Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE
MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

BY

GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,

AUTHOR OF "PICKWICK ABROAD," "THE MODERN LITERATURE OF FRANCE,"

"ROBERT MACAIRE," ETC.

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS

BY G. STIFF.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

GEORGE VICKERS, 3, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.

MDCCCXLVI.

LONDON:

Printed by J. J. Wilkinson, "Bonner House," Seacoal Lane.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.

THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

CHAPTER CXXXVII.
RATS' CASTLE.

Richard Markham, though perfectly unpretending in manner and somewhat reserved or even sedate in disposition, possessed the most undaunted courage. Thus was it that, almost immediately recovering himself from the sudden check which he had experienced at the hands of the Resurrection Man, he hurried in pursuit of the miscreant, followed by the policeman and the people whom the alarm which he had given had called to his aid.

The people were, however, soon tired of running gratuitously for an object which they could scarcely comprehend; but the police-officer kept close to Markham; and they were speedily reinforced by two other constables, who, seeing that something was the matter, and with characteristic officiousness, immediately joined them.

From an inquiry put to the waterman of the adjacent cab-stand, who had seen a person running furiously along a moment or two before, Markham felt convinced that the object of his pursuit had plunged into the maze of Saint Giles's; and, though well aware of the desperate character of that individual, and conscious that should he encounter him alone in some dark alley or gloomy court, a fearful struggle must ensue between them, he did not hesitate, unarmed as he was, to dash into that thicket of dangerous habitations.

Soon outstripping the officers, who vainly begged him to keep with them, as they were unacquainted with the person of whom he was in pursuit,—forgetting every measure of precaution in the ardour of the chase, Richard rushed headlong through the dark and ill-paved streets, following the echo of every retreating footstep which he heard, and stopping only to scrutinise the countenances of those who, in the obscurity of the hour and place, seemed at first sight to resemble the exterior of the Resurrection Man.

Vain was his search. At length, exhausted, he sate down on the steps of a door-way to recover his breath, after having expended an hour in his fruitless search up one street, down another, and in every nook and corner of that district which we have before described as the Holy Land.

Accident shortly led the officers, who had originally entered upon the chase with him, to the spot where he was seated.

"Here is the gentleman himself," said one, turning the glare of his bull's-eye full upon our hero.

"No luck, I suppose, sir?" observed another. "You had much better have remained with us and given us some idea of the person that you want."

"Fool that I was!" exclaimed Markham, now perceiving his imprudence in that respect: "I have left you to pursue a shadow, instead of depicting to you the substance. But surely the name of Anthony Tidkins——"

"The Resurrection Man, as they call him," hastily remarked one of the constables.

"The same," answered Markham.

"Why—he blew himself up, along with some others and a number of our men, last year, down in Bethnal Green," said the constable who had last spoken.

"No—he lives, he lives," exclaimed Richard, impatiently. "My God! I know him but too well."

"And it was after him that you gave the alarm just now in Tottenham Court Road?"

"It was. I knew him at once—I could not be mistaken: his voice, laden with a curse, still rings in my ears."

"Well, since the gentleman's so positive, I 'spose it must be so," said the constable: "we musn't sleep upon it, mates. Ten to one that Tidkins has taken to burrow in one of the low cribs about here; and he means to lie quiet for two or three days till the alarm's blown over. I know the dodges of these fellers. You two go the round of Plumptre Street; and me and this gentleman will just take a promiscuous look into the kens about here."

The two constables to whom these words were addressed, immediately departed upon the mission proposed to them, and Richard signified his readiness to accompany the officer who had thus settled the plan of proceedings.

"We'll go first to Rats' Castle, sir, if you please," said the policeman: "that is the most likely place for a run-away to take refuge in at random."

"What is Rats' Castle?" asked Markham, as he walked by the officer's side down a wretched alley, almost as dark as pitch, and over the broken pavement of which he stumbled at every step.

"The night-house where all kind of low people meet to sup and lodge," was the reply. "But here we are—and you'll see all about it in an instant."

They had stopped at the door of a house with an area protected by thick wooden palings. All the upper part of the dwelling appeared to be involved in total darkness: but lights streamed through the chinks of the rude shutters of the area-windows; and from the same direction emanated boisterous merriment, coarse laughter, and wild hurrahs.

"You knock at the door, sir, if you please," said the policeman, "while I stand aside. I'll slip in after you; for if they twig my coat, and Tidkins really happens to be there, they'd give him the office to bolt before we could get in."

"Well thought of," returned Markham. "But upon what plea am I to claim admittance?"

"As a stranger, impelled by curiosity. You carry the silver key in your pocket."

The policeman withdrew a few paces; and our hero knocked boldly at the door.

A gruff voice challenged the visitor from the area.

"Who's here?"

"No one that will do you any harm," replied Richard. "I am anxious to witness the interior of this establishment; and here is half-a-crown for you if you can gratify my curiosity."

"That's English, any how," said the voice, softening in its tone. "Stop a minute."

Markham heard a door close in the area below; and in a few moments the bolts were drawn back inside the one at which he was standing.

"Now then, my ben-cull—in with you," said a man, as he opened the front door, and held a candle high up above his head at the same time.

Markham stepped into a narrow passage, and placed his foot against the door in such a way as to keep it open. But the precaution was unnecessary, for the policeman had glided in almost simultaneously with himself.

"Now, no noise, old feller," said the constable, in a hasty whisper to the man who had opened the door: "our business isn't with any of your set."

"Wery good," returned the porter of Rats' Castle: "you know best—it isn't for me to say nothink."

"Go first, sir," whispered the officer to Markham. "You seem to know him better than me, for I never saw him but once—and then only for a minute or two."

