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,[84] 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,[85] where parish-prigs speak.
CHORUS.
I was an Ikey[86] with swag all encumbered;
J was a Jug, in whose cell he was lumbered;
K was a Kye-bosh,[87] that paid for his treat;
L was a Leaf [88] 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,[89] possessed by a swell;
P was a Pannie, done niblike and well.
CHORUS.
Q was a Queer-screen, that served as a blind;[90]
R was a Reader,[91] with flimsies well lined;
S was a Smasher, so nutty and spry;
T was a Ticker,[92] just faked from a cly.
CHORUS.
U was an Uptucker,[93] fly with the cord;
V was a Varnisher,[94] dressed like a lord;
Y was a Yoxter[95] that eat caper sauce;[96]
Z was a Ziff [97] who was flashed on the horse.[98]
For we are rollicking chaps
All smoking, singing, boozing:
We care not for the traps,
But pass the night carousing.[99]
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!
CHAPTER XXIV.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
LET us now return to Mr. Whittingham, whom we left in serious and unfeigned tribulation at the moment when his young master was taken into custody upon the charge of passing a forged note.
The Bow Street runner whom the officer had left behind to search the house, first possessed himself of the two letters which were lying upon the table in Markham’s library, and which were addressed respectively to Mrs. Arlington and Mr. Monroe. The functionary then commenced a strict investigation of the entire premises; and, at the end, appeared marvellously surprised that he had not found a complete apparatus for printing forged notes, together with a quantity of the false articles themselves. This search, nevertheless, occupied three hours; and, when it was over, he took his departure, quite sulky because he had nothing to offer as evidence save the two sealed letters, which might be valuable in that point of view, or might not.
The moment this unwelcome guest had quitted the house, the butler, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour—for it was now dusk—ordered the market cart to be got ready; and, with the least possible delay, he proceeded into town.
Upon his arrival in Bow Street, he found the police-office closed: but upon enquiry he learnt that the investigation of Richard Markham’s case had been postponed until the following morning at eleven o’clock, the prisoner having declared that he could produce a witness who would satisfactorily show his (the prisoner’s) entire innocence in the transaction. In the meantime
, he had been removed to Clerkenwell Prison.
Without asking another question, Whittingham mounted his cart once more, and drove away at a rattling pace to Clerkenwell Prison. There he began to thunder like a madman at the knocker of the governor’s private entrance, and could hardly believe his senses when a servant-girl informed him that it was past the hours to see the prisoners. Whittingham would have remonstrated; but the girl slammed the door in his face. He accordingly had no alternative save to drive direct home again.
The very next morning at nine o’clock Mr. Whittingham entered the Servants’ Arms Tavern; and with but little of his usual circumlocution and verbosity, enquired the address of Mr. Mac Chizzle, the lawyer, who had been one of the party at that house the evening but one before.
“Here is his card,” said the landlord. “He uses my house reglar, and is a out-and-out practitioner.”
Whittingham did not wait to hear any further eulogium upon the attorney. It had struck him that his young master might require a “professional adviser:” and having the supreme felicity of being totally unacquainted with the entire fraternity, he had felt himself somewhat puzzled how to supply the desideratum. In this dilemma, he had suddenly bethought himself of Mac Chizzle; and, without waiting to ponder upon the propriety of the step he was taking, he rushed off in the manner described to procure that individual’s address.
“Well, what do you want?” cried the lawyer, who was astonished at the unceremonious manner in which Whittingham suddenly rushed into his office: “what do you want?”
“Law,” was the laconic answer.
“Well, you can have plenty of that here,” said Mr. Mac Chizzle. “But—I think you are the gentleman with whom I had the pleasure of passing a pleasant evening at the Servants’ Arms, a day or two ago.”
“The indentical same,” returned Whittingham, flinging his hat upon the floor and himself into a chair.
“Take time to breathe, sir,” said the lawyer. “If you’re come for advice you couldn’t have selected a better shop; but I must tell you before-hand that mine is quite a ready money business.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll tell you my story first and foremost; and you can then explain the most legible means of preceeding. I want law and justice.”
“Law you can have in welcome; but whether you will obtain justice is another consideration.”
“I’m bewildered in a labyrinth of mazes, sir,” said the butler. “I always opiniated that law and justice was the same thing.”
“Quite the reverse, I can assure you. Law is a human invention: justice is a divine inspiration. What is law to-day, is not law to-morrow, and yet everything is still denominated justice. A creditor sues for justice when he appeals to a tribunal against his debtor; and how is that justice awarded? Why—if a man can’t pay five pounds, the law immediately makes his debt ten pounds; and if he can’t live out of doors, the law immediately shuts him up in prison by way of helping him out of his difficulties. That is law, sir; but it is not justice.”
“Right, sir—very right.”
“Law, you see, sir,” continued Mac Chizzle, who was particularly fond of hearing himself talk—“law is omnipotent, and beats justice to such an extreme, that justice would be justified in bringing an action of assault and battery against law. Law even makes religion, sir; and gives the attributes of the Deity, for no one dares assert that God possesses a quality or a characteristic, unless in conformity with the law. And as these laws are always changing, so of course does the nature of the deity, as established by the law, vary too; so that men may be said to go to heaven or to another place by the turnpike roads laid down by the law.”
