Chapter LIV…

Chapter LIV

PEACE’S LIFE AT SHEFFIELD――THE ROBBERY AT CROOKES-MOOR HOUSE――TRIAL AND CONVICTION.

While Tom Gatliffe was bearing up as best he could against the deep affliction that had fallen on him, and while his wife was being fêted, flattered, and spoiled, Charles Peace, the burglar, was pursuing his own erratic course in his native town of Sheffield.

He returned thither with a considerable amount of cash, the produce of his Denmark-hill burglary.

His mother, at this time, was in a state of poverty, and his sister was in indigent circumstances.

Peace at once hastened to relieve their immediate necessities, and in a short time after his return to Sheffield, his funds dwindled down, so that he very shortly became again hard-up.

He eked out his living in all sorts of odd ways. Now mending a clock, and then framing a picture in the intervals, no doubt dealing to some extent with the “fence” of his old comrades in crime.

One night, while playing his violin at a public-house in Sheffield, he met with a girl with whom he had been acquainted when quite a lad.

She had been at one time an intimate friend of Laura Stanbridge’s, and her association with that unprincipled female had done much towards leading her into evil courses.

As Peace was leaving the house with his violin under his arm, he was accosted by the girl, whose name was Emma James.

“Don’t go away like that, Charlie,” cried she, as our hero was about to leave the house. “It isn’t often we meet.”

“Well, Emma lass, how goes it with you?” returned Peace, shaking her by the hand and chucking her under the chin. “What are you doing now?”

“Nothing at all at present; business is bad and it’s a struggle with most of us――leastways, I know it is with me; but we won’t talk in front of a public bar.”

The two passed out into the street.

“You’ve been having a fine time of it lately, I hear,” said Emma James. “You’ve been to London, and all sorts of places, besides――I suppose you are well up for money.”

“You are greatly mistaken, Emma. I have made a little this time, but it’s nearly all gone.”

“Well, where do you live――which way are you going?”

“I’m living in the same house as my sister Mary.”

“And where might that be?”

“In Bailey-lane.”

“You know Mary?”

“Of course I do――or rather I did. I have not seen her for so long a time, not since Laura left the town in such a sudden and mysterious a manner.”

“Ah, Laura, of course you knew her. You will be surprised to learn that I met with her in London by the merest chance in the world.”

“And how was she looking?”

“So well, so beautiful, so grandly dressed, that at first I did not know her.”

“Then she’s cutting a dash in London――a big swell, I s’pose?”

“Yes, doing the trick somehow or other. How I can’t tell, that’s best known to herself.”

“Some people have the devil’s luck as well as their own. However, she was always a clever girl, and knew her way about as well as most persons. But I say, Charlie, is it true that Mrs. Maitland’s daughter, she whom young Gatliffe married, turned out to be the grand-daughter of a nobleman?”

“Yes, that’s quite true, Emma. She may thank me for all she’s got; I found her out and was the first to fire the train. Oh, yes, all this is true enough. She’s left Tom――so I hear.”

“More shame to her. He was the best of husbands, and doated on the ground she walked. Everybody knows that.”

“What matters? She’s got into good quarters, is now so far removed from him, so much above him, that she’s sent him to the right about. It’s the way of the world, my darling――has always been so, and always will be, I suppose.”

“Well, you’ve put her into a good thing, and I daresay she is grateful.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Peace, “don’t be a fool, Emma. Grateful indeed! She didn’t condescend to even honour me with a passing notice as she entered Broxbridge Hall.”

“Didn’t she, though?”

“No, not even a nod.”

“The proud, ungrateful upstart.”

“Here’s my little drum,” said Peace, opening the door of the house with his latch-key. “Come in and see Mary.”

The girl did as she was bid, and the three were in a short time after this in familiar converse.

A few days after this Emma James became an inmate of the establishment.

She lived with Peace for a short period, during which he made her useful in disposing of property the proceeds of his various robberies.

It was not possible for him to remain long without having recourse to his dishonest practices. To this propensity he joined a great love of playing the fiddle and a fancy for birds and animals.

He committed several burglaries at Sheffield about this time, and in most cases he patronised the west end of the town.

His favourite plan was to pick out good substantial-looking houses with a portico.

Taking advantage of a favourable opportunity he would climb up the columns and enter the house by the window over the doorway.

He was partial to the hour when the family were at dinner downstairs, and he went about his business with such celerity that he usually had a good booty out of the house before the diners had got to the length of the kickshaws and trifles with which they finished their feast.

No doubt while he lifted valuables upstairs he did so to the clinking of glasses and the play of the knife and fork downstairs; the merry jest and animated conversation, no doubt, doing him good service in drowning any little noise he might accidentally make in the course of his operations.

Cunning and clever as our hero was he might have escaped “trouble” for a long time, but for his passion for the society of the softer sex.

Emma James was taken into custody for offering for sale a pair of boots acquired in their way of trade, and Peace coming to her rescue was lodged in durance vile.

The scoundrel, as we already signified, resided in the same house with James and a married sister; and a search of the latter’s house, made by the police, brought to light a large quantity of stolen property.

Then the amiable brother and sister tried their hardest each to shift the onus of the crime on each other.

The reports of the magisterial examination and trial of Peace and his two confederates cannot fail to be interesting to the reader.

In the Sheffield and Rotherham Independent, of October 14th, 1854, we find the following:――

STEALING WEARING APPAREL.

TUESDAY.――Present――W. Overend, Esq., R. Bayley, Esq., and H. W. Wilkinson, Esq.

Emma James, Mary Ann Nield, and Charles Peace, all residing in Bailey-lane, were charged with stealing wearing apparel, jewellery, and trinkets from Mrs. Platt, Mr. R. Stuart, and Mr. H. E. Hoole.

A large number of articles of wearing apparel, &c., was placed upon the table, and Inspector Sills said he and Policeman Marsland had found most of them at the house at which the three prisoners lived in Bailey-lane. Some few he had found upon the persons of the prisoners, and one dress he had found in a house in West-court, Westbar.

A female named Skinner said she lodged with her sister, Mrs. Platt, and that Mr. Platt’s house was robbed on the evening of the 29th August. Some of the articles produced had been taken away at that time.

Mr. Raynor now asked for a remand, to give time for the case to be got up.

Mr. Wilkinson inquired if prisoners had anything to say why they should not be remanded.

The male prisoner replied that he had got the things from his sister (one of the female prisoners) for money owing to him.

Mr. Raynor said he had no doubt it would turn out that the man was the thief, and that the women were innocent. It was very dastardly in Peace to seek to criminate his sister for the sake of clearing himself.

Remanded until Friday.

The same paper of October 21st, 1854, contains the second examination.

RECOVERY OF A LARGE QUANTITY OF STOLEN PROPERTY.

At the Town Hall, yesterday, Charles Peace, Mary Nield, his sister, and Emma James, were placed at the bar on several charges of felony.

On Monday last James offered a pair of boots in pledge at the shop of Messrs. Wright, of Westbar, which answering the description of a portion of the property stolen from the residence of Mr. H. E. Hoole, she was detained.

The prisoner Peace then came forward and claimed the boots, and was given into custody.

Inspector Sills and Sergeant Marsland then searched his house in Bailey-lane, and there found a large quantity of jewellery and wearing apparel, the proceeds of robberies effected at the residences of Henry Elliott Hoole, Esq., Crookes Moor House; R. Stuart, Esq., Brincliffe Edge; Mr. George Fawcett Platt, of Priory Villa, Sharrow-lane; and Mr. Brown, of Broomhall-street.

The houses of all these parties had been robbed by effecting an entrance through the bedroom windows in the evening before the windows were closed and fastened for the night.

The first charge on which evidence was taken was that of the robbery at Mr. Hoole’s.

Lydia Frayman, the cook, proved that on the evening of the 12th of September seven pairs of boots were stolen from Mr. Hoole’s dressing-room, and that from finger marks on the portico pillar it was evident the thief had climbed the portico, and thence entered the room by the window, which was left open till nine o’clock that evening. She and the coachman identified two pairs of boots, traced to the possession of Peace, as part of the stolen property.

The next charge was that of robbing the residence of Mr. Stuart, of Brincliffe Edge.

Mr. Stuart proved that on the night of the 29th September they retired to rest about half-past ten. A gold eyeglass belonging to Mr. Stuart was missing from the top of a chest of drawers. The bedroom window was unfastened and open till they went to bed. The following day she found that there had been stolen from a chest of drawers in the bedroom, which had been unlocked, the following articles, viz.:――Three small boxes, containing £3 5s. in money; a diamond ring set in plain gold, a garnet and pearl ring, a garnet ring, an enamelled mourning ring with “Forget me not” on it, an oval cornelian brooch set in enamelled gold, with a garnet sprig on it; a gold brooch set in hair, a small imitation tortoise brooch, gold drop, and jet earrings, a jet necklace, a black velvet purse with gold clasp, and worked with gilt beads; a gold hoop with rose, thistle, and shamrock worked round it; a gold watch chain, with gold seal and key; a jet chain, some jet beads, a set of seed coral beads loose, two children’s coral necklaces, three purple enamelled studs set with diamonds, an enamelled mourning ring with “Betsy Frith” and the date engraved inside, a small pearl box lined with crimson velvet, and a small French paper box, containing old coins. The whole of these articles, with one or two exceptions, had been recovered by the police, and were produced and identified by Mrs. Stuart.

An assistant to Mr. Hammond, of Church-street, proved that the prisoner, Nield, pawned the set of diamond shirt studs for 5s.

Margaret Scotton, of West-court, widow, proved that on Monday last the prisoners brought a silk dress, rug, a pair of Wellington boots, and other things, to her house. After Peace’s apprehension, James handed to her several gold rings and other jewellery, and asked her to take care of them till she returned. In the evening, James was brought to her house by Inspector Sills, to whom witness gave up the rings, &c.

Mary Ann Roberts proved that she resided in Bailey-lane, next door but one to the house in which Peace, Nield, and James lived together. Last Monday, James brought a small box and a bundle of clothes into her house, and asked her to take care of them. The box was locked. That afternoon the police came to search Peace’s house, and as they were going away she called Sergeant Marsland into her house, and gave him the box and bundle. The box was found to contain part of the jewellery stolen from Mr. Stuart’s.

Edward Parker, of Kenyon-street, boot-closer, proved that a month ago Peace sold him a garnet ring for two shillings. The ring was too large for him, but he got it altered. Yesterday Inspector Sills came to him, and he gave the ring up.

The prisoner Nield made a statement, admitting that she had pawned the diamond studs and other things; but declared that she had been brought into the snare by her brother, the prisoner Peace. She had seen Peace wearing some of the rings, and also the diamond studs, several times, and did not know but that he had come honestly by them.

Peace said his sister (the prisoner Nield) had given wearing apparel, jewellery, &c., to James, whom he was about to marry. Nield had given James these things in payment of a debt of thirty shillings, which she owed him.

The girl James made a similar statement.

[Sidenote: No. 26.]

The prisoners were fully committed for trial on these charges, but were ordered to be brought up again on the Tuesday, when evidence would be given, proving that other property found in their possession was part of that stolen from Mr. Platt’s, of Priory Villa, and Mr. Brown’s, of Broomhall-street.

HOUSE ROBBERY.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21ST, 1854.――Present――The Mayor, J. Jobson Smith, Esq., G. P. Naylor, Esq., V. Corbett, Esq., W. Jeffcock, Esq., and R. Bailey, Esq.

Charles Peace, Emma James, and Mary Ann Nield, who were last week committed for trial on charges of robbing the houses of Mr. Alderman Hoole, of Crookes Moor, and Mr. Stuart, of Brincliffe Edge, were again brought up, charged with robbing the house of Mr. George Platt, of Priory Villa, Sharrow-lane.

The house was entered by the chamber window (which had been left open) some time between eight and ten o’clock on the night of Monday, the 28th of August, and a large quantity of ladies’ wearing apparel stolen. A plank taken from an adjoining building in course of erection was found reared against the wall. There had been traced to the possession of the three prisoners, two Canton crape shawls, two silk dresses, a satin jacket, a Thibet shawl, a black satin shawl, twenty yards of black silk, and other articles. Some of these had been pawned at Messrs. Wright’s, in West Bar, Mr. Hammond’s, Church-street, and others had been left by the prisoners in the care of Mrs. Roberts, residing next door to them in Bailey-lane, and Mrs. Scotton, of West Bank.

On Friday, Peace stated to the magistrates that these articles were brought to his house by his sister Nield, who made a present of them to James, to whom he was about being married. To-day he stated that a man named Bethley gave them to him to take home as a present to his sister. Nield said she knew nothing of the story Peace had told the bench. He brought the things to the house, saying he had bought them, and she pawned some of them for him.

Committed for trial at the Sessions.

TRIAL AND CONVICTION.

At the Michaelmas Quarter Sessions, Charles Peace, joiner, Emma James, spinster, servant, and Mary Ann Nield, married, felt-dresser, were indicted for stealing a quantity of rings, brooches, and other jewellery, from the house of Mr. Richard Stuart, at Brincliffe-crescent. Mr. Overend prosecuted; the prisoners were undefended.

The house was robbed on the night of the 30th August, and the prisoners were proved to have pawned portions of the stolen property, and others were found in their possession.

Peace in his defence said a watchmaker, named Bethley, in Divison-street, had kept his sister (Nield) for some years, and she had had three children by him. Bethley not having given her any money lately sent the jewellery and a bundle of wearing apparel by him to her, instead of money.

The female prisoners declined to say anything in their defence.

The jury found all the prisoners guilty of feloniously receiving the property knowing it to have been stolen.

Evidence was also given that Peace had been previously convicted of felony.

Mr. Maude said there were two other indictments against the prisoners for robberies at the house of Mr. H. E. Hoole, of Crookes Moore, and Mr. George Platt, of Sharrow-lane.

The court thought it unnecessary to proceed with these cases.

Peace was sentenced to four years’ penal servitude, and the female prisoners to be imprisoned for six months each to hard labour.

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LV. AFTER CONVICTION――A GLIMPSE AT PRISON LIFE

Charles Peace had not counted on receiving so heavy a sentence, and at first he was much borne down. He had been for a long time under the notice of the constabulary, who felt assured that he had perpetrated a series of robberies without being brought under the ban of the law. Had the authorities been oblivious to this fact, perhaps eighteen months, or at the most two years, would have been the maximum punishment awarded to him.

“Penal servitude,” says an authority on this subject, “is a thing many people hear and read of a great deal, but about which only a certain number know really anything.”

Mr. Charles Reade has touched the question in a masterly manner in his powerful romance of “Never Too Late to Mend,” but happily for the welfare of society at large, and criminals in particular, modifications have been made in the treatment of prisoners since the publication of Mr. Reade’s work.

Peace, as we have already seen, was selfish and unscrupulous.

He would have sacrificed his sister without the slightest compunction of conscience if he could thereby have saved himself.

It transpired, however, at the trial, that he was the principal, his sister and the woman James being but accomplices.

The bench took a righteous view of the question, and our hero simply got his deserts.

He, however, endeavoured to make out that he was an ill-used man.

After the sessions had come to a conclusion, he was taken in the prison van with a batch of convicts to the gaol where they were to undergo the first probationary term of their sentences.

With a heavy heart, Peace once more entered the “Black Maria,” which was to convey him to a convict establishment, with which he had never had any previous acquaintance.

When the prison van arrived at its destination the convicts were told to alight.

The first thing on entering the prison, each man was released from his handcuffs, and told to seat himself on a long bench in the passage.

Peace, during the progress of the van through the town, had been greatly annoyed at the shouting, screaming, and laughing of his fellow prisoners, who were, however, now much more quiet and comparatively well-behaved.

They were all subjected to a new and to Peace a most painful operation.

He was well aware that it would be next to useless, if not quite hypocritical, for one in his position to lay claim to any considerable delicacy of feeling, or to be over scrupulous in matters of common decency.

But there were occasionally, however, he found, even amongst convicts, those who will bear a pretty long period of imprisonment, during which they are subjected to a variety of contaminating influences, and yet not have their susceptibilities completely destroyed. Of these he was one, and he felt that the treatment he had to undergo was conceived in a barbarous spirit, and was fitted to destroy utterly any feelings of self-respect which his previous experiences had left in him.

Every part of his body was minutely inspected immediately on his arrival, in order that he might not take any money or tobacco into the prison.

Doubtless it is very desirable and even necessary that every precaution should be taken to prevent such articles finding their way into prisons――at least on the persons of prisoners; but the fact remains that, notwithstanding these inspections, both money and tobacco do find their way into prisons.

The trials of skill and invention which go on between the convict and the inspector, like those between artillery and iron plates, have as yet only proved that, given the power of resistance, the power of overcoming it will be found.

One of his fellow-prisoners verified the truth of this conclusion by taking five sovereigns into prison with him, notwithstanding all the care and experience exercised by the inspector.

Every prisoner on first entering the convict service has to undergo nine months of separate confinement in a cell by himself, working in that cell, and never leaving it except for exercise or to go to chapel.

Daring that nine months no remission is given; but for the remainder of his time, if he obtains the full quantum of eight marks a day, which, curiously, he earned by good conduct and the completion of his day’s work, whatever that may be, he is allowed a remission of equal to three months in each year, or one-fourth of his sentence, except the nine months.

The full amount of marks for a man to earn in a year is 2920.

If less than this number is earned, so much remission is lost.

It is seldom that a man goes through the whole of his service without losing some marks.

The day after the arrival of our hero and his fellow-prisoners they were all ordered to strip a second time for medical examination, and as a considerable time elapsed before Peace’s turn came he had to remain in that state rather longer than was good for him.

It was useless to complain, he had to submit to the humiliating process with the best grace he could.

When the inspection was concluded, he had his hair cut after the approved prison fashion, and was put into his cell to make mats.

His cell was white as the driven snow. His domestic duties were explained to him, and he was informed a heavy penalty would be inflicted if a speck of dirt was discovered on the wall or floor of his cell, or if his cocoa-bark mattress should not be neatly rolled up after use and the strap tight, and steel hook polished like glass, and his little brass gas-pipe glittering like gold.

He listened to all these injunctions with exemplary patience, having made up his mind to be, if possible, a model prisoner. He had in view the remission of his sentence, which was only to be gained by exemplary conduct.

To a sanguine or irritable temperament the monotony of prison life is almost insupportable.

Peace was nearly getting into trouble on the first Sunday he spent in prison for a very unintentional violation of the prison rules.

In accordance with these rules, convicts are not allowed to turn their heads in any direction in the chapel; if they do so it is the duty of the attendant officer to take them before the governor, who, in all probability, will punish them for their disobedience.

It is fair to assume that those who framed these rules had some good end in view in being stringent in the matter of posture in religious service.

The difficulty with Peace was to discover whether the spiritual welfare of the prisoners or the preservation of a more than military discipline amongst them, even in matters of religion, had appeared to them to be of the greatest importance.

It is probable, however, that neither of these considerations decided the question, but that the principal object of these regulations was to preserve in the convict mind, even in the act of worship, the idea of punishment in a perfectly lively and healthy condition.

Be that as it may, on Peace’s first Sunday in chapel with his English Prayer-book before him he found himself quite unable to follow the chaplain in the services in which he was engaged.

Turning over the leaves of the Prayer-book in the vain hope of finding the proper place, and happening to cast his eyes over the shoulder of a prisoner in front of him in order to find it, the movement caught the eye of the officer who sat watching every face. Peace saw from the stare and frown which followed, indeed, that he had committed some grave offence.

He immediately resumed his proper attitude, and sat out the service as right as his neighbours, and so escaped the threatened punishment.

“They are jolly particular in this establishment,” mused Peace. “Mustn’t even look, it appears.”

Nothing, however, was said to him by the official, but he felt that he had narrowly escaped being reported.

Every day the prisoners, male and female, old and young, were made to attend chapel, and twice on Sundays.

The appearance of the sacred edifice quite upsets the idea of “freedom” in religious worship.

The chaplain’s pulpit is perched high up against the wall at the end, so as to enable him to get a view of his entire congregation; otherwise this would be impossible, for while the larger number of adult male prisoners occupy the body of the chapel, the women and children are partitioned off on either side by a tall partition, which quite precludes the possibility of their seeing beyond.

Before the great space where the men sit is a pair of tall iron gates, and they are ranged on seats rising one above another with warders in attendance, who are constantly on the watch.

