Walter Besant
The Orange Girl
CHAPTER VII
JENNY'S ADVICE
After this plain warning: after knowing the nature of the design against me: after the savage threats of the man Probus: I ought to have hesitated no longer: I should have taken Alice and the child to her brother Tom, and should then have retired somewhere until the inevitable bankruptcy relieved me from fear of conspiracy. Once before, I had suffered from delay: yet had I not learned the perils of procrastination. I had formed in my mind an idea that they would try in some way to fix upon me the crime of forgery, and I thought that this would take time: so that I was not hurried: I confess that I was disquieted: but I was not hurried.
On Monday morning I repaired to Soho Square and laid the whole business before Jenny.
'Will,' she said, after hearing all and asking a few questions, 'this seems a very serious affair. You have to deal with a man driven frantic by the loss of all his money: the money that he has spent his life in scraping together. He throws out hints about your possible death in the counting-house, and makes a bargain in case you die: he threatens you with some mysterious revenge.'
'I believe he will trump up some charge of forgery.'
'He is quite unscrupulous. Now, I will tell you something. The man Merridew's perjury about your alleged debt put me on the scent. Probus works through Merridew. First of all Merridew owes him money – more than he can pay. This debt goes on rolling up. This puts Merridew in his power. What Probus orders Merridew must do.'
'Is there always behind every villain a greater villain?'
'I suppose so. The greater the rogue the safer he is. Merridew goes to the shopkeepers and offers to return them stolen goods – at a price. It is one of his ways of making money. Then he finds out their necessities. Most shopkeepers are always in want of money. Then Merridew takes them to Probus who lends them money. Oh! at first there was never such a kind friend – on the easiest terms: they can pay when they please: then they want a little more: and so they go on. When their debt has risen to half the value of their stock, Probus wants to be paid. Then he sells them up. The father of the family becomes bankrupt and goes into a prison for the rest of his days: what becomes of the children I know not – no one knows. I dare say some of them go to St. Giles's.'
This is what Jenny told me. I know not if it is true, but I think it must be.
'Well, you see, that Probus pulls the strings and sets Merridew's arms and legs at work, and Merridew has all the rogues under his thumb. Now you understand why the position is serious.'
She considered for a few minutes. 'Will,' she said, 'for sure they will talk it over at the Black Jack. When anything is arranged it is generally done in the kitchen and in the morning.' She looked at the clock. 'It is now nearly one. If I were to go round!' She considered again. 'Doll will be there. They may be there too. But this time they must not recognise me. Wait a bit, Will.'
She left me and presently came back dressed, not as an Orange Girl, but as a common person, such as one may see anywhere in St. Giles's. She had on a linsey woolsey frock: a dirty white apron all in holes: a kerchief round her neck: another over her head tied under her chin: a straw hat also tied under her chin: and woollen mittens on her hands. One cheek was smudged as by a coal, and her left eye was blackened: no one would have recognised her. On her arm she carried a basket carefully covered up.
'Now,' she said, 'I'm a woman with a basket full of stolen goods for Mother Wilmot.'
I let her out by the garden-door which opened on to Hog's Lane. Presently she returned: from what she told me, this was what passed.
She found her mother nodding over knitting, and her sister Doll busy with the slate. The kitchen was well-nigh empty because most of the frequenters were abroad picking up their living. Like the sparrows they pick it up as they can from pockets and doorways and from shop bulks.
'Doll,' she whispered. 'Pretend not to know me. Turn over the things in the basket.'
'What is it, Jenny?'
She looked round the room. There were only two or three sitting by the fire. 'No one who knows me,' she said. 'Tell me, Doll. Has Mr. Merridew been here – and when?'
'Why, he's only just gone. Him and the Bishop – and the Captain – and another one – a gentleman he looked like. All in black.'
'All in black? Was he tall and thin and stooping? So?'
'Yes. They've been talking over it all the morning.'
'What is it, Doll? You've got ears like gimlets. I sometimes think it must be pleasant to be able to hear so much that goes on.'
'I can hear a thing if I like. The Bishop don't like it, Jenny.' She dropped her voice. 'It's business for getting a man out of the way. They'll have to give evidence at the Old Bailey, and he's afraid.'
