FRESH ALARMS.
Rainford was within twenty yards of the house in which he dwelt, when a
woman jostled him somewhat violently as she endeavoured to pass him
while pursuing the same direction.
There was no excuse for this rudeness on her part, inasmuch as the
pavement was wide in that particular spot, and no other person was on
the footway.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the female; "I'm sure——But, bless me!"
she cried, in a shrill, unmistakeable voice,—"if it isn't Mr. Rainford!"
"Ah! Mrs. Bunce," returned the highwayman; "what are you doing in this
neighbourhood so late?"
"I'm going to pass the night with a relation of mine that's ill, and
which lives at the top of the Lane," answered Mrs. Bunce. "But, Oh! Mr.
Rainford, what a shocking thing this is about poor dear Mr. Bones!"
"What?" ejaculated Tom, with a kind of guilty start.
"Why, sir—he's dead, poor man!" sobbed Mrs. Bunce: "dead and buried,
sir!"
"Dead—and buried!" repeated the highwayman mechanically. "And how came
you to know this?"
"His friend Mr. Tidmarsh came and told me and Toby about it this blessed
morning; and in the afternoon we all followed the poor old gentleman to
the grave in Clerkenwell churchyard."
"His death was sudden, then?" said Tom, anxious to glean how far the
woman might be informed relative to the particulars of the event which
she was deploring.
"Mr. Tidmarsh isn't given to gossiping, sir," replied Mrs. Bunce; "and
he said very little about it. It was quite enough for us to know that
the poor dear old gentleman is gone—and without having made any Will
either: so me and Toby are thrown as you may say on the wide world,
without a friend to help us."
"But Mr. Bones was rich—very rich—was he not?" demanded Tom, who felt
particularly uncomfortable at this confirmation of his worst fears—for
he to some extent looked upon himself as the cause of the old fence's
sudden death.
"Rich, God bless ye! Ah! as rich as a King!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunce. "But
no one knows where he kept his money—unless it is that Tidmarsh."
"And where did he die?" asked Rainford.
"At Tidmarsh's own place in Turnmill Street, Clerkenwell," was the
answer. "Poor old man! But you must have seen him only a short time
before he went off, Mr. Rainford," she added, as if recollecting the
fact: "for it was on that very night when he took Toby and Jacob over
with him to a house in Lock's Fields, and which turned out to be where
you lived. You know he stayed with you while Jacob and Toby went away.
Poor old man! he's a great loss—a very great loss!"
"Were you so dependent on him, then?" asked Rainford.
"Yes, almost entirely, as I may say," was the reply. "And then there's
poor Jacob, too: what in the world he'll do, I'm sure I can't say—for me
and Toby can't afford to keep him now that our best friend's gone. But
good night, Mr. Rainford: I must go on to my cousin's—for it's very
late, and _she_, may be, will pop off the hooks before I get to her."
"Good night," returned Tom, slackening his pace so as to allow the woman
to proceed as far a-head of him as possible ere he entered his own
dwelling, which was now close at hand.
In a few moments the form of Mrs. Bunce was lost in the darkness of the
night.
Rainford was now convinced that Old Death was indeed no more—that no
prompt assistance had resuscitated him, even if the vital spark were not
extinct at the moment when he saw him for the last time, bound to the
chair, at the house in Red Lion Street. Yes—it was clear enough—too
clear: Benjamin Bones was dead—and Tidmarsh had pounced upon all his
property.
"Well—let him enjoy it," thought Rainford within himself. "I have enough
for my purposes, and do not wish to dispute the inheritance with
him—even if I had the right or the power. And yet—and yet," he mused,
with a feeling like a contraction of the heart, "I would give ten years
of my own life so that I had not been the instrument of abridging his!
But it's too late to repent or regret. Repent, did I say? I have nothing
to repent of. I did not do this deed wilfully: it was not murder. And as
for any share that I had in the matter at all, _that_ does not seem to
be suspected. Oh! I can understand Master Tidmarsh's proceedings! It was
no doubt he who entered the room just at the moment when I discovered
that Old Death was dead. Of course he would say nothing about finding
him tied in a chair, or of me having been with him that night: a word on
these heads would have excited suspicions—led to inquiries—Coroner's
inquest—and all that sort of thing. Then some relation might have turned
up, claimed the property, and cut Tidmarsh out. Yes—yes; it is plain
enough—and Tidmarsh is a prudent as well as a lucky fellow! But what
_could_ the laboratory in that house mean? what were those pickled human
heads kept in the cupboard for? and why was Dr. Lascelles familiar with
that den?"
Even in the midst of his musings, Rainford did not hazard a conjecture
to account for the mysteries just enumerated. They indeed appeared
unaccountable.
The highwayman walked some distance past the door of his lodgings, to
convince himself that he was not watched by Mrs. Bunce; and having
assured himself on that head,—at least so far as he could judge in the
darkness of the night,—he turned back and entered his dwelling.