The men are expected to look steadfastly before them, regarding through the iron bars the preacher in his pulpit; they must raise or lower their prayer-books with elbows squared, and all at once, like soldiers in a drill.

They must not scrape their feet against the floor without having afterwards to explain the reason of such a movement. They may scarcely wink an eye, cough, or make any noise without danger of rebuke or punishment.

It is a terrible and humiliating state of servitude these miserably guilty creatures have to endure, but with all this it does not seem to deter them from the commission of crime, for many, as soon as they are released, have recourse to their old practices until they are again caught, and sentenced to another and longer term of imprisonment.

Peace began to be weary of his monotonous life. One morning he said to the under turnkey.

“I say, my friend, how long am I to be cooped up in this cheerful little abode――not the whole of the time, I hope?”

“Prisoners are not permitted to talk out of hours,” said the turnkey, looking straight before him, but not at his questioner.

“Ah! I beg your pardon, guv’nor; meant no offence.”

The turnkey, whose name was Wilson, looked hard at the prisoner, and seemed lost in thought.

Peace felt a little uncomfortable. Perhaps the man would report him to the governor.

“I beg your pardon again; I hope I’ve not offended you.”

The man shook his head and walked away.

“I’m sorry I spoke,” muttered our hero to himself.

The turnkey returned.

“Now, then, No. 34.”

“Well,” cried Peace, “what’s up now?”

“Prisoners shut their own doors,” returned the man. Peace closed the door of his cell.

“Lively,” he ejaculated, “not to say encouraging. Well, I am blest, this is a place a cove’s got to lock himself in, it appears.”

Peace had gone through the usual formula of prison life; one working day was just the same as another.

He did his share of work, and his custodians had no reason to complain of him as far as industrious habits were concerned; he kept his cell scrupulously clean.

The cell in which Peace was confined was small enough in all conscience. It was not much over seven feet in length, and four feet five inches in breadth; its height being a trifle over eight feet. By the side of the door was a small window of thick rough glass, and beneath this was a little flap table, which had to be let down when the hammock was slung.

As may be readily imagined, there was nothing superfluous in this narrow prison house, only just enough to admit of a human being existing in the narrowest possible compass.

Over the table was a small shelf. Below the shelf, and at the opposite end of the cell to the window and flap table, was the hammock, which was rolled up in the smallest possible compass, and strapped against the wall.

There was a water spout, so ingeniously contrived that turned to the right it sent a small stream into a copper basin, and to the left into a bottomless close stool at some distance.

There was also a small gas pipe tipped with polished brass.

In one angle of the wall was a small commode or open cupboard, on whose shelves were ranged a bright pewter plate, a knife and fork, and a wooden spoon.

There was a grating at the bottom of the door for the air to come in, and another for foul air to go out if it chose.

An ordinary stable bucket with iron handle and hoops was on the floor alongside of a low wooden stool, a small hand broom, and in a corner under the table a scrubbing brush and flannel. Two tin tallies, with the number of the cell, prison, and hall, hanging behind the door, completed the furniture of this lively and cheerless apartment.

The cellular system has, however, many advantages, and is a far better arrangement than that adopted in the earlier days of prison management.

At one time English gaols were denounced by Howard and others “as schools for instruction in iniquity,” and there can be but little doubt that to an extent this was true.

The poor dandy priest, Dr. Dodd, who was executed for forgery, spent six months in Newgate before he suffered death by hanging, and during part of his time he was forced to herd with the common rabble. The change from the caresses and luxuries lavished on him by the silly devotees of his green-room theology to the riot and ribaldry of the gaol sorely tried the unstrung nerves of the pet preacher. When at last he was accommodated with a separate apartment he wrote a poem, entitled “Thoughts in Prison,” in which he copiously lamented the evils of association and his own personal miseries.

The case of the unfortunate divine-about-town made a great sensation. He really was hardly dealt with, for he had done all he could by confession and restitution to atone for his crime.

Dr. Johnson fought for him nobly.

Twenty thousand people signed a petition for his pardon. Consequently, when the ill-fated divine was hung and the poem published, hundreds of fine ladies and gentlemen read, and perhaps deplored, his watery blank verse, and thus most unexpectedly felt a transient interest in the question of prison discipline.

But a change has come over us since the days of Dr. Dodd and Faudleroy; though it would appear that the sympathy evinced by a certain section of the community for murderers is still extanct.

The Rev. John Clay, who was for many years chaplain of Preston Gaol, in discussing the question of prison discipline, says: “If we regard the prisoner as a moral patient, the paramount object is to render him as amenable as possible to the reformatory process. The tendency of separate confinement is to lower the bodily organs and weaken the faculties.

“The discipline must be modified to correct this tendency. The prisoner probably lived a life of gross animal indulgence.

“Accordingly his animal propensities must be first lulled to sleep; this is most effectually done by the repressing power of isolation.

“Plenty of fresh air, therefore, brisk exercise, and suitable diet are necessary.

“If the diet is too low, it will turn depression into despondency; if too high, it will produce excitement and irritability.

“The god of criminals is their belly, and to baulk the belly god to the utmost extent is both wise and just.

“In consequence of lowering the vital energies, the brain becomes more feeble, and therefore more susceptible.

“That is to say, the man becomes more impressible, though this is not the invariable result.

“The cell will sometimes only increase the reserve of the sullen, the stupidity of the dull, the idiotcy of the feeble, and the craft of the cunning.

“Solitude is indeed a terrible solvent, but the main element in a man’s character will sometimes withstand its potency when all other characteristics are melted down.

“But, as a general rule, a few months in a separate cell renders a prisoner strangely impressible.

“The chaplain can then make a brawny navvy cry like a child――he can work on his feelings in almost any way he pleases. He can, so to speak, photograph his own thoughts, wishes, and opinions on his patient’s mind, and fill his mouth with his own phrases and language.”

In common with most philanthropists, the Preston Gaol chaplain considered that almost all crime was traceable to three closely-linked causes, drunkenness, ignorance, and the habit of living in filthy, overcrowded dwellings.

But he maintained that these, in their turn, were due in a great measure to the want of sympathy and intercourse between the upper and lower classes. This cause the late Justice Telford animadverted on while on the bench within a very short period of his death.

Of course the effect produced by the solitary cell depends on many other things, such as temperament, previous habits, &c.

The sluggish, lymphatic man, with small lungs and small brain, adapts himself easily to his solitude. Good food, light work, and a sufficient allowance of visits to break and cheer the monotony of his cell, reconcile him to his position; he becomes almost as passive as a vegetable.

Uniformly submissive, he gives no trouble, and makes an excellent prisoner.

On the other hand, the large-lunged, large-brained man of sanguine temperament is affected very differently. To him the cell is a severe punishment; he chafes and frets under restraint, and most likely grows irritable and sullen.

Probably he breaks the prison rules.

An ignorant, stupid gaoler would try by sharp punishment to coerce a man of this kind to submission, but to goad and madden him still more would be the only result of such an attempt.

Not improbably a duel between prisoner and gaoler would be provoked, and perhaps some tragedy, like that enacted at Birmingham Gaol, be the issue. The details of this tragedy are treated in a masterly manner by Mr. Charles Reade in his “Never Too Late to Mend.”

Those who are in the habit of having prisoners under their charge hear some extraordinary stories of crimes.

While Peace was undergoing the probationary term of the sentence passed upon him, more than one member of a light-fingered family of some celebrity were inmates of the same prison.

A brief sketch of this family, every member of which Peace knew perfectly well, is given in the gaol chaplain’s report, which, as it is reliable, may furnish the reader with some little insight into criminal life:――

“Trained thieves and pickpockets,” says the chaplain, “differ from mere tramps, both as requiring a far greater amount of plunder to support them, and as more constantly and actively seeking it.

“While the tramps are always pedestrian, and are content to herd in the most sordid lodging-houses, the professional thieves resort to ale-houses and taverns, travel by rail, and altogether maintain a style of living unattainable by meaner rogues.

“They differ again from the ‘resident bad characters,’ inasmuch as they never work if they can help it, but live entirely upon the fruits of their daily villainy.

“Though Preston is not yet of sufficient magnitude and importance to maintain a body of resident pickpockets, it seems to repay the trouble of frequent visits from members of the Manchester, Liverpool, and Sheffield corps. The great majority of cases tried at the sessions, in which it was thought necessary to inflict transportation, have been professional thieves whose head-quarters were at Manchester.

“At certain periods of his life Peace made that town his head-quarters also.

“I have had repeated conversations with many of these professionals, and I shall need no apology for entering into details.

“The first case to which my special notice became attracted was that of three young men, two of them only boys, and a girl apprehended for a shop robbery at Preston――an offence seldom ventured upon by thieves of their class because considered “dangerous”――i.e., involving greater risk of detection than their ordinary practice, and a severe sentence in the event of a conviction.

“The names of the culprits were John O’Neill, Richard Clarke, Thomas O’Gar, and Ellen O’Neill.

“On committal their true characters were at once apparent.

“On their trial numerous previous convictions at Manchester, Liverpool, and Wakefield, &c., were proved, and being once more found guilty, sentences were passed upon them to secure the public for some years from their depredations.

“These unhappy convicts who, previous to their trial, were cautious and reserved, underwent a change afterwards.

“Individual separation, and the consequent working of memory and reflection upon minds too young to be quite hardened, produced the usual result.

“One after another, and each ignorant of what their associates had done or purposed, they gladly availed themselves of the opportunities to unburden their memories, if not their consciences.

“The following is a sketch of the history now under notice, and I am too well assured that hundreds of similar sketches might be made by any one who has the opportunity of studying from the abundance of models supplied by the great towns of this country:――

“An Irish soldier, named Clarke, on his discharge from the army, with a pension of a shilling a day, settled first at Stockport and then at Manchester with his family, consisting of his wife, three boys, and two girls.

“The father occasionally worked at his trade as a shoemaker, and could have earned a comfortable living by it.

“The two elder boys and the elder girl obtained employment at the factories; the girl, however, after a little time exchanged her occupation for domestic service, in which she continued a year or two.

“The parents, as is too frequently the case, bestowed no moral or religious care upon their children, who in consequence soon picked up bad companions, and beginning with petty theft, like Laura Stanbridge, at such places at Knott Fair, gradually entered upon a course of systematic crime.

“The second son, Richard, led the way, and all the rest of the children, with the exception of the youngest girl, followed in quick succession.

“At first the parents remonstrated, scolded, and gave good advice, but never hesitated to accept all that was offered to them of their children’s ill-gotten gains.

“In a short time the father became ‘a great drunkard,’ while the mother, it is evident, encouraged and assisted practices which provided her with the means of enabling her and her husband to live in idleness and luxury.

“The man does not appear to have quitted Manchester, but the woman took a more active part in the proceedings of her children, frequently making long journeys to meet one or other of them on discharge from prison, and occasionally making herself useful in passing stolen bank notes.

“One of the occasional associates of this family, named James O’Neill, attracted by the skill and success with which the girl exercised her vocation, after a short courtship married her.

“‘The askings,’ said Ellen, ‘were put up at Leeds, and I filled up the three weeks by going to Sheffield and York. At the first-named place I fell in with an old friend of mine, named Charles Peace, who advised me to think twice before I threw myself away as he termed it. I got about £10 or £11 at both places together.’

“After O’Neill’s marriage with Ellen Clarke he was supported almost entirely by his wife’s skill, living, like her father, in a constant state of drunkenness, and only making himself useful now and then by shading off――i.e., screening the operations of his more adroit and acute partner.

“A great extent of country was traversed by this gang on their plundering expeditions, making Manchester the centre of their operations. They organised expeditions to all parts of the kingdom, or, to speak accurately, they started in a spirit of errantry, with no more plan than might be involved in the determination to remain a long time away, and to visit as many places as might hold out a good chance of booty. Now associated, now separated, forming temporary leagues with new comrades, occasionally caught and sentenced to short imprisonments, they roamed the country, ‘working’ the fairs, markets, railway stations, steeple-chases, &c., &c.

“‘About, this time,’ said Richard Clarke, ‘I was fifteen, and my gains were between £9 and £10 a week.

“‘It went in keeping my mother (to whom remittances were made by Post-office orders) and in public-houses.

“‘I was dressed like a gentleman’s son, with a cap, a round jacket, and a turn-down collar.’

“Though young Richard was cautious, ‘I never ran a chance,’ said he, ‘of throwing myself away――i.e., taking more than I wanted, and running unnecessary risks.’

“Sometimes, indeed, he did not look for money because he had enough.

“Ellen Clarke and the youngest boy, Edward, were the boldest and most successful of the family, and the girl as well as the mother was not wanting in a certain kind of family affection.

“We find her starting from Manchester to Gloucester in order, if possible, to obtain a councillor for Richard, who had been put back for trial on the charge of picking pockets.

“Unsuccessful in her object, however, and leaving Richard in Gloucester, she occupied some time in travelling about, chiefly in Yorkshire.

“She went to Hull to meet her eldest brother John on his discharge from prison there.

“‘I waited till he came out,’ said she, ‘and then he leathered me for being away from home.’

“Ellen Clarke, indeed, possessed a natural disposition which, had she been blessed with Christian parents, might have contributed to their and her own credit and happiness.

“Her narrative throughout betrays the wish to palliate their conduct, and at her interview with them after her conviction she appeared quite forgetful of herself, and only solicitous to assuage their anxiety about her, and to warn her brother Edward from his dangerous courses.

“This determined and skilful girl-thief of seventeen, who at the latter period of her short run of crime was not satisfied with less than a weekly booty of £10 or £20, trembled very much when she made her first successful essay upon the pocket of a young woman, from which she abstracted eighteenpence.

“‘I met,’ said she, ‘the young woman again in a short time, and she was crying; I heard her say the money was her mother’s. I cried too, and would have given her the money back, but I was afraid of being took up.’

“What an affecting contrast between this girl’s character and fate as they were and as they might have been.

“And how sad to think that our backward civilisation possesses as yet no means of saving from moral destruction thousands who, like this poor child, possess natural qualities which by God’s blessing would amply repay the labour of cultivation.

“As I have said, after sentence was pronounced upon the gang, the reserve and hardihood which the different members of it had previously exhibited, gave way.

“Richard Clarke was the first to yield; his sister, who seemed more attached to him than her husband, next softened.

“O’Gar, whose demeanour had always been quiet and humble, after meeting with his mother, entirely threw off his obduracy.

“It has been the long-established practice in this gaol to permit interviews between convicts newly sentenced to transportation and their near relations with more frequency than is usually allowed, partly from a feeling of compassion to all the parties, and partly from a hope that in such cases as the present one, warning may be taken by those who witness the convict’s misery should they be in any danger of treading in his steps.

“I was present at two meetings between the Clarkes and their relatives.

“The visitors on the first occasion were the father, the boy, Edward Clarke, and a young man introduced as a cousin.

“They were all expensively dressed for their station; the father’s appearance was rather prepossessing, the boy, though good-looking and well clad, showed to an experienced eye the unmistakable and undisguisable physiognomy and manner of a bold and practical thief.

“Creditable natural feelings were shown by all parties, and many tears were shed by all but the girl, who seemed most anxious to keep up the spirits of the others.

“Old Clarke, habituated to the short imprisonments of his children, seemed unable to conceive that he saw them in a more serious predicament. Almost the first words he spoke were――

“‘Don’t fret. Sure you’ll not be here more than five months. I’ve sent a letter to General W――――, and he’ll soon get you off.’

“The convicts themselves were well assured that such expectations were utterly vain, but the father could not be made to comprehend that General W―――― neither could or would interfere with the course of justice.

“After the interview Richard Clarke told me that the young man introduced as a cousin was no relative at all, but a former associate, then living with the old Clarke’s, and named M‘Giverin.

“At the second visit there came both the old Clarkes, O’Neill’s mother, Edward Clarke, the younger sister――a fine-looking child of eleven――and a girl who lived with the Clarkes as Richard’s mistress.

“Old Clarke, not content with bringing M‘Giverin again, also introduced another ‘cousin,’ a well-dressed man of thirty.

“When Richard Clarke, the convict, was asked who these two men were, his father slipped forward and answered for him, repeating the falsehood he had already told, and persisting in it until his son plainly declared the real name and character of the two ‘cousins.’

“When remonstrated with for practising such duplicity at such a time, all that could be obtained from the wretched man was――

“‘Well, sir, I ax your pardon. Sure I did not know the rules of the place.’

“At one moment he appeared oppressed with the bitterest feelings, and the next was chatting with an air of eager satisfaction.

“When his relatives had gone Richard Clarke made the following statement――

“‘My little brother told me this morning that last Saturday night he got £15 in sovereigns at the Bank Top Station, and that yesterday (Monday) he got £5 in Manchester. The two men that came to see me this morning are Thomas M‘Giverin and Henry Kelly. M‘Giverin has been a thief about five years, and has two brothers who are thieves. Kelly is about thirty years old; he has been a thief in all ways about twenty years. He is only just out of Liverpool Gaol, where he got six months for a watch. I think him and M‘Giverin came to see me out of curiosity――to see whether I was hard or no.’

“I have dwelt longer on the history of this family of pickpockets than may seem necessary, but I have done so from a desire to lay open as far as I can what is too little known, the character and proceedings of this portion of la classe dangereuse, to impress upon the public the enormous loss it sustains by their depredations, and to suggest the necessity of resorting to more efficient means for the repression of the evil, which, I believe, to be greatly on the increase.

“There are now many thousands of pickpockets robbing at the rate of £300 to £1000 a year, who boldly follow their trade under the idea――too much justified by past experience――that their particular line of practice involves but small risk of transportation, while its gains are certain and easily obtained.

“Even when apprehended ‘legal assistance’ is generally forthcoming to aid the chances of escape.

“A short time after the conviction of the Clarkes a boy named O’Brien, alias Johnson, alias Slaver, was caught in the attempt to pick a lady’s pocket in Preston.

“The boy’s accomplice, a man who had trained him, and who lived upon the produce of his robberies, escaped and reached Manchester in time to secure the professional services of a rather celebrated attorney, who came to Preston to appear for ‘Slaver,’ and extricate him from his dangerous position.

“The boy’s skill as an apprentice pickpocket made it worth his master’s while to incur the expense of £10 for having the best ‘professional aid.’

“‘Slaver’ was convicted, however, as a rogue and vagabond, and sentenced to three months’ imprisonment.”

We must conclude this chapter on prisoner and prison life, and recur to this interesting subject in a future number, as we have to chronicle a much more heinous offence than robbery, this being the taking of human life.

Peace had not been many weeks in gaol before another prisoner was lodged therein charged with a capital offence.

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Chapter LVI

THE LOVERS――A WARNING VOICE――THE MURDER OF MR. PHILIP JAMBLIN.

Since the castigation Peace received from the hands of Mr. Philip Jamblin and the flight of the boy, Alf Purvis, we have had occasion to take but one cursory glance at the inmates of Stoke Ferry Farm, this being on the occasion of Richard Ashbrook’s visit to the hospitable English homestead.

The observation made by Mr. Jamblin, sen., to his son, Philip, respecting his falling into the same pitfall as young Ashbrook, had special significance.

After the departure of Peace from the neighbourhood young Jamblin had paid frequent visits to the grounds and house owned by Nelly’s aunt.

It was pretty plainly demonstrated to most persons who took the trouble to interest themselves in such matters that the farmer’s son had a sneaking fondness for Nell Fulford.

This was very wrong, seeing that he was supposed to be engaged to a young lady in a very superior position to Nell, but despite this an attachment was formed, and, as far as Nell herself was concerned, there was but little doubt that it was one of a self-sacrificing nature.

This fact was afterwards but too clearly demonstrated.

For many months after Peace’s departure a course of love-making was carried on between young Jamblin and Nell.

They did not appear to be able to break the spell which bound them――a spell, indeed, which ended in the death of one and long years of sorrow for the other.

But Nell was infatuated with the handsome young farmer, who had been her valiant champion when persecuted so persistently by our hero.

The man Giles, who had been worsted in a conflict with Peace, was also a devoted admirer of Nell’s.

He was a moody, morose, vindictive fellow, whom nobody liked, and had left the neighbourhood long before Peace.

Whither he had gone no one appeared to know, and, indeed, to say the truth, nobody seemed to care.

Thus matters stood when, at the close of one market day, Mr. Philip Jamblin arrived at the old “Carved Lion.”

