to an almost fabulous amount. Another fraud greatly developed was the wilful shipwreck and casting away of a ship which with her cargo, real or imaginary, had been heavily insured. The Dryad was a brig owned principally by two persons named Wallace, one a seaman, the other a merchant. She was freighted by the firm of Zulueta and Co. for a voyage to Santa Cruz. Her owners insured her for a full sum of £2,000, after which the Wallaces insured her privily with other underwriters for a second sum of £2,000. After this, on the faith of forged bills of lading, the captain, Loose by name, being a party to the intended fraud, they obtained further insurances on goods never shipped. It was fully proved in evidence that when the Dryad sailed she carried nothing but the cargo belonging to Zulueta and Co. Yet the Wallaces pretended to have put on board quantities of flannels, cloths, cotton prints, beef, pork, butter, and earthenwares, on all of which they effected insurances. Loose had his instructions to cast away the ship on the first possible opportunity, and from the time of his leaving Liverpool he acted in a manner which excited the suspicions of the crew. The larboard pump was suffered to remain choked up, and the long-boat was fitted with tackles and held ready for use at a moment’s notice. The ship, however, met with exasperatingly fine weather, and it was not until the captain reached the West India Islands that he got a chance of accomplishing his crime. At a place called the Silver Keys he ran the ship on the reef. But another ship, concluding that he was acting in ignorance, rendered him assistance. The Dryad was got off, repaired, and her voyage renewed to Santa Cruz. He crept along the coast close in shore, looking for a quiet spot to cast away the ship, and at last, when within fifteen miles of port, with wind and weather perfectly fair, he ran her on to the rocks. Even then she might have been saved, but the captain would not suffer the crew to act. Nearly the whole of the cargo was lost as well as the ship. The captain and crew, however, got safely to Jamaica, and so to England, the captain dying on the voyage home.

The crime soon became public. Mate, carpenter, and crew were eager to disavow complicity, and voluntarily gave information. The Wallaces were arrested, committed to Newgate, and tried at the Old Bailey. The case was clearly proved against them, and both were sentenced to transportation for life. While lying in Newgate, awaiting removal to the convict ship, both prisoners made full confessions. According to their own statements the loss of the Dryad was only one of six intentional shipwrecks with which they had been concerned. The crime of fraudulent insurance they declared was very common, and the underwriters must have lost great sums in this way. The merchant Wallace said he had been led into the crime by the advice and example of a city friend who had gone largely into this nefarious business; this Wallace added that his friend had made several voyages with the distinct intention of superintending the predetermined shipwrecks. The other Wallace, the sailor, also traced his lapse into crime to evil counsel. He was an honest sea-captain, he said, trading from Liverpool, where once he had the misfortune to be introduced to a man of wealth, the foundations of which had been laid by buying old ships on purpose to cast them away. This person made much of Wallace, encouraged his attentions to his daughter, and tempted him to take to fraudulent insurance as a certain method of achieving fortune. Wallace’s relations warned him against his Liverpool friend, but he would not take their advice, and developing his transactions, ended as we have seen.

A clergyman nearly a century later followed in the steps of Dr. Dodd, but under more humane laws did not lose his life. The Rev. W. Bailey, LL. D., was convicted at the Central Criminal Court, in February, 1843, of forgery. A notorious miser, Robert Smith, had recently died in Seven Dials, where he had amassed a considerable fortune. But among the charges on the estate he left was a promissory note for £2,875, produced by Dr. Bailey, and purporting to be signed by Smith. The executors to the estate disputed the validity of this document. Miss Bailey, the doctor’s sister, in whose favour the note was said to have been given, then brought an action against the administrators, and at the trial Dr. Bailey swore that the note had been given him by Smith. The jury did not believe him, and the verdict was for the defendants. Subsequently Bailey was arrested on a charge of forgery, and after a long trial found guilty. His sentence was transportation for life.

