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The Accident ArrangersbyChris George? Chris George 2016Historical Note: Money is a feature of this work. Some of the sums mentioned will doubtless seem incongruously small by modern standards. The internet can provide any number of sites offering to compare values for 1840-50 British currency to contemporary values. ?1 in 1845 would have the approximate value that ?85 would have today; ?100 in 1845 = ?8,500; ?1000 in 1845 = ?85,000What is more difficult to indicate, however, is the relative value of money; in some circumstances a small amount of money would have a great deal of value (purchasing power) and in other circumstances less so. For example: food was relatively expensive, so ?1 would buy less; property was comparatively cheap, so ?1000 would buy more.This is a very broad-brush indicator, and is by no means rigorous; but it may give the reader a feeling for the sums of money involved. PreludeJuly 1839: Ghazni, AfghanistanThe two men lay quietly in a shell crater, smoking pipes. There was water at the bottom of the crater, only the oily residue glinting with rainbow colours. The older man looked at the sky: to the East he could see the beginnings of dawn creeping over the walls of the city, mingling with the smoke.A Howitzer blasted another shot at the walls of Ghazni, and the men sunk a little lower in the crater and covered their ears. Sporadic gunfire was coming back at them from the city walls, but falling well short of their position: somebody would be getting his arse kicked for wasting ammunition, the younger man thought.The older man, Morgan Hill, was a sergeant in the Royal Marines, attached to the 17th Regiment of Foot, a 27-year veteran who had seen action in several conflicts. He carefully inspected his rifle, checking the barrel for mud. Suddenly there was a huge explosion thirty yards to their left. The two men were showered with earth and dust. Hill cursed loudly, and rolled over in the crater to shield himself from the debris. The younger man, John Thompson, covered his face but didn’t move.‘Fucking gunners!’ Hill shouted as the dust settled. ‘Look, you bastards!’ he shouted again, waving an arm above the edge of the crater, ‘the city’s over there! Look, it’s a hundred and fifty yards away, you useless bastards!’‘Must have been a dud round,’ Thompson commented quietly.‘Don’t care what it was,’ Hill said angrily. ‘Fucking useless bastards. I mean, it ain’t as if it’s a small target, is it? Bloody place is massive; how could they miss it?’‘’Cos’ it’s the army: fuck up or stupidity.’‘How can you be so bloody calm, John?’Thompson shrugged: ‘When your times up, your times up. No sense worrying about it.’‘I been in this fucking army too long, you know,’ said Hill, reaching for his water bottle and taking a sip. ‘Fourteen, I was, when I joined up.’ He scratched his unshaven chin uneasily. ‘As a drummer boy...’ Thompson murmured: he had heard the story before, many times.‘Aye, as a drummer boy, you cheeky bugger,’ Hill grinned. ‘Twenty seven years I been in. Seen a few sights, right enough,’ hel continued, brushing earth and dust off his tunic, ‘but now? I dunno, Johnnie boy, reckon it might be time to take the ticket.’‘What would you do?’ Thompson asked with a sigh: they had also had this conversation before.‘Fuck knows.’‘You got anything put by? Could you buy yourself out?’Hill snorted derisively: ‘Couldn’t buy a bag o’ chips, mate.’ He thought about it for a moment: ‘Could eat some, though.’Another ball whistled overhead, and crashed into the walls of Ghazni: a chunk of wall tottered and fell down. The sound rolled across the plains. Dawn had broken above the mountains now, showing a cloudy sky heavy with rain: hot wind whistled across the plains.‘What d’you reckon?’ Hill asked, ‘another half hour’s bombardment, then we go in?’‘Reckon they might try to blow one of the gates,’ said Thompson evenly. He was also a sergeant, with thirteen years’ service, but a very different character to his friend. The two men had been friends for years, having first met in the Ashanti war. That war had been stumbling along for three years when Thompson arrived in West Africa as a fresh-faced 18 year old. Hill was only two years older, but had already seen much more savagery and death. His experiences had made him bitter and cynical and he had become, by his own admission, a moaner. Thompson was a very different type: he spoke little, and learned quickly. Thompson was also a much more clinical killer; he was quite indifferent to others’ suffering or injury, or death. The men soon recognised this quality in Thompson, and so did the officers, although it made many of them uneasy, and by the time he was recalled to England in 1831, he was already a sergeant, the same as