10th December 1782. A large house in London, England.
The second-storey room was consumed with the semi-translucent smoke of cigar fumes and the echoes of merry laughter. Its finest pinewood walls, lustrous from countless varnishing and dusting, housed neatly hung rows of portly old men bearing intricate moustaches. Dispersed inbetween was a reoccurring armorial bearing, displaying the heraldry of the surreptitious institution that was meeting this very winter night. It presented a black fox and a grey weasel staring across at each other, rubbing their paws gleefully, on the right and left of a peculiar insignia – three double-ended spears crossed into the shape of a hazy six-pointed star. Underneath, written in overly extravagant calligraphy, were the words, ‘The League of Ordinary Gentleman.” The title seemed like an eager young sirs attempt at witticism. Precisely placed decorative plants in the corners only hardened the relaxing and convivial atmosphere. The central and conspicuous feature of the room was the long narrow table that adorned the middle, stretching from the double doors to the far wall. Tonight, it was noticeably empty, and only three men sat lazily, smoking unhurriedly and talking about peripheral matters.
“I say, Dennis, your young whippersnapper is getting a bit rebellious, don’t you think?” remarked one man cheekily. He was bald, and the hanging, radiant chandeliers on the ceiling gave the top of his head an amusing appearance. Added to this, he was never frowning, his cheeks wrinkled with the constant effort, and his grey moustache wiggled every time he talked, “I mean, to say, first he has the audacity to firmly believe he no longer needs your investment, and now he reckons he has the skills to survive on the streets of London!”
“Arthur, the boy has his own dreams in life. It is no longer my place to disrupt those plans,” replied Dennis without a hint of emotion. It could be said Dennis was the extreme opposite of the jovial Arthur, his thin, lanky figure going synonymous with his uncaring, cynical attitude, “Are we finished with the social exchanges? Surely there is business to attend to. Oliver?”
The third man, who had been slowly puffing his long pipe as the other two men chatted, sat up straight and breathed out a significant amount of dark smoke, “What a pity, my dear, Dennis! I was just about to comment on the frivolous midnight activities of your…” he paused and raised his right eyebrow comically, “…energetic wife.”
Dennis, typically devoid of any reaction, simply sipped his wine glass thoughtfully before placing it softly down, “Fortunately, I have the advantage of being married to a lady who is still able to physically open her legs without the assistance of a crowbar. How is Francesca’s hip anyway?” he said with a unaccustomed thin smile crossing his expression. Arthur roared with laughter, slamming the desk heartily. Oliver went red in the face and stammered for a comeback. Dennis rescued him, “Ah, I think I understand you, Oliver. Down to business it is.”
Dennis simply nodded and brought out a ruffled pile of papers from behind him, and picked from his waistcoat pocket some gold-lined reading glasses and placed them gently to rest on the bridge of his nose, “These are the receipts I received from the Bristol Cell regarding our vast purchases of ammunition and muskets. It appears we saved quite a jolly good number of shillings buying them from Brittany!”
Dennis shook his head disapprovingly, “But are we sacrificing quality for quantity? Those are my fears. I don’t want to see our boys’ faces when the powder doesn’t ignite.”
“I wouldn’t worry, I have a personal recommendation from Jeremy Wadesley right here. He states: ‘On the matter of the performance of described weaponry, and the efficiency of said ammunition, the results of several tests have shown unanimously that its battlefield performance is admirable and I fully recommend these assets to be used in our overall endeavour towards our common enemy,’” said Arthur confidently, reading aloud a tattered letter he had removed from his trouser pocket.
“Why did the old rascal not send that to me?” Oliver asked jokingly, taking a swig of his finest Burgundian ale.
Arthur folded the piece and slipped it out of sight, and remarked with his routine grin, “I dare say he doesn’t like your moustache. Too elaborate, I recall him commenting.”
There was a chorus of approving raucous laughter at the table from the triumvirate, and they all simultaneously stopped land drank their respective drink together. Silence absorbed the room for a little while, as they all contemplated their next moves. It was the loud voice of Arthur that eventually broke the quietness, “Looks like we have the efficacious tools to do the job. But my query is, gentlemen, do we have the required manpower?”
Dennis and Oliver exchanged knowing looks and both turned and smiled with assurance at the bald man who had so questioned the competence of their selected few. Dennis nodded at Oliver to start the proceedings, and Oliver, following his pressing, flicked out some paper from the cluttered assemblage by his scarred right hand.
“For a precarious mission such as this, I assumed we would be greatly strengthened by the skills of an accomplished thief. It’s largely a given, because I don’t believe a musket ball will dismember the strong iron gates, or a hardy safe. Even if it does, we’d have the whole royal guard on us before you could say ‘God save the Bloody King’,” Oliver said, removing himself from the chair and standing upright, levelling his left arm unwaveringly and perfectly horizontal, towards the double doors, a richly embellished tall, thick pair, “Gentlemen, I present to you the most dishonourable Taffy…” he said melodramatically.
There was an expectant silence as all three men waited breathlessly for the screech of the knob turning, and the resonant tapping of shoed feet on the polished wooden floor, but no such noise protruded from the hall and they were left tapping their fingers and feet irritably. Then there was a sound – but it was the sound of hushed voices. It seemed an immature squabble was outside. Oliver approached the door promptly with a scrunched up expression on his face, and listened intently, his ear hovering just millimetres from the door.
