CHAPTERCIII.BURGLARS AT BLACKHEATH—THE SURPRISE—THE STRANGE MEETING.It has been said that Charles Peace carried out the burglaries on the other side of London entirely by himself, and without the assistance of even one confederate, and to a considerable extent the statement is borne out by facts.Nevertheless, it is quite certain that occasionally he had a helpmate or accomplice, this being none other than Bandy-legged Bill.Rawton, however, was fortunate enough to escape notice.He was never implicated in the extensive series of depredations carried on by our hero during what may be termed his London career.We have it upon good authority that there was another person besides Bill who occasionally accompanied Peace on his predatory excursions—this personage also escaped detection.It is true that both he and the gipsy only acted in concert with our hero some half-dozen times or so.As a rule Peace certainly did commit an almost incredible number of burglaries entirely by himself, and this perhaps furnishes us with the series of daring exploits which for audacity and fearlessness are without a parallel in the history of criminals.But Peace was altogether a character far above the level of the ordinary housebreaker.His cunning, finesse, his hypocrisy and assumption of the character of a well-to-do respectable member of the community when in his house in the Evelina-road, seems to be altogether outside the barriers which hedge in the lawless class to which he most unquestionably belonged.The neighbours, as they saw him drive his pony trap along the Evelina-road, said, “The old gentleman has gone out for his evening drive.” They saw him go out, but none of them saw him come back. Whither he went nobody seemed to take the trouble to inquire. The supposition was that he was going to pay a visit to some friend who did not live within walking distance, and as Peace made it appear that he was an invalid and was not able to bear much fatigue, they naturally concluded that the respectable independent gentleman had a large circle of acquaintances who lived on the outskirts of London, and to these persons he was accustomed to pay periodical visits.That he did make it his business to call at the houses of the wealthy in Blackheath, Greenwich, and elsewhere was very certain—the number of houses he entered it would be very difficult to enumerate, and in most cases he brought away with him substantial proofs of his having made a careful selection of the valuables therein.Upon arriving at Spurgeon’s Tabernacle he found Bandy-legged Bill awaiting his appearance. Bill was good at an appointment, and seldom failed to keep any he made with our hero.“Well, old stick-in-the-mud, are you in better fettle now? Got rid of the miserables—eh?” cried Peace.“I’m all right now, old man,” returned the gipsy. “It was but a passing cloud.”“Ah, so you’ve still got a touch of the romantic, it would seem. Well, jump up.”The gipsy got into the trap, which was driven off by Peace.“Where are you making for—any place in particular?”“I saw a tempting-looking crib at Upper Charlton, and we’ll just see if it can be worked to rights.”Rawton laughed.“I wish I had got your ability, Charlie, and your nerve,” said he. “I’ve tried, but have never been able to manage this sort of business by myself. I expect I’m clumsy. Anyway, I’m a fool compared to you.”“I don’t know so much about that. We’ve done pretty well together at one time—why not now?”“Oh! I’m well enough to play second fiddle, but aint of no manner of use when left to myself. So you’ve given up Sheffield and the other towns—have you? Got too hot, I suppose.”“It’s not altogether that. I could do well enough in my old quarters, but a change was absolutely necessary.”“I see—a change of air for the benefit of your health.”“Look here, nobody knows me as Charles Peace in Peckham, and so you’d better not mention Sheffield, Manchester, or Bradford, ’cause, you see, if you do, it might get wind, and, if it did, I should be ‘copped’ as sure as eggs is eggs.”“Oh, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”“I know that, old boy—I’d trust you with my life, and that’s saying something, seeing how few there are a bloke can trust now-a-days. Men are getting more like wild beasts than human beings. As to the people in this world getting wiser or better it’s all my eye and Betty Martin.”“That’s right enough, they are not near so good I think as they were when I first came into this world,” remarked the gipsy. “Look at old Gallipot. He poisoned his first wife, and no doubt intended to polish off his second by the same means.”“He left behind him an excellent fiddle, that’s one thing in his favour, seeing that I bought it for a mere song.”“Was that his fiddle you were playing on to-day?”“Why, of course it was. I told you so.”“Oh, true, I forgot.”“Why your wits are wool-gathering.”“That’s better than oakum picking,” returned Bill, bursting out into a loud laugh. “I had you there, old man, and no mistake.”“Look here, Bill, it aint worth while for you to remind me, nor for me to remind you of the miseries of prison life. I don’t like to think of it—blessed if I do. It seems to send a cold shudder through my frame. I’ve had enough of it, and don’t intend to be ‘copped’ again, come what may.”“Why, what would you do then?”“Shoot my man down, rather than be taken.”“Oh, Jerusalem! But——”“Well, what?”“That sounds like murder,” cried the gipsy; “and we’ve neither of us come to that as yet, and I hope as how we never shall—never.”Peace was a little discomposed at this speech, which was delivered with an earnestness and power which seemed to go right through him.“No, Bill, we aint come to that as yet. Let’s hope there’ll never be any occasion for us to be brought to such an extremity.”