Raffles: A Perfect Wicket Read online

  Raffles: A Perfect Wicket

  Richard Foreman

  © Richard Foreman 2012

  Richard Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Acknowledgements

  As ever I would like to thank Matthew Lynn, Helen Ng, Emily Banyard, Sharona Selby and the Angels. Special thanks should also go to David Dickinson, for his encouragement and expertise.

  My original intention for this book was to have Raffles succeed in his bid to rob Lord Rosebery. This plot was foiled due to the author, as well as Raffles, growing to like the former Prime Minister too much. The man for responsible for this change of heart – and plot – was Leo McKinstry, author of the erudite and entertaining Rosebery: Statesman in Turmoil.

  I would like to dedicate this book to my good friend Raymond Kelly. For years you have looked out for other people. Now it’s time for other people to look out for you.

  Raffles and Bunny will return in Raffles: Stumped.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  Grey clouds smeared themselves across the sky. Rain freckled the windows. Raffles’ mood was as grim as the weather. Not two weeks had passed since our encounter with, for want of knowing her real name, Mary Flanagan. The details of our week planning and robbing Rupert Robert Fuller – and the course of Raffles’ affair with the remarkable Miss Flanagan – can be found in Raffles: Bowled Over. Perhaps Raffles was listless from missing her. For many a job – and affair – would pale in comparison to the events of that week. Yet I had seen him sink into such drear moods before, without the aid of a woman or a lack of adventure, so I wasn’t altogether convinced by my theory.

  It was two o’clock. I called upon my friend at the Albany after a lunch with Thomas ‘Arrows’ Fletcher, a journalist chum of mine. An unshaven Raffles welcomed me in and poured me a gin and tonic, but he soon sat wordlessly in his armchair, still in his dressing gown – pensively staring either out of the window or upon the solitary candle which burned upon his desk before the windowpane. His expression reminded me of a couplet composed by Byron who, as much perhaps from sympathy as due to the fact that the poet once resided in the Albany too, Raffles called his ‘neighbour’.

  ‘Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern

  Mask hearts where grief has little left to learn.’

  The dregs of a whisky and soda-water sat upon a table next to him, as did an ashtray which contained a veritable pyramid of cigarette butts. We sat in silence for what may have been half an hour or so, during which Raffles smoked another three Sullivans. I kept telling myself that the next cigarette butt laid upon the pile would cause the entire edifice to collapse, but Raffles possessed (or was possessed by) either the luck or skill of the devil. After finishing off another whisky and soda-water, consisting of a nigh on equal measure of both, Raffles turned to me. Realising perhaps how forlorn I was, from witnessing my usually bright companion enmeshed in a gloom, he tried to smile – but the feeble effort failed to convince either of us.

  “My apologies Bunny. I am not myself today – or rather I am myself today. I do not know. How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world, so to speak.” Again, he attempted to smile but his heart wasn’t in it. Indeed his faltering smile made him seem all the more melancholy or pained.

  “What’s wrong old chap? Are you in need of a doctor?”

  “No. I warrant that I am more in need of some sport. Rather than being ill – or worse than being ill – I am bored. Kierkegaard argued that ‘boredom is the root of all evil.’ Tolstoy posited that boredom is the ‘desire for desires.’ Oh I can but fruitlessly wax upon my malady my friend, but can you help deliver a cure?”

  There was a mixture of satire as well as sincerity in his tone. I was here about to suggest an evening at the casino but I knew only too well the kind of sport that Raffles craved. It involved breaking into a house, rather than breaking the bank at the casino.

  “Well I’m not sure that I can help deliver a cure to your boredom, but I can deliver your mail. I picked it up in the lobby,” I replied whilst retrieving two letters from my pocket and passing them to my friend.

  The first piece of mail – some form of an overdue bill I dare say – duly increased rather than assuaged his sense of tedium and frustration. Raffles rolled his eyes, before screwing up the letter and envelope and tossing them onto the fire. Yet he knit his brow with intrigue rather than vexation upon reading the second piece of correspondence. Within the space of thirty seconds the twinkle returned to my good friend’s eye, like the sun breaking through thick clouds. A divinity and devilry returned to his expression. He grinned and enthusiastically clasped me by the arm.

  “By God Bunny, you have delivered both the mail and the cure. The game’s afoot!”

  Chapter 2

  A light, autonomous of the flames from the fireplace, danced in Raffles’ eyes as he poured me another gin and tonic and handed me the letter.

  ‘Dear Raffles,

  I hope that you are well. You will be pleased to know that the hat you kindly bought me in Bond St last week has indeed been turning heads in Truro. A few comments have been complimentary, but I have much rather enjoyed the looks of disdain and disapproval that I have been generating, from priggish duffers and prudish old women alike, by wearing my ‘shockingly modern bonnet.’ The local paper may well even run a story about my scandalous behaviour, such is the paucity of other things happening, or rather not happening, in town.

