The Potato Factory

Chapter Ten

Since time out of mind, long before the coming of the great belted engines with their hiss and suck of steam and whirr of wheels and pistons, before the city provided warmongery to the world with its mountains of iron ore, furnaced, hot rolled, steam hammered, pressed, poured and moulded into the fiery spit and spite of small arms, Birmingham had always been the Babylon of baubles. It was here that goldsmiths and silversmiths, in a thousand tiny workshops, made jewellery so wickedly extravagant as to turn many a fine lady into a whore, and many a whore into a fine lady.

As may be expected, where there is gold, silver, plate and wicked little stones with nimble fingers to shape and polish them, there are gentlemen with even lighter fingers to fleece them from their rightful owners into the greedy hands of the unctuous fence.

Ikey arrived in Birmingham at eight o'clock in the morning of his second day out from London, not stopping to pass the night in a comfortable tavern, though several of these establishments existed for this sole purpose – inns where a weary traveller could expect a crackling fire, a sizzling pot roast, a pewter mug of good mulled claret and, upon a quiet word into the landlord's ear, a bed warmed by a ploughman's daughter, a wench with ivory skin and thighs as creamy to the sight as fresh churned butter. It was common enough talk among those who often travelled these ways that the yokel's daughter, so lasciviously described, had indeed been much ploughed and so often seeded as to sprout half the snot-nosed bumpkins in the parish.

It was most surprising that Ikey chose to continue on the smaller, faster night coach to Birmingham. He was, after all, a natural coward and it being the Christmas season the danger of meeting a highwayman or footpad on the road was greatly increased. Only a fool or a traveller with most urgent business would think to travel with a mail-coach running hard through the night. But Ikey, a creature of the dark hours, felt most vulnerable when exposed to the brightness of sun-pierced light and, in particular, within a restricted location such as a coach. He had sat miserably all day trapped and huddled in the corner of the day coach from London, the collar of his coat pulled high and his hat placed deep-browed upon his head, with his face turned outwards to the passing countryside. Should his fellow passengers have wished to observe him they would have seen only the collar of his coat and the broad-brimmed hat which appeared to rest upon it.

To all appearances these aforementioned fellow passengers looked innocent enough: the ginger-bearded horse dealer with his shaggy one-eyed dog, the two long-fenced clerical types in dark cloth, only the colour of their waistcoats telling them apart, and of course the monstrously fat woman in widow's weeds, a human personage so big she could easily turn a living in the grand freak show at Southwark Fair. But Ikey was taking no chances and said not a single word all day, not even allowing the most banal of courtesies.

When evening came and his fellow passengers left the coach for the comforts of a night spent in a village tavern, the opportunity to continue on alone was presented to Ikey by the departure of a lighter and faster mail-coach travelling through to Birmingham. It contained sufficient room for four passengers, though he seemed to be the only one to purchase a ticket from the coachman.

It was a most bitter disappointment to Ikey when Tweedledum, the red-waistcoated clerk, climbed unsteadily into the coach. He smelled strongly of cider and barely nodded as he found his seat at the window opposite but on the same side as Ikey, so that their eyes could not meet. Now they both faced in the direction in which the coach was travelling. Ikey had not thought of him as separate, but as one component of a two-part presence in red and yellow, and it disturbed him to think that he'd made such an unthinking assumption based simply on their attire.

Ikey's first instinct was to become immediately suspicious of the man's presence. But if Tweedle was an officer of the law sent to keep an eye on him, his recent intake of the local cider had rendered him ineffective, for Tweedle was becoming increasingly cross-eyed, his head lolling with the delayed effects of the local scrumpy.

The ostler had all but completed checking the harnessing and the coachman was already aboard, whip in hand, when the fat widow, clutching her large hamper to her bosom, emerged panting from the tavern and came towards them.

The coach was delayed ten minutes as the ostler and the coachman pushed and squeezed, panted and shoved to fit the giant woman through the door of the smaller carriage. Once contained within its interior it would have been quite impossible for any further souls to occupy the remaining space, of which there was now very little. The lighter mail coach, though harnessed with a full team of horses, was built for speed and not for the comfortable accommodation of passengers. The gargantuan woman filled one entire side of its interior, her fat knees occupying the corridor between them, and her hamper taking up the centre of the opposite seat with the silently drunken Tweedle at one side, and Ikey huddled tightly into the corner at the other.

It was snowing quite hard, though the road was still clear and the post-chaise set off at a brisk pace into the night. The widow completely ignored Ikey's presence and shortly after they reached the first toll-gate she reached over for the hamper, placed it on her lap and clamped her fat arms around its lid. Then she fell into an immediate and seemingly deep slumber.

Ikey hoped to do the same, for he was desperately tired and had been awake more than twenty-four hours, and with the absence of the hamper the seat beside him promised to make an excellent bed. But Tweedle, as if struck by a blow from an invisible hand, collapsed into the space left between them. The cider had finally rendered him senseless.

Ikey turned up the collar of his coat and, pulling its lapels around his chest, settled down to sleep. Alas, the widow soon put this prospect from his mind, for she caused a great deal more trouble for Ikey asleep than ever she'd done in a state of wakefulness.

During the day Ikey had observed from the corner of his eye and by a direct assault on his nostrils, that the widow had partaken of several large meals, the fare coming out of the seemingly inexhaustible larder on her lap.