A gigantic conspiracy to defraud was discovered in the following year, when a solicitor named William Henry Barber, Joshua Fletcher, a surgeon, and three others were charged with forging wills for the purpose of obtaining unclaimed stock in the funds. There were two separate affairs. In the first a maiden lady, Miss Slack, who was the possessor of two separate sums in consols, neglected through strange carelessness on her own part and that of her friends to draw the dividends on more than one sum. The other, remaining unclaimed for ten years, was transferred at the end of that time to the commissioners for the reduction of the National Debt. Barber, it was said, became aware of this, and he gained access to Miss Slack on pretence of conveying to her some funded property left her by an aunt. By this means her signature was obtained; a forged will was prepared bequeathing the unclaimed stock to Miss Slack; a note purporting to be from Miss Slack was addressed to the governor of the Bank of England, begging that the said stock might be handed over to her, and a person calling herself Miss Slack duly attended at the bank, where the money was handed over to her in proper form. A second will, also forged, was propounded at Doctors’ Commons as that of a Mrs. Hunt of Bristol. Mrs. Hunt had left money in the funds which remained unclaimed, and had been transferred, as in Miss Slack’s case. Here again the money, with ten years’ interest, was handed over to Barber and another calling himself Thomas Hunt, an executor of the will. It was shown that the will must be a forgery, as its signature was dated 1829, whereas Mrs. Hunt actually died in 1806. A third similar fraud to the amount of £2,000 was also brought to light. Fletcher was the moving spirit of the whole business. It was he who had introduced Barber to Miss Slack, and held all the threads of these intricate and nefarious transactions. Barber and Fletcher were both transported for life, although Fletcher declared that Barber was innocent, and had no guilty knowledge of what was being done. Barber was subsequently pardoned, but was not replaced on the rolls as an attorney till 1855, when Lord Campbell delivered judgment on Barber’s petition, to the effect that “the evidence to establish his (Barber’s) connivance in the frauds was too doubtful for us to continue his exclusion any longer.”

Foremost on the Millbank calendar stand those of the upper classes, who were afterwards styled in Australia, “specials,” or “gentlemen convicts.” It was said that of these there were at one and the same time in Millbank two captains, a baronet, four clergymen, a solicitor, and one or two doctors of medicine. The tradition is ben trovato, if not exactly true. Of course in such a prison there would be representatives of every class, and although the percentage of gentlemen who commit crimes is in the long run far below that of the middle or lower classes, there is no special natural law by which the blue blood is exempted from the ordinary weakness and imperfections of humanity. Most of these genteel people who found themselves in Millbank owed their fate to forgery or fraud. There was the old gentleman of seventy years of age, who had been a mayor in a north-country manufacturing town, and who had forged and defrauded his nieces out of some £360,000. The officers spoke of him as “a fine old fellow,” who took to his new task of tailoring like a man, and who could soon turn out a soldier’s great-coat as well as any one in the prison. Another convict of this stamp was Mr. T., a Liverpool merchant in a prosperous business, who was a forger on quite a colossal scale. It was proved at his trial that he had forged thirty bills of exchange, amounting to a total of £32,811, and that he had a guilty knowledge of one hundred and fifteen other bills, which were valued in all at £133,000. In his defence it was urged that he had taken up many bills before they were due, and would undoubtedly have taken up all had not the discovery of one forgery exposed his frauds and put an end suddenly to his business. Still, said his counsel, his estate could have paid from twelve to fifteen shillings in the pound, and it could hardly be maintained against him that he had any moral intention of defrauding. Judge Talfourd appears to have commented strongly, in summing up, upon such an idea of morality as this; and then and there sentenced Mr. T. to transportation for life. Unfortunately for the criminal himself, his sentence came a little too late: had he gone out to New South Wales twenty years earlier, with his commercial aptitude and generally unscrupulous plan of action, he would have run well to the front in the race for wealth amidst his felon competitors.