"Which way?" demanded Richard.

"Straight on—and then down stairs. You keep behind us, old feller," added the policeman, turning to the porter.

Markham descended a flight of narrow and precipitate steps, and at the bottom found himself in a large room formed of two kitchens thrown into one.

Two long tables running parallel to each other the entire length of the place, were laid out for supper,—the preparations consisting of a number of greasy napkins spread upon either board, and decorated with knives and forks all chained to the tables. Iron plates to eat off, galley-pots and chipped tea-cups filled with salt, three or four pepper-boxes, and two small stone jars containing mustard, completed the preparations for the evening meal.

The room was lighted by means of a number of candles disposed in tin shades around the walls; and as no one gave himself the trouble to snuff them, the wicks were long, and infested with what housewives denominate "thieves," while the tallow streamed down in large flakes, dripping on the floor, the seats, or the backs of the guests.

Crowded together at the two tables, and anxiously watching the proceedings of an old blear-eyed woman, who was occupied at an immense fire at the farther end of the room, were about thirty or forty persons, male and female. And never did Markham's eyes glance upon a more extraordinary—a more loathsome—a more revolting spectacle than that assemblage of rags, filth, disease, deformity, and ugliness.

Mendicants, vagabonds, impostors, and rogues of all kinds were gathered in that room, the fetid heat of which was stifling. The horrible language of which they made use,—their frightful curses,—their obscene jests,—their blasphemous jokes, were calculated to shock the mind of the least fastidious:—it was indeed a scene from which Markham would have fled as from a nest of vipers, had not a stern duty to society and to himself urged him to penetrate farther into that den.

The appearance of himself and the policeman did not produce any remarkable degree of sensation amongst the persons assembled: they were accustomed to the occasional visits of well-dressed strangers, who repaired thither to gratify curiosity; and the presence of the officers of justice was a matter of frequent occurrence when any great robbery had been perpetrated in the metropolis, and while the culprits remained undiscovered.

"He is not here," whispered Markham to his companion, after casting a hasty but penetrating glance around.

"He may come: this is the most likely place in Saint Giles's for him to visit," returned the policeman. "We will wait half-an-hour."

Richard would gladly have retired; but he was ashamed to exhibit a disgust which the officer might mistake for fear. He accordingly seated himself at a small side-table, in compliance with a sign from his companion.

A waiter, wearing an apron which, by its colour, seemed also to do the duty of dish-cloth, now accosted them, and said, "Please to order anythink, gen'lemen?"

"Two glasses of brandy-and-water," replied the constable.

This command was speedily complied with; and, a few minutes afterwards, supper was served up on the two long tables before described. The old woman who presided over the culinary department of the establishment had amply catered for those present. Legs of mutton, both roasted and boiled,—rounds of beef, flanked with carrots,—huge pies,—boiled legs of pork,—immense quantities of sausages,—and sheep's heads, constituted the staple of the banquet. These viands, accompanied by piles of smoking potatoes "in their jackets" and heaps of cabbages, were all served up on iron dishes, from which no thrifty hand ever removed the rust.

Then commenced the clattering of the knives and forks, the din of which upon the iron platters was strangely blended with the rattling of the chains that held them to the tables. The boisterous merriment and coarse conversation were for a time absorbed in the interest occasioned by the presence of the repast.

"What a strange assembly," whispered Markham to the constable.

"Strange to you, sir—no doubt," was the answer, also delivered in a tone audible only to him to whom the words were addressed. "That sturdy feller sitting at the head of the nearest table, with the great cudgel between his legs, is one of the class that don't take the trouble to clothe themselves in rags, but trust to their insolence to extort alms from females walking alone in retired parts. That feller next to him, all in tatters, but who laughs louder than any one else, is one of them whining, shivering, snivelling wretches that crouch up in doorways on rainy days, and on fine ones sit down on the pavement with 'Starving, but dare not beg,' chalked on the stone before them. The man over there in sailor's clothes tumbled down an area when he was drunk, and broke his leg: he was obliged to have it cut off; and so he now passes himself off as one of Nelson's own tars, though he never saw the sea in his life. That chap almost naked who's just come in, is going to put on his coat and shoes before he sits down to supper; he always goes out begging in that state on rainy days, and is a gentleman on fine ones."

"I do not understand you," said Markham, astonished at this last observation.

"Why, sir," replied the policeman, "there's certain beggars that always turn out half-naked, on rainy days, or when the snow's on the ground; and people pity them so much on those occasions that the rogues get enough to keep them all through the fine weather. If they have wives and children to go out with them, so much the better: but that feller there isn't married; and so he goes with a woman who frequents this place, and they hire three or four children from the poor people in this neighbourhood, at the rate of two-pence a day each child, and its grub. To see them go shivering and whining through the streets, with no shoes or stockings, you'd think they were the most miserable devils on the face of the earth; and then, to make the scene complete, the man and woman always pinch the little children that they carry in their arms, to make them cry, whenever they pass a window when several ladies are looking out."

"Is this possible?" whispered Markham, his face flushing with indignation.

"Possible, sir! Don't I see it all every day of my life? Look at them men and women blowing their hides out with all that good meat; and now look at the pots of porter that's coming in. Every soul there has sworn a hundred times during the day that he hasn't tasted food for forty-eight hours, and will repeat the same story to-morrow. But they all had good suppers here last night, and good breakfasts here this morning; and you see how they are faring this evening."

"But there are real cases deserving of charity?" said Markham, interrogatively,—for he almost felt disposed to doubt the fact.

