Lore - Episode 49: Seeing Double

Episode Date: December 12, 2016

It’s often said that our real identity is the person we are in private, away from the public eye. Over two centuries ago, however, one person gave life to that idea, and in the process, gave birth to an entirely new thing to fear. * * * Official Lore Merchandise: www.lorepodcast.com/shop Member-only Episodes: www.patreon.com/lorepodcast Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support

Thomas Harvey wanted to give his mother's home a bit of a fresh cleaning. She lived in the house for 40 years, but little had changed in the decades leading up to the 1960s. If you'd asked around the neighborhood there in the Welsh town of Ryl, every single person would have said that Sarah Harvey deserved that gift. She was kind and quiet, if not unremarkable. And she'd been living alone ever since her husband passed away in 1938. Well, that's not entirely true.

For a handful of years, beginning in 1940, Sarah Harvey played host to a lodger. Mrs. Knight was an older woman who had recently separated from her husband. She wasn't well, and so Sarah looked after her while she stayed there. But when World War II ended, Mrs. Knight moved out of town. Fifteen years is a long time for someone to live alone, which is why her son Thomas wanted to freshen up the house before she returned home from a stay in the hospital. On May 5th of 1960, he was standing on the landing of his mother's stairs, looking at a large storage cupboard.

Maybe he thought it contained cleaning supplies or perhaps boxes of old decorations. I have no clue, really. Whatever the reason was, though, he reached up and opened it wide and found a body. The petrified, mummified body of a woman. Insects had eaten away most of the face and hair, and there was a thick layer of dust on the skin, but that didn't stop the police from identifying it. It was Mrs. Knight. Harvey had apparently strangled the woman in 1940 and then continued to collect her

pension illegally. We think we know our neighbors, but do we really? No one would have suspected Mrs. Harvey of murder, after all, if it wasn't for her curious son. Whether they're a respected public figure or a quiet, elderly widow, it's impossible to know the whole story. It seems that some people, quite literally, have skeletons in their closets. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore.

I know we've talked a bit about Edinburgh before, but indulge me for a moment. Today we know it as the beautiful ancient capital of Scotland, but that wasn't always the case. People have lived in the area for over 10,000 years, but it wasn't until the end of the 7th century when they started to gather into anything resembling a community. A Celtic fortress was built there in 638, and that's where the city, as we know it today, began. Sure, it had the usual outlying village, but it wasn't until Scottish King David I established

an official royal settlement there in the 12th century that things really started to take off. Within two centuries, riders across Europe began to refer to the city as the capital of Scotland, but that expansion came with some growing pains. Up until the end of the 16th century, every bit of the city was still wrapped up in the tender embrace of the defensive walls that surrounded the community. So rather than growing outward, buildings were starting to climb higher. Some of them even reached a height of 11 stories, not too bad for the pre-Skyscraper era.

But all those people living in such a confined space was creating a problem. For a long time, Edinburgh was known as one of the most filthy and overpopulated urban centers in all of Europe. Those high-rise tenement buildings were packed with people, and beneath them were countless vaults, like an ancient hybrid between a dungeon and a basement. And as the city attracted more and more immigrants, they tended to find themselves down there, in the shadows of the city. But thankfully, that was all about to change.

In the 1760s, the city reinvented itself. It's a long story involving a competition to find the best architect, so I won't dig into the finer points, but the end result was going to be a brand new part of the city, referred to as Newtown, situated north of the older portion, logically known as Oldtown. The planning committee had a clean slate, so a grid of streets was laid out north of Norlock. As construction went on over the coming years, the lock, which had originally just been a dumping site for sewage, was filled in with earth, and today it's known as the mound.

All those gorgeous buildings you see, the National Gallery, the General Assembly Hall, the Museum, all of it, you see, was built on the human waste of Oldtown. And Newtown was gorgeous, there's no doubt about it. It was modern and beautiful, and perfectly matched to the enlightened minds that were flocking to the city. Before long, Edinburgh was known as the Athens of the North, and all that knowledge and advancement, along with the available space for new construction, attracted a wave of elite and wealthy land owners.

