The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “And you feel convinced your precautions are so wisely taken, that she will never open her lips relative to the past?” said Tomlinson.

  “I am confident that she will not breathe a word that may lead to her return to the place where she now is,” answered Chichester, with a significant look and emphatic solemnity of tone.

  “Then I will not hesitate to serve you in this business,” said Tomlinson. “To-night—at ten o’clock.”

  “To-night—at ten o’clock,” repeated Chichester; and with these words he departed.

  When he was gone, Tomlinson paced his office in an agitated manner.

  “The die is cast—I am now about to plunge into crime!” he said. “And yet how could I avoid—how could I long procrastinate this step? These mean tricks—these dishonourable dealings—these deceptive schemes in which we brokers are compelled to bear a part, only serve to prepare the way for more daring and more criminal pursuits. Five hundred pounds at one stroke! That is a little fortune to a man, struggling against the world, like me! Four hundred will I pay to Greenwood—the other hundred will swell my little account at the bankers’; for who can hope to do any extent of business in this city without a good name at his bankers’?”

  Tomlinson ceased, and sate down calm and collected. Alas! how easy is it to reason oneself into a belief of the existence of a necessity for pursuits of dishonesty or crime!

  The clerk entered the private office, and said, “Sir, there is a person, who refuses to give his name, waiting to speak to you.”

  “Let him come in,” replied Tomlinson.

  The clerk ushered in a man of cadaverous countenance, bushy brows, and large whiskers, and who was dressed in a suit of black.

  “Your business, sir?” said the stock-broker, who did not much like the appearance of his visitor.

  “Your name’s Tomlinson?” remarked the man, coolly taking a chair.

  “Yes. What would you with me?”

  “James Tomlinson,” continued the man, referring to a scrap of paper, which he took from his waistcoat pocket, “late banker in Lombard Street?”

  “The same,” said Tomlinson, impatiently.

  “Then I took it down right, although he did speak in such a confused manner,” observed the man, muttering rather to himself than to Mr. Tomlinson.

  “What do you mean?” demanded the stock-broker.

  “I mean that there’s a person who wants to see you,” answered the stranger. “I don’t know that I’m exactly right in saying wants, because he is in such a state that he can neither want nor care about any thing. At the same time, I think it would be as well if you was to see him.”

  “Who is this person?” cried Tomlinson.

  “A man that seems to know you well enough, if I can understand his ravings.”

  “Ravings!” repeated the stock-broker, already influenced by a slight misgiving.

  “Ravings, indeed! and enough to make him rave! To be laid out as dead for four days, then put in a coffin, buried, and be had up again within ten or a dozen hours:—if that wouldn’t make a man rave—what the devil would?”

  “Have the goodness to explain yourself. Every word you utter is an enigma to me.”

  “But it wasn’t an enigma to my poor friend when the stiff ’un suddenly put a cold hand upon his. However, in two words, do you know a person called Michael Martin?”

  “Michael Martin!” cried the stock-broker. “Speak—what has become of him?”

  “He has been ill—”

  “Ill! poor old man! and I not to know it!”

  “Worse than that! He died—”

  “Died! Where—when?”

  “Died—and was buried.”

  “Trifle not with me. When did he die? where is he buried?”

  “He died—was buried—and came to life again!” said the stranger, with the most provoking coolness.

  “Sir,” exclaimed Tomlinson, advancing towards his visitor, and speaking in a firm and emphatic manner, “if you have called to tell me any thing concerning Michael Martin, speak without mystification.”

  “Well, sir,” returned the stranger, “the plain truth is this:—An old man, without a name, took up his abode in a by-street in Globe Town some months ago. He was taken ill, and, to all appearance, died. He was buried. A surgeon fancied him as a subject, and hired me and a friend of mine to have him up again. We resurrectionized him, and took him in a cart last night to the surgeon’s house. He was conveyed into the dissecting-room, and stretched on the table. The doctor and I went into the surgery to settle the expenses; and, in the mean time, my friend was left alone with the stiff ’un. It seems that a neighbour, suspecting that the surgeon now and then got a subject for his experiments, saw the cart stop at the door, and immediately understood what was going on. He went into his garden, which joins the yard where the dissecting-house stands, and seeing a light in the window of the dissecting-house, he felt sure that his suspicions were well founded, although he could not see into the place, because there was a dark blind drawn down over the window. However, the neighbour was resolved to clear up his doubts; so he took up a brick-bat, and threw it as hard as he could against the window. The glass was broken, and the light extinguished. My friend, who was left alone with the stiff ’un, was somewhat startled at this occurrence; but how much more was he alarmed when he suddenly felt the body stretch out its hand and catch hold of one of his?”

