Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 15

The ill-fated weaver who had succumbed to the injuries received in the mill in which he worked was a man of steady habits, an excellent husband and father, and altogether a worthy member of society. He was, in consequence, greatly respected in the town. A committee of influential persons was formed for the purpose of carrying out successfully all the necessary arrangements for the forthcoming concert.

Peace, who was to a certain extent popular with a section of the operatives, was introduced to Mr. Knight, the musical director of the proposed entertainment. At the first interview a discussion took place as to the part he was to play on the eventful evening. He tried over several difficult pieces with the pianist, who professed himself well satisfied with the burglar’s ability.

“I see you have paid some attention to chamber or classic music, as well as sacred,” observed Mr. Knight.

“I commenced with sacred,” returned Peace, and always took great delight in both, but at the same time it doesn’t go down with the multitude so well as livelier strains, such as ballads, music-hall songs, and nigger melodies.”

“We are most of us aware of that,” observed the director and pianist, “and hence it is that we purpose dividing the entertainment into two or three parts. The first will be devoted to the better class of music, both sacred and secular; the next will be a mixed entertainment, consisting of varieties of various descriptions. You can, of course, appear in one or both parts. The first we shall have no difficulty in arranging. Your assistance will be required in several pieces which I may say are of exceptional beauty, and will require very careful rendering. We must have a few rehearsals before appearing in public. Can you find time to attend these?”

“I will make it my business to do so.”

“Good. And now, as to the second part, Mr. Peace?”

“I leave it to your better judgment, sir.”

“Nay, I think you are the best qualified to determine as to that,” returned his companion, courteously.

“If I might suggest, then,” said Peace, “I will come on as a nigger, give a sort of medley on the violin, and finish up by performing on one string only. I have been tolerably successful in this, and find it generally pleases the people.”

“I’ve no doubt it does. We’ve got a young gentleman—​a volunteer—​who is well up in nigger melodies. Would you like him to assist you in this part of the performance?”

“Yes, most certainly. He will black his face, I suppose?”

“Oh, most willingly; nothing would please him better. I will introduce you to him, and there will be but little difficulty, I think, about the matter. You can consult together.”

The preliminaries being satisfactorily settled, nothing remained but the rehearsals.

These Peace attended with unvarying punctuality, and the several performers got tolerably perfect before the night on which they were to appear.

A large building—​one of the parish schoolrooms, and which was frequently made use of as a lecture hall, was placed at the disposal of the managing committee.

Bills containing a programme of the performance were posted all over the town, and on these the name of Charles Peace figured as the “Modern Paganini,” who would, by special desire, perform on one string only, after the manner of his great predecessor.

Little did those who purchased tickets for the concert imagine that they were about to listen to the performance of one of the greatest and most notorious burglars of modern times.

Peace at this time was led or rather fell into good society; and he was too astute and cunning a rascal to show the cloven foot. He was discreet and very proper in his conduct, and indeed it may be said that he was highly popular in the select circle in which he moved.

Peace throughout his career was fond of notoriety—​this has been evidenced in the latter part of his sinful life—​and he looked forward with something like pleasure to the evening upon which he was to appear in conjunction with some worthy and honourable gentlemen who were acting in unison in the cause of charity.

The Bradford people, in common with those of Birmingham, Liverpool, Norwich, and other manufacturing towns, love music for music’s sake; this is evidenced by the enormous gatherings at the festivals held at these great centres.

The assertion made by people of other nations that the English are not a musical people is without a shadow of foundation—​this fact is well known to all who are conversant with the subject.

When the doors were opened at the schoolroom in which the entertainment was to take place crowds of persons rushed forward to obtain seats. The area was filled in an incredibly short space of time.

By the time the performance commenced the whole place was full from floor to roof.

Bessie Dalton, in company with Mrs. Bristow, the wife of an artisan residing in the parlours of the house in which Peace lived, had taken up her station at the entrance some half an hour or more before the public were admitted.

Bessie and Mrs. Bristow therefore contrived to get a tolerably good position in the fourth row of the area.

A young man, evidently moving in a superior class to themselves, had been of essential service to the two females in protecting them from the pressure of the crowd during their progress towards the entrance.

