Charles Peace by Anonymous

1218 Pages·2021·6.72 MB·English

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Charles Peace, by Anonymous

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost
and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the
Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title:Charles Peace

or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar

Author: Anonymous

Release Date: May 29, 2021 [eBook #65464]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: Carol Brown, Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet
Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES PEACE ***

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was originally published in 100 weekly installments. The volume number of each issue is provided

as a sidenote, highlighted in light grey, occasionally mid-paragraph. Illustrations that appeared at the beginning of
each issue were moved to the nearest paragraph break. Additional notes are at the end of the book.

CHARLES PEACE

OR THE

ADVENTURES OF A NOTORIOUS BURGLAR

Illustration: CHARLES PEACE.

CHARLES PEACE.

No. 1.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

Charles Peace alias John Ward, whose life and adventures form the subject-matter of our story, has gained

for himself a reputation equal, if not superior, to the lawless ruffians, Jack Sheppard, Dick Turpin, and others of a
similar class. He is a union of various elements.

In more senses than one he was a local character. Born in Sheffield he was, in early days, trained according to

the customs of the day, and when about eight or ten years of age was one of the foremost amongst his
companions in any game of audacious fun.

He was always considered a “rough,” even amongst his earlier associates, and it is said that he was dreaded

by the children with whom he played. At ten years of age he had to assist his father who was named Joseph
Peace, in the earning of the daily bread for the family.

Mr. Joseph Peace was a man well respected. He was what is known in Sheffield as a “little master,” but in

commercial terms would be placed as a “file manufacturer.” He had a large family, and amongst his children was
this lad, who has achieved such notoriety in the world.

Charles Peace, from his very boyhood, was wild. It is said that there was no adventure to be undertaken in

regard to which he had any fear; neither did he require twice telling when he was requested to lead the way in any
mischievous plot.

Mr. Joseph Peace was a man of religious inclinations, and was a member of the Wesleyan body. He occupied

a house in George-street, Langsett-road, a thoroughfare which is now known as Gilpin-street.

He had a taste for music, and played the “bass” at the Wesleyan Chapel, Owlerton. When ten years of age

Charles Peace commenced to take lessons on the violin, his instructor being his father, who rather prided himself
on the way he could play the double-bass.

His son Charles was a diligent pupil, and ultimately, having acquired a proficiency in the instrument, he started

in life as a sort of successor to Paganini—fiddling most successfully on one string, and only failing to achieve some
distinction because he lacked the patience which was necessary to make the stage his “field of fame.”

Yet he was always an artist.

If he did not discern for himself a sufficiently splendid career in art, amateur violinists who lived in the

neighbourhood of Greenwich, Peckham, or Blackheath had sufficient reason to regret Mr. Charles Peace’s
devotion to music.

They found that some undiscovered burglar was abroad who had a good taste in the selection of fine

instruments.

Mr. Peace indeed had a passion for violins; and if he spared a service of plate sometimes, he was never

known to leave a really good fiddle behind.

He was distinguished, too, by his general cultivation and by his devotion to the fair sex. As his good fortune

grew, so did the number of inamoratas increase, yet he never seems to have really deserted the wife whom he
married.

In housekeeping his taste was luxurious, and he invariably moved into more aristocratic neighbourhoods as he

prospered in the art and mystery of burglary. And here comes out the singular phase of his character.

There is no doubt his fame and fortune as a housebreaker culminated in the period between the Bannercross

murder and his apprehension at Blackheath; but he appears to have previously enjoyed a reputation as a
cracksman.

How does it happen, then, that he could settle down to the life of a picture-frame maker at Sheffield?

The circumstances would not be so mysterious if he had not really made picture-frames; but it appears that he

actually worked at the trade. There is some mystery here which requires to be explained. It is difficult to believe
Peace turned honest in a fit of repentance; he would, in all probability, have some other object, which has not yet
been made clear.

But, indeed, Peace’s character in Sheffield is altogether in singular contrast with his character as exhibited

elsewhere. His behaviour to the Dysons, as it was described in Mrs. Dyson’s evidence, was very much like that
of a lunatic.

There appears to have been a singular absence of motive, both for his general conduct and the murder which

he is said to have committed. Instead of being the ingenious and cautious Charles Peace of the London burglaries,
he is simply an indiscreet and violent criminal.