More contemptible, but not less atrocious, was the conduct of Mr. B., who had taken his diploma as surgeon, and practised as such in many parts of the country. His offence was bigamy on a large scale: he was guilty of a series of heartless deceptions, so that it was said the scene in court when this Blue Beard was finally arraigned, and all his victims appeared against him, was painful in the extreme. He was brought to book by the friend of a young lady to whom he was trying to pay his attentions. This gentleman, being somewhat suspicious, made inquiries, and discovered enough to have him arrested. Four different certificates of marriage were put in evidence. It seemed that, although already married in Cornwall, he moved thence and took a practice in another county, where he became acquainted with a lady residing in the neighbourhood, who had a little money of her own. He made her an offer, married her, and then found that by marriage she forfeited the annuity she previously enjoyed. After a short time he deserted her, having first obtained possession of all her clothes, furniture, trinkets, and so forth, which he sold. His next affair was on board an East Indiaman bound to Calcutta, in which he sailed as surgeon—wishing doubtless to keep out of the way for a while. Among the passengers was a Miss B., only fifteen years of age, who was going out to the East with her mother and sisters. He succeeded in gaining her affections, and obtained the mother’s consent to the marriage on arrival at Calcutta. He made out, by means of fraudulent documents prepared on purpose, that he had inherited £5,000 from his father, and offered to settle £3,000 on his bride. The marriage came off in due course at Calcutta, and then the happy pair returned to England. Soon after their arrival, Mr. B. deserted his new wife in a hotel in Liverpool, and after that he began the affair which led to his detection.

Mr. B. is remembered in Millbank as a man of considerable attainments. He was well educated, and spoke several languages. One of his favourite feats was to write the Lord’s Prayer on a scrap of paper not larger than a sixpence, in five different languages. In his appearance there was nothing to justify his success with the female sex. If anything he was plain, thereby supporting Wilkes, who asserted that he was only five minutes behind the best looking man in a room. In complexion Mr. B. was dark, almost swarthy; in figure, stout. He could not be called even gentlemanlike in his bearing. But he had a good address; spoke well and readily; and he was extremely shrewd and clever. As a prisoner his conduct was all that could be desired. He passed on like the rest eventually to Australia, where he again married.

The clergymen whose crimes brought them to Millbank were rather commonplace characters; weak men, mostly, who could not resist their evil propensities. Of course they were not always what they pretended to be. One of the most noteworthy was the Honourable and Reverend Mr.——, who was really an ordained minister of the Church of England, and had held a good living in Ireland, worth £1,400 a year. But he was passionately addicted to the turf, and attended every meeting. His luck varied considerably—sometimes up and sometimes down. He came at length to lose every shilling he had in the world at Manchester races. The inveterate spirit of gambling was so strong within him that he was determined to try his luck again. He had been staying at a friend’s house—a careless man, of good means, who left his cheque-book too accessible to others. The Honourable and Reverend Mr.—— went straight from the course to his friend’s study, filled in a cheque, forged the signature, cashed the same en route to the races, and recommenced operations forthwith. Meanwhile his friend went also, quite by accident, to the bank for cash. They told him a large cheque had only just been paid to his order.

“I drew no cheque!” he exclaimed.

“Why, here it is?”

“But that is not my signature.”

Whereupon the honourable and reverend gentleman was incontinently arrested in the middle of the grand stand. His sentence was transportation for life, and from Millbank he passed on in due course to the antipodes. He was a poor creature at the best times, and under prison discipline became almost imbecile and useless. After a long interval he gained a ticket-of-leave, and was last heard of performing divine worship at an out-station at the rate of a shilling a service.

Of a very different kidney was the Rev. A. B., a man of parts, clever and dexterous, who succeeded in everything he tried. He spoke seven languages, all well; and when in prison learned with ease to tailor with the best.

Somewhat similar to him in character was the Rev. Dr. B., a doctor of divinity, according to his own statement, whose career of villainy was of long duration. This man had served several long sentences, which in no wise prevented his return to crime. He also was a man of superior education, who could read Hebrew, so the warders said, as easily as the chaplain gave the morning prayers. Dr. B. was discovered one day writing in Hebrew characters in his copy-book at school time, just when a party of distinguished visitors were inspecting the prison. One of them, surprised, said, “What! do you know Hebrew?”

“Yes,” was the impudent reply, “I expect a great deal better than you do.”