He dismounted from his horse and went into the public room of Brickett’s hostelry. He had some business to transact with a malster whom he had appointed to meet there.

When this was over the two had divers and sundry glasses together, and soon after nightfall Jamblin’s steed was brought round to the front door of the inn.

The young farmer remounted, and trotted leisurely along Dennett’s-lane in the direction of his own home.

Upon arriving at that part of the lane where Peace’s workshop stood, he, much to his surprise and pleasure, beheld Nell at some little distance off, awaiting his coming.

“Why, sweetheart, who would have thought of seeing you, at this hour, too, when all good lasses should be at home?” said the former.

“Ah! Master Philip,” she answered, “I was sartin sure you’d be for coming this way, and that’s why I be here.”

“Ah! I see. Well, I’m glad to see thee, Nell, but ye bee’st a looking a little pale, I’m thinking.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, I fancy so; however, it may be but fancy after all.”

“May be it is.”

“And may be it aint.”

“You’ve come from the market?” she said, quickly.

“I was there for a goodish while in the early part of the day, but I’ve just come now from the ‘Carved Lion.’”

“Ah! I see; that’s why you didn’t call at aunt’s.”

“I had a little business to do――had to meet a customer at Brickett’s. Now, don’t be jealous; it wasn’t a leddy or a lass.”

“And bee’st thee going home, then?”

“Aye, surely, I hope to get home some time to-night. Why, what ails thee, Nell, dear?”

On either side of the lane in which they were conversing ran a high thick-set edge. Nell glanced at the opposite side to that on which she stood, and placed her finger on her lips.

She then laid hold of the bridle, and drew the horse some little distance forward. Then she glanced again at the hedge.

“What’s up?” cried her companion.

“Hush!” she whispered. “Somebody has been watching us from behind the hedge, and has heard every word we have said.”

“My darling girl, you are full of strange fancies to-night,” said her lover.

“It be as I ha’ told ye,” she answered. “I seed a pair of dark flashing eyes a-gleamin’ through the branches.”

“And what matters if anybody has been ‘a listnin’? Much good will it do ’em.”

She drew his horse still further on, and again glanced around.

“It be of no use yer shakin’ yer head,” said Nell. “I see’d him as plainly as I see you now.”

“Well, what if you did, lass? Who was it? That pedlar fellow, Peace?”

“No, not him.”

“Who then?”

“Giles Chudley. That’s who it was. He did not think I saw him, but I did; and he means mischief.”

“Who cares for an idle, good-for-nothing like that?”

“Come back, Master Philip; come back, as you love your poor Nell. For her sake come back.”

“Come back to where?”

“To the ‘Lion.’ Don’t go home to-night. I am a poor, weak fool――weak as water. I’ve no head or heart of my own when your eyes be a-shinin’ on my face, and when your words be a-whisperin’ in my ears. Oh, Master Philip, ye know well enough how silly, how miserably foolish I’ve been.”

The young farmer was touched; he reproached himself at that moment, and would have gladly recalled the past, if that had been possible.

“I can ill bear reproaches, Nell, although I well deserve them; but no man is wise at all times, and the most prudent women are not always as careful as they might be, and to say the truth they mostly pay the penalty, which is hard.”

He leant forward over the side of his horse, and placed his hands on her forehead. Then he said, in a voice of touching sweetness――

“Thee bee’st trembling, Nelly.”

“I feel timmersome loike, and something whispers in my ear that you ought not to go home to-night. If ye do it will go hard wi’ both on us.”

He tried to laugh away her fears, but she would not be so deceived.

A horrible foreboding had seized her, and she endeavoured to turn his horse’s head in an opposite direction to the one he had been taking.

“Well, you are in a strange mood to-night; something’s upset you.”

She shook her head.

Young Jamblin’s face grew cloudy and dark. He did not very well know what to make of her.

Presently he said――

“I’ve done ye wrong, lass――I’m free to confess that, but ye shan’t suffer for it. We’ll settle matters all right enough, and if there be no other course left, no one can say anythin’ agen ye when thee beest my wife.”

The girl uttered a cry which seemed to come from the depths of her heart.

“Be of good cheer, darling,” cried her companion, “and don’t ye give way to doubts and fears. I’ll show ye that I’m not the man to forget one so truthful and trusting as ye have been.”

“I do not mind about myself; it be for you that I’m fearful and timmersome.”

“And for what reason are you so fearful?”

She put her lips to his ear, as if the words she whispered were too terrible to be spoken aloud in that lonely place.

He laughed, as with one hand he smoothed the soft brown hair over her forehead.

“Don’t you have any fear about me. I’m well able to take very excellent care of myself. No――no, Nelly, it won’t do; you’re not going to frighten Phil Jamblin by any such groundless fears.”

“Oh, don’t turn away,” she cried; “do come back to the ‘Lion.’”

“But, my dear girl, what will the guv’nor and my sister say at my stopping out all night without letting them know?”

“I’ll let them know――I’ll send a message by Stephen,” she exclaimed, gently.

“And they’ll put me down as a milksop――as a craven. Ah, no, lass――that would never do!”

“Suppose you were ill?”

“But I am not ill――was never better in my life.”

“Ah, Philip, you must let me have my way for this once――only for this once――you know,” she murmured, in a soft and beseeching manner.

But it was of no use――the farmer was obstinate, he could not or would not see the force of her argument, or yield to her powers of persuasion.

He told her again that she was a prey to groundless fears.

She looked at him sadly.

“Ye be more obstinate and harder than I took ye for,” she cried.

He smiled, and placed his hand on her shoulder caressingly.

He found that she was still trembling, even more than before.

“Philip!” cried the girl, creeping closer to him, “I tell ye again this be no fancy; and even if it be, there would be no harm in your giving way to me for this once. I’ve tried to forget what happened between us two not long ago, when your head was lost to pleasure, and when my heart was lost to you; but I tell ye that something will soon see the light which will prevent my forgetting that foolish hour.”

A shudder seemed to pass over the frame of the young farmer, who was evidently deeply moved at this declaration.

“Oh, Nell,” he murmured, “it is I who have been to blame.”

“I do not reproach you,” she answered. “I meant to have kept it all from you, that I might suffer for it; but I tell ye of it now that I may ask ye by that which is your’n, and your’n alone, not to go further to-night, but to turn back and put up at Brickett’s house. I implore ye to do this kindness by that which will soon mek’ me love or hate ye more. Oh, Philip Jamblin, for the love of mercy hearken unto me. I ask ye by the memory of the happy hours we have spent together, by the remembrance of the past and hope for the future, not to return to Stoke Ferry Farm this night. I’ve watched and waited for ye, that I might give thee timely warning.”

“But, my dear Nell, you seem to be full of fancies to-night. No harm will come to me. I will see ye to-morrow, lass. I shall have good news for you then.”

The girl shook her head and looked mournfully at her companion, who did not fail to note that her eyes were filled with tears.

His limbs trembled with emotion――he was greatly troubled; but, even at this time, he was under the full impression that her forebodings were conjured up by the agency of an over-heated imagination.

He drew her towards him, and covered her face with burning and passionate kisses.

Then he bade her a hasty good-night, and urged on his horse.

Half stupefied and numbed the girl stood as immovable and passionless as a statue.

[Sidenote: No. 27.]

In a few moments she aroused herself from her lethargy, and, placing her hands against her temples, uttered a deep-drawn sigh; then she started off at full speed in pursuit of Jamblin.

She heard the clattering of his horse’s hoofs, but he was far away and out of sight. She ran after him like one possessed, and never paused till fairly exhausted. Then she sat on a stile by the side of the road, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed convulsively.

“All is of no avail,” she ejaculated; “a wilful man will have his own way.”

The sky gathered over with clouds, and rose towards the moon.

A cold wind swept over the surface of the earth and muttered among the branches of the trees. The clouds grew darker and heavier; the moon was darkened by a small black cloud.

Nell still sat silent and dejected on the stile. She gave a low and plaintive wail.

Meanwhile Philip Jamblin, heedless of the warning he had received from his sweetheart, was making the best of his way towards Stoke Ferry Farm.

He passed safely through Dennett’s-lane, and reached a bridle road, which was nearly at right angles with it.

This road, or rather the greater part of it, was sheltered on either side by tall trees, hedges, and underwood. At noontide in summer it was a charming retreat, but at night it was lonely and cheerless.

The farmer had not gone a very great distance after turning out of the lane before he had sufficient reason, for disquietude, or indeed alarm; his horse became restive and pricked up his ears. Jamblin, however, held him well in hand, and proceeded along with greater caution.

In a few minutes after this the animal stumbled, but quickly recovered itself.

A terrible blow was delivered from behind by some unseen person full on the head of young Jamblin.

“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the young farmer, who although partially stunned had not lost his presence of mind. Grasping the thin end of his riding-whip, he whirled round the handle, which was loaded with lead, in the hope of striking his mysterious and unseen assailant.

The horse he was bestriding now fell, and Mr. Jamblin, who was a powerful, active young man, sprang to his feet to confront the enemy.

He beheld a big hulking fellow, who was armed with a hedge stick, standing in front of him.

Jamblin struck out with his whip, the blow from which was received on the upraised left arm of his assailant, who again aimed a blow at the head of the other. This Mr. Jamblin turned on one side with his whip.

Perceiving now that it was a question of life or death he advanced a step or two, raised the handle of his riding-whip, with which he struck another tremendous blow. The man, however, drew back his head, and instead of alighting on his head the blow was received on the upper jaw, his lip was laid open, and two of his teeth were knocked out.

The man was driven to desperation, and the struggle after this was but of short duration. The cowardly ruffian stepped back a pace or two and delivered a crushing stroke on the head of the ill-fated young farmer, who fell to the earth helpless and powerless.

Then the murderer rained a series of merciless blows on the prostrate man, thereby reducing him to a state of insensibility.

All this had been but the work of two or three minutes at the most.

But the diabolical wretch had not as yet completed his murderous work. Drawing a clasp knife from his pocket he inflicted with its blade a severe gash in the throat of his victim.

Ruffian as he was he was also a coward. As he was stooping over the dead body of the farmer he became alarmed.

He thought he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the knife, which by this time was covered with blood, slipped out of his hand.

He searched for it in vain. The ground was strewed with fallen leaves, and the knife was nowhere to be seen.

Big drops of perspiration fell from the murderer’s temples on his horny hands as he was groping about for the missing weapon.

A horrible thought took possession of him. It was this. Possibly the instrument with which the deed was done would rise up in judgment against him, and be the means of his identification.

He shook and trembled with fear――a death-like spasm crept through his heart.

He became almost frantic, and turned over the leaves in the hope of finding the knife, but his endeavours were not crowned with success.

As he was thus engaged his eyes fell upon the pale, ghastly face of his victim, which was turned upwards towards the sky.

Fearful lest he should be discovered by some chance traveller, he arose to his feet, and ran off as fast as his legs would carry him.

He soon reached a place known as Larch Green. At one part of this was a stagnant pool of water.

He knelt down beside this, and washed his ensanguined hands.

While thus occupied, he saw the figure of a man approaching. He was some distance off, but he could see that the stranger’s attention was directed towards him.

The murderer flew in the opposite direction over several meadows, never pausing till he felt assured that he was far removed from the scene of death.

Then, panting and groaning, he crept into a dense thicket of trees.

After waiting here a considerable time, with his heart knocking against his ribs, ha emerged from his hiding-place, and fled precipitately, he knew not nor cared not whither.

But during his flight he had attracted the attention of another observer.

Henry Adolphus, the earl’s footman, had been sent by his master with a message to a landholder and a baronet.

The radiant footman, upon returning from the errand on which he had been sent, thought it a little singular that a man should be running at headlong speed over mead and meadow.

He paused and watched the fugitive; and, as he did so, muttered to himself――

“That chap aint after no good, I’ll be sworn. I expect he’s been doing a little prigging on his own account. Howsomever, it aint no bis’ness o’ mine, and as to catching him, it aint to be thought of. What’s every man’s bis’ness is no man’s bis’ness.”

And so, consoling himself with this trite axiom, Mr. Henry Adolphus pursued his dignified course homewards.

He had no occasion to go down the road where the body of the dead man lay, and hence it was that our radiant footman escaped having his feelings shocked, which, to say the truth, would have been a terrible thing to a man of his delicate organisation.

He reached Broxbridge utterly unaware of the fact that a near neighbour and a tenant of his master’s had been foully murdered, and that the dead body of the murdered man was lying in a road the end of which he――Henry Adolphus――had passed as he trudged home.

Upon reaching Broxbridge he did not go at once to the Hall.

He just dropped in at the “Carved Lion,” to have a “cooler” and a little friendly chat with the landlord. The aforesaid “cooler” not having the desired effect, Henry Adolphus supplemented it by another, insisting at the same time upon Brickett joining him.

“That’s a deal better,” said the footman, after he had swallowed the contents of his second glass. “I’ve put on the steam coming home, and felt as hot and dry as a salamander.”

“I’ve had a goodish turn myself,” returned Brickett, “and have only just come in. Any fresh news?”

“None as I know on,” observed the flunkey, “only that I saw a queer-looking chap a-running like mad over Squire Curtis’s meadows.”

“You did, eh? What sort of customer was he?”

“Oh! an ugly, evil-looking fellow, as any one would wish to be shut of.”

“A tall chap with a black beard, and bushy eyebrows?”

“Yes, something after that fashion, as far as I could see; but I was a long way off. He seemed to me to have a cut or bruise on his ugly mug.”

“The very same!” exclaimed Brickett.

“Do you know him?”

“No; but I saw a chap answering that description washing his face and hands in the pool at Larch Green. When he caught sight of me he made off. He’s been up to something, I’ll dare be sworn――burglary, or summut of that sort.”

“I shouldn’t wonder, if it be the same as I saw.”

“Should you know ’im agen?”

“I might; but I aint quite certain about that?”

Brickett remained for some time silent and thoughtful after this.

“I hope as how he aint been up to mischief,” he said, presently. “I do hope that; but I tell ’ee candidly, Master Henry, I didn’t at all like the look of the varmint, and had it not been that I aint so lively on my pins as I used to be, I should have med arter him, and no mistake.”

“Oh, it’s all right enough, I dare say the fellow’s been having a set to――a mill with someone, that’s how I take it, and may be he’s got the worst of it.”

“I dunno’ so much ’bout that; from what I could see of him he looked a good deal like Giles; him as worked at Stoke Ferry Farm some year or two agone. If it war he, which I somehow think it war, he be’s a deal altered.”

“Giles, eh? Well, now you mention it I don’t know, but it might be he.”

“I shouldn’t loike to swear to ’im, but that’s the idea I formed at the time, but may be we shall larn more ’bout ’im afore long. He aint a much good, anyhow.”

“Well, Mr. Brickett, I must be for moving――so, good-night,” said Henry Adolphus, who at once bent his steps in the direction of the hall.

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Chapter LVII

THE RIDERLESS HORSE――CONSTERNATION AT STOKE FERRY FARMHOUSE――DISCOVERY OF THE BODY OF THE MURDERED MAN.

There was not a merrier or more light-hearted girl than Patty Jamblin in the whole county.

Her dulcet voice and ringing laugh brightened the old farmhouse like a ray of sunshine.

No wonder, then, that she was her father’s pet; for, albeit she never crossed him by word or deed, she mostly managed to have her own way.

But on this eventful evening Patty was sad and serious.

Whether the deep blow that was about to fall on her and the old farmer had been by some strange mysterious influence foreshadowed, it is now impossible to say.

Patty was dejected, and, indeed, it might be said, sorrowful――a circumstance very unusual with her.

There are moments, however, when our hearts are open of their own accord to melancholy impressions. This will occur at times to the most vivacious of the human species. At such times a tone of music will bring tears into our eyes, or some simple tale or sight of suffering will fill us with presentiments of a terrible misfortune. Such appeared to be the case with Patty Jamblin.

As the sun sank below the earth, and the curtain of darkness fell softly over Stoke Ferry House, the nightingale pouring forth his first sweet song, Patty dropped into her easy chair and covered her face with her cold and trembling hands.

Her brother had not returned.

She watched and waited――waited anxiously. Something whispered to her what was to happen next.

There are times when a quick succession of “next” is found merely soothing; but there are times of reactionary languor when there is not left force enough to watch when that which we attend to is the rhythm only.

Thus we may find the ticking of a clock nothing――indeed, to mention this is commonplace.

But what a dreadful effect may be produced upon the mind by the sudden cessation of the ticking of the clock when once a certain experience has to be gone through!

Who that has counted the beatings of a pulse or listened to the flutterings of a breath, watching for the next and the next and the next, and coming at last to the one which has no next, can bear without agony to hear a watch or a clock stop ticking, or to hear any rhythmical sound cease suddenly?

One of the most horrible moments in my life was a moment in which the rhythmical noise of a common saw, heard over the parapet of a bridge in London, stopped suddenly when I was listening for it. In the distance the sound was softened; it had a sough with it which reminded me very painfully of the sound of human breath, but when it ceased I thought I could bear no more in this world, and longed to be at that moment taken away.

Of course the emotion of that moment was imparted from my recollection of a moment of which it was the symbol, but I think the cessation of something with a beat in it has always a terror for me.

“Can you draw an inference?” said Coleridge to the clown. “Yes, sir,” said the clown, “a cartload of them.”

That is the way with most of us. We are too eager to draw a cartload of inferences, and when we find the inference will not be drawn we suffer.

This was the case with Patty Jamblin. She was unable to draw an inference as to what was to follow: she only knew that she was depressed and distrustful.

There is a peculiarity about the next thing, remember――that it is sure to happen, and what a blessing there is in certainty!

We know the difficulty of holding in check our tyrannical habitual mode of passing on.

Every second of time in our experience throws out a pontoon bridge to the next.

We live by a clock that has two sets of hands on the same dial-plate. One is right and the other is always too fast.

Patty was sitting in the parlour. Sometimes she would start upright in her chair and listen eagerly; then she would try to reproach herself for expecting her brother Philip so soon.

He was detained, doubtless, had met with some friends, boon companions, who had prevailed upon him to pass a social hour or so with them.

She endeavoured to persuade herself that he was not able to return from some cause which was not explained. It would, however, be made manifest upon his return.

She felt that she must do something to break the monotony and suspense which she endured, and which every minute became more painful.

She took from the book-case a volume, with which she strove to beguile the tedium of her lonely hours. She read till her eyes ached, and then she cast aside the book.

“Why am I thus troubled?” she murmured. “Philip has been from home much later than this on many occasions. After all there is no reason for alarm, but――but I do wish he would come home, and father is away too, which makes me still more anxious.”

The poor girl sighed to herself as she glanced at the clock, the hour hand of which pointed to eleven.

“I wish one of them would come back,” she exclaimed. “I’ve a good mind to send for father, but he would only call me a little fool for my pains, and yet he knows I am all by myself, and he ought to consider that. I feel wretchedly lonely.”

She arose and went to the window.

The sky gathered over with clouds, and a cold wind muttered among the branches of the trees, and strewed the ground with brown and yellow leaves.

The clouds grew darker and heavier and rose towards the moon, which was still shining brightly.

Poor Patty went again to the book-shelf and took another volume from it at hazard.

It was a romance of the last century, written with exaggeration, but with terrible force.

It was not calculated to solace the recluse in Stoke Ferry Farm; but there was a fascination in its glowing pages, and Patty read on, her eyes rivetted on the pages of the volume, which contained accounts of murders and ghosts.

Her form stiffened like a sitting corpse; her eyes protruded; her lips uttered low gasps at every gust of wind which shook the casement. She started as if she had received an electric shook.

At last she could bear it no longer. The very words in the book seemed to have become blood-red, and long black spots ran up and down the page.

The farmer’s daughter was fairly overcome, and she let the volume fall to the ground, and in the extremity of her fear ran to the window for fresh air; she leant out, and looked up to the sky, listening.

Listening and watching for the next thing.

“Oh!” she murmured, pressing one hand against her side, “but this suspense is dreadful――too dreadful to bear. Where can Philip be, and father too? He ought not to leave me thus.”

She remained with her eyes fixed on the black vault of heaven; her heart beat audibly.

“Heaven protect and preserve me,” she ejaculated――“preserve me and mine!”

As the clock struck twelve she heard the faint ring of a horse’s hoof. It came nearer.

“It is he. It is Philip,” she exclaimed.

She listened more intently. The sound rang harshly on her ears――she felt sick and faint.

