The Long Ago Times

“HUNT’S CONFESSION”
(Reprinted from the Weekly Dispatch)

So here’s how it went down: I got myself into Thomas Thurtell’s servant’s get-up—that means I threw on his workman’s jacket and a clean white apron. Bright and early, around seven in the morning, I showed up at Wood’s place over on Castle Street. The plan was simple, cooked up between Thurtell and me: I was to tell Wood that a certain Mrs. Brew was dying to meet him over at a buddy’s place in Westminster. Mrs. Brew, this classy old dame staying at Cousins’s in Kensington, was pretty tight with Mr. Wood. Wood bit, asking what the urgent meetup was about. I spun him a yarn about Mrs. Brew having a spat with Mr. Cousins and wanting to clear the air before heading back to Kensington.

He tagged along without much fuss. On our way, he quizzed me about where exactly we were heading. Played dumb, I did, saying the exact street slipped my mind but reassured him I’d get him there. When we hit No. 10, Manchester Buildings, I pointed, “This is the spot,” and knocked on the door. It was slightly open, so I pushed through, expecting Wood to follow suit. But the guy paused right on the doorstep, probably spooked by the empty vibe of the place, or maybe he caught a glimpse of Thurtell, lurking by the stairs without his coat and shoes, a red bandana masking his face, dumbbells in hand, ready to go.

Seeing Wood didn’t follow, I stepped out just in time to catch him bolting around the corner. I relayed the failed ambush to Thurtell, who muttered something about Wood’s lucky break—if he hadn’t dashed, it would’ve been his last.

To throw Wood off our scent and brush off any suspicion about our real motive, we decided to play it off as a debt dodge. We hightailed it across the Park to Thurtell’s in the Haymarket, where John penned a quick note to Wood, posing as a pal, warning him about some phony debt collectors hot on his heels. Ennison, the Thurtell’s jack-of-all-trades, was dispatched with the note, probably reaching Wood’s doorstep just as he was catching his breath.

That evening, to thicken the plot, John drafted another letter, this time signing off as “Clark,” thanking some guy named Curtis for trying to bail Wood out that morning. My job was to drop it off, selling the story that we were all about keeping Wood clear of the debt collectors’ radar. John even went as far as swearing up a fake debt to get Wood officially nabbed the next day.

After that plan tanked, Thurtell was all about switching gears—said he’d get a pair of pistols and wait for the right moment to take Wood out as he left his usual haunt, Thornton’s, near the Haymarket. But cooler heads prevailed, and Thurtell figured he’d lay low, give it a month or two before picking a new target.

The plot against Wood was no secret among us, and every so often, the conversation would circle back to “Why bother with Wood when it’s Barber Beaumont we should be worrying about?” Thurtell always had the same answer: “Beaumont’s days are numbered. Just you wait.”

They believed Beaumont was the wrench in their plans, the one keeping the Fire Office from coughing up the cash and likely to push for a full-blown prosecution against them. So, John Thurtell spent nights and days staking out the Fire Office, air-gun at the ready, waiting for his chance. He had me on lookout, ready to signal when Beaumont was coming or going, but I couldn’t pick the guy out of a lineup to save my life.

John even told me about some of their associates skipping town for France, laying low from gambling charges, and he was convinced Weare was the snitch.

One day, at Casely’s pub, some guy lets slip to J. Thurtell about a young gent, Graham, and a Captain Kelly being on their bad side, hinting that a tidy sum could make their problems go away. “Get George to front the cash,” Thurtell said, “and consider it done.”

After the guy left, Thurtell was all, “If George is good for the money, it’s as good as done.”

Kelly was a menace at the gambling dens, causing a scene whenever he lost. Thurtell’s plan? Lure him out under the guise of an easy win, then take him down in the Park with the air-gun. I was to make it look like a duel gone wrong.

Thurtell had it out for an attorney, Springfield, over some bad blood in Norwich, and wasn’t shy about wanting revenge.

Close to Weare’s murder, the Thurtells and I

bumped into him at Rexworthy’s. John and Weare seemed chummy, shaking hands and all. Later, John confided that he and Bill had fleeced Weare for a hefty sum once, but when he hit Weare up for a loan, the guy told him to take a hike.

The conspiracy indictment was closing in on them when Probert brought them to Tetsall’s, offering a hideout. By then, they had already mapped out Weare’s demise, though I was kept in the dark until the eleventh hour.

Probert was strapped for cash, pushing Thurtell to act fast. They decided Gill’s Hill would be the spot, thinking it’d go unnoticed.

Thurtell figured Weare for loaded, always carrying a small fortune. The plan was to dupe Weare into thinking they were off to some rich newbie’s estate for a high-stakes game. Thurtell was sure Weare would bite, hoping to clean out the newbie.

A couple of days before the deed, Probert nudged Thurtell to make it a Friday night—less heat on him if he was seen around the cottage as usual. Thurtell set the trap for that evening, ready to whisk Weare off in a chaise to the supposed mansion.

That afternoon, we got the pistols, prepping them at Tetsall’s with Thurtell, Probert, and me all pitching in. Probert doubted the bullets’ lethality, but Thurtell assured him they’d do the job.

Thurtell was all jokes about how we’d handle Weare, then Wood, and a few others on their hit list. Probert hoped Weare was carrying a lot of cash, figuring it’d solve his financial woes.

As for making it look legit, I was to stage a scene if anyone came running after the gunshot—claim it was a duel gone south.

We had our roles: Probert and I would keep tabs on Thurtell and Weare, ready to signal if anyone approached. The plan was for Thurtell to take the shot when the moment was right, then dump Weare’s body in a sack back at Probert’s pond.

The whole charade was set: Thurtell would off Weare under the pretense of a wrong turn, and Probert guided him on the perfect moment to pull the trigger.

That’s the gist of it—all the grim details leading up to a murder plotted with cold precision, all while weaving a web of lies to cover their tracks.

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