A better story still is told of this man later, when set at large on ticket-of-leave. Through barefaced misrepresentation he had been permitted to take the duty of a beneficed clergyman during his absence from the parish. In due course came an invitation to dine with the local magnate, whose place was some distance from the rectory. Our ex-convict clergyman ordered a carriage and pair from the neighbouring town, and drove to the hall in state. As he alighted from the carriage, his footman, hired also for the occasion, recognized his face in the blaze of light from the open door. “Blow me, if that ain’t Slimy B., the chaplain’s man, who did his ‘bit’ along with us at the ‘Steel,’” he exclaimed. Both coachman and lacquey were ex-convicts too, and after that the secret soon leaked out. The reverend doctor found his country parish rather too hot to hold him. Some of his later misdeeds consisted in decoying and plundering governesses in search of situations; he also established himself in various neighbourhoods as a schoolmaster, and more than once succeeded in obtaining church duty.

Of the military men, the most prominent was a certain Captain C., who belonged to an excellent family, but who had fallen very low, going by degrees from bad to worse. He was long known as a notorious gambler and loose liver. At length, unable to earn enough money to gratify his vices by fair means, he sought to obtain it by foul, and became allied to a mob of ruffians who styled themselves “Men of the World.” In other words, he took to obtaining goods under false pretences. Captain C. was principally useful as a respectable reference to whom his accomplices could apply when they entered a strange shop and ordered goods. “Apply to my friend Captain So-and-so, of such-and-such a square; he has known me for years.” Reference is made to a house gorgeously furnished, an establishment in every way bien montÉ, the master thereof a perfect gentleman. “Do I know Mr. ——? Oh, dear, yes; I have known him for a long time. He is one of my most intimate friends. You may trust him to any amount.” Unhappily the pitcher goes often to the well, but it is broken at last. And at this game of fraud the circle of operations grows naturally ever narrower. At length the whole conspiracy became known to the police, and Captain C. found himself ere long in Millbank. He seems to have been treated there rather too well for an idle, good-for-nothing rascal, who would do no work, and who expected—so said the officers—to be always waited upon. Undoubtedly he was pampered, had his books from the deputy-governor’s own library, and extra food. More than this, his wife—a lady once, also of good family, but fallen with her husband to an abyss of infamy and depravity which made her notorious for wickedness even in this wicked city—was frequently admitted to visit him, coming always in silks and satins and flaunting attire, which was sadly out of keeping with her husband’s temporary abode.

Another ex-military officer was Mr. P., whose offence at the time created wide-spread and righteous indignation. This was the gentleman who for some occult reason of his own, committed the atrocity of striking our young Queen in the face just as she was leaving the palace. The weapon he used was a thin cane, but the blow fell lightly, as the lady-in-waiting interposed. No explanation was offered, except that the culprit was out of his mind. This was the defence set up by his friends, and several curious facts were adduced in proof of insanity. One on which great stress was laid, was that he was in the habit of chartering a hansom to Wimbledon Common daily, where he amused himself by getting out and walking as fast as he could through the furze. But this line of defence broke down, and the jury found the prisoner guilty. He himself, when he came to Millbank, declared that he had been actuated only by a desire to bring disgrace on his family and belongings. In some way or other he had seriously disagreed with his father, and he took this curious means to obtain revenge. The wantonness of the outrage called for severe punishment, and Mr. P. was sentenced to seven years’ transportation; but the special punishment of whipping was omitted, on the ground of the prisoner’s position in life. Whether it was that the mere passing of this sentence was considered sufficient, or that the Queen herself interposed with gracious clemency, this Mr. P. at Millbank was treated with exceptional leniency and consideration. By order of the Secretary of State he was exempted from most of the restrictions by which other prisoners were ruled. He was not lodged in a cell, but in two rooms adjoining the infirmary, which he used as sitting and bedroom respectively; he did not wear the prison dress, and he had, practically, what food he liked. He seems to have awakened a sort of sympathy on the part of the warders who attended him; probably because he was a fine, tall fellow, of handsome presence and engaging manners, and because also they thought his offence was one of hot-headed rashness rather than premeditated wickedness. Eventually Mr. P. went to Australia.