This new setting created a demand for luxury products. Those fancy Georgian townhouses practically begged for beautiful new custom furniture, right? And those wide, clean streets? Well, they were the perfect place to drive your brand new carriage on. A whole new industry, from ironwork to cabinetry, began to blossom in the city. Newtown, whether it was intentional or not, quickly became Richtown, and because it was situated at a higher elevation than the rest of the city, a very real, physical separation

was formed between the wealthy and the poor. If you lived on the southern side of Newtown, you could quite literally step outside and look down upon the poor. But no city can engineer away all of its social problems. As the 18th century gave way to the 19th century, Oldtown continued to suffer in the shadow of Newtown. In 1750 and 1850, the population of the city tripled from 60,000 to nearly 180,000. Most of those newcomers settled into the poor areas of the city, and with them came increasing

waves of illnesses like cholera, rampant crime, and deep poverty. In a very real sense, Edinburgh had become a city with a split personality. To the south, there was darkness and danger and filth. The north, in contrast, represented hope and a bright future. But few people ever saw both sides. If you were born in the slums of Oldtown, you were more than likely going to live there and work there and die there as well. The wealthy to the north put themselves into a similar situation.

They were isolated from the lower class. They left their problems behind in a way. Newtown was a place of wealth and progress and knowledge. The elite who lived there were, at least in their own eyes, better because of that. But Edinburgh wasn't unique in its dual nature. These people are capable of double lives as well. Williams' first crime could be viewed as an act of mercy. If you squint really hard and try to ignore all the illegal bits, I suppose, he had a

friend, you see, and that friend had a problem that needed solved. So the man asked Williams for help. The friend, Mr. Hay, who worked as a stabler in Grassmark down in Oldtown, was mourning the loss of his son. The boy was barely a teenager, but he'd been charged with a crime, and it looked as if all the evidence pointed to his guilt. As a result, the boy was set to hang in just a few days. So on the eve of the execution, both men approached the old toll booth building, sort

of a mixture of a jail and a courthouse, and made their way to the jailkeeper. It brought along a large quantity of alcohol, and while Mr. Hay made sure that the jailer drank as much of it as he could, as quickly as he could, Williams slipped over to the cell holding Hay's son and picked the lock. Then he smuggled the boy out and into the darkness, but he needed a place to hide where the boy could stay until he could be safely removed from the city, and that's where William proved how bright he was. He took the boy to Greyfriar Cemetery and then made his way to the tomb of George McKenzie,

known throughout town as Bloody McKenzie. William broke into the crypt and then hid the boy inside, and the plan worked. In August of 1786, Williams stepped up his life of crime. He managed to use a counterfeit key to break into a locked desk drawer in the offices of Johnson and Smith, bankers in the Royal Exchange. He stole a pile of sterling banknotes valued at about $125,000 in modern U.S. currency. Business, it seems, was good for William. But you need to spend money to make money, right?

So a short time later, he hired a handful of associates to become a sort of heist team. He needed more hands, more faces, and more players if he was going to be able to take on bigger jobs with higher payoffs. And that's how Andrew Ainsley, George Smith, and John Brown ended up working for William. On Christmas Eve of that year, they assembled for their first job as a team, breaking into a jeweler's shop called Bruce Brothers. They walked away with about $50,000 worth of precious stones, watches, and rings. Satisfied that the team had worked so well together, William and his crew began a string

of thefts that spanned nearly 10 months. In late October of 1787, they somehow managed to gain access to the room at the University of Edinburgh College where the ceremonial mace was kept. This object was a symbol of the university's authority, as well as being a priceless antique. And the men made off with it as easily as if it had been left out on the back steps. The rumors were rampant. The city was plagued by a thief, or thieves, who could not be caught. Shopkeepers were terrified of being the next victim, and some people even whispered about