  As you can see, I have enclosed an invite to a party which is taking place this weekend. I do hope that you will be free to attend as my guest. You will be welcome to stay for the weekend. Bunny will be welcome too. I first became acquainted with Lord Rosebery through being introduced to him at the races. He was initially curious about me due to my surname I suspect, even though we are not related. But we have corresponded since and I count him as a good friend – and one of the most remarkable men in England. I know that he would be interested in meeting you. You are both lively conversationalists, lovers of sport – contrarians and introverts.

  Lucy.’

  ‘Lucy’ was Lucy Rosebery, a delightful and stimulating young woman (who must have been no younger than twenty and no older than twenty-five). Raffles had first met her whilst playing cricket in Truro. When he had mentioned Miss Rosebery upon returning to London he could barely contain his fondness and admiration for her, but time – or Mary Flanagan – had cooled his ardour. Raffles had been but perfunctorily charming when Lucy had visited him a week ago, suspending his black mood out of politeness rather than inspiration. He took her for lunch and showered her with gifts, rather than genuine attention and affection, in Bond St afterwards. Unbeknownst to Lucy, Raffles proceeded to spend the evening with her cousin, Margaret, who was also in town for the week. Although I could not help but disapprove of my friend’s caddish behaviour it did afford me the opportunity to spend an agreeable evening with Miss Rosebery at the theatre. I tried to admonish him again the following day however.

  “Your loss was my gain,” I argued (my attempts at instilling a sense of shame in Raffles appeared to have little or no
effect, at best).

  “I agree Bunny. You can be assured that I will not be seeing Margaret again in favour of Lucy. I warrant that all that lies between her ears – pretty ears though they may be – are pictures of bridal gowns and flower arrangements. Suffice to say I would rather attend a funeral service, my own even, to that of a marriage service involving myself. Also, she snores in bed.”

  I coloured upon hearing this revealing comment. Whether I admired, disapproved or envied Raffles in regards to his efficient seduction of the somewhat coquettish Margaret my immediate thoughts were for her cousin.

  “You have not – I mean with Lucy, also –”

  “No, Margaret is much more the kissing cousin so to speak out of the two. I get the impression that our virtuous young suffragette keeps the key to her heart inside the same locket which houses the key to her chastity belt. There was a time when I would have considered breaking into such a locket a piece of good sport. But I would much rather break into something nowadays that I can steal and fence, rather than steal and just write poetry about.”

  I was more than a tad upset at Raffles for having spoken in such an unbecoming way about Miss Rosebery, who I must confess had made quite a favourable impression on me the evening before. But at least Raffles’ witticisms brought a smile back to his face and lessened his melancholy humour, however briefly.

  Lord Rosebery needs no introduction of course. He is the man who famously set himself the three ambitions of marrying an heiress, winning the Derby and becoming Prime Minster – of which he managed all three before the age of fifty.

  Raffles tipped the contents of his ashtray into the fire, which momentarily choked the flames, and downed another whisky and soda, slamming the tumbler back on the table and licking his lips as he did so.

  “This job could prove to be my Sistine Chapel, Aeneid or Parsifal.”

  I was here tempted to say that it could also prove to be his Waterloo, with Raffles playing the part of Napoleon, but I did not wish to dampen my friend’s positive mood. He was soaring into the sun again. I already knew that I would cancel whatever was in my diary to attend the party.

  “I will get dressed and we will venture out. We should treat ourselves to a new suit or two in light of the party Bunny, with specially designed deep pockets,” he playfully remarked (albeit I must confess that I did not know whether his comment was wholly in jest or not).

  “Alas, my current shallow pockets are all but empty,” I replied. The Baccarat tables had been as amenable to me as the weather that week.

  “Fret not old chap. Come with me. I will help fill both your pockets and your wardrobe.”

  Chapter 3

  As Raffles shaved and dressed I asked Clarence, the ever-obliging doorman at the Albany, to arrange for a cab to take us to the King’s Rd. As we headed west, the rain drumming upon the canopy of the hansom, Raffles spoke enthusiastically – and fondly even – about the man he was intending to rob.

  “Did you know that he was thrown out of Oxford? Rosebery purchased a racehorse, which was against college rules. He was granted the choice to either keep the racehorse or leave the college. Earlier on in the year the college had predicted that Rosebery would attain a first. They were not sharp enough to predict his reply however. Now there’s pluck, Bunny... He has been as equally profligate as generous with his fortune, I understand... Yet I am not of that insipid, Eton-hating set who despise – as much as they envy – wealth and privilege. Indeed I would rather we have more politicians of Rosebery’s ilk who go into office with money, as opposed to this ever increasing political class we have now who go in to office to make money...”

  Thankfully it was but a short walk from where we disembarked upon the King’s Rd to the small flat which served as Raffles’ second home, for his double-life as an amateur cracksman. The apartment housed various accoutrements to his trade, as well as a number of changes of clothes (including a police constable’s uniform even). The flat was also home to a small safe, hidden behind an accomplished copy of a Caspar David Friedrich landscape (or it was entirely possible, knowing Raffles, that the painting was the original). Once in the apartment Raffles went to the safe and removed a diamond studded tiepin and a couple of other pieces of jewellery, which I recognised as spoils from the Rupert Robert Fuller robbery.