Now, as she snored, her tightly compact innards fought back with a series of combustible noises. From her vast interior oleaginous gases rumbled in ferment. After a period of time all these internally combusted sounds combined to reach a climax. It seemed that at any moment the pressure within her would become so great that a cork must surely pop from her navel, cause a huge efflux and send coach and horses, Ikey and the unconscious Tweedle all the way to kingdom come.

Ikey sat huddled in his corner with the collar of his coat and the brim of his hat tightly pushed against his ears, though the sounds prevailed, penetrating the protection of his cupped hands. Just as he supposed he could stand it no longer, when the noises and fumes of regurgitated gases and thunderous farts became too noxious even for his seasoned nose, with a soft sigh the widow quietly awakened and proceeded to open the hamper on her lap.

A small lantern swinging from the coach roof cast a to-and-fro shadow across the interior of the cabin, so that the widow would disappear into the complete darkness and then a moment later appear again, lit by the dim light of the swaying lamp.

Ikey watched from the inside of his coat as food began to appear. First was the smaller part of a haunch of ham, one side showing white to the bone and the other plump with pink meat. From it the widow carved, at the very least, a pound of pig flesh and proceeded to layer it upon a thick crust of bread. This she sprinkled with a generous pinch of salt, swiped with a blade of yellow mustard and garnished with pickle forked from a large jar. Finally she added to the conglomeration several thumps of thick, dark, treacle-like sauce.

Each meal was taken precisely on the hour, each different; a mutton pie large enough to feed a hungry family, a plump chicken and a raisin tart, a turkey leg and a pound of white breast meat, a large cold sausage and apple pie, a slab of cold roast beef and several boiled potatoes. A large pork and leek pie was the last but final means of satisfying the giant woman's voracious appetite.

Ikey, thoroughly miserable, watched as a cold blue dawn appeared over the gently rolling countryside, the tops of the low rounded hills blanketed with snow. He was desperate for sleep and his small belly, so seldom demanding of food and having observed so much of it during the night, now rumbled with the need for sustenance, though even now food was not his greatest need and he would willingly have remained hungry for another day in exchange for two hours of uninterrupted sleep. He envied Tweedle who seemed not to have stirred on the seat beside him.

With no further food to consume, the widow settled down to finish off the demijohn of gin. She seemed unaware of the sleeping shape of Tweedle, whose face lay only inches from her plump white knees, but fixed Ikey with a stern and disapproving eye, or rather, she fixed her disapproval on the dark, silent upright bundle in the corner. Holding the neck of the demijohn in her fat fist, she brought it to her lips, and with a tolerable level of sucking and lip smacking and occasional bilious burps the widow proceeded to get very drunk. Ikey, at last, was able to fall into an exhausted sleep.

He was awakened three hours later by the sound of giggling accompanied by several sharp prods in the region of his chest and stomach. 'Wake up! We be in (hic!) Brummagen soon.' The widow was jabbing at him with the stick and giggling, her fat head wobbly with her mirth and she drooled like a well-fed infant. 'Wakey-wakey!'

Ikey sat up quickly, dazed from insufficient sleep. It was by no means the first time in his life that he'd been prodded awake with the point of a stick, and he immediately imagined himself to be in a prison cell, for the smell was much the same and the ride had become unaccountably smooth, so much so that, to his blunted senses, the coach appeared not to be moving at all.

In fact, the coach was completing the last mile into the centre of Birmingham by way of the new road composed of a material known as macadam. This was a tar-like substance as used for caulking vessels. It was heated until it was treacle-like and ran easily, whereupon it was poured upon a bed of small stones (the men who mixed it might use no stone larger than one they could roll on their tongue and still repeat: 'God save the King!'). The substance was soaked into the stony surface and while steaming was compressed with a large steamroller and allowed to dry smooth and hard. The result was a surface impervious to the most inclement weather and upon which any manner of wagon or coach wheel could travel. All was made without the need for skilled labour and at a fraction of the cost of the quarrying, shaping and laying of cobblestones.

Ikey's mind was not tuned to dullness and he was soon aware of his surroundings. The widow, satisfied that she'd done her Christian duty and wakened him, did the same for Tweedle. He sat up groaning and holding his head in both hands, eyes bloodshot and his hair standing up in untidy tufts. 'Oh my Gawd!' he moaned.

Ikey stared out of the coach window at the houses, some with chimneys already smoking in the early light, growing more and more numerous and close-built as they approached the city centre and the coach terminus. Staging posts, particularly at the terminus from one great metropolis to another, were much inhabited by the watchful eyes of the law as well as those of informers hoping to earn a few shillings for spotting a known villain. Ikey's fondest hope was that he would be allowed to skulk unnoticed from the scene into the nearest darkened lane, and thereafter to a nearby rookery where he would be free from the ever curious attentions of any members of the law or the underworld.

He now became concerned with the presence of Tweedle. His earlier anxiety returned and Ikey imagined him to be a law man who would elicit the aid of a waiting law officer from the Birmingham constabulary to arrest him, his task while on the coach simply being to keep a watchful eye on him lest he take his departure before reaching the city.