“Brought be blowed!” said Rawton. “Prigging’s one thing and murder another. If you lift a few things from a crib as you enter, while the owner and his wirtuous family are asleep, why, well and good; the loss of them won’t ruin him—indeed, in a manner of speaking, it won’t perhaps do him a morsel of harm; but taking human life, old pal, is a horse of a different colour, an’ I’d rather give myself up, let alone being ‘copped,’ than rob a cove of his life. ’Cause, you see, Charlie, life is a precious gift, and when once taken, it be a gift it aint in the power of mortal man to restore; and you know it’s dear to everyone ov us, however hard-up and miserable we may be.”“I tell you what it is, Bill, I’m blowed if some sanctimonious parson aint been getting at you—there’s no mistake about that.”“You make a jolly big mistake if you suppose that. I aint sed a word to any parson, nor has one sed even so much as a word to me; but that don’t much matter. Prigging’s one thing, murder’s another.”“Well—who says it aint?” cried Peace, petulantly. “We’ve not come out on a preaching tour—have we?”“No, I dunno as we have; but you mustn’t talk about shooting your man down, ’cause, in the first place you’ll be a jolly fool to do so; and in the next the chances are you’ll never have a happy hour arter.”“You’re a jolly old hypocrite, Bill!” exclaimed Peace, laughing in his turn—“a thundering old hypocrite!”“Am I? Well, I s’pose I am, if you say so. But them’s my sentiments and always were, come what may. I don’t intend to go in for murder or manslaughter. As to giving a cove a crack on the head when he becomes troublesome that’s another matter, but shooting or stabbing aint in my line, and, as I said afore, I hope it never will be.”“You never know what you may be brought to, so don’t you make cock sure of being free from temptation.”“Oh, I aint free from temptation—I admit that, Charlie. Don’t you imagine I’m going for to do the sanctimonious, as you term it, because, yer see, it wouldn’t fit either on us—not a bit on it. I am game to lift anything as comes in my way, and no gammon.”“If you said otherwise I shouldn’t believe you.”“In course yer wouldn’t. You might as well expect Cooney to preach morality as me.”“Cooney!” exclaimed Peace. “Have you seen anything of him lately?”No.55.Illustration: A STRANGE MEETING.A STRANGE AND UNEXPECTED MEETING.Our hero now became seriously alarmed.“Eh. Well, yes, I have.”“For mercy’s sake don’t say you’ve seen anything of me. Don’t tell Cooney I’m in London; but perhaps you have already done so.”“No I aint, nor do I intend. Do you take me for a fool?”“Far from that, old stick-in-the-mud. But don’t you say a word to Cooney about me.”“I won’t—’taint likely.”“He’s all well enough in his way, but he’s got a precious long tongue, and is too fond of chattering.”“Oh, there aint any harm in the chap; leastways, I never found any. He’s fair and square enough.”“That may be, but I again charge you, Bill, to say nothing about my being in London, what I am, and what I am doing. This is most important. Do you understand?”“I do. Cooney knows nothing, nor shall he.”“That’s right. You’ve passed your word, and I am satisfied.”They had by this time passed Charlton. The curtain of night had fallen over the landscape. Not a star to be seen.Peace drew the rein, and the pony and trap turned into a dark narrow lane.“We are within sight of the crib,” said Peace. “I shall leave you here in charge of ‘Tommy.’”“Who’s ‘Tommy?’”“The pony.”“Oh, I see. Well, and what then?”“You wait here till I come back. The house is some little distance off from where we are now. So much the better. I don’t want the trap to be seen by any chance passenger. Here you are pretty safe from observation, but if a bobby does hail within sight you can drive slowly on—and after he has gone return to this spot or near it. I shall be sure to find you. If I do not I shall give a whistle, and you’ll know I am at hand.”“Oh, you are going to crack the crib all by yourself then?”“I shall manage it better without a companion; besides, some one must be left in charge of ‘Tommy’ and the trap—don’t you see that? Tommy’s worth his weight in gold, and I wouldn’t lose him for the best man or woman that ever breathed.”“You were always fond of animals, Charlie, and you ain’t altered in that respect, I see.”Peace left the gipsy, and proceeded to the habitation he proposed operating on, and Rawton had to content himself as best he could in the dark lane till the return of his companion.A quarter of an hour passed over, then half an hour; the gipsy felt cold and uncomfortable. He got out of the trap, and walked backwards and forwards in the lane to break the monotony of the hour.“I wonder how far this place is Charlie was speaking of? I do hope he’ll work it to rights. I’m getting jolly sick of waiting, but anyhow I’ll stick to my post. He is a stunner, and no mistake.”Presently the moon, which had hitherto been obscured, shone forth, and lighted up the surrounding neighbourhood with remarkable distinctness.Rawton re-entered the trap; before doing so, however, he reined up Tommy, whom he had loosened, that he might nibble at the grass which grew by the hedge-side.The gipsy glanced in every direction. In a few minutes, after he had seated himself again in the trap, he beheld at some distance down the road, which ran at right angles with the lane, a man running at the top of his speed. He was at no loss to comprehend that the fugitive was Charles Peace.He was panting, and almost breathless.It was evident enough that he had run his hardest. He threw his bag into the trap, put on an overcoat, encased his neck in a red muffler, and exchanged hats with the gipsy.In the space of a few seconds he made such an alteration in his appearance that none would have known him.“Drive your hardest!” exclaimed Peace, “and keep as quiet as possible.”The gipsy put Tommy out to the greatest possible speed, and in a few minutes after this they were far removed from the scene of action.“What’s been the matter, then?” cried Bill, after they had got clean away.“Matter,” returned our hero. “I was as near as possible being potted. Just as I was leaving the grounds of the house, who should come up with me but a bobby. ‘What have you got in that bag?’ says he.