THE MYSTERIES OF OLD DEATH'S ESTABLISHMENT.
From the back of the Sessions House on Clerkenwell Green, towards
Smithfield Market, runs a thoroughfare the upper portion of which is
known by the name of Turnmill Street, and the lower part as Cow-Cross
Street.
Numerous rag-shops and marine-stores here meet the eye,—establishments
where the thief in a small way may obtain a ready sale for the proceeds
of his roguery. It is really curious to stand for a few moments and
observe the miscellaneous assortment of articles crammed together in the
dingy windows of these places,—as if they were receptacles for all the
rags that misery could spare, and all the rubbish which domestic
neatness throws into the street.
Some of the old clothes-shops in the thoroughfare which we are
describing, are strikingly characteristic of the neighbourhood; for you
cannot gaze a minute upon the silk handkerchiefs, the bonnets, the
shirts, the gowns, the coats, the trousers, and the waistcoats, and
other articles hanging outside the windows, or suspended to nails stuck
into the walls, without being able to form a pretty accurate computation
of the proportion which has been stolen, and that which has been
obtained by legitimate purchase.
The women lounging at the doors in Turnmill and Cow-Cross Streets are of
dissipated, dirty, and loathsome appearance: nor have the men any
advantage over them in these respects.
Take a duchess from the saloons of fashion,—a duchess in her satin or
velvet, with her feathers and her diamonds, her refined manners, her
elegant demeanour, her polished discourse, and her civilising
influence,—and place her by the side of one of those degraded women in
Turnmill Street,—a woman with hoarse voice, revolting manners, incrusted
with dirt, clothed in the meanest apparel, if not in absolute rags, and
interlarding her conversation with oaths and obscenities,—place those
two specimens of the female sex together,—and how astounding is the
contrast!
But the duchess has no more claim to praise for the polish—the
fascinations—the exquisite refinement which characterise her, than the
poor woman of Turnmill Street deserves to be blamed for the degradation
and repulsiveness in which she is steeped to the very crown of her head.
Had the two been changed at their birth, she who is now the duchess
would have become the dissipated, loathsome, ragged wretch of Turnmill
Street; and the babe who has grown to be this ragged wretch, would have
sprung up into the splendid lady with the ducal coronet on her brow.
The rich and the high-born do not reflect upon this fact:—they fancy
that their very aristocracy is innate as it is hereditary, and that the
poor are naturally degraded, vicious, and immoral. Oh! the terrible
error—the fearful mistake! For, after all, many a proud peer is in
reality the son of his reputed father's groom or footman; and many a
dazzling beauty owes her being to her mother's illicit amours with a
butler or a page!
The young Prince of Wales, if he live, will doubtless become one of the
most polished gentlemen in the universe:—but had he been stolen at his
birth, and brought up by poor people, he would even now be running
bare-footed in the streets—groping in the gutters for halfpence—gnawing
cabbage-stalks and turnip-parings—thieving pudding from cooks'-shops and
bacon from cheesemongers' windows—easing old gentlemen of their
handkerchiefs—and familiar with all the horrible vocabulary of the slang
language!
No credit, then, to the aristocracy—no blame to the poor! Neither can
help being what they are. The influences of the sphere of refinement
must have a tendency to refine: the miseries of the poor must produce
degradation, immorality, and recklessness.
Ah! my Lord Duke—how ineffable is your contempt for yon poor trembling
wretch who now stands in the dock at the Old Bailey, before his judge!
Your Grace never did a dishonourable action—your Grace has never
committed even a crime so genteel as forgery! But has your Grace ever
known what starvation is? has your Grace wandered for hours, like a
madman, through the streets of a city teeming with all the luxuries of
the earth, while a wife and children were weeping for bread in a
cheerless garret up some filthy court? No—your Grace has never been
placed in such a position; or, believe me, you would probably have
purloined a loaf of bread or filched a handkerchief or a purse—even as
did that poor trembling wretch in the dock, whose guilt has filled your
Grace with so much disgust!