Ikey was tired and his senses somewhat blunted. He told himself one moment that he was imagining the danger, and the next that he should have reasoned it out long before this and left the coach when they'd stopped to change horses at a village during the night. Caution, with its partner suspicion, being his more natural instinct, Ikey decided he would make a dash for it the moment the coach drew to a complete standstill.

Ikey carried no personal baggage. In fact, Ikey's taking a chance that a highwayman might waylay the coach during the night journey was not as courageous as it might have outwardly seemed. Highwaymen seldom shoot their victims and Ikey had no fear of robbery, for he'd carried in his purse coin sufficient only to purchase the coach ticket and to eat frugally and pay for his accommodation for a day or two upon his arrival, with a little left over for miscellaneous expenses. A secret pocket under the armpit of his coat contained fifty pounds, though a highwayman would need to remove the coat and most carefully dissect its lining to find this. To be robbed of what he superficially possessed would have been no serious matter. He carried only a cheap watch and chain and a small cut-throat razor and the deeds to the house in Bell Alley, a paper which would make no sense to a common robber. Also resting in a pocket was the key to his home in Whitechapel.

It being so close to Christmas, this absence of serious cash on Ikey would have been somewhat surprising. Anyone who knew him was aware that he would often carry a thousand pounds on his person, for the season's pickings would be exceedingly good and ready cash was what was needed to make the most of the many opportunities certain to come his way. But, this time in Birmingham, Ikey was playing for much bigger stakes than the fencing of a few bright baubles taken in the Christmas crowds.

The coach drew at last to a standstill, the coachman laying aside his horn and shouting, 'Whooa! Whooa!' to the wild-eyed beasts in the time-honoured way. The horses thus brought to a stop shook their heads in a jingle of brasses, champed at the bit and stamped their feet on the hard surface of the road. Their coats were lathered with sweat from their final gallop and their nostrils snorted smoky air.

The coach official opened the door on the widow's side. 'Oh me Gawd!' he exclaimed fanning his nose. He immediately turned to the waiting crowd. 'Anyone come for a show freak?' he yelled. 'If 'e is, she be blind, 'opeless drunk! Need ter fetch cart and oxen, or special sprung carriage. She'll not be walkin', I can tell 'e that for sure and absolute certain!'

The widow reached out and took the unfortunate official by the collar of his coat and pulled the top half of him backwards into the coach so that his head lay upon her lap.'

'Ullo, dearie, fancy a kiss?' she said, then burped loudly into the man's astonished face.

Ikey glanced quickly at Tweedle, who sat frozen upright looking directly out of the window, trying to ignore the bizarre antics of the drunken woman and the wildly struggling and whimpering official.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Ikey quietly unlatched the coach door on his side, leaving it ajar. Then he rose and lifted the still surprisingly heavy hamper and placed it down upon an astonished Tweedle's lap, quite preventing him from rising in pursuit should he take it in his mind to do so, whereupon he pushed the door open and stepped through it. But alas, his coat caught on the sharp corner of the small door and pulled him back. Ikey pulled desperately at the coat and a six-inch tear appeared in the thick wool as he wrenched it free, and then dashed into the dark shadow cast by the terminus building. In a few moments he had escaped up a narrow alleyway which ran between the stage coach terminal and the building beside it.

Ikey's immediate destination in Birmingham was not, as might normally have been the case, one of the more notorious flash-houses nor thieves' kitchens where he might be expected to take up temporary residence, but to a stabling property on the outskirts of the city.

This large, unprepossessing building of rough-hewn stone had all the appearances of a farmhouse. It was set on the road to the village of Coleshill, with stables on the ground level for several horses and above it two additional storeys, which a visitor might naturally suppose was the owner's residence. However, in this instance, the large building was much, much more than a simple farmhouse and might even have been called a kind of factory, a paper and ink factory to give this most improper and anonymous business a proper name.

The property belonged to Silas Browne Esq., outwardly a respected horse dealer but to those in the know, one of the greatest forgers of soft in the land. He was a man of great ingenuity and reputation known to all who dealt in a serious manner in good forged banknotes throughout England and continental Europe.

Birmingham was the chief centre of the production of good hard, this being the name for counterfeit coin. Since it had always been a place where fine jewellery, watches and military medals were made, it was easy enough for Birmingham craftsmen to turn to this illicit trade. The same was not necessarily true for the forging of banknotes, and had it not been for the remarkable talents of Silas Browne and his wife Maggie the Colour, the city might not have become a recognised centre for banknote forgery.

While the city supported a great many clandestine coining workshops it contained only a handful of talented engravers. These mostly derived from men who had been decorators of gold and silver plate. Though these few very skilled men together gave it an acknowledged presence in banknotes and forged letters of credit, and even some work on share certificates, their efforts were no greater than other major English cities.

Etching was an exacting task and a superior engraver might take a year or more to perfect the plates required for a single banknote, so that these men needed to be financed and carefully safeguarded by those who profited most from their skills. Silas Browne and Maggie the Colour were known to employ the very best engravers. But to the engraver's skill they added two ingredients which gave Birmingham an advantage in the forged banknote trade. The house to which Ikey now hurriedly set out was used for making this paper and ink.

Silas Browne, though seeming a ponderous and somewhat befuddled man, made the best counterfeit paper in England and his wife, Maggie the Colour, the best inks. This combination, together with the fact that Silas financed most of the more skilled engravers and so came into possession of the best engraved plates, made them very wealthy. It was claimed they had a share in every forgery printing operation in Birmingham and, as well, sold ink to Manchester printers and even to some of the better London operators.