A horse passed the window, snorting savagely. It appeared to her to be like some war charger whose rider had been stricken down in the field of battle.

She uttered a scream which rang like a clarion note in the midnight air. Then she called aloud for assistance.

“Joe――Stephen――help――help!” exclaimed the unhappy girl.

She heard the clattering of men’s footsteps on the hard road.

They were giving chase to the flying horse, which passed on snorting savagely, foaming at the mouth, and riderless.

“Joe――Joe!” shrieked Patty to one of her father’s labourers, “for mercy’s sake tell me what’s the matter. Speak, I pray you.”

The man looked in at the window, and said in a kind tone of voice――

“We none on us know at present, but don’t ’e be frightened, missus. Summut’s amiss, but maybe it aint o’ much consequence. Cheer up, and wait till I coom back. There aint no call for no alarm――leastways not as we knows on at present.”

Patty sank into a chair, and felt as if about to swoon.

The man passed on.

In a few minutes after this two of her father’s servants passed the window, leading a riderless horse.

They carried lanterns in their hands, and were looking intently and examining the animal. Patty said nothing, but, pale and speechless, awaited the issue.

The horse was taken to the yard, which was at the side of the farmhouse. It was the identical yard from which the boy, Alf Purvis, had been ignominiously driven with the hare round his neck some year or two before.

The farmer’s men exchanged blank looks.

“It looks precious queer, and may be as how it’s an ugly bis’ness,” ejaculated the carter. “Mr. Philip’s bin thrown, for sartin.”

“He’s not a man to be throwed easily,” said Joe. “I dunno think the cob’s bin down.”

“Yes, he has,” cried Stephen. “This off side be covered in mud and slush. There’s bin an accident o’ some sort.”

“An accident?”

“Aye, surely summut very near it. Look at his knees.”

The speaker held down the lantern in front of the horse.

“Why, heaven save us, what be this nn the saddle?” exclaimed another.

“Here, man, hand us over the lantern.”

By the fitful glare of the light they saw a stream of blood on the saddle, and the horse’s flanks.

A low moan proceeded from all present, and they stood petrified with astonishment.

“The saddle be wet!” cried one.

“Ah! surely, that it be――wet wi’ blood!” exclaimed another. “There’s been foul play with our young master.”

While all this had been going on, the elder Mr. Jamblin, who had been playing cards at a neighbour’s house, had been suddenly aroused to a sense of danger; he soon hastened homewards, and upon catching sight of his men around the house, he exclaimed, in a tone of indignation――

“What be all on ’ee doin’ there? Aint one man enough to attend to a horse? Do it take five to stable a steed? Speak, some on ’ee. You’ve got tongues in yer heads, I s’pose?”

But none of his men seemed disposed to speak. No one appeared to have the courage to declare the real state of the case.

Puffing and panting Mr. Jamblin hastened up to the riderless steed.

“Where be Mr. Philip?” he cried.

“He aint coom back as yet, zur,” said the stableman.

“Then where be he?” was the next question.

“We none on us know; Pepper (that was the name of the horse) has been down.”

Mr. Jamblin wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“Bin down, and Mr. Philip not here,” he ejaculated. Then turning to his men he said, in a voice of thunder――

“Look here, men; what be the yoose o’ yer standing here like a set o’ stockfish? Ye’ve got eyes and legs I ’spose; why don’t some on ye start off and see if ye can find your young master?”

“We’ll go at once,” cried several, simultaneously.

“I have not a morsel of doubt as to the road he would take,” exclaimed the farmer. “He came from Brickett’s, and would pass through Dennett’s-lane, and then reach Larchgrove-road. Go, some on ’ee, at once in that direction.”

Four of the men at once went in search of their young master. They carried lanterns, which, as they advanced steadily and cautiously along the road, swayed like the censers of priests above the altar.

The clouds had by this time melted away; the moon and stars shone brightly.

The rustics passed on till they reached the end of Larchgrove-road. Here they turned down, and as they entered the shadows of this cheerless place a cold chill fell upon them, for they seemed to feel that it was like entering a churchyard at midnight.

“I dun’no what to mek of it,” said one. “The cob might have shied at summut, but Mr. Philip aint easily throwed.”

“And yet it be certain that some accident ha’ taken place. It may be hard to say what it is. It may be worse than any on us think.”

They flashed the lanterns in every direction, but failed to find as yet any solution to the mystery.

They walked slowly and sadly along, examining every portion of the way as they did so.

As they neared the end of Dennett’s-lane a cry from the foremost party caused a sudden panic.

“What be the matter?” cried the other.

“Matter!” exclaimed the man in front. “Here be our young master lying like one dead. There’s bin foul play, mates――Master Philip’s been murdered!”

They now gathered round the body of the dead man.

They lowered their lanterns and gazed at his wan features, which too plainly denoted that life had departed.

They looked into each other’s faces, and gave a simultaneous cry.

The open gash in the throat, the fractured skull, and the deep pool of blood were evidences of the terrible tragedy which had been enacted.

Philip Jamblin had always been a special favourite with the labourers on Stoke Ferry Farm. It will therefore be readily understood that the sight of his remains had a powerful effect upon those who went in search of him.

At first the farm labourers were too much appalled to give expression to their feelings by words.

They stared at the ghastly face in stupid astonishment, then they moaned, and glanced around, as if they expected to see the assassin lurking in some dark corner.

But all was silent――as silent as the grave.

“Who ha’ done this deed?” exclaimed Joe Doughty. “A blighting curse cling to ’im whoever he may be. A blighting curse.”

Footsteps were now heard proceeding from the further end of the road.

The men glanced in the direction from whence they proceeded.

“It be measter a comin’ this way,” they exclaimed.

Joe Doughty walked rapidly on in the direction from whence the footsteps proceeded.

In a moment or so he came up with his master, who, hastening to the spot where his son lay in his last sleep, said――

“How now, Joe,” cried the farmer. “What be the matter, man? What’s amiss, eh?”

“You mustn’t go any further. Bide where ye are, measter. Dunno’ attempt to go any further,” said Joe.

“And why not? Speak――can’t you? Mr. Philip’s been throwed?”

“Worse than that,” said the man. “Oh, Mr. Jamblin, ye mustn’t go no further!”

He laid hold of the farmer by the coat, and drew him towards the trees by the side of the road.

Jamblin looked at him, and as he did so his face became preternaturally pale. There was that in the conduct of Joe which made his master tremble like an aspen bough beneath the blast.

“Summat’s happened,” said the farmer, in a low hoarse whisper.

Joe nodded, but durst not trust himself to speak. There was a pause, after which Jamblin said, in a voice of perfect calmness――

“Tell me what it is?”

He was a huge brawny fellow, with a bronzed face, and having hands with thews and sinews like a giant, was this Joe Doughty; but when the farmer’s words fell upon his ears――they were spoken in a tone altogether so different to that he had been accustomed to hear――that, athlete and giant as he was, he seated himself on a felled tree which lay by the side of the road, and burst into tears.

The sight of this man, sobbing and crying like an infant, so affected Jamblin, that he was fairly overcome, and had not the power to move.

He looked at Joe, and then at the vault of heaven.

“He be taken from us, measter,” said the latter, still sobbing; “and he was the best an’ truest friend I ha’ ever known; an’ I would ha’ given my life――ten lives, if I ’ad ’em――only to ha’ saved his. But it’s no yoose a bellowin’ or a crying, it be all over now.”

“All over!” said the farmer. “What is over?”

“He be dead and gone, measter.”

When he heard these last words, Mr. Jamblin made a movement towards the scene of the tragedy.

Joe rose suddenly, and caught him by the skirts of his coat.

“Ye mustn’t go there, measter, indeed you mustn’t. ’Twill break your heart to see the sight I ha’ seen. Bide where ye be.”

“Let me go,” cried the farmer. Do ’e think I am afraid to look the worst in the face?”

“Bide here awhile,” repeated the man.

“But I must and will know what’s the matter.”

“Measter Philip be murdered!”

At these words the farmer stepped back several paces.

“Murdered!” he repeated. “And by whom?”

“I dunno. But I will afore long. By the heaven above, I swear never to rest night or day till I hunt down the infamous wretch who ha’ done this foul deed,” exclaimed Joe Doughty, raising his right hand above his head. “I ha’ said it, and I mean it, as God is my judge.”

“I must look upon my son,” cried Jamblin. “So don’t ’e seek to detain me, Joe. Leave go!”

“If it’s to be so, I’ll go wi’ ’e, measter,” replied the latter.

And so the two walked on together towards the fatal spot, for Joe Doughty would not trust his master to go alone.

When they arrived at that part of the road where the dead body of the young farmer lay, the men with the lanterns were more affected by sight of their master than they had been by looking at the stark form of his son.

The agony expressed on the countenance of the elder Mr. Jamblin was painful to behold.

He said nothing, but his looks were more eloquent than words.

After he had contemplated the heartrending sight for some little time, he turned towards Joe, who silently led him from the spot.

“It is as you sed――he’s been foully murdered,” whispered Jamblin.

“Get thee back, my dear measter. We will bring the body home.”

“Home?” iterated Jamblin.

“Yes, sir, unless you wish it otherwise.”

“Poor Patty,” cried the farmer; “it will break her heart.”

“Better get home and leave the rest to us,” suggested Joe. “My young missus had best hear it from your lips.”

“You are right, I will return,” said the farmer. “I leave the arrangements to you――I dare not stop longer.”

He walked away with rapid strides, and Joe hastened back to his companions.

They placed the body on a hurdle, then they covered it over with a couple of sacks, and bore it along until they reached Stoke Ferry Farmhouse.

They had the discretion to place it on a bench in a granary, the door of which they locked, and when all this had been effected in a gentle and thoughtful manner the farmer was made acquainted with the whole proceedings, at which he expressed his satisfaction.

Patty Jamblin went into hysterics, and the village surgeon was sent for, who pronounced her to be in a very dangerous state.

After recovering in a measure from the first shock she remained in a prostrate condition, and appeared to be but partially conscious of all that was going on.

Her father was more concerned about her than aught else, and perhaps this was a merciful dispensation of Providence.

As it was, to a certain extent it diverted his thoughts from the great and irreparable loss he had sustained.

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LVIII. AFTER THE MURDER――THE INQUEST

The terrible crime committed in Larchgrove-road, the news of which spread like wildfire on the following morning, caused a thrill of horror for miles around. At Broxbridge, Sulwich, and a host of other places, it formed the sole topic of conversation.

As the cry of fire will frighten the worst sluggards from their beds, so did the tidings of the frightful murder awaken the whole country from its lethargy.

At the present day crimes of a like nature seem to excite but little sympathy――indeed, it is surprising the apathy displayed by the public; regard or pity for the victim or victims of an assassin is never for a moment thought of. Not so, however, was it in the case of the young farmer who met his death in a manner described in our last chapter. Men ran through the streets and stood in knots by the corners, and sat in circles in the alehouses.

There was but one look in their faces――there was but one thought in their minds――this was the earnest desire that the murderer of Philip Jamblin should not escape the fate he so justly merited.

On market day there was a mournful meeting at the ordinary, and most of the farmers wore crape on their hats or sleeves.

The Jamblins were greatly respected, and everyone thought of the bereaved father and the suffering sister.

“Poor Phil Jamblin――he was as brave and honest a chap as ever stepped in shoe leather,” they said, as they shook their heads, “and never did a morsel o’ harm to any one. I’d hang the scoundrel, whoever he may be――hang ’im on the first tree at hand and try ’im arterwards.”

“But who could ha’ done it?” said a neighbouring farmer. “Phil never harmed nor quarrelled wi’ a soul in his life――leastways not as I ever heard of.”

“It must ha’ bin some stranger as did it――a tramp, perhaps,” cried another. “There’s no saying for sartin.”

Many of the young farmers were not content with lamenting Phil, but they scoured the country upon their hunters, examining every strange face with suspicion, and asking questions of all the publicans in the neighbouring villages and towns.

Throngs of persons of almost every denomination flocked to the “Carved Lion.” It had been “noised abroad” that Brickett saw the murderer washing his hands in a pool of water at Larchfield Green. This was enough to bring hosts of inquirers to his house to learn the truth from his own lips.

The worthy host of the “Lion” repeated his statement until he became weary of the narration; but his customers would not let him have any rest――he was forced to comply with their demands.

Every scrap of information connected with the tragedy was eagerly sought after, and retailed afterwards to the wondering village folk.

Exaggerated stories got abroad, and numberless theories were propounded. Somebody who remembered the thrashing Peace received at the hands of the murdered man kindly hinted that he might have committed the crime from motives of revenge.

Brickett was most indignant at this suggestion, which he declared to be both false and scandalous.

It was not possible for Peace to be accused of the murder, seeing that he was in gaol doing his four years at the time it was committed; he was secure enough.

The constabulary took active measures to bring the guilty party within the meshes of the law. Constables were dispatched in every possible direction; notices were sent to the various stations, but as yet no clue had been found to the fugitive.

Miss Jamblin was in a critical state. The surgeon who attended upon her found her weak and dejected as a woman about to die.

Her face was furrowed by the traces of the scalding tears she had shed; her pulse was faintly fluttering like a wounded bird.

As for her father he said but little. It was, however, but too plainly shown that a strange change had come over him, and those about him whispered to each other that the old gentleman would never be the same man again.

The inquest was to take place at the “Carved Lion,” and for the convenience of the coroner and jury the body of the murdered man was brought from Stoke Ferry Farmhouse and placed in one of the private rooms of Brickett’s hostelry.

There could not be a moment’s hesitation in arriving at the conclusion as to the cause of death, but it was necessary for the usual formulæ to be gone through.

Of late years the examination of the witnesses, and wrangling of the legal gentlemen engaged in the case, have caused the coroner’s inquiry to be protracted to a needless length.

It is either one of two things: the inquiry is knocked off with unseemly haste, or else carried on beyond all reasonable limits.

The fourth of Edward the First, the original Coroner’s Act, which gave an appointed official the right to inquire into the causes of sudden death within his jurisdiction, was no doubt at that comparatively lawless period an eminently necessary piece of legislation.

In those days deeds of violence, tavern brawls, and mysterious deaths, were of daily occurrence, and doubtless this was the primary reason for the establishment of a legal court of inquiry, and it cannot be concealed that it is needed in our own times.

In remote districts the inevitable coroner’s inquiry, which is sure to follow any and every case of sudden and violent death, is a precautionary measure for the safety of her Majesty’s subjects. It acts as a deterrent against crime, and assists the criminal courts in arriving at just verdicts.

But it is felt in cities and large towns that the coroner’s court is an expensive and withal fussy ante-chamber to the justice-room of the stipendiary magistrates, and that some alteration is needed in the conduct of these inquiries.

The old fashion mode――and indeed one which was followed in the case of the Larchgrove-road murder――of holding coroners’ courts in the parlours of public-houses, within hearing of the noise and ill-timed jollity of the tap-room, and of laying the corpse in some shed at the back yard of a beershop, among the cans and pewter pots, is very objectionable.

The practice degrades the dignity of justice.

There are, however, still more important objections, in the lack of legal training for which too many of our coroners are conspicuous, and in the needless waste of public and private time and money in examining witnesses――in speeches of counsel, who wrangle, ask irrelevant questions, badger witnesses, and retard instead of aid the course of justice.

This of late has grown almost insupportable.

The first inquiry in what is termed the Balham mystery was a mere sham. The second was carried on to a most unwarrantable length――with no good result.

And in the late Richmond murder the public had reason to deplore the license of advocacy, and the shouts of laughter proceeding from persons in the body of the court were a disgrace to a civilised community.

Upon the coroner and jury assembling at the “Carved Lion” no such unseemly merriment took place.

Everybody present conducted themselves in a becoming manner, and many were deeply affected, as the evidence was heard in almost breathless silence.

It was not of a nature to fix the guilt upon any one person in particular, nevertheless the facts went far towards pointing to one man as the guilty person.

But the links in the chain of evidence were detached. There was, however, good reason for supposing that they would be strengthened and be made more compact after further investigation.

The knife which the murderer had left behind was found, and was produced by the police on the inquest. In addition to this two human teeth were discovered at a short distance from where the body lay; one of these was broken short off, the other was perfect.

These were considered most important facts, as in the event of the suspected man being captured, the teeth might serve for the purpose of identification.

Brickett was the first witness called. He deposed to the facts already known to the reader. He said he was under the impression that the man washing his hands in the pool at Larch-green was Giles Chudley, but he would not undertake to swear that it was him.

Henry Adolphus gave his evidence in a very creditable manner. He explained the circumstance of his seeing a man running across the meadows. He appeared to be wounded, and from what he could make out the fugitive was bleeding from the nose or mouth, he could not tell which, as he was too far off. He was quite certain, however, that the man was hurt in some way.

Another and more important witness was next examined.

At no very great distance from Larch-green stood a small habitation called “Jawbone Cottage.”

This name was given to the place in consequence of the jawbones of a whale being on either side of the gateway at its entrance.

When placed in their position they formed a pointed arch, around which climbed honeysuckle and clematis.

No one, however, would have taken them to have been bones――certainly not at the first glance.

In Jawbone Cottage resided a farm labourer, his wife, and two children; the eldest of these being an intelligent little girl, of eleven or twelve years of age. She was brought forward as a witness.

It appeared from what she said that her father and mother had gone from home in the after part of the day on which the murder took place, to see her elder brother off, who was going to sea.

They did not return, however, till late; the witness and her sister, a child of five years old, went to bed at the usual time, but the witness, who had a swollen face which was very painful, and prevented her from sleeping, got up and looked out of the bedroom window, in the hope of seeing her parents coming along the road.

While thus occupied she observed a great man washing his face and hands in the pool of water on the green. She was so frightened that she hardly durst breathe, but she watched him for some time; she saw that his lip was cut open, and that his hands and face were covered with blood.

After this she withdrew from the window and covered herself over with the bedclothes. Mustering courage to go again to the window, she found the man gone.

She was asked to describe him, and in reply said――

“He had dark bushy eyebrows and a beaky nose.”

She was then asked if she would know him again.

After some little hesitation she said she thought she should be able to recognise him, but was not certain.

Her evidence was taken down very carefully by the coroner’s clerk, as it was believed to be very important, as far as the after proceedings in the case were concerned.

After the little girl’s evidence there was a pause in the proceedings. The coroner looked at his summoning officer, who looked at the inspector of police who had the case in hand; then there were whisperings and a low murmur from those assembled in the court, out of which the police inspector took his way; then he returned again, and said something in a whisper to the coroner, who said out loud――

“In the interests of justice it is most desirable that she should be heard; but if she is too ill, and has a doctor’s certificate to that effect, we have no other alternative than to adjourn the inquiry.”

“I will do what I can,” answered the police-officer, who again left the court.

In a minute or so he returned, and nodded significantly to the coroner.

All was now so hushed, that, to make use of a common phrase, “you might hear a pin drop.”

It was generally understood that the girl Nelly was about to make her appearance, and everybody was on the tip-toe of expectation.

Wan and pale, and the very personification of sorrow, the unhappy girl was now brought in by two female attendants and the police inspector.

She was placed in the space set apart for the witnesses, and seemed to be so overcome that all present were under the impression that she was about to swoon. She bore up, however, in a manner which surprised everybody.

“Your name is Ellen Fulford, I believe?” said the clerk.

“Yes, sir,” she returned, in a voice which was scarcely audible to any one save those who were in close proximity to the speaker.

“Now, don’t be alarmed, Miss Fulford,” said the coroner, in a kind tone. I do not doubt but this is a painful ordeal for you to go through. We will not ask needless questions or protract it longer than may be absolutely requisite. Take your time in replying to the few interrogations we have to put.”

Nell bent her head in acknowledgment of the consideration shown towards her, and the examination proceeded.

She was asked if she saw Mr. Philip Jamblin on the night of the murder, and replied in the affirmative.

She gave a long account of her conversation with him, which took place near the workshop at one time in the occupation of Charles Peace.

Then a juryman inquired if Peace now resided in the neighbourhood.

“I believe not, sir,” said Nell.

“Oh, you believe not――you don’t know, for certain, then?”

“He has not resided in this neighbourhood for some time. He left a little under two years ago,” said the inspector. “As far as he is concerned we are well able to let you know. He was convicted at the last sessions at Sheffield upon a charge of burglary, since which period he has been doing part of his time. He was sentenced to four years’ penal servitude.”

