DARK PLOTS AND SCHEMES.
The Buffer was one of the most unmitigated villains that ever disgraced
the name of man. There was no species of crime with which he was not
familiar; and he had a suitable helpmate in his wife, who was the sister
of Dick Flairer--a character that disappeared from the stage of life in
the early part of this history.
In person, the Buffer was slight, short, and rather
well-made,--extremely active, and endowed with great physical power. His
countenance was by no means an index to his mind; for it was
inexpressive, stolid, and vacant.
His wife was a woman of about five-and-twenty, being probably ten years
younger than her husband. She was not precisely ugly; but her
countenance--the very reverse of that of the Buffer--was so indicative
of every evil passion that can possibly disgrace womanhood, as to be
almost repulsive.
The two new-comers seated themselves near the fire, for their clothes
were dripping with the rain, which continued to pour in torrents. The
warmth of the apartment and a couple of glasses of smoking grog soon,
however, put them into good humour and made them comfortable; and the
Resurrection Man then proposed that they should "proceed to business."
"In the first place, Jack," said the Resurrection Man, addressing
himself to the Buffer, "what news about Markham?"
"He will attend to the appointment," was the answer.
"He will?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man, as if the news were almost
too good to be true: "you are sure?"
"As sure as I am that I've got this here glass in my mawley," said the
Buffer.
"To-morrow night?"
"To-morrow night he'll meet his brother at Twig Folly," answered the
Buffer, with a laugh.
"Tell me all that took place," cried the Resurrection Man; "and then I
shall be able to judge for myself."
"As you told me," began the Buffer, "I made myself particklerly clean
and tidy, and went up to Holloway this morning at about eleven o'clock.
I knocked at the door of the swell's crib; and an old butler-like
looking feller, with a port-wine face, and a white napkin under his arm,
come and opened it. He asked me what my business was. I said I wanted to
speak to Mr. Markham in private. He asked me to walk in; and he showed
me into a library kind of a place, where I see a good-looking young
feller sitting reading. He was very pale, and seemed as if he'd been
ill."
"Fretting about that business at the theatre, no doubt," observed the
Resurrection Man.
"What business?" cried the Buffer.
"No matter--go on."
"Well--so I went into this library and see Mr. Markham. The old servant
left us alone together. 'What do you want with me, my good man?' says
Markham in a very pleasant tone of voice.--'I have summut exceeding
partickler to say to you, sir,' says I.--'Well, what is it?' he
asks--'Have you heerd from your brother lately, sir?' says I, throwing
out the feeler you put me up to. If so be he had said he had, and I saw
that he really knew where he was, and every thing about him, I should
have invented some excuse, and walked myself off; but there was no need
of that; for the moment I mentioned his brother, he was quite
astonished.--'My brother!' he says in a wery excited tone: 'many years
has elapsed since I heerd from him. Do you know what has becomed on
him?'--'Perhaps I knows a trifle about him, sir,' says I; 'and that is
wery trifling indeed. In a word,' I says, 'he wants to see you.'--'He
wants to see me!' cries my gentleman: 'then why doesn't he come to me?
But where is he? tell me, that I may fly to him.'--So then I says, 'The
fact of the matter is this, sir; your brother has got his-self into a
bit of a scrape, and don't dare show. He's living down quite in the east
of London, close by the Regent's Canal; and he has sent me to say that
if so be you'll meet him to-morrow night at ten o'clock in Twig Folly,
he'll be there.'--Then Mr. Markham cries out, 'But why can I not go to
him now? If he is in distress or difficulty, the sooner he sees me the
better.'--'Softly, sir,' says I. 'All I know of the matter is this, that
I'm a honest man as airns his livelihood by running on messages and
doing odd jobs. A gentleman meets me on the bank of the canal, close by
Twig Folly, very early this morning and says, '_Do you want to airn five
shillings?_' Of course I says '_Yes_.'--'_Then,_' says the gentleman,
'_go up to Markham Place without delay, and ask to see Mr. Markham. He
lives at Holloway. Tell him that you come from his brother, who is in
trouble, and can't go to him; but that his brother will meet him
to-morrow night at ten o'clock on the banks of the canal, near Twig
Folly. And,' says the gentleman, 'if he should ask you for a token that
you're tellin' the truth, say that this appointment must be kept instead
of the one on the top of the hill where two ash trees stand
planted_.'--Well, the moment I tells Mr. Markham all this, he begins to
blubber, and then to laugh, and to dance about the room, crying, 'Oh! my
dear--dear brother, shall I then embrace you so soon again?' and
such-like nonsense. Then he gives me half a sovereign his-self, and
sends me into the kitchen, where the cook makes me eat and drink till I
was well-nigh ready to bust. The old butler was rung for; and I've no
doubt that his master told him the good news, for when he come back into
the kitchen, he treated me with the greatest civility, but asked me a
lot of questions about _Master Eugene_, as he called him. I satisfied
him in all ways; and at last I rises, takes my leave of the servants,
and comes off."