Maggie the Colour was the daughter of a Manchester dyemaker and possessed a talent for mixing inks and dyes and an eye for subtle colour, shading and gradations, which was truly remarkable. She was known to use mostly local tinctures, some from plants and herbs she collected in the surrounding countryside, the juice of mulberry and pomegranate imported from Spain, as well as tannins from various types of wood. These she mixed with the exotic pigments and dyes available on the English market, but which came from India, China and from Dutch Batavia used by the silk makers in Macclesfield and the cotton spinners of Manchester. Any forger worthy of his name would use no other ink, the powdered galls mixed with camphor supplied by Maggie the Colour were so good that even the officials at the Bank of England could find no major fault with her product.

Given the very best engraver's plates, expertly prepared paper, perfect ink matching and superior printing, the work done by Silas Browne and Maggie the Colour was among the finest in England. But it fell short of perfection because the paper used for bills simply could not be reproduced, and the plates used for banknotes above the ten pound denomination were thought to be too complicated for a single engraver, and could never hope to deceive even the most casual banker's eye.

Abraham Van Esselyn's forged plates were near to being the exception. They were the very finest of their kind available, perhaps in the entire world of forgery, so perfect that they might have been prepared by the Bank of England's own engravers. These plates, now about to be offered by Ikey to Silas Browne, were the work of a single man of undoubted genius and moreover, each was perfect to the point of almost any magnification. This made them of the greatest possible value to a team like Browne and his wife, Maggie, though, of course, it was not concerning these alone that Ikey had come to see them.

Ikey, having walked for almost an hour, came at last to the end of the city's sprawling slums, and soon found himself in more open ground where cottages rested separately, some with small gardens to the front or back. Ikey disliked space of any sort and his eyes darted hither and thither. He shied away from a barking dog, and jumped wildly at the sudden crow of a cockerel or the hissing of a goose. Some of the lanes along which he passed contained hedges on either side which provided some concealment, though nature's walls of hawthorn thicket did very little for Ikey's peace of mind. Strange things went click and buzz and chirp within them, and none of these noises equated to the myriad sounds to which Ikey's highly particular ear was tuned.

It was coming up mid-morning when he finally reached the open field in the centre of which stood the house of Silas Browne. Ikey was in a state of high nervous tension. The daylight hour, though some snow had started to fall, coupled with the open terrain through which he had been forced to travel on this final part of his journey, had brought him very close to complete panic. He was hungry but so single-minded in his mission that he hadn't even thought to enter a chop house for a meal. Now he stopped and rested at the gate leading into the field and, removing his neckcloth, wiped the nervous perspiration from his brow and the back of his neck.

The large treeless field appeared to be flat and, but for a dozen or so horses grazing about it, completely empty. Ikey expected that the moment he entered the gate someone would appear from the house to meet him. In fact, this is what he hoped might happen before he'd intruded too far into the large field, and so was unable to retreat back to the gate should a savage hound, designated for this very purpose, be set upon him. An envoy sent from the house would give him an opportunity to explain his reason for coming, and to send ahead of him a sample of his credentials for perusal by the redoubtable Silas Browne and his wife.

Ikey entered the field, his eyes darting everywhere, forwards and backwards and to either side. To his dismay no one came from the distant house and he was forced to move ever closer to it. Therefore it came as a fearful surprise to him when his hat was tipped over his eyes from behind, and a voice declared.

'Don't turn around, sir!'

Ikey, despite the fright he'd received, was of course an expert on young boys, and this voice was no more than ten or eleven years of age. This didn't do a great deal for his confidence, however, as street children of this age were as tough as grown men. Besides, they were sometimes larger than himself. He removed his hat and replaced it squarely back on his head.

'A penny for a word then, my dear,' Ikey said slowly, digging into his coat to find a copper coin which he held between finger and thumb and proffered behind his back.

His unseen assailant snatched the coin from Ikey's hand.

'Where does you think you're goin' then?' the boy enquired.

'Silas Browne! I begs to see Mr Silas Browne. That is, with your permission o' course, your very esteemed permission, my dear.'

'Mr Silas Browne, is it? 'Ow does you know such a name, then?'

'Business! We is in the exact line o' business. Mr Browne is what you might call a colleague, though, I'll freely admit, I 'aven't exactly 'ad the pleasure of 'is personal acquaintance.' Ikey shrugged his shoulders. 'You see, we share what you might call a vocation. Yes, that's it, precisely and nicely and most specifically put, my dear, an exact and precise and similar vocation!'

'Oh, a voca…' the voice gave up trying to pronounce the word, 'and what line o' business does you share, then?'

Ikey was surprised at the sharpness of the boy. He'd come across similar boys before, but these were few enough to be an exception. Most street lads this age were already dulled from gin and the lack of proper nourishment, and would not have the wit to become involved in a conversation the likes of which the two of them were now conducting. This one would have made an excellent addition to his Methodist Academy of Light Fingers.

