CHAPTER LI.—HEY, PRESTO!

Coutts having seen that his father and sisters were provided with all necessary comforts, hastened to the city. He had an appointment which could not be postponed; he could do nothing more at Ringsford; in town he could arrange with some contractor to send out a band of men to make the least injured portion of the Manor again habitable, and to clear away the débris as quickly as possible.

The appointment was to meet Philip and Wrentham at Mr Shield’s apartments. Coutts was confident that the bill he held was a forgery. He had no doubt Philip had been fooled into it somehow, but that was no reason why _he_ should be fooled out of it. The way Shield had received him plainly indicated that he would give him no place in his will; whilst he was anxious to avoid scandal which would involve Philip.

‘Well, if the old fellow won’t give me a slice of his fortune, I’ll screw a plum out of it,’ was Coutts’s agreeable reflection. ‘I have the forged bill, and unless he hands me over double the amount, I don’t give it up.’

That was a ‘smart’ stroke of business, which delighted Coutts almost as much as the prospect of gaining such a large sum of money, and of making the ‘old fellow’ stump up in spite of himself. There was, too, in his mind a kind of moral fitness in the transaction; for it would be paying out this precious uncle for some of the annoyance he had caused his father. In addition, there was to be reckoned the satisfaction of outwitting one of the cutest scamps he had come across—a fellow who had overreached even him—for with the same move which was to checkmate Shield, Wrentham would be paid out too. He gave little consideration to his brother, having no doubt that he would escape all right somehow.

He had secured the services of a detective who possessed the highest qualifications for his office, namely, he was not like a detective at all in manner, appearance or speech. Meeting Sergeant Dier in an ordinary way, you would regard him as a successful commercial man. There was not the slightest flavour of Scotland Yard about him. He was a good actor, a good singer, and a capital story-teller. Some of his most important discoveries were made whilst he was entertaining a roomful of company with his merry anecdotes. The secret of his success lay partly in a natural gift for his business, his enthusiasm, and the good-nature which underlay it all. He never allowed a scoundrel to escape; but he dealt very gently with any poor creature who might be betrayed into a first crime.

When Coutts reached his office, Sergeant Dier was waiting for him. Any one looking at the detective as he stood, bareheaded, reading a newspaper, would have imagined that he was one of the bank officials. He accompanied Coutts to his private room.

‘Well, what news have you?’

‘Our man has everything prepared for a holiday abroad,’ was Dier’s smiling reply.

‘Can he get away?’

‘O dear, no; he is at present under the eye of one of my friends, and he has been obliged to delay his departure until to-morrow, owing to a difficulty he has found in collecting his funds on such short notice.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There is a little more,’ said Dier complacently. ‘I have found a man who can identify his writing under any disguise.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Our man’s brother. It was not easy to persuade him to help us, but he consented at the last moment, and is to meet us at Mr Shield’s place.’

‘Capital,’ said Coutts. ‘You understand, I do not wish to proceed to extremities unless we are forced to it.’

‘So you informed me; but the case is turning out such a pretty one that it would have been an honour to explain it in court.’

‘Never mind the honour; we’ll balance that somehow. I shall be ready in twenty minutes, and will meet you at the hotel.’

Sergeant Dier bowed and left. Outside the room he nodded and smiled to himself as he placed a glossy hat jauntily on his head. Mentally and cheerfully he was saying: ‘I don’t care about that chap—not much. I should not be surprised to find him coming my way sometime with the positions changed.’

Coutts examined letters, signed papers brought to him by his chief clerk, and punctually at the expiration of twenty minutes was on his way to Mr Shield’s hotel. At the door he found Sergeant Dier and Bob Tuppit waiting. The poor little conjurer was nervous, and evidently required all the robust encouragement of the good-natured detective to sustain him in going through with the task he had been persuaded to undertake.

They were immediately conducted to Mr Shield’s sitting-room. Coutts was a little surprised and not pleased to find that Philip and Wrentham had arrived before him; and beside Mr Shield stood Mr Beecham—for whom he entertained an instinctive dislike, not to mention that on the few occasions of their meeting his wittiest cynicisms had been silenced by the quiet searching gaze of the elder man.

Philip had not yet heard of the previous night’s events at Ringsford. He was pale, but calm, and he greeted his brother somewhat coldly. Wrentham was apparently at ease and playing his part of devoted and therefore anxious friend to perfection. He had not yet caught sight of Bob Tuppit, who easily hid himself behind the broad shoulders of Sergeant Dier.

‘I expected,’ said Coutts after formal salutations, ‘to have had the pleasure of a few minutes’ private conversation with you, Mr Shield, before we proceeded with this disagreeable business.’

‘I don’t think it necessary,’ answered Shield in his brusque way.

