The Raffles Megapack. E.W. Hornung
most famous for writing the A. J. Raffles series of novels about a gentleman thief in late 19th century London.
Hornung was born in Middlesbrough, England, the third son and youngest of eight children of John Peter Hornung, who was born in Hungary. Ernest Hornung was educated at Uppingham School during some of the later years of its great headmaster, Edward Thring. Hornung spent most of his life in England and France, but in December 1883 left for Australia, arrived in 1884 and stayed for two years. There he worked as a tutor at Mossgiel station in the Riverina.
Although his Australian experience was brief, it influenced most of his literary work from A Bride from the Bush (1899) to Old Offenders and a few Old Scores, which was published after his death. Nearly two-thirds of his 30 published novels make reference to Australian incidents and experiences.
Hornung returned to England in February 1886, and married Constance (“Connie”) Aimée Monica Doyle (1868–1924), the sister of his friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, on September 27, 1893. Hornung worked as a journalist and also published the poems in the newspaper The Times. The character A. J. Raffles, a “gentleman thief,” was published first in Cassell’s Magazine during 1898, and the stories were later collected as The Amateur Cracksman (1899). Other volumes of stories in the series include The Black Mask (1901), A Thief in the Night (1905), and the full-length novel Mr. Justice Raffles (1909). He also co-wrote the play Raffles, The Amateur Cracksman with Eugene Presbrey in 1903.
After Hornung spent time in the trenches with the troops in France, he published Notes of a Camp-Follower on the Western Front in 1919, a detailed account of his time there.
Hornung’s only child, a son, was killed at the Second Battle of Ypres on 6 July 1915. Hornung then began work with the YMCA in France. Hornung died in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, in the south of France on 22 March 1921, survived by his wife.
In addition to his novels and short stories, Hornung wrote some war verse. His play based on the “Raffles” stories was produced successfully. Hornung was much interested in the game of cricket, and was reportedly “a man of large and generous nature, a delightful companion and conversationalist.”
The model for Raffles was George Cecil Ives, a Cambridge-educated criminologist and talented cricketer according to Lycett.
THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN
TO
A. C. D.
THIS FORM OF FLATTERY
The Amateur Cracksman is a collection of 8 short stories originally published in 1899. The “A. C. D.” of the dedication is Arthur Conan Doyle—Hornung’s father-in-law.
The book was very well received and spawned three follow-ups. Included in The Amateur Cracksman collection are the following tales:
“The Ides of March”
“A Costume Piece”
“Gentlemen and Players”
“Le Premier Pas”
“Wilful Murder”
“Nine Points of the Law”
“The Return Match”
“The Gift of the Emperor”
THE IDES OF MARCH
I
It was half-past twelve when I returned to the Albany as a last desperate resort. The scene of my disaster was much as I had left it. The baccarat-counters still strewed the table, with the empty glasses and the loaded ash-trays. A window had been opened to let the smoke out, and was letting in the fog instead. Raffles himself had merely discarded his dining jacket for one of his innumerable blazers. Yet he arched his eyebrows as though I had dragged him from his bed.
“Forgotten something?” said he, when he saw me on his mat.
“No,” said I, pushing past him without ceremony. And I led the way into his room with an impudence amazing to myself.
“Not come back for your revenge, have you? Because I’m afraid I can’t give it to you single-handed. I was sorry myself that the others—”
We were face to face by his fireside, and I cut him short.
“Raffles,” said I, “you may well be surprised at my coming back in this way and at this hour. I hardly know you. I was never in your rooms before tonight. But I fagged for you at school, and you said you remembered me. Of course that’s no excuse; but will you listen to me—for two minutes?”
In my emotion I had at first to struggle for every word; but his face reassured me as I went on, and I was not mistaken in its expression.
“Certainly, my dear man,” said he; “as many minutes as you like. Have a Sullivan and sit down.” And he handed me his silver cigarette-case.
“No,” said I, finding a full voice as I shook my head; “no, I won’t smoke, and I won’t sit down, thank you. Nor will you ask me to do either when you’ve heard what I have to say.”
“Really?” said he, lighting his own cigarette with one clear blue eye upon me. “How do you know?”
“Because you’ll probably show me the door,” I cried bitterly; “and you will be justified in doing it! But it’s no use beating about the bush. You know I dropped over two hundred just now?”
He nodded.
“I hadn’t the money in my pocket.”
“I remember.”
“But I had my check-book, and I wrote each of you a check at that desk.”
“Well?”
“Not one of them was worth the paper it was written on, Raffles. I am overdrawn already at my bank!”
“Surely only for the moment?”
“No. I have spent everything.”
“But somebody told me you were so well off. I heard you had come in for money?”
“So I did. Three years ago. It has been my curse; now it’s all gone—every penny! Yes, I’ve been a fool; there never was nor will be such a fool as I’ve been.… Isn’t this enough for you? Why don’t you turn me out?” He was walking up and down with a very long face instead.
“Couldn’t your people do anything?” he asked at length.
“Thank God,” I cried, “I have no people! I was an only child. I came in for everything there was. My one comfort is that they’re gone, and will never know.”
I cast myself into a chair and hid my face. Raffles continued to pace the rich carpet that was of a piece with everything else in his rooms. There was no variation in his soft and even footfalls.
“You used to be a literary little cuss,” he said at length; “didn’t you edit the mag. before you left? Anyway I recollect fagging you to do my verses; and literature of all sorts is the very thing nowadays; any fool can make a living at it.”
I shook my head. “Any fool couldn’t write off my debts,” said I.
“Then you have a flat somewhere?” he went on.
“Yes, in Mount Street.”
“Well, what about the furniture?”
I laughed aloud in my misery. “There’s been a bill of sale on every stick for months!”
And at that Raffles stood still, with raised eyebrows and stern eyes that I could meet the better now that he knew the worst; then, with a shrug, he resumed his walk, and for some minutes neither of us spoke. But in his handsome, unmoved face I read my fate and death-warrant; and with every breath I cursed my folly and my cowardice in coming to him at all. Because he had been kind to me at school, when he was captain of the eleven, and I his fag, I had