He took a seat beside them.

After waiting patiently for some considerable time the audience began to be restive.

Many began to hammer on the boards with their feet, while others clapped their hands.

“Hush! silence! order!” exclaimed several voices.

“What are they making a noise for?” inquired Bessie, of the gentleman by her side.

“Oh! it is time the performance commenced,” he answered, “and the people are getting impatient. They ought not to do so, seeing that the performers give their services gratuitously; and that, moreover, many of them are novices, and, perhaps, appear publicly this evening for the first time.”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Bristow. “People are so inconsiderate—​so unreasonable.”

These were stereotyped phrases which the speaker was accustomed to make use of on every occasion.

The gentleman merely nodded his acquiescence to the proposition.

A burst of applause announced the appearance of a young man on the platform, who proceeded in a most deliberate manner to place the piano in a better position. When this had been done he placed some music on the instrument, and drew forth a small music-stand, which he furnished in a similar manner.

Having completed these arrangements he retired.

A titter was heard in the house as he left.

Nobody knew why or wherefore.

Mr. Knight now came forward.

He was well known to most of those present, and, as a natural consequence, he was loudly cheered.

He bowed, and then sat down to the piano.

He played a difficult piece by Mendelssohn in a masterly manner. It was too long to encore, so they contented themselves with applauding it.

The performer still retained his position at the instrument.

A group of choristers entered. These were composed of boys and adults.

They sang a selection from the “Messiah” in a way which appeared to give great satisfaction, some portions of it being encored.

Two other performers now made their appearance, the first being Charles Peace, the other a tall gentleman, whose name was not announced; he, however, bore in his hands a bass viol.

Two chairs were brought forward in close proximity with the piano, and on these the musicians sat.

After the usual formula of scraping and twanging the strings, one of Beethoven’s magnificent symphonies was attacked—​to use a newspaper phrase.

It was played with great feeling, being, in fact, a gem to those who could appreciate first-class music.

It was re-demanded.

“That was well played—​was it not, sir?” said Bessie, to the gentleman.

“Oh, dear, yes; highly creditable to all three of the performers—​exceedingly good!”

While this had been going on, Peace appeared to be a little disconcerted. Despite the encore, he arose from his seat, and was about to make a precipitate retreat; but Mr. Knight signified by a movement of his hand and head that the symphony was to be repeated. Notwithstanding this, Peace still hesitated.

At length he returned to his seat.

Many persons attributed his manner to timidity, and the tender-hearted gave him a vociferous round of applause by way of encouragement.

They were, however, quite mistaken in their surmise.

Timidity was not one of Peace’s characteristics.

There was another and more potent reason for his trepidation.

It was this.

In one of the side boxes sat an elderly gentleman and a young lady.

The features of the last-named were familiar to the violinist.

She was the beautiful and ravishing creature whom he had seen slumbering at the millionaire’s house on the night of the burglary.

She was within a few paces of him, being in one of the lower boxes, and she looked the very personification of female loveliness.

Peace was bewildered. He did play his part in the symphony, and he played it well, but it was a desperate struggle to get through it. Any other man placed in a similar position must certainly have broken down.

And as it was Peace was very nearly doing so.

He would have given anything he was possessed of to have been spared this trial, for most assuredly it was the greatest trial he had as yet experienced.

He had in a measure recovered his confidence when the symphony was given for the second time; nevertheless he kept casting furtive glances in the direction of the box in which the young lady was seated.

The performers bowed and retired.

“Three pieces have been successfully got through, and as yet there has been no apology,” said a young man behind Bessie and her companion.

“What do you mean?” observed another of the audience.

“Why, only this—​that in entertainments of this sort, where amateurs are to appear, there is generally some hitch, some mistake, and as a natural consequence an apology has to be made.”

“Oh, no doubt we shall have one before the evening is over.”

A young lady was now led on by the director. She had a piece of music in her hand, which shook and trembled like an aspen bough agitated by a passing breeze.

It was painfully evident that she was nervous, and those who have experienced that sensation upon facing an audience for the first time will, I am sure, pity her.

She was set down in the programme for Haydn’s canzonet, “My mother bids me bind my hair.”