  “Then Michael Martin was not dead?” ejaculated Tomlinson, in a tone which expressed alike the tenderness of deep emotion and also the bitterness of disappointment; for, perhaps, all circumstances considered, the ex-banker would rather have heard a confirmation of the death, than an account of the resuscitation of his late clerk.

  “No—the old man is not dead. The doctor and myself were in the surgery, when we heard the smash of the window and the cry of the Buf—of my friend, I mean.”

  “Of your brother resurrectionist, I suppose,” continued Tomlinson, in a tone of ineffable disgust. “Well, go on.”

  “We went into the dissecting-room with a lamp, and there we found the light put out, and my comrade insensible on the floor. But what was more extraordinary still, we saw the corpse gasping for breath. ‘He is not dead!’ cried the surgeon; and in a moment a lancet was stuck into his arm. The blood would not flow at first, but the surgeon chafed his temples and hands by turns; and in a few moments the blood trickled out pretty freely. Meantime I had recovered my companion, and explained to him the nature of the phenomenon that had taken place. When he heard the real truth, he was no longer alarmed, because he knew very well that people are often buried in a trance. In fact, one night, about eighteen months ago, he and I went to Old Saint Pancras church-yard to get up a stiff ’un, and when we opened the coffin, we found that the body had turned completely round on its face; it was, however, stone dead when we got it up—and never shall I forget what a countenance it had! But of that no matter.”

  “Have the goodness to keep to your present narrative,” said Tomlinson, scarcely able to conceal his disgust at the presence of a resurrectionist—an avowed body-snatcher.

  “Well,” continued the man with the cadaverous countenance, “in a very few minutes we completely recovered the old gentleman. I obeyed all the directions of the surgeon, and ran backwards and forwards to the pharmacy for God only knows what salts and what ammonia. At last the subject gave a terrible groan, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, ‘Where am I?’ The surgeon assured him that he was in safety—that he had been very ill—that he was now much better—and so on. Meantime, by the surgeon’s orders, I had called up his housekeeper, (for he is a bachelor,) and she had got a bed prepared and warmed, and some hot water ready, and every thing comfortable. Well, we carried the old gentleman up to bed; the doctor gave him a little warm brandy and water; and in another half hour, he was able to spe
ak a few words in a comprehensible manner. But his brain seemed confused, and all we could learn was that his name was ‘Michael Martin,’ and that he raved after a gentleman, whom he called ‘James Tomlinson, the banker.’”

  “Ah! he said that—did he?” cried Tomlinson, rising, and pacing the room with agitated steps.

  “He did,” was the reply. “And then we began to think that we had heard those names before; and, in a few minutes, I—who know every thing,” added the man, fixing his serpent-like eyes upon the stock-broker with a kind of fiendish leer,—“I,” he continued, “remembered that Michael Martin was the man who had been the cashier in the bank of Tomlinson and Company, Lombard Street.”

  “But did he say—did he—” began the stock-broker, gasping for breath,—“did he—”

  “He raved—he grew delirious; and in his wanderings, he said enough to prove that he was not guilty of the breach of trust imputed to him.”

  “O God! thy vengeance overtakes me, then, at last!” cried Tomlinson, sinking, pale and trembling upon a chair.

  “He said much—very much,” continued the man whose revelations had thus produced so strange an effect upon James Tomlinson. “But do not alarm yourself—I am not one to peach; and the doctor himself is not likely to say any thing that might lead to an awkward inquiry into the circumstances that brought the old gentleman into his house. Remember, the law now punishes with transportation those who resurrectionize, and those who encourage resurrectionists.”

