setting out what one sarcastic observer called “the innumerable whim-whams and fribble-frabble of fashion.”
Between eight and nine o’clock was rush hour, and the streets became crowded with men. Everyone from government clerks to bank cashiers, from stockbrokers to sugar-bakers and soap-boilers, made their way to work on foot, in omnibuses, tandems, dogcarts—altogether a rattling, noisy, thickly jammed traffic of vehicles and drivers who cursed and swore and lashed at their horses.
In the midst of this, the street sweepers began their day’s labors. In the ammonia-rich air, they collected the first droppings of horse dung, dashing among the carts and omnibuses. And they were busy: an ordinary London horse, according to Henry Mayhew, deposited six tons of dung on the streets each year, and there were at least a million horses in the city.
Gliding through the midst of this confusion, a few elegant broughams, with gleaming dark polished wood carriages and delicately sprung, lacy-spoked wheels, conveyed their substantial citizens in utter comfort to the day’s employment.
Pierce and Agar, crouched on a rooftop overlooking the imposing façade of the Huddleston & BradfordBank across the way, watched as one such brougham came down the street toward them.
“There he is now,” Agar said.
Pierce nodded. “Well, we shall know soon enough.” He checked his watch. “Eight twenty-nine. Punctual, as usual.”
Pierce and Agar had been on the rooftop since dawn. They had watched the early arrival of the tellers and clerks; they had seen the traffic in the street and on the pavements grow more brisk and hurried with each passing minute.
Now the brougham pulled up to the door of the bank, and the driver jumped down to open the door. The senior partner of Huddleston & Bradford stepped down to the pavement. He was near sixty, his beard was gray, and he had a considerable paunch; whether he was balding or not, Pierce could not discern, for a high top hat covered his head.
“He’s a fat one, isn’t he,” Agar said.
“Watch, now,” Pierce said.
At the very moment Mr. Trent stepped to the ground, a well-dressed young man jostled him roughly, muttered a brief apology over his shoulder, and moved on in the rush-hour crowd. Mr. Trent ignored the incident. He walked the few steps forward to the impressive oak doors of the bank.
Then he stopped, halting in mid-stride.
“He’s realized,” Pierce said.
On the street below, Trent looked after the well-dressed young man, and immediately patted his side coat pocket, feeling for some article. Apparently, what he sought was still in its place; his shoulders dropped in relief, and he continued on into the bank.
The brougham clattered off; the bank doors swung shut.
Pierce grinned and turned to Agar. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”
“That’s what?” Agar said.
“That’s what we need to know.”
“What do we need to know, then?” Agar said.
“We need to know,” Pierce said slowly, “that Mr. Trent brought his key with him today, for this is the day of—” He broke off abruptly. He had not yet informed Agar of the plan, and he saw no reason to do so until the last minute. A man with a tendency to be a soak, like Agar, could loosen his tongue at an unlikely time. But no drunk could split what he did not know.
“The day of what?” Agar persisted.
“The day of reckoning,” Pierce said.
“You’re a tight one,” Agar said. And then he added, “Wasn’t that Teddy Burke, trying a pull?”
“Who’s Teddy Burke?” Pierce said.
“A swell, works the Strand.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Pierce said, and the two men left the rooftop.
“Cor, you’re a tight one,” Agar said again. “That
was
Teddy Burke.”
Pierce just smiled.
In the coming weeks, Pierce learned a great deal about Mr. Edgar Trent and his daily routine. Mr. Trent was a rather severe and devout gentleman; he rarely drank, never smoked or played at cards. He was the father of
Between eight and nine o’clock was rush hour, and the streets became crowded with men. Everyone from government clerks to bank cashiers, from stockbrokers to sugar-bakers and soap-boilers, made their way to work on foot, in omnibuses, tandems, dogcarts—altogether a rattling, noisy, thickly jammed traffic of vehicles and drivers who cursed and swore and lashed at their horses.
In the midst of this, the street sweepers began their day’s labors. In the ammonia-rich air, they collected the first droppings of horse dung, dashing among the carts and omnibuses. And they were busy: an ordinary London horse, according to Henry Mayhew, deposited six tons of dung on the streets each year, and there were at least a million horses in the city.
Gliding through the midst of this confusion, a few elegant broughams, with gleaming dark polished wood carriages and delicately sprung, lacy-spoked wheels, conveyed their substantial citizens in utter comfort to the day’s employment.
Pierce and Agar, crouched on a rooftop overlooking the imposing façade of the Huddleston & BradfordBank across the way, watched as one such brougham came down the street toward them.
“There he is now,” Agar said.
Pierce nodded. “Well, we shall know soon enough.” He checked his watch. “Eight twenty-nine. Punctual, as usual.”
Pierce and Agar had been on the rooftop since dawn. They had watched the early arrival of the tellers and clerks; they had seen the traffic in the street and on the pavements grow more brisk and hurried with each passing minute.
Now the brougham pulled up to the door of the bank, and the driver jumped down to open the door. The senior partner of Huddleston & Bradford stepped down to the pavement. He was near sixty, his beard was gray, and he had a considerable paunch; whether he was balding or not, Pierce could not discern, for a high top hat covered his head.
“He’s a fat one, isn’t he,” Agar said.
“Watch, now,” Pierce said.
At the very moment Mr. Trent stepped to the ground, a well-dressed young man jostled him roughly, muttered a brief apology over his shoulder, and moved on in the rush-hour crowd. Mr. Trent ignored the incident. He walked the few steps forward to the impressive oak doors of the bank.
Then he stopped, halting in mid-stride.
“He’s realized,” Pierce said.
On the street below, Trent looked after the well-dressed young man, and immediately patted his side coat pocket, feeling for some article. Apparently, what he sought was still in its place; his shoulders dropped in relief, and he continued on into the bank.
The brougham clattered off; the bank doors swung shut.
Pierce grinned and turned to Agar. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”
“That’s what?” Agar said.
“That’s what we need to know.”
“What do we need to know, then?” Agar said.
“We need to know,” Pierce said slowly, “that Mr. Trent brought his key with him today, for this is the day of—” He broke off abruptly. He had not yet informed Agar of the plan, and he saw no reason to do so until the last minute. A man with a tendency to be a soak, like Agar, could loosen his tongue at an unlikely time. But no drunk could split what he did not know.
“The day of what?” Agar persisted.
“The day of reckoning,” Pierce said.
“You’re a tight one,” Agar said. And then he added, “Wasn’t that Teddy Burke, trying a pull?”
“Who’s Teddy Burke?” Pierce said.
“A swell, works the Strand.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Pierce said, and the two men left the rooftop.
“Cor, you’re a tight one,” Agar said again. “That
was
Teddy Burke.”
Pierce just smiled.
In the coming weeks, Pierce learned a great deal about Mr. Edgar Trent and his daily routine. Mr. Trent was a rather severe and devout gentleman; he rarely drank, never smoked or played at cards. He was the father of
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