‘As you will, sir,’ continued Coutts with a slight inclination of the head. ‘I have brought with me two persons who will, I believe, aid us materially in the inquiry we are about to make.’

‘Who are they?’ was the blunt query, indicating Mr Shield’s usual impatience of palaver.

‘This is Mr Dier, who is interested on my behalf; and this’——

‘Is a friend of mine,’ interposed Dier blandly, ‘who is an expert in distinguishing handwriting.’

Wrentham was the only one who showed surprise at these introductions, and he moved a little backward at sight of Bob Tuppit, covering his uneasiness by a slight cough, as if clearing his throat. Shield looked at Beecham, and the latter spoke.

‘A very good idea, Mr Hadleigh, and as I have some acquaintance with Mr Tuppit, I can vouch for his ability to discharge any task he undertakes. I presume you have shown him specimens of the different handwritings?’

‘I do not understand your position in this affair, Mr Beecham,’ said Coutts superciliously; ‘I can only address myself to Mr Shield, or if he chooses, I can retire, and let the matter take the ordinary legal course.’

‘I am here as the friend of Mr Shield,’ was the reply, without the least symptom of irritation at the manner and words of Coutts.

‘You can speak to him as you would to me,’ growled Shield.

‘Oh, very well,’ said Coutts, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I thought you wanted to keep the affair as quiet as possible. But, please yourself. Then, I have not submitted any writing to Mr Tuppit, whose name I learn from Mr Beecham. He, being perfectly acquainted with the penmanship of one of the persons concerned, I thought it would be more satisfactory to you to have the investigation made in your presence.’

He glanced at Wrentham as he spoke, and that gentleman assumed an air of curiosity and interest.

‘Begin with Tuppit at once: that will cut the thing short,’ said Shield, as if already impatient of the delay caused by these preliminaries.

‘Then here is a sheet of paper which Mr Shield has already signed,’ said Mr Beecham. ‘Will you put down your name, Mr Philip, and you, Mr Wrentham?’

They signed at once, and there was no reluctance apparent on the part of either, but the grand flourish which Wrentham was in the habit of drawing under his signature was not quite so steady as usual.

‘Now,’ proceeded Mr Beecham, ‘here is a scrap of paper on which Mr Shield has written a few words. Will you both write something on separate slips, and that will enable us to test Mr Tuppit’s skill in distinguishing the writers.’

This having been done, the sheet bearing the three signatures was first given to Tuppit, and it shook slightly in his hand as he advanced to the window to inspect it carefully. He then laid the paper on the table.

‘I think I know the character of the writings now,’ he said.

The three slips were next handed to him, and he named the writer of each correctly.

‘Clever chap—knows what he is about,’ was Shield’s comment. Then looking almost fiercely at Coutts: ‘Suppose you have brought _your_ paper with you?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Show it then, and let us hear what he has to say about it.’

Coutts slowly took out his pocket-book and looked inquiringly at Sergeant Dier. The latter had been observing the whole proceedings with that kind of interest which a skilful player bestows on an exciting game at cards or billiards. He responded promptly to Coutts’s look.

‘Best thing you can do, sir. It will settle the whole business at once.’

But Coutts did not want to settle the whole business until he had spoken to Shield in private, and explained the terms on which publicity might be avoided. So he put in a hypocritical protest which he hoped would aid him in making his bargain by-and-by.

‘You are aware, Mr Shield, that there are reasons why I do not wish this matter to go beyond ourselves; and I believe you have the same desire. On that account we need not regard Mr Tuppit’s decision as final.’

‘I shall,’ answered Shield, frowning. ‘Hand him the paper.’

Coutts obeyed with the reluctant air of one who is compelled to do something he dislikes. He did not look at Philip, who was watching him with pitying eyes.

‘It is rather a serious thing, gentlemen,’ said Tuppit, speaking for the first time, and now as coolly as if he were on his conjuring platform, ‘a very serious thing to give a decided opinion in a case of this sort without very careful examination. You will permit me to compare the signatures on this paper with the writing on the different papers you showed me.’ He gathered them up in his hand as he spoke. ‘I must use a magnifying glass.’

He whipped one out from the tail-pocket of his coat. Then with its aid he carefully compared the writings. After ten minutes he rose, and instead of giving his decision, he advanced to Philip with the bill in his hand.

‘That is your signature,’ he said.

‘It is,’ replied Philip, quietly.

Coutts gave a slight shake of the head, as if this was no more than he expected although he deplored it. Wrentham’s eyes moved restlessly from one face to the other.

Tuppit next advanced to Mr Shield.

‘This is the signature of Mr Austin Shield.’

‘That is the signature of Austin Shield,’ was the answer after a brief glance at the writing.

ILLICIT DISTILLATION IN IRELAND.