"Well done!" cried the Resurrection Man, whose cadaverous countenance
wore an expression of superlative satisfaction. "And you do not think he
entertained the least suspicion?"
"Not a atom," returned the Buffer.
"Nor the old butler?" asked the Resurrection Man.
"Not a bit. But do jest satisfy me on one point, Tony; how come you to
know that anythink about this young feller's brother would produce such
a powerful excitement?"
"Have I not before told you that this Richard Markham was a
fellow-prisoner with me in Newgate some four years and more ago? Well, I
often overheard him talking about his affairs to another man that was
also there, and whose name was Armstrong. Markham and this Armstrong
were very thick together; and Markham spoke quite openly to him about
his family matters, his brother, and one thing or another. That's the
way I came to hear of the strange appointment made between the two
brothers."
"Well, there's no doubt that the fish has bit and can be hooked
to-morrow night," said the Buffer.
"Yes--he is within my reach--and now I shall be revenged," exclaimed the
Resurrection Man, grinding his teeth together. "I will tell you my plans
in this respect presently," he added. "Let us now talk about the old man
that your wife nurses."
"Or _did_ nurse, rather," cried Moll, with a coarse laugh.
Both the Resurrection Man and Margaret Flathers turned a glance of
inquiry and surprise upon the Buffer's wife.
"The old fellow's dead," she added, after a moment's pause.
"Dead already!" exclaimed Tidkins.
"Just as I tell you," answered Moll. "He seemed very sinking and low
this morning; and so I was more attentive to him than ever."
"But the money?" said the Resurrection Man.
"All a dream on her part," cried the Buffer, sulkily, pointing towards
his wife.
"Now don't you go for to throw all the blame on me, Jack," retorted the
woman; "for you know as well as I do that you was as sanguine as me. And
who wouldn't have taken him for an old miser? Here you and me," she
continued, addressing herself to her husband, "go to hire a lodging in a
home in Smart Street, about three months ago, and we find out that
there's an old chap living overhead, on the first floor, who had been
there three months before that time, and had always lived in the same
regular, quiet way--never going out except after dusk, doing nothing to
earn his bread, paying his way, and owing nobody a penny. Then he was
dressed in clothes that wasn't worth sixpence, and yet he had gold to
buy others if he chose, because he used to change a sovereign every
week, when he paid his rent. Well, all these things put together, made
me think he was a miser, and had a store somewhere or another; and when
I said to you----"
"I know what you said, fast enough," interrupted the Buffer, sulkily:
"what's the use of telling us all this over again?
"Just to show that if I was deceived, you was too. But it's always the
way with you: when any thing turns out wrong, you throw the blame on me.
Didn't you say to me, when the old fellow was took ill a month ago:
'_Moll_,' says you, '_go and offer your services to nurse the old
gentleman; and may be if he dies he'll leave you something; or at all
events you may worm out of him the secret of where he keeps his money,
and we can get hold of it all the same_.' That's what you said--and so I
did go and nurse the old man; and he seemed very grateful, for at last
he began to like me almost as much as he did his snuff-box--and that's
saying a great deal, considering the quantity of snuff he used to take,
and the good it seemed to do him when he was low and melancholy."
"Well--what's the use of you and the Buffer wrangling?" cried the
Resurrection Man. "Tell us all about the old fellow's death."
