The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  The old man fell back in the bed, exhausted.

  Tomlinson had at first listened to him with sorrow and alarm: he trembled lest the delirium of a fever had suddenly overtaken him—lest his brain was wandering. But as he proceeded—in a style of galvanic force and eloquence of which the listener, who had known him for so many years, deemed him incapable,—in a manner so inconsistent with all his former habits, so strangely at variance with his nature, his character, and his disposition,—the stock-broker became afraid, for it seemed to him as if those burning, searching, searing, scorching words were indeed an emanation from a source belonging to the mysteries of other worlds.

  An awful pause ensued when Michael Martin ceased to speak.

  For some moments Tomlinson sate riveted in speechless terror to his chair—stunned, bewildered, astounded, appalled by all he had just heard.

  That dread silence was at length interrupted by the entrance of the surgeon.

  “How gets on my patient now?” he said, approaching the couch.

  “I fear—I am afraid—that is, I think—his head wanders,” faltered the stock-broker, scarcely knowing what he said.

  “We must expect that such will be the case—for some days to come,” returned the surgeon, with the coolness of a professional man who saw nothing extraordinary in such results following so strange a resuscitation from a death-like trance.

  “You think, then,” asked Tomlinson, “that it is possible for this poor old man to rave—about things of—a very extraordinary nature?”

  “People, when delirious, burst forth into the most wild and fanciful ravings,” answered the surgeon, as he felt Michael’s pulse.

  “And he might, then, rave of heaven—and hell—and things relating to—”

  “He may rave of any nonsense,” said the surgeon, abruptly; “but that is no reason why we should allow ourselves to be affected by it—as I see that you are.”

  “It was, indeed, very foolish on my part,” observed Tomlinson, now acquiring confidence, and endeavouring to divest himself of the strange sensations of horror and dread which the eloquence of the old man had excited within him.

  “You had better retire for the present,” said the surgeon. “He is in a high fever—produced, perhaps, by this interview with you, under such circumstances. Do not think of seeing him again this evening: to-morrow evening he will be better and more composed.”

  “And you will take every possible care of him,” exclaimed the stock-broker. “Remember that no expense must be spared to make him comfortable—to ensure his recovery. I will remunerate you handsomely, sir.”

  “Well, well,” said the surgeon, impatiently. “We will talk about that another time. Good evening—you may return to-morrow at the same hour.”

  “Good evening,” answered Tomlinson; and he slowly took his departure.

  CHAPTER CXI.

  A SCENE AT MR. CHICHESTER’S HOUSE.

  IT was about half-past nine on the same evening that the above incidents occurred, when a double knock at the front door echoed through Mr. Chichester’s dwelling, in the immediate vicinity of the Cambridge Heath Gate.

  Mr. Chichester himself was seated in an elegantly-furnished parlour, sipping a glass of excellent Madeira, and pondering upon the best means of enjoying himself when he should have fingered the cash to obtain which he had perpetrated so diabolical an outrage against the confiding woman who had bestowed upon him her hand, and made him a partner in the enjoyment, if not in the actual possession, of her fortune.

  The room was not large, but very comfortable; and at one end a pair of ample folding doors, now closed, afforded admission into a back parlour.

  A few moments after the echo of the double-knock above mentioned, through the house, a female servant entered and announced Mr. Tomlinson.

  Having requested the stock-broker to be seated, Mr. Chichester followed the servant into the hall, and said to her in a low whisper, “When the other person comes, show him into the back parlour, as I may require to have some conversation with this gentleman before I introduce them to each other.”

  This command being given, Mr. Chichester returned to the room where he had left Mr. Tomlinson.

  “You are before your time,” said Chichester, pushing the decanter and a glass towards the stockbroker: “that looks like business.”

  “I accidentally had an appointment upon some business in this neighbourhood,” was the reply; “and when that matter was disposed of, I came I straight hither.”

  “We cannot repair to the lunatic asylum until ten or half-past,” said Chichester, “because, as a precaution, the keeper has promised to call upon me presently, and report whether my wife continues in the same docile mood as when he wrote to me yesterday afternoon.”

  “I should be delighted to hear that you could settle this unpleasant—very unpleasant affair in some amicable way,” returned Tomlinson, whose mind was still painfully excited by the interview which had taken place between him and his late cashier.

  “Impossible, my dear sir!” ejaculated Chichester. “There is no way save the one chalked out. I hope that you do not hesitate to fulfil the agreement into which you entered with me.”

  “The truth is, Mr. Chichester,” said Tomlinson, “there is no man in London to whom a few hundreds of pounds would prove as welcome as to me—especially as to-morrow I have to pay two hundred to men who will not be very well pleased to experience a disappointment. It is true that I possess such a sum at my bankers’; but I dare not draw out every shilling—my credit would be ruined.”