  “Then you will not betray me?” ejaculated Tomlinson, a ray of hope animating his countenance.

  “Betray you!” echoed the man, with a contemptuous curl of his lip and a ferocious leer of his eyes, which gleamed from beneath their bushy brows like those of a hyena from the shade of an over-hanging brake: “betray you! What good should I get by that? You know that a reward of three thousand pounds was offered to any one who would deliver up this Michael Martin; and as a man of sense, you must also understand that it would not be very convenient for me to go forward and claim this reward. At the same time, I might talk—or my friend might talk; no one could prevent that; and such-like idle gossiping would lead to the detection of the old man. Now you are the best judge whether or not it is worth while to put a seal upon our lips. We don’t want to be hard upon you;—but, perhaps,” added the man, interrupting himself, “you had better see the old gentleman first, and then you will know that I am telling you the truth.”

  “When can I see him? where is he?” demanded Tomlinson, almost bewildered by the sudden revelation which had been made to him concerning Michael Martin.

  “You had better put off your visit till dusk,” was the reply; “because I should like to go with you, and the surgeon would not be very well pleased if I called upon him in the day-time.”

  “Let it be at dusk, then,” said Tomlinson.

  “Name your hour.”

  “I have an engagement between nine and ten o’clock to-night,” returned the stock-broker.

  “And so have I,” said the visitor. “What should you say to seven o’clock? It is as dark then as it is at ten or eleven.”

  “Seven will suit me well,” answered Tomlinson. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “At Bethnal Green New Church—the church that stands in the Cambridge Road, and faces the Bethnal Green Road,” explained the body-snatcher. “You can be walking up and down there a few minutes before seven—I shall not keep you waiting.”

  “I will be punctual,” said Tomlinson. “But—once more—you will not betray me?”

  “Ridiculous!” was the contemptuous reply.

  “And this surgeon—will he not be tempted by the reward to—”

  “Do you think he would walk straight into Newgate and say, ‘I am come to be transported for encouraging and employing resurrection men?’ You need not alarm yourself. Me and my comrade will settle the matter amicably with you.”

  The body-snatcher then took his departure.

  Tomlinson threw himself back in his chair, pressed both his hands against his heated forehead, and exclaimed in a tone of despair, “I have fervently prayed that I might meet my poor old clerk again, and heaven has granted my request—but merely to punish me for my crimes!”

  CHAPTER CX.

  THE EFFECTS OF A TRANCE.

  IT was half-past eight o’clock in the evening.

  By the side of a bed in a comfortable chamber at the surgeon’s house in the Cambridge Road, near Bethnal Green New Church, sate James Tomlinson.

  The light of the candles that burnt upon the table, fell on the pale and ghastly countenance of old Michael Martin, who lay in that bed, his head propped up with pillows.

  There was no one else in the room at the time, save these two persons.

  “And thus was it, my good and faithful friend,” said Tomlinson, breaking the long silence which had ensued after mutual explanations,—“thus was it that you so nobly sacrificed yourself for me! Oh! believe me that I have never ceased to think of your generous—your unparalleled behaviour in that sad business!”

  “I know it—I know it,” returned the old man in a weak and hollow voice. “If you had not been a kind master to me, I should never have done all that for you. But, tell me,—and tell me truly,” added Michael, fixing his glassy eyes upon the stock-broker, “do you think that these persons—the surgeon, and that hideous man who—”

  Martin ceased—and his entire frame was convulsed with horror as he remembered the appalling circumstances under which he had been recovered from his late death-like trance and restored to life.

  “Compose yourself, my excellent friend,” said Tomlinson, who fully comprehended what was passing in his mind; “fear alone will seal these people’s lips—even if no other motive were powerful enough to ensure their silence. The surgeon seems an honest kind of man, and may be relied upon: besides, he would seriously compromise himself were he to breathe a word of this strange occurrence. As for the other person—he who came to tell me what had taken place, and brought me hither this evening—I have agreed to purchase his silence and that of a comrade, who, it appears, was engaged with him in the business.”

  “I know you cannot afford to do any such thing,” said old Michael, speaking with somewhat of that bluntness, or even gruffness of manner, which had characterised him in past times; “and I won’t have you get yourself into difficulties on my account.”

