Charles Palliser (126 page)

“I see,” I said.

“George, tell Master John what they wanted.”

“Well,” he reflected. “There’s a big chimbley-piece in one of the grandest rooms. The Great Parlour, so they call it. Made of the finest marble and dowelled something beautiful. They’d had a mason cut a slab in it jist below 580

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the mantel and holler out a space behind and below it. I was to make a kind of wooden box to fit behind it and to swing upwards and for’ard by means of a pulley when the slab was lowered.”

“A hiding-place!” I exclaimed.

“That’s right,” Mrs Digweed said. “That’s why they didn’t want to use none o’ their reg’lar workmen.”

I could not speak for I was possessed by the thought that if this was correct and if I could obtain the will, then I would immediately become the owner of the estate. What a complete restoration of justice in recompense for the wrongs done to my family by both the Mompessons and the Clothiers! And Sir Perceval had shewn himself by his actions towards the local people to be wholly undeserving of the property. I had more than a right — I had a duty — to possess the estate! But how could I hope to regain the will?

Not wishing to let the Digweeds suspect my thoughts I made an excuse, left the house and walked briskly around the neighbouring streets until my mind was calmer.

Even if I had the means, I could not subpoena the will for the Mompessons would simply deny that it existed. It was clear to me that the only way to acquire it was by some means to break into the hiding-place. But how could I hope to do that?

Mr Digweed, Joey and I went back to work the next day, and now that we were living in a different part of the metropolis, we had to enter the system through another outlet and this meant that we had to travel some distance to get to the most fruitful tunnels which slowed us down and lowered our earnings.

One evening when Joey was once again from the house, I brought the subject of conversation back to the hiding-place.

“Did Barney help you to make it?” I asked Mr Digweed, mindful of my earlier suspicion of his involvement in my family’s story.

“No,” he answered in surprise; “for he wasn’t in Town then.”

“Do you know where he was?”

He shook his head: “He went missing for a few months about that time.”

Though not conclusive, this was further evidence that he might have been the murderer of my grandfather.

After a moment I said: “I’m afraid that the only way to get the will back is to remove it.”

There was a pause.

“You mean, steal it?” Mrs Digweed said.

“It’s not stealing,” I protested. “It was stolen originally and it rightfully belongs to the courts. All wills do.”

“Then it is for the courts to get it back,” Mrs Digweed said.

“But they neither will nor can. If justice is to be done, then I must take it upon myself.”

There was an outcry at this:

“If you’re caught you could be hanged,” Mrs Digweed said. “At the least you’d be transported.”

“My life is already in danger,” I said. “Am I to spend the next years hiding from Barney until Silas Clothier is dead?”

They looked taken aback at this and I saw that my reference to the role m my life performed by a member of their family had scored a hit.

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“Only when I have laid the will before the Court will I be safe. So all I ask, Mr Digweed, is that you tell me how I might open the hiding-place?”

His wife nodded slightly and he began:

“Why there’s a difficulty. You see, there was a space left to insert a lock, but that was to be done by a locksmith.”

“Do you know who this was?”

“I do not.”

“But the lock may be easy enough to pick or to force,” I suggested.

“Aye,” he said uncertainly. “That may be so.”

“Now that I know of the secret hiding-place, all I have to do,” I said, “is to work out how to get into the house.”

The Digweeds shuddered at my words and seeing this, I turned the conversation.

During the next few days as the difficulty of what I had embarked upon dawned upon me, I gradually realized that I had no chance of attaining my goal without help, and I therefore decided to take Mr and Mrs Digweed more fully into my confidence and ask for their assistance. I would emphasize that only by regaining the will could I make myself safe and say nothing about the virtual certainty that this would confer great wealth upon me.

And so I argued with them about the rights and wrongs of what I was proposing over a period of several days, always keeping our conversations secret from Joey. All I wanted, I told them, was what was right, for, as I had learned from Mr Escreet, the purloined will represented my great-great-grandfather’s final intentions for the disposition of his estate and should therefore be put into force.

