Traced and Tracked; Or, Memoirs of a City Detective

by James M'Govan

The little church had no vestry, and but one door, so the minister and congregation all entered from the front. Just within the door there was a small partition, and a folding door to keep the draught off the congregation during the assembling, and conspicuously in front of that, and facing the outer door, stood a three-legged stool bearing a big pewter plate for contributions. The contents of this plate were in general so scanty that they might easily have been counted by the eye, but occasionally, during the summer, visitors from the city would drop into the little place and leave in the plate a practical proof of their interest in the struggling church. After the services, it was the duty of the deacon or deacons to count the collection and place the sum to the credit of the general fund of the church. The minister or missionary, Arthur Morrison by name, was a young man with a wife and two children, who was struggling vainly to exist upon £55 a year. He had striven hard, but had so far failed that he was considerably in debt to different tradesmen about the town. He could scarcely be blamed for that, for his wife was a delicate woman, and most of the expenses had been forced upon him on her account. There was little prospect of his position in that town improving, as only a part of his salary was made up by the church, the rest being a grant from the main body; and as he was a quiet mild fellow, with no great energy or ability, there was little chance of him being sought after by a richer congregation. The poor fellow, however, seemed very earnest and sincere, and to love the work, and had never uttered a word of complaint to one of his people during the three years he had been among them.

That was the position when an incident occurred, so curious and so strange in its results, that it is necessary to put it down minutely, and exactly as it was afterwards narrated by the chief witness in the case, the deacon himself.

It was immediately before the morning service, and the congregation had nearly all assembled. The Rev. Arthur Morrison had not arrived, but an agreeable incident had kept the deacon who stood at the plate from noting the fact. A lady, evidently a summer visitor of wealth, had put a bank note into the plate, and asked to be shown to a seat as graciously as if she had been in the finest cathedral in the world.

The deacon was a man named Thomas Aikman, a baker by trade, a sharp business man, who considered himself the main pillar of that church. He fluttered into the building and showed the distinguished visitor to his own pew—if pew it could be called—placed books before her, and returned to the plate. There was an interval during which no other worshippers entered, and Mr Aikman spent the time in admiring that bank note as it lay in the plate, contrasting so deliciously with the thin strata of coppers below. It was a crisp note of the Bank of Scotland, and so new that it would not remain folded. Of course it had a number, and that number Mr Aikman declared he could not help noting, as the paper lay open before him. He did not mark down the number—did not think of doing so—but he had a good memory, and he could trust to that, and swear by his convictions.

As he gazed the deacon rapidly ran up in his mind all that this bank note would do. There was a trifling debt on the building fund, and this would all but clear it off. There would be no difficulty in getting the other managers of the church to agree to that; they were afraid of the stout and pugnacious baker, and always hurriedly agreed to whatever he thought fit to propose.

While he was settling this matter another stranger appeared, and placed a silver coin in the plate, at the same time asking to be shown to a seat. The half-crown which this gentleman dropped into the plate rested on the bank note already there, and thus the two contributions were left while the deacon went inside and showed the gentleman to his own form. Not a minute was occupied in the task, and during the interval only one person entered the church. That person was the Rev. Arthur Morrison, who appeared heated and flushed as he pressed past the deacon and made his way to the little desk from which he preached. Mr Aikman went straight back to his post at the plate, and the bank note being still prominent in his thoughts, he glanced at once in that direction. Then he started and rubbed his eyes. He himself had been the last to leave the spot—for the gentleman had preceded him into the church—and then the bank note lay in the plate all right, with the half-crown safely weighting it; now, when he got back, the note was gone. The half-crown was there—shining like a white disc among the coppers, but not a vestige of paper money was near it. The deacon looked around. There was no wind, but the note might have got over the edge of the plate, and fallen to the ground. No; it was not in the vestibule. Aikman darted outside; there was not a human being in sight. He staggered back again and stared at the plate till his goggling eyes might have speared a hole in it. There could be no doubt about it—the church had been robbed, and was the poorer by £5 of the deacon’s momentary absence. He had no one to advise or assist him, the other deacon on the list having failed to appear, and felt doubly angry and excited over the strange loss from having already mentally decided how the money should be utilised. He was in a fever of bewilderment, perspiring in every pore, and even madly thrusting his hands into his own pockets to make sure that the note had not fluttered in there. Then, after another dart outside to make sure that no prowling thief could have been near, the deacon did a little mental reasoning. No one, so far as he was aware, had entered the church during his absence from the plate but the minister. Could it be possible? No, never! Well, yes it might be. The man was poor and needy, and he might consider the drawings at the door as in a manner his own, or intended for him. Mr Aikman had an old grudge at his minister, who had once dared not only to correct him on some theological points, but had satirized him in a quiet way as well. The man who could utter a joke at the expense of a great man like Aikman was fit for anything, and the bank note could not have gone without hands. The deacon began to understand the whole mystery, and put up the collection and closed the door to go inside and listen to the sermon in no frame of mind to profit by the discourse. At every telling point in the oration Aikman turned up his nose, and mentally exclaimed—

“How can he, with that stolen £5 note in his pocket!”

On the whole, the deacon felt more of pity than of anger at the cool appropriation, but he determined that the minister should know that the robbery had been discovered. How best to make the revelation exercised Aikman’s small brain pretty closely during the service. He had not quite settled the matter when the benediction was pronounced. As the lady who had made the handsome gift handed him back the books she had used, and made some remarks about the church, a happy idea struck the deacon. He boldly thanked her for her liberality, and then concluded by asking her—much to her surprise—if she knew the number of the note she had put in the plate. She did not; and as she was too polite to ask the reason for inquiry, no more passed between them, and the lady departed and was seen no more. Had Mr Aikman been of a less active disposition the matter might have ended there. No one had seen the bank note but himself, and it was now gone through no fault of his. But then there was the minister, and the suspicion, and his own old grudge. He could not remain passive.

When all the congregation were gone Aikman steadily fixed the young clergyman with his ferocious eye, and said—

“There was one lady very good to us to-day—she put a £5 note in the plate.”