'How is the man to be put out of the way?'
'I don't know. There's money on it. But they're afraid.'
'Why are they afraid?'
'Because they're going to make a man swing. If he doesn't swing, they will.'
'I suppose it's an innocent man, Doll.'
'How should I know? It isn't one of themselves. If the case breaks down they'll have to swing. Mr. Merridew promised them so much, for I heard him. He means it, too – and they know it. I heard him. "If you do break down," he says, "after all, you will be no worse off than you are at present. For your time's up and you know it, both of you. So, if you break down, you will be arrested for conspiracy and detained on my information on a capital charge." After which – he made so – ' with her finger on her neck.
'Well, what did they say, Doll?'
'The Bishop said it would be easier and quicker to knock him on the head at once. Mr. Merridew wouldn't hear of it. He said if they obeyed him they should have two years' more rope. If not, they knew what to expect. So they went away with him, looking mighty uneasy.'
'When is it to be, Doll?'
'Lord, sister, you are mighty curious. 'Tis no affair of yours. Best know nothing, I say. Only a body must hear things. And it makes the time pass knowing what to expect.'
'Can you find out when it is to be?'
'If I learn, I will tell you. It's all settled, I know that. We shall have the pair of them giving evidence in the Old Bailey.' Doll laughed at the thought. 'All St. Giles's will go to the Court to hear – all them that dare.'
'So they went away with Mr. Merridew,' Jenny repeated, thoughtfully.
'Yes, after a mug of purl, but the Bishop went away shaking. Not on account of the crime, I suppose, but with the thought of being cross-examined in the Old Bailey, and the terror that he might be recognised. But the only London Prison that knew him was the King's Bench.'
Jenny took up her basket and went away. Just outside the door she met a young country fellow: he had come up from some village in consequence of trouble concerned with a girl: Jenny had had speech with him already, as you have heard, at the Black Jack.
'Jack,' she said, 'you don't remember me: I was at the Black Jack some time ago in the evening. They called me Madam. Now you remember.'
'Ay – ' he said, looking at her curiously. 'But I shouldn't know you again. You are dressed different.'
'Jack, why don't you go home?'
'A man must live,' he replied.
'You'll be hanged. For sure and certain, one of these days, you'll be hanged. Now, Jack, I'll give you a chance. Let us sit here by the rails, and talk – then people won't suspect. You've seen Mr. Merridew to-day. I thought so. He told you that he might want you on some serious job. I thought so. Your looks are still innocent, Jack. Now tell me all about it – and I'll give you money to take you home again out of the way and safe.'
Jack had very little to tell. He had been in the kitchen that morning. Mr. Merridew called him – bade him not to go away: said that he should want him perhaps for a good job: so he waited. Then a gentleman came in: he was in black – a long, and lean figure. Jack would know him again; and they all four – but not Jack – talked very earnestly together. Then the gentleman went away and presently Mr. Merridew also went away, with the Bishop and the Captain.
'Very good, Jack. I will see you to-morrow morning again – just in the same place. Don't forget. If anything else occurs you will tell me. Poor Jack! I should be sorry to see so proper a fellow hanged,' so she nodded and laughed and pressed his hand and left him.
She came home: she joined me again. There was something hatching; that was certain.
'Perhaps,' she said, 'the plot is not directed against you. Merridew is always finding out where a house can be broken or a bale of stuff stolen.'
'Then what did Probus want there?'
'The long, lean man in black was not Probus, perhaps.'
She considered again.
'After all, Will, I think the best thing is for you to disappear. They are desperate villains. Get out of their way. Your friend Ramage gave you the best advice possible. If all he says is true, Matthew cannot hold out much longer. Once he is bankrupt, your death will no longer help Probus. Where could you go?'
I told her that I thought of Dublin, where I might get into the orchestra of the theatre. So after a little discussion, it was settled. Jenny, always generous, undertook to provide for Alice in my absence, and gave me a sum of money for present necessities.
I stayed there all day. In the evening I played at a concert in the Assembly Room. After the concert I took supper with Jenny.
