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The perils of Coin CollectingBy Chris George?Chris George 2016Chapter 1‘You know, young Arthur,’ said Percy Jones quietly, ‘next year you’ll be able to change your name by law.’‘Is that right, Sarge?’ Constable Arthur Glasscock looked interestedly at the detective.‘S’right. New law coming in, they say, called a Deed Poll. Means you’ll be able to change your name to Roger Rubberbollocks...’Glasscock sighed loudly; the Sergeant’s attempt at humour had at least been original, but that didn’t make it any more amusing or any less irritating. Being a junior constable at Bow Street meant that you had to just take it, at least until you became senior. He had tried to lessen the hurt by pronouncing his name as ‘Glassock’ but that had actually made it worse at the station. He was sure Jones hadn’t meant to stick him with the name change business; he was a decent chap, Glasscock knew, and had meant well – it was just too good an opportunity to pass up. At least, he reasoned, it wouldn’t be all over Bow Street by tonight: Jones would keep it to himself. Sergeant Percy Jones was a favourite at Bow Street; he was very good with the new lads, remembering his own time as a new boy. He was often given the new recruits to work with, senior officers knowing that Jones would look after them and set them straight. Jones was average height, about 5 feet 10 inches tall, with black hair and tidy moustache, grey eyes, a thin nose, and a pointed chin. He was dressed in a faded brown suit and bowler hat, white shirt and tie, and a heavy woollen greatcoat and scarf covering all.Jones had forgotten about the joke already; he was rubbing the bloodstained pavement – such as there was of it – with the toe of his boot. The blood was long dried now, but it clearly showed where the chap had come through the window. Jones refreshed his memory from his note book: Wildman, that was him, John Thomas Wildman. Jones looked up to the upper floor of the coffee shop, where a carpenter was attempting to fit a new sash window and, from what Jones could see, making a right pigs ear of it.‘Who went to the hospital with Mr Wildman?’ Jones asked.‘Tom Cribb.’Jones nodded. ‘Good. Smart lad, that one.’ He squinted into the chill wind blowing west to east down Holywell Street, and settled more comfortably into his heavy overcoat. He could just make out the spire of St Mary le Strand above the rooftops. Holywell Street was a narrow, twisting street running parallel with The Strand and north of it; a conglomeration of small and seedy shops and workshops. Fifty year ago Holywell Street had been predominantly one of second-hand and poor quality clothing shops. There were still one or two here, but many had gone, to be replaced by booksellers, printers and publishers, sometimes within the same building. Many of the booksellers and publishers encouraged radical political and social texts and had, in recent years developed into the centre of the pornographic literature, prints and paintings trade in London. Despite several attempts to close the shops down, many letters of protest to The Times, and several of the publishers being imprisoned, the trade continued unabated. Jones knew about Holywell Street, of course, and had been involved in one or two arrests over the years, but was ambivalent about it, not from any particular moral or religious standpoint, but simply from the practical policing viewpoint. The police knew where the activity was going on, now: sweep all the pornography out of Holywell Street, he thought, and there was no telling where it would end up.‘So, what do we know about what happened the other night?’ Jones asked.‘Well, sir,’ said Glasscock, reaching for his notebook. ‘It’s a bit confused just yet, and I ain’t spoken to everybody either...’ he paused anxiously, not sure if he was going to be admonished. Jones just nodded, so he went on: ‘...Mr Wildman arrived here at about 11 o’clock Thursday night, with a younger chap. They went straight up to bed in that room...’ he pointed up to the window.‘Together?’ Jones asked.Glasscock looked embarrassed: ‘Yes, sir. Maybe they was just sharing a bed, like?’ he suggested hesitantly.Jones shrugged. ‘Were they sober, drunk, what?’‘Sober, the woman said.’‘The woman?’‘Mrs Collyer. She runs the coffee shop.’‘Right. Go on.’‘Well, about 2 o’clock in the morning...that’s yesterday morning, like...Mrs Collyer heard a crash outside and moaning. She went out, and saw Mr Wildman lying on the street. Then the young man runs down, in his shirt, says “He’s thrown himself out of the window”, runs back upstairs to get dressed, and a minute later he’s back down, dressed, says “I’ll go and tell his friends” and runs off.’‘He said I’ll go and tell his friends, did he?’ Jones looked curiously at the younger man.‘Yes, sir.’‘That’s a damn odd thing to say, wouldn’t you think? I mean, if he ran off saying I’ll go and find a doctor it would make sense, wouldn’t it? There’s a bloody hospital round the corner, ain’t there? Very odd. What the hell does that mean?’ Jones thought about it for a few moments, but could see no logic to what the young man had said. ‘Alright,’ he went on eventually, ‘what happens next?’Glasscock checked his notebook again. ‘Well, not much, sir. Tom Cribb turned up, and took Mr Wildman to Kings College.’‘Was Wildman conscious? Did he say anything?’‘Mrs Collyer says he was, and he said something to Tom, but I don’t know what.’‘Well find out later, I reckon. Lets’ go and have a chat with Mrs Collyer.’Collyer’s Coffee House was a long narrow eating place, with stairs to the upper floors to the left of the door, fifteen or twenty small round tables, and a long marble-topped counter to the right. The room was poorly lit with oil lamps on the counter and cheap tallow candles on the tables. The tables were not very clean, with food debris, spilt liquids, and candle wax deposits on some. As with most such establishments, there was sawdust scattered on the floor to soak up spillages. The ceiling was once white distemper, now stained brown with nicotine and mould, and walls painted white above a dado rail and brown below. The walls were dripping with condensation and more mould. Jones couldn’t see any kitchen, but could tell it was behind the counter from the smell. Mrs Sarah Collyer was behind the counter, wiping a mug with a grubby cloth. She sniffed loudly as Jones and Glasscock came in. She was about 40 years old, short, five feet two or three, and running to fat; she had light brown hair, showing the first signs of grey, tied in a loose bun behind her head. She was round-faced, with hazel eyes, jug ears only partly hidden by her hair, and a wide thin mouth. She was wearing a heavy cotton blue dress, with a grubby white apron over it.‘Mrs Collyer?’ Jones asked as they approached the counter.‘You the rozzers?’ ‘Detective Sergeant Jones, Constable Glasscock.’She didn’t even smile at that, and looked angrily at one of the tables where there had been a suppressed snigger. She turned her unfriendly gaze back to Jones: ‘What do you want?’‘I want to learn how to train a horse for the Lincoln Handicap,’ said Jones sarcastically, already irritated with her attitude. ‘What do you think I want? Tell me about Mr Wildman.’‘You can’t talk to me like that!’ Collyer exclaimed loudly.‘Yes, I can, if you keep behaving like a grumpy old trout. If you prefer, we can have this conversation round at Bow Street nick.’‘I can’t leave here! I got a business to run!’ she protested.‘Then start being a bit more reasonable. Let’s start again, shall we? Are you Mrs Collyer?’‘Yes.’‘Wonderful,’ said Jones even more sarcastically. ‘Now, what time did Mr Wildman and the other chap get here Thursday night?’‘A bit after 10,’ Collyer replied.‘And the other chap? He didn’t give you his name?’‘No.’‘Alright. Then what happened?’‘They had some coffee and toast, read the papers for a while, then went to bed.’ She sniffed loudly.‘But they didn’t have any drink? No drink in the room, was there?’‘No, I don’t allow drink in the rooms unless they’ve bought it from me. They didn’t have any drink on them.’‘Right. So they went to bed? Together, like? Or, just sharing a bed?’Sarah Collyer blushed slightly: ‘Don’t know; none o’ my business.’‘Yes it is, missus,’ Jones corrected her, with a hint of enjoyment in his tone. ‘If you’ve been lettin’ nancy boys use your place for money, that’s “immoral earnings” that is. Five years for that, if you don’t get the big ship.’Collyer reddened even further, this time with fear: the big ship was transportation to Australia, usually for seven years. ‘I don’t think they was nancy boys: they didn’t look like it, anyway, or talk like it,’ she replied promptly.‘Good. So, they went up at about 11 o’clock; then what?’‘Bloody great smash, about two in the morning.’Jones was interrupted by a shout from the shop: a customer ordered coffee and toast. Mrs Collyer disappeared to attend to the request. Jones watched with interest as she yelled through a small hatch to the kitchen for toast, poured hot water from a rusty urn onto coffee powder in an enamel mug, and added a splash of thin milk. The mug was left on the counter and the customer had to come and collect it.Sarah Collyer came back to where the two policemen were standing and, grudgingly, asked them if they wanted some coffee. Both men declined.‘So,’ Jones continued, ‘after the crash outside, what happens next?’‘Well, I ran out into the street. It was dark, and damn cold, and there was only light coming from the lights in here. He was lying in the road, sort of twisted up, and groaning.’