Luckily for her the piece in question has a lovely introductory pianoforte prelude. This gave the singer time to recover her first shock at seeing the sea of heads before her.

There was no help for it—​she had to commence. The prelude was over, and in faltering accents she began to warble Haydn’s plaintive music. But her throat was dry and husky—​a thing by no means uncommon with nervous singers, and even the applause she received did not appear to lubricate it.

It was evident she had a magnificent organ—​I say organ advisedly, as it is a term invariably made use of by musical critics, and if they don’t know who should? Vulgar, commonplace people would perhaps call it a voice, but that’s no matter; organ is the “properer” term, as Artemus Ward would say.

The young lady, however, could not possibly display her full powers in consequence of timidity; yet she did contrive to get through the piece creditably. In the morning she had sung it in Mr. Knight’s room magnificently.

But despite her shortcomings the audience encored her.

She, however, bowed and retired.

There was a clamour for her return.

The director had to rise from his seat for the purpose of bringing her back, but she declined.

The clamour continued.

Mr. Knight apologised, and pleaded indisposition, a cold, and hence the young lady’s inability to repeat the canzonet.

The tumult was hushed.

Charles appeared—​he was accompanied this time by a harpist.

A trio for harp, piano, and violin. This proved to be a very taking piece; it seemed to give general satisfaction.

It was encored.

It was not, however, repeated, the performers substituting another in its stead. This was done to give a greater variety to the entertainment.

After another song and a harp solo, the first part was brought to a conclusion by the choir singing a magnificent chorus from one of the oratorios.

While all this had been going on, the young man or gentleman it might be, who sat beside Bessie, was unremitting in his attentions to her and her companion, Mrs. Bristow, who, albeit a married woman, was not much older than the girl.

In the second part of the performance Peace made a still greater impression on the audience, who applauded him to the very echo.

After two or three popular ballads had been sung, he and another young man came forward with their faces blacked, as a couple of nigger delineators. After some patter, in which some old jokes were given, Peace commenced a mild and meek-like prelude on the violin, his companion the while working vigorously on the concertina.

The sounds he produced from his instrument were so novel, not to say bewildering, that the house was convulsed with laughter. He imitated animals, the shriek of the railway whistle, the noise of a passing train, and a variety of other noises which were familiar to all persons present.

After which he threw aside all the strings of the instrument save one, and upon this he played, a la Paganini. Of course no one present had heard his great predecessor, and most persons took it for granted that the performance of the black gentleman before them was most wonderful. It was certainly received with greater favour than many admirably performed pieces in the earlier part of the evening.

When the two niggers left the stage there was a general clamour for their reappearance.

They returned and favoured the company by giving a few more specimens of their musical eccentricities.

The concert was universally acknowledged to be a great success. It was brought to a close by a well-known elocutionist delivering a parting address, which a local poet had written especially, as a conclusion to the evening’s entertainment.

The chairman of the committee then came forward, and thanked all present for their attendance.

After partaking of some of the wine and other refreshments provided for the performers by the managing committee, Peace prepared to take his departure; but he did not find it so easy to get away, there were so many persons present who sought to detain him.

In addition to his brother artists, who were by this time loquacious enough, he had to run the fire of many of the town’s folk, who were very profuse in their thanks for the diligence and attention he had displayed in furthering the ends of charity. Some who had partaken pretty freely of the champagne went further, and spoke in laudatory terms of his talent.

He was, of course, greatly flattered by these encomiums, as many better men have been under similar circumstances both before and since; but he was uneasy, and was desirous of beating a retreat.

There was good reason for this. The young lady whose acquaintance he made for the first time at Dudley Hill was among the throng of persons in the little room, which had been placed at the disposal of the artists.

There was something so heavenly and bewitching in the expression of the face of this fair young creature that Peace felt abashed and crest-fallen in her presence. He found it impossible to meet the glance of her dark, lustrous eyes without quailing. Conscious of his own weakness in this respect, he was fearful lest it might be observed by others.

He therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself, passed out of the room unobserved, and crept along the passage towards the side door, by means of which he gained the street.

Then he breathed again more freely.