"As I was saying just now," continued Moll, "the old gentleman was took
wery bad this morning soon after Jack left to go up to Holloway; and the
landlady, Mrs. Smith, insisted on sending for a doctor. The old
gentleman shook his head, when he heard Mrs. Smith say so, and seemed
wery, much annoyed at the idea of having a medical visit. But Mrs. Smith
was positive, for she said that she had lost her husband and been left a
lone widder through not having a doctor in time to him when he was ill.
Well, a doctor _was_ sent for, and he said that the old gentleman was
very bad indeed. He asked me and Mrs. Smith what his name was, and
whether he'd any relations, as they ought to be sent for; but Mrs. Smith
said that she never knowed his name at all, and as for relations no one
never come to see him and he never went to see no one his-self. The
doctors orders him to have mustard poultices put to his feet; but it
wasn't of no use, for the old fellow gives a last gasp and dies at
twenty minutes past two this blessed afternoon."
"Well," said the Resurrection Man; "and then, I suppose, you had a
rummage in his boxes?"
"Boxes, indeed!" cried Moll, with an indignant toss of her head. "Why,
when he first come to the house, Mrs. Smith says that all he had was a
bundle tied up in a blue cotton pocket handkercher--a couple of shirts,
and a few pair of stockings, or so. She didn't like to take him in, she
says; but he offered to pay a month's rent in advance; and so she was
satisfied."
"Then you found nothing at all?" exclaimed the Rattlesnake.
"Not much," returned Moll. "The moment we saw he was dead, we began to
search all over the room, to see what he had left behind him. For a long
time we could find nothing but a dirty shirt, two pair of stockings, and
a jar of snuff; and yet Mrs. Smith said she knew there must be money,
for she had heard him counting his gold one day before he was took ill.
Besides, during his illness, whenever money was wanted to get any thing
for him, he never gave it at first, but sent me or Mrs. Smith out of the
room with some excuse; and when we went back, he always had the money in
his hand. Well, me and Mrs. Smith searched and searched away; and at
last Mrs. Smith bethinks herself of looking behind the bed. We moved the
bed away from the wall as well as we could, for the dead body lying upon
it made it precious heavy; and then we saw that a hole had been made
down in the comer of the room. Mrs. Smith puts in her finger, and draws
out an old greasy silk purse. I heard the gold chink; but I saw that the
purse was not over heavy. '_Well_,' says Mrs. Smith, '_I'm glad I've got
a witness of what the poor gentleman left behind him, or else I might
get into trouble some day or another, if any inquiries should be made_.'
So she pours out the gold into her hand, and counts thirty-nine
sovereigns."
"And that was all?" cried the Resurrection Man.
"Every farthing," replied the Buffer's wife. "Well, I asked Mrs Smith
what she intended to do with it; and she says, '_I shall bury the poor
old gentleman decently: that will be five pounds. Then there is a pound
for the doctor, as I must get him to follow the funeral; and here is two
pounds for you for your attention to the old gentleman in his illness_.'
So she gives me the two pounds; and I asks her what she is going to do
with the rest, because there was still thirty-one pounds left."
"And what did she say to that?" demanded the Rattlesnake.
"She began a long ditty about her being an honest woman, though a poor
one, and that dead man's gold would only bring ill-luck into her house."
"The old fool!" cried the Resurrection Man.
"And then she said she should ask the parson, when she had buried the
old man, what she ought to do with the thirty-one pounds."
"Why didn't you propose to split it between you, and hold your tongues?"
asked the Resurrection Man.
"So I did," answered Moll; "and what do you think the old fool said? She
up and told me that she always thought that me and my husband was not
the most respectablest of characters, and she now felt convinced of it."
"Well, we must have those thirty-one yellow boys, old fellow," said the
Resurrection Man to the Buffer.
"Yea--if we can get them," answered the latter; "and I know of no way to
do it but to cut the old woman's throat."
"No--that won't do," ejaculated the Resurrection Man. "If the old woman
disappeared suddenly, suspicion would be sure to fall on you; and the
whole Happy Valley would be up in arms. Then the blue-bottles might find
a trace to this crib here; and we should all get into trouble."
"But if you mean to put the kyebosh upon young Markham to-morrow night,"
said the Buffer, "won't that raise a devil of a dust in the
neighbourhood?"
