“Devil take this impudence!” cried Chichester, now once more recovering his wonted self-possession, and determining to brave the accusation out: “my name isn’t Chichester—you’re quite mistaken, my good fellow—I can assure you that you are.”
“Liar!” cried the engraver, furiously: “I should know you both amongst a million!”
“And so should I,” calmly observed Markham, now advancing from his obscure corner, and appearing in the presence of those who so little expected to see him there.
A tremendous sensation now prevailed in the room, and those who were spectators anxiously awaited the result of this strange drama.
“Yes—there are indeed the villains to whom I am indebted for all the miseries I have endured,” continued Markham. “But say not that a lucky accident brought us all here together this night,—think not that a mere chance occasioned the present meeting of the deceivers and the deceived:—no; it was the will of the Almighty, to establish the innocence of an injured man!”
A solemn silence succeeded these words, which were delivered in a tone which produced an impression of awe upon all who heard them. Even the depraved and hardened men that were present on this occasion, in the parlour of the Dark House, gazed with respect upon the young man who dared to speak of the Almighty in that den of dissipation.
Markham continued after a short pause:—
“Were it not that I should be involving in ruin a man who has spontaneously come forward to proclaim his own guilt, to declare his repentance, and to assert my innocence—without hope of reward from me, and even without knowing that God had sent me hither to overhear every word he uttered—were it not that I should be inflicting upon him the deepest injury, I would this moment assign you to the custody of the police, as the instigators of the diabolical fraud in which Talbot was your tool, and I your scape-goat. But though I shall take no steps to punish you, heaven will not allow you to triumph in your career of turpitude!”
“Well spoken,” said Mr. Chichester, perceiving that he was in no danger, and therefore assuming an air of bravado.
“Upon my honour, I can’t comprehend all this,” muttered the baronet. “Let us go, my dear fellow—I do not admire your Spitalfields’ riff-raff.”
“Yes—go—depart!” cried Markham; “or else I shall not be able to restrain my indignation.”
“They shan’t go without a wolloping, however,” said the butcher, very coolly taking off his apron, and turning up the sleeves of his blue stuff jacket. “I’ll take one—who’ll take the other?”
“I will,” cried a barber’s boy, laying aside his pipe, taking a long pull at the porter, and then advancing towards the two adventurers with clenched fists.
“Stop—stop, I implore you!” ejaculated Markham. “I ask not for such vengeance as this—no violence, I beseech you.”
“Let’s give it ’em in true John Bull style, and knock all that cursed dandy nonsense out of ’em,” cried the butcher; and before Richard could interfere farther, he felled the baronet with one blow of his tremendous fist.
The barber forthwith pitched into the fashionable Mr. Chichester, who struggled in vain to defend himself. The baronet rose; and the butcher instantly took his head “into chancery,”[119] and pummelled him to his heart’s content.
As soon as Chichester and Sir Rupert were so severely thrashed that they were covered all over with bruises, and could scarcely stand upon their legs, the butcher and the barber kicked them into the open air, amidst the shouts and acclamations of all the inmates of the Dark House parlour.
When order was once more restored, Markham addressed himself to the two champions who had avenged him in their own peculiar style, and not only thanked them for their well-meant though mistaken kindness, but also gave them munificent proofs of his bounty.
“And now,” said Richard, turning towards Pocock, “are you willing to sign a declaration of my innocence?”
“On condition that the paper shall never be used against me,” answered the engraver.
“Could I not this moment give you into custody to the police, upon your own confession of having forged the plate from which the bank-notes were printed?”
“Certainly: I was wrong to make any conditions. You are a man of honour.”
Markham proceeded to draw up the declaration referred to; and Pocock signed it with a firm and steady hand.
This ceremony being completed, Richard placed Bank of England notes for fifty pounds in the engraver’s hand.
“Accept this,” he said, “as a token of my gratitude and a proof of my forgiveness; and, believe me, I regret that my means do not allow me to be more liberal. Endeavour to enter an honest path; and should you ever require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to me.”
Pocock wept tears of gratitude and repentance—the only acknowledgment he could offer for this sudden and most welcome aid. His emotions choked his powers of utterance.
Markham hurried from the room, and took his departure from the establishment which possessed such an ominous name, but which had proved the scene of a great benefit to him that evening.
He was hurrying up Brick Lane in a northerly direction—that is to say, towards Church Street, when he was suddenly stopped by an individual whom he encountered in his way, and who carried a large life-preserver in his hand.
“I suppose you were tired of waiting for me,” said the Resurrection Man—for it was he.
“I certainly imagined you would not come to-night,” answered Richard.
“Well, better late than never. It is fortunate that we met: it will save you another journey to-morrow night, you know.”
“Yes—I am glad that we have met, as my time is now too valuable to waste.”
“In that case, we can either return to the Dark House, which is open all night; or you can give me the money in the street. You don’t require any receipt, I suppose?”
