While going through some of our old books to donate to a book sale, I ran across one about Robert Louis Stevenson — it contained an interesting story about his short story The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. We all know that it’s a tale about a respected physician that transforms into a deranged and dangerous criminal. It turns out that Stevenson got the inspiration for his story that explored man’s darker side from a real-life, respected Scotsman by the name of William Brodie.
William Brodie was born into a prominent 18th century Edinburgh family and grew up as the model of respectability. He followed his father into the cabinetmaking profession, and by his mid-twenties had established himself as a part of the upper crust of Scottish society. He had also become the deacon of the local chapter of the Mason’s Guild and an Edinburgh city councilor.
But Brodie loved to gamble — and — he had ongoing relationships with two prostitutes. As one might expect, the gambling debts started to pile up and, when his two mistresses had offspring, he found himself in desperate straits.
His legitimate day job of cabinetmaking allowed him to visit his rich clients in their homes. He started making wax impressions of the house keys he came across, and checking out the houses for items of interest — then, he’d return in the evenings to gather up the goods. His life of crime was a solution to his money worries, but he also like the thrill of it all.
Bodie teamed up with a locksmith by the name of George Smith and together they stole everything they could in Edinburgh. Unlike Bodie, who was elegant and cultured, Smith was a small time crook with just about no redeeming qualities. After a while, Bodie and Smith recruited two more local criminals into their gang that were pretty much copies of Smith.
The gang’s most daring job — an attack on the headquarters of the Scottish Customs and Excise — was kind of a fiasco. Brodie dressed in black and stood guard outside with Smith as the other two made their way inside. Smith got cold feet and Brodie canceled the job.
But the attempt didn’t sit well with the authorities and a large reward was offered for the capture of those who been so bold as to even try to seal from the Scottish taxpayer. One of the gang decided to turn King’s evidence. He told the authorities that the man behind the raid was the highly regarded Deacon William Brodie. The police didn’t believe him. But they dispatched a team to Brodie’s apartment, mainly so they could officially discount the preposterous suggestion that he could be involved in such a scheme.
But what they found substantiated the claim — skeleton keys, a burglar’s black suit, and several pistols were cataloged and taken for further examination. Bodie himself, however, was nowhere to be found. He’d fled to Holland, with the intention to set sail for America. When he attempted to board the ship, wearing top hat and tails, he was apprehended by two Dutch police officers. They escorted him off the ship and extradited him back to Edinburgh to face charges.
At his trial, he dressed in a three-piece suit and top hat. He answered questions with a “haughty carelessness.” He didn’t seem troubled at all by the fate that awaited him — death by hanging.
He was found guilty and as he stood on the gallows that he (in his role as city councilor) had designed, he offered up a prayer and then beckoned for the hangman to perform his task. He breathed his last on October 1, 1788.
When I was in Edinburgh there was a pub named Deacon Brodie’s — it had been there a long time. I don’t know if it’s still there……
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