THE OLD HOUSE IN SMITHFIELD AGAIN.
The visitor to the Polytechnic Institution or the Adelaide Gallery, has
doubtless seen the exhibition of the microscope. A drop of the purest
water, magnified by that instrument some thousands of times, appears
filled with horrible reptiles and monsters of revolting forms.
Such is London.
Fair and attractive as the mighty metropolis may appear to the
superficial observer, it swarms with disgusting, loathsome, and venomous
objects, wearing human shapes.
Oh! London is a city of strange contrasts!
The bustle of business, and the smile of pleasure,--the peaceful
citizen, and the gay soldier,--the splendid shop, and the itinerant
pastry-stall,--the gorgeous equipage, and the humble market-cart,--the
palaces of nobles, and the hovels of the poor,--the psalm from the
chapel, and the shout of laughter from the tavern,--the dandies lounging
in the west-end streets, and the paupers cleansing away the mud,--the
funeral procession, and the bridal cavalcade,--the wealthy and high-born
lady whose reputation is above all cavil, and the lost girl whose shame
is below all notice,--the adventurer who defends his honour with a duel,
and the poor tradesman whom unavoidable bankruptcy has branded as a
rogue,--the elegantly-clad banker whose insolvency must soon transpire,
and the ragged old miser whose wealth is not suspected,--the monuments
of glory, and the hospitals of the poor,--the temples where men adore a
God with affectation, and the shrines at which they lose their gold to a
deity whom they adore without affectation,--in a word, grandeur and
squalor, wealth and misery, virtue and vice,--honesty which has never
been tried, and crime which yielded to the force of irresistible
circumstances,--all the features, all the characteristics, all the
morals, of a great city, must occupy the attention of him who surveys
London with microscopic eye.
And what a splendid subject for the contemplation of the moralist is a
mighty city which, at every succeeding hour, presents a new phase of
interest to the view;--in the morning, when only the industrious and the
thrifty are abroad, and while the wealthy and the great are sleeping off
the night's pleasure and dissipation:--at noon, when the streets are
swarming with life, as if some secret source without the walls poured at
that hour myriads of animated streams into the countless avenues and
thoroughfares;--in the evening, when the men of pleasure again venture
forth, and music, and dancing, and revelry prevail around;--and at
night, when every lazar-house vomits forth its filth, every den lets
loose its horrors, and every foul court and alley echoes to the
footsteps of crime!
It was about two o'clock in the morning, (three hours after the
burglarious attempt upon the villa,) that a man, drenched by the rain
which continued to pour in torrents, with his hat drawn over his eyes,
and his hands thrust in his pockets to protect them against the cold,
crept cautiously down West Street, from Smithfield, dodged past the
policeman, and entered the old house which we have described at the
opening of our narrative.
Having closed and carefully bolted the front door, he hastily ascended
to the room on the first floor where Walter Sydney had seen him and his
companion conceal their plunder four years and four months previously.
This man--so wet, so cold, and so miserable--was Bill Bolter, the
murderer.
Having groped about for a few moments, he found a match, struck it, and
obtained a light. One of the secret recesses furnished a candle; and the
flickering glare fell upon the haggard, unshaven, and dirty countenance
of the ruffian.
Scarcely had he lighted the candle, when a peculiar whistle was heard in
the street, just under the window. The features of Bolter became
suddenly animated with joy; and, as he hastily descended the stairs, he
muttered to himself, "Well, at all events here's one on 'em."
The individual to whom he opened the door was Dick Flairer--in no better
plight, mentally and bodily, than himself.
"Is there any bingo, Bill?" demanded Dick, the moment he set foot in the
up-stairs room.
"Not a drain," answered Bolter, after a close inspection of the cupboard
in the wall between the windows; "and not a morsel of grub neither."