“No: neither will you require to give me any.”
“So I thought: honour among thieves, eh? Excuse the compliment. But, in the first place, have you got the tin?”
“I had the whole amount just now, in my pocket, when I first went to the Dark House.”
“Then I suppose it is all there still?”
“Not all. I have parted with fifty pounds out of it.”
“The deuce you have! And how came you to do that?” demanded the Resurrection Man gruffly. “I gave you fair warning that I would take nothing less than the entire sum.”
“I obtained, in a most extraordinary manner, a proof of my innocence; and I think I purchased it cheaply at that rate. I would have given all I possessed in the world,” added Markham, “to procure it.”
“The devil!” cried the Resurrection Man, who grew uneasy at the cold and indifferent way in which Markham spoke. “Well, I suppose I must take what you have got left. You can easily leave the remainder for me at the Dark House.”
“Not a shilling will you now obtain from me,” ejaculated Richard firmly; “and I have waited to tell you so. I have made up my mind to reveal the entire truth, without reserve, to those from whom I was before foolishly and dishonourably anxious to conceal it.”
“This gammon won’t do for me,” cried the Resurrection Man. “You want to stall me off; but I’m too wide awake. Give me the tin, or I’ll start off to-morrow morning to Richmond, and see the count upon—you know what subject. Before I left that neighbourhood the other day, I made all the necessary inquiries about the people of the house which the young lady went into.”
“You may save yourself that trouble also,” said Markham; “for I shall reveal all that you would unfold. But, in a word, you may do what you choose.”
“Come now,” ejaculated the Resurrection Man, considerably crest-fallen; “assist an old companion in difficul
ties—lend me a hundred or so.”
“No,” returned Richard in a resolute manner: “had you asked me in the first instance to assist you, I would have done so willingly;—but you have endeavoured to extort a considerable sum of money from me—much more than I could spare; and I should not now be justified in yielding to the prayers of a man who has found that his base menaces have failed.”
“You do not think I would have done what I said?” cried the Resurrection Man.
“I believe you to be capable of any villany. But we have already conversed too long. I was anxious to show you how a virtuous resolution would enable me to triumph over your base designs;—and I have now nothing more to say to you. Our ways lie in different directions, both at present and in future. Farewell.”
With these words Markham continued his way up Brick Lane; but the Resurrection Man was again by his side in a moment.
“You refuse to assist me?” he muttered in a hoarse and savage tone.
“I do. Molest me no further.”
“You refuse to assist me?” repeated the villain, grinding his teeth with rage: “then you may mind the consequences! I will very soon show you that you will bitterly—bitterly repent your determination. By God, I will be revenged!”
“I shall know how to be upon my guard,” said Markham.
He then walked rapidly on, without looking behind him.
The Resurrection Man stood still for a moment, considering how to act: then, apparently struck by a sudden idea, he hastened stealthily after Richard Markham.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE MUMMY.
THE district of Spitalfields and Bethnal Green was totally unknown to Markham. Indeed, his visit upon the present occasion was the first he had ever paid to that densely populated and miserable region.
It was now midnight; and the streets were nearly deserted. The lamps, few and far between, only made darkness visible, instead of throwing a useful light upon the intricate maze of narrow thoroughfares.
Markham’s object was to reach Shoreditch as soon as possible; for he knew that opposite the church there was a cab-stand where he might procure a vehicle to take him home. Emerging from Brick Lane, he crossed Church Street, and struck into that labyrinth of dirty and dangerous lanes in the vicinity of Bird-cage Walk, which we alluded to at the commencement of the preceding chapter.
He soon perceived that he had mistaken his way; and at length found himself floundering about in a long narrow street, unpaved, and here and there almost blocked up with heaps of putrescent filth.[120] There was not a lamp in this perilous thoroughfare: no moon on high irradiated his path;—black night enveloped every thing above and below in total darkness.
Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps behind him; and then he stopped, hoping to be overtaken by some one of whom he might inquire his way. But either his ears deceived him, or else the person whose steps he heard stopped when he did.
There was not a light in any of the houses on either side; and not a sound of revelry or sorrow escaped from the ill-closed casements.
Richard was bewildered; and—to speak truly—he began to be alarmed. He remembered to have read of the mysterious disappearance of persons in the east end of the metropolis, and also of certain fell deeds of crime which had been lately brought to light in the very district where he was now wandering;[121]—and he could not help wishing that he was in some more secure and less gloomy region.
He was groping his way along, feeling with his hands against the houses to guide him,—now knee-deep in some filthy puddle, now stumbling over some heap of slimy dirt, now floundering up to his ankles in the mud,—when a heavy and crushing blow fell upon his hat from behind.
He staggered and fell against the door of a house. Almost at the same instant that door was thrust open, and two powerful arms hurled the prostrate young man down three or four steps into a passage. The person who thus ferociously attacked him leapt after him, closing the door violently behind him.