"Certainly there are, sir," was the reply; "but it's very difficult for such as you to decide between the true and the false. Look at that man who carves at the second table: he can see well enough to cut himself the tit-bits; but to-morrow he will be totally blind in one of the fashionable squares."

"Totally blind!" said Richard, more and more astonished at what he heard.

"Yes, sir—totally blind; led by a dog, and with a placard upon his chest. He keeps his eyes fast shut, and colours the lids with carmine and vermilion. But that is nothing. That feller next to him, who uses his knife and fork so well, will to-morrow have lost his right arm at the battle of Salamanca."

"But how can that imposture be effected?"

"His right arm is concealed under his clothes, and the coat-sleeve hangs down loose," replied the constable. "That tall stout man who has just jumped so nimbly over the form in his way back to his place, has walked on crutches in the streets for the last twenty years; and when you see him so, you would think he could hardly drag himself along. The feller over there is a frozen-out gardener in winter, and a poor Spitalfields' weaver in summer. The one next to him will have a black patch over his left eye to-morrow; and yet you may see that it is as good as his right. The short man opposite to him bends his left leg back, and has a wooden one to support the knee, when he is in the street. That woman there has been dressed in widows' weeds for the last fifteen years, and always has a troop of six children with her; but the children never grow any bigger, for she hires fresh ones every year or so."

"This is the most extraordinarily combined mass of contradictions and deceptions I ever gazed upon," whispered Markham.

"You may well say that, sir," said the policeman. "The ragged feller down at the bottom of the second table sits as upright as you or me: well, in the streets he crawls along the ground with two iron supporters in his hands. He is the most insolent feller in London. The man next to him goes about on a sort of van, or chaise, and the world believes that he has no legs at all; but they are all the time concealed in the body of the vehicle, and the stumps of the thighs which are seen are false. Those three hulking chaps over there, sitting with the three women that laugh so much, are begging-letter impostors. The eldest of the three men has been seventeen years at the business, and has been in prison twenty-eight times. One day he is a bricklayer who has fallen from a scaffold, and broken his leg, and has a wife and eleven young children dependent on him; another day he is a licensed clergyman of the Church of England, but unemployed for two years—wife and six children totally dependent on him. Then he changes into a stanch Tory, ruined by his attachment to the cause, and proscribed by all his friends on account of his principles: in this shape he addresses himself to the old Tory noblemen, and makes a good harvest. The very next day he becomes a determined and stanch Reformer, who lost his employment through giving his vote for the Tower Hamlets to the liberal candidate at the last election, and has since met with an uninterrupted series of misfortunes—sold up by a Tory landlord,—his wife been dead only a fortnight, and seven motherless children left dependent on him. This kind of letter always draws well. Then he becomes a paralytic with an execution in his house; or a Spitalfields' weaver, with nine children, two of which are cripples, and one blind; or else a poor Scotch schoolmaster, come to London on business, and robbed by designing knaves of the means of returning to his own country. The women are just as bad. They are either wives with husbands in hospitals and bed-ridden mothers; or daughters with helpless parents and sick brothers and sisters dependent on them;—and so on."

"But if you be aware of all these monstrous impositions, why do you not interfere to protect the public?" inquired Markham.

"Lord, sir!" said the constable, "if we took up all persons that we know to be impostors, we should have half London in custody. We only interfere when specially called upon, or when we see cases so very flagrant that we can't help taking notice of them. Some of these chaps that are eating here so hearty now, will seem to be dying in the streets to-morrow."

"Merciful heavens, what a city of deceit and imposture is this!" observed Richard, painfully excited by the strange details which he had just heard. "Were the interior of this den but once exposed to general view, charity would be at an end, and the deserving poor would suffer for the unprincipled impostor."

"True enough, sir. And now look—the cloth is removed, and every one is ordering in something strong to wash down the supper. There goes a crown-bowl of punch—that's for the begging-letter impostors: and there's glasses of punch, and cold spirits and water, and shrub, and negus. That's the way they do it, you see, sir."

Markham did indeed see, and wondered more and more at what he so saw—until his feelings of surprise changed into sentiments of ineffable abhorrence and disgust; and he longed to leave that odious den.

"The person whom we seek does not appear to come," he said, after a long interval of silence. "Two hours have elapsed—and we are only wasting time here."

"He must have taken refuge in some other crib, sir," returned the constable. "Let us leave this one, and make the round of the other lodging-houses in this street."

Markham was glad to hurry away from Rats' Castle, the mysteries of which had so painfully shocked his generous feelings.

CHAPTER CXXXVIII.
A PUBLIC FUNCTIONARY.

Urged by that sense of duty to which we have before alluded, and which prompted him to neglect no step that might lead to the discovery of a great criminal's lurking-place, Richard accompanied the police-officer to various houses where the dregs of the population herded together.

The inspection of a plague-hospital could not have been more appalling: the scrutiny of a lazar-house could not have produced deeper disgust.

In some the inmates were engaged in drunken broils, the women enacting the part of furies: in others the females sang obscene songs, the men joining in the chorus.

Here a mother waited until her daughter should return with the wages of prostitution, to purchase the evening meal: there a husband boasted that his wife was enabled, by the liberality of a paramour, to supply him with ample means for his night's debauchery.

In one house which our hero and the constable visited, three sisters of the respective ages of eleven, thirteen, and fourteen, were comparing the produce of their evening's avocations,—the avocations of the daughters of crime!

And then those three children, having portioned out the necessary amount for their suppers and their lodging that night, and their breakfast next morning, laughed joyously as they perceived how much they had left to purchase gin!

For Gin is the deity, and Intemperance is the hand-maiden, of both sexes and nearly all ages in that district of London.