"Markham disappears from Holloway, which is a long way from the Happy
Valley," replied the Resurrection Man.
"And the old butler, who is certain to know that the appointment was
made for Twig Folly," persisted the Buffer, "won't he give information
that will raise the whole Valley in arms, as you call it?"
"No such thing," said the Resurrection Man. "Markham falls into the
canal accidentally, and is drowned. There's no mark of violence on his
body, and his watch and money are safe about his person. Now do you
understand me?"
"I understand that if you mean me to jump into the canal and help to
hold him in it till he's drowned, you're deucedly out in your reckoning,
for I ain't going to risk drowning myself, 'cause I can't swim better
than a stone."
"You need not set foot in the water," said the Resurrection Man,
somewhat impatiently. "But I suppose you could hold him by the heels
fast enough upon the bank?"
"Oh! yes--I don't mind _that_," replied the Buffer: "but how shall we
get the thirty-one couters from this old fool of a landlady, unless we
use violence?"
The Resurrection Man leant his head upon his hand, his elbow being
supported by the table, and reflected profoundly for some moments.
So high an opinion did the other villain and the two women entertain of
the ingenuity, craft, and cunning of the Resurrection Man, that they
observed a solemn silence while he was thus occupied in meditation,--as
if they were afraid of interrupting a current of ideas which, they
hoped, would lead to some scheme beneficial to them all.
Suddenly the Resurrection Man raised his head, and, turning towards the
Buffer's wife, said, "Do you know whether the old woman has spoken to
any one yet about the funeral?"
"She said she should let it be till to-morrow morning, because the
weather was so awful bad this afternoon."
"Excellent!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man. "Now, Moll, do you put on
your bonnet, take the large cotton umbrella there, and go and do what I
tell you without delay."
The woman rose to put on her bonnet and cloak, which she had laid aside
upon first entering the room; and the Resurrection Man wrote a hurried
note. Having folded, wafered, and addressed it, he handed it to the
Buffer's wife, saying, "Go down as fast as your legs will carry you to
Banks, the undertaker, in Globe Lane, and ask to see him. Give him this;
but mind and deliver it into his hand only. If he is not at home, wait
till he comes in."
The woman took the note, and departed on the mysterious mission
entrusted to her.
"What's in the wind now?" demanded the Buffer, as soon as the door had
closed behind his wife.
"You shall see," replied the Resurrection Man. "Now let us fill our
glasses, and blow a cloud till Moll comes back."
The Rattlesnake mixed fresh supplies of grog; and the two men lighted
their pipes.
"How the rain does beat down," observed the Buffer, after a pause.
"And the wind sweeps along like a hurricane," said the Resurrection Man.
"By the by, this is New Year's Day. What different weather it is from
what it was last New Year's Day."
"Do you recollect what sort of weather it was last New Year's Day?"
demanded the Buffer.
"Perfectly well," answered the Resurrection Man; "because it was on that
evening that I and the poor Cracksman helped young Holford over the
Palace wall."
"And that venture turned out no go, didn't it?" asked the Buffer.
"It failed because the young scamp either turned funky or played us
false, I never could make out which. But I have an account to settle
with him too; and the first time I meet him I'll teach him what it is to
humbug a man like me."
There was a pause, during which the two men smoked their pipes with all
the calmness of individuals engaged in virtuous and innocent meditation;
and the Rattlesnake added fresh fuel to the fire, the flames of which
roared cheerfully up the chimney.
"Come, sing as a song, Meg," cried the Buffer, breaking a silence which
had lasted several minutes.
"I have got a cold, and can't sing," replied the woman.
"Well, then, Tony," said the Buffer, "tell us some of your adventures.
They'll amuse us till Moll comes back."
"I am quite tired of telling the same things over and over again,"
answered the Resurrection Man. "We've never heard you practise in that
line yet; so the sooner you begin the better. Come, tell us your
history."
"There isn't much to tell," said the Buffer, refilling his pipe; "but
such as it is, you're welcome to it."
With this preface, the Buffer commenced his autobiography, in the record
of which we have taken the liberty of correcting the grammatical
solecisms that invariably characterised this individual's discourse; and
we have also improved the language in which the narrative was originally
clothed.