Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

by George Manville Fenn

The dangerous slope Jarker had crossed gave him an advantage over the officer; for now unable to escape by the trap or window for which he had aimed, the ruffian had doubled, and was working his way rapidly back to his own garret, which now seemed his last resource.

For an instant he stood by the ruins of his pigeon-traps, gazing at the man lying in the gutter—now showing signs of animation—and listening at the opening; but though there were voices enough in the court, all seemed silent in his room, and with one glance at his fast-nearing foe upon the roof, Jarker lowered himself through his trap; while as Mr Sterne hurried out of the room, with Jean following him slowly, the ruffian stood once more opposite to the bed of his dead wife, to be confronted by another watching policeman.

Not of the same stuff this man; for a moment’s struggle, and Jarker was free, leaping down the stairs, which seemed ready to fall with his weight—nearly to the bottom, with the man in full pursuit; when in the buzz of voices be heard a cry for a light below, which flashed upon the hat of yet another officer.

Panting, mad, hemmed-in on all sides, foes above and foes below, knowing that there was blood upon his hands, and—for aught he knew to the contrary—that the gallows waited for him, the ruffian, as a last resource, dashed open the window upon the first landing, while, as hands actually touched him, he dropped into the backyard.

One man leaned out directly, while another hand was at the window; but they saw Jarker in the dim light below recover himself. Then there was the hanging of a door, and one of the men bounded down the stairs just in time to strike the ruffian back as he made a dash along the passage to force his way through the crowd. But he was not taken yet; though it was with a smile that the policeman wiped his dripping face as he posted himself at the top of the cellar-steps, and sent a companion out to watch the grating in the court.

And now it seemed that they had run their game to earth; for after one or two ineffectual attempts to escape during the past forty-eight hours—attempts frustrated by the careful watch kept upon the premises he occupied—Jarker had that evening made his way up through the cellar in a half-maddened state, produced by fear and the wine he had drunk to drive it away, for it was many hours since food had passed his lips. But Mr Jarker’s course was run, and, though ignorant of the offence for which he was sought, there were heinous matters enough upon his conscience to make him fight for liberty to the last gasp; while, upon this last attempt being made, he had been sighted by the man on watch, who saw him in the passage and drove him back, when, horrified at the idea of going back to the cellar, Jarker had bounded upstairs, to be chased as has been described.

There was no lack of policemen now upon the spot, and while the crowd was kept back, place was given to Mr Sterne, who, with Jean hanging upon his arm, slowly descended the cellar-steps, preceded by the policemen, with staves in hand and open lanterns.

“Keep a good look-out on the stairs,” said the artisan-looking man—the quiet man of a day or two before, and one in authority. And now, inch by inch, the cellar was searched; then bin after bin of the inner vault; when the men turned and looked at their leader.

“O, he’s here, somewhere,” said the sergeant, and taking a lantern in hand, he peered long and carefully into every bin, while, trembling with eagerness, Jean pressed forward to see if the discovery would be made. He was not kept long in suspense; for, after directing his light carefully along the sawdust, the keen-eyed man suddenly exclaimed, “There’s someone been through here. Here’s fresh candle-grease and matches; and what’s this?”

Jean pressed forward with the others, and “this” proved to be a fragment of a stuff dress caught in an old nail between the bricks, a scrap which Jean recognised as a piece of his mother’s dress.