Eventually my efforts paid off and one day Mrs Digweed said: “Very well, Master Johnnie, we will help you. If you think it’s right to take back that dockyment, then that’s good enough for us. For we still owe you amends for what Barney and Joey brung upon you and your poor mam.”

“Don’t talk of amends,” I protested. “I only wish I might have the power to reward you.”

“We don’t want no reward,” Mr Digweed interrupted. “It’s enough to us to see justice done.”

I felt slightly embarrassed, but I had achieved what I sought and was satisfied.

Although the three of us attempted to keep our intentions secret from Joey, it was difficult to conceal anything in that tiny cottage, and so it came about that he overheard me one day when I did not realize he was upstairs, and thereby discovered our design.

Of course he insisted on being involved, and although I supported him — for it seemed to me to be a way of preventing his ’peaching on us to Barney — his parents resolutely set themselves against this and there was a bitter argument.

“You don’t know nothin’ about crackin’ a crib,” he said. “But I do from my time with Barney.”

“All the more reason to keep you out of it now,” his mother said.

Joey scowled.

“At least you may give us some advice,” I said.

“Aye,” he said, “for there’ll be the watch, and the police patroles, as well as a nightwatchman inside the house. Which parish is it?”

“St. George’s, Hanover-square,” I answered.

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“The best patroled of all! You’ll never do it without a plant.”

Seeing our bewilderment, he explained: “A friend on the inside what can let you in or at least tell you what to look out for and when’s the best time to crack it.”

“But I have some of that information,” I cried.

I had told them a little about Miss Quilliam and now I recounted that part of her story which concerned her entry into the house late at night after her escape from the night-house in Panton-street.

“To the best of my recollection,” I went on, “she could not rouse the nightwatchman because he was so soundly asleep, and therefore she had to go round to the mews. So he may not be a very dangerous obstacle.”

“When was that?” Joey asked.

“Almost five years ago,” I confessed.

He snorted: “That ain’t worth nothin’. You need better than that a-fore you try to break in. They might have dogs now.”

Mr Digweed shuddered at these words, but his wife gamely said: “I’ll try to make friends of the sarvints and larn what I can. Where is the house, Master Johnnie?”

“Brook-street. Number 48.”

Suddenly Joey said : “If you let me come in on it, I’ll help you to a better way.”

“Joey, this ain’t no game,” Mrs Digweed said. “Anyone as breaks into a house at night can be charged with burglary and can be hung — as many poor wretches are every year.”

“I don’t need to go in,” he said. He turned to his father: “You’ll need a bo-peep.”

“A what?” Mr Digweed exclaimed.

“See how green you are! A bo-peep’s the cove what stays outside and gives the look-out so them inside can cut away. Let me do that!”

“Not while I breathe,” Mrs Digweed said.

Seeing that she was adamant, he got up and flung out of the house.

Despite my attempts to persuade her, Mrs Digweed continued to insist that Joey should not be involved, even though I argued that we could learn a great deal from him.

So, during the weeks that followed, while Mrs Digweed hung around in various of the taverns near Brook-street, her husband and I spent whole evenings in the “flash-houses”

of our own district winning the confidence of suspicious strangers who had been recommended to us as experienced cracksmen.

As a consequence of what we learned from them, Mr Digweed and I spent a considerable amount of time learning to master the bull’s-eye lanthorn, which could be made to give a very narrow beam, and the “spider”, a device for picking locks.

When I had leisure to take notice of Joey, he seemed very quiet and to have become even more distant towards me as if it were my fault that he was being excluded. He went about looking bitter and noble, answering only when spoken to and then very curtly.

One afternoon a few weeks later, Joey, his father and I were finishing a spell underground and returning to the surface by way of a tunnel beneath Soho.

Suddenly Joey, who was carrying one of our two lanthorns, said: “I’m going another way fust. I’ll see you back at home.”