A murmur ran through the court at this declaration.

“What did he say?” inquired Brickett, of a policeman who stood next to him. “Charles Peace convicted of burglary! It can’t be; I dunno believe it.”

“Silence; order in the court!” shouted the usher.

“Well, I’m staggered――regularly dumbfounded!” murmured the landlord. “It bean’t true.”

“Order!” was again called, and Brickett remained silent, but he had half a mind to give an open contradiction to the inspector’s statement.

“It’s right enough,” whispered the policeman. “He’s quodded. Hold your row.”

“Now, Miss Fulford,” said the coroner, addressing himself to the witness, “you have given us, I dare say, a very faithful account of your last interview with the ill-fated young man, Mr. Philip Jamblin. But of the warning you gave him――which, I am sure, everyone must regret that he did not heed. You say a man was behind the hedge during the earlier part of the conversation?”

“Yes, sir. There was a man.”

“Could you see his features?”

“Yes. Most distinctly.”

“Were they familiar to you?”

“They were.”

“Then you knew him?”

“I did. His name is Giles Chudley.”

“This you swear?”

“I do.”

“You are quite positive as to his being Chudley?”

“I am quite positive.”

“Can you describe his appearance?”

“I dunno that I can. He is a tall, strong fellow, with a brown face and bushy eyebrows.”

“With a beaky nose?” inquired the coroner, referring to the girl’s evidence.

“Yes, his nose is a little beaky.”

“That will do, Miss Fulford, we will not trouble you any further to-day. You have given your evidence in a most satisfactory manner.”

Nell was taken out of court. What it cost her to go through the ordeal was only known to herself.

The coroner summed up. He said all the evidence went in one direction, this being to throw a dark shade of suspicion upon the man Chudley. Still at present it was not clearly established that he was the murderer of Mr. Jamblin, and if the jury had any doubts they had better not declare him guilty by their verdict. This was but a preliminary inquiry. It was clearly demonstrated beyond all cavil that Mr. Jamblin was foully murdered; it was therefore their duty to declare this by their verdict.

The jury were some time considering, but ultimately returned a verdict of――

“Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”

Thus the proceedings ended.

“Well I never!” cried Henry Adolphus, when they had all left. “Mr. Peace convicted of burglary!”

“Oh, there must be some mistake,” returned Brickett; “it can’t be our Peace――’taint at all likely――’taint reasonable to s’pose such a thing. Why, he was one of the best fellows out.”

“So everybody ses; but it’s ’ard to know people nowadays. Still, I can’t b’lieve that tale.”

“The p’leece ought to know,” suggested a man, holding in his hand a tankard of ale; “if they doesn’t know, who does?”

“You just shut up,” cried the landlord. “Nobody asked your ’pinion. I tell ’ee they do not know――so that’s enough.”

“All right, guvner, I be dun; you know these matters a deal better than what I do, I dare say.”

After the departure of the coroner, the jury, witnesses, and constables, the people in the “Lion” threw off all restraint, and conversed freely on the all-absorbing topic. They commented on the evidence with great acumen――I mean rustic acumen.

Everybody agreed upon one point, this being for the murderer of young Jamblin being brought to justice in the shortest possible space of time.

When the funeral of the murdered man took place all the populations of Broxbridge and the surrounding districts turned out to do honour to the obsequies of the young farmer.

It was a touching sight to witness the crowds of men, women, and children who swelled the throng of mourners.

[Sidenote: No. 28.]

Lord Ethalwood’s carriage followed. In this were Mr. Jakyl, Henry Adolphus, his lordship’s housekeeper, and head gardener, and when Mr. Jamblin bared his white head beside his son’s grave, the tears fell thick and fast down the faces of the women and children, as well as many of the men.

Joe Doughty sobbed convulsively, and it was indeed a day of general mourning, which was heartfelt as it was creditable. There is something of the old heroic chivalrous spirit yet to be found in the rustic population of this country.

There is something of romance and legendary lore left also, but these things are fast fading away. It would be a consolation to most of us if we could persuade ourselves that the better instincts of our nature were not fading away also.

Convulsions have taken place in the moral world. The people of this country have undergone a change――whether for the better or for the worse it is not so easy to determine.

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LIX. MYSTERIOUS MURDERS

Days and weeks passed over, but no clue was found to the murderer of Philip Jamblin. Every effort was made by the police, both London and provincial, but with no satisfactory results.

No one appeared to know where Giles Chudley had gone to after leaving Broxbridge, and nobody seemed to understand how it was that he had returned so suddenly on the night of the murder, and then be spirited away in such an extraordinary manner.

Many of the rustics were under the impression that Nell Fulford might have made a mistake as to the identity of the man behind the hedge in Dennett’s lane.

They did not say much, but shook their heads and muttered――

“No gell could make certain sure of any one behind such a thick hedge.”

“Maybe she’s mistaken,” suggested another.

After short detached observations like these the rustics in Brickett’s parlour would lapse again into silence.

Men who are employed from dawn to dusk in such a solitary occupation as ploughing or spreading manure, without perhaps hearing the sound of a human voice all the time, are not likely to be voluble or ready speakers.

They contract silent and ruminating habits, and taciturnity is one of their most marked characteristics. There is no analogy between the “men of the plough” and the British workmen in manufacturing towns.

A group of agricultural labourers will sometimes sit together smoking and drinking for a whole evening, and the nearest approach to a sociable chat will be occasional jerky observations, few and far between, fired off like conversational minute guns.

It is an inevitable consequence of the occupation and mode of life of the men in question.

The farming population of Broxbridge and the surrounding neighbourhood were, however, aroused from their wonted apathy and inactivity by the murder in Larchgrove-road.

Every minute particular was retailed at the village alehouse or elsewhere, and the oft-repeated question was asked――

“Be the man found out yet?”

And when the answer was given in the negative the countenance of the questioner was expressive of regret and disappointment.

Miss Jamblin, for the first few days, was in so serious a condition as to cause the greatest anxiety to those around her.

When the terrible news reached Oakfield House, John and Maude Ashbrook at once started off for Stoke Ferry Farm to administer what comfort they could to the old farmer and his daughter.

They did much, by their presence and kindness, to assuage the grief and melancholy which had found its way into the farmer’s homestead.

To say the truth, the Jamblins and Ashbrooks were almost like one family, and Patty was never suffered to be alone: either John Ashbrook or his sister was by her side, and very frequently both were with her.

Lord Ethalwood had been most kind and considerate to the Jamblins.

He sent round Henry Adolphus every day to inquire how Patty was――whether she was progressing favourably or otherwise――he also sent his own family physician to see her.

In addition to all this, he had handbills printed, offering a hundred pounds reward “to any person or persons who would give such information as would lead to the conviction of the murderer of Mr. Philip Jamblin.”

Notwithstanding all this, no one was arrested.

It is most extraordinary that so many crimes of this nature should remain undetected; and it is still more extraordinary how soon public interest ceases in cases of this sort. When we consider the number of murders which are known to have been committed, the perpetrators of which are at the present time at large, and who may, for aught we know, be seated by our side in trains, in omnibuses, or places of public resort, the reflection cannot fail to appal the most apathetic and unimpressionable of her Majesty’s subjects.

No lesson can be more powerful to teach man the fallibility of his own judgment than the success so frequently attending the efforts on the part of guilt to baffle and mislead. How frequently have we seen a chain of circumstances, pointing apparently with irresistible force to some particular conclusion, suddenly disjoined and scattered by the eliciting of a new fact, by which the pursuit is led away in a totally different direction?

Providence, in its wisdom, has seen fit to limit man’s mental vision, and has made many things mysterious to him. It has allowed the hand of the assassin to cut short many a virtuous and valuable life, and permitted the crime to go, in this world at least, undetected and unpunished, and has even permitted the criminal to pass through life without “compunctious visitings” one qualm of conscience. Mocking, as it were, the wisdom of man, it has suffered life to be taken away in the broad glare of noon, in the middle of the crowded city, in the heart of a skilfully-trained police, without the faintest clue to the murderer.

On the other hand, it has given to the criminal the silence of midnight, and the solitude of the forest and plain, and every aid, as it were, for concealment and escape, and suddenly, without even an effort, human justice has laid a denouncing finger on the guilty head, and pointed it out to the world where most unsuspected and unsought.

One slays his victim almost in the face of the ministers of justice, and escapes without haste and rapid flight; another adopts measures of precaution, and exhausts ingenuity in devising places of concealment, and is detected with his victim’s warm blood on his hands.

How fruitless are the most elaborate devices for concealment when the hand of heaven is raised to expose the guilt!

Among the many unavenged murders and failures of justice in the great city of London, around the history of which hang so many mysteries in its many phases of life, where frequently the helpless children of hard poverty fall victims to the lust of the wealthy, the death of the young unfortunate girl, Eliza Grimwood, occupies a prominent place.

On the 26th of May, 1838, the whole metropolis of London was startled and horrified by the discovery of the murdered body of Eliza Grimwood, a remarkably handsome young woman, one of the gay belles of London of that period, who by some misfortune or other had been allured from the path of virtue.

She was found terribly mutilated lying on the floor of a house of doubtful repute, at No. 12, Wellington-terrace, Waterloo-road.

At the inquest held at the “York Tavern,” before Mr. Carter, it was elicited that the unfortunate woman, who was about twenty-five years of age, lived with George Hubbard, a bricklayer, but that the deceased went out of an evening to the various theatres, for the purpose of forming the acquaintance of gentlemen to bring home and pass the night with her, and by this means she maintained herself and her paramour.

From the evidence it appeared that some person had gone home with her on the night in question.

The man was, to all appearance, a foreigner, and there was every reason for believing that he had committed the murder, but from that day to this the scoundrel has escaped detection. Not the slightest clue was ever found which might serve to lead to his detection.

The year 1837 was characterised by a large number of atrocious murders, and also by the frequency of brutal garotte robberies.

On the 3rd of November in that year, as Mr. Isaac Butcher, a well-to-do farmer, of Colne Engaine, Essex, was returning from Colchester market he was pounced upon by two men in a lonely part of the road, murdered, and robbed.

One very shocking feature in the case was that his own brother came up shortly afterwards, and was the first who recognised him.

It was believed at the time that the murderers were probably tramping labourers, but no one was ever arrested, and the matter has ever remained a mystery.

A diabolical murder was committed at Chingford Hatch, Woodford, Essex, on Sunday morning, the 21st of June, 1857.

The unfortunate victim was an aged woman, seventy-two years of age, who acted as confidential housekeeper to Mr. and Mrs. Small, farmers of that place.

On the morning in question the house was left in charge of the poor old lady whilst her master and mistress went to attend divine service in the parish church of Chingford. On their return the deceased, whose name was Mary White, was found weltering in her blood. A man named Geydon was suspected. A reward of £200 was offered by Government for his apprehension; but from that day up to the present period no clue to the commission of the murder has ever been discovered.

The celebrated Waterloo-bridge mystery, which caused such a stir in the metropolis, cannot be readily forgotten. On the 9th of October, 1857, a carpet bag was found upon one of the stone ledges of an abutment of Waterloo-bridge. It contained portions of the mutilated remains of a person, evidently murdered and deposited thereon, together with a portion of wearing apparel saturated with gore.

The toll-keeper at the bridge said he remembered seeing a person, dressed as a woman, come up from the Strand side on the previous night, about half-past eleven. She had a carpet bag with her――to the best of his belief the bag in question was the one she had, as he particularly noticed a large flower in the centre of the pattern. The remains were examined, the clothes were hung up in Bow-street station, where thousands of persons inspected them; but, notwithstanding, this, like the other crimes, has remained a mystery.

On the morning of the 9th of April, 1863, a very atrocious and mysterious murder was discovered in a house of evil repute, No. 4, George-street, Bloomsbury, St. Giles’s, one of the very worst parts of the metropolis.

The unfortunate girl in this instance was a shirtmaker, named Emma Jackson, who resided usually with her father, mother, and brother, at No. 10, Berwick-street.

The unhappy girl used to maintain herself as long as she could solely by her needle; but when this failed her, through shortness of work, she occasionally stayed out at night to eke out a livelihood by prostitution.

The inquest, which was holden at the “Oporto Stores,” Broad-street, Bloomsbury, before Dr. Lankester, coroner, showed that the deceased went as early as seven in the morning, on the day in question, to the brothel, at No. 4, George-street, with a man, and on asking for a bedroom, were at once shown to one by the young servant in charge, which they then took possession of.

As she did not come down in the course of the day, the parties belonging to the house went upstairs, and on going to her room were horrified to find her lying across the bed with her throat cut.

Dr. Weekes was the first witness called. He stated that he had made an examination of the body of the deceased, and in addition to finding her throat cut discovered that both her arms and legs were smeared with blood. There were also stains of blood on both thighs. On the left buttock was a mark of the grasp of two fingers. In the neck there were four punctured wounds, two in the front and two behind. There was a considerable effusion of blood on the membrane of the vertebrae, particularly to the right of the spine. There was a very clean cut three-quarters of an inch long. He thought deceased must have been asleep when the first cut was inflicted. The cause of death, he believed, was partly owing to suffocation, and partly owing to loss of blood, as blood had been diffused in considerable quantities both from wounds in the internal jugular, and the veins in part of the trachea. After the second wound he believed that the deceased was dragged into the position in which she was found. In answer to a question by a juror he said he thought the deceased had no power to make any noise after the first wound. In answer to the coroner he said he believed that when he first saw the deceased she had been dead from nine to twelve hours. His belief was that the wounds had been inflicted with a common pocket-knife. In his belief he was decidedly of opinion that the deceased did not receive the wounds in the position in which she was found, but that she was placed in that position by her murderer. She could have had no power of calling out after the wind-pipe had been separated.

The jury, after hearing evidence, returned a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.

The matter was then left in the hands of the police.

Among the suspicious circumstances reported was the fact that on the evening of the murder a man went into a draper’s shop at Stratford, and bought a new shirt.

The one that he was wearing, together with his clothes, was smothered with blood. When buying the shirt he, in course of conversation with the shopkeeper, said that he had had a quarrel with his wife, and that in the scuffle she had wounded him.

There was a general impression that this was the man and that he was making his way through Epping Forest towards the sea-coast.

Nothing further was heard of the affair, and this also has remained an unexplained crime.

The whole metropolis was thrown into a state of surprise and excitement on the night of Wednesday, the 11th of April, 1866, by the discovery of a terrible and mysterious murder at Messrs. Bevington and Sods, leather merchants, of Cannon-street, City.

The unfortunate victim was an elderly widow lady named Mrs. Millsum, who, together with a cook named Elizabeth Lewes, were always left by the firm in charge of the premises at night. On the night of the murder, it appears that she was discovered lying just inside the passage leading from the street-door upstairs.

On examining her, she was weltering in her blood. It transpired that while the two servants were upstairs, after the shop had been shut up, and the firm gone to their country residence, the bell of the street-door was rung.

The deceased said to her fellow-servant――

“Ah! that ring is for me. I know who it is,” and immediately went downstairs.

She was down a considerable time without any suspicion being occasioned in the mind of her fellow-servant, as the deceased was often in the habit of going down and standing at the door for a considerable time.

When she was first discovered it was surmised that she had perhaps killed herself by falling downstairs, but a further examination proved, beyond doubt, that a terrible murder had been committed.

Mr. May, surgeon, who examined the body, said that when he saw deceased lying on the floor he observed two wounds on the head and face. There was a very deep wound on the side of the head. There was also a wound on the forehead, and one over the eye, and five stabs on the face. He believed that the wounds had been inflicted by a small iron poker or iron crowbar.

A man, who was suspected, was arrested; but there was no material evidence against him, and he was discharged.

The murderer of this ill-fated woman has never been discovered.

A still more extraordinary crime was committed on Wednesday, July 10th, 1872.

Two persons, a mother and daughter, were murdered in a small shop, situated in Hyde-road, Hoxton.

The ill-fated women were ruthlessly assassinated in broad daylight in the very heart of a crowded thoroughfare.

What renders the case more remarkable is that a number of shops, the owners of which drove a thriving trade, were directly opposite to the one in the occupation of the two victims (Mrs. Squires and her daughter).

At twenty minutes past one on the morning of the 10th of July a boy went into a coffee-shop next door to Mrs. Squires’ house, and said he had seen blood on the counter of the unfortunate woman’s shop.

Upon going in to ascertain the cause, a most horrible spectacle presented itself.

Behind the counter was discovered the body of Mrs. Squires in a pool of blood, with her hand to the right side of her head, which was shockingly injured. The daughter was found with her head in the parlour and her legs in the shop. She was also covered with blood, and her head battered in.

The police at once reached the house, which they found ransacked from top to bottom, and in the parlour was found a clock that had been knocked down, which had stopped at twelve, at which time, no doubt, the deed had been committed, as the doctor who was called in said he should think they had been dead about two hours.

Inquiries were set on foot, and every possible means taken to discover the perpetrators of this dreadful crime, but without avail――like the rest it has been shrouded in impenetrable mystery.

The Ladbroke-lane murder will be remembered by most persons. A girl named Margaret Clemson was found by a policeman in the lane in question frightfully wounded; her skull was laid open in several places (a portion of the brain was protruding from one of the wounds). She was just able to exclaim――“Oh, let me die!”

She was conveyed to the hospital, where after several days of intense agony, she expired. The murderer is at present at large.

Some short time after this the dismembered portions of a female were found in the Thames. A murder of an atrocious nature had been evidently committed, but neither the identity of the woman was established, nor was her assassin discovered.

The body of a boy was found in a lane at Acton some years ago; he had evidently met with a violent death, but the perpetrator of the foul deed escaped discovery or punishment.

In addition to these we could cite numberless instances of crimes of a similar nature.

The Wallaces, husband and wife, have never been arrested for the alleged murder of a lady at Brompton.

The murderer of Harriet Buswell, who was found dead in a bedroom in a house in Great Coram-street, is still at large.

Mrs. Samuels, an old lady whose head was battered in by a hat rail at a house in Burton-crescent, her body being found in the kitchen by a lodger, is another case which demonstrates but too clearly an escape from justice. A woman named Mary Donovan was arrested on suspicion, but after one or two magisterial examinations she was discharged.

Then again, more recently, we have the Euston-square mystery, as it was termed. An old lady, of eccentric habits, named Miss Hacker, took lodgings in Euston-square. She was missing for a year or more, when by the merest accident, her body was found in the cellar of the house in question. Suspicion fell upon a servant girl, named Hannah Dobbs, She was tried at the Central Criminal Court and acquitted.

It would be manifestly unjust to allege that the jury were not quite right in arriving at the conclusion they did. Nevertheless, it was clearly established that the ill-fated woman had met with foul play, and her murderer or murderers have escaped the doom they so justly merited.

When we add to this list the number of murders in which the bodies of the victims are never discovered at all, an appalling list of horrible atrocities is presented to the imagination; indeed, it is hardly possible to calculate the number of crimes of this nature which are annually committed in the metropolis and other parts of the United Kingdom.

It is quite time that some more stringent measures should be taken by the executive.

It may startle many when we declare, according to the Government statistics, that, during 1856 and 1865, one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five murders were unpunished and unaccounted for. But the Home Office publications disclose some serious discrepancies when the number of murders found by coroners’ juries are collated with the number of murders brought to punishment.

Speaking broadly, and assuming for the nonce that each murder has been committed by a different individual, it would appear that more than four-fifths of the murders pass unpunished.

This calculation, of course, only relates to crimes of this nature which are discovered. The undiscovered ones would swell the list to an extent altogeter incalculable.

In the interests of society it is requisite that crimes of this nature should not go unpunished.

The very least to be expected, if a member of a community, fall by the hands of an assassin, is that every means should be taken to bring the offender to justice; and when his guilt is established, death should follow as a natural consequence.

It is by the reliability only, and undeviating certainity that punishment follows conviction, that we can hope that it will act as a deterrent from the commission of crime.

But of late years the current seems to have been running in an opposite direction.

There has been a tendency on the part of a certain section of society to make heroes or martyrs of those whose infamous crimes have caused them to be condemned by a jury of their countrymen.

But too frequently every possible excuse is offered for the guilty man, no matter what the enormity of his crime might have been. There are, therefore, a thousand chances of escape.

Sometimes there is an informality in the indictment――as in the case of Charlotte Winslow, the wholesale child murderess; and owing to the ridiculous blunder she escaped.

