hand-held lantern, his good friend William Brodie in a mask; who had presumably intended to take full advantage of the owner’s lack of attendance to his valuables; and who, just like a bad dream, doused his flame and faded away into the dark …
What these dramas had in common was that, although Brodie was recognised in both of them, no official action was taken by his victims. In one instance the man was simply reluctant to incriminate his friend; in the other the old lady preferred to doubt the evidence of her own senses – a truly striking proof of the near-infinite advantages to be gained from a respectable family background. And didn’t William Brodie know it.
It was remarkable that both these first modest toes-in-the-water of crime gave him a shocking caught-red-handed moment, yet at a highly sensitive time there came another example of his apparently fearless audacity – and of a merciless streak with regard to that family background that could truly take a good person’s breath away. When his father, the much-respected Francis Brodie, succumbed to palsy at his house in the Lawnmarket on the evening of Saturday 1 June 1782, his playboy son was out gambling. And as Saturday merged into Sunday (that special day again), with his belated visit finally made while the old man’s body was laid out with candles burning around it, the new head of the Brodie dynasty decided to set out on an endeavour that – he knew – would never be attributed by right-thinking folk to a grieving son.
He had prepared his raid on Thomson’s, the High Street tobacconist, well. Having commissioned the Brodie firm three months before to build new shelves and drawers with brass handles to house his precious stock imported from all over the world, Mr Thomson had absented himself from the shop now and again to let the craftsmen get on unhindered. And at such moments it had occurred to Brodie more than once, especially when his men were off on an ale break, that there was more than just a world of fine tobaccos – Arabian Latakia, spicy Bahia Brazil, fire-cured Kentuck, chewable Burmese and high-quality Cuban, as well as the popular Virginia and snuffs galore – to admire here: there was the shop’s main key hanging unguarded on a hook inside the door and positively inviting him to take a putty impression of it in his little japan-black box.
He had yielded to temptation then, taken the imprint with window putty, made a copy key from it, and now, having learned Mr Thomson was going away for some time, he decided to use it with a view to settling some urgent gambling debts. With a small smile of mischief playing about his narrow lips, he slowly shed his day street finery – the fine silken waistcoat, the light-coloured trousers and overcoat – and donned his chosen costume of the night: trousers and stockings, waistcoat, cloak and gloves, all in black. A bold macabre touch – his late father’s crumpled wig of dark curls – almost completed the ensemble, except that when he came out of the shadows and descended into the Cowgate emporium of nicotiana about to make his entry, there would also be the black crepe mask. He stuffed the last two items into the deep cloak pockets along with a jemmy and a loaded pistol, while in his near-invisibility he carried his dark lantern along the street on one gloved hand with his home-made key in the other.
This he slipped quietly into the door’s heavy lock and – as he glanced briefly about him to check no candles were suddenly flickering – it turned easily. Inside, all was familiar to him as a one-time work site and, while he helped himself to a raffia-tied bundle of cheroots, he even knew where Mr Thomson’s money would be held. But alas! As he started forcing the relevant mahogany drawer open, while admiring the strength of his own handiwork, he heard the cry ‘Who’s there?’ and wheeled round to see the night-gowned Thomson descending the stone stairs from his home to his shop, with
What these dramas had in common was that, although Brodie was recognised in both of them, no official action was taken by his victims. In one instance the man was simply reluctant to incriminate his friend; in the other the old lady preferred to doubt the evidence of her own senses – a truly striking proof of the near-infinite advantages to be gained from a respectable family background. And didn’t William Brodie know it.
It was remarkable that both these first modest toes-in-the-water of crime gave him a shocking caught-red-handed moment, yet at a highly sensitive time there came another example of his apparently fearless audacity – and of a merciless streak with regard to that family background that could truly take a good person’s breath away. When his father, the much-respected Francis Brodie, succumbed to palsy at his house in the Lawnmarket on the evening of Saturday 1 June 1782, his playboy son was out gambling. And as Saturday merged into Sunday (that special day again), with his belated visit finally made while the old man’s body was laid out with candles burning around it, the new head of the Brodie dynasty decided to set out on an endeavour that – he knew – would never be attributed by right-thinking folk to a grieving son.
He had prepared his raid on Thomson’s, the High Street tobacconist, well. Having commissioned the Brodie firm three months before to build new shelves and drawers with brass handles to house his precious stock imported from all over the world, Mr Thomson had absented himself from the shop now and again to let the craftsmen get on unhindered. And at such moments it had occurred to Brodie more than once, especially when his men were off on an ale break, that there was more than just a world of fine tobaccos – Arabian Latakia, spicy Bahia Brazil, fire-cured Kentuck, chewable Burmese and high-quality Cuban, as well as the popular Virginia and snuffs galore – to admire here: there was the shop’s main key hanging unguarded on a hook inside the door and positively inviting him to take a putty impression of it in his little japan-black box.
He had yielded to temptation then, taken the imprint with window putty, made a copy key from it, and now, having learned Mr Thomson was going away for some time, he decided to use it with a view to settling some urgent gambling debts. With a small smile of mischief playing about his narrow lips, he slowly shed his day street finery – the fine silken waistcoat, the light-coloured trousers and overcoat – and donned his chosen costume of the night: trousers and stockings, waistcoat, cloak and gloves, all in black. A bold macabre touch – his late father’s crumpled wig of dark curls – almost completed the ensemble, except that when he came out of the shadows and descended into the Cowgate emporium of nicotiana about to make his entry, there would also be the black crepe mask. He stuffed the last two items into the deep cloak pockets along with a jemmy and a loaded pistol, while in his near-invisibility he carried his dark lantern along the street on one gloved hand with his home-made key in the other.
This he slipped quietly into the door’s heavy lock and – as he glanced briefly about him to check no candles were suddenly flickering – it turned easily. Inside, all was familiar to him as a one-time work site and, while he helped himself to a raffia-tied bundle of cheroots, he even knew where Mr Thomson’s money would be held. But alas! As he started forcing the relevant mahogany drawer open, while admiring the strength of his own handiwork, he heard the cry ‘Who’s there?’ and wheeled round to see the night-gowned Thomson descending the stone stairs from his home to his shop, with
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