And you, too, my Lady Duchess—how closely your Grace wraps that elegant,
warm shawl around your form, lest its mere hem should happen to touch
the garments of that poor unfortunate girl who is passing just at the
moment when your Grace is stepping from the Opera-door into the splendid
equipage which is to whirl your Grace to your palace-home! Oh! I well
understand the loathing—the disgust which the menaced contact with that
wretched creature excites in the bosom of your Grace. But—ah! does she
deserve no pity—no sympathy, as well as such sovereign contempt—such
boundless aversion? The entire sex is not outraged by her fall;—and
consider, my lady Duchess—had you been a poor man's daughter and so
hemmed in by miseries of all kinds from your very birth until the age of
womanhood, that emancipation from such incessant privations were a very
paradise, even though purchased by a crime,—thinkest thou, my lady, that
thy virtue would have been stronger than that of the poor wretch who
seems to insult you by even breathing the same air that surrounds your
aristocracy?
Merciful heavens! how unjust the upper classes are to the lower! The
great lord and the haughty lady blame where they should pity—turn away
with loathing where they should commiserate—proclaim as innate
wickedness that social aspect which is the inevitable result of poverty
and oppression—denounce as inveterately depraved those unhappy beings
who never were taught nor had a chance to be good!
The infamy of the upper class towards the lower in this country, is
immense. A landowner gives his labourer eight shillings a-week, and
says, "Go and live comfortably—be neat and clean—attend divine worship
on the Sabbath—educate your children—let them read good books—keep them
tidy in their appearance—and avoid debt!" Then when this landowner finds
the family naked and starving—the man frequenting the public-house in
despair, instead of the church in holy gratitude—the wife a slattern and
a gin-drinker—the children incipient prostitutes and thieves,—when he
sees all this, he raises his hands, exclaiming, "Oh! the inveterate,
innate wickedness of the working classes!"
The aristocracy and the landowners of this country are, as a whole,
the most cruel and heartless set of legalised robbers that ever preyed
upon the vitals of suffering millions:—they are now what the French
aristocrats and landlords were previously to the Revolution of
1796;—and solemnly—solemnly do we declare our belief that the
despotic—tyrannical—remorseless oligarchy which usurps the right of
domination, is hurrying the United Kingdom to a similar catastrophe!
But to continue our narrative.
The mist-like rain was still falling, and midnight had struck some time,
when Old Death, closely followed by Tom Rain, merged from Cow-Cross
Street, and stopped at the entrance to a narrow court in Turnmill
Street.
Casting a glance around, to assure himself that Rainford was at his
heels, Old Death plunged into the court; and Tom, fancying that the
ancient fence meant to elude him, sprang after him and caught him by the
skirt of his grey coat.
"No noise," whispered Bones. "Here we are."
Thus speaking, he opened a side-door in the court with a key which he
took from his pocket, and, hurrying Tom Rain with him, closed the door
carefully again behind them.
The place into which the highwayman was introduced, was as dark as
pitch; and, not choosing to be led into an ambuscade, Rainford said,
"One moment, my worthy friend! If you have no means of obtaining a
light, I will very soon get those means from some public-house——"
While he was yet speaking Old Death procured a light from a tinder-box;
and a candle, which stood ready on a low shelf near the door, soon
diffused sufficient lustre around to enable the highwayman to observe
what kind of place he had been introduced into. It was a small,
dingy-looking room, without a vestige of furniture in it, and having the
entrance to a narrow staircase on one side, and a second door, facing
that by which he and Old Death had entered, on the other.
When a thief arrived at this place with any stolen property, he pulled a
wire the handle of which hung against the wall in the court: a bell rang
within—the outer door opened by unseen means, and the thief closed it
behind him on entering the little room. He then tapped at the inner or
second door which we have noticed, and which had a hatch in it that
immediately drew up: no one appeared—but the thief threw in his bundle
or parcel. The hatch then closed. In a few moments—or according to the
time required for the inspection of the goods—the hatch was raised
again, but merely high enough to admit the passage of a small piece of
paper, whereon was marked the highest price that would be given for the
articles offered for sale. If the paper were immediately returned by the
thief, the money was thrust forth; the door in the court opened again by
invisible means, the thief departed, and the door was closed behind him:
if, however, he did not return the paper, it was considered that he
would not accept the amount proffered, and the bundle was restored to
him through the hatch.