‘Did he say anything?’‘Not to me. He did to the young peeler, I think.’‘Right. So somebody went to fetch him, did they?’‘Yeah, my cook Maurice King went for him. Then somebody brought a cart round, or maybe it was a hackney, and took him off to hospital.’‘So what about the young chap? Tell me about him?’‘Well, after the crash, he came running down, said something like “he’s fallen out the window” – like we didn’t know that – ran back in, came back down a minute later, said “I’ll go and find his friends” or something like that, and buggered off.’ She sniffed again: ‘Ain’t seen him since.’‘Describe him.’‘Young fellow, in his twenties, I reckon. Tall, about six foot, slim. Straw-coloured hair, quite long, pointy face he had, blue eyes, thin mouth. Nasty teeth he had, I noticed.’‘Good. What about his clothes?’‘Expensive,’ Collyer said promptly, ‘very smart he was, well spoken, too, like he’d been to a good school, you know?’‘And you never heard his name? Mr Wildman never said his name?’‘No.’‘Alright,’ said Jones, ‘let’s have a butcher’s at his room.’‘What about my window?’ Mrs Collyer called, as they went to the stairs. ‘Who’s gonna pay for that?’‘It’s your window,’ Jones called back. ‘Looks like you are.’The room was small, smelly and dingy, with a narrow bed and two worn armchairs, and a frayed and torn rug on the floor. There was no gas, just battered and dented oil lamps. Here too the walls and ceiling were marked with patches of damp and mould. Jones would not have been surprised to see mushrooms growing on the floor. There was no other furniture. The carpenter was struggling to insert weights into the sash frame of the new window, and looked round interestedly at the policemen. He nodded amiably.‘Alright, chum?’ said Jones. ‘Having trouble with the sash, are you?’‘Yeah,’ the carpenter smiled thinly, ‘cheap bastard bought iron weights instead of lead: they don’t slide the same way.’‘Smear ‘em with tallow, that’ll do it,’ Jones advised.‘Oh, chippie, are you?’‘Just an amateur.’ Jones turned away and inspected the room again: the bed was untidy but didn’t look as though it had been slept in. The counterpane was rumpled and depressed in places, as though somebody had been standing on it. One of the pillows was leaning up against the headboard, like it would be if somebody was sitting up in bed reading. Despite the damaged window and the chill wind swirling round the room, there was a faint tang in the air: Jones recognised it.‘Arthur,’ he said quietly, ‘have a proper look around, under the bed and whatnot.’‘What am I looking for, sarge?’‘Anything that don’t look right, but mainly bottles.’‘Mrs Collyer said she don’t allow drink in the rooms.’‘No, lad, she said she don’t allow drink in the rooms unless they bought it off her, tight-fisted baggage that she is. But that don’t mean they couldn’t have sneaked a bottle in, do it?’‘No, sir.’Jones looked round, to where the carpenter was being carefully busy: he smiled faintly, and looked with interest at the man’s canvas tool bag. ‘What about you, Mr Chippie?’ he called out.‘What’s that, boss?’ The carpenter couldn’t look Jones in the eye.‘Didn’t find a bottle of the good stuff when you came in here, did you?’‘What do you mean?’Jones sighed heavily. ‘How long d’you think it’s gonna take my friend Arthur here to search your tool bag? Arthur, have a look in the tool bag.’Glasscock rummaged only for a moment, and stood up holding a quarter-full bottle of brandy: it was a fine Martell VSOP cognac. Jones wagged a finger at the carpenter: ‘Don’t even think about telling me you bought this in the Dog Tavern down the road; a bottle of this stuff is three months wages for the likes of you and me, so don’t piss me about. Found it here, did you?’The carpenter nodded weakly. ‘How much have you had?’‘Only a swig, to keep the cold out, like.’Jones nodded: ‘Small swig or big swig?’‘Small swig. I seen too many blokes lose fingers wi’ the drink in ‘em. I was saving it for when I got home.’‘Well,’ said Jones, motioning to Glasscock to put the bottle back in the bag, ‘see you do.’Detective Percy Jones was back at Bow Street Police Station in the Detectives’ Office when Constable Tom Cribb returned from the hospital. Cribb was another of the new breed of policemen, well educated and sober. Not like the old days, the early days of the Met., when one in three new recruits got thrown out for drunkenness within weeks.‘Young Tom,’ Jones called cheerfully as the young man came in, ‘How’s our friend Wildman?’‘Dead, sir,’ said Cribb promptly, and without much emotion. He had been in the police only three months, but he had already seen enough deaths to inure him against all but the worst cases.