Madame Flirt
pluck. Come to ogle the young trollop on the stage, I'll swear. If I
know anything about the hussy, she'll turn you down for the first spark
who flings a handful of guineas in her lap."
Jeremy's gruff rasping tones were heard all over the house. Polly and
Lucy were singing their duet "Would I might be hanged," and both cast
indignant looks at the side of the pit whence the interruption came. But
they could only hear, not see, so dimly was the theatre lighted.
Meanwhile Vane had sprung to his feet.
"You lie you ruffian," he shouted and his hand went to his sword.
The people in the front and back benches rose; the women screamed; one
of the theatre attendants who chanced to be near seized Rofflash who
struggled violently and swore loudly. Some of the audience came to the
attendant's assistance and the fellow was flung out. The uproar soon
subsided--it had not lasted more than a couple of minutes, the music
went on and Polly thought no more about it. She had not the slightest
idea that the chief actors in it so nearly concerned herself.
The sequel to the discomposing interruption was totally unpremeditated.
Polly was the "toast of the town," the idol of the sparks of fashion.
Their applause was uproarious when she and Lucy recommenced the duet,
but this sympathetic encouragement was not enough for the more ardent
spirits. When she issued from the stage door she found awaiting her a
bodyguard of young aristocrats dressed in the height of the mode and in
the gayest of colours. At her appearance every man's sword flashed from
its scabbard and was uplifted to do her honour.
Never was such a triumph. No wonder her heart bounded and her cheeks
flushed with pleasure. She smiled right and left and bowed; the rapiers
on either side crossed each other over her head and formed a canopy
under which she walked with a dainty grace. She was not permitted to
pass from beneath its shelter. The canopy kept pace with her, closing
behind. And in this way the procession set out to cross Lincoln's Inn
Fields amid cheers and shouts of "Pretty Polly Peachum!"
It would seem as though the services of Polly's protectors were not
wholly unneeded. As she emerged from the door and the gallants closed
round her there was a sudden movement in the mob, a fellow forced his
way through, hurling curses at anyone who tried to stop him. Apparently
his object was to get to a man standing close to the bodyguard. Anyway,
when the intruder was behind this man a woman's scream pierced the din
of voices, then came the report of a pistol and the man staggered. Those
nearest him, seized with panic, fell back and he sank to the ground.
A woman was seen to fling herself on her knees, bend over the body and
gaze into the face already becoming ashen. The next instant she sprang
to her feet, her features drawn, her eyes blazing. Pointing to the
assassin who was rushing through the crowd she begged someone to stop
him, but the big pistol he was flourishing deterred them.
"Cowards!" she screamed in fury. "Will no one seize a murderer? If
you're men you'll help me."
She made a wild rush in the direction the ruffian had taken and a score
or so of apprentices and a handful of Clare Market butchers recovering
from their surprise joined her.
Meanwhile Polly and her escort gaily went on their way. They were dimly
conscious of the affray but such occurrences at night and especially in
Lincoln's Inn Fields were frequent, and not one of the party heeded. How
indeed could Polly imagine that her romance had ended in a tragedy, that
the man lying so still, his white face upturned to the moonlit sky, was
her lover, Lancelot Vane--that the man who had done him to death was
Jeremy Rofflash--that the woman in hot chase of his murderer was Sally
Salisbury?
Rofflash had made for the network of courts and allies of Clare Market
hoping to double upon his pursuers and gain the Strand, and then hurry
to the Alsatia of Whitefriars. But some of those following knew the
intricacies of Clare Market better than Rofflash, and he twisted and
turned like a hunted hare, his difficulties momentarily increasing, for
as the excited mob fought their way through the narrow lanes their
numbers swelled. True, Jeremy Rofflash made his way to the Strand
without being captured, but he failed to reach Whitefriars. The Strand
and Fleet Street gave his pursuers a better chance. But because of his
pistol none dared touch him.
Despite his limp he could run. Along Ludgate skirting St. Paul's, he was
soon in Cheapside. By this time Sally Salisbury was nearly exhausted,
and in St. Paul's Churchyard she jumped into a hackney coach and shaking
her purse at the driver bade him join in the pursuit. The Poultry, the
Royal Exchange were left behind, but the coach--with Sally inside
continually calling upon the driver to go faster, at the same time
promising him any reward he liked to ask--gradually drew upon the
fugitive. The latter was close to the road leading to London Bridge, and
turning, he fired his second barrel at the horse and the animal stumbled
and fell.
Rofflash thought he was safe, but he was not aware that the leader of
his pursuers was Sally Salisbury and that she knew perfectly well why he
was running towards the bridge. She sprang from the now useless coach
and called upon the crowd to follow her. Meanwhile Rofflash had
distanced his pursuers.
"The apothecary's shop on London Bridge," she screamed.
Dr. Mountchance at that moment was engaged in what to him was his
greatest pleasure in life--counting his gold. He was in the midst of
this absorbing occupation when he heard three separate knocks at his
outside door given in a peculiarly distinctive way. He knew Jeremy's
signal and he hurried his gold into an iron bound coffer which he
locked.
