Traced and Tracked; Or, Memoirs of a City Detective

by James M'Govan

“So you thought when you took it, I’ve no doubt,” angrily returned Aikman, “but you will find yourself grievously mistaken. Constable, I charge that man, in the name of the managers, with the theft of £5. Do your duty.”

Matters had now become serious, but the gentleness of the constable smoothed away much that might have been painful.

They walked together to the house of the Fiscal, and, after an account of the circumstances had been gone over, the young minister was allowed to go back to his home on his own recognisance.

The next day I had a visit from the young minister, in at the Central, in Edinburgh. I have but a faint recollection of the interview, but I remember that he appeared greatly excited and agitated, and ended his somewhat incoherent statement of the facts by imploring me to take up the case with a view to—what think you?—with a view to convicting Mr Aikman of perjury or conspiracy! The reasoning of the young clergyman was this:—No one but the deacon had seen a £5 note in the plate, and he alone had reported the note stolen—therefore the note might never have been there at all! From this followed the deduction—the deacon from his old grudge had got up the whole as a revenge on the young preacher to injure his reputation and force him out of his post. In consequence of this appeal I went out to the place and made some inquiries, but was met almost at the outset with clear proof that a £5 note had been put into the plate. The lady who had been the donor was gone, but at the hotel in which she had been staying the landlord had heard her mention the gift to her husband.

The case was tried shortly after at the Burgh Court, the accused conducting his own case. From the evidence led few could doubt the guilt of the poor preacher the deacon was so cool, and clear, and positive in all his statements. On one point alone did he show confusion, and that was regarding his noting the number of the note while it lay in the plate. Here the deacon, from his very evident desire to make all clear and firm, contradicted himself slightly, and then floundered worse under a very simple question from the Sheriff, and was put down in confusion. The result was that the case was dismissed—quite an unsatisfactory result to both parties. The deacon was enraged—having recovered from his momentary confusion, and being now ready with a clear and minute explanation—and the poor minister was quite broken down under the disgrace. When he returned to the town which had brought him so much suffering, he met with so many cold looks from those whom he had believed to be his warmest friends, that he was almost forced to resign his charge. The resignation was accepted with a promptitude even more crushing to his spirit; and then, while he was making preparations to leave the place, his creditors swooped down on his few possessions, and left him and his family with little but the clothes in which they stood.

Morrison appeared to bear it all with calm dignity, but his wife, who was a quick-tempered, high-spirited woman, though delicate, felt the disgrace keenly. They moved in to Edinburgh, and Morrison tried hard to get another appointment, but in vain. The ban was upon his reputation—his name had appeared in connection with an accusation of mean thieving, and he was looked upon with suspicion even by strangers. At length he got employment for a few hours daily in keeping a tradesman’s books, for which he got nine shillings a week, and with that and a little copying and tuition he managed for a time to keep himself and his family alive.

But poor diet and a mean habitation among the very roughest characters soon broke the spirit and constitution of his wife, and she passed out of his arms into her long rest before a year was gone. One of the children followed in three months, and he was left alone with the baby. He struggled on quietly and without complaint, shunning all, but ever ready when sought for to go and pray and converse with any of the sick or dying among the very poor who might express a wish for his presence. He became gaunt and thin, and the tradesman who employed him told him he needed a change of air.

I met him more than once in some of the lowest slums, but I failed to recognise the bloodless face and stooping figure. I knew him as “the broken missionary,” and it was dimly understood that he had either been in prison or found guilty of some offence against the law, though the poor wretches with whom he conversed and prayed declared their firm belief in his purity and innocence.

One day, at that time, I found a stout, red-faced man waiting for me at the Office, who nodded to me, and appeared greatly pleased at seeing me. I had to tell him that he had the advantage of me, and then he introduced himself as Mr Aikman, the deacon who had figured as such a prominent witness in the case against the minister.

“I have been a cruel wretch, and I deserve ten years in prison for the misery I have brought on an innocent man,” he said, shedding tears freely—great hot tears, genuine as genuine could be. “A lady in delicate health belonging to our congregation was ordered to live abroad, and came back only yesterday. The moment she heard of Mr Morrison’s disgrace, she came to me and said that it was she who had sent the £5 note to the minister. She sent it from Edinburgh just as she was setting out. I am a sinful and wicked man! God help me! If I could only find out where he is—if you could help me to that—there is no atonement or reparation I should think too great to make to him and his poor wife and bairns. Every penny I have shall be spent in the effort.”