interesting party. But one other circumstance finally wound up the
evening, after our Detective guests had left us. One of the
sharpest among them, and the officer best acquainted with the Swell
Mob, had his pocket picked, going home!
THREE ‘DETECTIVE’ ANECDOTES
I. – THE PAIR OF GLOVES
‘IT’S a singler story, sir,’ said Inspector Wield, of the Detective
Police, who, in company with Sergeants Dornton and Mith, paid us
another twilight visit, one July evening; ‘and I’ve been thinking
you might like to know it.
‘It’s concerning the murder of the young woman, Eliza Grimwood,
some years ago, over in the Waterloo Road. She was commonly called
The Countess, because of her handsome appearance and her proud way
of carrying of herself; and when I saw the poor Countess (I had
known her well to speak to), lying dead, with her throat cut, on
the floor of her bedroom, you’ll believe me that a variety of
reflections calculated to make a man rather low in his spirits,
came into my head.
‘That’s neither here nor there. I went to the house the morning
after the murder, and examined the body, and made a general
observation of the bedroom where it was. Turning down the pillow
of the bed with my hand, I found, underneath it, a pair of gloves.
A pair of gentleman’s dress gloves, very dirty; and inside the
lining, the letters TR, and a cross.
‘Well, sir, I took them gloves away, and I showed ’em to the
magistrate, over at Union Hall, before whom the case was. He says,
“Wield,” he says, “there’s no doubt this is a discovery that may
lead to something very important; and what you have got to do,
Wield, is, to find out the owner of these gloves.”
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‘I was of the same opinion, of course, and I went at it
immediately. I looked at the gloves pretty narrowly, and it was my
opinion that they had been cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur
and rosin about ’em, you know, which cleaned gloves usually have,
more or less. I took ’em over to a friend of mine at Kennington,
who was in that line, and I put it to him. “What do you say now?
Have these gloves been cleaned?” “These gloves have been cleaned,”
says he. “Have you any idea who cleaned them?” says I. “Not at
all,” says he; “I’ve a very distinct idea who DIDN’T clean ’em, and
that’s myself. But I’ll tell you what, Wield, there ain’t above
eight or nine reg’lar glove-cleaners in London,” – there were not,
at that time, it seems – “and I think I can give you their
addresses, and you may find out, by that means, who did clean ’em.”
Accordingly, he gave me the directions, and I went here, and I went
there, and I looked up this man, and I looked up that man; but,
though they all agreed that the gloves had been cleaned, I couldn’t
find the man, woman, or child, that had cleaned that aforesaid pair
of gloves.
‘What with this person not being at home, and that person being
expected home in the afternoon, and so forth, the inquiry took me
three days. On the evening of the third day, coming over Waterloo
Bridge from the Surrey side of the river, quite beat, and very much
vexed and disappointed, I thought I’d have a shilling’s worth of
entertainment at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen myself up. So I
went into the Pit, at half-price, and I sat myself down next to a
very quiet, modest sort of young man. Seeing I was a stranger
(which I thought it just as well to appear to be) he told me the
names of the actors on the stage, and we got into conversation.
When the play was over, we came out together, and I said, “We’ve
been very companionable and agreeable, and perhaps you wouldn’t
object to a drain?” “Well, you’re very good,” says he; “I
SHOULDN’T object to a drain.” Accordingly, we went to a publichouse,
near the Theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room upstairs
on the first floor, and called for a pint of half-and-half,