Now that he'd properly gathered his wits Ikey was impressed at the boy's sudden appearance behind him, seemingly rising out of nowhere. Ikey's eyes missed very little and even though he was unfamiliar with open terrain and the lack of shadow in daylight to reveal the bumps and undulations in the grassy field, it was no simple task to deceive him. The boy who crept up could not have followed him for any distance, for Ikey was in the constant habit of glancing over his shoulder. He must have walked right past the boy without seeing him, and this Ikey found both admirable and very disconcerting.

'The copper business… copper plates that is.' Ikey paused, 'Also, you could say, also the paper and inks business. I can say no more, from this moment me lips is sealed and can only be opened by Mr Silas Browne 'imself!'

'Does you 'ave an affy davy to say who you is, then?'

'Affidavit?' Ikey held an additional penny behind his back, wiggling it invitingly, but the boy did not take it this time. 'Most certainly and o' course absolutely right and correct to ask, my dear! An affy davy you shall 'ave, right away and immediately, for 'ow would your master know the manner o' person who 'as come so far and taken so many risks to talk with 'im? 'Ow indeed? All the way from London, that is, with barely a wink o' sleep and not a morsel o' nourishment from sunrise to sunset. I asks you, 'ow is 'e to know the 'umiliations and vicissitudes inflicted or the extreme importance o' the mission? Quite right of you to ask, quite right and proper.'

'Your affy davy,' the boy repeated bluntly, seemingly unimpressed by Ikey's verbosity and still not taking the proffered coin. 'Give't me, sir, or you get nowt more from us!'

Ikey carried no personal identification whatsoever, and even if he had papers to prove himself, he would not have willingly let them into the boy's hands, especially without having first seen his face. He was on the run, and young likely lads like this one schooled in the rookeries learned early the value of informing, of keeping their eyes peeled for the opportunity of a little crude blackmail.

The engraved plates he carried concealed in the lining of his coat would be instantly recognised as masterpieces by any competent forger and a glimpse at one of them, Ikey knew, would be likely to have Silas Browne scurrying out to meet him, his voice a bluster of apology and his hands all apatter. But if he let the boy have only one plate as a proof of his integrity, and if his master should choose not to see him nor to return it, the single engraved plate in the right hands was still worth a considerable fortune.

'I shall give you a piece o' paper, a small piece o' paper you must promise to take to your master, to Mister Silas Browne 'imself and to no other. Do you understand, my dear?'

'It'll cost,' the boy added cheekily.

Ikey sighed and retrieving the copper coin he held it once more behind his back.

'A sprat! Cost you a sprat or nowt 'appens.'

'Sixpence!' Ikey howled, though he did so more for the form of it than anything else. The boy was good, very, very good and he wished he could have him under his tuition. The boy reminded Ikey of the young Bob Marley, same cheek and quickness of mind. He smiled to himself, for he knew he could now trust him to take the paper directly to Silas Browne. Ikey returned the copper coin to his dumby and found a silver sixpence which he handed backwards to the boy.

'This paper what I want you to take to Mr Silas Browne, it is concealed upon me person. I shall need to stoop down to reach it and to cut open the 'emline o' me coat to remove it. I 'ave a small razor to do so, but my dear, do not be in the least alarmed, we, that's yours truly, is not at all a creature o' violence and disputation.'

'Don't turn about now!' the boy said threateningly, trying to put a deeper tone into his voice.

'No need, absolutely no need! No need in the least, you have my guarantee upon that, my dear.'

Ikey reached for the cut-throat razor in his pocket and opening it he stooped down and cut quickly at the line of the hem, though above the hidden plates, and only a cut wide enough to ease one of the plates sideways through the slit. He untied the twine and removed the wrapping from around the engraving. With the razor he sliced a small triangular corner from the square of paper, which he handed backwards to the boy.

'Take the paper to Mr Silas Browne, my dear, it's me affy davy.'

Ikey waited.

'Hey, mister, 't ain't say nowt onnit!' the boy exclaimed. 'It be blank paper what's got nowt writ onnit!'

Ikey chuckled. 'On the contrary, my dear, it speaks most eloquent to those what knows 'ow to read its message.'

There was silence behind him and Ikey imagined the confusion the boy was feeling. Seeking to put the lad out of his agony, he added, 'It's invisible like, but to such as Mr Silas Browne Esquire who knows the trick o' reading it, it's a magical paper.' Ikey spread his hands. 'Trust me, my dear.'

'You'll stay 'ere, see! You'll not be doing nowt 'til I returns!' The boy added threateningly, 'There's dogs, big bastids what can be let loose and sent after you in a twinklin', you'll not get t'gate before they's torn you t' bits!'

'Not a muscle, my dear, not a single twitch, not a cat's whisker, not a scintilla o' movement until you gets back. Quiet as a mouse, silent as a ferret in a chicken coop, that's yours truly, Ikey Solomon, late of London Town. Tell your master there's more, much more where that come from, 'eaps and 'eaps more! 'E'll be most pleased, most pleased indeed to know that.'

The boy ran past Ikey and towards the house, laughing, not caring now whether Ikey saw him. He carried a long stick which he waved in the air. He was tiny, small enough even for Ikey to box his ears or place a sharp-toed boot into his scrawny little arse.

The boy, at first delighted to have made sevenpence so easily, grew anxious at his own reception as he drew nearer to the house. Silas Browne and the half dozen men and boys who worked with him stood waiting at the head of the ladder for him to climb into the room above. The lad, afraid he might lose the paper, held it between his lips as he climbed the ladder.