During supper Jenny entertained me with a fuller description of the wretches from whose hands she was trying to rescue me. There was no turn or trick of villainy that Jenny did not know. She made no excuses for knowing so much – it was part of her education to hear continually talk of these things. They make up disguises in which it is impossible to recognise them: they arrange that respectable people shall swear to their having been miles away at the time of the crime: they practise on the ignorance of some: on the cunning of others. They prey upon mankind. And all the time, behind every villain stands a greater villain. Behind the humble footpad stands the Captain: behind the Captain stands the thief-taker: behind the thief-taker stands the money-lender himself unseen. It would surely be to the advantage of the Law could it tackle the greater villains first. A cart-load of gentlemen like Mr. Probus on its way to Tyburn would perhaps be more useful than many cartloads of poor pickpockets and hedge-lifters. Sometimes, however, as this history will relate, Justice with tardy step overtakes a Probus, and that with punishment so dreadful that he is left incapable of any further wickedness.
'Now,' she said, 'when Probus wants money, he squeezes Merridew. Then he lays information against some poor wretch who expected a longer rope. In order to get at these wretches he has to encourage them to break the law. So you see, if he has to make a payment to Probus, he must manufacture criminals. As I said, there cannot be many things worse than the making of criminals for the satisfaction of the money-lender.'
I hardly understood, at the time, the full villainy of this system. In fact, I was wholly absorbed in my own particular case. What was going to be done?
About midnight I bade this kindest of women farewell.
'Remember, Will,' she said, 'trust nothing to chance. Take boat down the river before daybreak. There is sure to be a Holyhead coach somewhere in the morning. In a month or two you can come back again in safety.'
Yes – I was to come back in safety in that time, but not as Jenny meant. I shouldered my trusty club and marched off.
CHAPTER VIII
A SUCCESSFUL CONSPIRACY
My way home lay through Dean Street as far as St. Ann's Church: then I passed across Leicester Fields: and through Green Street at the south-east angle of the Fields into St. Martin's Lane. All this part of the way is greatly infested at night by lurking footpads from the choice purlieus of Seven Dials and Soho. Of footpads, however, I had very little fear: they are at best a cowardly crew, even two or three together, and a man with a stout cudgel and some skill at a quarter-staff or single-stick need not be afraid of them: generally, two or three passengers will join together in order to get across the Fields which are especially the dangerous part: on many nights it was so late when I left the Square that even footpads, highwaymen, pickpockets and all were fairly home and in bed before I walked through the streets.
This evening by bad luck, I was alone. I found no other passengers going my way. But I had no fear. I poised my cudgel and set out, expecting perhaps an encounter with a footpad, but nothing worse. And it was not yet late, as hours go, in London: there were still people in the streets.
What had happened was this. As soon as Probus learned the truth about the gaming-table – a fatal thing it was to disclose my knowledge – he understood two things: first, that his money was irrevocably gone: and second, that if I revealed the truth to the Alderman in his suburban retreat, he must needs investigate the position of things in which case Bankruptcy would be precipitated. After that, whether I died or signed the agreement, or refused to sign it would matter nothing to him. Whereas, on the other hand, if my signature could be obtained before the bankruptcy, then money could be raised upon the succession: and if I were to die, then the whole of the money would be paid on the day of my death to Matthew. Whatever was done must therefore be done as soon as possible.
Therefore, he resolved that the plot should be carried into execution on the very Monday evening. He caused the cottage to be watched by one of the girls who frequented the Black Jack: she followed me all the way from Lambeth to Soho Square: and she carried intelligence where to find me to the tavern, where Probus himself with Merridew, the Bishop, and the Captain, was now waiting.
They understood that I was playing at a concert: they therefore sallied out about the time when the concert would be finishing and waited for me in the Square: at eleven o'clock I sallied forth: I walked down Dean Street: they ran down Greek Street to meet me at the other end, where there are fewer people: but (I heard this afterwards) changed their minds and got over the Fields into Green Street behind the Mews, where they resolved to wait for me. The Bishop posted himself on one side: the Captain on the other: Mr. Probus and Mr. Merridew waited a little further down the street. It was a dangerous plot that they were going to attempt: I am not surprised that neither the Bishop nor the Captain had much stomach for the play. At this place, which has as bad a reputation as any part of London, there are seldom any passengers after night-fall; after midnight, none. It is dark: the houses are inhabited by criminal and disorderly people – but all this is well known to everybody.