All this occupied but a couple of seconds; and though Markham was not completely stunned by the blow, he was too much stupefied by the suddenness and violence of the assault to cry out. To this circumstance he was probably indebted for his life; for the villain who had struck him no doubt conceived the blow to have been fatal; and therefore, instead of renewing the attack, he strode over Markham and entered a room into which the passage opened.
Richard’s first idea was to rise and attempt an escape by the front door; but before he had time to consider it even for a moment, the murderous ruffian struck a light in the room, which, as well as a part of the passage, was immediately illuminated by a powerful glare.
Markham had been thrown upon the damp tiles with which the passage was paved, in such a manner that his head was close by the door of the room. The man who had assailed him lighted a piece of candle in a bright tin shade hanging against the wall; and the reflection produced by the metal caused the strong glare that fell so suddenly upon Richard’s eyes.
Markham was about to start from his prostrate position when the interior of that room was thus abruptly revealed to him; but for a few moments the spectacle which met his sight paralyzed every limb, and rendered him breathless, speechless, and motionless with horror.
Stretched upon a shutter, which three chairs supported, was a corpse—naked, and of that blueish or livid colour which denotes the beginning of decomposition!
Near this loathsome object was a large tub full of water; and to that part of the ceiling immediately above it were affixed two large hooks, to each of which hung thick cords.
In one corner of the room were long flexible iron rods, spades, pickaxes, wooden levers, coils of thick rope, trowels, saws, hammers, huge chisels, skeleton-keys, &c.
But how great was Richard’s astonishment when, glancing from the objects just described towards the ruffian who had hurled him into that den of horrors, his eyes were struck by the sombre and revolting countenance of the Resurrection Man.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could thus banish both thought and danger.
“Now, then, Mummy,” ejaculated the Resurrection Man; “come and hold this light while I rifle the pockets of a new subject.”
Scarcely had he uttered these words, when a low knock was heard at the front door of the house.
“D—n the thing!” cried the Resurrection Man, aloud: “here are these fellows come for the stiff ’un.”
These words struck fresh dismay into the soul of Richard Markham; for it instantly occurred to him that any friends of the Resurrection Man, who were thus craving admittance, were more likely to aid than to frustrate that villain’s designs upon the life and property of a fellow-creature.
“Here, Mummy,” cried the Resurrection Man, once more; and, hastily returning into the passage, he reiterated his summons at the bottom of a staircase at the further end; “here, Mummy, why the hell don’t you come down?”
“I’m a comin’, I’m a comin’,” answered a cracked female voice from the top of the staircase; and in another moment an old, blear-eyed, shrivelled hag made her appearance.
She was so thin, her eyes were so sunken, her skin was so much like dirty parchment, and her entire appearance was so horrible and repulsive, that it was impossible to conceive a more appropriate and expressive nickname than the one which had been conferred upon her.
“Now come, Mummy,” said the ruffian, in a hasty whisper; “help me to drag this fellow into the back room; there’s good pickings here, and the chaps have come for the stiff ’un.”
Another knock was heard at the door.
Markham, well aware that resistance was at present vain, exercised sufficient control over himself to remain motionless, with his eyes nearly closed, while the Resurrection Man and the Mummy dragged him hastily into the back room.
The Mummy turned the key in the lock, while the Resurrection Man hurried to the street door, and admitted two men into the front apartment.
One was Tom the Cracksman; the other was a rogue of the same stamp, and was known amongst his confederates in crime by the name of the Buffer. It was this man’s boast that he never robbed any one without stripping him to the very skin; and as a person in a state of nudity is said to be “in buff,” the origin of his pseudonym is easily comprehended.
“Well,” said the Cracksman, sulkily, “you ain’t at all partikler how you keep people at your door—you ain’t. For twopence, I’d have sported it[122] with my foot.”
“Why, the old Mummy was fast asleep,” returned the Resurrection Man; “and I was up stairs trying to awake her. But I didn’t expect you till to-morrow night.”
“No; and we shouldn’t have come either,” said the Cracksman, “if there hadn’t been thirty quids to earn to-night.”
“The devil there is!” cried the Resurrection Man. “Then you ain’t come for the stiff ’un to-night?”
“No sich a thing; the Sawbones[123] that it’s for don’t expect it till to-morrow night; so its no use taking it. But there’s t’other Sawbones, which lives down by the Middlesex Hospital, will meet us at half-past one at the back of Shoreditch church——”
“What, to-night!” ejaculated the Resurrection Man.
“To-night—in half an hour—and with all the tools,” returned the Cracksman.
“Work for the inside of the church,” he says, added the Buffer. “Thirty quids isn’t to be sneezed at; that’s ten a-piece. I’m blowed if I don’t like this here resurrection business better than cracking cribs. What do you say, Tom?”
“Anythink by vay of a change; partikler as when we want a stiff ’un by a certain day, and don’t know in which churchyard to dive for one, we hit upon the plan of catching ’em alive in the street.”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 41