In other cases there is a doubt about certain evidence being admissible; attorneys wrangle during the magisterial examinations, which, in most cases, are of an unnecessary length. Witnesses are bullied, all sorts of irrelevant and impertinent questions are asked them by some audacious legal gentleman who thinks it a fine thing to become the champion of a prisoner who is perhaps a disgrace to the name of man.

Everything that is possible for the most ingenious advocate to suggest to turn aside the sword of justice is not wanting, and even after the jury have delivered their verdict and the judge has passed sentence on the prisoner, a knot of busy bodies write letters to the newspapers for the purpose of impugning the judgment of both judge and jury, and the case has to be reconsidered or retried at the Home Office.

These irrational and illogical people are to be found everywhere, and there are some who take a delight in piling stumbling blocks in the way to impede the course of justice from the sheer spirit of opposition, and being different to other persons.

It is really astounding the growing sympathy displayed for murderers within the last few years. We do not remember a solitary instance of pity being displayed on the part of the public for any murdered person.

Strange to say this idea never enters anybody’s head. The central point of attraction is the criminal himself, and of late the public have gone further than this――they have subscribed liberally towards a fund for murderers’ wives and relatives.

Some alteration in the mode of administering justice will have to be made, as we are going on at present. The evil is beginning to assume gigantic proportions, and nobody’s life will be safe.

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LX. THE EARL AND THE FARMER――MR. WRENCH ENGAGED

Owing in a great measure to the kind ministrations of her father and her two friends, John and Maude Ashbrook, Miss Jamblin recovered from the terrible shock she had received from her brother’s untimely end. She was sad, it is true, and her spirits seemed to be crushed, but she was no longer in a dangerous state, and was able to converse freely with her companions, and view matters with something like a spirit of resignation.

One morning the inmates of Stoke Ferry Farm House were surprised at seeing Lord Ethalwood’s carriage being driven up to the front door of the house, his lordship himself being in the vehicle in question.

The footman signified that the Earl desired to speak to Mr. Jamblin, who was of course a little disconcerted, as it was the first time he had been honoured by a visit from so distinguished a personage.

The earl was shown into the best room, and the farmer, in a great state of flustration, entered at once to pay his respects to his landlord.

“Your servant, my lord,” said Jamblin; “and many thanks for all your kindness and consideration.”

“I am glad to meet you,” said the earl, offering his hand, “Pray be seated, Jamblin.”

The farmer obeyed. His visitor proceeded――

“I have deemed it a matter on duty to wait upon you for the purpose of offering what poor consolation I can in the hour of your affliction,” said the earl, in his usual measured accents. “You have sustained a loss, Mr. Jamblin, which we all of us know to be irreparable, and no one is more sensibly impressed with this painful fact than myself; but you must strive, my worthy friend, to bear up against this severe trial as best you can.”

“Ah, my lord, I ha’ striven, and be a-strivin’ now,” exclaimed Jamblin, in broken accents, “but it ha’ bin a sore trial――a terrible trial, and that be the truth. Mek the best on it I’ll try.”

“We’ve all our trials and troubles in this world, Jamblin. Up to the present time the police have been unsuccessful in their search for the man who committed this atrocious crime. I have offered a reward, as you doubtless know, but it has not been attended with any satisfactory result at present.”

“It’s very kind of your lordship to take such an interest in this matter, an’ I hardly know how to sufficiently thank ’ee.”

“There is no need for thanks, but I’ve been thinking that it would be as well to have recourse to other means to trace out the scoundrel who has imbrued his hand with the blood of an honourable young man.”

“Other means?” repeated the farmer, not knowing very well what his visitor was driving at.

“Yes, if it meet with your approval. I dare say you heard that I had occasion to employ an experienced and intelligent detective in a matter of business which was both difficult and intricate――but he succeeded; and for this reason I have the greatest confidence in his discretion and ability. I will, if you have no objection, enlist his services in this matter, which concerns both of us, but you in particular. The gentleman’s name is Wrench.”

“I’ve heard on him. Yes, a very sharp, clever fellow, I’ve bin told.”

“Yes. Well, you have no objection to my placing the matter in his hands?”

“None in the least.”

“So that matter is settled. I shall send him to you, and you will have to give him all the information you can.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“And now there is another matter to which I have to make reference. My man tells me that your daughter is somewhat better.”

“She be far better than she has.”

“Is more herself?”

“She’s not quite herself at present――that none ov us can expect――but she be better――a deal better.”

“Change of scene is requisite for her. She’ll never get well without a change; there are too many things in Stoke Ferry to remind her of a dear brother who is gone. I think it would materially hasten her recovery if she paid a visit to the hall.”

“To where?” inquired Jamblin, who hardly dared trust his ears.

“To Broxbridge Hall――to my residence. My grand-daughter would do everything in her power to make her life as cheerful and happy as possible.”

The farmer was astonished. The great Lord Ethalwood to invite his daughter as a guest at his manorial residence!

It was hardly credible. He did not know what reply to make.

Lord Ethalwood was reported to be proud to a fault, and such condescension on his part was, therefore, the more surprising.

“I beg yer pardon, my lord. It be very kind on ye to do my poor gell so much honour, but――――”

“Well, Jamblin, but what, my friend?”

“She’s as good a gell as ever cheered a father’s heart, but she aint fit company for thee or thine. It be kind and considerate of you, my lord, an’ I shall never forget this offer, which, after all, you would not think it right of me to accept.”

“I am not in the habit of making any offer or giving any invitation with the idea that it will be declined,” said the Earl, haughtily. “I wish and desire Miss Jamblin to be my guest for a few days――or it may be a few weeks. At Broxbridge new scenes will be opened to her, and these will do much in assuaging her grief. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Jamblin, I shall be glad to receive her. She will be a companion to my grand-daughter Aveline.”

The farmer’s breath appeared to be taken away; he made no reply, but bowed in a manner, which, under any other circumstances, would have been extremely comic.

“You will make her acquainted with my wishes, and assure her that she is not asked out of mere compliment,” said the earl, in continuation. “If she feels herself well enough to leave home my grand-daughter will receive her to-morrow, or as soon afterwards as may be agreeable to herself. Make it agreeable to yourselves. And, touching the other matter――I mean with regard to Wrench――that I will see to.”

The earl rose, and, bidding the farmer good morning, entered his carriage and was driven off.

Mr. Jamblin was a little dazed, and it took him some minutes to gather his thoughts together.

When this had been done he sought John and Maude Ashbrook, who were in the garden at the rear of his house.

He made them acquainted with all that had transpired in the best parlour.

His young friends were equally as astonished as himself, but they both coincided in the opinion that Miss Jamblin ought at once, without hesitation or delay, to pay a visit to the earl’s palatial residence.

Maude went upstairs to communicate the intelligence to her friend Patty.

“He be a real gentleman, every inch on him,” said the farmer to young Ashbrook; “that I always knew, but I didn’t think he was so tender-hearted.”

“His manner is usually austere,” said Ashbrook, “but I suppose it’s the way wi’ most of the big pots――but he’s none the worse for that. His heart’s in the right place. And so he’s going to employ a detective?”

“Yes he be.”

“What is your opinion? Do ’ee think it wer’ that Giles, as used to work here, as did the foul deed?”

“I dunno, but I ’xpect it be. He was always an evil-disposed fellow.”

“And his motive?”

“Ah, there you beat me. Some people do deeds o’ this sort without any motive; but you see,” said the farmer, sinking his voice to a whisper, “poor Philip got hampered and cajoled by that gell Nell Fulford, an’ it be true enough what’s been sed over and over agen, there never was any mischief in this world but what a woman has summut to do wi’ it.”

“Oh, hang it, don’t blame poor Nell. She did her best to save Phil. If he’d harkened to her counsel the chances are that he would be wi’ us now. Don’t blame Nell.”

“I don’t blame her, but it were a bad business his ever taking up wi’ her. He ought to have know hisself better; but there it was to be, I ’spose, an’ it ain’t o’ no use making matters worse by thinking o’ all these things; but I tell ’ee, John, it ha’ been a sore trouble to me.”

As the old farmer said this his eyes filled with tears, and he turned away and entered the house.

Miss Jamblin was prevailed upon to give a reluctant consent to pay a visit to Broxbridge Hall, and on the day following the earl’s interview with Jamblin, the carriage was again at the door of Stoke Ferry House. In it was Aveline herself, who had come to fetch Patty Jamblin, who was taken by storm and whirled on to Broxbridge before she had time for reflection.

It is needless to say that the farmer’s daughter was treated with the greatest kindness and consideration by Aveline Gatliffe.

Meanwhile, the earl had telegraphed to Scotland-yard for Mr. Wrench, who hastened down to Broxbridge by the first train.

“Lord Ethalwood wanted to see him on most important business,” so the telegram said.

What this was Mr. Wrench was not able to divine, so he thought it just as well to drop into the “Carved Lion” before ringing the big bell at the Hall.

He had a long conversation with Brickett, who told him all the news.

“And depend on it that’s what the earl wishes to see you about, leastways that’s my opinion. He’d gi’ any money to find out the murderer of Phil Jamblin.”

After picking up all the information he could Mr. Wrench waited upon the earl.

“Well, my lord, I am here again at your service,” said the detective.

“If you will kindly explain to me the nature of the business it shall receive every attention.”

“It is this, Mr. Wrench――a brutal murder has been committed in Larchgrove-road. It is now some weeks ago since it took place, and the police have failed to find the guilty person.”

“I want you to give the matter your undivided attention, to strive in every possible way to find out the man.”

“You are acquainted with a good many people in this neighbourhood――push your inquiries in every quarter. Do your best.”

“That you may rely upon my doing.”

“Yes, but you see, Mr. Wrench, I don’t know why it is, but the police seem to me to be so often in fault.”

“In what way, my lord?”

“Perhaps I am wrong in making use of so strong an expression. I don’t know that they are positively in fault, but certainly, scoundrels of the very deepest dye seem to contrive to elude them. I cannot see why this is. I should have thought, with the extensive machinery we have in the shape of a well-organised police force, together with the detective department, that it would have been next to impossible for a man who was well known to be concealed for any length of time.”

The detective smiled, and said, “You have no idea, my lord, of the difficulties of detection. They are almost incalculable. I am sure we all of us do our best. If we don’t succeed, it is some unknown cause which lies far beyond our reach. Every effort has already been made on the part of the local constabulary as well as the metropolitan. Nevertheless, it will never do to give the case up as hopeless. I am ready to set to work at once.”

“Thank you. I am glad of that, as I have great confidence in you. That I need hardly say, seeing that you have given me such unmistakable proof of your ability. I have jotted down all the particulars in reference to the case,” said the earl, drawing from his desk a paper, “and at the same time I have made marginal notes and suggestions there. You will use your own discretion about adopting them or rejecting them as you please. The modus operandi I leave to you. What money you require Mr. Chicknell will furnish you with, and I do hope and trust you may be successful.”

Mr. Wrench bowed, took the paper, and promised to set actively to work, and the Earl felt assured that the murderer of Philip Jamblin would not be long at large.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

LXI. ANOTHER GLANCE AT PRISON LIFE. PEACE’S NEW OCCUPATION

While all these events were taking place Charles Peace was becoming better acquainted with prison life. He was getting fairly sick of the wearisome monotony of his solitary mode of existence, and although he contrived to get through the quantum of work assigned to him each day, he found it by no means an easy task.

Mat making was the hardest work done in the gaol in which Peace was confined, and when this was supplemented by picking oakum, as it was in his case, it became still more so.

But the work was not so severe a punishment as the solitary nature of his existence. Even if he were not allowed to speak to his fellow-prisoners, there would be some consolation in seeing others at work besides himself in one of the large wards.

He had “taken stock,” as it is termed, of all the prison officials who had come under his notice. The chief warder of that portion of the prison where he was confined was a portly, pleasant-spoken man of the military type.

He had been a petty officer in a regiment of dragoons, and had seen a good deal of service. His name was M‘Pherson, and a good-natured, good-tempered officer he was, but Peace only caught sight of him occasionally.

The under-warder, who had him more particularly in his charge, was rather of a saturnine disposition, and Peace felt that he was not a sort of man he could take in his confidence.

He, therefore, made up his mind to bide his time.

Peace received the greatest kindness and attention from the Rev. John Clay, chaplain of the gaol.

This gentleman gave him the very best advice it was possible to offer under the circumstances.

Peace took the first opportunity afforded him of asking the chaplain what he had best do to get transferred into one of the working wards of the prison.

“It is out of my province to interfere in such matters,” said the chaplain; “but your best plan will be to speak to M‘Pherson.”

“Oh! not the governor?”

“No; it’s left to M‘Pherson. He is a privileged warder, and does pretty much as he likes in respect to the working arrangements.”

“Good,” muttered Peace to himself. “A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse. I shall profit by your advice.”

So when he next caught sight of the head warder going his rounds, he touched his cap respectfully, and said――

“I beg your pardon, sir, but can I have a word with you?”

“What is it, my man?” inquired his janitor.

“When is it likely for me to do my work in one of the wards?”

“When? Well, I don’t knew as I can tell you just now. Do you know any trade? Can you work with the thread and needle, or what?”

“I am a carver and gilder by trade, but can do smith’s work as well, and know something about weaving.”

“We’ll find you a billet shortly, and put you through your facings. Go back to your cell; I’ll see what can be done.”

“I thank you, sir, I’m much obliged――very much obliged,” cried Peace, again touching his cap.

The reader must not consider Peace fawning or cringing in addressing the prison officer as “sir.” It was a rule in the service that whenever a prisoner addressed an official or “officer,” as they liked to be called, he was to use the word “sir.”

Peace had heard that a great deal of weaving was done in the gaol; these were coarse goods, afterwards used for prison shirts, sheets, towels, pocket handkerchiefs. The fabrics so manufactured are afterwards made up in the tailor’s shop or sewing ward.

The bakery and kitchens were all worked by convicts under the superintendence of special warders. Certain numbers of the warders and assistants are sufficiently well skilled in the various crafts to enable them to superintend and instruct those men who are placed under their charge in their respective gangs or wards to learn or work at a trade.

The chief warder made inquiries of his subordinates as to the general demeanour and conduct of Peace; the account they gave was satisfactory, and some two or three days after our hero’s interview with him, M‘Pherson entered Peace’s cell, and said in a conciliatory tone――

“Well, my man, as I have had a good account of you, I don’t see that there is any reason for your not making yourself useful. Come this way.”

Peace followed the speaker, and was shown into a ward where a number of men were busily occupied on various articles.

A bundle of coarse cloth was thrown down by the chief warder.

“We are going to make a tailor of you,” he said, jocosely, to Peace.

“I am much obliged, sir, but I am not much of a hand at tailoring.”

“No matter, you are willing to learn, I suppose?”

“Oh yes, quite willing.”

“Very well, undo that bundle.”

Peace did as he was bid, and found various pieces ready cut out for a similar jacket to the one he had on.

“I suppose you know what these are for?” said M‘Pherson.

“For a jacket.”

“You are quite right, my man.” Then, turning to a man beside him he said, “Give him a needle and thread, and we shall soon see if he takes kindly to the business.”

Peace was fitted with a thimble; they gave him a bunch of thread, a piece of beeswax, a needle, and a pair of scissors.

“There you are――now you are set up in business,” said M‘Pherson, “and can stitch away to your heart’s content.”

“We don’t expect very great things from you at first. See what you can do; if you get into a muddle, you’ll have to undo your work and re-sew it.”

“I am afraid――――”

“Oh, you must not be afraid. Stick to your business, and we’ll make a good workman of you before your time is up. I shall give an eye to you and see how you get on.”

“I am much obliged, sir, for all your kindnes,” cried Peace.

M‘Pherson put up his hands deprecatingly, and walked away.

He was a kindly-disposed man, and was generally liked by everyone in the prison. He was never austere or overbearing in his manner; but he would not be trifled with. If a man did not behave properly or gave him unnecessary trouble, and did not conform to his rules, he very soon got rid of him by getting him removed to some other ward.

He took a great pride in the men under his charge, and it was considered quite a favour by most of the convicts to be placed under his charge. He certainly contrived to have the pick of the convicts, and weeded out those who were of obstinate or refractory dispositions. Indeed, M‘Pherson was not inaptly termed the “old soldier,” and this he certainly was in many ways.

He was an excellent officer, and his superiors were duly impressed with this fact. He had his peculiarities (who has not?), but he was a worthy, kind-hearted man.

Peace had felt assured of this when he first made his acquaintance, and he strove by diligence and good conduct to propitiate him.

The jacket, however, was a little above his comprehension; but he did his best, and while he was at work M‘Pherson came and gave him some valuable hints, and he managed to put the garment together much better than he had anticipated.

“It’s not at all bad for a first attempt,” said the warder. “You’ll do after a bit; with a little more practice you’ll be a first-rate hand. Persevere, my man; Rome wasn’t built in a day. You like this occupation better than mat-making I suppose?”

“Oh, dear me, yes.”

“Very well, go on. If you are in any difficulty, ask me, and I’ll do what I can to make a soldier――I mean a tailor of you.”

The convicts in the gaol where Peace was confined underwent a mild course of treatment. The treadwheel had been entirely removed.

It was first established in 1826, and certainly effected some little improvement on the previous system as a means of deterring from future offence, but when views on prison discipline became more enlightened, and the reformation of a prisoner became an object of greater solicitude than his punishment, it was found that the treadwheel was useless, and worse than useless. When the body was undergoing compulsory and painful exertion the mind was irritated and harassed by the ever-present consciousness of punishment.

The labour least liked by prisoners is the treadwheel. Its use is to raise sufficient water for the use of the establishment to an immense tank fixed in the roof.

Hand-pumping was at first tried with such questionable success that the labourers were suspected of “shirking,” and to prove the charge against them a jury of free workers were called in and set to the task, but, having that blessed privilege, after a trial they dropped the pump handles, and flatly declined “to have any more of it.”

The treadmill answers better, but it is fearfully hard work for the treaders. The “wheel” itself, as at present used in some of our prisons, extends the whole length of the shed by the wall and revolves on an axle.

Attached to the wheel or rather drum are projecting pieces of board six inches in width and about nine inches apart.

Overhead is a short bar for the operator to grasp with his hands, and when the wheel is started he has no foothold and no rest until his period of treading is at an end.

For full twenty minutes he must constantly first raise his right foot and then his left as though he was walking upstairs, and this at a rate of about sixty times for a minute.

Fancy having to ascend one thousand two hundred stairs in twenty minutes――to ascend to the monument three times over in that short time, and then to be released that you may sit in a box like a church pew in the same shed and pick oakum for a further term of twenty minutes by way of a rest, and then three times to the top of the monument again?

And it is not as though the operator trod on the open wheel. He must not speak to his neighbour――he must not see him.

It must be terrible work for a fat man. It is possible for such a one to lose three stone in as many months.

Happily for Peace he was spared this dreadful infliction, as the gaol in which he was confined did not at that time contain a treadmill; therein he might deem himself fortunate.

His new occupation pleased him well enough, it was far better than being cooped up in a narrow cell.

One day when he was deep in the mysteries of trying to put the different pieces of the jacket together, and comparing them with his own, which he had taken off, he was visited by an assistant schoolmaster, who brought him a Bible, prayer and hymn-books.

He made him write a few verses of a psalm on a slate to see his handwriting, and finding it tolerably satisfactory, told him he need not attend school, but during the hour each week when the other members of the ward were at their lessons, he would be at liberty to read or write, and need not continue his work.

He also asked if he wished to write to any of his friends at the next school day or default.

If Peace did not exercise the privilege within a month he would lose it.

He, therefore, deemed it advisable to book himself to write the very first opportunity.

He was anxious to write to his mother, and when the day arrived that he was to write home he was directed to go to the end of the ward, where he found a number of small tables――one of which with an inkstand, a pen, and a piece of blotting-paper.

[Sidenote: No. 29.]

He took into his cell a sheet of regulation paper that had been brought to him, on which was already written his name, official number, and the date.

A few lines of printing gave him directions.

He was not to infringe; he was to confine his writing to the ruled lines――not to write between them or to cross his letter; he was not to give any information respecting any other prisoner or any prison news; was not to write to any improper person, or use any improper language.

Every letter to or from a prisoner is examined by the deputy-governor, who initials it and passes it on to the chaplain. He also reads and initials it. Each strikes out anything he considers as infringing the rules, or as improper either for a prisoner to know or communicate.

