WHAT WAS PRINTED ON THE QUARTO BILL: A PROCLAMATION BY HER MAJESTY'S
GOVERNMENT.
Have you ever observed and studied the expressions on the faces of the
people who congregate before the "Murder" proclamations pasted up in
Scotland Yard, and on the dead walls of the poor neighbourhoods in
England? Have you ever endeavoured, by a mental process, to discover the
characters of some of these gaping men and women who read the bills and
linger before them with a horrible fascination? Appropriate, indeed,
that such announcements of mysterious murders should be pasted on _dead_
walls! Come with me, and mingle for a few moments with this little
group, gathered before a Government proclamation in Parliament-street,
offering a reward for the discovery of a murderer. Here is a
respectable-looking workman, with his basket of tools over his shoulder,
running his eyes swiftly down the bill, and taking in its purport with
rapid comprehension. He knows already about the murder, as indeed all
London does, having read the particulars in the newspapers. "They've
offered a reward at last," he thinks, with a scornful smile: "they ought
to have done it a month ago. Too late, now. This is another added to
the list. How many undiscovered murders have been committed in the last
twelve months? Temple of intellect, Scotland Yard!" As he walks away to
his work, he looks with a kind of contempt at the policeman sauntering
lazily along. Here is a young woman, without a bonnet, reading the bill
very slowly; she can read quicker if she likes, but as the words pass
before her eyes, she thinks of her own life and the drunken brute of a
man she is living with. She would leave him to-day, this very moment,
but she is afraid. "Do!" the brute has frequently exclaimed, when she
has threatened to run away from him; "and say your prayers! As sure as
you stand there I'll kill yer, my beauty! I don't mind being 'ung for
yer!" And in proof of his fondness for her, he gives her, for the
hundredth time, a taste of his power by striking her to the earth. "Git
up!" he cries, "and never cheek me agin, or it'll be worse for yer." "I
wonder," the young woman is now thinking as she reads the particulars of
the murder, "whether there'll ever be a bill like that out about _me_;
for Jack's a cunning one!" Here is an errand boy reading the bill, with
his eyes growing larger and larger. Murders will be committed in his
dreams to-night. But before night comes an irresistible fascination will
draw him to the neighbourhood in which the murder was committed, and he
will feast his eyes upon the house. Here is an old woman spelling out
the words, wagging her head the while. It is as good as a play to her.
She lives in Pye Street, Westminster, and is familiar with crime in its
every aspect. She is drunk--she has not been sober a day for thirty
years. Well, she was born in a thief's den, and her mother died in a
delirium of drink. Here is a thief, who has lived more than half his
life in prison, reading the bill critically, with a professional eye.
It would be a pleasure to him to detect a flaw in it. There is in his
mind a certain indignation that some person unknown to himself or his
friends should have achieved such notoriety. "I'd like to catch 'im," he
thinks, "and pocket the shiners." He wouldn't peach on a pal, but, for
such a reward, he would on one who was not "in the swim." Here is a
dark-visaged man reading the bill secretly, unaware that he is casting
furtive glances around to make sure that he is not being watched. There
is guilt on the soul of this man; a crime undiscovered, which haunts him
by day and night. He reads, and reads, and reads; and then slinks into
the nearest public-house, and spends his last twopence in gin. As he
raises the glass to his lips he can scarcely hold it, his hand trembles
so. How sweet must life be to the man who holds it on such terms; and
how terrible the fears of death! Here is another man who reads the bill
with an assumption of indifference, and even compels himself to read it
slowly a second time, and then walks carelessly away. He walks, with
strangely steady steps, along Parliament Street, southwards, and turns
to Westminster Bridge, holding all the way some strong emotion in
control. Difficult as it is, he has a perfect mastery over himself, and
no sound escapes him till he reaches the bridge; then he leans over,
and gives vent to his emotion. It takes the form of laughter--horrible
laughter--which he sends downwards into the dark waters of the Thames,
hiding his face the while! What secret lies concealed in his brain? Is
he mad--or worse?
Many small knots of people had lately gathered before the bills posted
on London walls, of which one was in the possession of Mrs. James
Preedy:
[Illustration]
MURDER.
£100 REWARD.
_Whereas, on the morning of Thursday, the 10th of July, the Dead Body of
a_ MAN _was found on the premises, No. 119, Great Porter Square, London,
under such circumstances as prove that he was Murdered. An Inquest
has been held on the Body, and the Coroner's Jury having returned a_
"VERDICT OF WILFUL MURDER AGAINST SOME PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN," _the
above Reward will be paid to any Person (other than a Person belonging
to a Police Force in the United Kingdom) who shall give such Information
as shall lead to the Discovery and Conviction of the Murderer or
Murderers; and the Secretary of State for the Home Department will
advise the Grant of her Majesty's Gracious_
PARDON
_to any Accomplice not being the Person who actually committed the
Murder who shall give such evidence as shall lead to a like result._
_Evidence to be given, to the Director of Criminal Investigators, Great
Scotland Yard, or at any Police station._