I walked briskly along, anticipating no danger of this kind. Suddenly, I heard footsteps in front of me and behind me: there was a movement in the quiet street; by such light as the stars gave, I saw before me the rascally face of the Bishop: I lifted my cudgel: I half turned: – crash! – I remember nothing more.
When I came to my senses, or to some part of my senses, I found myself lying on a sanded floor: my head was filled with a dull and heavy pain: my eyes were dazed: to open them brought on an agony of pain. For awhile the voices I heard were like the buzzing of bees.
I grew better: I was able to distinguish a little: but I could not yet open my eyes.
The first voice that I recognized was that of Mr. Probus – the rasping, harsh, terrifying voice – who could mistake it?
'A bad case, gentlemen,' he was saying, 'a very bad case: it was fortunate that I was passing on my way, if only to identify the prisoner. Dear me! I knew his honoured father, gentlemen; I was his father's unworthy attorney. His father was none other than Sir Peter Halliday. The young man was turned out of the house for misconduct. A bad case – Who would have thought that Sir Peter's son would die at Tyburn?'
Then there was another voice: rich and rolling, like a low stop of the organ – I knew that too. It was the voice of the Bishop.
'My name, Mr. Constable, is Carstairs; Samuel Carstairs; the Rev. Samuel Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity, Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor, sometime of Trinity College, Dublin. I am an Irish clergyman, at present without cure of souls. I was walking home after certain godly exercises' – in the Black Jack – I suppose – 'when this fellow ran out in front of me, crying "Your money or your life." I am not a fighting man, Sir, but a servant of the Lord. I gave him my purse, entreating him to spare my life. As he took it, some other gentleman, unknown to me, ran to my assistance, and knocked the villain down. Perhaps, Mr. Constable, you would direct his pockets to be searched. The purse contained seventeen guineas.'
I felt hands in my pocket. Something was taken out.
'Ha!' cried the Doctor. 'Let the money be counted.'
I heard the click of coin and another voice cried 'Seventeen guineas.'
'Well,' said Mr. Probus, 'there cannot be much doubt after that.'
'I rejoice,' said the Doctor, 'not so much that the money is found – though I assure you, worthy Sir, I could ill afford the loss – as because it clearly proves the truth of my evidence – if, that is to say, there could be any question as to its truth, or anyone with the hardihood to doubt it.'
At this point, I was able to open my eyes. The place I knew for a Round House. The Constable in charge sat at a table, a book before him, entering the case: Mr. Probus stood beside him, shaking his virtuous head with sorrow. The Doctor was holding up his hands to express a good clergyman's horror of the crime: Mr. Merridew was standing on the other side of the Constable, and beside him the Captain, who now stepped forward briskly.
'My name,' he said, 'is Ferdinando Fenwick. I am a country man from Cumberland. I was walking with this gentleman' – he indicated Mr. Merridew. 'We were walking together for purposes of mutual protection, for I have been warned against this part of London, when I saw the action described by this pious clergyman. The man ran forward raising his cudgel. I have brought it with me – You can see, Sir, that it is a murderous weapon. I saw the gentleman here, whose name I did not catch – '
'Carstairs – By your leave, Sir – Samuel Carstairs – The Rev. Samuel Carstairs – Doctor of Divinity – Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor.'
'Thank you, Sir. I saw him hand over his purse. The villain raised his cudgel again. I verily believe he intended to murder as well as to rob his victim. I therefore ran to the rescue and with a blow of my stick felled the ruffian.'
The Constable looked doubtfully at Mr. Merridew, whom he knew by sight, as everybody connected with the criminal part of the law certainly did: he knew him as Sheriff's officer, nominally: thief-taker by secret profession: thief-maker, as matter of notoriety at the Courts. From him he looked at Mr. Probus, but more doubtfully, because he knew nothing about him except that he was an attorney, which means to such people as the Constable, devil incarnate. He also looked doubtfully at the Captain, whose face, perhaps, he knew. Considering that the Captain had been living for eight years at least in and about St. Giles's, and robbing about all the roads that run out of London, perhaps the Constable did know him by sight.