These are a few of the most prominent of the criminals who belonged to the upper or professional classes. Others there were, and will be, always; but as a rule such cases are not numerous. Speaking in general terms of the “gentleman convict,” as viewed from the gaoler’s side, he is an ill-conditioned, ill-conducted prisoner. When a man of energy and determination, he wields a baleful influence around and among other prisoners if proper precautions are not taken against inter-communications. His comrades look up to him, especially if he is disposed to take the place of a ringleader and to put himself forward as the champion of insolence and insubordination. They render him too, a sort of homage in their way, scrupulously retaining the titles which have been really forfeited, if indeed they were ever earned. Mr. So-and-so, Major This and Captain That, are the forms of address used by Bill Sykes when speaking of or to a gentleman convict. For the rest, if not openly mutinous, these “superior” felons are chiefly remarkable for their indifference to prison rules, especially those which insist on cleanliness and neatness in their cells. Naturally, by habits and early education they are unskilled in sweeping and washing, and keeping bright their brass-work and their pewter utensils. In these respects the London thief or hardened habitual criminal, who knows the interior of half the prisons in the country, has quite the best of it.

Somewhat lower in the social scale, but superior also to the common burglar or thief, are those who occupy positions of trust in banks or city offices, and for whom the temptation of an open till or slack administration are too strong to be resisted. A good instance of this class was Mr. B., who was employed as a clerk in the Bank of England. With the assistance of a confederate who personated a Mr. Oxenford—there was no special reason for selecting this gentleman, in preference to any other Smith, Brown or Jones—he made over to himself stock to the amount of £8,000 standing in Mr. Oxenford’s name. His accomplice was a horse jobber. The stock in question was paid by a cheque on Lubbock’s for the whole sum, whither they proceeded, asking to have it cashed—all in gold. There were not eight thousand sovereigns available at the moment, but they received instead eight Bank of England notes for £1,000 each, which they promptly changed at the bank for specie, taking with them a carpet-bag to hold the money. The bag when filled was found to be too heavy to lift, but with the assistance of the bank porters it was got into a cab. They now drove to Ben Caunt’s public in St. Martin’s Lane, and there secured a room for the night; the money was transferred to their portmanteaus, several in number, and next morning they took an early train to Liverpool en route for New York. The steamer Britannia, in which they took passage, started almost immediately, and they soon got clear out of the country. But the detectives were on their track: within a day or two, officers followed them across the Atlantic, and landing at Halifax found the fugitives had gone on to Boston and New York. They were followed thither, and on, also, to Buffalo and to Canada. Thence back again to Boston. Here the culprits had taken up their residence—one on a farm, the other in a public-house, both of which had been purchased with the proceeds of the fraud; £7,000 had been lodged also in the bank to their credit. One of them was immediately arrested, and hanged himself. The other escaped in a boat, and lay hid in the neighbouring marshes; but the reward that was offered led to his capture, and he was brought home to England, where he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to transportation for life.

There were many other criminals who came in these days to Millbank who belonged to the aristocracy of crime, if not to the great world of fashion. Some of them, to use their own language, were quite top sawyers in the trade. None in this way was more remarkable than old Cauty, who was called the “father of all the robbers.” Few men were better known in his time and in his own line than Cauty. He was to be seen on every race course, and he was on friendly terms with all the swells on the turf. He had a large acquaintance also among such of the “best” people in town as were addicted to gambling on a large scale. He was in early life a croupier or marker at several west-end hells; but as he advanced in years he extended his operations beyond the Atlantic, and often made voyages by the West Indian packets. He liked to meet Mexicans and rich Americans; they were always ready to gamble, and as Cauty travelled with confederates, whose expenses he paid, he seldom lost money on the cards.

These, however, were his open avocations. “Under the rose” for many years he devoted all his abilities and his experience to planning extensive bank robberies, which were devised generally with so much ingenuity, and carried out with so much daring, that a long time elapsed before the culprits could be brought to justice. He had many dexterous associates. Their commonest plan of action was to hang about a bank till they saw some one enter whom they thought likely to answer their purpose. They followed and waited till the victim, having opened his pocket-book, or produced his cheque, was paid his money over the counter. At that moment a button dropped, or a slight push, which was followed by immediate apology, took off attention, and in that one instant the money or a part of it was gone—passed from hand to hand, and removed at once from the building.