  “So much the better reason for doing as I require of you,” said Chichester, filling the glasses with Madeira.

  “True,” observed Tomlinson. “But, on the other hand, I tremble to take a false step—I fear to jeopardize myself by connivance at a direct conspiracy—”

  “Pshaw!” cried Chichester. “What is the use of compunction on the part of a man who stands in so much need of money as yourself?”

  Tomlinson was about to reply, when a low knock at the front door fell upon his ears.

  “It is no one—of any consequence,” said Chichester; then, as he refilled the glasses, he muttered to himself, “There is no use in introducing these men to each other, unless this milk-and-water fool is quite agreeable to act.”

  “Did you make an observation?” inquired the stock-broker.

  “I was observing that it was no one of any consequence;—only some person for the servants, most probably. But let me now ask you seriously, Mr. Tomlinson, whether you feel disposed to proceed further in this matter or not?”

  “Candidly speaking, I would rather not,” was the reply.

  “Then you were wrong to give me a false hope of your aid, and allow so much valuable time to elapse, during which I might have found a broker less punctilious than you.”

  “I regret that I should have caused this inconvenience,” answered Tomlinson; “but I had resolved to perform my promise until about an hour ago, and I have even brought the necessary documents for the purpose.”

  “Something very remarkable must have intervened to change your resolutions,” said Chichester, contemptuously.

  “I am not superstitious,” observed Tomlinson; “but I believe that a providential warning was conveyed to me—”

  “A providential fiddle-stick! Remember, Mr. Tomlinson, that by your unpardonable vacillation in this matter you will only prolong the incarceration of my wife.”

  “And, pray, who is responsible for that deed?”

  “We will not discuss this point,” returned Chichester. “I did not ask you to become my Mentor. At the same time,” he added, sinking his voice, “every moment is important—for my wife is going mad in reality!”

  “Then, in the name of God, release her at once!” ejaculated Tomlinson.

 
“Never—until she signs the deed.”

  “Release her,” continued Tomlinson; “and then bring her with you to my office, where she can make the transfer.”

  “Are you mad yourself? Do you suppose she would ever put pen to paper if she were once liberated in that manner? I am surprised at your ignorance—vexed at your cowardice. You have not acted like a man of business, nor as a man of the world. It was for you to accept or decline my proposal—not to deceive me by these changes and shiftings of inclination. Come, sir—once for all—pluck up your courage: remember the two hundred pounds which you say must be paid to-morrow to two men who will not be put off, and the settlement of which debt will so materially embarrass your finances.”

  “My mind is made up, Mr. Chichester,” answered Tomlinson firmly.

  “And what is your decision?”

  “I shall beg to withdraw from the transaction.”

  And Tomlinson rose to depart.

  But at the same moment the folding-doors, communicating with the inner room, were thrown open, and a man with a cadaverous countenance stood forward.

  “You shall not forfeit your word in this respect,” exclaimed the individual, whom Tomlinson immediately recognised to be the body-snatcher engaged in the affair of Michael Martin.

  “What does this man do here?” asked Tomlinson, in a faint voice, of Chichester.

  “What do I do here? what do I do every where?” cried the man, with a diabolical laugh. “Tell me the secret plot—the cunning intrigue—the scheme of villany to which Anthony Tidkins, surnamed the Resurrection Man, is a stranger! But little did I think when I called upon you this morning,—little did I imagine when I met you again this evening, that you were the person enlisted by Mr. Chichester in the affair which we have now in hand.”

  “It would appear, then, that you are acquainted with each other,” said Chichester, laughing heartily at the confusion manifested by the stock-broker in the presence of the Resurrection Man. “Why, what devilry was it that brought you two together?”

  “Whether I keep Mr. Tomlinson’s secret, or whether I proclaim it to you and every one else whom I know, until the whole town rings with the circumstance, is a matter for him to decide,” said the Resurrection Man;—and, with admirable coolness, he helped himself to a bumper of Madeira.

  “If I pay you two hundred pounds, as agreed upon,” exclaimed Tomlinson, “what more would you require of me?”

  “I require that you remain faithful to your promise to Mr. Chichester;—I require that you fulfil the service which you have undertaken to perform in his behalf,” was the resolute reply.

  “And in what way does the business regard you—you, who acknowledge yourself to be—”

  “A resurrectionist! Certainly I am—and the most skilful in London, no other excepted,” exclaimed Tidkins, with a satanic chuckle. “But that does not prevent me from turning mad-house keeper—or any thing else—when opportunity offers.”

  “What! you are the keeper of the asylum in which this gentleman’s wife is imprisoned!” exclaimed the stock-broker, in a tone of the most profound astonishment.