"Blow the grub," said Dick. "I ain't in no humour for eating; but I
could drink a gallon. I've been thinking as I come along, and after the
first shock was over, wot cursed fools you and me was to be humbugged in
this here affair. Either that young feller was the brother of the one
which we threw down the trap----"
"No: I could swear that he is the same," interrupted Bill.
"Well--then he must have made his escape--and that's all," added Dick
Flairer.
"That must be it," observed Bolter, after a long pause. "But it was so
sudden upon us--and then without no time to think--and all that----"
"You may say what you like, Bill--but I shall never forgive myself. I
was the first to bolt; and I was a coward. How shall I ever be able to
look the Cracksman in the face again, or go to the parlour of the
boozing-ken?"
"It's no use complaining like this, Dick. You was used to be the bold
'un--and now it seems as if it was me that must say 'Cheer up.' The
fact is, someot must be done without delay. I told you and Tom what had
happened at my crib; and so, lay up for some time I must. Come,
now--Dick, you won't desert a pal in trouble?"
"There's my hand, Bill. On'y say wot you want done, and I'm your man."
"In the first place, do you think it's safe for me to stay here? Won't
that young feller give the alarm, and say as how his house was attempted
by the same cracksmen that wanted to make a stiff 'un of him between
four and five years ago at this old crib; and then won't the
blue-bottles come and search the place from chimley-pot down to
foundation-stone?"
"Let 'em search it," ejaculated Flairer: "they'll on'y do it once; and
who cares for that? You can lie as snug down stairs for a week or so as
if you was a thousand miles off. Besides, who'd think for a instant that
you'd hide yourself in the wery spot that the young feller could point
out as one of our haunts? Mark me, Bill--if yer goes up to Rat's Castle
in Saint Giles's, you would find too many tongues among them cursed
Irishers to ask '_Who is he?_' and '_What is he?_' If you goes over to
the Mint, you'll be sure to be twigged by a lot o' them low buzgloaks
and broken-down magsmen as swarms there; and they'll nose upon you for a
penny. Whitechapel back-slums isn't safe; for the broom-gals, the
blacks, and the ballad singers which occupies all that district, is
always a quarrelling; and the blue-bottles is constantly poking their
nose in every crib in consekvence. Here you are snug; and I can bring
you your grub and tell you the news of an evenin' arter dark."
"But to be penned up in that infernal hole for a fortnit or three weeks,
till the storm's blowed over, is horrible to think on," said Bill.
"And scragging[50] more horrible still," said Dick, significantly.
Bill Bolter shuddered; and a convulsive motion agitated his neck, as if
he already felt the cord around it. His countenance became ashy pale;
and, as he glanced fearfully around, he exclaimed, "Yes, you're right,
Dick: I'll take myself to the hiding-crib, and you can give me the
office[51] at any moment, if things goes wrong. To-morrow you must try
and find out whether there's much of a row about the affair in the
Court."
The ruffian never expressed the least anxiety relative to the fate of
his children.
"To-morrow!" exclaimed Dick: "to-day you mean--for it can't be far off
from three o'clock. And now talking about grub is all very easy; but
getting it is quite another thing. Neither you nor me hasn't got a
scurrick; and where to get a penny loaf on tick I don't know."
"By hell, I shall starve, Dick!" cried the murderer, casting a glance of
alarm and horror upon his companion.
"Whatever I get shall be for you first, Bill; and to get anythink at all
I must be wide awake. The grass musn't grow under my feet."
At that moment a whistle, similar to the sound by which Dick Flairer had
notified his approach to Bill Bolter, emanated from the street and fell
upon the ears of those worthies.
Dick hastened to respond to this summons, and in a short time introduced
the Cracksman.
The moment this individual entered the room, he demanded if there were
anything to eat or to drink upon the premises. He of course received a
melancholy negative: but, instead of being disheartened, his countenance
appeared to wear a smile of pleasure.
"Now, you see, I never desert a friend in distress," he exclaimed; and,
with these words, he produced from his pocket a quantity of cold
victuals and a large flask of brandy.