“‘That’s no business of yours,’ says I.“‘Aint it though,’ cries my gentleman.“‘No it aint. You mind your own business, and leave respectable people alone.’“‘You’ll just let me see what you’ve got there, my man,’ says he, and with that he endeavours to seize hold of the bag.“‘Now then, guv’nor,’ says I, ‘you’re a jolly sight too fast, you are, by a long way. If you give me any more of your cheek I’ll report ye.’“‘You are not going away without satisfying me as to what you’ve got in the bag,’ says he; ‘just hand it over without further ado.’“‘No; not if I know it,’ says I. Well, with that he seizes me by the collar of the coat, when, before he was aware of it, I slipped out of his grasp, and tripped him up. I didn’t wait for any further conversation with my gentleman, but ran my hardest; he followed, but you see I had the start of him, and cut across a field, and reached the high road again. By this means I doubled on him, but he was still giving chase when I jumped into the trap. However, he’s left behind now; but it might have been worse.”“I am glad you were not driven to extremities,” observed Bill, in a tone of satisfaction.“I am glad of it myself; but I was very near being copped though—precious near.”“Which road am I to take now?” inquired the gipsy, as they came to the end of the one through which they had been travelling.“Make for Blackheath.”“What! not for Peckham?”“No, shan’t go home just yet; my business is not over.”“Why, surely you don’t intend—”“Aye, but I do. One crib don’t satisfy me; have got to work another.”“Well, you have got a nerve, Charlie. After what has taken place, I should have supposed it would have given you the sick of it for to-night, at all events.”“Drive on to Blackheath, I tell you, and leave me to myself.”“To yourself?”“Yes, I’ll tell you what to do presently.”“Right you are, old sinner. I’ve no right to interfere; so, here goes.”Upon reaching Blackheath Charles Peace got out of the trap, took his burglar’s instruments with him, and declared that he was about to effect an entrance into a palatial-looking mansion in the immediate neighbourhood.“Now, if you like, you can drive Tommy home, and leave me to myself. See, here’s the key of the stable.”“I don’t care about leaving you to yourself, as you term it.”“It is best for you to do so. There’s a goodish many things in the trap, and if we are suspected—which is more than likely, seeing that the cart and pony may be recognised if we are not—and the contents of the bag are overhauled, where shall we be then? No, no, Bill—it won’t do to risk it. You make the best of your way to the Evelina-road, put up the nag, hide the booty in the place I pointed out to you, and then step it. If you see either of the women say I am detained playing at a concert in Blackheath. Then you can see me in the morning.”“Oh, very well, if it is to be so, there’s no help for it, I suppose. But where are you going to now?”“Oh, I’ve had my eye on one or two little places. Never you mind where they are—I tell you I’ve not done for the night—not as yet.”“You lick me—knock me silly; I’m not in it,” cried the gipsy, with a laugh. “I’m to go back—am I?”“Yes—haven’t I told you so?”“Anything else you want?”“No—nothing. Drive on.”Bill turned the horse’s head, wished his companion good night, and trotted on towards London.Charles Peace remained for some little time silent and abstracted until the gipsy was lost to sight, after which he walked on in the most unconcerned manner it is very well possible to conceive. He had before leaving his companion taken off the overcoat and muffler, put on his own hat, and made himself up in a manner which was altogether different to the one he had assumed when starting out on his lawless expedition.After a walk of some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour’s duration, he came in sight of an elegant mansion, situated in its own grounds, which was to all appearance tenanted by some wealthy well-to-do citizen.The house in question stood not very far from Kidbrook-lane, which has attained an unenviable celebrity for the barbarous murder of the ill-fated girl named Margaret Clewson. This crime, like many others of a kindred nature, remains a mystery to this day.The murderer of Margaret Clewson is, in all probability, still in our midst. The murder in Kidbrook-lane was one of the greatest possible atrocity. The victim lay for hours in a semi-unconscious state by the hedge where she had been stricken down, with fourteen wounds of a most fearful character on the head and face. After lingering in perfect agony and torture for some days, death put an end to her sufferings, but the perpetrator of this horrible crime has never been overtaken by justice—the avenging arm of the law has been nerveless and powerless in this instance.Margaret Clewson was not able to articulate or express herself in the smallest degree after being taken to the hospital.When found in the lane by a policeman all she was able to say, “Oh, let me die.” Those were the last words she uttered. Many of the inhabitants of Blackheath, Greenwich, and Sydenham believe to this day that her death will be avenged, but we fear the chances are very remote of her murderer being discovered.Peace walked round the fence which enclosed the garden and grounds of the house upon which he had an eye. As he was making a survey a policeman, who was going his rounds, passed close to the spot where the burglar stood, but the latter was in no way abashed, he walked leisurly on, and watched the bobby going his round till he was lost to sight, then he returned to the habitation.With one spring he cleared the low wall which ran round the back garden, he then found himself in a dense plantation of trees and underwood, which effectually concealed him from observation.He then bethought him of what to do. He glanced at the back of the house.One of the windows of the first-floor room seemed to be available. He might succeed in climbing up to this without attracting anyone’s notice.He paced up and down the garden, being still in doubt as to the weakest point of attack.While doing so he observed a short ladder stretched lengthways by the side of the wall.It had been used in the early part of the day by a man who had come to prune the vines.This would suit his purpose admirably. He rubbed his hands with glee.