What crimes, what follies have been perpetrated for Gin! A river of alcohol rolls through the land, sweeping away health, honour, and happiness with its remorseless tide. The creaking gibbet, and the prison ward—the gloomy hulk, and the far-off penal isle—the debtors' gaol, and the silent penitentiary—the tomb-like workhouse, and the loathsome hospital—the galling chain, and the spirit-breaking tread-wheel—the frightful mad-cell, and the public dissecting-room—the death-bed of despair, and the grave of the suicide, are indebted for many, many victims to thee, most potent Gin!

O Gin! the Genius of Accidents and the Bad Angel of Offences worship thee! Thou art the Juggernaut beneath whose wheels millions throw themselves in blind adoration.

The pawnbroker points to thee and says, "Whilst thy dominion lasts, I am sure to thrive."

The medical man smiles as he marks thy progress, for he knows that thou leadest a ghastly train,—apoplexy, palsy, dropsy, delirium tremens, consumption, madness.

The undertaker chuckles when he remembers thine influence, for he says within himself, "Thou art the Angel of Death."

And Satan rejoices in his kingdom, well-knowing how thickly it can be populated by thee!

Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: thou keepest pace with the progress of civilisation, and thou art made the companion of the Bible. For when the missionary takes the Word of God to the savage in some far distant clime, he bears the fire-water with him at the same time. While his right hand points to the paths of peace and salvation, his left scatters the seeds of misery, disease, death, and damnation!

Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: a terrible instrument of evil art thou. Thou sweepest over the world with the wing of the pestilence: thy breath that of a plague:—like the poisonous garment of Dejanira on the burning limbs of the Centaur, dost thou cling around thy victims.

And where the grave-yard is heaped up with mouldering bones—and where disease and death prevail in all their most hideous shapes—and where misery is most keenly felt, and poverty is most pinching—and where the wails of hapless children ascend to heaven in vain appeal against the cruelty of inhuman parents—and where crime is most diabolical,—there are thy triumphs—there are thy victories!

But to continue.

The clock of St. Giles's Church proclaimed the hour of midnight; and though our hero and the constable had visited many of the low dens and lodging-houses in the Holy Land, still their search was without success.

"Unless my mates have been more lucky than us," observed the policeman, halting at the corner of a street, "we must conclude that the bird is flown."

"And even if they should chance to enter a house where the miscreant has taken refuge, how would they be enabled to recognise him?" asked Richard.

"One of them knows him well," replied the constable.

At that moment a violent scream issued from the upper part of the house close to which Markham and the constable were standing.

The dwelling was high, narrow, and, if possible, more gloomy, when viewed by the feeble rays of a watery moon, than the neighbouring houses.

From the uppermost window streamed a strong light, which danced upon the black wall of the building opposite, making the sombre appearance of the locality the more sinister as it was the more visible.

That scream, which expressed both horror and agony, caused Markham to start with momentary consternation.

The constable did not, however, appear surprised; but merely observed with a strange coolness, "Ah! there's Smithers at his old tricks again."

"And who is Smithers?" inquired Richard.

But before the constable could reply to the question, the window, whence the light emanated, was thrown up with crashing violence, and a female voice shrieked for assistance.

"Had we not bettor ascertain what is the matter here?" exclaimed Markham, hastily.

"I dare not force an entry, unless there's a cry of 'Murder,'" answered the officer.

Scarcely were these words uttered when the sound of a heavy blow, like that of a thong or leathern strap upon a person's back, echoed along the street; and then terrific shrieks, mingled with cries of "Murder!" issued from the open window.

In another instant the female was dragged away from the casement by some one in the room where this scene occurred; then the blows were resumed with frightful severity, and the screams and cries continued in a more appalling manner than at first.

Immediately afterwards, and just as the constable was preparing to force an entry, some one was heard to rush precipitately down the stairs inside the house: the door opened, and a strange-looking being darted madly into the street.

"Now, Gibbet," cried the policeman, catching the hump-backed lad—for such Markham perceived him to be—by the collar, "what's all this about?"

"Oh! you are an officer!" exclaimed the hump-back, in a tone of surprise and delight: "for God's sake come up—father's murdering Kate!"

The screams and the sounds of the blows still continuing up stairs, the constable did not hesitate to comply with the request of the deformed lad whom he had saluted by the singular name of Gibbet; and Markham hastened after him, anxious to render any assistance that might be required at his hands.

The policeman and our hero hurried up the narrow stairs, lighted by the officer's bull's-eye; and speedily reached the room whence the screams had emanated.

But we must pause for a moment to describe that apartment, and to give the reader some idea of the inmates of the house to which we have introduced him.

The room was situated at the top of the house, and bore the appearance of a loft, there being no ceiling to conceal the massive beams and spars which supported the angular roof.

From one of the horizontal beams hung a stuffed figure, resembling a human being, and as large as life. It was dressed in a complete suit of male attire; and a white mask gave it the real but ghastly appearance of a dead body. It was suspended by a thick cord, or halter, the knot of which being fastened beneath the left ear, made the head incline somewhat over the right shoulder; and it was waving gently backwards and forwards, as if it had been recently disturbed. The arms were pinioned behind; and the hands, which were made more or less life-like by means of dingy white kid gloves, were curled up as it were in a last convulsion. In a word, it presented the exact appearance of a man hanging.

Markham started back when his eyes first fell on this sinister object; but a second glance convinced him that the figure was only a puppet.

This second survey brought to his view other features, calculated to excite his wonder and curiosity, in that strange apartment.

The figure already described was suspended in such a way that its lower extremity was about a foot from the ground; but it was concealed nearly up to the knees by a small scaffold, or large black box, it having been suffered to fall that much through a trap-door made like a drop in the platform of that diminutive stage.