The next day was the Sabbath; and Rainford was sitting, after breakfast,
reading a Sunday paper in the neat parlour of his lodgings.
On the other side of the fire sate a young—beautiful—and dark-eyed
woman—in all the rich flush of Jewish beauty,—the softly sweeping
outline and symmetrical undulations of her form being developed, rather
than concealed, by the loose morning wrapper which she wore; while the
ray of the frosty morning's sun glanced on the glossy surface of her
raven hair.
Little Charley Watts, nicely dressed, and with his rosy countenance
wearing the smiles of happy innocence, was seated on a footstool near
Tom Rain, looking at a picture-book, but every now and then glancing
affectionately towards those whom he had already learnt to love as if
they were his parents.
"Do the advertisements tell you when the next ship will sail from
Liverpool for New York, Tom?" inquired the lady.
"Next Friday, my love," answered Rainford. "We will therefore leave
London on Thursday."
"Four more days," remarked his female companion. "Oh! how glad I shall
be when we are out of sight of England! And yet," she added, with a
profound sigh, "I can scarcely bear the thought of parting—perhaps for
ever——"
"You must not give way to those mournful reflections," interrupted Tom,
in a kind tone. "Remember that we are going to a country where my
personal safety will not be endangered,—where we shall not be obliged to
shift our lodgings half-a-dozen times in a fortnight,—and where, too, we
need not start at every knock that comes to the door. We shall be as
happy as the day is long; and, with the money which I now have at my
disposal, I may embark in some honest pursuit and earn myself a good
name."
"The money will be at the New York banker's before we reach America, I
suppose?" said the lady, inquiringly.
"To be sure," replied Tom; "since I paid it all into the hands of the
London agent two days ago. Have you taken care of the receipt, or
acknowledgment?"
"I locked it up in the little iron box, together with all your other
papers," was the answer.
"And those documents that I brought home with me the other night—or
rather morning——"
"All safe, dear Tom. But really when you allude to that dreadful night,
you make me shudder. Oh! how long—how long did those weary hours seem,
until you returned! When you came up into the bed-room and told me that
you were going away with that dreadful man Bones—that the time had at
length come—that opportunity had at last served your purposes——"
"Well, my dear girl—I recollect all that took place," interrupted Tom,
laughing. "You begged me not to go with him—you said you had your
misgivings: but I was resolved—for such an occasion might not have
occurred again. Did I not tell you beforehand, when we were down in the
country, that if I came up to London and purposely threw myself in the
way of Old Death, accident would be sure sooner or later to enable me to
wrench from his grasp that gold of which he had plundered me? And have
not my words come true? You must not reproach me now, dear girl, at all
events—for the danger is over."
"Yes—and the dreadful man is dead!" exclaimed the Jewess, in a tone
which expressed a thanksgiving so unequivocally that a cloud for a
moment gathered on Rainford's brow.
"He is dead—and can molest us no more," he observed, in a serious tone.
"But I could have wished——However," he added, abruptly, "let us avoid
that subject: it is not altogether an agreeable one. And now, to return
to our intended departure for America, I am somewhat at a loss how to
act in respect to that letter, which I obtained last night from Jacob
Smith, and which so deeply regards——"
He paused, and glanced significantly towards Charley.
"What can you do in the matter, Tom?" said his beautiful companion. "The
letter is too ambiguous——"
"Scarcely ambiguous—but deficient in certain points of information,"
interrupted Rainford.
"Which is equally mortifying," added the Jewess. "You cannot risk your
safety by remaining in England to investigate the affair—even if we had
not gone so far in our arrangements for departure——"
"Certainly not," replied Tom: "but I was thinking that I would entrust
the letter to my friend Clarence Villiers; and who knows but that some
accident may sooner or later throw him into the way of sifting the
mystery to the very bottom?"
"Your project is an excellent one," answered the Jewess. "But are you
sure that he does not suspect——"
"Suspect what I really am!" ejaculated the highwayman, with that blithe,
merry laugh of his which showed his fine white teeth to such advantage.
"Not he! He does not know Sir Christopher Blunt—nor the lawyer Howard;
and his acquaintance with that consummate fool Frank Curtis was always
slight, and not likely to be improved by all that has occurred: for
Frank _must_ suspect that Clarence had something to do with the
elopement of Old Torrens's daughters. So, all things considered,
Clarence cannot have heard of the little affair by which Sir Christopher
lost his two thousand pounds."
"Then you will entrust Mr. Villiers with the letter?" said the lady,
inquiringly.
"Yes: I will call upon him this evening," responded Tom; "for I have a
little hint to give him relative to a certain aunt of his——"
At this moment there was a knock at the front-door of the house; and the
servant presently made her appearance to inform Rainford that a young
man named Jacob Smith wished to speak to him.