Cauty came to grief at last. Of course he was known to the police, but the difficulty was to take him red-handed. The opportunity arrived when, with an accomplice, he made an attempt to rob the cashier of the London and Westminster Bank of his box. They were both watched in and out of the bank in St. James’s Square day after day. The police kept them constantly in sight, and the cashier himself was put on his guard. The latter admitted that the cash-box was at times left unavoidably within the reach of dishonest people, and that it contained property sometimes worth £100,000 or more. But if the police were patient in the watch they set, the thieves were equally patient in waiting for a chance. Once at the moment of fruition they were just “sold” by the appearance of a police-sergeant, who came in to change a cheque. But at length, almost as a conjuror does a trick, they accomplished their purpose. Cauty went into the bank first, carrying a rather suspicious-looking black bag. Three minutes afterwards he came out without it, and raised his hat three times, which was the signal “all right” to his accomplice. The latter, Tyler, a returned convict, thereupon entered the bank in his turn, and almost immediately brought away the bag. The two worthies were allowed to go without let or hindrance as far as the Haymarket, and then secured. The black bag was opened—inside was the cash-box.

This brought Cauty’s career to an end. He got twenty years, and then it came out how extensive was the business he had done. Through his hands had passed not a little of the “swag” in all the principal robberies of the day—all the gold from the gold-dust robberies, all the notes and bills stolen from big banking houses. It was said that in this way he had touched about half-a-million of money.

Some years afterwards another leader and prince in the world of crime was unearthed in the person of a Jew—Moses Moses—whose headquarters were in Gravel Lane, Houndsditch, and who was discovered to be a gigantic receiver of stolen goods. He was only detected by accident. A quantity of wool was traced to his premises, and these were thereupon rigorously examined. In lofts and in many other hiding-places, were found vast heaps of missing property. Much was identified as the product of recent burglaries. There was leather in large quantities, plush also, cloth and jewelry. A wagon-load of goods was, it was said, taken away, and in it pieces of scarlet damask, black and crimson cloth, doeskin, silver articles, shawls, and upwards of fifty rings. An attempt was made to prove that Moses was new to the business, and had been led astray by the wicked advice and example of another man. But the Recorder would not believe that operations of this kind could be carried on by a novice or a dupe, and he sentenced Mr. Moses to transportation for fourteen years.

For unblushing effrontery and insolence, so to speak, in criminal daring, the case of King the police-officer and detective, is almost without parallel. Although supposed to be a thief-taker by profession, he was really an instigator and supporter of crime. He formed by degrees a small gang of pickpockets, and employed them to steal for him, giving them full instruction and ample advice. He took them to the best hunting-grounds, and not only covered them while at work, but gave them timely warning in case of danger, or if the neighbourhood became too hot to hold them. His pupils were few in number, but they were industrious and seemingly highly successful. One boy stated his earnings at from £90 to £100 a week. King was a kind and liberal master to his boys. They lived on the fat of the land. Reeves, who gave information of the system pursued by King, said he had a pony to ride in the park, and that they all went to theatres and places of amusement whenever they pleased. The rascally ingenuity of King in turning to his own advantage his opportunities as an officer of the law savours somewhat of Vidocq and the escrocs of Paris. King got fourteen years.