"If the captain's made a good haul so much the better," he muttered.
"It's time he did. He's had the devil's bad luck of late."
The old man shuffled to the door and shot back the bolts. Rofflash
precipitated himself inside with such haste and violence that he nearly
upset Mountchance.
"Lock the door," he gasped. "Quick. I've a pack of hungry wolves at my
heels."
He leaned against a heavy piece of furniture hardly able to speak while
the apothecary hastily fastened the door. Scarcely had he finished than
yells and heavy footsteps were heard; there came heavy thuds and fierce
kicks followed by repeated hammering. The door was well protected by
iron panels and besides its bolts a stout iron bar from post to post
helped to make it secure.
The two men looked at each other and Mountchance trembled. The crowd
outside were not officers of the law, neither were they soldiery. What
had caused them to hunt down Rofflash? Not because he had committed a
robbery on the King's highway. The rabble had a secret sympathy with
highwaymen.
"What have you done?" whispered the old man through his white lips.
"Shot a man. It was a fair fight--or might have been had it come to a
tussle."
Mountchance knew Rofflash to be a hardened liar. The truth probably was
that he had committed a murder. But there was no time to argue the
point. To judge by the terrific blows which came at regular intervals
something much more formidable than an ordinary hammer was being used.
Then there was the sound of splintering wood. The door sturdy as it was
would not stand much more. As a matter of fact the mob had procured a
stout wooden beam from somewhere, twelve or fourteen feet long and were
making it serve as a battering-ram.
"Damnation! I'm not going to be trapped," roared Rofflash, "I know the
secret way to the chapel. You stay here and face 'em."
"No. If that murderous mob doesn't find you they'll turn upon me. I'm an
old man but they'll have no mercy," whined Mountchance.
"You fool. Can't you see that some one _inside_ the house must have
bolted and barred the door? If they don't find you they'll search until
they do. You must tell them that I'm not in the place--that you haven't
seen me. That'll satisfy 'em and they'll go away quickly."
"It's you that's the fool. Somebody must have seen you enter--how else
did they know you were here?"
Another ominous splintering noise, then the sharp crack of ripping wood.
"No more of this damned nonsense," muttered Rofflash, and swinging his
arm he gave Mountchance a blow with the flat of his hand, toppling him
over. Without waiting to see what injury he had inflicted Rofflash
rushed to a tall cabinet, entered it and closed the doors after him just
as a yell of savage joy was raised outside. The iron bar was still
across the entrance but there was a jagged aperture above and below. A
couple of seconds more and the cabinet was empty. Rofflash had
disappeared through a secret door at the back.
Mountchance's house, as already mentioned, was really an adjunct of St.
Thomas's chapel, so far at least as the foundation was concerned. This
foundation had once formed the lower chapel or crypt and was then the
only distinctive relic of the bridge built by Peter of Colechurch, in
the thirteenth century. Rofflash descended the uneven loose bricks of
the narrow winding staircase into the dungeon-like apartment. The stone
floor was not much above the level of the river at high tide and a
lancet window on each side of the bridge admitted a glimmer of light in
the day time. It was now pitch dark.
Rofflash groped his way over the slimy floor to a small door which he
knew opened on to an abutment between two arches. He only did this by
feeling the wall as he went. He hoped when outside to hail a passing
wherry. At any rate it was unlikely his hiding place would be discovered
by any of the mob.
In the meantime the shop and room above were filled with a rabble more
than half of which was out for plunder. Mountchance was lying on the
floor unconscious, but no one bothered about him. In the opinion of some
it was perhaps as well, as he would be unable to prevent them doing as
they liked. This opinion was not held by Sally Salisbury. She was
convinced Rofflash was in the house though she had not seen him actually
enter. It angered her to think that Mountchance who could have told her
anything was as good as dead. She called upon the crowd to search for
the murderer but they turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. They were
much more interested in looting the place; and finding the iron bound
coffer and hearing the chink of coin within, they attacked it savagely
and succeeded in smashing the lock.
The sight of gold was too much for them. They scrambled, they fought,
they trampled upon each other. The yellow metal acted upon them like
strong drink. In the midst of the pandemonium came a deafening
explosion, a vivid flash of red, a volume of acrid suffocating vapour.
Another explosion and men came rushing from Mountchance's
laboratory--terror written in their faces. Helter-skelter the crowd
darted from the house forcing Sally Salisbury with them whether she
would or not. In the mad fight for gold large glass bottles filled with
acids, alcohol and other inflammable liquids had been upset and smashed,
and the smouldering fire in the furnace did the rest. What with the
bundles of dried herbs which burnt like so much tinder and the woodwork,
the panelled walls and furniture, nothing could save the house.
In the hurry and scramble Sally had been wedged against the wall
surmounting the central and largest arch. Upon this arch no house had
been built. Below the spot where she was held a prisoner the river was
rushing with its monotonous roar as if rejoicing at or indifferent to
the terrible tragedy above. At first she saw nothing but clouds of
suffocating smoke pouring from the windows, then showers of sparks
floating downwards and vanishing in the water, and finally tongues of