CHAPTER CLXXV.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE IN STAMFORD STREET.

We must now carry our narrative backward for a few hours, in order to

explain the incident which has just been described.

At the corner of Stamford Street and the Blackfriars Road, there are

three houses in a most dismantled and dilapidated condition. They seem

to have been ravaged by fire; but time and neglect have in reality

produced that deplorable appearance. The walls are blackened with

accumulated dirt; and the state of the windows bears unequivocal

evidence to the fact that every pane has been broken, individually and

separately, by stones flung from the streets by vagabond boys or other

mischievous persons. The fragments of glass that remain, seem as if

the material never could have been transparent, but had even in its

manufacture been stained with an inky dye; and the shutters wherewith

the casements are closed inside, are equally blackened, as if by a

smoke as dense as that which proceeds from the funnel of a steam-packet

or the chimney of a factory.

For the last twenty years have these three houses been thus left

to fall into ruin: for the fifth part of a century has the work of

dilapidation and decay been going on! That they were once habited is

evident from the fact that the blinds, pulled up round their rollers,

still remain--but so begrimed with black dust and dirt that it is

scarcely possible to believe they were ever white. The cords used

to pull them down, with the tassels at the end, are likewise still

there, and totally discoloured also. Very mournful is the aspect

of those ruined tenements, with these indications that they once

were comfortable dwellings,--that cheerful fires once burnt in the

grates--that lights streamed from the casements in years gone by--and

that the walls echoed to the gay pealing laughter of merry children!

Desolate--desolate, indeed, are the three houses,--a disfigurement

to the entire vicinity, and having an appearance well calculated to

throw a damp upon the spirits even of the most strong-minded of the

neighbours.

There is something picturesque in the aspect which ruins in the open

country--perhaps on the summit of a hill--assume from gradual decay;

because there the ivy grows upon the walls, and the naked hideousness

of dilapidation is concealed by the invasion of a wilderness of shrubs

and sweets. But when the golden rays of a summer sun pour upon the

blackened walls and shattered casements of houses in the midst of a

populous city,--houses which have dwelling-places adjoining them and

all around,--the effect is sombre, sad, and sinister in the extreme.

Such is the impression produced by those three houses in

Stamford-street. Not that the street itself is otherwise cheerful in

aspect: on the contrary, the entire thoroughfare stretching between the

Blackfriars and Waterloo Roads, is gloomy and inhospitable in aspect.

The exterior of the houses has a dinginess of wall and a darkness

of window that are unrelieved by the aristocratic grandeur and the

richness of curtains inside, which characterise the rows of smoke-dyed

dwellings in more fashionable quarters.

The inhabitants of Stamford Street are amazingly prone to the letting

of lodgings, when they can find any persons willing to take them. But

that such pliant and easily-persuaded tenants are rare in that quarter,

is proved to demonstration by the numbers of cards and bills in the

windows announcing furnished apartments to let.

It is a curious study, and one that affords matter for speculation,

to examine the cards and bills thus displayed. Some are written in a

neat feminine hand, so small that the passer-by must protrude his head

far over the railings to enable his vision to decipher the delicate

announcements: others are penned in a bold, coarse hand--and, in them,

the chances are ten to one that the word _let_ is spelt with a double

t;--while others, again, are printed in the types which the experienced

eye has no difficulty in tracing to Peel’s famed establishment in the

New Cut.

More than half of Stamford Street constantly appears to let; and,

from all accounts, landlords experience no trifling difficulty in

collecting the rents from the occupants of their houses. If you pass

along Stamford Street just before quarter-day, and at a very early

hour in the morning, or at a late hour in the night, you will be sure

to perceive several vans loading with furniture; for the habit of

“moon-shining it,” or flitting surreptitiously, is unfortunately of

frequent occurrence in that district.