"Thus, you perceive," said Old Death, whom Rainford compelled to reveal
the mysterious use of the hatch in the inner door, "no one is seen by
those who come here to dispose of their property."
"And who manages this business for you?" demanded the highwayman; "for
it is clear that you cannot be here—there—and every where at one and the
same time."
"I have a faithful and trustworthy man who has been in my service for
many—many years," answered Old Death.
"But the people who have dealings at this place must know that it is
your establishment?" said Rainford.
"Quite the contrary!" exclaimed Bones, with a grim smile. "This
fencing-crib is called _Tidmarsh's_—and none of the flash men in London
know that I have the least connexion with it. It takes its name from my
managing man. When I have business to do that I must transact in person,
I meet my friends at public-houses and patter-cribs—and my very intimate
ones, such as you, at Bunce's. But come up stairs."
Old Death led the way to an indifferently furnished room, where a man as
well stricken in years and as repulsively ugly as himself, though
apparently not near so tall, was in bed.
"It's only me, Tidmarsh," said Old Death.
"Only you!" growled the man, sitting up in bed, and staring suspiciously
at Rainford.
"Me and a friend—a very particular friend, Tiddy," added Bones. "Indeed,
it's Mr. Rainford."
"Oh! that's different!" said Tidmarsh, in a more conciliatory tone.
"Your fame, sir, has reached me even in this crib. Take some rum, sir."
And he pointed to a bottle and glasses standing on a table.
"Well—I don't mind if I do—just to keep out the damp, and drink your
health, Mr. Tidmarsh," cried Rainford, in his usual merry, off-hand
strain; and, suiting the action to his words, he took a small dram.
Old Death followed his example; and Mr. Tidmarsh suffered himself to be
prevailed upon to imbibe a like quantum.
"Now, go to sleep, Tiddy," said Bones, in a patronising manner. "We
shan't disturb you any more."
Mr. Tidmarsh gave a species of grunt by way of assent to the
recommendation offered, and threw himself back upon his pillow.
Old Death conducted Rainford into the adjoining rooms on the same
storey, and then to the upper chambers; but they were all quite empty!
Their walls were black with dirt—the ceilings seemed as if they had
originally been painted of a sombre hue—the window-panes were so grimed
that it was evident they could admit but a feeble light even in the
broad day—the floors sent up clouds of dust as the feet trod upon
them—and dense masses of cob-webs actually rounded off all the corners.
There was, moreover, an earthy, infected smell in those rooms, which
would have made a weak stomach heave with nausea.
Tom Rain was quite surprised to find all the chambers empty. He had
expected to be introduced into warehouses teeming with the produce of
three-parts of all the roguery committed in the great metropolis: but
not even so much as an old rag met his eyes. Indeed, the rooms appeared
as if they had not been tenanted, or even scarcely entered, for
many—many years.
"This may be your reception-house," he said, in a jocular manner; "but
it certainly does not contain your stores."
"All the goods are sent away as soon as they are received," replied Old
Death.
"And where are they sent to?" demanded Rain.
"To the small dealers—and some to the continent," answered Bones, eyeing
him askance.
"Well and good," observed the highwayman coolly. "But you have not a
hundred errand-boys to distribute the bundles and parcels about: neither
are there vessels sailing for Holland and France every hour in the day."
"What—what do you mean, Tom?" asked Old Death.
"I mean that you are trying to deceive me," exclaimed the highwayman,
sternly. "But, look you! we are alone in this house—for I consider your
old man down stairs as nobody; and, by God! if you attempt any of your
nonsense with me, I'll fell you with the butt-end of this pistol."
"What would you have me do?" said Old Death, trembling at the determined
manner in which his companion spoke.
"I would have you show me where you keep your stores," was the resolute
answer. "And now—delay not—or it will be the worse for you."