Equally in contrast was his behaviour on the two occasions when he appeared in the prisoners’ dock. In

London he was whining and supplicatory; in Sheffield he was reckless and defiant. This change may, perhaps, be
accounted for on the grounds that he had a chance in one case, and no chance in the other; but other
contradictions in his character are not so easily explained.

Without doubt he was a cunning, bold, and fearless scoundrel of the old heroic type. The history of his many

exploits, of his clever disguises, of his extraordinary escapes from punishment, and of the success with which for
many years he contrived to live on burglary, even in these days, when we have a large and well-organised police
force, cannot fail to excite surprise in the minds of every citizen.

His career is almost unique in the annals of crime. Not only the boldness and skill which he showed in

committing his depredations, but his remarkable success in eluding the vigilance of the police, must be regarded as
being altogether uncommon. Working entirely alone in his burglarious course, he seemed to command success.

We are told that even dogs felt the influence of his power, and failed to give any alarm on his approach. As for

locks, bolts, and other means of security, Peace simply laughed at them. If he made up his mind to get into a
house he got into it, and the booty which he appropriated was exceedingly valuable.

Probably many of the stories which are told of his exploits have only an element of truth, but the sub-stratum

on which they rest is doubtless constituted of actual facts. Scarcely less remarkable than his success as a burglar
was the skill with which he contrived to escape detection by the police.

Although he had been living openly in London, walking even into Scotland-yard itself, he was not recognised

as Mr. Dyson’s murderer; and his eventual detection was owing to the accident of his capture at Blackheath.

Peace certainly possessed remarkable ability in effecting an almost impenetrable disguise. He has boasted of

his contempt for the police, and his confidence seems to have been abundantly justified.

The history of his life presents a combination of passion, craft, cruelty, great spite, and audacity, such as is

rarely to be found in any single being.

But Peace has boasted of his ability to deceive the most astute constable or detective. As a proof of this we

quote the following personal narrative of one of his old pals. We give it in the words of the narrator:—

“Once on a time, no matter where, no matter when, Charley Peace told me the whole story of his

life after that little indiscretion which resulted in the death of Mr. Dyson, at Bannercross.

“It is a narrative of events which have never yet been made known to the public. It presents points

of uncommon interest, for everybody has wanted to know how he escaped on that fatal night—how
he was disguised, where he went, and how he has lived, down to the days when he reappeared at
Peckham, and spent his days and nights after the manner now familiar to the public through the special
commissioner of the Independent.

“I shall not trench on the latter well-known period. But I shall fill up the blank in his biography with

these autobiographical episodes, for they are almost entirely his own words. I give to you, Mr. Editor,
ample credentials to convince you that this is a genuine narrative, for I know, by the way you have
stood former tests, that wild horses will not make you break confidence.

“So nobody need take the trouble to come fishing about either you or me for further ‘information.’

“Imagine, then, a circle of choice spirits assembled round Charles Peace, under circumstances

calculated to make him loquacious.

“‘They talk,’ said he, ‘about identifying me! Why I could dodge any bobby living! I have dodged

all the detectives in London many a time. I have walked past them, looked them straight in the face;
and they have thought I was a mulatto.’

“Then he asked us if we knew how he did it; and said ‘Just turn your faces away a minute, and I’ll

show you.’

“We turned our heads away, and when we looked again we found he had completely altered the

expression of his countenance, and so entirely distorted and disfigured it—​save the mark!—​that he did
not look like the same man.

“He threw out his under jaw, contracted the upper portion of his face, and appeared to be able so

to force the blood up into his head as to give himself the appearance of a mulatto.

“Then he laughed heartily at his cleverness; went through pantomimic gestures that would have

done credit to ‘Quilp,’ and again boasted of the many times he had ‘put on that face,’ and walked
past the cute detectives in London and elsewhere.

“We then made allusion to the clever way in which he dodged the police and got away from

Sheffield on the night of the murder; and he at once went off into a long story of his escape, telling it

with almost fiendish glee, and occasionally laughing joyously at his exploits. He said:—

“‘After that affair at Bannercross I went straight over the field opposite, and through Endcliffe

Wood to Crookes, and round by Sandygate. Then I doubled and came down to Broomhill, and there
I took a cab and was driven down to the bottom of Church-street.

