Back Home: In London with Karl Marx (The Williamson Papers), page 7
He did not say anything to expand upon his remark, but he saw the effect of his words and appeared well satisfied with them. Leaning forward confidentially, he outlined his plan. ‘You have friends already in Queen Street. Go to them and say that you would like to help them. Say that you exaggerated your wealth – that you have creditors and need to make some money quickly. Get involved with what they are doing. That is all that we ask.’
‘All!’ I was aghast. The idea that I should have anything to do with Seven Dials and its criminal fraternity appalled me. The gentleman – I use the term loosely – from the Home Office thought my response amusing.
‘Yes, all. Think of it as an entertaining break from the mundanity of everyday life. It can’t possibly be as exciting as your experiences in the Far East and there is not even any danger of a criminal charge – we’ll take care of that. Why, Mr Williamson,’ and now he reached out and slapped me on the shoulder, as if we were the oldest of friends, ‘you could even stand to make some profit in the venture.’
chapter Five
I was, as you can imagine, in some perturbation of mind once my uninvited visitors had left. I worried for some time as to the best course of action. Should I just leave London immediately and put the whole wretched situation behind me? That would mean never seeing Michael again … Besides, why should I run from some anonymous functionary with his veiled threats? No, I would stay – but, in that case, it was surely wise to, at least, learn more of the situation in Queen Street. After all, I was curious on my own account and to return there committed me to nothing. What harm could it do? I would see Michael and might yet bring something good out of this whole unsavoury situation.
I resolved, then, to return to Seven Dials and make my peace with my old friend.
I went alone. If I were planning to represent myself as desirous of throwing in my lot with the coiners of Queen Street, then I could hardly turn up with bodyguards. Instead, I had to trust to the character that Harry Price had given me when he rescued me from the juvenile mob.
I must admit to some feeling of trepidation as, once again, I left the apparent safety of the West End streets and started down the dismal alleys of Seven Dials. My wariness of the denizens of that miserable ghetto was reciprocated. As I passed the men and women standing or sitting in twos and threes along the way, conversations stopped and I felt their eyes upon me. The ragged army of street urchins was mobilised, but they followed me at a respectable distance and no one interfered with my progress towards the house where I had left Mr Price.
I did not bother to knock on the door. It stood open and I doubted anyone within would have stirred from their rooms had I tapped at it. Instead I stepped inside as if I had every right to be there. The hallway was dark after the June sunlight outside, but I moved confidently towards the stairs. Before I reached them, though, a figure emerged from the gloom of one of the doorways that led onto the hall.
‘Where the ’ell do you think you’re going?’
I should, I realised, have reckoned on a guard, given the illicit activities that were carried on in these premises. Even if I had, though, I doubt I would have imagined such a man as this. He stood well over six feet tall and broad to match. His face was indistinct in the gloom, but, in any case, his features could hardly be seen for the great beard that grew in tangled profusion down over much of his chest.
I explained that my business was with Harry Price. The giant – for so he seemed to me – grunted, as if to acknowledge that he knew the name and that I might be speaking the truth, but he showed no signs of moving aside.
‘I would speak with Mr Price,’ I said. ‘Will you let me pass?’
‘I’ll tell him you was ’ere. Wait in the Crown.’
It seemed I had no choice but to make my way to the public house at the end of the road.
The triangular shape of the building, occasioned by the peculiar arrangement of the streets, meant that the interior was well lit, despite the grime that covered the windows. Twenty or thirty people sat about the place or lay slumped over the tables, apparently sleeping. A couple of fellows were standing at the bar. They were being served not beer, but a clear liquid which, from the prevailing smell of the place, I recognised as gin.
As I watched, the men at the bar upended their glasses, downing the contents at a gulp, before making their way uncertainly to a space at one of the tables, where, regardless of the mess of crumbs and pooled liquor that stained it, they settled their heads upon the wood and promptly fell into a stuporous sleep.
Watching the scene, I paused, uncertain of whether or not to remain. The landlord, though, called across while I hesitated.
‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’
He spoke with a distinctly Irish lilt to his voice and I stepped hesitantly forward. ‘A pint of beer?’
‘We’ll serve you beer willingly, sir.’ He made his way to the beer pumps that lay at the farther end of the bar. ‘We serve Wood Yard’s here, sir, a fine beer and local. Do you know the brewery, sir?’
I confessed that I did not and he insisted on explaining exactly where it was. It stood, indeed, nearby and if the pervasive stench of the place was not so strong I would probably have smelt the distinctive aroma of beer being manufactured, but the brewery lay a little to the South and out of my way. ‘It’s a fine beer, sir, you must admit it,’ he said, passing over a glass of some cloudy liquid which, once I sipped at it, I had to admit tasted a great deal better than it looked.
‘You’ll be wanting to sit with that,’ he said.
I glanced around, but the two men who had been at the bar when I arrived seemed to have taken the last convenient seats. This did not worry the landlord, though, for he stepped from behind the bar and walked to one of the nearer tables where he proceeded to shake awake the man who was slumped there. ‘It’s time you were awake, Higgins. Will you have another glass?’