“Sent on purpose; nothing could be better,” he murmured. “Nothing.”He looked over the wall; no chance passenger was visible. He reached the ladder, and in an incredibly short space of time he succeeded in opening the back window.He crept softly into the apartment. He found himself in an elegantly-furnished room full of articles of virtu, with a large wardrobe, in which were articles of female attire, a lady’s riding habit, sealskin mantles, and other costly garments.Peace looked about, and observed by the aid of his dark lantern a number of valuable trinkets and portable property, which quite charmed him to look upon.He set to work without further hesitation.In the next room to the one in which he was occupied sat a lady, who was evidently waiting for some one. She heard a noise in the adjoining apartment.“Dear me, how late it is!” she murmured. “I ought to have been in bed hours ago. Ethel, is that you?”Ethel, the ladies’ maid, did not answer, and the faint rustle in the back-room, which had called forth the lady’s question, ceased the instant she spoke aloud.The lady was not wanting in courage—she was not nervous—far from it, yet her watch seemed to tick with extraordinary vigour, and her heart to beat harder than common while she listened.The door of communication between the two rooms was closed. Another door in the smaller apartment opened to the passage; but this, she remembered, was invariably locked on the inside.It couldn’t be Ethel, therefore, who disturbed her mistress’s reflections, unless that faithful handmaiden had come down the chimney or in at the window.It could not be her husband, for he was far away in the country on a visit to some of his relatives. Still, it was just possible he might have come back; but even assuming he had, it was not at all likely that he would be groping about in the adjoining room.The house was very silent—so silent that in the distant corridors were distinctly audible those faint and ghostly footfalls which traverse all large houses after midnight.A small hand-lamp was burning on the lady’s toilette table, but it served rather to show how dismal were the shadowy corners of the large lofty bedroom than to afford light and confidence to its inmate.She listened intently. Yes, she was sure she heard somebody in the next room.A step that moved stealthily about. A noise as of woodwork skilfully and cautiously broken open.She became seriously alarmed. Who could it be? She endeavoured as best she could to account in some rational and reasonable way for the sounds which fell upon her ear.One moment she felt frightened, then her courage came back higher for its interruption.She was a woman who was not daunted by a trifle—still it must be confessed the situation in which she found herself was a trying one.She could have escaped from her own room into the passage easily enough, and so alarmed the house, but when she reflected that its fighting garrison consisted only of an infirm old butler, and a page boy whom no one could possibly wake, there seemed little to be gained by such a proceeding if violence or robbery were really intended.Besides, she rather scorned the idea of summoning assistance till she had ascertained the amount of danger.She remembered at this time the accounts she had heard of the numberless daring robberies which had taken place in that and the surrounding neighbourhoods.She had laughed at these reports, which she concluded had been greatly exaggerated, but she looked upon the matter in a more serious light now.It was likely enough that some daring burglar had paid her establishment a visit during her husband’s and the footman’s absence, for both were away.She determined upon her course of action. She would know the worst.She blew out the lamp on her toilette table, and crept to the door of the smaller room, in which our hero was now so busily occupied.She put her ear to the keyhole, and heard the burglar’s movements more distinctly. She laid her hand noiselessly on its lock.Softly as she turned it, gently as she pushed the door back on its hinges inch by inch, she did not succeed in entering unobserved.The light of a shaded lantern flashed over her the instant she crossed the threshold, dazzling her eyes indeed, yet not so completely but that she made out the figure of a man standing over her shattered jewel-box of which he seemed to have been rifling the contents.Quick as thought, she said to herself—“Come, there is only one. If I can frighten him more than he frightens me the game is mine.”The man uttered a series of impious oaths in a whisper, and the lady was aware of the muzzle of a pistol covering her above the dark lantern.She wondered why she was not frightened. It was most remarkable, for her position was one of imminent peril; but she did not lose her presence of mind.She could distinguish a dark figure behind the spot of intense light radiating round her own person, and perceived besides, almost without looking, that an entrance had been made by the window, which stood wide open, so as to disclose the topmost rounds of a garden ladder propped against the sill.What Charles Peace saw in the flood of light was an aristocratic-looking woman, decked in the most costly raiment, with her neck and arms sparkling with jewels.There was such an air of composure and refinement about her that he was fairly bewildered.“Bessie Dalton, as I’m a living man!” he ejaculated.
It has been said that Charles Peace carried out the burglaries on the other side of London entirely by himself, and without the assistance of even one confederate, and to a considerable extent the statement is borne out by facts.