'Well,' he said, 'I suppose Sir John will look into it to-morrow. As for this gentleman who says he is – I remember – '
Here Mr. Probus slipped something into his hand.
'It is not for me,' the worthy Constable added, 'to remember anything. Besides, I may be wrong. Well, gentlemen, you will all attend to-morrow morning at Bow Street and give your evidence before Sir John Fielding.'
So they went away and I lay on the floor still wondering stupidly what would happen next.
Just then two watchmen came in. One was leading, or dragging, or carrying a young gentleman richly dressed but so drunk that he could neither stand nor speak: the other brought with him a poor creature – a woman – young – only a girl still – dressed in rags and tatters; shivering: unwashed; uncombed; weak and emaciated: a deplorable object.
The Constable turned to the first case.
'Give the gentleman a chair,' he said. 'Put him before the fire. Reach me his watch and his purse. Search his pockets, watchman.'
'Please your honour,' said the watchman, 'I have searched his pockets. We came too late, Sir. Nothing in them.'
'The town is full of villains – full of villains,' said the officer, with honest indignation. 'Well, put him in the chair. A gentleman can send for guineas if he hasn't got any guineas. Did he assault you, watchman? I thought so – Well – Let him sleep it off. Who's this woman?'
The watchman deposed to finding her walking about the deserted streets because she had nowhere to go.
'Has she got any money? Then just put her in the strong room – and carry this poor devil in after her. If that story holds – well – lay him on the bench – and take care of his head.'
They pushed the girl into the strong-room: carried me after her: laid me down on a wide stone bench without any kind of pillow or covering. Then they went out locking the door behind them.
I suppose that I should have suffered more than I did had it not been for the stupefying effect of the blow upon my head. I have only a dim recollection of the night. The place was filled with poor wretches, men and women, who could not afford to bribe the Constable. In this land of freedom to be a poor rogue is hanging matter: to be a rogue with money in pocket and purse is quite another thing: that rogue goes free. The rogue runs the gauntlet: first, he may get off by bribing the watchman: if he fails to do that, he may bribe the constable: or if the worst happens, he may then bribe the magistrate. I understand, however, that this has been changed, and that there are now no Justices who take bribes. Now, if the watchman brings few cases to the constable, and those all poor rogues, he may lose his place: and if the constable pockets all the bribes and brings the magistrate none, he may lose his place. So that it is mutually agreed between the three that each is to have his share. All mankind are for ever seeking and praying for Justice, and behold, this is all we have got in the boasted eighteenth century. I suppose, however, that in such a case as mine, a charge of highway robbery, in which the prisoner was taken red-handed, no constable would dare to take a bribe.
From time to time in the night we were disturbed by the grating of the key in the lock as the door was opened for the admission of another poor wretch. Then these interruptions ceased, and we were left in quiet.
When the day broke through the bars of the only window, I could look round upon the people, my companions in misfortune. There were three or four women in tawdry finery – very poor and miserable creatures who would be happier in the worst prison than in the way they lived: two or three pickpockets and footpads: one or two prentices, who would be sent to Bridewell and flogged for being found drunk. There was very little talk. Mostly, the wretches sat in gloomy silence. They had not even the curiosity to ask each other as to the offenses with which they were charged.
As the light increased the women began to whisper. They exhorted each other to courage. Before them all, in imagination, stood the dreadful whipping-post of Bridewell. Some of them have had an experience of that punishment.
'It takes but two or three minutes,' they said. 'Then it soon passes off. Mind you screech as if they were murdering you. That frightens the Alderman, and brings down the knocker. Don't begin to fret about it.' They were talking about their whippings in Bridewell. 'Perhaps Sir John will let you go. Sometimes he does.' My head pained, and I closed my eyes again.
At about eight o'clock the doors were flung wide open. Everyone started, shuddered, and stood up. 'Now, then,' cried a harsh voice, 'out with you! Out, I say.'
I was still giddy with last night's blow: my hair was stiff with blood: my head ached, but I was able to walk out with the others. The constables arranged us in a kind of procession, and put the handcuffs on every one. Then we were marched through the streets two by two, guarded by constables, to Bow Street Office, the Magistrate of which was then Sir John Fielding.
