The Greene Light

As truly apparel may proclaimeth the man, the rough hewn trousers and raw linen shirt pronounced this bumpkin a rube, as he bumbled his way down Borough High Street into Southwark. Wide eyed he stumbled past the bear-baiting pit, the outer fence plastered with bill posters for Kit Marlowe’s new play. Past the harlots, only halfheartedly trying to muster custom at this early hour; saving their energies for the rakes that would descend on this part of town after the sun set. It was at this point I noticed the pouch tied to his belt. I’d been a voluntary constable (voluntary in the sense that I wasn’t getting paid, I don’t recall offering myself up for the job) for eight months now but while my eye had become sharp I knew that by now every ne’er-do-well south of London will have all ready seen it. Likely some husbandman or minor yeoman come to do business in the city. I knew the odds of that pouch still being in his possession by the time he made it to the London bridge were poor to nil. Given the tarts had let him pass, the only real interest in whether the prize would go to the Figgers picking his purse or the Coney-catchers convincing him to hand it over freely.

My answer came quicker than I expected. A call broke out. ‘Beware! Pickpockets!’. When I began this post I had been naive enough to think this a warning to the innocent citizenry. As I watched a couple of hands reflexively reach for pockets I could see why it was in fact a cry made by the Figgers themselves to have their targets highlighted for them. Well, I thought. This should distract the pick-pockets from our rural friend. He kept walking. Good move I thought. The pick-pockets have other options, best present them with a moving target. It was then that I espied the tourist being accosted, not by a cudgel or club but something far more dangerous – a proffered hand. It was the setter, the first member of the Cony-catcher team, eyeing the visitor like the tame rabbit for which they are named.

I made my way towards them but although I was still out of earshot the setter’s patter is so familiar I had no great need to listen. The setter is a confidence man in his own right but in addition to a sweet tongue also needs silken ears, for his secondary role is to gain information on the mark. Along with the proffered hand would come a hearty ‘Well met Sirrah! How are our friends in the country? I hope them hale!’

The visitor will be thus thrown onto the back foot at such a complaisant welcome, generally responding with a ‘Our countrymen be well but forsooth I beg your pardon as I recognize ye not.’ This, for a good setter, will be enough for an educated guess at the mark’s county of origin.

At this stage the setter will be aiming to strike up a conversation, usually leading off with ‘Are you not a man of [insert name of territory predicted from accent]. I’m poor with names but never forget a face.’ Now a correct prediction generally helps the setter’s cause but is not entirely essential. The important part is that a conversation has been started. Should the guessed accent be incorrect the setter will the make further enquiries. ‘My name is [insert name of someone the setter does not like, just in case things go south], I pray verily yours lest I feel a fool.’ The traveller, usually relieved that his accoster bears him no threat (at least not of a physical nature) will then proceed in conversation to hand over all sorts of information: his home town, his neighbours, his local gentry. After achieving what he hopes a pleasant conversation the setter will make his play. ‘Indeed sirrah I have not met a friend but perhaps have made one. Whilst thou not join me for a meal and a pot of ale?’ If the mark accepts then his time as owner of his purse be short-lived. If he does not he has but declined the first of a multi-pronged attack. The setter will not push matters, bidding the visitor good day and making off to pass his new found information onto his accomplice – the verser.

I arrived just in time for the setter to take his leave. Though I knew him a rogue I had no grounds to arrest him as no crime had yet been committed. Thus I allowed him on his way and awaited the second part of the show. Not five minutes passed when a voice cried out ‘Is that you Thomas Cooper?’ The visitor turned amazed at what was quickly becoming a very small world. ‘Aye Thomas, surely that is thou?’

‘You have me at a loss’ the visitor replies with bewilderment, turning to the voice.

‘Why it is me, George Dickenson’ comes the reply from a man I’ll bet you London to a brick was baptised something else. ‘I met you at my cousin Henry’s house.’ The name Henry Dickenson means nothing to me but clearly rings a bell with the man I now know to be Thomas Cooper. “George” proceeds to banter with his allegedly long lost acquaintance, “reminiscing” over old times. Eventually, having built a rapport with the still slightly perplexed Cooper, the verser invites him to join him at the nearest tavern for dinner. Now why Cooper refused him I’ll never know, although I’d wager that it was a will to complete his purpose rather than having twigged that he was the central target of a scam. The verser does not panic though, knowing that this is not the end of the affair. He bids Cooper adieu and swiftly walks away, surreptitiously dropping a handful of change as he does so.