Hill. The troops saw the comradeship between the two men, and one of the regiment’s wags christened them ‘Sheffield’ – the joke being that there was a road called Thompson Hill in Sheffield. It wasn’t much of a joke, but the army had never been known for its sophisticated wordplay.Sheffield met up again when Britain launched the first Sikh War in 1839. They had spent weeks being herded from camp to camp, before they had seen any action. What action they had seen so far was brief and bloody: the Afghans had only once tried a direct attack, and had suffered great casualties in the process, but had learned quickly and subsequently launched only surprise attacks and ambushes.And now this part of the conflict was drawing to a close: it was July 1839, and Sergeants Hill and Thompson were lying in a muddy crater waiting for the bombardment to finish.‘You sure about getting out?’ Thompson asked, in a lull in the bombardment.‘I’d get out tomorrow, if my old Auntie Marie would snuff it.’‘Oh, got money, has she?’‘Rollin’ in the bloody stuff, and don’t spend five bob a week, damn her eyes. When she pops her clogs, I come into money, I’m told.’‘No other relatives?’‘A niece; distant cousin, I’m told. But the rhino comes to me. Ah!’ Hill scowled angrily, ‘with my luck the old trout will outlive me.’‘She don’t have to...’ said Thompson quietly, pulling absently at his lower lip in a characteristic gesture.‘What do you mean?’‘She could die...’‘Course she could die! I could die, so could you; that don’t mean bugger all, Ed.’‘No, what I mean is, she could meet with an accident, like.’Hill studied his friend carefully. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly. Suddenly the bombardment was not quite so important.‘If she was to have an accident, you’d inherit, wouldn’t you,’ said Thompson, ‘then you could buy yourself out.’‘Yeah...’ Hill nodded uncertainly, unsure where his friend was going with this.‘Well, I was thinking,’ Thompson went on calmly, ‘I’d be happy to get out too, but I don’t know how to do anything but kill people. I’m good at it.’‘I know you are,’ Hill agreed. ‘And so?’‘And so, I was thinking, we might set up in business: there must be plenty of people who want somebody bumped off.’‘I see,’ said Hill, who didn’t.‘I been thinking about it for a while, Mo,’ said Thompson quietly. ‘I seen enough of the army’s bullshit, you know? I ain’t got two bob to me name either. Time I got some payment.’‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ Hill asked.‘Not now,’ said Thompson, looking around, ‘looks like we’re getting ready to move. There’s a squad of sappers up the front, see ‘em there under that overhang? I reckon they’re gonna blow that gate. We’ll talk about it more if we come through.’It was early in the morning of 23rd July before the battle actually began: the Indian Army Sappers, despite being under constant fire, deployed their gunpowder against the least defended gate of the city, the Kabul Gate, and exploded it, destroying the gate. Artillery simultaneously bombarded the walls. On the signal, four British and Indian regiments advanced and rushed the ruined gates; there was intense hand-to-hand fighting, in the dark, before supporting British regiments swung the battle. The army took the city by dawn, but at the cost of 200 men killed or wounded; the Afghans lost 500 men, with 1600 captured; the number wounded was unknown.John Thompson had received a minor wound in the fighting and was about to be sent back to India with the bulk of the army. Morgan Hill was staying in Ghazni and, the night before Thompson left, the two men talked long into the night, walking around the city walls on the battlements. Hill told Thompson everything he could remember about his aunt Marie, and they discussed how their enterprise was to be set up and managed after Hill had come into his inheritance.‘How will we find customers?’ Thompson asked.‘Well, I reckon I’ll set up as a lawyer, somewhere in London.’‘You ain’t a lawyer!’ Thompson protested. ‘Ain’t you supposed to pass exams and such?’‘I can call meself anything I want,’ said Hill lightly. ‘Reckon it only matters if I try to appear in court, and I ain’t proposing to do that!’Thompson smiled wryly: ‘No, that’s probably not a good idea. So, what happens then?’‘I know a few people: so do you. A few of ‘em was in the army with us. They’ll put the word around.’‘Alright. Then what?’‘I reckon that they should only deal with me. There’s only you and me knows what the real plan is, and we should keep it that way. Nobody but me will know who you are; nobody but you and me will know who’s the target; nobody but me will know who paid for it; nobody but you will decide what’s to be done, and when. How does that sound?’‘Good. How do we talk to each other?’