From this strange spectacle,—which, in all respects, was a perfect representation of an execution—Markham's eyes wandered round the loft.

The walls—the rough brick-work of which was smeared over with white-wash,—were covered with rude pictures, glaringly coloured and set in common black wooden frames. These pictures were such as are sold in low neighbourhoods for a few pence each, and representing scenes in the lives of remarkable highwaymen, murderers, and other criminals who had ended their days upon the scaffold. The progress of Jack Sheppard to the gibbet at Tyburn,—the execution of Jonathan Wild,—Turpin's ride to York,—Sawney Bean and his family feasting off human flesh in their cave,—Hunt and Thurtell throwing the body of Mr. Weare into the pond,—Corder murdering Maria Martin at the Red Barn,—James Greenacre cutting up the corpse of Hannah Brown,—such were the principal subjects of that Gallery of Human Enormity.

But as if these pictorial mementos of crime and violent death were not sufficient to gratify the strange taste of the occupants of that apartment, some hand, which was doubtless the agent of an imagination that loved to "sup full of horrors," had scrawled with a burnt stick upon the wall various designs of an equally terrific nature. Gibbets of all forms, and criminals in all the different stages of their last minutes in this life, were there represented. The ingenuity of the draughtsman had even suggested improvements in the usual modes of execution, and had delineated drops, halters, and methods of pinioning on new principles!

Every thing in that spacious loft savoured of the scaffold!

Oh! had the advocates of capital punishment but been enabled to glance upon that scene of horrors, they would have experienced a feeling of dire regret that any system which they had supported could have led to such an exhibition!

But to proceed.

On a rude board which served as a mantel over the grate, was a miniature gibbet, about eight inches high, and suspended to the horizontal beam of which was a mouse—most scientifically hung with a strong piece of pack-thread.

The large silver watch belonging to the principal inmate of the house was suspended to a horizontal piece of wood, with an oblique supporter, projecting from the wall above the fire-place.

In one corner of the room was a bed, over which flowed curtains of a coarse yellow material; and even these were suspended to a spar arranged and propped up like the arm of a gibbet.

A table, on which the supper things still remained, and half a dozen chairs, completed the contents of this strange room.

And now a few words relative to the inmates of that house.

The hump-backed lad who had rushed down the stairs in the manner already described, was about seventeen or eighteen years of age, and so hideously ugly that he scarcely seemed to belong to the human species. His hair was fiery red, and covered with coarse and matted curls a huge head that would not have been unsuitable for the most colossal form. His face was one mass of freckles; his eyes were of a pinkish hue; his eyebrows and lashes were white; and his large teeth glittered like dominoes between his thick and blueish lips. His arms were long like those of a baboon; but his legs were short; and he was not more than four feet and a half high. In spite of his hideous deformity and almost monstrous ugliness, there was an air of good-nature about him, combined with an evident consciousness of his own repulsive appearance, which could not do otherwise than inspire compassion—if not interest.

The moment the policeman, who entered the room first, made his appearance upon the threshold, a young female precipitated herself towards him, exclaiming, "For God's sake protect me—but do not, do not hurt my uncle!"

This girl was about sixteen years of age, and, though not beautiful, possessed a countenance whose plaintive expression was calculated to inspire deep interest in her behalf. She was tall, and of a graceful figure: her hair was light chesnut; her eyes dark blue, and with a deep melancholy characterising their bashful glances; her teeth were small, white, and even. Though clad in humble attire, there was something genteel in her appearance,—something superior to the place and society in which we now find her.

The man from whose cruel blows she implored protection, was of middle height, rather stoutly built, with a pale countenance, and an expression of stern hard-heartedness in his large grey eyes and compressed lips. He was dressed in a suit which evidently had never been made for him,—the blue frock coat being too long in the sleeves, the waistcoat too wide round the waist, and the trousers scarcely reaching below the knees.

"For God's sake protect me!" exclaimed the young girl, as above stated; "but do not—do not hurt my uncle," she added in a tone which proved the sincerity of the prayer.

"Come, come, Master Smithers," said the constable, "this won't do: you musn't alarm the neighbourhood in this manner."

"Why, then, does she interfere between me and Gibbet?" cried the man brutally, at the same time flourishing a thick leathern thong in his right hand.

"She does it out of good-nature, I suppose," observed the constable. "Every one knows how shameful you treat your son Gibbet; and this poor gal takes her cousin's part."

At these words the hump-back cast a timid but affectionate glance towards Katherine, who, on her part, threw a look of profound compassion upon the unfortunate lad.

"She does it out of good-nature, does she?" repeated the man: "then why won't he learn my business? He never can be fit for any other. But, no—the moment I leave him, he is off to the side of Miss there; and she makes him read in her outlandish books, so that he despises his father and the business that he must take to, sooner or later."

"But you ought not to beat Miss Katherine, Smithers," reiterated the policeman. "The next time I hear the cry of 'Murder' in your house I'll walk you off to the station—and that's all about it."

"I suppose that I may leather my own son if I choose?" said the man, savagely.

"You ought to remember that he is deformed through your cruelty," cried the constable, "and that his mother died of fright and grief——"

"Hold your tongue, blue-bottle!" interrupted Smithers, his lips quivering with rage. "It isn't for you to come and make mischief in a family. Get out with you!"

"But if we leave this poor girl to the rage of her uncle," said Markham to the constable, whom he drew aside and thus addressed in a whisper, "he will do her some injury."

"What is to be done with her, sir?" demanded the officer. "Smithers says she is his niece——"

"Is it not certain that she stands in such a degree of relationship towards him?" inquired our hero, whose humane heart was moved in favour of the suffering girl.

