While these three men were thus proceeding as expeditiously as possible with their task, the surgeon, although a man of a naturally strong mind, could not control the strange feelings which crept upon him. It suddenly appeared to him as if he beheld those men for the first time. That continuation of regular and systematic movements—that silent perseverance, faintly shadowed forth amidst the obscurity of the night, at length assumed so singular a character, that the surgeon felt as if he beheld three demons disinterring a doomed one to carry him off to hell!
He was aroused from this painful reverie by the Resurrection Man, who said to him, “Come and help us remove the stone.”
The surgeon applied all his strength to this task; and the huge flag-stone was speedily moved upon two wooden rollers away from the mouth of the grave.
“You are certain that this is the place?” said the Resurrection Man.
“As certain as one can be who stood by the grave for a quarter of an hour in day-light, and who has to recognise it again in total darkness,” answered the surgeon. “Besides, the mortar was soft——”
“There might have been another burial close by,” interrupted the Resurrection Man; “but we will soon find out whether you are right or not, sir. Was the coffin a wooden one?”
“Yes! an elm coffin, covered with black cloth,” replied the surgeon. “I gave the instructions for the funeral myself, being the oldest friend of the family.”
The Resurrection Man took one of the long flexible rods which we have before noticed, and thrust it down into the vault. The point penetrated into the lid of a coffin. He drew it back, put the point to his tongue, and tasted it.
“Yes,” he said, smacking his lips, “the coffin in this vault is an elm one, and is covered with black cloth.”
“I thought I could not be wrong,” observed the surgeon.
The body-snatchers then proceeded to raise the coffin, by means of ropes passed underneath it. This was a comparatively easy portion of their task; and in a few moments it was placed upon the flag-stones of the church.
The Resurrection Man took a chisel and opened the lid with considerable care. He then lighted his candle a second time; and the glare fell upon the pale features of the corpse in its narrow shell.
“This is the right one,” said the surgeon, casting a hasty glance upon the face of the dead body, which was that of a young girl of about sixteen.
The Resurrection Man extinguished the light; and he and his companions proceeded to lift the corpse out of the coffin.
The polished marble limbs of the deceased were rudely grasped by the sacrilegious hands of the body-snatchers; and, having stripped the corpse stark naked, they tied its neck and heels together by means of a strong cord. They then thrust it into a large sack made for the purpose.
The body-snatchers then applied themselves to the restoration of the vault to its original appearance.
The lid of the coffin was carefully fastened down; and that now tenantless bed was lowered into the tomb. The stone was rolled over the mouth of the vault; and one of the small square boxes previously alluded to, furnished mortar wherewith to fill up the joints. The Resurrection Man lighted his candle a third time, and applied the cement in such a way that even the very workman who laid the stone down after the funeral would not have known that it had been disturbed. Then, as this mortar was a shade fresher and lighter than that originally used, the Resurrection Man scattered over it a thin brown powder, which was furnished by the second box brought away from his house on this occasion. Lastly, a light brush was swept over the scene of these operations, and the necessary precautions were complete.
The clock struck three as the surgeon and the body-snatchers issued from the church, carrying the sack containing the corpse between them.
They reached the wall at the back of the churchyard, and there deposited their burden, while the Cracksman hastened to see if the surgeon’s carriage had arrived.
In a few minutes he returned to the railing, and said in a low tone, “All right!”
The body was lifted over the iron barrier and conveyed to the vehicle.
The surgeon counted ten sovereigns into the hands of each of the body-snatchers; and, having taken his seat inside the vehicle, close by his strange freight, was whirled rapidly away towards his own abode.
The three body-snatchers retraced their steps to the house in the vicinity of the Bird-cage Walk; and the Cracksman and Buffer, having deposited the implements of their avocation in the corner of the front room, took their departure.
The moment the Resurrection Man was thus relieved from the observation of his companions, he seized the candle and hastened into the back room, where he expected to find the corpse of Richard Markham stripped and washed.
To his surprise the room was empty.
“What the devil has the old fool been up to?” he exclaimed: then, hastening to the foot of the stairs, he cried, “Mummy, are you awake?”
In a few moments a door on the first floor opened, and the old woman appeared in her night gear at the head of the stairs.
“Is that you, Tony?” she exclaimed.
“Yes! who the hell do you think it could be? But what have you done with the fresh ’un?”
“The fresh ’un came alive again——”
“Gammon! Where is the money? how much was there? and is his skull fractured?” demanded the Resurrection Man.
“I tell you that he came to his senses,” returned the old hag: “and that he sprung upon me like a tiger when I went into the back room after you was gone.”
“Damnation! what a fool I was not to stick three inches of cold steel into him!” ejaculated the Resurrection Man, stamping his foot. “So I suppose he got clear away—money and all?—gone, may be, to fetch the traps!”
“Don’t alarm yourself, Tony,” said the old hag, with a horrible cackling laugh; “he’s safe enough, I’ll warrant it!”