Tom's brow darkened—as the thought flashed across him that the lad had
dogged him on the preceding night. But instantly recovering his
self-possession, he desired the Jewess and Charley to retire to another
room, while he received the visitor.
When Jacob entered the parlour, Rainford looked sternly at him, but said
nothing.
"I know what _is_—what _must be_ passing in your mind, sir," said Jacob
hastily; "but you wrong me—that is, if you think I found out your
address by any underhand means of my own."
"Sit down, my boy," cried Tom frankly: "I am sorry if I suspected you
even for an instant. But what has brought you here this morning? and
how——"
"I will explain all in a few moments, Mr. Rainford," said Jacob. "Two
hours ago—at about eight o'clock—I went up to Bunce's, just to see if
they had heard any thing of Old Death; and, to my surprise, I learnt
that he was buried yesterday."
"So I have already heard. But go on."
"You know I told you last night that yesterday morning two or three
people called in Earl Street to inquire about Old Death, as he had
promised to get a thief off at the police-court? Well—at that time, it
seems, neither Mrs. Bunce or Toby knew what had become of Mr. Bones: but
just afterwards, as I'm told, and when I had gone away from the house,
up goes old Tidmarsh, the fence, with the news that Mr. Bones was dead,
and that the funeral was going to take place in a couple of hours. Quick
work, wasn't it, sir? So Toby Bunce and his wife went to the funeral;
and now it's certain what has really become of Old Death. Tidmarsh told
them he died suddenly three or four days ago at _his_ house—of apoplexy.
I'm sure he didn't look much like an apoplectic man."
"The best part of all this I learnt last night, soon after I left you,"
said Rainford.
"And I only heard it when I went up to Bunce's this morning," remarked
Jacob. "Well, sir—when Mrs. Bunce had told me this, she said, '_Jacob, I
want you to do a particular favour for me, and I will give you a
sovereign_.'—I asked her what it was. '_I'm pretty sure_,' she says,
'_that Mr. Rainford lives somewhere in Gray's Inn Lane, between
Liquorpond Street and Calthorpe Street, on the same side of the way as
those streets; and you must find out where it is, became I want
particularly to know_.'—So I promised her I would; and I of course took
good care not to say that I had seen you last night. But I was
determined to give you notice of Mrs. Bunce's desire to have you
watched; and I have been knocking at every door in the neighbourhood,
asking if such a gentleman as yourself lived there. In describing you,
however, I did not mention any name."
"That was right, Jacob," said Tom; "because I am not known as Rainford
here. But what the devil can that old wretch want with me? Has she
inherited Old Death's scheming disposition? or does his vengeance pursue
me, even from the tomb?"
These last words were totally unintelligible to Jacob, who knew not that
the highwayman had had any share in the death of Mr. Benjamin Bones.
"Of course, sir," remarked the lad, after a pause, "I shall go to Mrs.
Bunce this evening and assure her that no such person as yourself lives
in this neighbourhood. I hope you are not offended with me for hunting
after you?"
"Far from it, Jacob," returned Tom: "for I am sure I can trust _you_. At
the same time, you must be cautious how you act, so as not to let Mrs.
Bunce imagine that you are playing _her_ false. Try and find out what
she wants with me, and meet me at Tullock's to-morrow evening, between
seven and eight. No—not at Tullock's either—because that woman knows I
am in the habit of going there: but come to me at the public-house in
Baldwin's Buildings where we were last night. Remember—to-morrow
evening, at about half-past seven."
"I shall not fail, sir," responded Jacob: and he then took his
departure.
The moment he was gone, Rainford hastened up stairs to the bed-room,
whither the Jewess and little Charley had retired; and closing the door,
he said, "My dear girl, we must be off directly. That horrid woman Mrs.
Bunce, of whom I have spoken to you, is after me—and I am afraid for no
good."
"Off!" exclaimed the lady: "what—to Liverpool at once?"
"No: but to another lodging—or to a tavern rather—for it will be
difficult to obtain apartments on a Sunday. I must stay in town for a
day or two longer—or at least till I have seen Villiers. Come—pack up
your things, my love—and let us be gone."
"Are you afraid of that lad who has just been?" demanded the Jewess.
"Not a whit! He is staunch to the backbone—I will swear to it! But _he_
might be followed—or he might commit himself somehow or another, and
betray me involuntarily. By-the-bye," ejaculated Tom, after an instant's
pause, "I tell you what we will do! We will return to Lock's Fields. It
is clear that Mrs. Bunce has found out that we are _not_ living there
now—otherwise she would not have set this Jacob to watch me, which she
has done; and she would never suspect that we have gone back to our old
quarters. So look alive, my love; and pack up the things, while I settle
with our landlady here and send for a coach."
Tom Rain's directions were speedily obeyed; and by mid-day the Jewess,
Charley, and himself were once more located in Lock's Fields.