“‘I got out and walked into Spring-street, to the house of an old pal. There I doffed my own

clothes and disguised myself. I stopped there a short time, and then I went boldly through the streets
to the railway station, and took train for Rotherham. I walked from that station down to Masbro’,
where I took a ticket for Beverley.

“‘On reaching Normanton I left the train, retaining my ticket, and took a ticket for York, where I

put up that night. The next morning I went to Beverley, and then walked on to Hull.

“‘I got in an eating house near the docks, where I stopped a considerable time, and did a ‘bit of

work’—​(meaning, of course, committed a few robberies).

“‘Then I went to Leeds, and from Leeds to Bradford; and from Bradford I went to Manchester. I

was there a short time and then I went to Nottingham; and in a lodging house there I picked up Mrs.
Thompson.

“‘Whilst we were together one night, an inspector, who had heard I was there and suspected I was

a “fence,” came and said to the landlady—“You have got a lodger here—have you not?” She said,
“Yes, he is upstairs.”

“‘He said he wanted to see me, and upstairs he came into our bedroom. When I saw him I said,

“Hullo!” He answered, “Where do you come from?” and I told him from Tunbridge Wells. “What is
your name?” he asked. “John Ward,” said I. “Well,” he said, “what trade are you?”

“‘At that I let out and said, “What’s that to you what trade I am? What do you want to know for?”

“‘He told me he wanted an answer. “Then,” said I, “if you do I’ll give you one—I am a hawker!”

“Oh,” said he, “a hawker. Have you got any stock?”

“‘I told him my stock and licence were downstairs, and if he would step down my wife and I

would come and show him all. He was as soft as barm and went down.

“‘I said to Mrs. Thompson, “I must hook it,” and, hastily dressing myself, I bolted through the

window and dropped into a yard, where I encountered a man, who was surprised to see me. I told
him there was a screw loose, and the bobbies were after me with a warrant for neglecting my wife and
family. I asked him not to say I had gone that way. He promised he would not.

“‘To leave the yard I had to go through the passage of a public-house, and at the door stood the

landlady. She was frightened to see me without stockings or boots on; but when I told her the same
tale as I had told the man in the yard she said it was all right, and I passed on.

“‘I took refuge in a house not forty yards from that I had left, and in a short time I got the woman

who kept it to go for my boots, and she brought them.

“‘Soon after that I did a “big silk job” in Nottingham, and then, finding the place was getting too

hot for me, I left it and went back to Hull. I had made several visits there before, and had given my
wife money to maintain her.’

“Peace then told us how he paid no less than three visits to Sheffield after the murder, and more

than once encountered one of the most astute and experienced inspectors of the force, but his disguise
was so perfect that he passed unnoticed.

“Whilst in Sheffield he committed, he said, several robberies, and he particularly called attention to

his adventures in a house at the corner of Havelock-square. ‘Do you mean,’ we asked, ‘at
Barnascone’s,’ and he said, ‘Yes, that was the place. The family were out, and there I did very well. I
got several rings, and brooches, and £6 in gold. The policeman said he saw me, but he didn’t. I saw
him and blocked him, and he never saw me.’

“Peace declared to us that he was in Sheffield when the inquest was held on Mr. Dyson.

Afterwards he returned to Nottingham, picked up with Mrs. Thompson, and went on to London with
her, where his life and exploits are now matter of history.

“Peace went on to mention the names of several Sheffield people whom he met at different periods

in London; and that part of his astonishing story has been confirmed in a remarkable degree by one of
the persons himself.

“More than a quarter of a century ago he worked in Sheffield with Mr. William Fisher—in those

days known as Bill Fisher—and they remembered each other very well. One day Mr. Fisher was

walking across the Holborn-viaduct, when he saw the well-remembered figure approaching him.

“Their eyes met, and Mr. Fisher exclaimed—‘That’s Peace!’ He turned to look again, but Peace

had disappeared as if by magic, and was nowhere to be seen. About a week after, Mr. Fisher was
going down the steps leading from Holborn to Farringdon-street, and about midway he again
encountered Peace.