But the most notorious prisoners in Millbank were not always to be found on the “male side.” Equally famous in their own way were some of the female convicts—women like Alice Grey, whose career of imposture at the time attracted great attention, and was deservedly closed by committal to Millbank on a long sentence of transportation. Alice Grey was a young lady of artless appearance and engaging manners. Her favourite form of misconduct was to bring false charges against unfortunate people who had never seen her in their lives. Thus, she accused two boys of snatching a purse from her hand in the street, and when a number were paraded for her inspection she readily picked out the offenders. “Her evidence was so ingenuous,” says the report, “that her story was implicitly believed, and the boys were remanded for trial.” As a sort of compensation to Miss Grey (her real name was “Brazil,” but she had several—among others, Anastasia Haggard, Felicia Macarthy, Jane Tureau, Agnes Hemans, etc.) she was given a good round sum from the poor-box. But she was not always so successful. She was sentenced to three months in Dublin for making a false charge, and eighteen months soon afterwards at Greenock. At Stafford she accused a poor working man of stealing her trunk, value £8; when put into the box she was taxed with former mistakes of this kind, whereupon she showed herself at once in her true colours and reviled every one present in a long tirade of abuse. Her cleverness was, however, sufficient to have made her fortune if she had turned her talents to honest account.

There was more dash about women like Louisa M. or Emily L. The former drove up to Hunt and Roskell’s in her own carriage to look at some bracelets. They were for Lady Campbell, and she was Miss Constance Browne. Her bankers were Messrs. Cocks and Biddulph. Finally she selected bracelets and head ornaments to the value of £2,500, which were to be brought to her house that evening by two assistants from the shop, who accordingly called at the hour named. The door was opened by a page. “Pray walk upstairs.” Miss Browne walks in. “The bracelets? Ah, I will take them up to Lady Campbell, who is confined to her room.” The head assistant demurred a little, but Miss Browne said, “Surely you know my bankers? I mentioned them to-day. Messrs. Hunt and Roskell have surely satisfied themselves?” With that the jewels were taken upstairs. Half an hour passes. One assistant looks at the other. Another half hour. What does it mean? One rings the bell. No answer. The other tries the door. It is locked. Then, all at once discovering the trap, they both throw up the window and call in the police. They are released, but the house is empty. Pursuit, however, is set on foot, and Miss Constance Browne is captured the same night in a second class carriage upon the Great Western Railway, and when searched she was found to have on her a quantity of diamonds, a £100 note, rings and jewelry of all sorts, including the missing bracelets. She had laid her plans well. The house—which was Lady Campbell’s—she had hired furnished, that day, paying down the first instalment of rent. The page she had engaged and fitted with livery also that very day, and the moment he had shown up the jeweller’s men she had sent him to the Strand with a note. Here was cleverness superior to that of Alice Grey.

Probably Emily L. carried off the palm from both. As an adroit and daring thief she has had few equals. She is described as a most affable, ladylike, fascinating woman, well educated, handsome, and of pleasing address. She could win almost any one over. The shopmen fell at her feet, so to speak, when she alighted from her brougham and condescended to enter and give her orders. She generally assumed the title of Countess L., but her chief associate and ally was a certain James P., who was a lapidary by trade, an excellent judge of jewels, and a good looking respectable young fellow—to all appearance—besides. They were long engaged in a series of jewel robberies on a large scale, but escaped detection. Fate overtook them at last, and they were both arrested at the same time. One charge was for stealing a diamond locket, value £2,000, from Mr. Emanuel, and a diamond bracelet worth £600 from Hunt and Roskell. At the same moment there cropped up another charge of stealing loose diamonds in Paris to the tune of £10,000. Emily was sentenced to four years, and from the moment she entered prison she resolved to give all the trouble she could. Her conduct at Millbank and at the prison to which she passed, was atrocious; had the discipline been less severe she would probably have rivalled some of the ill-conducted women to whom I referred in the last volume. But at the expiration of her sentence she returned to her evil ways outside. Brighton was the scene of her next misfortune. She there entered a jeweller’s shop, and having put him quite off his guard by her insinuating manners, stole £1,000 worth from under his nose, and while he was actually in conversation with her. The theft was not discovered till she was just leaving Brighton. Apprehended at the station, she indignantly denied the charge, asserting that she was a lady of high rank, and offering bail to any amount. But she was detained, and a London detective having been called in, she was at once identified. For this she got seven years, and was sent to Millbank once more. This extraordinary woman, notwithstanding the vigorous examination to which all incoming prisoners were subjected, succeeded in bringing in with her a number of valuable diamonds. But they were subsequently discovered in spite of the strange steps she took to secrete them.