As we all know, English cricket suffered an ignominious defeat at The Oval on 29 August, 1882, when the colonials beat Mother England at her own game.
The lion was declawed, unable to give even a feeble swish of its tail. Beaten? Yes, but not for long, by Jove. Three weeks after their crushing humiliation, captain Ivo Bligh and his team boarded the RMS Peshawur with every intention of resuscitating the lion, recovering the ashes and restoring England’s glory.
Mr Michael Crawcour, pawnbroker of 31 Nelson Place, Williamstown, was most interested in the Peshawur and avidly followed her progress in the shipping news. Not that Mr Crawcour liked cricket. He didn’t care a hoot about Bligh’s unshakeable determination, nor was he even remotely excited about the forthcoming Australian Eleven banquet to be held in Melbourne’s Town Hall.
His interest in the Peshawur became acute anxiety when she collided with the barque Glenroy out of Colombo on Sunday 15 October. Owing to substantial damage to her masts and hull, repairs took several days. Mr Crawcour didn’t like shipping delays at all, but he cheered up when finally, with no lives lost, the Peshawur was heading once more to Australia,
She arrived in Melbourne on 22 November, 1882 and this put Mr Crawcour in a very sunny mood.
Her arrival was noticed by others. Constable William Walkinshaw of the Williamstown Water Police happened to be in Nelson Place, eavesdropping on a conversation between two ship stewards. What he heard sent him running off to inform customs officer William Evans that Michael Crawcour was planning some wickedness on the Peshawur. William Evans couldn’t hide his glee; an arrest warrant had been nestled in his pocket for the last 12 months and he had nearly abandoned all hope of ever catching the slippery eel.
Constable Walkinshaw knew this. He also knew that this was a job for customs, not the police, but willingly agreed to help his crime-busting friend.
At 8.30 pm, Walkinshaw saw Mr Crawcour leaving his shop with lines and bait and greeted him. “Hello. Doing some fishing tonight?”
Mr Crawcour affably waved his lines and bait. “And where are you off to, Constable Walkinshaw?”
‘I’m going to check the Potosi,” the policeman lied.
Very relieved that it was not the Peshawur, Mr Crawcour decided that assisting the constabulary was always a wise policy. “Let me row you there, and save you a walk to the pier.”
Crawcour soon had both men at their destinations. Constable Walkinshaw headed off towards the Potosi and watched as Crawcour boarded the Peshawur.
At the gangway of the Potosi, the policeman met Officer Evans for a brief chat. He then boarded a lighter which was moored outside the Peshawur, crouched down and waited.
Before long, he spotted Mr Crawcour quietly lowering some packages from a porthole into his fishing boat. The constable clambered from the lighter into the pawnbroker’s boat and felt the packages. He knew what they were. Cigars. Over three thousand of them. Dutiable cigars on which Michael Crawcour had no intention of paying any sort of tax, ever.
Constable Walkinshaw had a sly sense of humour. As soon as Crawcour returned to his boat, he asked, “How was the fishing?”
The pawnbroker also had a sense of humour. “Look at that! I turned my back for five minutes and some scoundrel got into my boat and stuffed these strange objects into it!”
Walkinshaw grinned. “Well, you just wait for the rightful owner to show up and claim his property.”
Mr Crawcour knew that the joking was over. “I suppose this means trouble for me?”
Walkinshaw grabbed the cigar boxes and marched off to hand them to customs officer Evans.
On 2 December, 1882, the Williamstown Court was packed to the rafters with spectators eager to enjoy HM Customs vs Crawcour.
Mr Crawcour was looking very unhappy. So were the cigar-craving gentlemen sprinkled throughout the courthouse. In Mr Crawcour’s view, the authorities had no right whatsoever to persecute hard-working smugglers who performed a valuable public service in providing cheap goods to those who desired them, but lacked the wherewithal to pay the extortionate duty. His customers were in complete accord with him.
Mr W.H. Croker, solicitor, put up a passionate defence. Where was the proof that it was his client who had lowered the cigars into the boat? There was none at all. Indeed, Mr Crawcour had been most shocked to find the boxes in his boat. Further, when his client returned from his fishing, who was already in the boat with the boxes, but Constable Walkinshaw himself! This was a plant, an underhanded, sneaky scheme, typical of policemen who longed for rapid promotion and were not overly burdened by conscience how they obtained it.
The Bench demonstrated its lack of credulity by fining Mr Crawcour one hundred pounds.
There was a lot of the never-say-die about Michael Crawcour. Knowing that this conviction prevented the renewal of his pawnbroker’s licence, he persuaded a friend, Joseph Abrahams, to apply for one in the Hotham Police Court, fully intending to use it himself.
The Williamstown police got wind of this and alerted Constable Walkinshaw, who sped after the pair to squash their scheme.
But Michael Crawcour was in possession of a secret that Constable Walkinshaw had kept from his friends, family and the force.
Prior to joining Victoria Police, Walkinshaw, as a youth of 16, had been apprenticed on the training ship, Cerberus. The bored teenager had attempted to run away on an outward bound ship, and for this breach of the Naval Discipline Act, he was court martialled and given a month in Melbourne Gaol.
Mr Crawcour instructed his solicitor, Mr McKean, to show the court that Constable Walkinshaw was a very bad character indeed, and not to be believed when persecuting him or his friends.
Thus primed, Mr McKean barked in rapid succession:
“Have you ever been in trouble? Have you ever been convicted of an offence? Have you ever been sent to gaol? Have you ever spent a month in gaol?”
To all these, Walkinshaw answered “No.”
Documentary evidence to the contrary was swiftly produced, and Constable Walkinshaw soon found himself being tried for perjury. To Mr Crawcour’s dismay, his old foe was acquitted and immediately rushed out of the court to issue a writ against the pawnbroker.
One thousand pounds damages for malicious prosecution was sought by Constable Walkinshaw. Michael Crawcour quickly engaged the future Governor General, Isaac Isaacs, with every expectation of celebrating a legal victory.
Alas, in May 1883, the jury chose to ignore the documentary evidence and believe Constable Walkinshaw. He was awarded 350 pounds damages. Mrs Walkinshaw generously overlooked her husband’s youthful pranks and began planning some delightful shopping sprees.
Life resumed its normal course for all parties involved, until the body of Joseph Abrahams, 25-year-old pawnbroker’s assistant of Chapel Street, Prahran, was found floating in the Yarra on 12 December, 1883. What connection, if any, this had to Michael Crawcour and his failed court case will never be known.