Old Death still hesitated for a moment; but, seeing that Rainford
stamped his foot impatiently and raised his pistol in a menacing manner,
he disposed himself to do with a good grace what he could not avoid.
Raising the candle high up so as to light the way thoroughly, he
retraced his steps down the narrow, precipitous, and broken staircase,
Tom Rain following close behind.
Having reached the little room on the ground-floor, and which we have
already described as the place where stolen property was purchased, Old
Death opened the door containing the hatch, and led Rainford into a
small back chamber, having the air of an office. Its furniture consisted
of a desk, a high stool, and one of those large, old-fashioned eight-day
clocks, which used to be seen in the kitchens of genteel houses, and the
wall-nut cases of which were as big as coffins. On the desk were writing
materials, and a huge ledger, especially dirty, as if it had been well
thumbed by hands not too intimately acquainted with soap.
"This is Tidmarsh's crib, I suppose?" said Rainford inquiringly.
Old Death nodded an affirmative.
The highwayman opened the book, in which the entries of each day's
transactions were regularly made. We shall quote a specimen of these
accounts, prefacing the extract with the necessary explanation that the
numbers prefixed to some of the memoranda were those which tallied with
the names of the thieves, burglars, or prostitutes entered in Old
Death's books, as was stated on a previous occasion:—
_No._ 31. Two belchers, a cream-fancy, a randlesman, and a blue
billy; three wedge-feeders, a yack, and a dee. £1 15_s._
_A Stranger—looked like a shallow cove._ Roll of snow, six snooze
cases, three narps, and a blood-red fancy. 8_s._
_A Stranger—looked like a spunk fencer._ Green king's-man,
water's-man, yellow-fancy, and yellow-man; pair of kicksters, a
fan, and a dummie. 13_s._ 6_d._
_No._ 4. A cat, six pair of shakester's crabs, and a cule. 12_s._
_No._ 53. Yack and onions. £1 12_s._ 6_d._
_A Stranger—looked like a snow-dropper._ Twelve mill-togs. 6_s._
_A Stranger—looked like a peterman._ Busy-sack, redge-yack, six
wedge-feeders, and togs in busy-sack. £2 15_s._
_A Stranger—looked like a mushroom-faker._ Lily benjamin. 3_s._
6_d._
_A Stranger—looked like a crocus._ To smash three double finnips.
£12 10_s._ 6_d._
_A stranger—looked like a high-fly._ Redge-fawney. 8_s._ 6_d._
_Lunan._ To smash a single finnip. £2 2_s._ 6_d._[11]
"Quite a secret police-book, this," observed Tom Rain, after he had
gained an insight into its contents.
Old Death smiled grimly.
"But do you mean to say," continued Rainford, "that these persons who
are noted by means of numbers—for I can understand the meaning of all
that—do not know that this is your crib?"
"Not they!" replied Bones. "I tell you that they call it _Tidmarsh's_:
and I may add that not one out of one hundred who come here, even know
old Tidmarsh by sight."
"And how does he recognise these fellows who are denoted by the
numbers?" asked Tom Rain.
Old Death pointed to a small hole, not larger than a pea, in the
wood-work which separated the two rooms; and this hole was covered with
a little moveable piece of wood on the inner side—that is, in the office
where Tidmarsh was accustomed to sit.
"Things begin to grow a little plainer," said Rainford. "And now, my
worthy old fence, to the store-rooms and to your own special residence."
This command was significantly backed by the motion of Rainford's right
hand towards the pocket where he had deposited the pistol with which he
had ere now menaced his companion.
Mr. Benjamin Bones swallowed a profound sigh—for it went to his heart to
think that he was compelled to yield to the coercion of one whom he had
marked out for a slave, but who had become a master.
But as he took up the candle from the desk whereon he had placed it to
enable the highwayman to examine his memorandum-book, a gleam of
horrible satisfaction shot athwart his countenance—as if some idea of a
consolatory nature had suddenly struck him.