Higgins shook his head, gazing blearily around. He reached towards his trouser pocket and then, as if recollecting himself, shrugged. ‘No money,’ he mumbled.
‘Then you’d best be on your way,’ the landlord said, not unkindly and, taking Higgins firmly by the arm, he escorted him to the door.
I took the place he had vacated and concentrated on my beer, trying to ignore the stentorian snoring of the men on either side of me. I sipped slowly, anxious that I should not have finished before Harry had the chance to join me.
I need not have worried. Barely ten minutes after I had started my pint, Harry Price appeared at the door.
I beckoned him over, calling for the barman to provide another drink.
The barman poured Harry’s beer and brought it to our table, nudging one of my neighbours awake and evicting him, as he had the unfortunate Higgins.
I raised my by now half-empty glass to Harry. ‘Cheers!’
Harry returned the toast, though he seemed less than happy with my company. I decided to waste no time in coming to the point.
‘Harry, my circumstances are less comfortable than I might have given Michael to understand.’
Harry said nothing, but it was clear from his face that he and Michael had discussed my new-found (as far as they were concerned) wealth and I suspected that they had been unenthusiastic about it.
‘The fact is that while I have a certain amount of ready money, I have debts that I will need to pay by the end of the year.’ I paused and composed a mournful expression. ‘I fear that I will be unable to meet them.’
Harry gulped nervously at his pint, resolutely refusing to take the bait I was dangling before him.
I continued. I surprised myself at how easily the lies came. But, in the end, what was the harm? This Charlie was, I had already established from Michael’s account, a blackguard of the vilest sort. If any damage was done to him, I would not mourn it. And the Home Office would hardly be concerned about Michael Radford. I told myself that I would do my childhood friend no ill and ploughed ahead with my story.
‘Michael told me something of what you were doing. I have some knowledge of the world and, until my notes are due, some capital to invest in …’ I paused. ‘Let us say a small manufacturers.’ Nothing. ‘Or perhaps a little printing business.’
Now I had him. Printing was a riskier business than coining. When I had left England, counterfeiting bank notes was still punishable by death, and even now it would result in a prolonged term of imprisonment – much longer than if only coins were involved. But if one took the risk, the possibilities of gain were so much greater. Once the press was set up, paper notes could be produced quickly and each one was obviously more profitable than coin to the forger. It was common to forge notes of five or ten pounds in value, while the highest value of coin that would be forged would be a sovereign.
Harry put his drink carefully on the table and leaned closer to me. ‘Do you know aught of printing?’
When I was in Borneo, we had run a small printing press to aid us in the business of governing the country. I had no personal involvement with the mechanics of the exercise, but I thought it best not to admit as much to Mr Price. Indeed, I may well have left him with the impression that I was all but an expert in the business.
Price picked up his glass, gulped at his beer, put it back on the table, fiddled with the handle, and generally displayed every possible symptom of nervousness and uncertainty. It was time, I thought, to move things on.
‘Why don’t you talk to Michael about the best way to move forward? I’ll be in the park again tomorrow. He can find me there.’
He nodded, tipped the last of his beer down his throat, and hurried out. I watched him go and sat for a while nursing my own drink, and then, after a decent interval, set off back towards Paddington.
Things moved quickly after that. I had feared that Michael might not turn up the next day, and that I would have to visit Seven Dials again, but he was there promptly at noon. This time, knowing what I did, I noticed everybody else who came into the park. I looked suspiciously at a clergyman, a gentleman in the ubiquitous green uniform of the militia and two clerks, apparently sharing their lunchtime sandwiches. Michael noticed my nervousness, but put it down to the harsh words we had exchanged at our last meeting. He smiled reassurance and suggested that, as before, we walk as we talked. The idea that I was, in fact, not rich at all seemed to have put him at his ease with me and, for the first time, I was reminded of the companionship of our youth. We set off between the flower beds like old friends.
It never occurred to Michael to be suspicious of me. He had been open about the way in which a shortage of money had driven him to crime and now he seemed to feel a common bond with me.
‘I’ll see you right,’ he said, ‘for old times’ sake.’
It was, it seemed, friendship more than any other consideration that had brought Michael to our meeting. I tried to turn the conversation to the idea that I might be able to put some money into his schemes. If he seized on such an opportunity, I could tell the Home Office that, far from having the government of France supporting them, the Seven Dials forgers were short of capital. Then, surely, the government’s agents would lose interest in them. Alas, it seemed they had all the money they needed.
‘For,’ said Michael, ‘don’t we make our own?’
He was much more interested, he said, in any help I could give with printing. ‘Harry says you understand the business,’ he said. ‘And that would be a good business to be set up in. Our problem is that getting the plate to print money is a tricky thing.’
It seemed that if they were not lacking in capital, at least nobody was supplying them with the equipment they needed. Would this, I wondered, not satisfy the Home Office? I was still convinced that, however much he might be offending against the laws of our country, Michael Radford was not the sort of man to be involved in any French plot. If I were to save him, I had to be able to convince my unwanted visitor at the hotel that Radford was a simple criminal. Once matters were in the hands of the regular police, I could escape back to Devon, taking Michael with me. Back in Bickleigh, we should both be free of this nonsense. The arm of the Metropolitan police force would not extend that far. It was only the agents of the Home Office that we had to fear.