Nevertheless, it is quite certain that occasionally he had a helpmate or accomplice, this being none other than Bandy-legged Bill.
Rawton, however, was fortunate enough to escape notice.
He was never implicated in the extensive series of depredations carried on by our hero during what may be termed his London career.
We have it upon good authority that there was another person besides Bill who occasionally accompanied Peace on his predatory excursions—this personage also escaped detection.
It is true that both he and the gipsy only acted in concert with our hero some half-dozen times or so.
As a rule Peace certainly did commit an almost incredible number of burglaries entirely by himself, and this perhaps furnishes us with the series of daring exploits which for audacity and fearlessness are without a parallel in the history of criminals.
But Peace was altogether a character far above the level of the ordinary housebreaker.
His cunning, finesse, his hypocrisy and assumption of the character of a well-to-do respectable member of the community when in his house in the Evelina-road, seems to be altogether outside the barriers which hedge in the lawless class to which he most unquestionably belonged.
The neighbours, as they saw him drive his pony trap along the Evelina-road, said, “The old gentleman has gone out for his evening drive.” They saw him go out, but none of them saw him come back. Whither he went nobody seemed to take the trouble to inquire. The supposition was that he was going to pay a visit to some friend who did not live within walking distance, and as Peace made it appear that he was an invalid and was not able to bear much fatigue, they naturally concluded that the respectable independent gentleman had a large circle of acquaintances who lived on the outskirts of London, and to these persons he was accustomed to pay periodical visits.
That he did make it his business to call at the houses of the wealthy in Blackheath, Greenwich, and elsewhere was very certain—the number of houses he entered it would be very difficult to enumerate, and in most cases he brought away with him substantial proofs of his having made a careful selection of the valuables therein.
Upon arriving at Spurgeon’s Tabernacle he found Bandy-legged Bill awaiting his appearance. Bill was good at an appointment, and seldom failed to keep any he made with our hero.
“Well, old stick-in-the-mud, are you in better fettle now? Got rid of the miserables—eh?” cried Peace.
“I’m all right now, old man,” returned the gipsy. “It was but a passing cloud.”
“Ah, so you’ve still got a touch of the romantic, it would seem. Well, jump up.”
The gipsy got into the trap, which was driven off by Peace.
“Where are you making for—any place in particular?”
“I saw a tempting-looking crib at Upper Charlton, and we’ll just see if it can be worked to rights.”
Rawton laughed.
“I wish I had got your ability, Charlie, and your nerve,” said he. “I’ve tried, but have never been able to manage this sort of business by myself. I expect I’m clumsy. Anyway, I’m a fool compared to you.”
“I don’t know so much about that. We’ve done pretty well together at one time—why not now?”
“Oh! I’m well enough to play second fiddle, but aint of no manner of use when left to myself. So you’ve given up Sheffield and the other towns—have you? Got too hot, I suppose.”
“It’s not altogether that. I could do well enough in my old quarters, but a change was absolutely necessary.”
“I see—a change of air for the benefit of your health.”
“Look here, nobody knows me as Charles Peace in Peckham, and so you’d better not mention Sheffield, Manchester, or Bradford, ’cause, you see, if you do, it might get wind, and, if it did, I should be ‘copped’ as sure as eggs is eggs.”
“Oh, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”
“I know that, old boy—I’d trust you with my life, and that’s saying something, seeing how few there are a bloke can trust now-a-days. Men are getting more like wild beasts than human beings. As to the people in this world getting wiser or better it’s all my eye and Betty Martin.”
“That’s right enough, they are not near so good I think as they were when I first came into this world,” remarked the gipsy. “Look at old Gallipot. He poisoned his first wife, and no doubt intended to polish off his second by the same means.”
“He left behind him an excellent fiddle, that’s one thing in his favour, seeing that I bought it for a mere song.”
“Was that his fiddle you were playing on to-day?”
“Why, of course it was. I told you so.”
“Oh, true, I forgot.”
“Why your wits are wool-gathering.”
“That’s better than oakum picking,” returned Bill, bursting out into a loud laugh. “I had you there, old man, and no mistake.”
“Look here, Bill, it aint worth while for you to remind me, nor for me to remind you of the miseries of prison life. I don’t like to think of it—blessed if I do. It seems to send a cold shudder through my frame. I’ve had enough of it, and don’t intend to be ‘copped’ again, come what may.”
“Why, what would you do then?”
“Shoot my man down, rather than be taken.”
“Oh, Jerusalem! But——”
“Well, what?”
“That sounds like murder,” cried the gipsy; “and we’ve neither of us come to that as yet, and I hope as how we never shall—never.”
Peace was a little discomposed at this speech, which was delivered with an earnestness and power which seemed to go right through him.
“No, Bill, we aint come to that as yet. Let’s hope there’ll never be any occasion for us to be brought to such an extremity.”
“Brought be blowed!” said Rawton. “Prigging’s one thing and murder another. If you lift a few things from a crib as you enter, while the owner and his wirtuous family are asleep, why, well and good; the loss of them won’t ruin him—indeed, in a manner of speaking, it won’t perhaps do him a morsel of harm; but taking human life, old pal, is a horse of a different colour, an’ I’d rather give myself up, let alone being ‘copped,’ than rob a cove of his life. ’Cause, you see, Charlie, life is a precious gift, and when once taken, it be a gift it aint in the power of mortal man to restore; and you know it’s dear to everyone ov us, however hard-up and miserable we may be.”