While Cooper bends to collect the dropped coins, he hears a shout of ‘Half Part!’ In keeping with convention he offers the claimant half of the coins. ‘It is begging ill-fortune to keep found money. Let us away to share a pottle of wine.’ The claimant hereby (to me at least) shows himself to be another of the cony-catcher clan. Maybe I gave Cooper too little credit as he once again refuses. In a final play the claimant tells Cooper that he can keep his share and that if he’ll keep the claimant company that he will pay for all. Cooper once again holds firm and I’m starting to think that maybe I’d underestimated him. The cony-catchers panic not though, for they have another trick well suited to those that are close with their money.

Cooper moves continues down the High Road heading towards the bridge when he is assailed again. ‘Pardon my intrusion sirrah but didst I detect a Norwich accent?’ He certainly didst and as such Cooper nodded his assent. ‘I need a letter delivered to the Norwich Parish. I can offer you a shilling for your efforts.’

‘Certainly’ replied Cooper. ‘I shall be returning there on the morrow. Where be this missive?’

‘Well verily I have yet to write it’ admitted the scribe. ‘If you join me we can share an ale as I write. It is a short message and will not take long.’ And thus it was at the final hurdle Cooper fell. He followed the scribe into the nearby tavern, “The Greene Light”. I knew the establishment and thought it a chance to avail myself of their pickled herrings and riesling while I set about my duties for the crown. I followed them in and took a table not far from that at which they sat. Predictably, as the writing implements were summoned from the scribe’s bag, so was a deck of playing cards. ‘Listen’ said the scribe to Cooper, do you know how to play mum-chance?’ Cooper answered that he did not. ‘It matters not’ said the scribe. ‘’Tis a very simple game. I cut the deck and you and another party guess at what card will come out.’

‘I do not care to gamble with you’ interjected Cooper.

The scribe laughed as he took a draught of his ale. ‘You won’t be gambling against me. I’ll do the cutting and as I do so I’ll let you a look at the bottom card. We will find another to play against and allow him to pay for our drinks.’ Cooper thought this a great lurk and agreed and, almost as if on cue, in lurched a drunk. Having surveyed the establishment, the drunk noticed the cards and alighted at the scribe’s table. Now Cooper may have been in the dark but I knew this set up. The drunkeness was feigned for it was the final member of the Cony-catching crew, the Barnacle.

‘Have thee cards for entertainment?’ enquired the barnacle.

‘Why certainly Sirrah, we were just about to engage’ replied the scribe.

‘At what would you play?’

‘Well’ replied the scribe ‘three handed we could play at mum-chance.’

‘I know it not’ replied the Barnacle.

‘Simply put, I cut the cards and you and my friend here’ the scribe said, motioning to Cooper ‘take turns in guessing the correct card, wagering as you go. How about we play for rounds of drinks?’

‘Sounds great sport!’ thundered the Barnacle. The scribe shuffled then cut the cards, as promised flashing the bottom card to Cooper and placing it high in the deck. Thrice Cooper and the scribe won before the barnacle guessed correctly. Cooper looked worried but the scribe made a song and dance about the Barnacle’s success, happy for him to have finally won a game. ‘I must admit’ offered the Barnacle, ‘that I was starting to fear the game rigged.’ The scribe laughed and Cooper laughed with him, his nerves released.

They played for an extended period with Cooper winning regularly. I finished my herring and ordered cheese as they played. They re-cut, this time the scribe placing the flashed card very high up in the deck. Both Cooper and the Barnacle made their wagers. At first it was small stakes and then the Barnacle proclaimed that he grew weary of such small scale wagers and bet a guinea. This was a little rich for Cooper’s blood but knowing he had the upper hand he matched it. Both of them guessed incorrectly. This time the Barnacle raised the wager to five pounds. Cooper went faint. This was all he owned, however he was all ready in for over a guinea and knew he would be correct at his next guess. He threw his money pouch onto the table. ‘I call your wager.’

It was the Barnacle’s turn. ‘I call the knave of clubs.’ The scribe turned the cards and it was the sought after Jack. Cooper turned white, then green.

‘I am ruined’ he whimpered.

The barnacle laughed as he took up the purse. I took up the cheese knife and snuck behind him. I jabbed the knife into the back of his scrotum with my right hand as I took him around the neck with my left arm. ‘Thou art under arrest. Thou may give me either the purse in your hand or the one betwixt thine legs’. Reluctantly he took the sensible option.

‘I am saved!’ exclaimed Cooper.

‘Didst I not see you gambling illegally? I’ll have your ears nailed to the pillory.’ His face dropped again. The scribe had seen enough and made a break for the door. Cooper, not wishing his ears pierced, followed suit. This left only the Barnacle. ‘You could hang for this’ I whispered in his ear.

‘I have money’ he stammered.

‘You had money’ I said, releasing his neck and filching through his pockets.

‘Thou art a rogue’ he cursed. ‘A greater thief than I.’

‘Better’ I corrected him. ‘Better.’