"Now, then, what are you chattering about there?" ejaculated Smithers. "I want to go to bed: Gibbet, you be off to your room—and, Kate, you go to yours. This is mine—and I should advise the blue-bottle with his spy in plain clothes to make themselves scarce."

"Remember, I shall report you to our serjeant," said the policeman; "and he will tell the Division to keep an eye on you."

"Tell him whatever you like," returned the man doggedly.

The hump-back and Katherine had already left the room in obedience to the command of Smithers.

The constable repeated a caution to the ruffian who had ill-used them, and then took his departure, followed by Richard Markham.

When they were once more in the street, our hero said to his companion, "Who is that man?"

"The Public Executioner," was the reply.

CHAPTER CXXXIX.
THE CONFIDENCE.

So astounded was Markham by this information, that for some moments he was unable to utter a word.

"I see that you are surprised, sir," said the policeman; "but couldn't you guess where you was when you saw the room filled with gibbets, real or in pictures?"

"It never struck me who the owner of those terrific symbols might be," answered Richard. "I concluded that some man of morbid taste dwelt there; but not for one moment did I imagine that I was in the presence of the public executioner."

"Did you ever see such a horrible-looking object as his son is?" asked the policeman.

"Poor creature—he is greatly to be pitied! Surely his father cannot in reality have conferred upon him the name by which you called him?"

"I don't suppose that Gibbet is his real name, sir, but it is the only one I ever heard him called by. You see, sir, Smithers wishes to bring the lad up to the same line: he wants an assistant, and he thinks that Gibbet is old enough to help him. Besides, there's plenty of work always after Assizes in the country; and the London hangman may get the jobs if he likes. He's considered more skilful than any one else; and, after all, practice makes perfect. As it is, he is forced to refuse a good many offers, because he can't be here, there, and everywhere. Now if Gibbet would only take to the business kindly, he might help his father to earn a fortune!"

"But if the poor lad have a loathing for the horrible avocation—as well he may," observed Markham, with a shudder, "why should he be forced to embrace it?"

"Because he can never do himself good elsewhere," answered the constable. "Who will employ the son of Jack Ketch? Why, will you believe it, sir, that not a soul visits Smithers' family? Although he lives in this neighbourhood, where, God knows, people ain't over nice and partickler, not a human being would cross his threshold."

"Does that aversion arise from disgust or superstition?" demanded Markham.

"From both, sir," was the reply. "The people that live in this district are of two kinds—the poor and ignorant, and the rogues and vagabonds. The poor and ignorant are afraid of the public executioner; and the rogues and vagabonds hate him, although he's merely an instrument. Miss Kate goes to market for him; and the shop-keepers that know who she is, are scarcely civil to her. They seem as if they'd rather she'd keep away."

"And you say that she is the executioner's niece?" observed Markham.

"Smithers says so himself," was the reply; "and of course I know nothing to the contrary; but it does seem strange that so amiable, genteel, and clever, a young gal should belong to such a family!"

"Her own parents are dead, I presume?"

"Yes, sir,—she is an orphan. When Smithers is very dull and miserable with his lonely situation, he sometimes comes down to the station and has a chat with us constables; and then he's pretty communicative. He told me one day that Katherine's parents had died when she was very young, and so he was compelled to take care of her. All the while she was a child Smithers let her do pretty well as she liked; and it is a wonder that she has turned out a good gal. But she regularly frequented the School established in the parish of Saint David's by the Rev. Mr. Tracy; and in that way she picked up a tolerable smattering of knowledge. Since then she's instructed herself as much as she could, and has bought books with the little money that her needle has produced her."

"But who employs her as a sempstress, if, as you say, so terrible a stigma affixes itself to each member of the hangman's family?" inquired Richard.

"The old housekeeper at Mr. Tracy's is very friendly disposed towards the poor creature, and gives her work," answered the policeman. "Katherine does all she can to console that poor hump-back Gibbet; and she has taught him to read and write—aye, and what's more, sir, to pray."

"Policeman," said Richard, after a pause, "the manner in which you have spoken relative to that poor girl, shows me that you have a good heart. Is there any mode of ameliorating her wretched situation? I feel the deepest compassion for her miserable lot; and all you have told me of her excellent character makes me anxious to see her removed from the vile society of that ruffian under whose roof she lives."

"I believe she is anxious to go out to service, sir, or open a little school," answered the constable; "but her family connection is against her. Or else I don't think that Smithers would care about parting with her."

"What induces you to suppose that such are her wishes?" asked Markham.

"Because she told me so, sir," was the reply. "One evening I went to Smithers' house, with a certain message from the Sheriff of London—you can guess what, I dare say——"

"To acquaint him with the day fixed for some wretch's execution, no doubt?"

"Precisely, sir; but Smithers wasn't at home, and so I sate down and waited for him. It wasn't in Jack Ketch's own room up stairs where we went just now, and where he teaches his son how to hang by means of that puppet; but it was in a little parlour they have got down stairs, and which Miss Kate keeps as clean and comfortable as if they saw no end of company. Well, I got talking to the young gal; and though she never said a single word against her uncle, but spoke of him in a grateful and kind manner, she let out that if he could spare her, she should like to earn her own bread by her own exertions. And then the poor creature burst out crying, and said, that no one would take her as a servant, and that she should get no scholars even if she was to open a school."

Markham made no answer; but he reflected profoundly on all that he had just heard.