He saw Bessie Dalton and Mrs. Bristow some distance ahead, in company with a gentleman, and walked on quickly, that he might overtake them; but his progress was checked by a shabby, dilapidated-looking man addressing him—

“Be your name Peace, sir?” inquired that personage.

“Maybe it is, and maybe it is not. What matters it to you?”

“I’ve got a letter.”

“Indeed. Who from?”

“I don’t know the party’s name, but he said I was to give it to you.”

Peace snatched a dirty piece of paper from the speaker’s hand, opened it, and read the following words, which were written in a miserable scrawl—

“Dear Charlie,—​‘Cheeks’ (a flash name for an accomplice) is nabbed—​want to see you—​am at the ‘Bag o’ Nails’—​hard by—​bearer will show you where it is—​don’t delay. Yours, Cooney.”

“Here in this town,” muttered Peace to himself. “How can he have possibly guessed? Why, of course, my name in the bills. Curse it, I must have been mad to play in my own name.”

“Any answer, sir?” said the man, touching his forehead.

“Answer. Well, yes, I s’pose so. He wants to see me. Where’s this house, the ‘Bag o’ Nails?’”

“Not a quarter of a mile from here.”

“Very good, then I’ll go at once with you.”

Peace and his dilapidated companion walked on in silence for some time; they threaded three of the dingiest and most miserable streets in the town. The locality was in consonance with the character of the tinker.

“Do you know the person who gave you that letter?” said Peace.

“I’ve seen him once or twice before, I think. Don’t know much on him. Guv’nor does, I believe.”

“Umph. Has he been long in the town?”

“Came yesterday, I b’lieve.”

They now arrived in front of a dirty-looking beershop, which was the house they were bound for. The man, who was potman to the establishment, led the way in. He passed the bar, and pointed to a room in the rear of the premises.

Peace entered. A solitary person was in the apartment. This was Cooney.

“Well,” said Peace, offering his hand, “we meet again once more. How goes it with you?”

“Precious bad—​jolly bad; haven’t got a stiver. Am bust up—​that’s how I am.”

Peace took hold of one of the ricketty wooden chairs, which he drew towards the fire, and sat down beside his quondam pal.

“You managed to give ’em the slip, then?” said Cooney, with a chuckle. “But the old un’s grabbed.”

“So I’ve heard. It was a bad night’s work altogether.”

“Aye, that it was.”

“How did you manage to get away?”

“I gave ’em the double,” returned the tinker, with a grin. “I’ll tell yer all about it another time, if so be ye’re interested in a miserable bloke like me, which aint at all likely, seeing as how yer a-keeping company with the hupper classes.”

There was a tone of irony in the man’s manner which jarred upon the feelings of Peace, who, however, thought it best to take no notice of it.

“We’d better have something to drink first, and then I can hear what you have to say,” remarked Peace, as he touched the bell.

Glasses of grog were ordered and promptly served. Peace paid for the liquor, and gave the potman a shilling as a gratuity.

“Here’s to our noble selves,” said the tinker, raising his glass to his lips. “Ah, that does a cove a world o’ good!”

“Well, now, then, we’ll proceed to business,” observed Peace. “You’re hard up.”

“I’m done up—​bust up, and ha’ been pretty nigh starving. That’s how I am, and seeing as how I aint got bite nor sup—​same what we’ve jest now had in—​I’ve made so bold as to lay my case afore one who won’t send me away empty-handed—​leastways not if he ’ave the means to hold a ’elping ’and to a pal vot’s in distress.”

“I’m in no very good position myself, but whatever I can spare you are welcome to.”

“Blessed if I didn’t say so. I know’d it—​vot yer can do you vill do.”

“Yes, here’s a quid for your immediate wants. It’s all I can spare now, for I must tell you I’ve cut the old game—​don’t intend to have any more of it.”

“Oh, goin’ to do the respectable, eh?” said Cooney, with a very low whistle. “That’s yer game, is it?”

“Yes, I am at work now at my old business, and to that I intend to stick. No more night work for me—​it’s a deal too risky.”

“Vell, perhaps you are right. But I say, old boy, can you spare another quid?”

“Yes, provided you leave the town and don’t bother me any more.”

“Oh, ye’ve no call to be afeard. I aint a-goin’ to stay in this here place—​not if I know it.”