Without waiting to ask questions or give explanations, the three thieves
fell tooth and nail upon the provender.
"I knowed you'd come to this here crib, because Bill don't dare go to
the boozing-ken till the affair of the Court's blowed over," said the
Cracksman, when his meal was terminated; "and so I thought I'd jine you.
Arter I left the place out by Clapton----"
"And how the devil did you get away?" demanded Dick.
"Just the same as you did. It would have sarved you right if I'd never
spoke to you agin, and blowed you at the ken into the bargain; but I
thought to myself, thinks I, 'It must be someot very strange that made
the Flairer and the Bolter cut their lucky and leave their pal in the
lurch; so let's hear wot they has to say for themselves fust.' Then, as
I come along, I found a purse in a gentleman's pocket just opposite
Bethnal Green New Church; and that put me into good humour. So I looked
in at the ken, got the grub and the bingo, and come on here."
"You're a reg'lar trump, Tom!" ejaculated Dick Flairer; "and I'll stick
to you like bricks from this moment till I die. The fact is--me and Bill
has told you about that young feller which we throwed down the trap some
four or five year back."
"Yes--I remember."
"Well--we seed him to-night."
"To-night! What--at the crib up there?"
"The swell that you got a grip on in the dark, was the very self-same
one."
"Then he must have got clear off--that's all!" cried the Cracksman. "It
was no ghost--but rale plump flesh and hot blood, I'll swear."
"So we both think now, to be sure," said Dick: "but you don't bear any
ill-will, Tom?"
"Not a atom. Here's fifteen couters[52] which was in the purse of the
swell which I met at Bethnal-Green; and half that's yourn. But, about
Bill there--wot's he a-going to do?"
Dick pointed with his finger downwards: Tom comprehended the signal, and
nodded approvingly.
The brandy produced a cheering effect upon the three ruffians: and pipes
and tobacco augmented their joviality. Their discourse gradually became
coarsely humorous; and their mirth boisterous. At length Bill Bolter,
who required every possible means of artificial stimulant and excitement
to sustain his spirits in the fearful predicament in which he was
placed, called upon the Cracksman for a song.
Tom was famous amongst his companions for his vocal qualifications; and
he was not a little proud of the reputation he had acquired in the
parlours of the various "boozing-kens" and "patter-cribs"[53] which he
was in the habit of frequenting. He was not, therefore, backward in
complying with his friend's request; and, in a somewhat subdued tone,
(for fear of making _too much noise_--a complaint not often heard in
Chick Lane), he sang the following lines:--
THE THIEVES' ALPHABET.
A was an Area-sneak leary and sly;
B was a Buzgloak, with fingers so fly;
C was a Cracksman, that forked all the plate;
D was a Dubsman, who kept the jug-gate.
For we are rollicking chaps,
All smoking, singing, boozing;
We care not for the traps,
But pass the night carousing!
E was an Efter,[54] that went to the play;
F was a Fogle he knapped on his way;
G was a Gag, which he told to the beak;
H was a Hum-box,[55] where parish-prigs speak.
CHORUS.
I was an Ikey,[56] with swag all encumbered;
J was a Jug, in whose cell he was lumbered;
K was a Kye-bosh,[57] that paid for his treat;
L was a Leaf[58] that fell under his feet.
CHORUS.
M was a Magsman, frequenting Pall-Mall;
N was a Nose that turned chirp on his pal;
O was an Onion,[59] possessed by a swell;
P was a Pannie, done niblike and well.
CHORUS.
Q was a Queer-screen, that served as a blind;[60]
R was a Reader.[61] with flimsies well lined;
S was a Smasher, so nutty and spry;
T was a Ticker,[62] just faked from a cly.
CHORUS.
U was an Up-tucker,[63] fly with the cord;
V was a Varnisher,[64] dressed like a lord;
Y was a Yoxter[65] that eat caper sauce:[66]
Z was a Ziff[67] who was flashed on the horse.[68]
For we are rollicking chaps
All smoking, singing, boozing:
We care not for the traps,
But pass the night carousing.[69]
In this manner did the three thieves pass the first hours of morning at
the old house in Chick Lane.