"Poor gal!" continued the policeman, after a few moments' silence; "she don't deserve to suffer as she does. My beat is about this quarter: and I know pretty well all that's going on. I see more than other people about here, because I've opportunity and leisure. Besides, it's my business. Well, sir, I can assure you that there isn't a more charitable or generous-hearted gal in all London than Miss Katherine. If a poor neighbour's ill, it's ten to one but some female muffled up in her shawl knocks at the door of the sick person's house, leaves a parcel, and runs away; and then there's tea, and sugar, and gruel, for the invalid—and no one knows who brought it, or where it comes from. Or if a family's in want, the baker calls with bread that's paid for, but won't say who sent it. Or may be it's the butcher with a small joint—but always sent in the same quiet manner. Then, while the poor creatures whose hearts are made glad by this unlooked-for charity, are wondering whether it was the parson, or the parson's wife, or this benevolent gentleman, or that good lady, who sent the things, Kate buries herself in her room, and doesn't even think that she has done any thing out of the way."

"Is this possible?" cried Markham.

"I know it, sir—for I've seen her do it all," answered the policeman, "when she couldn't see me and little thought that any body noticed her."

"And she the niece of the public executioner!" exclaimed Richard: "a pearl concealed in this horrible swamp!"

The conversation between Markham and the good-hearted constable was cut short by the sudden appearance of the other two policemen, who had undertaken to visit the low houses in Plumptre Street.

"Well, what news?" asked Richard's companion.

"None," was the reply. "We have been in every flash crib down yonder, and can't hear or see any thing of the Resurrection Man."

"Then we must abandon the search for to-night, I presume," said Richard. "The clock has struck one, and I begin to be wearied of this fruitless ramble."

"We will exert ourselves to discover the miscreant that blew up our comrades in Bethnal Green," observed the constable who had been our hero's companion that night. "Should we succeed in capturing him, sir, where can I wait upon you to communicate the tidings?"

"My name is Markham," was the reply, "and I live at Holloway. If you discover the villain Anthony Tidkins, lose not a moment in making me acquainted with the circumstance."

Richard then rewarded the three constables liberally for the trouble they had taken; and ere he departed from them, he drew aside the one who had been his companion.

"My good fellow," he said, slipping an additional sovereign into his hand, "you have too kind a heart for the situation which you fill. Should you ever require a friend, hesitate not to come to me."

"And should you, sir, ever need the humble aid of Morris Benstead, you know the Division I belong to, and a note to the chief station will always command my attention."

Markham thanked the officer for his civility, and then struck into the nearest street leading from the Holy Land to Tottenham Court Road, where he hoped to find a vehicle to take him home.

But scarcely had he proceeded twenty paces, when he heard hasty footsteps behind him; and, turning round, was accosted by a man whose slouched hat almost entirely shaded his countenance.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man; "but I heard you mention two names a few moments ago that are familiar to me."

"Indeed!" cried our hero, surprised at this strange mode of address.

"Yes:—I was lurking in a court, and I heard you say that you were Mr. Richard Markham," resumed the man: "and you mentioned a certain Anthony Tidkins."

"I did. Do you know him?" demanded Richard.

"But too well," answered the man bitterly.

"Who are you?" inquired Markham.

"No matter who I am: I know you—and I know him. I was in a certain place at the same time that you were there; though we were not in the same ward. But I heard all about you then; and when you mentioned your name just now, I felt sure you was the same person. Has Tidkins ever injured you?"

"Cruelly," replied Richard. "But I am not influenced by petty motives of revenge: I am anxious to deliver a monster into the grasp of justice."

"And what should you say if you heard that Tidkins was beyond your reach in this world?"

"I should rejoice that society was relieved from such a fiend."

"Then I think that I can make your mind easy on that score," said the man.

"What do you mean?" cried Richard, eagerly.

"I mean that this hand has done the law's work," responded the stranger.

"You mean—you mean that you yourself have acted the part of an avenger?" said Markham.

"Precisely what I do mean: in plain terms, I've killed him."

"My God! and you tell me this so coolly!" exclaimed Richard. "Whatever that man's crimes may be, you are not the less a murderer!"

"Pooh—pooh! I should have thought you'd more pluck than to talk in this way. What does it matter whether Jack Ketch or a private enemy did the job?"

"Where did this happen? when?—how long ago?" inquired Markham, not knowing whether to believe the statement thus strangely made to him, or not.

"If you really wish to know all about it," said the man, "step up this court, where we can talk in peace, and I will tell you. What! you think I am going to hurt you too? Well, be it so. Goodnight—or rather good morning."

At that moment Saint Giles's Church struck two.

"Stay," cried Richard, catching the man by the arm: "I will accompany you."

They walked together into a dark court, our hero keeping himself in readiness to resist any sudden hostility, were such a proceeding intended.

But the man appeared to have no such aim in view, for, leaning himself tranquilly against the wall, he said, "Can you keep a secret?"

"If I promise to do so," answered Richard.

"Then promise not to betray what I am going to tell you."

"I promise," said Markham, after some hesitation.

"You must know," continued the man, satisfied with this assurance, "that I have lately partaken of the hospitality of a race of persons, at whose head-quarters—not a hundred miles from where we are now standing—I met Anthony Tidkins——"

"When?" demanded Richard impatiently.

"About two hours ago."

"Ah! then it may be true——"

"True! what interest have I to tell you a lie? I have been some time in search of that villain; and accident threw us together to-night. This dagger——" here he took Markham's hand, and made him feel the point of the elastic poniard,—"this dagger drank his life's best blood!"

Richard could not suppress an ejaculation of horror.

The assassin laughed.

"Unhappy man," said our hero, "are you not aware that your life may be forfeited on account of this deed?"

"And this good blade should reach the heart of any one that attempted to take me," was the resolute and indeed significant reply.