As large and dominant as the twin entrances may have been, they were not soundproof enough to utterly block out the muted fight taking place outside. There was one man whispering in an unnaturally high voice and another in an abnormally deep voice. To Oliver it seemed as if a comedy play was being practised, the perfect odd couple performing a fantasy argument.
“It’s definitely you, I ‘eard him proper, alright,” persuaded the unbroken voice, in its screeching pitch.
“You’re a blinking fool, mate! Me ‘eard ‘im much better, and ‘ee said you. Swear on my mam’s bleedin’ ‘eart,” argued that second, baritone voice, that even in whispered form still vibrated the surrounding objects, especially the doors which clipped Oliver’s ear painfully and he pulled slightly away.
“Shattup! You couldn’t even ‘ear yer mam if she was dancing in front of yer bleedin’ face!” he said, louder, so any attempts at hushed voices was lost, “Anyway, mate, last time I saw yer mam, she were screaming for my side, alright!”
“Yer what? You ain’t even met my mam!” said the deeply spoken man, who was thoroughly bewildered, and Oliver thought he heard the distinguishable scratching of a scalp.
Oliver, impatient, thought it was the best opportunity to disrupt this headache of a quarrel before it got completely out of control. He pushed the golden handles down slowly and grandiosely, to reveal a pair almost as laughable as their voices. The source of the apparent hilarity being experienced by Oliver was the sheer distinct difference of height. One was only around Oliver’s portly waist, his shaggy hair fluffing up to perhaps touch onto the level of his belly button, but it was doubtful. His cheery face was proudly displaying a cheeky, exaggerated grin, which in turn revealed a set of unpleasant decaying teeth. But it was the eyes that were his centre of attention; oddly, one was emerald green and the other sapphire blue, and they almost danced merrily around. The other man was an exact opposite. While the short one was slender and petite, this fellow was almost burning his hair on the scorching chandeliers. His posture was lazy, his gorilla arms hanging sluggishly at his round sides, and peppery eyes only sought to emphasise the man’s boring and dull posture.
Still amused and confused at the contrasting pair, Oliver opened his mouth but paused and let just a mouthful of air float out. The two men were hesitant too, looking at him strangely, and for a while at least, it was like a vibrant still painting - Oliver leaning over, his hand still gripped tightly to the handle, his mouth gaping; the big man and small man waiting tentatively for a signal in a colourful hall filled with ornamental, sentimental, pointless cluttered objects such as a plain-looking bible, formerly owned by one Oliver Cromwell.
They were saved from their inarticulateness by the timely arrival of Dennis and Arthur. Dennis stood over Oliver, peering down at his odd position, and Arthur peered his cheery face round the door and wiggled his moustache welcomingly at the new arrivals.
“Well aren’t you fellows some pair!” he exclaimed good-heartedly, and looked joyfully at Oliver, and asked quite seriously, “Were you going to leave them outside for eternity, old chap? It’s frightfully cold in the hall, and we mustn’t delay too long.”
Oliver, still leaning half-in, half-out of the doorway, struggled desperately for the words, his jaws clamping and opening at irregular intervals, as if he was frantically trying to bite and swallow large amounts of air. Eventually he managed to say, “They…well…they weren’t really what I was…expecting.”
Arthur scrunched up his face and peered over at the pair, who were still dreadfully silent, and replied, “What did you expect, my good man? King George?” and then laughed loudly at his own humour. Dennis smiled thinly and then looked startled as Oliver’s firm grasp of the handle began to slide quickly away. Oliver’s forehead was pouring with sudden sweat and he gulped madly as his body fell to the carpet.
Arthur was quickest to react, darting his large behind into the hall and standing over the crumpled body, “I do believe the poor man had a little too much ale!” he proclaimed simply, as if any other explanation would be ludicrous, and then waved his chubby hands to signal the pair’s movement, “Come in, come in. I expect we have a lot to talk about!”
10th December 1972. A street in London.
Swimming disgustingly above the browned cobbled stones, and bellowing into the faces and toothless grins of the few who walked at this late hour, was a malodorous wind; it spread to the furthest corners of the darkest alleys and especially into the nostrils of young James and Timothy Walker, twin brothers extraordinaire. They stood out even at this time, as sun was just disappearing behind puffing chimneys that provided the backdrop of London. Their red-brown cord velvet jackets, complete with golden embroidery, and then sporting navy blue breeches and ribbed woollen stockings, made them look more a pair destined for the glory of a royal court than the squander their chances in a backwater road.
They strutted in unison, smiling happily, even with the foul stench tainting their possibly perfumed aroma; as if their safety was entirely secure, and that the heavenly powers would prevent the robbers from assaulting them at this hour. The situation was made even more odd by the fact, to all watchful eyes, the pair were devoid of any protective weaponry, and were leaving themselves easy prey for the night time wolves. And the predators were gathering. It certainly wasn’t the type of road that a man walked down ceremoniously, displaying expensive fashion with a disregard for his own safety, as this assurance of your own impregnability was almost an insult to the thieves who plagued the capital.