“I tell you what it is, Bill, I’m blowed if some sanctimonious parson aint been getting at you—there’s no mistake about that.”
“You make a jolly big mistake if you suppose that. I aint sed a word to any parson, nor has one sed even so much as a word to me; but that don’t much matter. Prigging’s one thing, murder’s another.”
“Well—who says it aint?” cried Peace, petulantly. “We’ve not come out on a preaching tour—have we?”
“No, I dunno as we have; but you mustn’t talk about shooting your man down, ’cause, in the first place you’ll be a jolly fool to do so; and in the next the chances are you’ll never have a happy hour arter.”
“You’re a jolly old hypocrite, Bill!” exclaimed Peace, laughing in his turn—“a thundering old hypocrite!”
“Am I? Well, I s’pose I am, if you say so. But them’s my sentiments and always were, come what may. I don’t intend to go in for murder or manslaughter. As to giving a cove a crack on the head when he becomes troublesome that’s another matter, but shooting or stabbing aint in my line, and, as I said afore, I hope it never will be.”
“You never know what you may be brought to, so don’t you make cock sure of being free from temptation.”
“Oh, I aint free from temptation—I admit that, Charlie. Don’t you imagine I’m going for to do the sanctimonious, as you term it, because, yer see, it wouldn’t fit either on us—not a bit on it. I am game to lift anything as comes in my way, and no gammon.”
“If you said otherwise I shouldn’t believe you.”
“In course yer wouldn’t. You might as well expect Cooney to preach morality as me.”
“Cooney!” exclaimed Peace. “Have you seen anything of him lately?”
No.55.
Illustration: A STRANGE MEETING.A STRANGE AND UNEXPECTED MEETING.
A STRANGE AND UNEXPECTED MEETING.
Our hero now became seriously alarmed.
“Eh. Well, yes, I have.”
“For mercy’s sake don’t say you’ve seen anything of me. Don’t tell Cooney I’m in London; but perhaps you have already done so.”
“No I aint, nor do I intend. Do you take me for a fool?”
“Far from that, old stick-in-the-mud. But don’t you say a word to Cooney about me.”
“I won’t—’taint likely.”
“He’s all well enough in his way, but he’s got a precious long tongue, and is too fond of chattering.”
“Oh, there aint any harm in the chap; leastways, I never found any. He’s fair and square enough.”
“That may be, but I again charge you, Bill, to say nothing about my being in London, what I am, and what I am doing. This is most important. Do you understand?”
“I do. Cooney knows nothing, nor shall he.”
“That’s right. You’ve passed your word, and I am satisfied.”
They had by this time passed Charlton. The curtain of night had fallen over the landscape. Not a star to be seen.
Peace drew the rein, and the pony and trap turned into a dark narrow lane.
“We are within sight of the crib,” said Peace. “I shall leave you here in charge of ‘Tommy.’”
“Who’s ‘Tommy?’”
“The pony.”
“Oh, I see. Well, and what then?”
“You wait here till I come back. The house is some little distance off from where we are now. So much the better. I don’t want the trap to be seen by any chance passenger. Here you are pretty safe from observation, but if a bobby does hail within sight you can drive slowly on—and after he has gone return to this spot or near it. I shall be sure to find you. If I do not I shall give a whistle, and you’ll know I am at hand.”
“Oh, you are going to crack the crib all by yourself then?”
“I shall manage it better without a companion; besides, some one must be left in charge of ‘Tommy’ and the trap—don’t you see that? Tommy’s worth his weight in gold, and I wouldn’t lose him for the best man or woman that ever breathed.”
“You were always fond of animals, Charlie, and you ain’t altered in that respect, I see.”
Peace left the gipsy, and proceeded to the habitation he proposed operating on, and Rawton had to content himself as best he could in the dark lane till the return of his companion.
A quarter of an hour passed over, then half an hour; the gipsy felt cold and uncomfortable. He got out of the trap, and walked backwards and forwards in the lane to break the monotony of the hour.
“I wonder how far this place is Charlie was speaking of? I do hope he’ll work it to rights. I’m getting jolly sick of waiting, but anyhow I’ll stick to my post. He is a stunner, and no mistake.”
Presently the moon, which had hitherto been obscured, shone forth, and lighted up the surrounding neighbourhood with remarkable distinctness.
Rawton re-entered the trap; before doing so, however, he reined up Tommy, whom he had loosened, that he might nibble at the grass which grew by the hedge-side.
The gipsy glanced in every direction. In a few minutes, after he had seated himself again in the trap, he beheld at some distance down the road, which ran at right angles with the lane, a man running at the top of his speed. He was at no loss to comprehend that the fugitive was Charles Peace.
He was panting, and almost breathless.
It was evident enough that he had run his hardest. He threw his bag into the trap, put on an overcoat, encased his neck in a red muffler, and exchanged hats with the gipsy.
