A few words may fitly find place here concerning some of our later developments of this most useful and not always sufficiently appreciated class. I should be glad to do justice to the memory of one who spent a lifetime at Scotland Yard, and was long the very centre and heart of the detective department—the late Mr. Williamson. Starting as a private constable and ending as chief constable, he was, from first to last, one of the most loyal, intelligent, and indefatigable of the many valuable public servants who have deserved well of their fellow-citizens. Yet to the outside world he was probably little more than a name through all his long years of arduous and uncompromising service. Few but the initiated recognised the redoubtable detective in this quiet, unpretending, middle-aged man, who walked leisurely along Whitehall, balancing a hat that was a little large for him loosely on his head, and often with a sprig of a leaf or flower between his lips. He was by nature very reticent; no outsider could win from him any details of the many big things he had “put through.” His talk, for choice, was about gardening, for which he had a perfect passion; and his blooms were famous in the neighbourhood where he spent his unofficial hours. Another favourite diversion with him, until increasing pressure of work denied him any leisure, was boating. He was very much at home on the Thames, a powerful sculler, and very fond of the exercise. He never missed till the very last a single Oxford and Cambridge boat-race, seeing it for choice from the police steam-launch—the very best way indeed of going to the race, but a pleasure reserved for the Home Secretary, the police officials, and a few of their most intimate friends. The police boat is the last to go down the course, and the first to follow the competing eights.
One or two especially trying circumstances helped to break Williamson down rather prematurely. He took very much to heart, as was natural, the misconduct of his comrade detectives in the notorious de Goncourt turf frauds. He was at that time practically the head of his branch, and some of the blame—but, of course, none of the disgrace—was visited upon him, as it was argued that his men had been allowed too free a hand. This may have been the case; but he had to deal with men of uncommon astuteness, who were the more unscrupulous because he trusted them so implicitly, with the trust of a loyal nature, true to those above him, and counting upon fidelity from his subordinates.
Mr. Williamson’s active career was also chequered by the diabolical nature of the crimes which kept him most busily employed. Fenianism might have been found written on his heart, like Calais on Queen Mary’s, and, closely interwoven with it, anarchism and nihilism in all their phases. He knew no peace when foreign potentates were the guests of our royalties; Scotland Yard was, in fact, held responsible for the safety of Czar and Emperor, and the police authorities depended chiefly on Williamson, with his consummate knowledge and long experience of exotic crime. It
was Williamson who was first on the scene when infernal machines had exploded, or might be expected to explode at any moment.
To him the officer who is nowadays our chief mainstay and defence against these outrages, Inspector Melville, owes much of his insight into the peculiar business of the “special section,” as this important branch of criminal investigation is called. The latter not long ago disposed very ingeniously of a case which might have led to serious mischief. Fertility of resource with great promptitude in action are among Mr. Melville’s strongest and most valuable traits. Well, on one occasion, during the visit to England of a foreign Sovereign, information was received that one of his subjects residing in this country, and by no means loyal to him, intended to do him an injury the first time he could get near him in public. It happened that at that moment the imperial visitor was on the point of joining in a great procession, which had either actually started, or would start in the course of an hour or so. The malcontent was employed as cellarman to a wine and spirit merchant or publican with large wine vaults. There was no time to lose, and Melville made the best of his way to the place, saw the proprietor, and inquired for a certain brand of champagne he wished to purchase. The master called his man and sent them down together into the cellars. The cellarman went first with a light; at the bottom of the staircase he unlocked the wine cellar and went in—still first.
“What wine is that over yonder?” asked Melville carelessly, and the man crossed over to the far end of the vault to look before he answered. This was all the astute officer wanted. Instantly seizing the opportunity, he stepped back out of the cellar, closed the door promptly and locked it. The irreconcilable cellarman was a prisoner, and was left there perfectly safe from any temptation to carry out the fell purpose of which he was suspected. After the procession was over he was set free.