I have spent the past year or so researching the careers of private detectives in Victorian and Edwardian England, firstly for a history of female private detectives which will be published by Pen & Sword in January 2021, and secondly, for a wider-ranging book on the development of the private investigation industry in the United Kingdom. Trying to construct a comprehensive biography for these necessarily shadowy men and women has been both complex and frustrating. In some cases, individuals took on different identities, either as part of their work, or as the result of shady practices that saw them having to lie low.

In the case of Uriah Cooke, a private detective in the 1880s, though, he was able to live different ‘lives’ all under his original name. This was a man who started his career as a policeman, before switching – as many policemen and detectives did, albeit after retirement – to work as an independent private detective. Uriah was plagued by allegations relating to his work practices throughout these two careers, but those careers had a somewhat unexpected ending – one that still has an element of mystery and intrigue to it.

I first came across Uriah in a newspaper advert from 1886. He had advertised his services in the London Evening Standard, claiming to run ‘the oldest established and most successful agency in England’. This was, as many detective agency adverts were, a bit of an exaggeration – he had only been operating as a private detective for around five years by this point. Although some private detectives lasted less time than this, the use of the term ‘oldest established’ does imply something longer than a few years. However, hyperbole and self-publicity were key tools of the Victorian private detective, along with an ability to take on various disguises, and to hide your own background or family origins.

Born in 1852, Uriah was the son of a Herefordshire labourer, and brought up near Ross-on-Wye. However, by the time he was 18, he had enlisted in the army, being in the 34th Regiment of Foot, based at Shorncliffe Camp in Kent. He tired of army life, however, and moved – like many other Victorians in search of a better life – to London. On 1 June 1874, he joined the Metropolitan Police as a constable, and a year later married Emma Comerford, a bootmaker’s daughter, in Stepney. The couple had no children, but Uriah’s career kept him busy; the newspapers record him giving evidence regarding various cases at the Marlborough Street Police Court. These included an 1875 assault case where a Welshman had assaulted three policemen, including Uriah. Uriah told the court that ‘the prisoner kicked and hurt him very much.’ He was promoted to detective sergeant in E Division by 1878.

He was, by this point, becoming frustrated with the limitations of being in the Met: having to follow orders and rules, doing things by the book. By late 1880, he had left the police service and started working for himself as a private detective. That he did not want to follow the rules was clear by January 1881, when he appeared at Marylebone Police Court, this time as a defendant. He was charged with assaulting and beating Annie Appleford, a woman living in Paddington. Although not much detail of the assault itself was given, what was significant to the press was that Uriah had adopted the name of Clarke, using a business card stating not only that he was ‘Clarke (Late Metropolitan Detective Police)’, and claiming to be the son of Chief Inspector George Clarke of Scotland Yard. George Clarke was called to give evidence that he was not related in any way to Uriah. By this point, Uriah was working for himself, but still wanting to trade off his Metropolitan Police background. This was not unusual, as many private detectives at this point were former police officers, who traded off their experience. Uriah took it further, though, implying that he had been a CID detective, and that a senior Scotland Yard figure was his father. There was fantasy here, but also, perhaps, a desire to exaggerate his own background and create a new persona for himself. In this case, he was found guilty of assault and fined, as well as being warned that he faced prosecution for impersonating a police detective.

In 1890, German governess Valérie Wiedemann brought a case against Robert Horace Walpole for breach of promise – a scandalous and long-running case. Uriah had been employed by Walpole, allegedly to locate Miss Wiedemann and persuade her to return a signet ring she had been given by Walpole. He was described in court as Uriah Cooke, otherwise Captain Darlington – this being the pseudonym he had adopted for the purposes of ‘befriending’ Miss Wiedemann. Adopting such characters was again part of the private detective’s rule book, but Uriah chose a military title perhaps as a nod to his more humble army career, welcoming the chance to play a character from higher up the social ladder.

The court case was complicated by the fact that Uriah failed to show up to give evidence. Miss Wiedemann’s solicitor stated that he ‘had made every effort to find him, but without success’. The situation was complicated by the fact that Cooke had suddenly sold his business to another private detective, who refused to pass on Uriah’s current details. Yet his evidence was crucial, despite the fact that the court clearly had concerns about him. In fact, it emerged that he had not left the Metropolitan Police by choice, but because he had given ‘unworthy evidence’ in another case and had been dismissed. The jury was therefore advised to ‘consider the character of Cooke&helli; remember that the plaintiff had described Cooke as a perjured villain’. Miss Wiedemann duly lost her case.

Miss Wiedemann’s team had been unable to locate Uriah because he had created a new identity for himself – albeit still under his real name. He and wife Emma had moved to Bexhill-on-Sea, where he established himself as a respectable member of the community. He had somehow amassed a considerable amount of money and no longer had to work for a living. Instead, he became president of the Bexhill Ratepayers’ Association, and even stood as a Conservative candidate for Sussex County Council. In 1892, a glowing biography of him (and probably supplied by him) was published in a Sussex newspaper, noting various humanitarian achievements, including receiving a bravery medal from the Royal Humane Society for saving an American from drowning in Nice (the following year, he would be awarded a gallantry medal for saving life on land). There was no mention of him having been a police officer or private detective, just a vague reference to a ‘successful career both at home and abroad’. It noted he had formerly been a trustee of the Fulham Conservative Club. This is certainly possible, given that Uriah was living in Kensington area in 1881, but it feels like it would be the action of someone attempting to ingratiate themselves with those higher up the social ladder in order to improve their own standing.

Boredom may have set in again with this man who liked to recreate himself. After several years of living at Cooden Mount in Bexhill, by 1901, Uriah started moving again – to Deptford, then Biggin Hill in Kent, and then Gloucestershire. When he died in 1925, though, his address was given as Ross, Herefordshire. Had he come full circle, after a lifetime of travelling round south-east England, pretending to be anything other than a Herefordshire labourer’s son? If so, it was a rather impressive life, but one that showed that he could never fully escape his family origins.