“Mr. Fisher gave information to the Sheffield police, and the news was sent to Scotland-yard that

Peace was in London.

“‘But what,’ said Peace, ‘was the use of that, when I could walk under their very noses and not be

recognised?’

“Again a demoniacal grin overspread his face, and again he went through a series of pantomimic

gestures, and set us all laughing.

“It has been conceded that he could be exceedingly good company when he liked, and we assure

you he had our attention whilst he related these, the most extraordinary chapters in his history.”

The personal appearance of Peace is thus described by one who paid a visit to Newgate while the burglar was

awaiting his trial. He is a man about 5 ft. 3 in., with white hair on his head, cut very close, and bald in front of the
head; but the razor had lately done this.

His eyebrows are heavy and overhanging the eyes, which are deeply sunk in their sockets; a chin standing very

prominently—and, as if to make it more so, the head was thrown back with an air of half self-assertion, yet half-
caution.

The lower part of his cheek-bones protruded more than was their wont in years gone by; but he had

apparently some bruises recently, and had had his whiskers shaven off since he was last seen at Sheffield.

In addition he wore a pair of large brass-rimmed spectacles. Peace was professedly a religious man. The

neighbourhood thought him so, and probably he thought so, too; so he associated with the good folk who
congregated in the edifice, but never made himself conspicuous.

He trifled with Fate. She had made him rich in worldly goods, although they were not his own. Some idea of

the magnitude of his operations may be gathered from the fact that there is evidence in the hands of the police that
would convict him of no less than fifty burglaries.

The property he obtained is valued at several thousand pounds, but the burglar as a rule does not realise even

one-fourth of the value of the property he appropriates.

The charges of “receivers” in every branch of the profession are of an unusual character, but it has been

asserted upon reliable authority that he was a burglar years before the events which have made him so notorious.

It is quite twenty years since he worked at a rolling mill at Millsands, and it was while following this

employment that he broke his leg. This accident appears to have thoroughly disgusted him with hard work, and as
soon as the injuries were cured he went to Manchester.

Here he appears to have fallen into bad company, and to have been the leading spirit of a gang of burglars. In

the small hours of the morning Peace and his confederates were tracked to a lonely house at Rusholme, and the
police succeeded in obtaining an entrance.

After a desperate struggle Peace was secured, and a great quantity of the stolen property was recovered, but

not before the officers had been severely handled. At Old Trafford he was sent to penal servitude, but he played
the “good boy” and was let out on a ticket-of-leave.

After his Old Trafford sentence he returned to Sheffield and took a small shop in Kenyon-alley. Here he used

to amuse his acquaintances by showing them the dexterity with which he could pick the most stubborn lock. He
soon resumed his old courses, and made the acquaintance of Millbank.

The career of the notorious culprit whose doings are chronicled in this work furnishes the novelist with a moral.

It will be clearly demonstrated to those who peruse these pages that, sooner or later, justice overtakes the guilty,
and that it is impossible for the most astute and cunning scoundrel—such as Peace has proved himself to be—to
escape punishment.

A life of crime is always a life of care, for the hearts of the guilty tremble for the past, for the present, and for

the future. The author of the “Life of Peace” reprobates in the strongest degree that species of literature whose
graduates do their best to cast a dignity upon the gallows, and strive to shed the splendour of fascinating romance
upon the paths of crime that lead to it—to make genius tributary to murder, and literature to theft, to dignify not
the mean but the guilty.

Let crime and its perpetrators be depicted as conscience sees them, as morality brands them; let them stand

out in prominent but repulsive relief. There is yet wanted a picture of crime and its consequences true to nature

and conscience, and it is hoped that the present serial will, in some measure, supply that want.

The author proposes to present to his readers the felon as he really is—​to describe facts as they were found—​

to present pure pictures of guilt and its accompaniments.

He does not desire to make use of artificial colouring, believing that the interest in the work lies in its reality.

The felon appears just as he is, as crime makes him, and as Newgate receives him—successful, it may be, for a
season, but arrested, condemned, scourged by conscience, and cut off from society as unfit for its walks.

Of all the members of the family of man few have been so rapidly forgotten as those who have been swept

from the face of the world by the fiat of the law and the hands of the public executioner. Yet the guilty and the
unfortunate have left biographies behind them that speak to future generations in awful and impressive tones.