In the space of a few seconds he made such an alteration in his appearance that none would have known him.
“Drive your hardest!” exclaimed Peace, “and keep as quiet as possible.”
The gipsy put Tommy out to the greatest possible speed, and in a few minutes after this they were far removed from the scene of action.
“What’s been the matter, then?” cried Bill, after they had got clean away.
“Matter,” returned our hero. “I was as near as possible being potted. Just as I was leaving the grounds of the house, who should come up with me but a bobby. ‘What have you got in that bag?’ says he.
“‘That’s no business of yours,’ says I.
“‘Aint it though,’ cries my gentleman.
“‘No it aint. You mind your own business, and leave respectable people alone.’
“‘You’ll just let me see what you’ve got there, my man,’ says he, and with that he endeavours to seize hold of the bag.
“‘Now then, guv’nor,’ says I, ‘you’re a jolly sight too fast, you are, by a long way. If you give me any more of your cheek I’ll report ye.’
“‘You are not going away without satisfying me as to what you’ve got in the bag,’ says he; ‘just hand it over without further ado.’
“‘No; not if I know it,’ says I. Well, with that he seizes me by the collar of the coat, when, before he was aware of it, I slipped out of his grasp, and tripped him up. I didn’t wait for any further conversation with my gentleman, but ran my hardest; he followed, but you see I had the start of him, and cut across a field, and reached the high road again. By this means I doubled on him, but he was still giving chase when I jumped into the trap. However, he’s left behind now; but it might have been worse.”
“I am glad you were not driven to extremities,” observed Bill, in a tone of satisfaction.
“I am glad of it myself; but I was very near being copped though—precious near.”
“Which road am I to take now?” inquired the gipsy, as they came to the end of the one through which they had been travelling.
“Make for Blackheath.”
“What! not for Peckham?”
“No, shan’t go home just yet; my business is not over.”
“Why, surely you don’t intend—”
“Aye, but I do. One crib don’t satisfy me; have got to work another.”
“Well, you have got a nerve, Charlie. After what has taken place, I should have supposed it would have given you the sick of it for to-night, at all events.”
“Drive on to Blackheath, I tell you, and leave me to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you what to do presently.”
“Right you are, old sinner. I’ve no right to interfere; so, here goes.”
Upon reaching Blackheath Charles Peace got out of the trap, took his burglar’s instruments with him, and declared that he was about to effect an entrance into a palatial-looking mansion in the immediate neighbourhood.
“Now, if you like, you can drive Tommy home, and leave me to myself. See, here’s the key of the stable.”
“I don’t care about leaving you to yourself, as you term it.”
“It is best for you to do so. There’s a goodish many things in the trap, and if we are suspected—which is more than likely, seeing that the cart and pony may be recognised if we are not—and the contents of the bag are overhauled, where shall we be then? No, no, Bill—it won’t do to risk it. You make the best of your way to the Evelina-road, put up the nag, hide the booty in the place I pointed out to you, and then step it. If you see either of the women say I am detained playing at a concert in Blackheath. Then you can see me in the morning.”
“Oh, very well, if it is to be so, there’s no help for it, I suppose. But where are you going to now?”
“Oh, I’ve had my eye on one or two little places. Never you mind where they are—I tell you I’ve not done for the night—not as yet.”
“You lick me—knock me silly; I’m not in it,” cried the gipsy, with a laugh. “I’m to go back—am I?”
“Yes—haven’t I told you so?”
“Anything else you want?”
“No—nothing. Drive on.”
Bill turned the horse’s head, wished his companion good night, and trotted on towards London.
Charles Peace remained for some little time silent and abstracted until the gipsy was lost to sight, after which he walked on in the most unconcerned manner it is very well possible to conceive. He had before leaving his companion taken off the overcoat and muffler, put on his own hat, and made himself up in a manner which was altogether different to the one he had assumed when starting out on his lawless expedition.
After a walk of some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour’s duration, he came in sight of an elegant mansion, situated in its own grounds, which was to all appearance tenanted by some wealthy well-to-do citizen.
The house in question stood not very far from Kidbrook-lane, which has attained an unenviable celebrity for the barbarous murder of the ill-fated girl named Margaret Clewson. This crime, like many others of a kindred nature, remains a mystery to this day.
The murderer of Margaret Clewson is, in all probability, still in our midst. The murder in Kidbrook-lane was one of the greatest possible atrocity. The victim lay for hours in a semi-unconscious state by the hedge where she had been stricken down, with fourteen wounds of a most fearful character on the head and face. After lingering in perfect agony and torture for some days, death put an end to her sufferings, but the perpetrator of this horrible crime has never been overtaken by justice—the avenging arm of the law has been nerveless and powerless in this instance.
Margaret Clewson was not able to articulate or express herself in the smallest degree after being taken to the hospital.
When found in the lane by a policeman all she was able to say, “Oh, let me die.” Those were the last words she uttered. Many of the inhabitants of Blackheath, Greenwich, and Sydenham believe to this day that her death will be avenged, but we fear the chances are very remote of her murderer being discovered.