At length the heavy and sonorous voice of Saint Paul's proclaimed six
o'clock. It still wanted an hour to sun-rise; but they now thought it
prudent to separate.
Tom the Cracksman and Dick Flairer arranged together a "little piece of
business" for the ensuing night, which they hoped would prove more
fortunate than their attempt on the villa at Upper Clapton; but Dick
faithfully promised Bill Bolter to return to him in the evening before
he set out on the new expedition.
Matters being thus agreed upon, the moment for the murderer's
concealment arrived. We have before stated that the entire grate in the
room which the villains frequented, could be removed; and that, when
taken out of its setting, it revealed an aperture of considerable
dimensions. At the bottom of this square recess was a trap-door,
communicating with a narrow and spiral staircase, that led into a vault
adjoining and upon the same level with the very cellar from which Walter
Sydney had so miraculously escaped.
The possibility of such an architectural arrangement being fully carried
out, with a view to provide a perfect means of concealment, will be
apparent to our readers, when we state that the side of the house
farthest from the Fleet Ditch was constructed with a double brick wall,
and that the spiral staircase consequently stood between those two
partitions. The mode in which the huge chimneys were built, also tended
to ensure the complete safety of that strange hiding-place, and to avert
any suspicion that might for a moment be entertained of the existence of
such a retreat in that old house.
Even in case the secret of the moveable grate should be discovered, the
eye of the most acute thief-taker would scarcely detect the trap-door at
the bottom of the recess, so admirably was it made to correspond with
the brick-work that formed its frame.
The vault with which the spiral staircase corresponded, was about
fourteen feet long by two-and-a-half wide. An iron grating of eight
inches square, overlooking the Fleet Ditch, was all the means provided
to supply that living tomb with fresh--we cannot say pure--air. If the
atmosphere of the hiding-place were thus neither wholesome nor pleasant,
it did not at least menace existence; and a residence in that vault for
even weeks and weeks together was deemed preferable to the less
"cribbed, cabined, and confined" sojourn of Newgate.
But connected with the security of this vault was one fearful condition.
The individual who sought its dark solitude, could not emancipate
himself at will. He was entirely at the mercy of those confederates who
were entrusted with his secret. Should anything happen to these
men,--should they be suddenly overtaken by the hand of death, then
starvation must be the portion of the inmate of that horrible vault: and
should they fall into the hands of justice, then the only service they
could render their companion in the living tomb, would be to reveal the
secret of his hiding-place.
Up to the time of which we are writing, since the formation of that
strange lurking-hole in the days of the famous Jonathan Wild, three or
four persons had alone availed themselves of the vault as a means of
personal concealment. In the first place, the secret existed but with a
very few and secondly, it was only in cases where life and death were
concerned that a refuge was sought in so fearful an abode.
When the grate was removed and the trap-door was opened, the entire
frame of Bill Bolter became suddenly convulsed with horror. He dreaded
to be left to the mercy of his own reflections!
"It's infernally damp," said Bill, his teeth chattering as much with
fear as with the cold.
Fearful, however, of exciting the disgust and contempt of his companions
at what might be termed his pusillanimous conduct, he mustered up all
his courage, shook hands with the Cracksman and Flairer, and then
insinuated his person through the aperture.
"You may as well take the pipes and baccy along with you, old feller,"
returned Dick.
"And here's a thimble-full of brandy left in the flask," added the
Cracksman.
"This evenin' I'll bring you a jolly wack of the bingo," said Flairer.
Provided with the little comforts just specified, the murderer descended
the spiral staircase into the vault.
The trap-door closed above his head; and the grate was replaced with
more than usual care and caution.
The Cracksman and Dick Flairer then took their departure from the old
house, in the foundation of which a fellow-creature was thus strangely
entombed alive!