THE RESULT OF MARKHAM'S ENTERPRISE.
The reader at all acquainted with German literature may probably
remember some of those old tales of demonology and witchcraft, in which
assemblies of jovial revellers are frequently dismayed and overawed by
the sudden entrance of some mysterious stranger--perhaps a knight in
black armour, with his vizor closed, or a monk with his cowl drawn over
his countenance. If the recollection of such an episode in the sphere of
romance recur to the reader's mind, he will have no difficulty in
comprehending us when we state that the presence of the short,
thick-set, middle-aged stranger caused an immediate damp to fall upon
the spirits of the company in the _Dark-House_ parlour.
The stranger seemed to take no notice of any one present, but drank his
grog, lighted his cigar, and settled himself in his seat, apparently
with the view of making himself very comfortable.
Still there was something sinister and mysterious about this man, which
did not exactly please the other inmates of the room; and as we cannot
suppose that the consciences of these persons were over pure, the least
appearance of ambiguity to them was an instantaneous omen of danger.
Like the dog that scents the corpse of the murdered victim, even when
buried deep in the earth, those wretches possessed an instinct
marvellously sensitive and acute in perceiving the approach or presence
of peril.
And yet, to a common beholder, there was nothing very remarkable about
that stranger. He was a plain-looking, quiet, shabbily dressed person,
and one who seemed anxious to smoke his cigar in peace, and neither
speak nor be spoken to.
Good reader--it was the reserve of this man,--his staid and serious
demeanour--his tranquil countenance--and his exclusive manner
altogether, that created the unpleasant impression we have described.
Had he entered the room with a swagger, banged the door behind him,
sworn at the waiter, or nodded to one single individual present, he
would have produced no embarrassing sensation whatever. But he was
unknown:--what, then, could he do there, where all were well known to
each other?
However, he continued to smoke, with his eyes intently fixed upon the
blueish wreaths that ascended slowly and fantastically from the end of
his cigar; and for five minutes after his entrance not a word was
spoken.
At length the coal-whipper broke silence.
"Well, my dear," he said, addressing himself to the unfortunate girl who
had already narrated a portion of her adventures, "you haven't done your
story yet."
"Oh! I do not feel in the humour to go on with it to-night," she
exclaimed, glancing uneasily towards the stranger. "Indeed, I
recollect--I have an appointment--close by--"
She hesitated; then, apparently mustering up her courage, cried
"Good-night, all," and left the room.
"Who the deuce is that feller, Tony?" demanded the Cracksman, in a
whisper, of his companion. "I can't say I like his appearance at all."
"Oh! nonsense," answered the Resurrection Man: "he is some quiet chap
that doesn't like to smoke and talk at the same time."
"But don't it seem as how he'd throwed a damp on the whole party?"
continued the Cracksman, in the same subdued tone.
"Do you take me for a child that's frightened at a shadow?" said the
Resurrection Man savagely. "I suppose you're afraid that this young
Holford will play us false. Why--what could he do to us? Anything he
revealed would only implicate himself. He knows nothing about our games
up by the Bird-cage Walk there."
"I forgot _that_;--no more he doesn't," cried the Cracksman. "There's
nobody can do us any harm, that I know on."
"One--and one only," answered the Resurrection Man, sinking his already
subdued tone to the lowest possible whisper,--"one only, I say, can
injure us; and he will not dare to do it!"
"Who the devil do you mean?" demanded the Cracksman.
"I mean the only man that ever escaped out of the crib up by the walk
after he had received a blow from my stick," answered the Resurrection
Man.
"You don't mean to say, Tony," whispered the Cracksman, his countenance
giving the most unequivocal signs of alarm, "that there's a breathing
soul which ever went in the door of that crib an intended wictim, and
come out alive agin!"
"Never do you mind now. We shall make all the people stare at us if we
go on whispering in this way. Supposing any one _did_ mean to nose upon
us haven't we got our barkers in our pocket?"
"Ah! Tony," said the Cracksman, in whose mind these words of his
companion seemed to arouse a sudden and most disagreeable
idea,--"talking about _nosing_ makes me remember someot that I was told
a few days ago up in Rat's Castle in the Rookery."
"And what was that?" asked the Resurrection Man, surveying his friend
with his serpent-like eyes in a manner that made him actually quail
beneath the glance.
"What was it?" repeated the Cracksman, who appeared to hesitate whether
he should proceed, or not: "why--I heard a magsman say that you nosed
upon poor Crankey Jem, and that was the reason he got lagged and you was
acquitted three year ago at the Old Bailey."
"And what did you say to that?" demanded the Resurrection Man, looking
from beneath his bushy brows at the Cracksman, as the ghole in eastern
mythology may be supposed to gaze on the countenance of him whom he
marks for his victim.
"What did I say?" answered the Cracksman in a hoarse whisper: "why--I
knocked the fellow down to be sure."
"And you did what you ought to do, and what I should have done if any
one had told me _that_ of you," said the Resurrection Man in a tone of
the most perfect composure.
While this conversation took place, hurriedly and in whispers, the
mysterious stranger continued to smoke his cigar without once glancing
around him; and the other inmates of the _Dark-House_ parlour,
recovering a little from their panic at the entrance of that individual,
made a faint attempt to renew the discourse.
But although the eyes of the stranger were apparently occupied in
watching the wreaths of smoke, as they curled upwards to the ceiling,
they were in reality intent upon the parlour window, the lower part of
which alone was darkened by the sliding shutter that lifted up and down.
