CHAPTER XXIX.

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.