“Well, yes I do. Every man has his fancy. Some can get along with one, which perhaps another cove wouldn’t be able to work not nohow whatsoever.”
Mr. Simmonds’s establishment stood in one of the streets which ran at right angles out of the Whitechapel-road.
It was not an aristocratic-looking shop, and the immediate neighbourhood surrounding it could not be considered either cleanly or odoriferous.
Mr. Simmonds himself was not altogether a pattern of cleanliness—neither could he be considered particularly handsome. His nose was long, and his mouth was wide. In short, his features, taken altogether, would lead a superficial observer to the conclusion that he was a gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion.
Still Mr. Simmonds had contrived to drive a very profitable trade. He was very well known, and always ready to purchase goods of every conceivable description, and it was not his practice to ask impertinent questions.
He therefore drove a profitable trade.
Charles Peace was very well acquainted with him, and had had with him many business transactions.
A well-known journalist, at the time Peace carried on his lawless practices in the Evalina-road, was desirous of knowing how he disposed of his plunder. “There is more in this question,” said he, “than the police were able to discover.”
In cases of common burglary the usual course is for the thief to make his way direct to some safe “fence” and drive the best bargain he can of the receiver. But Peace was no common burglar.
The more I enquire into the life and habits of those in his establishment at Peckham, the less disposed I am to believe that Mrs. Thompson acted as a “go-between.” Certainly the boy, “Willie Ward,” was not entrusted with such delicate missions, and I am pretty certain the services of Mrs. Ward would only be resorted to when things were growing desperate.