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This was a breach of the most fundamental rule — that you never ventured into the system alone — and we were so taken aback that he was almost out of sight round a curve before we acted.

We started after him but he had chosen his site well for when we rounded the corner no glimmer of his light was discernible. He had vanished into one of the many branch-tunnels which joined the main tunnel just here, and since it was impossible to guess which, we reluctantly gave up the search and made our way home.

Mr Digweed was as silent as usual, but his silence now was of a different kind. We had reached the surface and were making our way home along the Strand when he asked me to wait for him and went into a shop. He came out carrying a long cane stick.

When we got home and had washed and changed our clothes, there began an anxious period of waiting. After a couple of hours we heard a step at the street-door, but it turned out to be Mrs Digweed.

She came into the house in great excitement: “I’ve made friends of one of the laundry-maids!” she cried, but broke off when she saw our long faces: “Why, whatever’s amiss?”

We told her and she sat down heavily on the battered settle.

“What are the dangers?” she asked.

“The tide will have backed up by now,” said Mr Digweed. “If he loses his light or misses his step and hurts hisself …”

All thought of Mrs Digweed’s news was forgotten as we continued our anxious vigil. I wondered if Joey had gone back to Barney and speculated on the consequences for myself if he had. If only his parents had let him in on our design!

To our relief, however, he appeared a short time afterwards wearing a defiant and yet triumphant expression. Mrs Digweed threw herself at him and hugged him, though he was still in his filthy work-dress. Looking over her shoulder, Joey kept his eyes on his father.

Mr Digweed raised his cane: “I ain’t going to arst you what you thought you was doing because there ain’t no reason can make what you done right. You can tell me arterwards if you’ve a mind to.”

“I have a reason and a good ’un,” Joey said defiantly. “But I shan’t tell you. Not until I choose to.”

“When have I ever beaten you a-fore now, Joey?” Mr Digweed asked.

“The two times when I come back from Barney,” he said sullenly.

“Change them togs and wash,” his father said.

Joey hesitated and then went to obey. When he returned Mrs Digweed went upstairs saying she would change her own clothes. Since I had nowhere to go now, unless I went out, I stayed.

Joey stood in his shirt with his back to his father. Mr Digweed raised the cane and then brought it down upon his son’s shoulders and back. The blow was a hard one for Mr Digweed was gasping and Joey’s face was red and his lower lip trembling. Four times the stick rose and fell with a terrible crack across the youth’s back.

No word was spoken. Joey went and sat in a corner of the room. A few moments later, Mrs Digweed came down and shot a compassionate glance first at her son and then her husband.

“Now tell us what you’ve found out, old lady,” Mr Digweed said, still panting slightly.

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“I’ve got to know one of the young maids that works in the laundry there,” she began.

“Nellie she’s called. She sleeps over the laundry-house in the mews. She says that when she starts work in the morning she has to hammer and hammer at the back-door
to
wake the nightwatchman. He sleeps in the back-scullery which is the warmest place, and she says he’s always screwed by the time he arrives and then he falls fast asleep.”

Mr Digweed and I looked at each other with delight.

Mrs Digweed continued: “Once the butler has locked the house up for the night he gives the keys to the nightwatchman so that he can let in any of the fambly as comes in late. But when he thinks they’re all in, Nellie says he hides the keys for safety and goes to the scullery and shakes down. So if anyone wants to get in arter that they can’t unless they knocks up the coachman and grooms to get through the mews-door, and he leaves the door into the kitchen unlocked so they can get into the house from the yard.”

“Yes,” I said. “Miss Quilliam did that! So nothing has changed and the nightwatchman will pose no problem. The danger will be from the other servants. And of course being seen in the street.”

“But how shall you get in?” Mrs Digweed asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.

At this there was a strange noise from Joey, as if coming from deep in his throat.

Ignoring it, I said: “We will somehow have to enter by a window either at the front or the back of the house. But I wish there were a better way.”

The same sound came again from Joey’s throat and he exclaimed: “Hah, wouldn’t you jist like to know!”