If they were inflictions on the past generation, they may be made useful in the present age as beacons to the

reckless voyager—voices lifted up from the moral wrecks of the world speaking audibly to listening men “of
righteousness, and temperance, and judgment.”

CHAPTER I.

OAKFIELD FARMHOUSE—​THE BURGLARY—​DESPERATE ENCOUNTER—​

VILLAGERS TO THE RESCUE.

Our first scene opens at a picturesque-looking farmhouse situated on the outskirts of a pretty little village

within a few miles of Hull. Oakfield Farmhouse—so called from a number of patriarchal oaks poising their lofty
heads in the rear of the establishment—was in the occupation of two substantial yeomen named respectively John
and Richard Ashbrook, their only sister Maude being mistress of the bright and cheerful abode.

In the earlier portion of the day our two Yorkshire farmers had been out on a shooting expedition. They

brought back with them two friends—​fellow-sportsmen. They were driven home by the rain, which fell in torrents,
and rendered further sport impracticable.

“I knowed how it would be,” said Richard Ashbrook to his companions. “These beastly river fogs always

bring wet, and the clouds have been as ‘bengy’ (full of rain) for some time—​as bengy as could be.”

When the party reached Oakfield their garments were saturated with wet, and clung to them like a second

skin.

“I have got a fire in the big bedroom—a good blazing fire—for I guessed how it would be,” said Maude

Ashbrook, as she received her guests at the door. “You’ll all of you have to change your things. Mercy on us, you
are dripping wet, John!” she exclaimed, placing her hand on her brother’s shoulder.

“Our friends will stop and have a morsel of something to eat and drink for the matter o’ that,” observed

Richard.

“Indeed no—​I think not,” said Mr. Jamblin, one of the farmer’s companions.

“Ah, but he will,” returned the farmer. “None of yer think nots. Come, friends, get thee in. We don’t intend to

part with thee so easily.”

Mr. Jamblin smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed. The other friend of the farmer’s, a Mr. Cheadle by

name, followed Jamblin.

After dinner had been served, “clean glasses and old corks” were festively proposed by the host. Some

bottles of genuine spirits and a box of Havannas were placed on the board; an animated discussion on things
agricultural and political followed, while ever and anon Jamblin and Cheadle would rise from their seats, repair to
the window, and, flattening their noses against the panes thereof, would endeavour to distinguish a star in the sky,
or the first beams of the rising moon.

But the sky remained black and gloomy, and continual pattering of the rain was distinctly heard.

“It’s no good, my fine fellows,” observed Richard Ashbrook. “You are in for it. The rain has set in for good,

so you had better make up your minds to stop where you are. ‘Any port in a storm,’ as my uncle the captain used
to say. Nobody will ever expect you home, such a night as this.”

“You are very kind, Ashbrook, but——”

“Oh, bother your buts! I tell you I’ve got a couple of beds for ye. They are small iron bedsteads, both in the

same room; but you don’t mind roughing it for one night, surely.”

The farmer’s two friends accepted the offer, and prepared themselves to pass the hours merrily. This they had

no difficulty in doing.

Several games of whist were played, after which the host was called upon for a song. He was not quite in

tune, but that did not matter. The other singers were equally deficient in that respect; but what was wanting in skill
was made up by noise.

Most of the ditties had a good, rattling chorus, which each singer interpreted according to his own fancy. After

sundry libations, and much protestation of friendship and good-fellowship, the hour arrived for repose, and the
two farmers, their visitors, and Maude betook themselves to their respective sleeping apartments.

As Richard, who was the last, was about to ascend the stairs, he was touched gently on the elbow by a tall

long-haired young woman, who was one of the domestics in the establishment.

“Well, Jane, what’s up now, lass?” inquired the farmer.

“Hush, master. This way.” She drew him back towards the entrance to the kitchen, and said in a low,

mysterious tone of voice, “Are the guns loaded?”

“Two of them are. But what of that?”

“Load the others.”

“Why, dash it—​what ails thee, girl?”

“Nothing, master. I can’t tell why, but I feel timmersome like, and fancy something bad is going to happen.”