The mountainous districts in the north of Ireland have long been famous for the manufacture of whisky—or as it is sometimes called when made without the concurrence of the revenue, ‘poteen.’ Until the last few years, the practice was exceedingly common, even within a few miles of towns of considerable size; but latterly the total output of spirits has been much reduced in quantity, and has been of inferior quality. Various causes have contributed to this. Formerly, the excise supervision was not so efficient as it has since become. Very often, Englishmen or Scotchmen were selected for Irish districts, and found the peasantry combined to a man against them. They were aided, too, by a body of police whose sole duties were the detection and exposure of frauds against the revenue, and therefore it was a clear issue between two parties, with a large body of spectators standing neutral, or rather, in the national spirit, strongly sympathising with those who were trying to evade the law. Besides, if the Squire—who was of course a magistrate—found an anonymous present of a five-gallon jar of poteen, why should he go and waste good liquor by giving it up, and perhaps by so doing get some of his own tenants into trouble! It was clearly none of his business; in which opinion his neighbours heartily shared, as they sipped it in punch at his festive board. The priest, too, was of the same mind; for as long as the ‘boys’ did not take too much, or beat their wives, or neglect attending mass, it was a very convenient way of turning an honest penny in those hard times. With the tacit concurrence of these two great social forces, the owner of the still had little to fear, and could carry on his lawless trade with comparative impunity. The possession of a common secret encouraged cordial relations between all classes and creeds, until they resembled the proverbial happy family. But the events of the last thirty years have changed all this, and have indirectly led to a large diminution of private distillation.

The first blow which it received was the disbanding of the revenue police about the year 1858, and the absorption of their duties, and the drafting of the most capable members of the force into the Royal Irish Constabulary. This body have a great many duties to perform: they keep the peace; act as public prosecutors in petty cases; distribute and collect the census papers and votes for poor-law guardians; make up the agricultural statistics; act as an armed drilled force in time of riot; and lastly, as detectives of crime and, since 1858, of illicit distillation. On account of these numerous functions, they are brought into contact with almost every individual in their district, not so much at the barracks as at their own homes; and the sight of an empty jar in an unlikely place, or an unusual abundance of spirits about a particular house, are signs not lost on the vigilant constable, and carefully stored up by him for future use.

Again, the improved means of transit in the mountainous districts have given the affairs of the inhabitants more publicity. Post-vans, mail-cars, and narrow-gauge railways, are everywhere furnishing certain and regular communication between the better populated and more civilised valleys and the poorer and less inhabited mountains. By these means, enterprising travellers have penetrated the backward districts, and been received with the customary hospitality of the Irish to strangers. They are occasionally even permitted to taste the native ‘mountain dew,’ and sometimes thoughtlessly bring their entertainers into trouble by incautiously boasting of their privileges before strangers. The information has been carried to the police force in the district in which the, alas! too confiding host resided, and has caused a watch to be set on him, resulting eventually in the discovery of the fountain-head.

But information of this kind is accidental, and therefore such cases are rare. The fact is that the chief sources of knowledge are, as might be expected from the analogy of other Irish conspiracies, from within the camp, which is sure to hold sooner or later some informer. A difference of opinion about the division of the spoil, a row amongst their womankind, or some such characteristic quarrel, leads to ill-feeling, and some impulsive member of the gang, in the haste of momentary spite, secretly informs the police. Then the customary and well-known scene follows. A force of constabulary fully armed steals out under cover of night, carefully surround the fated still-house, and advancing from all sides, simultaneously burst in upon the unfortunate distillers just as the outlying scout has brought word that the police are coming. Resistance, though sometimes attempted, is useless, and the dread guardians of the law proceed to destroy the prepared materials, seize the still, and quench the fire. Finally, the sad procession of police, prisoners, and utensils—the last being placed in a cart with the manufactured spirits—wends its way down the mountain-side to the nearest barracks. Then, at the next petty sessions of the district, all those who were found engaged, together with the tenant on whose holding the distillation was being carried on, are heavily fined, with the option of a severe term of imprisonment.

But what has conduced more than anything else to the diminution of illicit distillation has been successive bad harvests, rack-renting, and absentee landlords. These have produced agrarian outrages, and these in their turn have led to Coercion Acts, giving the constabulary night-patrol powers of a very comprehensive character. As the mountainous districts are the poorest, so the outrages have been more frequent there, and the police in seeking for those intent on committing crime, have often accidentally found those merely intent on distilling poteen. All these discoveries are treasured up, and care taken that the same practice will not again occur in the same place; and thus the opportunities for illicit distillation are gradually becoming fewer and fewer, and everything seems to point towards its total extinction.