There was a bright lamp over the front door of the public-house; and
thus the heads of all the passengers in the street might be descried, as
they passed the window, by the inmates of the parlour.
"I say, Ben," exclaimed one reveller to another, "have you heerd that
they're a goin' to lay out a park up by Bonner's Road and Hackney Wick?"
"Yes--the Wictoria Park," was the reply. "On'y fancy giving them poor
devils of Spitalfields weavers a park to walk in instead o' filling
their bellies. But I 'spose they'll make a preshus deep pond in it."
"What for?" demanded the first speaker.
"Why--for the poor creturs to drown theirselves in, to be sure."
At this moment the countenance of a man in the street peered for a
single instant over the shutter, and was then immediately withdrawn; but
not before a significant glance had been exchanged with the stranger
sitting in the neighbourhood of the door.
All this, however, remained entirely unnoticed by the male and female
revellers in the parlour.
"Well, it's gone nine," whispered the Cracksman to his companion, "and
this fellow Holford don't come. It's my opinion he ain't a-going to."
"We'll give him half an hour's grace," returned the Resurrection Man.
"The young fool is hard up, and won't let the hope of five couters slip
through his brain quite so easy."
"Half an hour's grace, as you say, Tony," whispered the Cracksman; "and
then if he don't come: we'll be off--eh?"
"Oh! just as you like," growled the Resurrection Man. "You seem quite
chicken-hearted to-night, Tom."
"I don't know how it is," answered the Cracksman; "but I've got a
persentiment--as they calls it--of evil. The sight of that there feller
there----" and he nodded towards the stranger.
"Humbug!" interrupted the Resurrection Man, "you haven't had grog
enough--that's it."
He accordingly ordered the waiter to supply fresh tumblers of hot
liquor; and the next half hour slipped away rapidly enough; but no Henry
Holford made his appearance.
At a quarter to ten the two villains rose, and, having settled their
score, departed.
Scarcely had the parlour door closed behind them, when the short
thick-set stranger also retreated precipitately from the room.
Disappointed and in an ill-humour, the Resurrection Man and the
Cracksman hurried away from the _Dark-House_ towards the den situate in
the immediate vicinity of the Bird-cage Walk.
The streets were ankle-deep in mud: a thin mizzling rain was falling;
and neither moon nor stars appeared upon the dark and murky field of
heaven.
The two men walked one a little in advance of the other, until they
reached the top of Brick Lane, where they separated for the purpose of
proceeding by different routes towards the game point--a precaution they
invariably adopted after quitting any public place in each other's
company.
But so well were the arrangements of the police concocted, that while
the Resurrection Man continued his way along Tyssen Street, and the
Cracksman turned to the right in Church Street until he reached Samuel
Street, up which he proceeded, an active officer followed each: while in
the neighbourhood of Virginia Street and the Bird-cage Walk numerous
policemen were concealed in dark alleys, lone courts, and obscure nooks,
ready to hasten to any point whence the spring of rattles might
presently emanate.
Also concealed in a convenient hiding-place, and anxiously awaiting the
result of the various combinations effected to discover the den of the
murderers, Richard Markham was prepared to aid in the operations of the
night.
Meantime, the Resurrection Man pursued one route, and the Cracksman
another, both converging towards the same point; but neither individual
suspected that danger was on every side! They advanced as confidently as
the flies that work their way amidst the tangled web of the spider.
At length the Resurrection Man reached his house; and almost at the same
moment the other ruffian arrived at the door.
"All right, Tom."
"All right, Tony."
And the Resurrection Man opened the door, by simply pressing his foot
forcibly against it in a peculiar manner.
He entered the passage, followed by the Cracksman, which latter
individual turned to close the door, when it was burst wide open and
half a dozen policemen rushed into the house.
"Damnation!" cried the Resurrection Man; "we are sold!"--and, darting
down the passage, he rushed into the little back room, the door of which
he succeeded in closing and fastening against the officers.
But the Cracksman had fallen into the hands of the police, and was
immediately secured. Rattles were sprung; and the sudden and unexpected
din, breaking upon the solemn silence of the place and hour, startled
the poor and the guilty in their wretched abodes.
"Break open the door there!" cried the serjeant who commanded the
police, and who was no other than the mysterious stranger of the
_Dark-House_ parlour: "break open that door--and two of you run up
stairs this moment!"
As he spoke, a strong light shone from the top of the staircase. The
officers cast their eyes in that direction, and beheld a hideous old
woman scowling down upon them. In her hand she carried a candle, the
light of which was thrown forward in a vivid flood by the reflection of
a huge bright tin shade.
This horrible old woman was the Mummy.
Already were two of the officers half-way up the staircase,--already was
the door of the back room on the ground floor yielding to the strength
of a constable,--already were Richard Markham and several officers
hurrying down the street towards the spot, obedient to the signal
conveyed by the springing of the rattles,--when a terrific explosion
took place.
"Good God!" ejaculated Markham: "what can that mean?"
"There--there!" cried a policeman near him: "it is all over with the
serjeant and my poor comrades!"
Immediately after the explosion, and while Markham and the officer were
yet speaking, a bright column of fire shot up into the air:--millions
and millions of sparks, glistening vividly, showered down upon the scene
of havoc;--for a moment--a single moment--the very heavens seemed on
fire;--then all was black--and silent--and doubly sombre.
The den of the assassins had ceased to exist: it had been destroyed by
gunpowder.
The blackened remains and dismembered relics of mortality were
discovered on the following morning amongst the ruins, or in the
immediate neighbourhood;--but it was impossible to ascertain how many
persons had perished on this dread occasion.