'Wotcha got then, Josh lad?' Silas Browne asked as the boy stepped from the ladder into the room.

Together with the others he'd stood watching from the windows at Ikey's original approach. They'd seen the boy Joshua, who'd been earlier sent on an errand, waylay Ikey from behind, before they could send an adult out to accost the stranger. Josh, though only ten years old, was known to be bright enough to make a judgement, yet young enough not to arouse any suspicion if the stranger was thought to be from the law. Silas knew that if the lad decided the man was up to no good he would drop his stick on the ground and then pick it up again. Whereupon he'd send one of the other lads down and set the dogs after the intruder to see him off their land.

One of the men pulled the ladder up after the lad had climbed clear and closed the trap door behind him, bolting it firmly back into place. The boy Joshua looked somewhat sheepish at the greeting given by his master and, removing the tiny slip of paper from between his lips, handed it to Silas Browne.

'Tain't much, sir, but 'e sayed it was magical like, that you'd understand immediate like?' The boy, a most concerned expression upon his face, looked up at Silas Browne. 'Did I do wrong, sir?'

Silas Browne took the paper and rubbed it for a moment between his forefinger and thumb, whereupon he jerked back in surprise.

'No, lad, methinks you done good!'

He moved immediately to the window, where he held the paper up to the light.

'Jaysus!' he exclaimed.

'E says there's more, lot's more where't come from, Mr Browne, sir,' Josh shouted across the room, much relieved at this reception.

'Bring sponge, lad… a wet sponge!' Silas Browne shouted at one of the boys nearest to him. '

'Urry!'

In a few moments the boy returned and handed Silas Browne a damp sponge. Placing the scrap of paper again against the window glass, Silas wiped carefully over it several times. Then he lifted it from the window with the edge of his thumbnail and called for a pair of tweezers. Holding the paper at one corner with the tweezers, he walked over to a hearth where several cast-iron pots of blacking plopped slowly on the open coals. He held the pincers and paper to the heat of the embers, and the tiny scrap of damp paper took only moments to dry. Silas Browne returned to the window and held the paper once again to the light.

'Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!' he shouted, '

'Tain't possible, watermark's stayed! Bloody watermark's stayed put right 'ere on paper! Quick! Call Maggie!'

Another young lad dashed off while the rest of the men gathered around, astonished to see that the faked Bank of England watermark had remained undamaged, as though it was woven within the very substance of the paper.

'What's 'is name, Josh?' Silas demanded. 'Ikey… Ikey Sausageman, sir…' Josh looked uncertain. 'Sonomins, summit like that, sir.'

'Ikey Solomons! Jaysus Christ!' Silas pointed to one of the men. 'Go with the lad, Jim, bring 'im along, 'e be famous like in London!' He looked around impatiently. 'Where's bloody Maggie?'

Not twenty minutes later Silas and Maggie looked on in amazement as Ikey produced the first of the engravings. Ikey unwrapped the watermarked Bank of England paper covering the copper rectangle, and leaving it lying in the centre of the paper he straightened out the sheet, smoothing its sides with the edges of his palm without touching the shining copper plate, so that the rectangular etching lay pristine, a precious slab of polished metal catching the light. Then Ikey tried to lift the etched copper plate from the centre of the paper but his hands were too cold and his fingers were quite unable to function. Maggie, seeing his distress, bid him warm himself at the hearth while she brought him a plate of bread and a deep bowl of beef and potato broth.

'There you be, then, Mr Solomons, a bowl of broth will soon warm you proper well!'

While Ikey greedily slurped the creamy broth, thick almost as a good Irish stew, Silas and his wife, who, in her wooden clogs, stood as tall as her husband, examined the etching but did not touch it or the bill paper on which it lay. Halfway through the large bowl Ikey stopped and pointed to the sheet of paper with its corner missing, and nodded to Maggie the Colour. 'Take a good look then, my dear! Never was there a better drop o' paper for your marvellous colours and tinctures, and never a plate etched more perfect!'

Maggie picked up the etched copper plate while Silas examined the paper, neither saying a word, as Ikey went back to slurping his soup. Maggie the Colour handed the copper plate to Silas, holding it carefully between her fingers at each end and took the paper Silas had placed back on the table and walked over to the nearest window. She carefully flattened a portion of it against the window pane.

After a few moments she turned to Silas. 'What you think, then?'

'Never seen nothin' the likes o' this engravin' before! Never… and that's Gawd's truth!' exclaimed Silas, examining the plate through an eyeglass.

'The paper?' Maggie asked, turning now to Ikey. '

'Ow'd you do it, Mr Solomons?'

'Solomon, it don't 'ave no "s",' Ikey said, placing down his spoon, the bowl close to empty. He was suddenly aware that hunger and cold had driven him to show too much without the attendant patter required to work them up to the first unveiling. He had neglected the basic tenet of business, to reveal only a little at a time, enough to whet the appetite, so to speak, while holding sufficient back to feed the urgency of the bargaining that must inevitably follow. Now he attempted to recover somewhat from this poorly managed beginning.

'I've 'ad the pleasure o' being a regular customer for your work, my dear. Marvellous! Ain't no personage in England, perhaps even the world, what can mix tinctures, colours and gradations as subtle as you. Work o' pure genius, madam! Pure and simple and undisputed genius, no less.'