  “Believe me, I can afford it,” returned Tomlinson.

  “You can’t. You told me just now that you were struggling against many difficulties. How much are you going to give these scoundrels?”

  “A mere trifle—nothing beyond my means—”

  “How much?” demanded old Michael, imperatively.

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Two hundred pounds! It can’t—and it shan’t be done, Mr. Tomlinson. You have not got two hundred pounds: I know you have not.”

  “I am to receive five hundred this evening for certain professional services to be rendered,” said Tomlinson; “and I can readily spare a portion to ensure a silence which is necessary not only to your safety but to mine.”

  “True—your safety,” muttered old Michael, whose thoughts seemed ever fixed upon the welfare of his late employer. “Well—well, I suppose it must be done. Do it, then.”

  Another long pause ensued.

  Suddenly Martin turned towards Tomlinson, and said, in a sharp querulous tone, “You told me that you were going to receive five hundred pounds this evening?”

  “Such is my hope,” answered the stock-broker, averting his glances from the old man.

  “Ah! you can’t look me in the face,” exclaimed Michael, almost savagely. “Where are you going to get that money from?”

  “From a client—for whom I am to do business—of a certain nature,” faltered Tomlinson. />
  “Certain nature, indeed! What is it?”

  “Merely professional, Michael,” was the answer.

  “Professional business in one evening, that will produce five hundred pounds,” said the old man, dwelling emphatically upon every word: then, after a pause, he added abruptly, “I don’t believe it.”

  “I declare most solemnly that I am telling you the truth,” cried Tomlinson, somewhat hurt by Michael’s manner and observations.

  “So much the worse for you, then,” rejoined the old man, laconically. “The business you are to perform for that sum is not honest.”

  Tomlinson was about to make some excuse to put an end to the topic by an evasive reply, when Michael Martin raised himself to a sitting posture in the bed, and, fixing his eyes upon his late master, exclaimed, with strange emphasis of manner, “Have you not seen enough—experienced enough—and suffered enough, to render you timorous in re-embarking upon the great ocean of chicanery, duplicity, and crime? Be you well assured that though the currents of that ocean may float you prosperously along for a season, they will sooner or later dash you against a sunken rock, and shipwreck you beyond redemption. Oh!” he continued, his ghastly countenance becoming animated with the ruddy tinge of excitement, and fire once more sparkling from his glassy eyes,—“Oh! if you had only passed through all that I have within these last few days, you would not neglect so terrible a warning! Do you know,”—and his utterance became rapid and eloquent,—“do you know that I have passed the limits of the tomb, and have wandered in the worlds beyond? Do you know that I have learnt the grand—the sublime—the supernal secret of eternity? Yes—when the breath left this mortal clay, my soul winged its flight into the regions of infinite space! With the rapidity of a whirlwind I was hurried away from the earth; and, although I was nothing but a spirit, and could not touch myself, yet had I ears to hear, and eyes to see, and organs to receive sensations. I was permitted to wander amidst the regions of eternal bliss, and to penetrate into the mysteries of hell. O God! I tasted of the joys of the former, and was equally compelled to submit to the torments of the latter—each for a little space! Ah! sir, can you not divine wherefore the Almighty from time to time plunges mortals into a trance—submits them to the dominion of death for a season? It is that he may snatch away their souls, to lead them into the celestial mansions, and precipitate them into the depths of Satan’s kingdom,—so that, when restored to their mortal clay, they may teach their fellow-creatures the grand truths of eternity—they may announce to them that there is a heaven to reward, and a hell to punish! And the Almighty made choice of me,—of me, a grovelling worm, one of the most obscure and humble of his creatures,—He made choice of me, I say, to become the means through which His warning voice might speak to you and others! What the pleasures of heaven are, or of what the torments of hell consist, I dare not say: suffice it for you to know that there is a heaven, and there is a hell—and the former exceeds all idea which man can conceive of bliss, while the latter surpasses every thing which he can imagine of horror! Be warned, then, by me, James Tomlinson—be warned by one who for four days was snatched away from earth, and, during that period was initiated in the mighty secrets of Eternity!”