‘Bugger. Did he say anything? No, wait, sit yourself down, and we’ll go through it in full. You can use it to write up your statement.’Over the next half hour, Tom Cribb gave his report, mostly very clearly and accurately, being interrupted by Jones only a few times. He had been patrolling Drury Lane on Thursday night when the man he later found to be Mr King from the coffee shop called to him. Round in Holywell Street he found Mr Wildman badly injured half on the pavement and half in the road. He was bleeding heavily. Wildman was able to identify himself and give his address, and ask for his brother Benjamin. Cribb sent another man, William Robinson, off to find a cart or a cab, and Cribb escorted Wildman to the nearby Kings College Hospital. More than once on the journey, Wildman said “My God, what mystery is this? What have I done?” Cribb was convinced that Wildman had been drinking heavily, and was delirious from the fall. At the hospital Wildman was seen by a doctor, Dr George Elsom, who said that he had several fractures and abrasions, and was the worse for drink. Cribb had asked Wildman how he came to be in Holywell Street, but Wildman said he was too ill to answer. He died a few hours later from his injuries and shock, according to the doctor. Wildman had no identifying documents on him, and no wallet. He had only a small amount of loose change and his keys.‘Right, Tom,’ said Jones quietly, when Cribb had finished writing. ‘Read through the statement, and see what questions come to you. I’ll organise some tea.’Ten minutes later Jones returned with two mugs of tea and a pocket-full of gingerbread biscuits, to find Cribb sitting back, and a short list of questions on a sheet in front of him.‘I know you ain’t allowed while you’re on duty, but roll yourself a smoke if you want to,’ he said as he sat down and passed a mug across. The two men rolled their cigarettes, and sipped the thick brown tea.‘So, have you got questions?’ he asked.‘Four,’ said Cribb. ‘First, what did he mean by what he said: My God, what mystery is this? What have I done? Second, how did he fall out of a closed window? Third, what was that rubbish about being too ill to answer when I asked him what he was doing in Holywell Street? Four, what was he doing at Holywell Street?’‘Good,’ Jones nodded, ‘but there’s another two questions needs answering, and you maybe don’t know about them. First, who was the younger man?’Cribb sat up, startled: ‘What younger man?’Jones smiled thinly. ‘Told you! Wildman was in the upstairs room with a young man, described as early 20s, blond hair, thin face, well dressed, educated. He buggered off as soon as Wildman hit the pavement. It don’t seem as though they were sodomites, though.’ Jones scratched his head abstractedly. ‘It just doesn’t feel like one o’ those twosomes; I’ve seen enough of that to know the difference. So,’ he went on, rolling another cigarette as he did so, ‘what were the two of them doing there?’‘What was the second question?’ Cribb asked.‘Who brought the opium? There was a faint smell of opium in the room.’‘Opium?’ Cribb looked shocked. ‘Was there a pipe or whatnot?’‘No, somebody had probably been eating it. I’m told some people still do that, mixing it with strong drink, ‘cos it’s very bitter, apparently. That’s what made me look for a bottle of booze in the room.’‘Might it also explain Wildman’s ramblings on the way to hospital? He could have been delirious, or whatever it’s called?’Jones nodded. ‘Yes, that’s possible. I suppose they could have gone to Holywell Street just to chew a bit of poppy in peace and quiet, and it took him queer: went through the window ‘cos he thought he was a barn owl, or something.’‘That might also explain why his mate buggered off as quick as he did,’ Cribb suggested.‘Yes, indeed. It’ll do as an explanation until something better comes along.’ Jones consulted his watch. ‘You still on duty, young Tom?’‘Finished about an hour ago,’ Cribb replied with a smile.‘Alright, take that report, write up a fair copy for me, and watch out for when the inquest is gonna be: you’ll be a witness.’‘I know, and if I’m lucky I’ll get a few hours kip too.’‘Lucky you,’ Jones smirked. ‘Listen, if you see young Glasscock out there, send him in, will you? If he ain’t there, tell Sergeant Venn I want him.’Constable Glasscock appeared fifteen minutes later, and Jones took him through his evidence. He sent the young man away to write up his notes, assuring him that it was unlikely that he would be called to give evidence at the inquest. Jones assured him that their enquiries today would not form part of the proceedings: ‘Not relevant to what happened to the chap,’ was his comforting word on the subject.‘So, what happens now, sarge?’ Glasscock asked.‘You go back to your beat, and I start asking questions.’ ................
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