Tom Rain whistled a tune with an air of the most perfect indifference:
but that abrupt change in Old Death's features—that scintillation of
delight, momentary as its expression was, had not escaped the notice of
the highwayman.
The ancient fence now approached the clock, which was ticking in a
gloomy, monotonous manner; and, as he laid his hand upon the key which
opened the door of the case, he turned sharply towards Rainford, saying,
"You persist in going farther to-night?"
"Yes—such is my determination," answered Tom.
Old Death opened the clock, and touched some secret spring inside. This
was immediately followed by the noise of wheels, accompanied by a
peculiar sound as of a windlass turning rapidly; and in a few moments
Rainford perceived that the entire clock itself was moving slowly along
the wall, revealing by degrees an aperture in the floor.
In about a minute the working of the machinery ceased—the clock-case was
once more stationary—and in the place where it first stood was an
opening cut in the boards, large enough to admit the passage of even a
moderately stout man.
"Shall I go first?" asked Old Death, with a sardonic smile, which seemed
to indicate his opinion that Rainford would not venture to follow him.
But if such were really his idea, he was disappointed; for the
highwayman said in the coolest manner possible, "By all means, old chap.
And make haste about it—for the night is passing away, and as yet I have
seen scarcely anything."
Old Death made no answer, but began to descend an iron ladder, to which
the aperture led; and as he gradually went down the steps, he held up
the candle in one hand, and with the other supported himself by means of
a rope hung for the purpose.
Tom Rain unhesitatingly followed him; and when he reached the bottom of
the ladder, he found himself in a long, narrow, vaulted passage,
apparently stretching far underground, but to the end of which it was
impossible for the eye to penetrate, so feeble and flickering was the
light afforded by the candle.
"Wait an instant while I close the entrance," said Old Death: "it is a
precaution I never neglect."
"Quite right," observed Tom coolly; and while he affected to be
leisurely whistling a tune, he was in reality keeping a most careful
watch upon his companion's movements.
Old Death pulled a thick wire which hung down from the top of the vault,
and the mechanism of the clock was again set in motion, until the
clock-case itself had resumed its usual station over the entrance to the
vaulted subterranean.
-----
Footnote 11:
The ensuing glossary will explain these otherwise enigmatical
entries:—
_Belcher_—close striped handkerchief.
_Cream fancy_—any pattern of handkerchief on a white ground.
_Randlesman_—green handkerchief, with white spots.
_Blue billy_—blue ground handkerchief, with white spots.
_Wedge-feeders_—silver spoons.
_Yack_—watch.
_Dee_—pocket-book of small size.
_Shallow cove_—a fellow dressed in a Guernsey jacket, and looking
like a sailor.
_Roll of snow_—piece of Irish linen.
_Snooze-cases_—pillow-cases.
_Narps_—calico shirts.
_Blood-red fancy_—handkerchief all red.
_Spunk fencer_—match-seller.
_Green King's-man_—handkerchief of any pattern on a green ground.
_Watersman_—sky-coloured handkerchief.
_Yellow fancy_—yellow handkerchief, with white spots.
_Yellow-man_—handkerchief all yellow.
_Kicksters_—trousers.
_Fan_—waistcoat.
_Dummie_—pocket-book of large size.
_Cat_—muff.
_Shakesters' crabs_—ladies' shoes.
_Cule_—reticule.
_Yack and onions_—watch and seals.
_Snow-dropper_—one who steals linen from hedges or drying grounds.
_Mill togs_—linen shirts.
_Peterman_—a robber who cuts trunks from the back of carriages.
_Busy-sack_—carpet bag.
_Redge yack_—gold watch.
_Togs_—clothes.
_Mushroom faker_—a man who goes about ostensibly to buy old
umbrellas, but really to thieve.
_Lily benjamin_—white upper coat.
_Crocus_—an itinerant quack doctor.
_Smash_—change.
_Double finnips_—ten-pound notes.
_Highfly_—genteel begging-letter impostor.
_Redge fawney_—gold ring.
_Lunan_—common woman.
_Single finnip_—five-pound note.