“I like your reasonable powers amazingly,” said the butler, somewhat impatiently; “and I will now proceed to unfold the momentary object of my visit.”
“Give yourself breathing time, my dear sir. As I was observing, Law is more powerful than even Justice and Religion; and I could now show that it exercises the same predominating influence over Morality also. For instance, Law, and not Conscience, defines virtues and vices. If I murder you, I commit a crime; but the executioner who puts me to death for the action, does not commit a crime. Neither does the soldier who kills his fellow-creature in battle. Thus, murder is only a crime when it is not legalised by human statutes,—or, in plain terms, when it is not according to law.”
“I comprehend, sir,” said Whittingham; and, seeing that Mr. Mac Chizzle now paused at length, he narrated the particulars of his master’s arrest upon an accusation of passing a forged note for five hundred pounds.
“This is an ugly case, Mr. Whittingham.”
“You must go down to him at Bow-Street: his case comes on at eleven o’clock.”
“Well, there is plenty of time: it is only half-past nine o’clock. I think we had better instruct counsel.”
“Construct counsel!” ejaculated Whittingham; “I want you to get him liberated at once.”
“Ah, I dare say you do,” said the lawyer, coolly. “That is often more easily said than done. From what you have told me I should not wonder if your master was committed for trial.”
“But he is innocent, sir—he is innocent—as the young lamb in the meadows which is unborn!” cried Whittingham. “Master Richard would no more pass a fictious note than I should endeavour to pass a race-horse if I was mounted on a donkey.”
Mr. Mac Chizzle smiled, and summoned his clerk by the euphonious name of “Simcox.” Mr. Simcox was somewhat slow in making his appearance; and when he did, a very comical one it was—for his hair was red, his eyes were green, his countenance was studded with freckles, and his eye-lashes were white.
“Simcox,” said Mr. Mac Chizzle, “I am going out for a few hours. If the gentleman calls about the thousand pound bill, tell him that I can get it discounted for him, for fifty pounds in money and eight hundred in wine—which allows a hundred and fifty for discount and my commission. If the lady calls whose husband has run away from her, tell her that I’ve sent to Paris to make enquiries after him, and that if she’ll leave another fifty pounds, I’ll send to Vienna. By-the-bye, that bothering fellow Smith is certain to call: tell him I’m gone into the country, and shall be away for a fortnight. If Jenkins calls, tell him I shall be home at five and he must wait, as I want to see him.”
“Very well, sir,” said Simcox. “And if the gentleman calls about the loan.”
“Why, that I shall see a party about it this evening. The first party declines; but I have another party in view.”
Somehow or another, men of business have always got a particular “party” in view to accomplish a particular purpose, and they are always being disappointed by their “parties”—whom, by-the-bye, they never condescend to name. To be “deceived by a party;” or “having a party to meet;” or “being engaged so long with a particular party,” are excuses which will last as long as business itself shall exist, and will continue to be received as apologies as long as any apologies are received at all. They will wear out every other lie.
Whittingham was too much occupied by the affairs of his master, to pay any attention to the orders which the solicitor gave his clerk; and he was considerably relieved when he found himself by the side of his professional adviser, rolling along the streets in a cabriolet.
At length the lawyer and the faithful domestic were set down at the Police-Office in Bow Street; and in a few moments they were admitted, in the presence of a policeman, to an interview with Markham in one of the cells attached to the establishment.
Richard’s countenance was pale and care-worn: his hair was dishevelled; and his attire seemed put on slovenly. But these circumstances scarcely attracted the eyes of Whittingham:—a more appalling and monstrous spectacle engrossed all the attention of that faithful old dependant; and this was the manacle which confined his revered master’s hands together
.
Whittingham wept.
“Oh! Master Richard,” he exclaimed in a voice broken by sobs, “what an unforeseen and perfidious adventure is this! You surely never could—no, I know you didn’t!”
“Do not grieve yourself, my faithful friend,” said Richard, deeply affected: “my innocence will soon be proved. I have sent for Mr. Chichester, who will be here presently: and he can shew in one moment how I became possessed of the two notes.”
“Two notes!” cried Whittingham.
“Yes—I had another of fifty pounds’ value in my purse, which I also received from Chichester, and which has turned out to be a spurious one. Doubtless he has been deceived himself——”
“Oh! that ere Winchester, or Kidderminster—or—whatever his name may be,” interrupted the butler, a strange misgiving oppressing his mind: “I’m afeard he won’t do the thing that’s right. But here is a profound adwiser, Master Richard, that I’ve brought with me; and he’ll see law done, he says—and I believe him too.”
Markham and Mac Chizzle then entered into conversation together: but scarcely had the unfortunate young man commenced his account of the peculiar circumstances in which he was involved, when the jailor entered to conduct him into the presence of the magistrate.
Markham was placed in the felon’s dock, and Mr. Mac Chizzle intimated to the sitting magistrate, in a simpering tone, that he appeared for the prisoner.
Now we must inform our readers that Mac Chizzle was one of those low pettifoggers, who, without being absolutely the black sheep of the profession, act upon the principle “that all are fish that come to their net,” and practise indiscriminately in the civil and the criminal courts—conduct a man’s insolvency, or defend him before the magistrate—discount bills and issue no end of writs—act for loan societies and tally shops—in a word, undertake anything that happens to fall in their way, so long as it brings grist to the mill.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 21