the supernatural nature of the thief. Whoever it was, they said, he seemed to be able to walk through walls. But of course, they weren't going to catch him because they were looking in the wrong place. They assumed, as anyone would have in the middle of 18th century Edinburgh, that the thief was a poor, desperate tenant from the slums of Old Town. But he wasn't. Instead, he was a member of the Town Council, the same people who were charged with investigating

the theft of the mace and finding a replacement. William, you see, was the deacon of the incorporation of rites and masons, sort of the president of the organization, if you will, and also the head of the craft of cabinetmaking. He was, in fact, one of the most prominent cabinet makers in the city, a trade and business he'd inherited from his father, Francis. He'd inherited a lot, actually. Four houses, the cabinetry business, and a bank account worth about 1.6 million in today's American currency.

He fit right in up on the hill in Newtown. He was upstanding, respected, admired, and emulated. William Brody was a rising star. And it was all that prominence, as well as his position on the Town Council, that it actually aided his life of crime. Whenever the council needed someone to handle the city's carpentry jobs, they called on him, things like repairing security mechanisms and installing locks. He frequently installed the front doors on local shops, and all of this work gave him

access to their keys. By night, though, he had this alter ego that felt ripped from the pages of modern comic books. He would step into a hidden area of his home and literally suit up for criminal activity. He had a disguise, a vast collection of tools, and even strapped on two pistols for those tricky situations, I'm sure. But you can only keep a secret for so long, right? At some point, the world was going to find out.

Brody wasn't always criminally inclined. Most historians actually think that the source of his shift was a bit of pop culture. You see, as a teen, Brody was obsessed with a play called The Beggar's Opera, which was a huge hit at the time. Written in 1728 by John Gay, the show set a record for the most consecutive performances of any play in Scotland or England up to that point. Even after the streak ended, it was still performed consistently for decades. The story centers around the world of thieves and the upper class women who love them.

One of the main characters is the dashing, charismatic leader of an entire gang of criminals. And yet, he somehow managed to find time to balance not one, but two mistresses. The glamour of that lifestyle, according to many historians, must have appealed to young William, because as he grew into adulthood, he took on more and more of that persona. William also loved to gamble. He belonged to an exclusive men's club known as The Cape, and he spent a good part of his time at a tavern called the Dice Box. But all of that gambling had also led to a good amount of debt.

And even with all of this on his plate, a full-time job, his city appointments, the gambling addiction, all of it, he still managed to father five children by two separate mistresses, and all without either of the women knowing that the other existed. Sometimes it seems life truly does imitate art. As you might guess, paying for this lifestyle wasn't easy, and that's where the nighttime career as a thief came in. But for as good a thief as he was, Brody never seems to have stopped. Maybe his gambling debt was just too large to ever go away, or perhaps he just fell

in love with the thrill that came with each successful heist. It's hard to say for sure, but what we do know is that even after a theft as high-profile as the university mace, he stayed active. In early 1788, he began planning the biggest heist of his career. It would be an armed burglary of his majesty's excise office, and the building where all the tax revenue of Scotland was kept locked up. So he assembled his team, and they set their plan in motion. This time, though, they had no key, and Brody insisted that the whole team be armed with

pistols. The events of that night are a bit fuzzy, but we do know that they managed to gain access to the building. At some point, though, it seems that Brody stayed outside the door to act as lookout while the others made their way to the loot. While he was there, an excise official randomly returned to the building, and when Brody saw the man, he bolted into the night. Abandoned and exposed, the rest of the gang did their best to escape.

The men walked away with about four pounds in their pockets, nothing like the fortune that Brody had promised them, and as a result, they were more than a bit disgruntled. Later that same night, one of the men, John Brown, decided it would be more profitable to just turn Brody in. There was price on the man's head, and so he reported the whole crew to the authorities in exchange for 150 pounds and a king's pardon. Ainsley and Smith were arrested immediately, but William Brody was nowhere to be found. Just because he'd fled the country, making his way to Amsterdam.