Knowing his letters to be subject to both an official and clerical examination, Peace was as careful as possible as to what he said.

In the course of a few months he became a tolerably good workman at the tailoring business, and M‘Pherson had frequent occasion to compliment him. This worthy follow took a pride in his ward and the people under his charge, and it was generally acknowledged that every prisoner felt grateful to him, and did his best to keep the old soldier in good humour. He was, in fact, a favourite with the ward. He was always kind to the men under his charge, and it was very rare for his kindness to be abused.

Every day for an hour the prisoners were marched down into the yard for exercise, and some of the able-bodied men were set to work to pump supplies of water into the large cisterns at the top of the yard. Others were set to sweep and roll the gravel of the exercise grounds, and sometimes all the stonework in which the iron railings were fixed were cleaned by the prisoners.

The dinners were served in oblong-shaped tins, divided in the centre into two compartments, with a lid to each.

The division in the centre came up so as to form a convenient handle.

The dinners were kept pretty hot, and the meat and vegetables were well cooked――indeed there was but little to complain of as far as the living was concerned. The food was plain and homely, but wholesome, and the meat was of good quality. Sauces were, of course, not thought of, but there was a plentiful allowance of fresh vegetables.

Cabbages and parsnips were frequently served out, also rice, peas pudding, harricot beans, and preserved potatoes.

One hour was allowed for dinner, and a bell rang at twelve, and frequently in Peace’s ward all the dinners were served out before the bell began.

Many of the trades, such, for instance, as tailors and shoemakers, “knocked off” work at six o’clock, and then got their supper, after which they retire to their cells, but they must do some kind of work until the bell sounds eight o’clock, when they may cease, and are privileged to spend the ensuing hour in reading or meditation, or washing themselves, when the bell tolls again, and a clatter of hammock hooks, as long and precise almost as the grounding of arms at a military review, resounds through the corridors, and the prisoners may go to bed.

Reading during this hour is of course a great solace, and cannot be too highly estimated.

With some prisoners it is a necessity, and if the authorities were to deprive the better class of convicts of this boon many of them would doubtless be driven insane.

When the prisoner can read the beneficial workings of the mind are much aided. Although Peace was not what might be termed a great reader――that is, when outside the walls of a prison――he fully appreciated the benefit to be derived from good books during his lonely hours in a prison cell.

At this time all sorts of systems of prison discipline were tried in the gaols throughout the United Kingdom.

Firstly, there was the discipline of Pentonville, now mitigated by horticulture, &c.; secondly, there was the academic discipline, which flourished for so long a time at Reading; thirdly, there was the semi-cellular system, then in partial operation in Birmingham; fourthly, there was encellement with hard labour at crank, and similar contrivances enforced at Winchester, and in a still more primitive fashion at Leicester; and fifthly, there was a “mixed system” still working with great success, and no drawback, at Preston and elsewhere.

All these systems and the effects upon the prisoners were submitted to the consideration of a committee who had been appointed by Government to inquire into the subject.

After examining many witnesses, and long discussions, the committee reported strongly in favour of the discipline of Preston.

At Great Wakefield prison, for instance, the justices had begun with Pentonvillian rigour, and in less than two years adopted all the Preston modifications.

But still the committee hankered after some method of treatment more sharply penal than that at Preston seemed to be.

The influence of able editors crops up in many portions of the report, which was an attempt to make the unpopular system satisfy the cry for cheapness and austerity.

The Reading plan, therefore, of plenty of sleep and study, with no manual employment except by way of “recreation” was thoroughly repudiated, and some obnoxious resolutions passed in favour of more work, coarser food, and less artificial warmth.

Unfortunately, however, the committee went further, and voted that hard labour was incompatible with individual separation, citing Leicester gaol as a model for imitation.

In this gaol prisoners had cranks in their cells, and were forced to turn the handles 14,000 times a day, and if they refused to work they were starved or flogged into submission.

This discipline had produced the notable result of frightening all the tramps from the neighbourhood.

The justices flattered themselves that some of their prisoners were reformed; as, however, the re-committals for serious offences were not diminished, they were in this respect probably sanguine.

In fact the crank variation of the separate system was the very thing which the public had been crying for. It satisfied the requirement of able editors and the justices.

It was in vain that Messrs. Clay, Field, and others protested that the cell without any addition was already penal to the very verge of safety; that Mr. Osborne, of Bath, who spoke from what he had seen in his own gaol, stigmatised crank labour as torture, and foretold the inevitable consequences.

The committee adhered to their opinion, the public approved, and even Sir J. Jebb, who should have known better, appeared as quite a connoisseur in patent cranks, and spoke strongly in their favour.

To such august authority the magistrates in various districts bowed at once, sharpened their discipline, and laid in a stock of cranks.

It was solemnly believed that there was a reformatory as well as a deterrent potency in the appointed 14,000 revolutions per diem, yet to warrant such a belief there was not even the plea that the irksome toil was productive.

It was impossible to find grist for all the penal mills, and the justices were therefore compelled to put their rogues to barren air grinding.

Among the earliest converts to the efficacy of sharp discipline in general, and penal air grinding in particular, were the borough justices of Birmingham.

They were but acting in perfect accordance with the popular philosophy when they ousted Captain Maconochie, and proceeded to rectify his benevolent eccentricities by appointing a strict disciplinarian, duly instructed to adopt the deterrent method.

At the end of two years the public became anxious that the new governor should give an account of the management of the gaol.

There were ugly rumours afloat which called for immediate investigation.

The sickening tragedy brought to light by the inquiry elicited a unanimous outburst of indignation from the whole country.

The doctrines of the deterrent system had required, it seems, that a certain miserable lad should turn the handle of a stiff crank 10,000 times a day.

Being unwilling, or much more probably unable, to perform the task, it was necessary, in vindication of the deterrent system, to starve him into submission.

As this was found to increase both the unwillingness and the inability of the poor boy, it then became inevitable (as the deterrent system was on the verge of a breakdown) to strap him tight to his cell wall for hours together in the attitude of crucifixion, and when this failed to supply the requisite will or muscle――nay, rather to occasion deadly faintings――then drenching with cold water, as an immediate restorative, and a further inducement to exertion, were superadded.

The devices of the deterrent system were not even then exhausted, but the unhappy boy’s powers of endurance were, and, therefore, he rendered further measures unnecessary by hanging himself.

Other stories illustrative of the method of unkindness nearly quite as revolting as this were raked up in the course of the inquiry, and not a few reminiscences of minor atrocities.

The history of this case is most powerfully and graphically given in Mr. Charles Reade’s novel of “It’s Never Too Late to Mend.”

The governor was very properly dismissed.

As a rule felons will submit to these hateful punishments, but the exceptions are numerous.

Some men will rebel, and force the “felon tamer” to some means of further punishment, and the duel between felon and gaoler once begun will be grimly fought――the one, unaided and reckless, will struggle with wild-beast fury; the other, put on his mettle and sorely irritated, will harden into ferocity.

Such a conflict will always terminate either in the prisoner’s victory or else his murder or suicide.

When the inquiry at Birmingham gaol was over it was found advisable to submit its prototype at Leicester, the model of crank discipline, to a similar scrutiny. The second investigation was not much more favourable than the former to the deterrent system.

It appeared that there too the felons and the felon breakers had been driven into fierce collision.

And if the inquiry had been extended (as it well might have been) other prisons would have been found in which gaolers and turnkeys had been forced to strange extremities in their endeavours to coerce stubborn convicts into conformity with a radically pernicious system.

Of course the investigations at Birmingham and Leicester produced a reaction against the method of unkindness, and the nation has grown wiser by experience. Cranks, and such like contrivances, have been abolished in most, if not in all of our prisons.

But Peace was not subject to the miserable labour on the treadwheel, or the still more wretched employment of turning the handle of the crank, and all things considered, he had very little to complain of.

The chaplain paid him occasional visits, and gave him the best advice. It would, indeed, have been well for him if he had given greater heed to the counsel of this kind and considerate minister, who, during his long official services, strove earnestly and persistently to improve the moral tone of those who came under his humanising influence.

The chief warder, Mr. M‘Pherson, was always busy on Saturdays. Just before dinner was served each man had a bundle of clean clothes handed him――shirt, stockings, towel, and pocket handkerchief; and every alternate Saturday flannel drawers and vest.

These he had to put on during his dinner hour, and after the meal was over the dirty things were collected.

M‘Pherson had, on these occasions, always something to say, some pleasant remarks to make to one or more of the men under his care. He had, of course, his favourites. Those who behaved well, and gave the least trouble, he took the greatest notice of; but he was uniformly kind and pleasant to all.

On Saturday, also, the prisoners were supplied with the regulation allowance of bath brick, cleaning rags, and every alternate Saturday a portion of soap which would suffice them for a fortnight.

Sunday was a quiet day; there was no hard work, but the convicts had to go to church twice, and to exercise in the afternoon.

The warders presented themselves in full dress, and those who had served in the army or navy displayed their medals. M‘Pherson had several, and generally cut a most respectable figure on the Sabbath――not that there was any pride or ostentation about him. He felt it a duty to show the honours he had won in the service of her Majesty, for whom he had a great reverence.

Indeed, there was not a more loyal man in the prison, or indeed anywhere else, than the “old soldier,” as he was termed.

Peace, as we have seen, was a cunning rascal; he could dissemble and “play the good boy” with the best of them, and he managed to ingratiate himself in the good graces of M‘Pherson.

Artful old soldier as the latter was, Peace was more than a match for him as far as dissimulation and hypocrisy was concerned.

In our former chapters on prison life we gave the reader a circumstantial account of a “light-fingered family.” An unexpected confirmation of the statements of O’Brian, the Clarkes, &c., with respect to girl pickpockets, was supplied by the late Mr. Thomas Wright, of Manchester.

That gentleman informed the chaplain of Preston gaol that while pursuing his benevolent labours amongst the outcast and friendless in the New Bailey, he came in contact with a little girl who had been brought over some time before from Dublin, and was apprehended for a robbery from the person of a lady under circumstances which showed great skill and long practice in the child, and at the same time that she was an instrument――an apprentice pickpocket, working for concealed employers.

A part of Flanagan’s account seemed to bear directly on this child’s case, and Mr. Wright put down in writing what he remembered of it.

We quote his words to prove that these poor infants are sacrificed body and soul to Mammon in his most hideous form.

Mr. Wright says――

A little girl, whilst an inmate of Salford Gaol, related that she had been brought from Dublin by two women on purpose to pick pockets. They dressed the poor child in the character of a little maid, and, thus attired, she followed a lady into a silversmith’s shop, in King-street, and succeeded in extracting from her pocket a purse, which contained twenty sovereigns.

She afterwards followed a lady into the fish market, and again succeeded in extracting this second lady’s purse, with which she was making off, when the lady discovered her loss.

The fishmonger said no one had been near her but her little maid. She declared that she had no little maid with her.

The child was overtaken and placed in the charge of a police officer.

When searched she had upon her the two purses. She was tried at the following sessions and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment.

I apprised her father a little before her liberation. He came over, and I have not since heard of them.

Some time back much of the crime of this description was committed by children, most of whom came from Ireland.

Flanagan’s account is this――

These girls are natives of Dublin. When at home they live in Thomas-street, in the Liberty. When they come to Manchester they are quite plain in their dress, and no person on earth would suspect them. I believe there is nowhere their equal in being expert at ladies’ pockets. When they first came to Manchester they stole a large amount of money in shops and omnibuses.

When an omnibus leaves Market-street, for Oxford-road, Cheetham-hill, or elsewhere, they get into it, and being dressed like any gentleman’s girls, with one of those French baskets in their hands, nobody suspects them; they get close beside a lady, and contrive to place their shawl or mantle over the lady’s dress pocket, which shades their hand; the rest is an easy matter.

When these two girls and their mother and myself were having a glass of liquor, they told me they often sent twenty pounds to their parents in Dublin.

To the progress of civilisation in one particular is attributable much of the increased crime as regards pocket picking.

Railways, while they have added to convenience and luxury, to a great extent have also increased the demand for skilled thieves――so much may be done by them in trains, in the stations, and at the attendant omnibuses.

Yet surely these encouragements and facilities to crime, arising out of the railway system, are susceptible of counteraction.

It is well deserving of note that a fashion in dress may lead to a fearful increase of crime and criminals.

Flanagan and the Clarkes, as well as other “authorities” on the subject, declare that ladies’ outside pockets cause many boys and girls to begin “wiring.”

For this department of the thief’s business men and women――unless of low stature――are unfitted, and therefore the master thief, who has become too tall for practice, takes on pupils, by whose gains he is maintained in “style.”

“At this time,” Flanagan affirmed, “there were at least ten times as many boys ‘wiring’ as there were when I was young. Kelty, who has been up to everything for twenty years, trains these boys. He has pointed to a lad and said to me, ‘There’s one of my bringing out!’”

We have necessarily branched off from the more immediate purpose of our story for the purpose of putting the reader in possession of many noteworthy facts connected with the history of crime and criminals. The commixture of ignorance and knowledge――ignorance of good and knowledge of evil――brought to light by the examination of prisoners, is astounding even to those who might be supposed accustomed to it――viz., to governors and chaplains of gaols――while it is unfortunately a matter of incredulity or indifference to those who, would they only believe it or look into it, might exercise great influence in bringing about a better state of things.

Many of the great pickpockets, whose names we have recorded, were associates of Peace, who, however, was never known to work with them in their vocation; he never practised this branch of the profession, but confined himself to robberies in dwelling-houses.

Even while working out his sentence in gaol, Peace had an opportunity afforded him of indulging his natural fondness for birds.

For some unascertained reason, two squares of glass had been removed from the window-frame of his cell. Peace placed some crumbs of bread on the ledge, and these soon attracted the notice of the birds.

First of all a few sparrows found out the dainty crumbs, and alighted on the stonework and picked them up.

The prisoner inside was greatly cheered by the companionship of his little feathered friends, who, in a short time, understood that food was placed there for them, and therefore paid regular visits to the grating of the prisoner’s cell.

There is a well-known print called “Liberty and Captivity,” in which a bird is depicted singing outside the window of a prison, while the captives within are listening to his matin.

This might apply to Peace. His sparrows did not sing, but they chirruped most incessantly. By degrees they got bolder, and sharpened their beaks against the iron bars of the grating. These saucy little creatures afforded him considerable amusement.

Throughout his life he had always evinced a fondness for birds and animals, which, to say the truth, was a remarkable characteristic for a man of his hardened nature.

Any change from the daily routine of prison life was, as a matter of course, a great boon to the convicts, and when M‘Pherson informed the men under his charge that many of them would be told off to whitewash the gaol they were much pleased at the prospect of the new employment.

Peace was to be one of the party, for the season for whitewashing had come, and the prison was to be done throughout.

The work was by no means laborious――indeed it was deemed a sort of pastime by the men who were appointed to perform the task.

The wash was made with lime, and as is usual in such cases, large flat brushes were used.

Peace soon proved himself to be an expert in the use of the whitewash brush.

He had also a good knowledge as to mixing the materials used in the process.

While engaged with the whitewash gang he obtained a good deal of information about the interior arrangements of the prison.

He and his fellow-workmen were at work for more than a week on the walls of the gaol.

Three days were devoted to the passages and in the sick wards, and three days in the women’s wards.

But they saw nothing of the female prisoners, as before they went to work the ward to be whitened was cleared out, not a single occupant of it being allowed to remain.

They had, however, left several memorials on the walls of their prison-house.

A good deal of objectionable language and wretched scrawls disfigured the walls of the cells occupied by the male prisoners. Many of the sentences displayed thereon were blasphemous, indecent, and profane.

The practice of scratching their names and writing all manner of things, doggrel lines and coarse couplets, on the walls, wheresoever they may be, seems to be a confirmed habit with the people of this country, both high and low. Every public building furnishes us with instances of this stupid mania. As it is in the outer world so it is in gaols and other public institutions. Take, as a sample, the following――which, with many others of a like nature, were found in the men’s cells――

Whillem Meagram came here from the steel May 10th 1854――5 years for slinging his hook―― Him as prigs vat isent hisen―― When hes cotched vill go to prison――W. M.

Some of these inscriptions proved to be unusually amusing to the whitewashers.

Peace, however, had never evinced any predilection for indulging in this foolish propensity, and he professed to be greatly disgusted at the language made use of by the women on the walls. Many sentences were appended which were grossly indecent, and in some instances these were illustrated artistically. Peace had heard that when a woman is bad she is more debased than many of the opposite sex, but he was under the impression that a certain amount of modesty lay dormant in the most abandoned.

When he saw what the female persons had scratched upon their cell walls the illusion was dispelled.

He was surprised――as well he might be――that such disgraceful inscriptions and drawings were allowed to remain on the walls.

When separate confinements were first introduced as a system in this country, public feeling was opposed to it in no slight degree.

The “solitary” cell was held up for disapprobation, not merely as being too severe, but as driving its miserable inmate to insanity.

In the course of time, however, the cell was regarded more favourably; its special worth as a prime agent in promoting a criminal’s moral amendment became pretty generally admitted; and one of the able and powerful exponents of general feeling――tacitly mentioning the cell――distinctly advocates the duty of aiming at the reformation of the culprit.

No one can expect that any system of imprisonment can by human means be successful in every case, but it does not follow that the measures adopted in “separate” prisons are in the greater number of instances wholly inefficacious.

Every precaution is taken that no man shall make his escape, and the first care naturally is that he should not be possessed of any tool or instrument of any kind that is at all likely to be made use of for such a purpose.

Constant care and watchfulness is therefore kept over the prisoners.

Peace would have gladly availed himself of any chance of setting himself free, but it was too plainly demonstrated to him that any such hope would be altogether illusionary.

He found from experience that the watchful eyes of his janitors were constantly on those who were under their charge.

Always while the men were bathing the officers examined their clothing.

One day, on going in after exercise, Peace was surprised, on passing the doors of several cells, to see everything in the greatest confusion.

“Something’s up,” he murmured to himself; “I wonder what it can be?”

He was mistaken, however; the warders were only using necessary precaution.

On reaching his own cell he found that some one had been placing everything in “admired disorder;” books were thrown in one corner, bedding was unrolled――everything in his cell had been displaced, and a very close inspection had been made of each separate article.

His first impression was that some suspicion attached to him.

Possibly the warders were under the impression that he had concealed some instrument. He did not care for this, as any such supposition was altogether erroneous. He deemed it expedient to take no notice of the overhauling of the articles in his cell.

He learned afterwards that it was by no means an uncommon practice for the warders to institute a rigid search in the cell in the presence of the prisoner, who also had to undergo a personal inspection.

This was generally done after the following fashion. Two officers would enter a prisoner’s cell――one stands before and the other behind the culprit, who is made to strip off every article of clothing he may have on.

The one in front examines each article, and throws them one by one on the floor of the cell.

The warder behind watches intently to see that the prisoner does not “palm” anything――in other words, to conceal by sleight of hand any contraband article he might wish to conceal.

Such a thing as a rusty nail being found on a prisoner would excite suspicion, and get him into serious trouble.

It would be taken for granted that he secreted it for the purpose of making his escape upon the first opportunity that presented itself.

We have in an earlier chapter alluded to “tobacco” being conveyed into prisons. This article does find its way into our convict gaols, and this “noxious weed,” as non-smokers term it, is a constant source of annoyance and trouble.

Smoking is altogether out of the question, one puff from a pipe or cigar would be detected in a moment; none of the prisoners even have the temerity to smoke, but many of them do continue to get tobacco which they chew.

The question is where does it come from? Who brings it into the prison? No one is able to tell; every precaution is taken to prevent such an article finding its way into gaols, but the fact remains that money and tobacco are smuggled in, notwithstanding the strict surveillance exercised by the authorities.

Prisoners will have tobacco, and tobacco cannot be got without money, so that both must be obtained, and the result has been that the more rigorous the inspection the greater the ingenuity required to evade it, and it would be impossible for the convicts to do this without the assistance of the warders. These men are not proof against bribery, as was evident upon the examination of Kurr and Benson.

These astute rogues argued from experience that every man had his price.

Some of our prison warders are beyond the reach of temptation, while others are open to a bribe.

The “pals” or friends of a prisoner soon find out an official who is assailable, and set about “squaring” him――they come “the artful dodge,” as they term it, and arrange with some warder to “sling their friend in quod” some “’bacca.”