"I promised to betray nothing that you might communicate to me, and I shall keep my word," rejoined Markham, in a firm tone, and without retreating a single step. "Did I wish to forfeit my pledge, your dagger would not intimidate me."

"You are a brave fellow," cried the stranger; "and all brave men may be trusted. Would you like to satisfy yourself, with your own eyes, that Anthony Tidkins has received his death wound?"

"I should," answered Markham; "both on my own account and on that of society."

"And you will not betray the place that I shall take you to, or the people that you may see there?"

"Most solemnly will I keep your secret."

"Come with me, then. I will leave you at the door; and your own ingenuity must obtain you admittance. But, one word more: you will not state to any one there that you have met me?"

"I will not even allow my motive for visiting the place you speak of to transpire."

"I believe all you say. Come!"

The man led the way out of the court, accompanied by our hero.

They threaded several narrow streets and alleys, and at length stopped at the door of a large house.

"Knock, and demand shelter: admittance will not, I fancy, be refused."

"Is there any danger to be encountered?" asked Markham: "not that I fear it—but I am unarmed."

"There is no danger. This is the head-quarters of the Gipsies, or Zingarees: they never use the dagger or the pistol. And, once more, remember your promise."

"I shall not forget it," said Richard. "But, before we separate, answer me one question."

"Speak—and be speedy," returned the man.

"In one word, then, why, when you overheard my conversation with the policeman, did you resolve upon making me the confidant of a deed which might send you to the scaffold?"

"Because I am proud of that deed," replied the man, grasping Richard forcibly by the wrist, and grinding his teeth in horrible triumph;—"because it is the result of four years of pent-up yearning after vengeance;—because, in avenging myself, I have avenged all who have suffered through that miscreant;—because I am anxious that those who have been injured by him should know the fate that has overtaken him at last."

With these words, Crankey Jem (whom the reader has doubtless already recognised) disappeared precipitately from the spot.

CHAPTER CXL.
INCIDENTS IN THE GIPSY PALACE.

For a few moments Richard remained rooted to the spot where the returned convict had left him. He was uncertain how to proceed.

Warned by the desperate adventure which had nearly cost him his life at Twig Folly, he feared lest the present occurrence might be another scheme of the Resurrection Man to ensnare him.

Then he reflected that the individual who had just left him, had met him accidentally, and had narrated to him circumstances which had every appearance of truth.

We have before said that Markham was not a coward—far from it; and he moreover experienced a lively curiosity to satisfy himself concerning the fate of an individual whose inveterate malignity had so frequently menaced not only his dearest interests, but his life.

This reflection decided him; and, without farther hesitation, he knocked boldly at the front door of the Gipsies' Palace.

Some minutes elapsed ere his summons appeared to have created any attention within; and he was about to repeat it, when the door slowly moved on its hinges.

But to Markham's surprise no person appeared in the obscure lobby into which the pale moon threw a fitful light; in fact, the front door was opened by means of a simple mechanism which the porter worked in his lodge overhead.

While Markham was lost in wonder at this strange circumstance, the trap was suddenly raised above, and a strong light was thrown through it into the lobby.

"Who are you?" demanded the gruff voice of the porter.

"I seek a few hours' repose and rest," answered Markham.

"Who sent you here?"

"A person who is a friend to you."

"Do you know what place this is?"

"Yes—it is the head-quarters of the Zingarees."

"So far, so good," said the porter. "Well—wait a few moments—I must see."

The trap closed—the lobby was again involved in total darkness; and for the next ten minutes the silence of death appeared to reign within the house.

At the expiration of that time the inner door was opened:; and the porter, bearing a light, appeared.

"You may enter," he said. "The Zingarees never refuse hospitality when it can be safely granted."

Markham crossed the threshold without hesitation.

The porter closed both doors with great care.

"Follow me," said the man.

He then led the way up stairs to the first floor, and conducted our hero into a room where there were several beds, all of which were unoccupied.

"You have your choice of the downies," observed the porter, with a half smile; "and I shall leave you this light. Do you require any food?"

"None, I thank you."

"So I should think," said the man drily, as he surveyed Markham's appearance in a manner which seemed to express a wonder why a person in his situation of life had come thither at all.

We have, however, before observed that curiosity formed but a faint feature of the gipsy character; and, even when it existed, it was not expressed in verbal queries. Moreover, individuals in a respectable sphere not unfrequently sought in the Holy Land a refuge against the officers of the laws which they violated; and hence the appearance of a person had nothing to do with the fact of admission into the gipsies' establishment.

Nevertheless, the porter did survey Markham in a dubious way for a moment; but whether the preceding incidents of the night, or the calm tranquillity of our hero's manner,—so inconsistent with the idea that he was anxious to conceal himself from the eyes of justice,—excited the suspicions of the porter, it is impossible to say.

But that glance of curiosity was only momentary.

Averting his eyes from our hero, the porter placed the light upon the floor, wished him a good night's rest, and retired.

But to the surprise and annoyance of Markham, the gipsy locked the door of the apartment.

As the key turned with a grating sound, a tremor crept over Richard's frame; and he almost repented having sought the interior of an abode the character and inmates of which were almost entirely unknown to him. Indeed, all that he knew of either was derived from the meagre information of the man (and that man an acknowledged assassin!) who had induced him to visit the place where he now found himself.

"How weak I am to yield to this sentiment of fear!" he exclaimed. "Rather let me determine how to act."

He proceeded to examine the room in which he appeared to be a prisoner. The numerous beds seemed to indicate that he really was in a species of barrack, or lodging-house of some kind; and this circumstance, coupled with the fact that the porter who had admitted him was evidently a member of the Egyptian or Bohemian race, reassured him—for he felt convinced that he was actually in the abode of gipsies.