But these are not the only indications that the affairs of the

inhabitants and lodgers in Stamford Street are far from being in

the most blooming condition: the fact may also be gathered from the

careworn countenance of the tax-gatherer as he leaves a fresh notice

at every door, and from the common occurrence of the water being cut

off. Nor less does the Poor Rates’ collector feel his task to be a most

unpleasant one; while the tradesmen in the Blackfriars Road wonder, as

they look over their ledgers, what the deuce Stamford Street is coming

to. Visitors are frequently answered from the area--an unmistakeable

precaution against the intrusion of sheriff’s officers; and even when

the butcher delivers in his meat or the baker his bread at the front

door, the chain is in many instances kept up.

Such is the prevalent state of affairs in the long thoroughfare

which we have thus briefly described: but it is with the dilapidated

houses--or rather with one of them--that we have now to occupy

ourselves.

As soon as it was dusk, two men emerged from the miserable rookery

constituted by the district of Broad Wall; and, entering Stamford

Street, they proceeded stealthily along until they reached the ruined

house which was next to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald. One of

the men--a tall, stout, ruffian-like fellow, whom we shall presently

describe more particularly--took a key from his pocket and opened the

door of the dilapidated tenement, into which he hastily entered, his

companion closely following him. We should however observe that this

ingress was effected at a moment when no other persons were near; and

that the door was opened and shut in a noiseless manner, so that no

sound might reach the ears of the occupants of the adjacent dwelling.

“Now give us your hand, old feller,” said the ruffian-like individual,

when they were safe inside the passage: “because the stairs is summut

broke away, and the bannisters isn’t to be trusted. Lord! how you

tremble! Why--what the hell are you afeard on?”

“Nothing--nothing, my good friend,” was the answer, delivered in a

nervous tone: “only--it’s--it’s--so--very--very--dark.”

“Dark!” cried the ruffian, with a hoarse laugh: “why, it wery often

_is_ dark in a house at night-time, and where there’s no candle alight.

But p’raps you’re afeard of ghosteses,” he continued, as he dragged

rather than led the nervous old man down the crazy, rotting stairs

towards the lower region of the place: “and if so, you’re in the right

quarters to see a speret--for they do say the young gal which was

murdered here, walks in her shroud;--but, for my part, I never see

her--and I han’t got no fear of that sort.”

By the time these words were uttered, in a tone of coarse jocularity,

the ruffian had conducted his companion to the bottom of the stairs;

and, halting at that point, he struck a lucifer-match against the wall,

and lighted a piece of candle which he took from his pocket.

He then led the way into the front kitchen of the house, bidding the

old man close the door behind him.

The place was black all over with accumulated dust and dirt: the

ceiling appeared as if it had been originally painted a sable hue; and

the floor, broken in several parts, conveyed the same impression. The

shelves above the dresser were in a most dilapidated condition; and the

dense cob-webs clung to them, as well as to the corners of the ceiling,

like masses of rotten rags. The shutters were closed; and over their

entire surface were pasted sheets of thick brown paper--evidently to

prevent the light of candles from peeping through their chinks and

being noticed in the street. There was an old ricketty table in the

middle of the kitchen: there were likewise two chairs, which, being

made of a tough wood, had withstood the ravages of time; and an empty

beer-barrel was placed upright near the table, as if it occasionally

served as a third seat.

The ruffian stuck the candle in the neck of a bottle; and, opening

one of the dresser-drawers, he drew forth a bottle and a couple of

small tumblers:--then, placing himself on the barrel, he proceeded

in a leisurely manner to light his pipe, while the old man--his

companion--sank, nervous and trembling, into one of the Windsor-chairs.

The reader has no doubt already guessed that these two individuals were

Vitriol Bob and Torrens;--and, if so, the surmise is correct.

The latter person needs no description; but the former character must

be more elaborately dealt with on the present occasion. He was indeed,

as Jack Rily had represented him, one of the greatest miscreants that

ever disgraced humanity,--not only in reality, but also in personal

appearance. Of tall stature, athletic frame, and muscular build, he

possessed vast physical strength. He was about thirty-six years of

age: his countenance was naturally ugly even to repulsiveness--but

huge black whiskers meeting under his chin, rendered it positively

ferocious;--and the small, dark, reptile-like eyes glared from beneath

thick, overhanging brows. His lips were remarkably coarse and of a

livid hue; and his nose, broken in the middle, had a deep indentation,

giving an appearance of death’s-head flatness to the broad countenance.