“Safe! where—where?”
“Where his betters have been ’afore him,” answered the Mummy.
“What!—in the well in the yard?” exclaimed the Resurrection Man, in a state of horrible suspense.
“No—in the hole under the stairs.”
“Wretch!—drivelling fool!—idiot that you are!” cried the Resurrection Man in a voice of thunder: “you decoyed him into the very place from which he was sure to escape!”
“Escape!” exclaimed the Mummy, in a tone of profound alarm.
“Yes—escape!” repeated the Resurrection Man. “Did I not tell you a month or more ago that the wall between the hole and the saw-pit in the empty house next door had given way!”
“No—you never told me! I’ll swear you never told me!” cried the old hag, now furious in her turn. “You only say so to throw all the blame on me: it’s just like you.”
“Don’t provoke me, mother!” said the Resurrection Man, grinding his teeth. “You know that I told you about the wall falling down; and you know that I spoke to you about not using the place any more!”
“It’s false!” exclaimed the Mummy.
“It’s true; for I said to you at the time that I must brick up the wall myself some night, before any new people take the carpenter’s yard, or they might wonder what the devil we could want with a place under ground like that; and it would be the means of blowing us!”
“It’s a lie! you never told me a word about it,” persisted the old harridan doggedly.
“Perdition take you!” cried the man. “The affair of this cursed Markham will be the ruin of us both!”
The Resurrection Man still had a hope left: the subterranean pit beneath the stairs was deep, and Markham might have been stunned by the fall.
He hastened to the trap-door, and raised it. The vivid light of his candle was
thrown to the very bottom of the pit by means of the bright reflector of tin.
The hole was empty.
Maddened by disappointment—a prey to the most terrible apprehensions—and uncertain whether to flee or remain in his den, the Resurrection Man paced the passage in a state of mind which would not have been envied by even a criminal on his way to execution.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE FRUITLESS SEARCH.
WHEN Richard Markham was precipitated into the hole beneath the stairs, by the perfidy of the Mummy, he fell with his head against a stone, and became insensible.
He lay in this manner for upwards of half an hour, when a current of air which blew steadily upon his face, revived him; and he awoke to all the horrors of his situation.
He had seen and passed through enough that night to unhinge the strongest mind. The secrets of the accursed den in a subterranean dungeon of which he now lay,—the atrocious mysteries revealed by the conversation of the body-snatchers ere they set out on their expedition to Shoreditch Church,—the cold corpse of some unfortunate being most inhumanly murdered, and all the paraphernalia of a hideous death, in the front-room of that outpost of hell,—haunted his imagination, and worked him up to a pitch of excitement bordering upon frenzy.
He felt that if he did not escape from that hole, he should dash his head against the wall, or go raving mad.
He clenched his fists and struck them against his forehead in an access of despair.
And then he endeavoured to reason with himself, and to look the perils that beset him, in the face.
But he could not remain cool—he could not control his agonising emotions.
“O God!” he exclaimed aloud; “what have I done to be thus afflicted? What sin have I committed to be thus tortured? Have I not served thee in word and deed to the best of my ability? Do I not worship—venerate—adore thee? O God! why wilt thou that I should die thus early—and die, too, so cruel a death? Is there not room on earth enough for a worm like me? Have I not been sufficiently tried, O my God? and in the hour of my deepest—bitterest anguish, did I ever deny thee? Did I repine against thy supreme will when false men encompassed me to destroy me in the opinion of the world? Hear me, O God—hear me! and let me not die this time;—let me not perish, O Lord, thus miserably!”
Such was the fervent, heart-felt prayer which Markham breathed to heaven, in the agony and despair of his soul.
He extended his arms, with his hands clasped together, in the ardour of his appeal; and they encountered an opening in the wall.
A ray of hope penetrated to his heart; and when upon further search, he discovered an aperture sufficiently wide for him to creep through, he exclaimed, “O Lord! I thank thee, thou hast heard my prayer! Pardon—oh! pardon my repinings;—forgive me that I dared to question thy sovereign will!”
At all risks he determined to pass through the opening—lead whithersoever it might; for he knew that he could scarcely be worse off; and he felt a secret influence which prompted him thus to act, and for which he could not wholly account.
He crept through the hole in the partition-wall, and found himself upon a soft damp ground.
Every thing was veiled in the blackest obscurity.
He groped about with his hands, and stepped cautiously forward, pausing at every pace.
Presently his foot encountered what appeared to be a step: to his infinite joy he ascertained, in another moment, that he was at the bottom of a flight of stone stairs.
He ascended them, and came to a door, which yielded to his touch. He proceeded slowly and cautiously along a passage, groping his way with his hands; and, in a few moments he reached another door, which opened with a latch.
He was now in the open street!
Carefully closing the door behind him, he hurried away from that accursed vicinity as if he were pursued by blood-hounds.