‘We don’t meet to arrange jobs. I’ll send you a letter with all the details. We can always meet up for a pint when there’s no work.’‘What about money?’ Thompson asked.‘80% to you, 20% to me.’Thompson nodded. ‘That sounds fair. I’ll let you know as soon as I can where to send the money. It’ll be somewhere outside London.’In the dark they could hear reveille sound: it was time for Thompson to get ready to leave.‘How will I know when you’ve made a start?’ Hill asked.Thompson shrugged and smiled grimly: ‘You’ll get a letter telling you about your inheritance.’Accident OneJanuary 1840: Walworth, South LondonThe man peered through the darkness, checking his watch for the fourth time: quarter past eleven. The canal was in complete darkness: it was no surprise that so many had died here; falling into the unmarked and unlit canal, drunk or sober. He looked quickly to his left, to the side of the lock-keeper’s house. It was completely dark in the house: lock-keepers worked daylight hours, when the barges worked. When the barges stopped, so did the lock-keepers. At this time of year the day was short, and the keepers could catch up on sleep. Although he knew it was there, the man couldn’t see the slipway from here. Shortly before midnight a man walked along the towpath, a lantern swinging in front of him. This confirmed what the man had suspected: he could see the lantern, he could see that there was a man walking along, but he could not make out any of the man’s features, even when he drew much closer. He could barely identify what the man was wearing. The man turned his back to the sharp wind, walked back to Wells Street, and disappeared into the night.The bar of the tavern was crowded, noisy, and thick with smoke. The cheap tallow candles barely lit the faces of people sitting alongside them, and what light they threw was yellow and sickly. The room, and the people, smelled of tobacco, sweat, beer and gin. The man had introduced himself as Daniel Thurling: he had told Mrs Averend he was a cheese merchant. He had interceded on her behalf when it looked as though she was being threatened by a morose little Irishman named Flanagan, who had, for no obvious reason, taken a dislike to her. He seemed to dislike the look of her: she had, after all, been sitting in a corner of the bar looking down her nose at the other patrons and Flanagan was asking, not unreasonably, if she felt so affronted why the hell had she come in here in the first place. Thurling saw his point, as her arrival in The Bell and Compass had taken him by surprise too. What he had discovered about Mrs Averend hadn’t suggested she would be the type to enjoy the “spit and sawdust” type of hostelry. Nor had she seemed the type to enter a tavern alone, and boldly order a rum and water. But perhaps, he thought wryly, she just wanted a drink and this was the closest place.They had fallen into conversation after the incident with the Flanagan creature; he had arrived at Flanagan’s elbow from a nearby table and quietly asked her if this person was disturbing her. Flanagan took one look at Thurling, taking in his height and weight, and the fact that he looked fit enough to take care of himself, and went elsewhere. Thurling kept an eye on him for a while, as he sat at the bar moodily swilling beer. Mrs Averend invited Thurling to join her, and was soon telling him about herself.Mrs Maria Averend was an elderly lady – Thurling knew she was 61 years old – and who Thurling knew lived in Portland Cottage on Walworth Common. He had been following her for two days, and knew quite a lot about her: he knew she was quite wealthy, and that her money came from her father, which in turn had come from his father, who had made his fortune in the slave trade. She was small and frail, and suffered much from arthritis. Thurling at this point in their conversation exclaimed excitedly, and said that he had an aunt who practiced homeopathic medicine, and had a most effective treatment for the condition.‘Indeed?’ Mrs Averend asked with interest, ‘an aunt, you say?’‘Yes, indeed.’ Thurling looked out of the grimy window: it was quite dark, it being after 5 o’clock, and raining hard. A strong cold wind blew the rain down the dim street at an angle. Thurling could feel draughts through gaps in the mildewed window. He had to wait now, to see if she would take the bait.‘Would it be possible to have an introduction to her, do you think, Mr Thurling?’Thurling appeared to consider this for a moment, pulling on his bottom lip as he did so: ‘I think so,’ he said eventually, ‘she is very busy, of course, but I should be able to get you an appointment. When would be convenient?’‘The sooner the better,’ she replied immediately. ‘I am in constant discomfort.’‘Well, I suppose...yes...she lives quite close to here. Peckham Grove, in fact; just the other side of the canal.’