"But I thought that those who took the gaol allowance were not permitted to receive any food from outside?" said Markham.
"That's the very thing," said the man: "so I have told the Mummy to direct the parcel to you, as I know that you grub yourself at your own cost."
"So long as it does not involve me——"
"No—not in the least, my good fellow," interrupted the other. "And, in return," he added, after a moment's pause, "if I can ever do you a service, outside or in, you may reckon upon the Resurrection Man."
"The Resurrection Man!" ejaculated Richard, appalled, in spite of himself, at this ominous title.
"Yes—that's my name and profession," said the man. "My godfathers and godmothers called me Anthony, and my parents had previously blessed me with the honourable appellation of Tidkins: so you may know me as Anthony Tidkins, the Resurrection Man."
"And are you really——" began Richard, with a partial shudder; "are you really a——"
"A body-snatcher?" cried Anthony; "of course I am—when there's any work to be done; and when there isn't, then I do a little in another line."
"And what may that be?" demanded Markham.
This time the Resurrection Man did look his interlocutor full in the face; but it was only for a moment; and he again averted his glance in a sinister manner, as he jerked his thumb towards the wall of the yard, and exclaimed, "Crankey Jem on t'other side will tell you if you ask him. They would not put us together: no—no," he added, with a species of chuckle; "they know a trick worth two of that. We shall both be tried together: fifteen years for him—freedom for me! That's the way to do it."
With these words the Resurrection Man turned upon his heel, and walked away to the farther end of the yard.
We shall now take leave of Markham for the present: when we again call the reader's attention to his case, we shall find him standing in the dock of the Central Criminal Court, to take his trial upon the grave accusation of passing forged notes.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE DUNGEON.
RETURN we now to Bill Bolter, the murderer, who had taken refuge in the subterranean hiding-place of the Old House in Chick Lane.
Heavily and wearily did the hours drag along. The inmate of that terrible dungeon was enabled to mark their lapse by the deep-mouthed bell of St. Sepulchre's Church, on Snow Hill, the sound of which boomed ominously at regular intervals upon his ear.
That same bell tolls the death-note of the convict on the morning of his execution at the debtors' door of Newgate.
The murderer remembered this, and shuddered.
A faint—faint light glimmered through the little grating at the end of the dungeon; and the man kept his eyes fixed upon it so long, that at length his imagination began to conjure up phantoms to appal him. That small square aperture became a frame in which hideous countenances appeared; and then, one gradually changed into another—horrible dissolving views that they were!
But chiefly he beheld before him the tall gaunt form of his murdered wife—with one eye smashed and bleeding in her head:—the other glared fearfully upon him.
This phantasmagoria became at length so fearful and so real in appearance, that the murderer turned his back towards the little grating through which the light struggled into the dungeon in two long, narrow, and oblique columns.
But then he imagined that there were goblins behind him; and this idea soon grew as insupportable as the first;—so he rose, and groped his way up and down that narrow vault—a vault which might become his tomb!
This horrible thought never left his memory. Even while he reflected upon other things—amidst the perils which enveloped his career, and the reminiscences of the dread deeds of which he had been guilty—amongst the reasons which he assembled together to convince himself that the hideous countenances at the grating did not exist in reality—there was that one idea—unmixed—definite—standing boldly out from all the rest in his imagination—that he might be left to die of starvation!
At one time the brain of this wretch was excited to such a pitch that he actually caught his head in his two hands, and pressed it with all his force—to endeavour to crush the horrible visions which haunted his imagination.
Then he endeavoured to hum a tune; but his voice seemed to choke him. He lighted a pipe, and sate and smoked; but as the thin blue vapour curled upwards, in the faint light of the grating, it assumed shapes and forms appalling to behold. Spectres, clad in long winding sheets—cold grisly corpses, dressed in shrouds, seemed to move noiselessly through the dungeon.
He laid aside the pipe; and, in a state of mind bordering almost upon frenzy, tossed off the brandy that had remained in the flask.
But so full of horrible ideas was his mind at that moment, that it appeared to him as if he had been drinking blood!
He rose from his seat once more, and groped up and down the dungeon, careless of the almost stunning blows which he gave his head, and the violent contusions which his limbs received, against the uneven walls.
Hark! suddenly voices fell upon his ears.
He listened with mingled fear and joy—fear of being discovered, and joy at the sound of human tones in the midst of that subterranean solitude.
Those voices came from the lower window of the dwelling on the other side of the ditch.
"How silent and quiet everything has been lately in the old home opposite," said a female.
"Last night—or rather early this morning, I heard singing there," replied another voice, which was evidently that of a young woman.
Oh! never had the human tones sounded so sweet and musical upon the murderer's ears before!
"It is very seldom that any one ever goes into that old house now," said the first speaker.
"Strange rumours are abroad concerning it: I heard that there are subterranean places in which men can conceal themselves, and no power on earth could find them save those in the secret."
"How absurd! I was speaking to the policeman about that very thing a few days ago; and he laughed at the idea. He says it is impossible; and of course he knows best."
"I am not so sure of that. Who knows what fearful deeds have those old walls concealed from human eye? For my part, I can very well believe that there are secret cells and caverns. Who knows but that some poor wretch is hiding there this very moment?"
"Perhaps the man that murdered his wife up in Union Court."
"Well—who knows? But at this rate we shall never get on with our work."
The noise of a window being shut down fell upon the murderer's ears: and he heard no more.
But he had heard enough! Those girls had spoken of him:—they had mentioned him as the man who had murdered his wife.
The assassination, then, was already known: the dread deed was bruited abroad:—thousands and thousands of tongues had no doubt repeated the tale here and there—conveying it hither and thither—far and wide!
And throughout the vast metropolis was he already spoken of as the man who had murdered his wife!
And in a few hours more, would millions in all parts hear of the man who had murdered his wife!
And already were the officers of justice actively in search of the man who had murdered his wife!
Heavily—heavily passed the hours.