Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

by George Manville Fenn

“Was it him?” whispered Jean at last.

“Yes; the Jarker,” hissed ma mère; “but get up now. Let me help you, and we will take all we can and go. Be still and careful; and there, now you are up. But, my faith, Jean, I am cramped! Now, the boxes were here; and—”

Ma mère ceased speaking, and stood trembling, with the sense as of something lifting the hair of her bare head, for at that moment came the sound of the grating stone pushed quickly aside; there was the sharp rustling as of one passing through, and the stone was thrust back, while the old woman could hear the panting, hard breath of someone close to her. She would have crouched away, but she stood as if paralysed, calling up the old interview with Jarker in the front cellar, and his great knife and ominous words, and she felt now that her hour was come, as a voice muttered the words “Two there!” and a heavy hand was laid upon her bare head. It was a horrible moment; but she could not move, and stood with her tongue glued to her palate, waiting for what she felt must follow; though, could she have turned, she would have clasped her withered arms round the ruffian, and cried to her son to escape. But ma mère was motionless, while the hideous yell that now rang in a dull, smothered way through the vault froze her blood into stagnation. Still the hand was not moved, but lay motionless upon her head, trembled and shook violently for a few moments, and then the old woman was free; for, in a horrible voice, the ruffian shrieked:

“Come back! come back!” when there was a heavy crash as of a body falling amongst a quantity of broken bottles, and all was silent once more.

No word spoke ma mère, but catching her son’s hand, she drew him after her to the opening, seized the stone, which seemed to glide away at her touch, and then she thrust hurriedly at Jean as he crawled through, one hand being stretched back to seize on Jarker, should he recover from his swoon and try to touch her boy. Then she felt that there was room, and crept through herself, closed the stone with some difficulty, and made her way shuddering out into the cellar. Here ma mère clutched Jean round the waist, and stopped to listen, but all was silent and apparently no pursuit, so hurrying him along, they stood trembling once more in the passage, expecting to be seized from behind, ma mère seeming to feel the knife of Jarker, as she clutched at her throat and pressed on. Upon passing out into the court, though, there was a policeman, but beyond a glance, he took no heed of them till they had entered their own passage and closed the door, when he quietly made his way through the entrance they had that moment quitted.

“Cognac, Jean; drink it, fool, you want it,” said ma mère, when they were once more safe in their own room. Before she would partake herself, the old woman forced some upon her son. “Another time, though, Jean, another time. I thought he would not dare to come back; but he will go now, and it will be safe. My faith, though, to see those boxes and touch nothing!” she exclaimed, and her hands clawed again as she spoke. “No, Jean, he will come no more, for it was as I thought; he is a murderer, and afraid. He did kill the poor painted woman; and then he was frightened, and thrust her poor body down into the sewer. But he was frightened, and fainted away, for he thought it was his poor victim come back. Did you not hear him shriek it? But I will tell the police when I have his gold and silver. But a little, but a little, and then all will be right.”

They neither of them felt that they could sleep, and ma mère drew out her knitting, but did little, sitting thoughtfully in her chair; at last, though, Jean slept heavily till his mother woke him in the early dawn, and together they looked down, trying to pierce the fog which hung in the court, when the first thing that their eyes fell upon was the glazed top of a policeman’s hat.

“But you will not go again?” whispered Jean.

“But you are bête!” cried the old woman angrily. “Should I leave the treasure I have discover, and let the police have all? No,” she cried, hooking her skinny fingers, “I will have all myself, and we will be rich, Jean. Ah! what—you sigh? But you are bête, and it is for the little worker who come between us, Jean. You loved your poor mother till she come, and I hate her for it, and I could slay her, for I am mad and disappointed; but I had my revenge for long. I told the preacher something, and he believed me; and you are all fools, you men. But I am not angry, Jean, for you are my own Jean, and you shall be rich yet. What! you push me away? I care not, for you shall be like your father—a gentleman—before he died, and left me in this cold, cold, cold, miserable London. But we will have the Jarker’s treasure, Jean, that I have watched, and we will laugh then at the world.”

Jean sat silently gazing down into the court, wincing at times as he heard the bitter words of his mother, while his eyes would then flash as he seemed ready to turn; but he spoke no word, as he thought over the past night and restrained himself. He knew the value of money, and his face would brighten as he thought of it in connection with Lucy; but a weary, sad smile came directly after, for he knew such thoughts were folly, and he turned them to Jarker, as he seemed to feel that his duty was to point out the wretch’s hiding-place, though he flinched from the task. And still he sat on, hour after hour gazing down into the court, where a strange man, like an artisan out of work, was lounging about smoking a short black pipe, and apparently very intent upon a small birdcage tied up in a blue-spotted handkerchief beneath his arm. There was something of the shoemaker and more of the tailor about him—nothing at all of the detective-policeman, and doubtless it must have been very unpleasant for a man of his income to smoke such bad tobacco, and pay for so many half-quarterns of rum for Mrs Sims, who was very communicative concerning the last time Jarker was at home, while a policeman in uniform would have acted as a seal upon her lips. So Mrs Sims chattered, the strange man watched, and for a time the uniform of the police-force was not seen in Bennett’s-rents.