One punishment meted out to those who had committed crimes was, up to the mid-19th century, that of transportation. Originally to America, and then to Australia, the convicted might be sent to the other side of the world for seven years, 14 years, or even for life. That was if he or she survived the ship journey, of course. Many would be devastated at leaving their loved ones behind, but there were always those who believed that transportation might enable them to start a new life, far away from the problems they had faced at home. By the 1880s, transportation to the colonies had ended; the last convict ship had arrived in Australia back in 1868. However, it appears that one criminal, at least, saw Tasmania – the site of several previous criminal settlements – as the answer to his problems, and chose to transport himself there.

This individual was Alfred John Cox, aged 42. He was employed by an interesting man – William Whitfield, a Canadian man nearly 20 years Cox’s senior. Whitfield was a widower, and a West India merchant. In practice, this appears to mean that he traded in cork, importing the material from the West Indies to sell on through his business, which was initially based on Upper Thames Street, and then on Fenchurch Street, both in the City of London. Whitfield’s business was in the City, but he chose to live further west. In the early 1860s, already widowed, he had lived in a lodging house at 23 Upper Baker Street, before getting his own home round the corner at 21 Langham Place, steps away from the BBC’s London base today, but regarded as a pleasant part of Marylebone in the mid-19th century. Because Whitfield was widowed, he needed female help to keep his house tidy; in 1871, he employed Elizabeth Patrick, a middle-aged spinster from London as his housekeeper. By 1881, he had moved in his widowed cousin, Pauline MacBryde, and she took on this role. Pauline had herself been born outside of Britain – in France – suggesting a cosmopolitan, well-travelled family.

Although the Victorian press focused more on Whitfield than his employee, a trawl through census records suggests that the most likely Alfred Cox was a Bristolian who, in 1881, was living in Penge, Surrey, with his Liverpudlian wife Jane and their children Annie, Alfred, Mabel and William. He certainly described himself as a clerk for a West India merchant. Alfred was the son of a warehouseman, William Cox, and his wife Jane – who he married in 1871 in Brixton – was the daughter of John McGahey, an artist and lithographer. Alfred Cox was a respectable man, even being a member of the Penge lodge of the Freemasons, having joined in 1877.

As Whitfield’s long-standing employee – he had been working as his clerk since 1870 – he was trusted. He was responsible for the company accounts, and had considerable responsibility, which implies not only that he must have had a reasonable standard of education himself, but also a good reputation and unblemished past – something reiterated in later press reports that referred to the ‘good character he had previously borne’. But Cox was human, and he was tempted. He saw the money coming in and going out, and he wanted a part of it – a larger part than his already decent wages, which were £80 a year when he started, and £200 a year in 1882 – plus gratuities. While Mr Whitfield was abroad with business in 1882, Cox gradually stole cheques worth nearly £2,000 from his employer (Old Bailey Online records, at www.oldbaileyonline.org, state that he stole bankers’ cheques totalling £1,959 9s 1d, and was charged on ten counts of embezzlement). Inevitably, though, suspicions started to be raised, and fingers started to be pointed in his direction, leading to Cox fleeing to Tasmania, together with the £2,000 he had stolen, and, apparently, his wife.

Detective Sergeant Henry Randall – an experienced police officer who had been detective sergeant since at least 1877, and who had experience tracking criminals both to and within Africa – was despatched with an extradition warrant to send the miscreant back to face trial in England. However, Randall didn’t cope very well with the boat trip there, and en route was seized with paralysis. The help of the Hobart police force had to be sought, and so Hobart Sub-Inspector Oscar Hedberg was asked to take over. Hedberg obtained a warrant against Cox, and soon found the man living in the suburbs of Hobart. On being arrested, Cox said to Hedberg, ‘Good God, you don’t say so? But I thought he would do it. I will make all the reparation in my power if I can get time.’ He then took the policeman into his rented house, and started to write a cheque out for the stolen money. Hedberg told him this could not be allowed, and Cox replied, ‘It is all right, my wife can do it.’ Mrs Cox then signed the cheque, but Hedberg confiscated it. Cox was then taken to the Hobart lock-up, where he asked the police several times if it would be possible for him to ‘square the matter’ with Whitfield. When the Hobart police searched Cox’s new home, they found deeds relating to property apparently purchased by Mrs Cox, as well as a deposit note in her name for £1,300.

Cox was put on a ship, accompanied by a ‘colonial officer’ – a reference to Hedberg – bound for Plymouth. Once there, he was taken into the custody of Detective Sergeant Lawley there. Cox was still trying to make things ‘right’, telling Lawley how sorry he was for his employer, and promising to ‘pay him every shilling back – I had been brought into this matter by extravagant habits’. Nevertheless, he was taken back to London, where he was brought before the magistrates at the Mansion House Police Court in January 1885 on charges of embezzlement and falsifying accounts, and remanded into custody. It was stated that, by this time, he had already spent seven months in prison – presumably in Tasmania, as preparations were made to get him back to England, a long journey of over two months by clipper.

There is an odd codicil to this story. On Friday 13 March 1885, William Whitfield, aged 59, was on a gentle horse ride round Regent’s Park, minutes away from his home. Another rider, Edwin Ramsden of Kentish Town, saw Whitfield about to fall off the horse, and rushed to help him. He managed to catch him as he fell, and sat him at nearby railings while he sent for a local doctor, John Cross. When Dr Cross reached Whitfield, he found the merchant sitting by the railings with a half-smoked cigar in his hand. He had had a good smoke before his heart failed, and he died, where he sat, looking as though he had just fallen asleep after a ride round the park.

The following day, the paralysed Sergeant Randall died. By 16 March, Oscar Hedburg had received a telegram in London to say that his wife had suddenly died. Bad news comes in threes, they say, and this was certainly the case with the Cox theft story; only in this case, Cox actually came off the best. He returned to court at the end of March 1885, two weeks after Whitfield’s unfortunate death. While on remand, it appears that he had paid Whitfield back all the money that had been stolen. Taking this into account, together with the prosecutor’s demise and Cox’s previous good character, he was discharged on entering into a recognizance of £25. Others had died, but Alfred John Cox proved that, like the cat with nine lives, he would live another day.