Peace walked round the fence which enclosed the garden and grounds of the house upon which he had an eye. As he was making a survey a policeman, who was going his rounds, passed close to the spot where the burglar stood, but the latter was in no way abashed, he walked leisurly on, and watched the bobby going his round till he was lost to sight, then he returned to the habitation.
With one spring he cleared the low wall which ran round the back garden, he then found himself in a dense plantation of trees and underwood, which effectually concealed him from observation.
He then bethought him of what to do. He glanced at the back of the house.
One of the windows of the first-floor room seemed to be available. He might succeed in climbing up to this without attracting anyone’s notice.
He paced up and down the garden, being still in doubt as to the weakest point of attack.
While doing so he observed a short ladder stretched lengthways by the side of the wall.
It had been used in the early part of the day by a man who had come to prune the vines.
This would suit his purpose admirably. He rubbed his hands with glee.
“Sent on purpose; nothing could be better,” he murmured. “Nothing.”
He looked over the wall; no chance passenger was visible. He reached the ladder, and in an incredibly short space of time he succeeded in opening the back window.
He crept softly into the apartment. He found himself in an elegantly-furnished room full of articles of virtu, with a large wardrobe, in which were articles of female attire, a lady’s riding habit, sealskin mantles, and other costly garments.
Peace looked about, and observed by the aid of his dark lantern a number of valuable trinkets and portable property, which quite charmed him to look upon.
He set to work without further hesitation.
In the next room to the one in which he was occupied sat a lady, who was evidently waiting for some one. She heard a noise in the adjoining apartment.
“Dear me, how late it is!” she murmured. “I ought to have been in bed hours ago. Ethel, is that you?”
Ethel, the ladies’ maid, did not answer, and the faint rustle in the back-room, which had called forth the lady’s question, ceased the instant she spoke aloud.
The lady was not wanting in courage—she was not nervous—far from it, yet her watch seemed to tick with extraordinary vigour, and her heart to beat harder than common while she listened.
The door of communication between the two rooms was closed. Another door in the smaller apartment opened to the passage; but this, she remembered, was invariably locked on the inside.
It couldn’t be Ethel, therefore, who disturbed her mistress’s reflections, unless that faithful handmaiden had come down the chimney or in at the window.
It could not be her husband, for he was far away in the country on a visit to some of his relatives. Still, it was just possible he might have come back; but even assuming he had, it was not at all likely that he would be groping about in the adjoining room.
The house was very silent—so silent that in the distant corridors were distinctly audible those faint and ghostly footfalls which traverse all large houses after midnight.
A small hand-lamp was burning on the lady’s toilette table, but it served rather to show how dismal were the shadowy corners of the large lofty bedroom than to afford light and confidence to its inmate.
She listened intently. Yes, she was sure she heard somebody in the next room.
A step that moved stealthily about. A noise as of woodwork skilfully and cautiously broken open.
She became seriously alarmed. Who could it be? She endeavoured as best she could to account in some rational and reasonable way for the sounds which fell upon her ear.
One moment she felt frightened, then her courage came back higher for its interruption.
She was a woman who was not daunted by a trifle—still it must be confessed the situation in which she found herself was a trying one.
She could have escaped from her own room into the passage easily enough, and so alarmed the house, but when she reflected that its fighting garrison consisted only of an infirm old butler, and a page boy whom no one could possibly wake, there seemed little to be gained by such a proceeding if violence or robbery were really intended.
Besides, she rather scorned the idea of summoning assistance till she had ascertained the amount of danger.
She remembered at this time the accounts she had heard of the numberless daring robberies which had taken place in that and the surrounding neighbourhoods.
She had laughed at these reports, which she concluded had been greatly exaggerated, but she looked upon the matter in a more serious light now.
It was likely enough that some daring burglar had paid her establishment a visit during her husband’s and the footman’s absence, for both were away.
She determined upon her course of action. She would know the worst.
She blew out the lamp on her toilette table, and crept to the door of the smaller room, in which our hero was now so busily occupied.
She put her ear to the keyhole, and heard the burglar’s movements more distinctly. She laid her hand noiselessly on its lock.
Softly as she turned it, gently as she pushed the door back on its hinges inch by inch, she did not succeed in entering unobserved.
The light of a shaded lantern flashed over her the instant she crossed the threshold, dazzling her eyes indeed, yet not so completely but that she made out the figure of a man standing over her shattered jewel-box of which he seemed to have been rifling the contents.
Quick as thought, she said to herself—
“Come, there is only one. If I can frighten him more than he frightens me the game is mine.”
The man uttered a series of impious oaths in a whisper, and the lady was aware of the muzzle of a pistol covering her above the dark lantern.
She wondered why she was not frightened. It was most remarkable, for her position was one of imminent peril; but she did not lose her presence of mind.
She could distinguish a dark figure behind the spot of intense light radiating round her own person, and perceived besides, almost without looking, that an entrance had been made by the window, which stood wide open, so as to disclose the topmost rounds of a garden ladder propped against the sill.
What Charles Peace saw in the flood of light was an aristocratic-looking woman, decked in the most costly raiment, with her neck and arms sparkling with jewels.
There was such an air of composure and refinement about her that he was fairly bewildered.
“Bessie Dalton, as I’m a living man!” he ejaculated.