  “Yes, he is indeed,” said Chichester; “and a better keeper could not have been found. So now you know all about that point.”

  “And Mr. Tomlinson will be good enough to accompany me to my house,” observed the Resurrection Man. “You, Mr. Chichester, can follow us at a little distance. It looks suspicious for three people to walk together.”

  “I really must decline—” began Tomlinson, trembling from head to foot, as the warning voice of Michael Martin seemed to ring in his ears.

  “One word more, Mr. Tomlinson,” said the Resurrection Man. “I am a person of determined spirit and resolution. I never stick at trifles myself;—and I don’t choose others, with whom I am connected, to balk me in my designs, when I can prevent them. Now, either come with me, and do what is required of you; or, as sure as there is breath in your body, I will deliver up a certain person to the police, and stand the consequences myself.”

  “I beg of you—I implore you—”

  “Pshaw!” cried Chichester: “this is child’s play!”

  “Child’s play, indeed!” thundered the Resurrection Man in a terrible voice. “But I will put an end to it. Come, sir—hesitate another minute, and that old man is lost!”

  “I will accompany you,” answered the stock-broker;—then, in an under tone, he added, “But God knows how unwillingly!”

  The Resurrection Man seized him by the arm, and conducted him out of the house.

  Five minutes afterwards, Chichester followed in the same direction.

  CHAPTER CXII.

  VIOLA.

  THE Resurrection Man and the stock-broker pursued their way in silence to the very entrance of the alley leading to the side door of the dwelling of the former.

  There they halted, the Resurrection Man observing that they must wait for Mr. Chichester.

  Tomlinson took advantage of the interval to implore the Resurrection Man not to communicate to Chichester the secret relating to Michael Martin.

  “Do not be afraid,” was the answer: “I am as close as Newgate-door when people conduct themselves as they ought to do. One individual for whom I do business never knows what I am engaged in for another—unless his own bad behaviour forces me to blab. So make yourself quite easy upon that score.”

  Chichester now made his appearance; and the Resurrection Man led the way up the alley.

  Having opened the door of the house, he admitted his two companions into the back-room on the ground-floor, and then struck a light.

  The appearance of the place was precisely the same as when we described it on the first occasion of the Rattlesnake’s visit to that department of the building.

  Tomlinson shuddered as he cast his eyes around the naked and gloomy walls.

  “Holloa!” ejaculated Chichester, taking up the mask, which lay on the table, in his hands: “I suppose that this—”

  “Hush!” said the Resurrection Man, glancing towards Tomlinson, as much as to desire Chichester not to allow the stock-broker to know more of the secrets connected with the treatment of the prisoner, than was possible; for Tidkins, who possessed a profound knowledge of human nature, was well aware that certain compunctious feelings still floated in the mind of Tomlinson, and that he was, after all, but a very coward in the ways of crime.

  Chichester covered the mask with the cloak, while the stock-broker was engaged in scanning the appearance of the chamber.

  When Tomlinson had completed his survey, and while he was still wondering where the means of communication with the apartment of the alleged lunatic could be, he happened to turn in the direction of the chimney-piece, when to his surprise he perceived the hearth-stone raised, and the Resurrection Man half down the subterranean staircase which that strangely contrived trap-door had disclosed to view.

  Tomlinson shuddered—and hesitated whether he should proceed further in the matter; but his scruples vanished when he heard the voice of the Resurrection Man desiring—or rather commanding him—to follow him down that flight of stone steps.

  Guided by Tidkins, who carried the candle, which was fixed in one of the large tin shades before described, Tomlinson descended the stairs, and found himself in a vaulted passage, about twenty feet long, and four broad. There were four strong doors, studded with thick iron nails, on each side.

  “You see, this house was built for a lunatic asylum many—many years ago, when treatment wasn’t quite so humane as it is now,” whispered the Resurrection Man to Tomlinson; “but it hadn’t been used as such for the last thirty years till the other day.”

  “And did you hire the establishment for the purpose of restoring it to its original uses?” demanded Tomlinson, shuddering, as he glanced around on the damp walls on which the strong light of th
e candle fell.

  “Not I, indeed,” answered Tidkins, abruptly.

  Chichester had now descended into the subterranean passage.

  “This is the cell,” said the Resurrection Man; and, approaching one of the doors, he placed a key in the lock.

  During the few seconds that intervened until the door was thrown open, Tomlinson experienced a perfect age of mental agony. He felt as if he were about to perpetrate some hideous crime—a murder of the blackest dye. The perspiration poured off his forehead: he trembled from head to foot; his brain felt oppressed; there was a weight upon the pit of his stomach; his eye-balls throbbed.