  “I have been saving these for a rainy day,” Raffles remarked, his aspect twinkling as much as the tiepin. “It’s never a good idea to sell all the loot in one go Bunny, so I kept these beauties back. As ever half the take will be yours. Here, put these on – and these. I want you to accompany me to Limehouse, where we’ll offload them to a fence I know.”

  Raffles here handed me some bedraggled overalls from his wardrobe, made from a material that was coarser than the docker’s language that had originally possessed the ill-styled garments. I was also presented with a pair of ill-fitting black boots which looked like they had last been polished when Rosebery had been Prime Minister half a decade ago.

  Raffles donned similar clothes and besmirched both of our faces a little. Although we would look out of place somewhat in Chelsea, we would doubtless fit right in around Limehouse. He tucked a small cosh in his inside pocket and I gulped as he tossed me a similar baton.

  “Fail to prepare, prepare to fail,” Raffles exclaimed, with a warped sense of adventure rather than gravity in his expression.

  Suffice to say that if my boots had not been so steel-capped, I would have here verily kicked myself – for my decision not to have that second bottle with Arrows at lunch and so avoid this potentially perilous escapade with Raffles.

  Chapter 4

  This was the first time that Raffles had invited me to accompany him to Limehouse, or any of his other haunts in the East End or south of the river where he sold on the fruits of our labour. Perhaps he thought he was satisfying my curiosity – or equally it may have been he wanted to amuse himself by watching me deal with such an alien environment. In little or no time at all I realised however that I would be happy for this to be the last time that Raffles invited me to accompany him.

  Narrow streets and tall, ugly buildings blocked out what little sunlight there was seeping through the grey clouds. The pavements were slick with grime – and steaming puddings of dung populated the roads. People (dock workers, charwomen, vagrants, costermongers, ruffians) shouted rather than spoke to each other in language far more colourful than the sky above. Noxious fumes wafted along the noxious looking Thames and permeated every nook and cranny. I would have perhaps fainted, if not for the fear of falling into the dung and grime. I couldn’t help but turn my nose up at the undesirables – and unsmellables – who jostled along the street with me. Yet I was also conscious of not looking anyone in the eye. It was not just the rapidly forming blister upon my left heel which made me look uncomfortable I warrant.

  Raffles however seemed to be both enjoying playing his part and watching me squirm playing mine. As soon as he had put on his costume his manner had altered dramatically – and realistically. His Cockney was as proficient as his Latin – and Raffles appeared as at ease with the scene and etiquette of Limehouse as he was with Piccadilly. He was still devilishly handsome even in disguise though – and the young barmaid duly smiled and blushed as he doffed his cap to her, made a joke and ordered a couple of drinks in the public house he steered me into.

  “Now I want you to keep your eyes open and mouth shut Bunny. Nod, shrug or shake your head should any of our fellow patrons engage with you,” Raffles whispered whilst leading me into a quiet crevice of the tavern.

  The establishment reeked of gin and beer – and the waste product the body releases after drinking the aforementioned. Customers either bellowed all manner of things to each other or murmured in corners. The language was often as filthy as the tankards we drank out of. Most of the men – and a couple of the women too – had beards and were dressed not dissimilarly to myself. Many of them turned their heads when they heard the door creak open, perhaps fearing that their employers, or
worse wives, might enter and scold them.

  “I’m here to see the wizened old gent in the corner,” Raffles quietly remarked, subtly nodding his head in the direction of the fence.

  Tufts of wiry grey hair sprouted out from beneath a battered brown trilby hat. His eyes nervously flitted around the room and his hands remained in constant motion – fingering his beard, handling his watch, picking crumbs and fluff from his woollen jacket.

  “His name is Spokes. He’s half Jewish and half Irish Catholic, but wholly dedicated to Mammon. Like many in his profession he will plead poverty but when finished for the day, old Spokes will leave Limehouse to go home to a three-storey house in Hampstead. A cook and maid will serve as staff then, as opposed to the two minders who are sat behind him at present. I once spotted him in Jermyn St, buying a suit of slightly finer quality to that which he is wearing now. Spokes is also a moneylender – and Shylock himself would blanch at the rates of interest he charges. In short, I’d rather deal with the crafty old Fagan than most of his brethren, but I trust him about as much as a priest or trade union leader.”

  I tried my best not to wince, or wretch, upon taking a swig of beer (in as natural a manner as I could muster – consciously keeping my little finger tightly clasped around the mug, instead of pointing to the ceiling). Raffles caught Spokes’ eye and the fence gave him the nod to come over to his corner, but both suddenly desisted upon seeing two other rogues approach the table. The first man, who sat down opposite to the fence, was stocky and dressed like a dandy. He was middle-aged, but his piratical good looks still gave him a virile air. Striking green eyes shone out beneath his cap and surveyed, or pierced, the room in one scoping glance. Even Spokes’ minders averted their gaze. The second rogue was a bear of a man, with a bull neck and a flat, porcine face. Scars lined his shaven head as if it were an ordnance survey map. He was proof enough of Mr Darwin’s controversial theory than man is descended from the ape.