“Good—​then here’s the other.”

“Thanks—​you’re a good fellow Charlie, arter all, but I ’spose yer’ll be glad to get shut o’ me—​eh? Here the speaker winked his eye.

“Well, you see we are on a different lay now.”

“Right yer are, old man. Vell, there, I aint a-goin’ to bother yer; so make yer mind easy on that score, but the old un, Charlie, it’s duced hard lines wi’ him.”

“Ah, he’s charged with murder—​is he not?”

“Sartin shure he is.”

“How came that about?”

“I’ll tell yer. Yer see, the Badger, some years ago, cracked a crib in the country, and, as ill luck would ha’ it, jest as he vos a-making off with the swag who should cross his path but the blessed old fool hisself. He’d up an’ give him one for hisself. A young man as vos a-keeping company vith the servant rushes forward and ketches ’old o’ Gregson. Vell, there the two vere struggling like anythink on the grass plat, and Gregson couldn’t get away not no how, although he tried his utmost.”

“Couldn’t get away?”

“No, I’m blessed if he could—​leastways, that’s what I’ve heerd. Vell, vot does the Badger do but he whips out his knife, and stabs t’other chap to the heart? Then the gal comes at him, and clutches hold of his throat. He managed to shake her off, but you see he left a something behind—​the handkercher he wore round his neck and the knife.”

“What has that to do with the affair at Oakfield House?”

“Ah! it’s a deal to do wi’ it—​it has. You shall hear. The last part on it is like a play—​better nor any play, that’s what it is. Yer see, as I said afore, the Badger gets clean away, a reward is offered by Guv’nment, likewise a reward by the old bloke—​him as was robbed and knocked down in the passage. The bobbies set to work, the whole biling on ’em, but they never got the blind side of the old un. Vell, this is six year ago—​aye, more than six year it is now, and a durin’ them six years the gal has had but one thought—​this was to ketch the murderer of her love, and she’s a done it, Charlie—​there aint no mistake about that ’ere—​she done it. The Badger, like a fool, fired a pistol at random when he were in that bedroom. The gal sees his face by the pistol’s flash, and she shoots him down—​that’s what she does.”

“Of course we know he was shot, but I did not know who by.”

“By the gal, I tell yer. She’s been afore the magistrates, and has sworn to him like anythink, and she means to hang him—​leastways, it won’t be any fault of her’s if he doesn’t swing. Ah! it’s all up with the Badger,” said Cooney, with a sigh, at the same time draining off the liquor left in his glass.

“It’s a bad bisness—​a precious bad bisness, there aint no manner o’ doubt on’t.”

“It is, indeed,” returned Peace; “but it is a lesson to both of us—​a lesson I hope you will profit by.”

“Oh, there aint no call for you to preach, or to try and make me better nor I am. But I am sorry for the old un—​he was always square enough with me—​always.”

“I tell you, Cooney, sadly and seriously, that if you don’t intend to profit by the warning already given to both of us, I shall; and I advise you to follow my example.”

“Oh, I’ll profit by it one way or t’other; I sed as how it ed come to this sooner or later, he was so rash, so headstrong. Didn’t I always say that I liked to do business in a quiet sort o’ way? Answer me that.”

“I admit you did,” said Peace in a conciliatory tone of voice. “But now we must part—​I durst not stay any longer,” he added rising from his seat.

“Are yer agoin’?”

“Yes, you don’t want anything more of me.”

“No, not a morsel. I’m thankful enough for what yer have given me—​but I say, Charlie, you’re a knockin’ up a tidy business in the town, aint yer?”

“Oh no; but very middling at present. What are your movements?”

“I leave to-morrow morning—​and so good-bye and good luck to yer.”

The two companions in crime shook hands and parted.

Peace when he reached the street, walked on as fast as possible. He was greatly relieved when he lost sight of the beershop in which this interview had taken place.

Peace greatly regretted having had anything to do with the Badger or his jackall, Cooney. This association with others of an equally lawless character had doubtless a marked influence on his late career. He had got into trouble more than once through evil and lawless companions; hence it was that he afterwards went alone upon his predatory and nocturnal visits; and these, as it afterwards transpired, were singularly successful and lucrative.