There was some slight comfort in the thought that he was blind: he could not be prejudiced against me by my appearance, for my face was smeared with blood: my hair was stiff with blood. There was blood on my coat, and where there was not blood there was the mud of the street in which I had lain senseless.
The business of the Court was proceeding. The Magistrate sat at a table: his eyes were bandaged. The eyes of Justice should be always bandaged. Over his head on the wall hung the Lion and the Unicorn: the prisoners were placed in a railed space: the witnesses in another, those in my case, I observed, were in readiness and waiting: three or four Bow Street runners were standing in the Court: there was a dock for the prisoner facing the magistrate.
The cases took little time. There is a dreadful sameness about the charges. The women were despatched summarily and sent off to Bridewell: they received their sentences with cries and lamentations, which stopped quickly enough when they found that they could not move the magistrate: the pickpockets were ordered to be whipped: the other rogues were committed to prison. They were destined, for the most part, to transportation beyond the seas. It is useful for the country to get rid of its rogues: it seems also humane to send them to a country where they may lead an honest life. Alas! the humanity of the law is marred by the execution of the sentence, for though the voyage does not last more than six or eight weeks, the gaol fever taken on board the ship; the sea sickness; the stench; the dirt; the foul air of the ship, commonly kill at least a third of the poor creatures thus sent out. As for those who are left, many of them run away from their masters: make their way to a port, get on board a ship, and are carried back to London, where they are fain to go back to their old companions and resume their old habits, and get known to Mr. Merridew and his friends, and so at last find themselves in the condemned cells.
My case came on, at last. I was placed in the dock facing the magistrate. The clerk read to him the notes of the case provided by the chief constable.
'Your name, prisoner?' he asked.
'I am William Halliday,' I said, 'only son of the late Sir Peter Halliday, formerly Lord Mayor of London. I am a musician now in the employment of Madam Vallance, Proprietor of the Assembly Rooms in Soho Square.'
The Magistrate whispered to his clerk.
Then the evidence was given. One after the other they manfully stood up: kissed the book: and committed perjury. Sir John Fielding asked the Doctor several questions. He was evidently doubtful: his clerk whispered again: he pressed the doctor as to alleged profession and position. However, the man stuck to his tale. The fact that the purse was found in my pocket was very strong. Then the Captain told his story.
Mr. Merridew did not attempt any disguise: he was too well known in Court: he stated that he was a Sheriff's officer – named Merridew – everybody in the court gazed upon him with the greatest curiosity, the women whispering and looking from him to me. 'Who is he?' they asked each other. 'What has he done? Do you know him – do you?' The surprise at the appearance of a stranger in the dock charged on the evidence of the worthy sheriff's officer caused general surprise. However, Mr. Merridew took no notice of the whispering. He was apparently callous: he took it perhaps as proof of popularity and admiration: he gave his evidence in the manner of one accustomed to bear witness, as indeed he was, having perhaps given evidence oftener than any other living man. He stated that he had joined a stranger to walk from the Tottenham Court Road to Charing Cross, each carrying a cudgel for self-defence: that he observed the action described by the worthy and learned Doctor of Divinity from Ireland: that his companion, this gallant young gentleman, rushed out to the rescue of the clergyman, and so forth. So he retired with a front of iron.
Mr. Probus added to the evidence which you have already heard the statement that he came accidentally upon the party and after the business was over: that he happened to have been attorney to the late Sir Peter Halliday: that he recognized the robber as the unnatural son of that good man, turned out of his father's home for his many crimes and vices: and that in the interest of justice and respect for the laws of his country he went out of his way, and was at great personal loss and inconvenience in order to give this evidence.
The Magistrate put no questions to him. He turned to me and asked if I had anything to say or any evidence to offer.
I had none, except – that I was no highwayman, but a respectable musician, and that this was a conspiracy.
'You will have the opportunity,' said Sir John, 'of proving the fact. Meantime, in the face of this evidence, conspiracy or not, I have no choice but to commit you to Newgate, there to remain until your trial.'
They set me aside and the next case was called.
So you understand, there are other ways of compassing a man's death besides simple murder. It is sufficient to enter into a conspiracy and to charge him with an offence which, by the laws of the country, is punishable by death.