He ran—he ran, reckless of the deep pools of stagnant water, careless of the heaps of thick mud through which he passed,—indifferent to the bruises which he sustained against the angles of houses, the corners of streets, and the stone-steps of doors,—unmindful of the dangers which he dared in threading thus wildly those rugged and uneven thoroughfares amidst the dense obscurity which covered the earth.
He ran—he ran, a delirium of joy thrilling in his brain, and thanksgiving in his soul; for now that he had escaped from the peril which so lately beset him, it appeared to his imagination a thousand times more frightful than when it actually impended over him. Oh! he was happy—happy—thrice happy, in the enjoyment of liberty, and the security of life once more;—and he began to look upon the scenes of that eventful night as an accumulation of horrors which could have possibility only in a dream!
He ran—he ran, amidst those filthy lanes and foul streets, where a nauseating atmosphere prevailed;—but had he been threading a labyrinth of rose-trees, amongst the most delicious perfumes, he could not have experienced a more burning—ardent—furious joy! Yes—his delight was madness, frenzy! On, on—splashed with mud—floundering through black puddles—knee-deep in mire,—on, on he went—reckless which direction he pursued, so long as the rapidity of his pace removed him afar from the accursed house that had nearly become his tomb!
For an hour did he thus pursue his way.
At length he stopped through sheer exhaustion, and seated himself upon the steps of a door over which a lamp was flickering.
He collected his scattered ideas as well as he could, and began to wonder whither his wild and reckless course had led him: but no conjecture on his part furnished him with any clue to solve the mystery of his present whereabouts. He knew that he must be somewhere in the eastern district of the metropolis; but in what precise spot it was impossible for him to tell.
While he was thus lost in vain endeavours to unravel the tangled topographical skein which perplexed his imagination, he heard footsteps advancing along the street.
By the light of the lamp he soon distinguished a policeman, walking with slow and measured steps along his beat.
“Will you have the kindness to tell me where I am?” said Richard, accosting the officer: “I have lost my way. What neighbourhood is this?”
“Ratcliff Highway,” answered the policeman: “in the middle of Wapping, you know.”
“In the midst of Wapping?” ejaculated Markham, in a tone of surprise and vexation.
And, truly enough, there he was in the centre of that immense assemblage of dangerous streets, cut-throat lanes, and filthy alleys, which swarm with crimps ever ready to entrap the reckless and generous-hearted sailor; publicans who farm the unloading of the colliers, and compel those whom they employ to take out half their wages in vile adulterated beer; and poor half-starved coal-heavers whose existence alternates between crushing toil and killing intoxication. It was in this neighbourhood that Richard Markham now was!
Heaven alone can tell what tortuous path and circuitous routes he had been pursuing during the hour of his precipitate flight; but his feet must have passed over many miles of ground from the instant that he emerged from the murderers’ den until he sank exhausted on the steps of a house in Ratcliff Highway.
He was wet and covered with mud, and very cold. But he suddenly remembered that there was a duty which he owed to society—an imperative duty which he dared not neglect. He was impressed with the idea that Providence had that night favoured his escape from the jaws of death, in order that he might become the means of rooting up a den of horrors.
There was not a moment to be lost: the three miscreants, unconscious of peril, had repaired to Shoreditch Church to exercise the least terrible portion of their avocations in that sacred edifice:—it might yet be time to secure them there!
The policeman was still standing near him.
“Which is the way to the station-house?” su
ddenly exclaimed Markham. “I have matters of the deepest importance to communicate to the police,—I can place them upon the scent of three miscreants—three demons in human form——”
“And how came you to know about them?” asked the officer.
“Oh! it is too long to tell you now—we shall only be wasting time; and the villains may escape,” cried Richard, in a tone of excitement and with a wildness of manner which induced the officer to fancy that his brain was turned.
“Well, come along with me,” said the policeman; “and you can tell all you know to the Superintendent.”
Markham signified his readiness to accompany the officer; and they proceeded to the station-house in the neighbourhood.
There Richard was introduced to the Superintendent.
“I have this night,” said the young man, “escaped from the most fearful perils. I was proceeding along a dark, narrow, and dirty street somewhere in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch Church, when I was knocked down, and carried into a house where murder—yes, murder,” added Markham, in a tone of fearful excitement, “seems to be committed wholesale. At this moment there is a corpse—the corpse of some unfortunate man who has been assassinated in a most inhuman manner—lying stretched out in that house! I could tell you how the miscreants who frequent that den dispose of their victims,—how they pounce upon those who pass their door, and drag them into that human slaughter-house,—and how they make away with them;—I could tell you horrors which would make your hair stand on end;—but we should lose time; for you may yet capture the three wretches whose crimes have been this night so providentially revealed to me!”
“And where can we capture these men?” inquired the Superintendent, surveying Markham from head to foot in a strange manner.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 43