While he was away, the story broke, and Brody's careful public image shattered instantly. The city was shocked. He'd been one of the bright ones, the elite, a hero, but he turned out to be nothing more than a fraud. Brody was taken into custody and then brought back to Edinburgh, where a trial was set for August of that year. He'd been on for over two days with very few breaks, and in the end, Ainsley managed to escape charges.

Smith and Brody, though, were found guilty of theft. The penalty? Death by hanging. A crowd of over 40,000 curious onlookers gathered to watch their execution on October 1 of 1788. They'd come to see a hanging. They'd come to see one of the new town elite get strung up like an old town pickpocket. They'd come for justice. Despite all this, Brody was in good cheer that day.

He wore a splendid black suit and a powdered wig, as if he were dressing up for a celebration, and he climbed up the ladder with a spring in his step. He requested that his hands be left untied and then helped the hangman adjust the noose to get it just right before pulling the hood over his own head. His last act was to pull a handkerchief free from his pocket and drop it into the crowd. There's a legend that, as a carpenter for the city, Brody actually built the gallows he was hanged on, but there's little evidence that this rumor is true. If anything, he helped draw up the plans for them, but that's about it.

Another legend claims that he somehow inserted a metal pipe into his throat to prevent his neck from breaking and that afterward a French doctor would revive him and spirit him away to safety. None of this, sadly, is true. One thing that is true, though, is that Brody's execution took place at the toll booth, the very building, if you remember, where he committed his first crime years earlier by freeing a prisoner who'd been sentenced to death. Irony is a wonderful thing sometimes, isn't it?

The idea of double lives certainly has its appeal. If historians are correct, that attraction is what got William Brody into trouble in the first place. For him, it was a necessary evil that provided a solution to his own personal problems. For others, maybe it's the desire to live out secret fantasies or to express themselves in ways that their public life won't allow. Most people have a secret. Some people yell at their kids behind closed doors or drink a bit too much.

Some apparently live secret lives as criminal masterminds and take their final bow from atop the gallows. The old cliché says that the real you is the person you are in private. For Brody, that couldn't have been more true. He was a womanizer, a cheat, and a criminal, but you wouldn't have known it by looking at him. It certainly begs the honest question. Deep down, beneath all the polish and public make-believe, who are any of us, really?

It's a question that another Edinburgh native tried to answer nearly a century later. He was a writer, and in his youth he'd written a play about William Brody that he called The Double Life. Sadly, it was a commercial flop. He took that failure personally too, because he felt like he had a real connection to Brody. Growing up, his parents owned furniture handcrafted by the man himself, so as far as the writer was concerned, it was as if he'd been raised in the same household as the legendary thief. There was something about the tale that always stuck with him, even as he pushed further

into his writing career. In 1885, he was sick in bed, struggling to recover from a lung infection when his sleep became fevered and broken. And then, one night, he awoke from a dream with a plot perfectly formed in his mind. Surely, he told his wife. This would satisfy his publisher's demand for a cheap new thriller, what he liked to refer to as a shilling shocker. Today, that novel is one of the finest psychological thrillers in all of British literature.

It's been adapted more times than Frankenstein or Dracula, and has inspired countless storytellers over the years. And if it wasn't for the influence and duplicity of William Brody, we wouldn't have the book at all. So let's all be glad for what Robert Louis Stevenson ended up writing, a little novel that he called The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research help from Marsette Crockett.

Lore is much more than a podcast. There's a book series in bookstores around the country and online, and the second season of the Amazon Prime television show was recently released. Check them both out if you want more Lore in your life. I also make two other podcasts, Aaron Mankey's Cabinet of Curiosities, and Unobscured, and I think you'd enjoy both. Each one explores other areas of our dark history, ranging from bite-sized episodes to season-long dives into a single topic.

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