Maggie the Colour smiled thinly and looked down, embarrassed. 'Now, Mr Solomons, 'tain't that good!'

'Not a scrap less praise and 'onour is due to you!' Ikey declared. 'Them colours is o' the 'ighest possible magnitude, the work of a genius!' Ikey cleared his throat and grinned at Maggie. 'Now supposin' I was to ask you 'ow you come about them colours, asked Maggie the Colour the secret o' her dyes and tinctures and the mixtures for your ink galls? What say you then, my dear?'

'Quite right!' Silas Browne laughed and with the eyeglass still clamped in his eye, clapped his hands. 'You'd be gettin' nowt from our Maggie! Them inks and dyes, tinctures and juices, they be 'er secret to 'er final dyin' breath, till grave an' beyond!'

'Ah, you see?' Ikey exclaimed. 'A secret is only a secret when it remains in the 'ead of one person. Share it with another and it ain't a secret no more. You can kiss it goodbye, my dear, it's gorn forever. It's like a bloomin' swallow what's left England for warmer climes when winter approaches. Next thing you know it's on the other side o' the bloomin' world, darkest Africa or wilds o' South America! Good secrets all 'ave a price and the tellin' o' them is never cheap!' Ikey resumed slurping his soup, satisfied that he'd somewhat recovered the initiative.

'Do we take it you 'as a proposition to make, like?' Silas Browne asked, carefully placing the plate he'd been examining back on the square of paper which Maggie had returned to the table.

Ikey's untidy eyebrows lifted halfway up his brow and his eyes widened in pleasant surprise, his spoon poised in mid-air.

'A proposition? Why sir, that is exactly and precisely and unequivocally what I 'ave! A proposition, a business proposition, a remarkable opportunity, a proposition the likes o' which may never come your way again. A truly great conjunction of opportunities, of copper and paper and ink, an opportunity not never to be matched in its potential for wealth! A proposition you say! Why, I couldn't 'ave put it no better meself.'

Ikey went back to the remainder of his soup, and when the scraping and rattling of his spoon had ceased he further stalled the opportunity for an answer from his hosts by wiping the interior of the bowl clean with the last of the bread. 'A proposition as delicious, madam, as this bowl of excellent broth!' he finally concluded.

Maggie the Colour smiled at the compliment, knowing it to be the first thrust in the bargaining to come. 'Where shall we begin, then… paper or plate? I can see the plate but paper be but one sheet and cut at corner like?'

'Paper's good, but 'ow much? 'Ow much 'as you got?' said Silas Browne, repeating his wife's question.

Silas was not a man inclined to much subtlety nor one to beat about the bush, and he'd already spent as much good humour as he was known to offer anyone. Ikey, seeing him for the more clumsy of the two, had hoped that he might be the mouth. But it took him only moments to realise that Maggie the Colour's smile was a clear indication of where the brains in their partnership lay.

'Depends o' course what denominations you want to print, my dears.'

'Denominations?' Maggie the Colour looked at Ikey curiously. 'This plate is for ten pounds.'

Ikey jabbed a finger at her. 'That it is, my dear, but it could be supposed that there might be others if an interest is shown in what 'as already been revealed and remarked upon? There could be a plate to the astonishin' denomination of one 'undred pounds!'

'One 'undred pounds? You say engravin' be for one 'undred!' Silas said scornfully. 'Bullshit! 'Undred pound engravin' be too 'ard for single engraver, too 'ard by 'arf and then some! 'Undred pound engravin' take four scratchers, maybe five. 'Tain't humanly possible!'

Ikey shrugged. Things were beginning to go to plan; show the top and the bottom of a proposition, the extremities of the deal, and the middle. The details, could usually be relied upon to take care of themselves.

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the small cut-throat razor and opening it slowly, he stooped down, lifted the hem of his great coat and laid it with the dirty lining facing upwards on the table. Then he carefully extended the previous slit he'd made by perhaps three further inches. His thumb and forefinger acting as pincers entered the slit and soon withdrew a second wrapped plate. How Ikey knew this to be the hundred pound plate is a tribute to his very tidy brain, and an indication that he'd secured the four etchings in the lining of his coat before leaving London.

Now he handed it to Maggie the Colour, who carefully opened up the neat little parcel to reveal the plate for a one hundred pound Bank of England note. Ikey let the hem of his coat drop back to the floor as Silas Browne swept up the copper rectangle, this time making no pretence at care, so that Ikey was seen to wince. He twisted the eyeglass back into his head and commenced to examine the plate. As he did so, his breathing increased until he was positively panting in surprise. 'Jaysus! Jaysus Christ!' he said.

He laid down the plate, this time with care. '

'Tain't possible,' he turned to his wife, 'but it be there and it be nigh perfect!'

'Does we take it the paper and the plates go together, like?' Maggie asked, 'the ten pound and 'undred pound plates and you ain't said 'ow much paper you got?'

Ikey chuckled and spread his hands wide. 'And I ain't told you 'ow many o' these little copper darlin's we've got, my dear!'

'Four,' Maggie said calmly. 'You 'ave four.'

Ikey's eyebrows shot up. 'Well done, my dear, you 'ave turned my supposin' into proposin'. Indeed I 'ave four.' Ikey pulled the hem of his coat back onto the table, and his long dirty nails disappeared within the slit he'd previously made and withdrew each of the remaining parcels.