But few words are spoken after this arrangement is made. A sign is given to the friend outside that his request has been attended to.

As much as ten shillings, or, in some cases, a sovereign, is known to have been given for the supply of an ounce of “bacca.” It only costs the warder a few pence, the profits arising from the supply of the “contraband” articles are of course enormous.

The solitary cell is a sore trial to prisoners under the most favourable circumstances, for, as a rule, men of this sort are gregarious. But its painful monotony and loneliness are doubly hard to the one who is denied the use of the weed, which, from long habit, has become almost essential to his very existence.

No one unacquainted with the use or abuse of the fragrant weed can imagine for a moment the sacrifices its devotees will make to procure it.

Sometimes a warder who deals in the article is “bowled out,” then he gets into trouble――the chances being that he will lose his situation and be sent adrift without a character; but, as a rule, the prisoners who get supplies this way seldom or ever “round” on the warder; but there is this danger of discovery: The prisoner who gets tobacco may, perchance, in a generous moment give a piece to a fellow prisoner, or a mate “smells” it and discovers what he has got.

The secret once so divulged, his mate soon finds out who the “blooming screw” is that “slung the smash”――that is, brought in the much-coveted article. Then the unfortunate warder is likely to come to grief. All goes on smoothly enough till the two mates “chip out,” or the “blooming bloke,” the obliging officer, falls foul of the possessor of the secret, not dreaming that the man knows anything about the contraband trade he has been engaged in.

The prisoner, smarting under some sharp act of discipline on the part of the tobacco-supplier, determines upon having his revenge, and humiliating his janitor, he quietly bides his time till the chief warder or governor comes round, when he asks to speak to him, and “blows the gaff.”

A circumstance of this nature took place with a man who was confined in a cell close to the one occupied by Peace. The man was a moody, contemptible ruffian, and had given some trouble to one of the warders in charge of that portion of the building. When M‘Pherson came round he accused the officer of having conveyed “’bacca” to one or more of the prisoners.

“It is against the rules of the prison to supply tobacco to prisoners,” said M‘Pherson. “Send Mr. Morgan here!”

Mr. Morgan, the accused officer, presented himself.

“How’s this, sir?” said M‘Pherson in an indignant tone. “No. 74 accuses you of supplying tobacco to the prisoners. What have you to say to the charge?”

“It is not true, sir,” Morgan replied.

“I hope it is not, sir――I hope and trust it is not,” returned M‘Pherson, who was, however, under the impression all the while that it was, although he appeared to think otherwise.

“It is quite true, sir,” returned No. 74, “‘Cakey’ gave me some.”

“Who is Cakey?”

“No. 89, sir,” said Morgan.

“Well, we will hear what he has to say.”

No. 89 was brought forward. He was asked if Morgan had supplied him with tobacco.

“No, sir, he never has,” replied Cakey.

It was a nickname he went by. He was staunch and true, and swore most positively that the charge was without foundation.

No. 74 said that Cakey had given him a portion of the tobacco and that Peace had seen him do so.

Peace was now brought forward and interrogated. He denied having seen any tobacco in the possession of No. 74, or any other prisoner.

“We’ve only got your bare word for the fact, which is contradicted by two other prisoners,” said M‘Pherson, addressing himself to No. 74. “In addition to this, your word is not of much value, seeing that you are a notorious liar. Take the men back to their cells.”

The men were locked in their respective cells, then M‘Pherson turned to Morgan, and said――

“You must be more careful, sir. If anything of this sort is brought under my notice again, I shall report you.”

Having delivered himself of this speech, he turned on his heel and walked away. Morgan felt that he had had a narrow escape.

The chief warder, who was perhaps one of the most kindly disposed men in the whole prison, did not forget the circumstance, which, however, he never afterwards alluded to.

He took an early opportunity of getting No. 74 transferred to another part of the gaol, and so the matter ended.

We have devoted rather a lengthy chapter to Peace’s prison life, as the outside public know but little of the inner working of our convict prisons, and the various modes of discipline practised therein, but we must now turn to other scenes in this life drama.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

LXII. MR. WRENCH’S WANDERINGS――THE SEARCH AFTER A MURDERER

It is astonishing how long a criminal may be at large after he is “wanted,” provided he gets away from his well-known haunts. Murderers have contrived to elude the vigilance of the police for a considerable space of time, and some have never been arrested for the crime they were supposed to have committed.

Some few years back two boys committed a murderous assault on an old lady at Norton Folgate. After leaving their victim for dead, the young scoundrels made off. Months elapsed and no trace of them was found; and it was by the merest accident in the world that one of them was discovered. He was convicted upon a charge of larceny, and while undergoing penal servitude for the same, a boy, residing in the neighbourhood of Norton Folgate, recognised him. Luckily for the would-be assassins, the old lady recovered from the terrible injuries she had received, and her two assailants were tried and sentenced to penal servitude for the brutal assault.

We have a similar instance in Good, who was ultimately convicted of murdering a woman, and cutting up the body of his victim, at Roehampton, in Surrey. He made his escape, and many months elapsed before he was discovered. He was a groom at the time of the murder, but had in early life worked as a brickmaker, and it was while following this occupation, in a remote district in the north of England, that he was discovered. But his identity was established by the merest accident; and had he been a little more cautious the probability is that he would have got clean off.

Mr. Wrench felt that he had a difficult task in hand. He searched in vain for Giles Chudley at most of the cheap lodging-houses and thieves’ haunts in the metropolis. He sent notices off to the police-stations in the provinces, but he was no nearer to the suspected man.

There was one great difficulty in the matter. Mr. Wrench did not know Chudley――neither did any of his coadjutors.

He had a description given him of the man, but this was very vague, and could not be relied on. Nevertheless, our detective took every possible means of tracing out the fugitive.

After a rigid and exhaustive search in London and the suburbs, Mr. Wrench began to think seriously of his next best course of action. Certainly the case, as far as it had gone at present, did not look very promising.

Chudley was country born and country bred. The chances were that he would secrete himself in some sparsely-inhabited rural district. The question was, where to look, and this Mr. Wrench could not very well determine.

From information received at Scotland-yard there was reason to suppose that a man answering in many points to the description given of Chudley had been seen tramping along one of the roads leading to Liverpool.

When Mr. Wrench was put in possession of this fact, it at once occurred to him that the murderer of Mr. Philip Jamblin was journeying to that town for the purpose of shipping himself for one of the colonies.

He at once determined on paying a visit to Liverpool without further delay. But here another difficulty stood in the way. How could he possibly make sure of his man, even assuming he was fortunate enough to come across him?

But Mr. Wrench was not easily baffled. He telegraphed to Lord Ethalwood, begging him as a special favour to send the girl, Nell Fulford, off at once to Liverpool, with instructions for her to go to the police-station and inquire for him, Wrench.

The earl was quite as anxious as Mr. Wrench was to bring the matter to a successful issue. He deputed Mr. Jamblin to communicate with Nelly, and make known to her his wishes.

She at once expressed her willingness to go in search of the murderer of her sweetheart.

Joe Doughty, who heard of the intended expedition, begged of his master to be permitted to go also, and so, after a few hours’ notice, Nell and Joe set out together.

Upon their arrival at Liverpool they at once made their way to the police station. A constable was directed to conduct them to the house where Mr. Wrench was stopping.

“Ha’ee got any clue to the scoundrel, sir?” said Joe, when he caught sight of the detective. “I do hope un ’as.”

“Not at present,” returned Mr. Wrench. “Don’t you be too forward, my man. Just keep your tongue between your teeth. I don’t want anybody in this town to know our business, and an indiscreet word or two may spoil all. So don’t you open your mouth about the matter. Don’t say anything to a single individual. Do you understand?”

“Ah, I see, beg pardon; I won’t say a word.”

“Very well, that’s all right, my man. When I need your services, which, to say the truth, I hope I shall shortly, I’ll let you know. In the meantime keep dark, be as close as an oyster.”

Joe nodded and scratched his head. He came to the conclusion that Mr. Wrench was a wonderful man, and he was overawed by his manner, which was incisive and commanding.

“And my dear Miss Fulford,” said the detective, turning towards his female visitor; “it is, I am sure, very kind and good of you to come all this long distance to further the ends of justice, especially as you are at the present time not in your usual health.”

“I dunno care ’bout myself, sir,” returned Nell. “I would go to the end of the world to hunt down the vile wretch――who――who ha’ taken an innocent and honourable man’s life.”

“Certainly, of course, a very proper feeling――very proper indeed,” cried Wrench. “I wish everyone was of the same opinion as yourself, Miss Fulford.”

“And I am at your service, sir. Have you met with anybody――any suspected person?”

“Not at present. You will have to wait in this town till I have made all the inquiries necessary.”

“Ah!” murmured Nell, who was disappointed at not being engaged on active service at once.

Mr. Wrench conducted her to a lodging he had engaged, and told Joe that he was to remain with him.

Mr. Wrench’s first night in Liverpool was spent in examining a number of low lodging houses, which were used by tramps, thieves, and the lower class of itinerants.

He took with him Joe Doughty and a sergeant belonging to the constabulary of the town.

He was an experienced hand, and knew most of the habitations of this class.

In many of these places there were assembled scores of the most degraded and vicious members of society, who were lying in ambush, as it were, like tigers in a jungle, ready to spring upon and make a prey of anyone who came within the precincts of their lair.

Prisons, tread-wheels, penal settlements, gallows, were all vain and impotent as a punishment.

The ragged schools and city missions were of no avail as preventives of crime, so long as the wretched dens of infamy, brutality, and vice, termed “padding kens,” continued their daily and nightly work of demoralisation.

Mr. Wrench and the Liverpool constable entered one of these wretched receptacles for the homeless and lawless. As the miserable occupants were stretched on their dirty shake-downs, the policeman flashed his bull’s-eye in all directions.

Some of the occupants rolled over, and covered their faces with their begrimed bed-clothes, while others were fast asleep heedless of the visit of the “crushers,” and many of them for the nonce feigned to be slumbering.

It would be difficult, and indeed almost impossible, to describe to the reader the revolting nature of many of the places visited by the detective and his companions.

As the policeman flashed his light on the men in these unwholesome dens, Joe Doughty examined each countenance, but failed to find the man of whom they were in search.

One of the largest establishments of this class was kept by an Irishman named O’Flanagan, and after an inspection of a variety of these places the searchers bent their steps in the direction of that well-known place.

As they entered they were greeted by the mistress of the establishment, who was standing behind a sort of counter, which separated the front entrance from her own private parlour.

“Och, good luck to ye, Mr. Wrinch,” cried the woman, in a strong Irish accent. “An’ it’s mighty plazed I am to set eyes on your own swate fatures. Won’t ye be afther coming in and saying a kind word or two to a poor old sinful crathur like myself?”

“How are you, Biddy, and how are you getting on?” said Wrench.

“Oh, by the powers, I’m glad to see ye――an’ sure, I thought you had forgotten your ould frind entirely――an’ bedad, your broight frind’s with ye――well, the more the welcome. Step inside, Mr. Wrinch――an’ sure, the masther’s not at home, but that’s no rason that you should not be spaking to his wife.”

The three personages went behind the bar and entered the little room beyond.

“Ah, sure you are as welcome as the flowers in May, Mr. Wrinch, I need not tell you that――and what will you be afther takin――you and your frinds?”

“Nothing just now――we’ve come on business.”

“Oh, sure now, it’s business ye’ve come on,” cried the woman in an altered tone. “An’ I ’spose, if I may make so bould――I s’pose now, that it’s afther some dirty blackguard, that you are――an’ bad luck to him.”

“Something of that sort, I must confess,” returned the detective, with a smile, “and for old acquaintance sake, you’ll serve me if you can.”

“Faith an’ I will, if it lies in me power; and isn’t it a good turn ye did me when I was in the depths of throuble――and am I likely to forget it? Divil a bit, an’ what might it be that you may be wanting me to do――Mr. Wrinch?”

“You mustn’t speak quite so loud, Biddy,” said the detective.

“An’ its qute I’ll be as any church mouse.”

Mr. Wrench drew from his pocket the bill relating to the murder in Larchgrove-road; but, unfortunately reading was not one of Mrs. Flanagan’s accomplishments.

She seemed unable to comprehend that the document was headed with the word murder.

“Och, by the powers,” she ejaculated, “it’s some murthering spalpeen you’ll be afther, Mr. Wrinch?”

“Yes, and a hundred pounds reward will be presented to any person or persons who shall give any such information as may lead to his conviction,” said the detective. “I will read you a description of the man of whom we are in search.”

“Shure now, it isn’t blood money I’d be taking,” said Mrs. Flanagan, after the detective had done reading; “no, not even to save my own blessed life; but if I could put you on the track of the murtherin’ villain I would.”

“Have you seen a man answering to the description I have given?”

“Faix, no――divil a one. I wish I had. Whisht now, do you think he’s in Liverpool?”

“I have every reason to suppose so――that is why I have paid you this visit. We must have a look at all the people here.”

Oh, by Jasus, ye’ll not find the dirty blackguard here, Mr. Wrinch. It’s mighty particular we are, both Dennis and myself. We don’t let beds to onrespectable piple. It’s thrue now, some years ago I was in a little bit o’ thrubble, as you know Mr. Wrinch, but ye see, darling, it taught me a lesson, and bedad I’ve profited by it intirely. Och, but it’s particular we are, both Dennis and myself, an’ anyway, Mr. Wrinch, you don’t suppose that we would harbour thieves or murderers.”

“I don’t suppose you do. I’m not accusing you, woman. All I say is, if you have seen a man answering the description given, tell me so frankly. You had better do so.”

“Do ye hear ’im now? Did ye iver hear the loike o’ that?” cried Mrs. Flanagan. “As if I wouldn’t tell him at onst, if I had it in my power, which it’s sorry I am I haven’t. More’s the pity. But ye’d better have a look at all the boys, and satisfy yerself. Mother o’ Marcy, but this is a bad business. An’ is it to any o’ the lodging houses that ye’ve bin, Mister Wrinch.”

“Yes, we have, but you, being so well acquainted with the town and its people, would be more likely to detect a stranger.”

“Oh, sure you are complimintary,” exclaimed the woman, who rose from the seat, and conducted her visitors to a large shed-looking place, which was one of the dormitories of her establishment.

The detective and his two companions passed through this place, and examined the features of the inmates. Many of them present were well known to both the police-officers, and some were strangers, but there was not one there answering the description of the man.

They returned to the landlady’s private room no wiser than before.

“Shure, didn’t I tell ye that ye couldn’t find the murtherin’ blackguard here. Oh, its careful and particular we are, Misther Wrinch, and small blame to us; haven’t I three childer of my own to look afther, an’ haven’t I known what it is to offind the law? That’s our rason for our pickin’ and choosin’ our lodgers.”

“That will do Biddy――you are a model landlady, I dare say.”

“Faith that I am, mine’s the best managed, ‘padding ken,’ in all Liverpool; it’s kept dacent and sweet, and used by the betherest sort of tramps, and such like, and it’s sorry I am that you can’t find the big ugly blackgurd you are looking for, but if Biddy Flanagan can do ye a good turn, never fear, but she’ll do it. May be you might find the man ye want at the fair.”

“What fair?” inquired Wrench, quickly.

“At Nantwich Hoiring Fair. As your man is in the agricultural line may be he’ll be afther going to the fair.”

“A good suggestion,” said the detective. “When is it held?”

“On the 29th of this month.”

“Thanks, it’s worth consideration, but we won’t detain you longer, and so good night.”

“But you’ll be for calling agin, I suppose, before you lave the town?”

“Oh, certainly. We shall not lose sight of you. Besides, you know you may pick up some information.”

The landlady looked mysterious, and nodded.

Her three visitors took their departure.

“She knows more than she cares to tell,” said the sergeant to Wrench.

“You think so?”

“Yes I do.”

“Then we shall have to pay her another visit.”

“There are only two ways to work her. Either to weedle her or put the screw on.”

“We’ve nothing to put the screw on for――have we?”

“I can say we have, but she’s to be worked.”

“By money?”

“Not by the reward; that she wouldn’t accept upon any consideration.”

Mr. Wrench returned to his lodgings very much disappointed. He had hoped to gain some information as to the whereabouts of his man, but his search in the various “padding kens” of Liverpool had been of no avail.

He determined upon going to the docks on the following day, with the view of ascertaining, if possible, what vessels were about to set sail, and who were their passengers.

Liverpool is a big place, and it is not possible to do much in the way of hunting for a person therein in one day, or indeed in a week.

[Sidenote: No. 30.]

Mr. Wrench did not despair. Something might turn up in the course of a few hours which would alter the aspect of affairs most materially.

He felt certain that Mrs. O’Flanagan could aid him if she chose, but he would not go to her again till he had exhausted his other resources.

In the morning he proceeded by himself to the docks. He went over several vessels, had intercourse with shipowners, captains, stevedores, and provision merchants――was, in short, industriously occupied till nightfall, but failed to reach the desired end.

It was likely enough that he had been misinformed.

Giles Chudley might not be in the neighbourhood of Liverpool after all.

But it would not do to arrive at that conclusion too hastily.

The police informed him that more than one person had declared a man answering his description――or at any rate, something near it――had been seen within a few miles distant from the town.

But then, men of his class are so much alike, and people are so prone to jump at conclusions.

Mr. Wrench knew but too well the difficulties attending identification―― mistakes were so frequently made.

He spent another day visiting all sorts of odd places in the town, and at night he went to the music-halls, taking Joe Doughty with him.

To say the truth, this honest countryman was having a fine time of it; he had seen more of life in the few days he had been under the detective’s charge than he had in the whole course of his preceding career.

Doughty was entertained, and considered that he was playing an important part; but he would have been far better pleased at finding the murderer of Master Philip.

He was under the impression that there was not much chance of their meeting with Giles Chudley, but as far as that was concerned he was not a competent judge, not having had any experience in the art of thief-catching.

In the course of the following day, Mr. Wrench paid another visit to Mrs. O’Flanagan.

On this occasion he deemed it prudent to go alone, being under the impression that the loquacious landlady might be more communicative in the absence of strangers.

“An’ sure, now, it was my own self as said you wouldn’t be afther laving the town without jist giving us a frindly call; an’ it’s happy and proud I am to see ye, Mister Wrinch. Any news about the murtherin’ divil?”

“None at all, Biddy. My search has not been attended with any satisfactory result.”

“Oh, maybe the thief o’ the world has hooked it intirely, an’ won’t show up at all.”

“It looks like it. But I say, missus,” whispered Wrench, in a confidential tone, “you might be a little more candid.”

“Oh, bother! What’s that you’d be afther saying? Do you think I’d kape onything from the likes o’ ye?”

“I hope not.”

“Whist! aisy now. Jist come here. Aye that’s it. Well, thin, you mustn’t go a screamin’ and a roarin’ all over the town.”

“Dear me, of course not. Go on, Biddy.”

“Well, then, a few nights ago there was a strange chap whom nobody seemed to know came here for a night’s lodging. Well, Wrinch, be the powers, but I must spake my mind to an ould frind, the vagabond couldn’t slape, so some of the bhoys tould me, and kept tossin’ about and a sighin’ and a groanin’ all night. In the morning he was off, never sayin’ nothink to nobody.”

“And his appearance was it anything like the description I read to you?”

“Faith, it was――so Pat Murphy said.”

“And who is Pat Murphy?”

“He’s just one of the boys, one of the regular customers. Begorra he’s as good as goold is Pat.”

“No doubt. Anything more?”

“Ah, now I dunno that there is. Oh, yes. Pat understood him to say that he was bound for Nantwich.”

“Mrs. Flanagan I am deeply indebted to you; accept my best thanks,” exclaimed Wrench. Should anything come of this, you will not be forgotten.”

“Oh, kape me out of the bisnis intirely. Do not mintion what I’ve tould ye to a soul, but make the best use of it. Sure now, don’t I owe you a debt of gratitude? And it’s myself as nivir forgets a kindness. Aisy now, kape dark, and say nothin’ about this or I shall be ruined.”

“You may rely upon me,” said the detective, again thanking his informant as he passed out of the “padding ken.”

Mr. Wrench kept his word. The information he had received from Mrs. Flanagan might be of essential service, or it might turn out a myth. Anyway, he was determined upon following up the slender and uncertain clue he had obtained so unexpectedly.

He at once set off to the town of Nantwich, and took with him Nell Fulford and Joe Doughty.

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