His apparel consisted of a seedy suit of black--a hat with very wide

brims bent even to slouching--and a pair of heavy Wellington boots; and

in his hand he carried a thick stick with a huge nob at one end and a

massive ferrule at the other. This was his “life-preserver;” but he

seldom had occasion to use it--for his proceedings were usually of the

savage and diabolical nature described by the Doctor, and whence he

derived the appellation of _Vitriol Bob_.

This terrible individual was well known to the police: but those

functionaries trembled at the idea of molesting him. They would have

experienced no such dread had his defensive weapons been confined to

life-preservers or pistols: but there was something so horrible in the

thought of having a bottle of burning, blinding fluid broken over the

countenance, that the officers shuddered at the bare idea of tackling

Vitriol Bob. Thus, whenever information was given of some nefarious

deed which he had attempted or perpetrated, the police took very good

care to search for him where they knew he was not to be found; and if

they even met him in one of the bye-streets or obscure alleys on the

Surrey side of the metropolis--the quarter which he chiefly honoured

with his presence--they were suddenly seized with an inclination to

look stedfastly into a picture-shop, or gaze up abstractedly at the

sky, until he had passed.

Vitriol Bob knew that he was an object of terror to the functionaries

of justice in general: but he was also well aware that there were

exceptions to the rule, and that amongst so large a body as the

police-force, some few individuals would pounce upon him at all risks.

In fact, the impunity he enjoyed was not so completely assured as to

render precaution unnecessary; and there was moreover such a thing as

being taken by surprise. For these reasons he accordingly made use of

one of the “haunted houses,”--for so they were denominated,--as a place

of concealment whenever he had committed a deed calculated to lead to

the institution of unpleasant enquiries.

Such was the individual whom we now find in company with Torrens; and

the circumstance that threw them together in the first instance, will

presently transpire through the medium of the conversation that took

place as soon as they were seated in the kitchen of the haunted house.

“Well, here we are safe at last, old feller,” cried Vitriol Bob,

puffing deliberately at his pipe, as if he savoured deliciously the

soothing influences of the tobacco. “By goles! it is one of the best

larks I ever was engaged in. Such a lot of tin, and so easily got!”

“Two thousand seven hundred a piece--eh?” said Torrens, eyeing his

companion with nervous suspense, as if he were eager to assure himself

that a fair and equitable division of the booty would take place.

“Hah!” observed the ruffian, in a complacent manner, as he filled

the two tumblers with brandy from the black bottle: “drink!”--and he

emptied one of the glasses at a draught, just as if it were a mere

thimble-full of the fiery liquid. “It was a good job, old feller,” he

continued, after a short pause, “that you fell in with such a prime

chap as I am--or rayther, it was fortnit that I lodged in the same

house, and as I came in heard you moaning and groaning away in your

cellar. It was also lucky that you let me worm out of you all that had

happened--although you was precious chary of making a confidant of me.

You remember that I couldn’t believe you at fust--I looked on you as a

perfect madman. Thinks I to myself, ‘_There’s a precious lu-nattic just

’scaped out of Bedlam_:’ for how was I to fancy that you’d raly been

robbed of such an amount, living in a cellar as you was!”

“But you believed me at last--you saw that it was all true and

correct,” exclaimed Torrens, perceiving that it suited the man’s humour

to talk on the subject.

“Well, I did,” returned Vitriol Bob: “and now,” he added, tapping his

breeches pockets significantly, “I have got plenty of proof that you

didn’t tell no lies. But, Lord bless ye! you could have done nothink

without me: you would have sat down quietly under your loss. But I

told you that I’d find the old voman out, if so be she was in London

at all; and so I did. The description you gave me of her was not to

be mistaken--’specially by a genelman of eggs-sperience like myself.

