The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds

The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4) - George W. M. Reynolds


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I won all or lost all," he said; "and I have done so. Waiter, give me another tumbler of claret: it will compose me."

      He laughed bitterly as he uttered these words.

      The claret was brought: he drained the tumbler, and threw it upon the table, where it broke into a dozen pieces.

      "Clear this away, Thomas," said one of the Croupiers, completely unmoved.

      "Yes, sir;" and the fragments of the tumbler disappeared forthwith.

      The Bonnets, perceiving the presence of other strangers, were now compelled to withdraw their attention from the ruined gambler, and commence playing.

      And so the play again proceeded.

      "Where is my hat, waiter?" demanded the young officer, after a pause, during which he had gazed vacantly upon the game.

      "In the passage, sir—I believe."

      "No—I remember, it is in the inner room. But do not trouble yourself—I will fetch it myself."

      "Very good, sir;" and the waiter did not move.

      The young officer sauntered, in a seeming leisurely manner, into the innermost room of the suite.

      "What a shocking scene!" whispered Markham to Chichester. "I am glad I came hither this once: it will be a lesson for me which I can never forget."

      At this instant the report of a pistol echoed sharply through the rooms.

      There was a simultaneous rush to the inner apartment:—Markham's presentiments were fulfilled—the young officer had committed suicide.

      His brains were literally blown out, and he lay upon the carpet weltering in his blood.

      A cry of horror burst from the strangers present; and then, with one accord, they hastened to the door. The baronet, Chichester, and Talbot, were amongst the foremost who made this movement, and were thereby enabled to effect their escape.

      Markham stood rivetted to the spot, unaware that his companions had left him, and contemplating with feelings of supreme horror the appalling spectacle before him.

      Suddenly the cry of "The police" fell upon his ears; and heavy steps were heard hurrying up the staircase.

      "The Bank!" ejaculated one of the Croupiers.

      "All right!" cried the other; and in a moment the lights were extinguished, as by magic, throughout the entire suite of rooms.

      Obeying a natural impulse, Markham hastened towards the door; but his progress was stopped by a powerful hand, and in an instant the bull's-eye of a lantern glared upon his countenance.

      He was in the grasp of a police officer.

       THE STATION-HOUSE.

       Table of Contents

      OF all the persons who were in the gambling-house at the moment when the police, alarmed by the report of the pistol, broke in, Richard Markham was alone captured. The others, aware of the means of egress in emergencies of this kind, had rushed up stairs, entered upon the leads, and thus obtained admittance into the adjacent dwelling, from whose friendly doors they subsequently issued one by one when all was once more quiet in the street.

      The police-officer conducted Markham to the nearest station-house. They entered a low dark gloomy apartment, which was divided into two parts by means of a thick wooden bar running across the room, about two feet and a half from the ground. There was a small dull fire in the grate; and in a comfortable arm-chair near it, was seated the inspector—a short, stout, red-faced, consequential-looking man, with a pen stuck behind his left ear. A policeman in uniform was standing at a high desk, turning over the leaves of a large book; and another officer in plain clothes (and very plain and shabby they were too) was lounging before the fire, switching the dust out of his trousers with a thin cane.

      "Well, what now?" said the inspector, gruffly, as Markham was conducted into the office, and led behind the bar, towards the fire.

      "Me, and Jones, and Jenkins, broke into No.—, in the Quadrant, as we heard a pistol—or else we should ha' known ourselves better; and this young feller is all we caught. Jones and Jenkins is staying in the house along with the dead body of the man as killed his self."

      The inspector indulged in a good long stare at Markham; and, when his curiosity was completely gratified, he said, "Now, Crisp, we'll enter that charge, if you please."

      The policeman standing at the desk turned to the proper leaf in the large book before him, and then took down the deposition of the officer who had apprehended Markham.

      When this was done, the inspector proceeded, in a very pompous and magisterial manner, to question the prisoner.

      "What is your name, young man?"

      "Richard Markham."

      "Oh! Richard Markham. Put that down, Crisp. Where do you live?"

      "At Markham Place, near Holloway."

      "Put that down, Crisp. Now, do you want to let any of your friends know that you are in trouble?"

      "First tell me of what I am accused, and why I am detained."

      "You are accused of being in an unlawful house for an unlawful purpose—namely, gambling; and a suicide has been committed there, they say. You will be wanted afore the coroner as well as the magistrate."

      "Can I be released until to-morrow by giving security for my appearance?"

      "No—I can't part with you. It is said that it is suicide—and I believe it: still it might be murder. But you seem a respectable young gentleman, and so you sha'nt be locked up in a cell all night. You may sit here by the fire, if you'll be quiet."

      "I am at least obliged to you for this courtesy. But can you give me any idea of the extent of the penalty to which I am liable? I did not gamble myself—I merely accompanied——"

      "You need'nt criminate anybody, you know," interrupted the Inspector. "The Magistrate will fine you a few pounds, and that will be all."

      "Then I should prefer not to acquaint my friends with my position," said Markham, "since I can release myself from my present difficulty without their assistance."

      Reassured by this conviction, though still strangely excited by the appalling scene which he had witnessed, Richard seated himself by the fire, and soon fell into conversation with the policemen. These men could talk of nothing but themselves or their pursuits: they appeared to live in a world of policeism; all their ideas were circumscribed to station-houses, magistrates' offices, prisons, and criminal courts of justice. Their discourse was moreover garnished with the slang terms of thieves; they could not utter a sentence without interpolating a swell-mob phrase or a Newgate jest. They seemed to be so familiar with crime (though not criminal themselves) that they could not devote a moment to the contemplation of virtue: they only conversed about persons who were "in trouble," but never condescended to lavish a thought to those who were out of it.

      "Crankey Jem has done it brown at last, has'nt he?" said Crisp.

      "He has indeed," replied the inspector. "But what could he have done with all the swag?"[1]

      "Oh! he's fadded[2] that safe enough," observed the officer in plain clothes. "My eye! What a slap-up lily benjamin[3] he had on when he was nabbed."

      "Yes—and sich a swell bandanna fogle[4] in the gropus."[5]

      "He had'nt any ready tin though; for he wanted


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