'Twenty and fifty, I do declare!' Ikey announced triumphantly and laid the two parcels on the table. Maggie the Colour sucked at her upper lip and commenced to untie each of the small parcels, not opening either until the twine had been removed from both. Then she revealed the etchings, leaving each on its own square of bill paper.

Ikey took a corner of each sheet and pulled them together then added the wrapping from the hundred pound plate, and the original piece with the corner removed, so that the four pieces of paper formed a rectangle two feet wide and three square.

'There you are, one complete sheet? Big enough, if I may say so, to make three dozen banknotes of any denomination you likes, my dears.' He paused and then added, pointing to the square made from the four separate sheets of paper, 'We 'as the pleasure o' makin' available to your good selves one 'undred and ten sheets o' the very same watermarked and quite perfect paper!'

Maggie the Colour snorted. 'And at what sort o' risk do these one 'undred and ten sheets come to us? Too 'ot to touch, I should think!'

'I shall sell you one 'undred and ten pristine sheets o' this bill paper without any risks o' the source becomin' known, this bein' me available stockpile. Then, if the paper proves to your likin', I could offer you a continuin' supply at the rate of one 'undred sheets per annum, the delivery to be made at eight sheets per month and paid in gold sovs on delivery.' Ikey was not sure how he would bring this about, but as the business opportunity presented itself so neatly he found it impossible not to capitalise on it.

'Eight sheets per month, that be only ninety-six sheets, not one 'undred!' Maggie snapped.

Ikey laughed, impressed at her quick calculation. 'Madam, we 'ave a savin': "Always leave a little salt on the bread!" You gets the extra four sheets as a Christmas gift, compliments o' the 'ouse o' Solomon!'

'The paper, it's too good, you didn't make it did you, it's the real thing, ain't it?' Maggie said pointedly.

Ikey touched his finger to his nose and sniffed. 'Well I must most reluctantly confess, my dear, you've hit the nail on the 'ead. It's the same what the Bank of England uses, not a scintilla different, not a smidgin, not one jot or tittle different from what they uses to print their own longtails.'

'And the watermark?'

'The same! Woven in, my dear, the very innermost part o' the bill itself. Can't be removed no matter what you does, stamp, wash, bite, tear, while the paper remains, the mark is there!'

'And you've got one 'undred and ten sheets o' same?' Silas Browne asked again.

Ikey picked up the plate for the hundred pound Bank of England note and cackled, showing his yellow teeth. 'Or three 'undred and sixty thousand pound worth o' paper if you've a mind to use only this little beauty, my dear!'

'Why 'ave you come to us, Mr Solomons?' Maggie asked. 'Why 'as you not gorn into business y'self like?'

Ikey shrugged his thin shoulders and spread his palms and smiled.

'I only works with the best. It ain't me line of business, see. Ain't me expertise, ain't what I knows best. A man must stick to what 'e knows, the cobbler to 'is last, the butcher to 'is block, the poacher to 'is traps. These,' he pointed to the copper plates, 'they come about in the business o' receivin'. Receivin' and disposin' is me business, my dear, I received these and now I am disposin' o' them. Simple arithmetic, if you knows what I mean?'

'Aye, 'e be the prince of all the London fences,' Silas Browne agreed, glad to find a way back into the conversation. 'I knows him for that reputation.' He looked directly at his wife. 'That be the truth Maggie m'dear, Mr Solomons 'ere is a well-regarded London fence, also known and trusted in these Midland parts.'

Maggie the Colour sniffed. 'And the paper? That be fencin' business too?'

Ikey looked amused. 'If you 'as the right connections, my dear, everything Gawd made on this earth is fencin' business! All it takes is a little cash and a mind for makin' a connection 'ere, another there. Innovation is what some modern folks calls it. Let me give you an example. A lovely little silver candlestick goes missing from Mrs A's 'ouse and is brought to Mr B, what is me, yours truly. I knows Mr C, who will melt it down and sell the silver content to Mr D, a most excellent silversmith who is innocent of all guile. He will craft it into a fish server what might then be bought again by Mrs A to console 'erself over the tragic loss of 'er lovely little silver candlestick!'

Ikey clasped his hands together and dry rubbed them. 'All because o' the noble art o' ready cash and steady connections the world o' trade goes round and round, and we all profits nicely on that particular merry-go-round. What say you, my dear?'

'You may speak for y'self,' Maggie sniffed. 'We are not accustomed to the ways o' stealin'.'

Ikey smiled. 'Quite right, my dear, only from the banks who can afford it, ain't that so? Forgery ain't fencin', that's the truth, forgin' is the veritable Robin Hood profession, almost Christian, a perfect example o' robbin' the rich to pay the poor, an honourable profession it is to be sure.' He paused to take a breath. 'But one what also requires from time to time a connection or two? Maybe a paper connection what come from A to B, what's me, and then goes on to C, what's thee!' Ikey clapped his hands, pleased with his neat little summary.

'Aye, it be good paper, the best, that I admit,' Silas Browne said, 'though we'd be more friendly disposed if we knew more about where it come from.' He pointed at the bill paper. 'Paper the quality of your'n, tha' be mill, tha' be special!'