‘Oh, Mr Thurling,’ Mrs Averend said, ‘could you? I would be so grateful if you could intercede with her?’‘Of course, Mrs Averend,’ Thurling smiled warmly, ‘I’d be happy to. Would next week be convenient?’ ‘Next week?’ her face fell, and she exclaimed anxiously, ‘Oh! It couldn’t be managed earlier than that?’Thurling pulled at his lower lip again: ‘I suppose I could go and see her now? Perhaps she would be able to offer you some time tonight?’‘Oh, Mr Thurling!’ she smiled, and briefly put a hand over his on the scuffed table, ‘could you? That would be splendid!’‘It might mean meeting her quite late in the evening,’ he cautioned. When he saw her face fall again, and a hint of uncertainty appear, he hastened to reassure her: ‘I would be happy to accompany you, of course,’ he added quickly, ‘it wouldn’t be proper for a lady such as yourself to be out so late: this can be a dangerous area after dark.’‘Thank you, sir, you are most kind. But, how will I know if you have been able to secure an appointment for me?’‘I will put a note through your door later this evening, probably after dinner. If you keep an eye on your door...’‘Indeed, yes,’ she replied animatedly, ‘I will. I am most grateful, Mr Thurling.’‘It is my pleasure, madam. Perhaps I could escort you home, then I’ll go and see my aunt.’The door of Portland Cottage opened shortly after ten o’clock that night, and Mrs Averend appeared. She tiptoed down her gravel drive and greeting Thurling warmly. Thurling looked surprised at her stealthy action, and she explained.‘I don’t want my niece and her ne’er-do-well husband to know what I’m doing; it’s none of their business, much as they would like it to be. They think I’ve gone to bed.’‘I see. Well, good news: my aunt Clara can see you tonight, as a favour to me. Shall we go?’Thurling led her down the rough dirt road, his lantern bouncing ahead of them showing the way. It was cold, but the wind had dropped and it had stopped raining. They walked down to Portland Street, then into Walworth Common, and then across Albany Road and down Bath Street, then turned left along the towpath of the Surrey Canal. Fifty yards before the bridge at Wells Street was a pair of lock gates, and alongside the gates was a narrow slipway running down to the water’s edge. Thurling looked around carefully: from his reconnoitre he knew that the lock-keeper’s cottage was ahead and to the right. He could barely make out the shape of the building in the dark, and if he couldn’t see it, then they couldn’t see him, even with his lantern. He silently took the heavy cosh from his coat pocket and hit Mrs Averend hard on the back of the head, and caught her as she crumpled. He extinguished his lantern and carried her effortlessly down the slipway, slid her into the rancid water and held her head under with his boot, looking around all the time. He slipped the lantern into the water and watched it sink. After five minutes he crouched down to her handbag, and retrieved the note he had sent her. In the dark he walked all the way back to the end of the canal at Camberwell Road, and caught a hackney cab to Covent Garden.A coalman named Thomas Button was first to see the body, on the morning of Monday 27th January. He summoned the lock-keeper, and stood guard over the body while the lock-keeper ran for a policeman. The body was taken to The Princess Charlotte pub in Albany Road. A cursory search of her bag gave her name and address, and a messenger was sent to inform the family.The Times: Friday 31st January 1840, page 7On Tuesday an inquest was held before Mr Carter on the body of Mrs Maria Averend, aged 61, which was found in the Surrey Canal on Monday. It appeared by the evidence that the deceased, who was possessed of independent property, resided at Portland-cottage, Walworth-common. On Sunday night, at ten o’clock, she undressed herself and went to bed. The next morning it was discovered she must have risen, dressed herself, and by some means have left the house unheard, but for what object her relations cannot imagine. In the course of Monday morning a coal heaver found the body, which was taken to the Princess Charlotte in Albany-road, and her friends were informed of the circumstance. The deceased must have walked upwards of a quarter of a mile along a dreary and dangerous road. It is said that since the formation of the canal nearly 2,000 bodies have been taken out of it. The coroner remarked upon the singular nature of the case, and said, as there was no evidence to show whether the deceased had committed suicide or had been blown into the water, it would be better to return an open verdict. They jury, after long deliberation, returned a verdict of “found drowned”. ................
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