The Great Train Robery by Crichton, Michael

The article went on to describe the condition of Constable Farrell, who was “faring no better than could be expected.” The policeman gave the story that he had been called by a well-dressed woman who was arguing with her cabdriver, “a surly thug of a fellow with a white scar across the forehead.” When the policeman interceded in the dispute, the cabby fell on him, swearing and cursing and beating him with a neddy, or blackjack; and when the unfortunate policeman came to his senses, he discovered he had been stripped of his clothing.

In 1854, many urban-dwelling Victorians were concerned over what was viewed as an upsurge in street crime. Later periodic “epidemics” of street violence finally culminated in a pedestrian panic during the years 1862 and 1863, and the passage of the “Garrotting Act” by Parliament. This legislation provided unusually stiff penalties for offenders, including flogging in installments— to allow the prisoners to recover before their next scheduled beating— and hanging. Indeed, more people were hanged in England in 1863 than in any year since 1838.

Brutal street crime was the lowest form of underworld activity. Rampsmen and footpads were frequently despised by their fellow criminals, who abhorred crude lays and acts of violence. The usual method of footpadding called for a victim, preferably drunk, to be lured into a corner by an accomplice, preferably a woman, whereupon the footpad would “bear up” on the victim, beat him with a cudgel and rob him, leaving him, in the gutter. It was not an elegant way to make a living.

The lurid details of a footpadder bearing up on his hapless quarry were the ordinary fare of news reporting. Apparently, no one ever stopped to think how strange the attack on Constable Farrell really was. In fact, it made very little sense. Then, as now, criminals tried wherever possible to avoid confrontations with the police. To “prop a crusher” was merely asking for an all-out manhunt through the rookeries until the culprits were apprehended, for the police took a special interest in attacks on their own kind.

Nor was there any sensible reason to attack a policeman. He was more capable than most victims of defending himself, and he never carried much money; often he had no money at all.

And, finally, there was absolutely no point in stripping a policeman. In those days, stripping was a common crime, usually the work of old women who lured children into alleys and then took all their clothing to sell at a secondhand shop. But you could not take the down off a crusher’s dunnage; that is, you could not disguise a policeman’s uniform so that it would have resale value. Secondhand shops were always under surveillance, and always accused of taking stolen goods; no “translator” would ever accept a police uniform. It was perhaps the only kind of clothing in all London that had no resale value at all.

Thus the attack on Constable Farrell was not merely dangerous but pointless, and any thoughtful observer would have been led to ponder why it had occurred at all.

Chapter 22

The Prad Prig

Sometime in late December, 1854, Pierce met a man named Andrew Taggert in the King’s Arms publican house, off Regent Street. Taggert was by then nearly sixty, and a well-known character in the neighborhood. He had survived a long and varied career, which is worth briefly recounting, for he is one of the few participants in The Great Train Robbery whose background is known.

Taggert was born around 1790 outside Liverpool, and came to London near the turn of the century with his unmarried mother, a prostitute. By the age of ten, he was employed in “the resurrection trade,” the business of digging up fresh corpses from graveyards to sell to medical schools. He soon acquired a reputation for uncommon daring; it was said that he once transported a stiff through London streets in daylight, with the man propped up in his cart like a passenger.

The Anatomy Act of 1838 ended the business in corpses, and Andrew Taggert shifted to the smasher’s job of “ringing the changes”— disposing of counterfeit money. In this maneuver, a genuine coin would be offered to a shopkeeper for some purchase, and then the smasher would fumble in his purse, saying that he thought he had correct change, and take the original coin back. After a while, he would say, “No, I don’t have it, after all,” and hand over a counterfeit coin in place of the original. This was petty work, and Taggert soon tired of it. He moved on to a variety of con games, becoming a full-fledged magsman by the middle 1840s. He was apparently very successful in his work; he took a respectable flat in Camden Town, which was not a wholly respectable area. (Charles Dickens had lived there some fifteen years earlier, while his father was in prison.) Taggert also took a wife, one Mary Maxwell, a widow, and it is one of those minor ironies that the master magsman should himself be conned. Mary Maxwell was a coiner specializing in small silver coins. This bit-faker had served time in prison on several occasions, and knew something of the law, which her new husband apparently did not, for she had not married idly.