The place selected for the operations of the distiller is usually some natural hollow, or a sheltered spot partially hidden by some overhanging rock. But occasionally there are much more habitable places prepared. A favourite example of this is an artificial cave dug out in the side of a high bank close to a stream, the proximity of which is always necessary for their operations. The entrance is generally concealed with great ingenuity by a luxuriant growth of furze and other shrubs. Inside, a raised seat of earth, on which some heather has been strewn, and a rudely built chimney, complete the structure. The functions of the chimney are not by any means exhausted by being brought up to the natural level of the earth. As is well known, burning peat has an easily recognisable odour, and if this drew attention to a wreath of smoke ascending in the midst of a field, the chances of a long life for the still-house would be very small. Instead, therefore, of being directly brought out, every conceivable artifice is employed to render the smoke invisible. Sometimes it is led into a drain; at others, into a thick growth of underwood; again, it is carried for some distance, and allowed to make its escape in such small quantities as to be practically imperceptible. In one case of which we knew, the still-house was underground in the vicinity of the owner’s cottage, and advantage of this was taken to convey the chimney up the earthen fence and effect a junction with the flue of the kitchen.

In some cases, a dwelling-house is chosen in such a locality as to defy suspicion. An example of this occurred in a market-town where distillation was carried on for many years in the main street within a hundred yards of an important constabulary barracks, and the owner in this case was said to have amassed a considerable amount of money. For aught that is known, many similar instances may still exist, as the shrewdness shown by the choice of such a hiding-place renders detection, except through treachery, a most unlikely event. It would be well perhaps to add, that in the case just related the proprietor of the still was a bachelor.

Having prepared a suitable place, the next thing is to procure a still and worm, which are usually manufactured by the local tinker. The still is generally made of strong tinned plate, and is of a cylindrical form, except the head, which is rounded and enlarged, in order to better collect the alcohol as it evaporates. The highest part of the head terminates in a tube, wide at first, but gradually becoming narrower, until it reaches the worm, which is a long tube curled into a spiral, and during work is always kept cold by immersion in water. It is sometimes made from tinned plate, but preferably of sheet-copper, as this material, in some mysterious way, is said to make better poteen.

The still having been procured, the materials from which the spirit is extracted must be obtained. Malt is, of course, the most important item, but in past times was very difficult to procure, as part of the excise officer’s labours, until the repeal of the malt tax, was to prevent its preparation in corn-mills, so that the still-owner had frequently to choose between making it for himself with imperfect appliances, or using an inferior substitute. This was either ordinary grain or treacle, generally the latter, from its portability, and the quickness with which it could be prepared. Indeed, the extra sale of treacle in particular districts has been a very trustworthy indication of the quantity of spirits being manufactured. In one village where some years ago the average sale was three casks a week, the present consumption is not more than one every two months. But perhaps this may result as much from the repeal of the malt tax as the decline in illicit distillation.

The malt or treacle is laid down in water somewhat under boiling-point, and allowed to remain there until it has attained to the consistence of thin water-gruel. It is now ready for fermentation, which is effected by means of yeast; and when this process is complete, the mixture is called ‘wash,’ and is now ready for distillation. The still is now filled with wash, and a gentle heat applied, vaporising the alcohol, which passes through the still-head, and is cooled back to its liquid form in the worm, at the lower end of which it is received by pans, crocks, ‘piggins,’ or indeed any vessel which will hold it. From these receptacles it is put into jars or casks—more commonly five-gallon ‘kegs’—and conveyed to a place of safety. When all the wash has been distilled, the articles employed are carefully hidden, a favourite place for the still and worm being under water in the neighbouring stream. Then nothing remains but the distribution of the spirits in such a manner as to realise a handsome profit. This is an operation demanding all the craft of the distiller. To dispose of it to his immediate neighbours would be to disclose his secret, and they would either demand the poteen for nothing, or denounce him if he refused to give it. It must therefore be conveyed to a distance, and sold to some publican at such a price as will amply compensate both parties for their risk. As the publican must keep a record of all the spirits he receives, he incurs the danger of having material on his premises which is not entered in his stock-book; as a rule, therefore, the poteen is mixed with whisky resembling it in flavour, and the blend sold as the original.

In order to get the jar or cask safely into the town, the distiller usually envelops it in straw or hay, and tries to pass it off as innocent fodder; or another plan is to place it in the centre of a cart of turf, and on selling the turf to the proper person, its removal is easy, though occasionally even more ingenious methods are resorted to.

Fortunes acquired by means of illicit distillation have given rise to a very curious taunt amongst the inhabitants of the north-west of Ireland. When it was intended to convey to any person in the strongest possible manner that his pride in his family circumstances was only that of an upstart, the common expression for this was: ‘Your grandmother was Doherty ——, and wore a tin pocket.’ The origin of this saying was as follows. The northern part of the county of Donegal, particularly the district of Innishowen, is largely peopled by persons of the name of Doherty and O’Doherty. In past times, one of the best means of smuggling poteen into Londonderry and other towns in the vicinity was by a tin flask carried by the women in their pockets. Hence the expression.

ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.