‘I might be able to help you with the plate.’ God forgive me, I was drawing us all into deeper waters than Michael and his friends were already navigating, but I had to convince them that I had something to offer. Until I could demonstrate to the Home Office that there were no French spies in Seven Dials, their agents would force me to infiltrate this gang. I had to persuade Michael that it was in their interests to let me join them. The man who had forced himself upon me in my hotel had never been so crude as to make an obvious threat, but there was no doubt in my mind that he would destroy me if I did not do as he asked.
‘That would be splendid!’ Michael’s satisfaction at my response was an arrow to my soul. Part of me wanted to warn him that he was being watched and that a trap was being set for him, but I held my tongue. I told myself that this was not just in my own interests, but in his. Surely it was best that I be the one to do the business and report that they were not traitors rather than that someone else add to the dossiers of so-called ‘evidence’ that had already been collected. Perhaps someone at Queen Street had once smuggled French goods. Maybe the landlord at the Crown had served them a French wine. It seemed to me that any nonsense or tittle tattle was being admitted as ‘evidence’ on much the same basis that the fact that the French had an army was apparently evidence that they might yet invade our country. In any case, I told myself, if I connived with the Home Office I would be in a position to know if the authorities were to move against Queen Street, and then I should have time to get Michael Radford to safety. He did not belong in Seven Dials, surrounded by vice. He belonged, I was sure, in Devon, breathing a more innocent air. Indeed, if my enforced involvement with his criminality resulted in my engineering his removal back to his true home, then surely I would be doing a good thing.
Michael was still talking, excited at the prospect of moving into a more profitable line of business, but, such was the turmoil in my heart, that I was hardly listening. Then he paused, and I realised that he had suggested that we take lunch together. ‘Come on!’ He was still waiting for my reply. ‘It was ungracious of me to refuse you when you offered. Let us sit down and eat together today.’
I knew I should, but I could not face the idea of breaking bread with a man I might seem about to betray. Numbly, I shook my head and, muttering some excuse, made my way back to my hotel.
When I got back to my room I was scarcely surprised to discover the Home Office’s agent sat there waiting for me.
‘How did you get in?’ I asked.
‘The management are most cooperative.’
‘Perhaps I should change hotel.’
I had intended the remark as a facetious response to his arrogance, but he seemed to take it at face value.
‘It might be better if you took lodgings somewhere. It adds credibility to the idea that you are running out of money and looking to recover your fortunes in town.’
‘I was hoping that would not be necessary.’ I explained that I had met Michael – not that I needed to tell him this, because, of course, his spies had already informed him of the fact. He did not, however, know what we had spoken about. I told him the whole business of the plate. ‘So you see, I am sure you are mistaken. If this were a French plot, then surely they would have been sent the plate that they needed.’
‘Not necessarily. We British may not have the sort of secret police they have in France …’ I allowed myself a cough at this point. Only a few days ago, I would have automatically agreed with such a statement. Now, sat opposite what was, to all intents and purposes, a secret policeman, I was somewhat more sceptical. He ignored my spluttering and continued, ‘But it is less of a simple matter to smuggle printing plates into this country than you might think.’
It was as I had feared: the evidence of the plates was ignored, while the fact that the crooks were not short of capital for their enterprise was adduced to confirm that they must be receiving funding from France. Apparently, I was still to join the counterfeiting gang and inform upon them to the Home Office.
‘But this is ridiculous.’ I tried to reason with the man. ‘I don’t have any official status and, for all I know, neither have you. You have yet to tell me your name.’
‘You have seen my authority.’
‘It’s a card, damn it.’ I was angry enough to forget myself. ‘Anybody can print up a card.’
‘Do you seriously doubt that I am what I say I am?’
He knew all about me, he knew about the counterfeiting, he had the resources to have Michael followed. There was no doubt that he was a member of some large and official body and his sardonic smile showed that he knew that I could not seriously question his credentials.
‘I need a name.’ I stuck to my guns. ‘You are involving me in something that could be dangerous and which clearly is criminal. I need to know on whose behalf I am acting.’
‘No you don’t.’ He was not arguing, merely stating a fact. ‘When we want to contact you, we shall do so. Until then, you have only to act as we have instructed you. The less you know, the better.’
‘But if I need to explain myself to the police …’
He raised his hand to silence me.
‘If you get into trouble, we will do our best to help you. But if you mention our role to anybody, we will leave you to the mercies of the constabulary. We value discretion above almost all things.’
There was no more discussion. I was given my orders, still with no explicit threat, but it was clear that he considered me his creature and the power of the organisation he represented was too great for me to feel that I could sensibly choose to resist him. So I reluctantly agreed that I would move out of my comfortable room in the Royal Hotel and instead take lodgings. It was not too great a hardship, for I did not have to pretend to any extreme of poverty and after a day of discreet enquiries I was able to find myself a room in a pleasant enough house near Marylebone Lane where I had visited the police station when I started my search for Harry Price. If I had known where that search would lead, I might have left well alone, but it was too late to worry about that now.