I went about all over London, looking for her; and then, behold ye!

arter all she’s living within a stone’s throw of us, as one may say.

By goles! I never shall forget how my heart jumped in my buzzim when I

clapped eyes on her yesterday, as she came out of the coffee-house: but

you don’t know how I found out that she actiwaliy lived there?”

“No--I do not,” said Torrens, observing that his companion bent upon

him a look of mysterious importance, as much as to invite a query

that should furnish him with the opportunity of giving an explanation

relative to the point alluded to. “How did it happen, then?”

“Why, when I see the old voman come out of the coffee-house, I

went straight away to my blewen--that’s Pig-faced Polly, as she’s

called--and I tells her to go to the place, take tea and toast, and

wait till she found out whether the old voman lived there, or not.

But I orders Polly not to make inquiries, for fear of eggs-citing

suspicion. Well, my gal did as I told her--and waited, and waited a

good long time; and when she’d had three teas and four or five buttered

toastesses, she see the old voman come in, and she hears the landlady

come out and say, ‘_Here’s your key, Mrs. Mortimer_.’ Then up goes Mrs.

Mortimer--for such her name seems to be--to her room; and Pig-faced

Poll returns to me with the hintelligence. I knowed that my game was

now safe enough; and it was me which dewised the plan of our going as

officers with a search-warrant, when we’d watched the old voman leave

the coffee-house this morning.”

“Yes--yes: I know that you did it all,” said Torrens, terribly alarmed

lest he who experienced the lion’s share of the trouble, should now

claim the lion’s share of the booty. “But how long shall we be obliged

to remain here? I am in a hurry to get away--with my share--my fair

share of my own money----”

“Your own money, indeed!” ejaculated Vitriol Bob, with a chuckling

laugh. “Was it your’n when Mother Mortimer had it safe in her own box?

And I should just like to know how you fust come by it? Not honestly,

I’ll swear, old feller. Such a seedy-looking cove, living in such a way

as you was, couldn’t have got near upon six thousand pound by wot’s

called legitimate means. But that’s neether here nor there: I don’t

care two figs how you got the tin--and if I ask no questions, I shan’t

have no lies told me. Von thing is wery certain--that I’ve got it now.”

“But--but--you surely--my dear friend--you--” stammered Torrens,

absolutely aghast at the idea, of still remaining a beggar.

“Come, let’s have no more of this drivelling nonsense,” interrupted

Vitriol Bob, in a tone of unmitigated contempt: then, as he refilled

and relighted his pipe, be observed, “Why, you have been in a fidget

and a stew all day, ever since we secured the swag at the coffee-house.

Don’t you see, my dear feller, that people in our sitiwations must act

with somethink like common prudence? The old voman may rouse hell’s

delight about her loss; and that was why I thought we’d better keep

ourselves scarce for a time. So I made you stay close with me at the

flash lodging-ken in the Mint all the arternoon till it was dusk; and

then I brought you here. And here,” added Vitriol Bob, “we are safe

enow: ’cos only Pig-faced Poll, Jack Rily, and one or two others of my

pals knows anythink about this place being my haunt when I’m afeard of

getting into trouble;--and there’s no danger of them splitting on us.

So far from that, the Pig-faced will be sure to come here presently,

when she finds I don’t wisit her own quarters this evening; and she’ll

bring a basket of prog along with her--so that we shall have a jolly

good supper in due time. Drink, old feller!”

Thus speaking, the ruffian refilled his own tumbler, and pushed the

brandy bottle across the dirty table to Torrens, who did not, however,

touch it--for his glass was only half emptied; and he experienced such

lively sensations of alarm, that he felt as if his brain were reeling

and his intellects were leaving him.

There he was--a feeble, helpless, weak old man, entirely in the power

of an individual whom he knew to be of the most desperate character,

but with whom he had joined in companionship only through the hope of

recovering at least one-half of that treasure to gain which, in the

first instance, he had imbrued his hands in blood. There he was--alone

with that miscreant, in a place the aspect of which was sufficient

to fill his attenuated soul with the gloomiest thoughts and the most

melancholy forebodings,--alone with a demon in human shape, in a ruined

and desolate tenement, to augment the cheerless influence of which

superstition had lent its aid,--alone with a very fiend, in a haunt the

ominous features of which were dimly shadowed forth and rendered more

hideous by the dull, glimmering light of the solitary candle with its

long wick and its sickly flame.

“Well--what are you thinking of?--and why don’t you drink?” were

the words which, suddenly falling on the old man’s ears after a

pause, awoke him as it were from a lethargy--a lethargy, however,

in which the mind had been painfully active, though the body was

motionless--petrified!

“I--I--was wondering how long we should have to remain here,” stammered

Torrens, starting as if shaken by a strong spasm or moved by an

electric shock.

“I asked you the question just now--and--and you did not give me a

reply.”

“Well--it all depends, my fine feller,” answered Vitriol Bob. “Three or

four days, perhaps----”

“Three or four days!” almost shrieked Torrens. “I shall die if I linger

so long in this horrible place!”

“Die, indeed!” ejaculated the ruffian, in a contemptuous tone. “Why,

Lord bless you--I’ve stayed here for three veeks at a time, afore

now--without ever budging out. Not be able to linger, as you call it,

in this comfortable crib--smoke and drink all day long--or drink only,

if you don’t like smoking--and sleep in one of them Windsor-cheers as

cozie as a bug in a rug! Besides, won’t you have me for a companion----”

“No--no: I can not--will not endure it!” exclaimed Torrens, starting up

from his chair,--his countenance hideous with its workings--his nerves

strung to the most painful state of tension--and a thousand frightful

thoughts rushing in, with the speed and fury of a torrent, upon his

appalled soul.

“Hold your cursed jaw, you fool!” growled Vitriol Bob, in a tone of

sudden rage: “you will be heard in the street--and----”

“I care not!” screamed Torrens, louder than before. “Give me my share

of the money--let me depart----”

“Be quiet, I say!” spoke the ruffian, in a still more irritated voice,

while he sprang from his seat on the barrel; “or I shall do you a

mischief.”

“I care not!” again cried Torrens--and again his tone grew still more

piercing and shriekingly hysterical; for he was wrought up to a state

of utter despair. “Give me my money, I say--give me----”

“Fool--be still!” exclaimed Vitriol Bob, rushing round the table, and

grasping the old man by the throat.

But Torrens, inspired with a sudden strength that astonished the

ruffian, broke away from his gripe, and rushed towards the door, crying

“Murder--murder!”

“Damnation!” thundered Bob; and bounding after him, he sprang upon the

old man with the fury and the force of a tiger.

“Murder!” again yelled the affrighted, desperate Torrens: but in

another instant he was dashed violently against the wall.

A moan succeeded his agonising cry--and he fell heavily upon the

floor. Vitriol Bob then jumped upon him--and the attenuated form of

the wretched old man writhed beneath the heavy feet of the murderous

ruffian.

There was a faint and stifling appeal for “Mercy! mercy!”--but the

miscreant silenced it with a ferocious stamp of his heel on the mouth

of the dying man;--and in a few moments all was over!

Vitriol Bob was now alone, in the gloomy, cheerless place, with the

crushed and disfigured corpse of him whom he had literally trampled to

death.

But scarcely was the deed accomplished, when a noise, as of gravel

thrown from the street against the kitchen window, fell upon the

ears of the murderer, whose countenance instantly expanded into an

expression of grim delight at the well-known signal.

“Here’s Pig-faced Poll!” he exclaimed hastily: and then he paused to

listen again.

At the expiration of about a minute the signal was repeated; and

Vitriol Bob, no longer harbouring the slightest doubt, hurried up the

stairs to open the street-door.