“If loading the other guns will do thee any good the remedy is easy enough,” observed the good-natured

farmer, who at once proceeded to charge the other weapons.

“Thanks, Mr. Richard, thanks!” exclaimed the girl, in a tone of evident satisfaction.

The farmer repaired to his bedroom, taking the two guns—his own and his brother’s—with him. At his

suggestion his two friends had carried up their weapons into their bedroom in the earlier portion of the evening.
This might appear a little singular, but John Ashbrook had playfully observed to Cheadle and Jamblin that there
was sometimes a hare to be seen out of the bedroom window, feeding on the orchard grass of a morning.

“And so,” he observed jocosely, “if you see one to-morrow morning you will of course be able to knock him

over.”

“We will do our best should there be one,” said both gentlemen.

In less than half an hour after the party had broken up all the inmates of Oakfield House were soundly

sleeping.

All save one.

This was Jane Ryan, the girl who had exchanged a few parting words with her master, or, more properly

speaking, with one of her masters, for John and Richard Ashbrook were partners.

A strange sense of coming evil had taken possession of the girl, who sat moodily and dejected in the kitchen

long after the other members of the household had retired to rest. Jane did not feel disposed to seek repose; she
was restless and disturbed, albeit she was quiet, moving from place to place in a stealthy way, in direct variance
with her usual manner.

“I cannot sleep,” she murmured; “and so I will e’en keep watch for one hour or more.”

She put some fresh coals on the kitchen fire, before which she sat for some time absorbed in thought.

Leaving her there, we will take a survey of the exterior of the house and its surroundings.

It was two o’clock in the morning. The rain had ceased; the moon was shining brightly, and covered the fields

with a pale, lustrous light; the stars sparkled in the rain-drops which were hanging from the leaves, and so clothed
the trees with a mantle of diamonds.

All was silent in the fields, for the birds and insects of the night were torpid till summer came once more.

All was silent in the yard—the cattle sleeping on their beds of straw, and the fowls upon their wooden

perches.

Seen by the pale moonlight the old farmhouse was a picture worthy of an artist’s pencil.

On the northern side of Oakfield ran a narrow lane, skirted by a dense mass of foliage, which threw the lane

into sombre darkness. The lane itself rose abruptly as it neared the farm, which stood on the upland.

In this lane the forms of three men might be seen. The first of these is Charles Peace. Standing facing him is the

notorious “cracksman” Ned Gregson, better known by the name of the “Bristol Badger.” The last of the three is
known as “Cooney;” he is a tinker by trade, but he is a sort of jackal to rogues of a greater degree than himself.

The three men are in close converse. They had come suddenly to halt, as if doubtful as to their course of

action.

“I tell yer it’s right as the mail,” observed the tinker, in a tone of confidence. “The farmers have sold their

wheat, and there’s a mighty good ‘swag’ in the house. Only yer see, Ned, old boy, yer must not be too rash. Be
keerful—​be very keerful.”

“What do yer mean?” inquired the Badger.

“Well, it’s just this, old man, the farmers—leastways so I heerd at the ‘Six Bells’—have had two blokes with

’em to-day, a poppin’ at the blessed birds, bad luck to them; and from what I could gather from Tim, the two
blokes are a stoppin’ there to-night.”

“What matters about that?” said Peace. “We don’t intend to wake the gentlemen.”

“All right—​so much the better,” answered the tinker. “I’m for doing things in a quiet sort of way, I am.”

The Badger uttered an oath, and his ill-favoured countenance wore an expression of disgust.

“Do you know where they keep the shiners?” he asked.

“Oh, yes; I think that’ll be all right. I haven’t been in the house to mend the bell wires without a keeping my

eyes open. Ah, ah!”

“Stow that, yer fool!” exclaimed the Badger. “Wait till yer out of the wood afore yer laugh.”

“All right, Ned, I’m as silent as the grave.”

“When were you at ‘The Bells,’ then?” inquired Peace.

“I had a game of skittles this afternoon.”

“At what time?”

“Between three and four o’clock; or it might be a little later. Can’t say to half an hour or so.”

“And that’s how you came to know about these two sporting chaps?”

“Right you are. Tim gave me the tip.”

“You haven’t been fool enough to push your inquiries too far?” said Peace. “Tim, as you call him, might

suspect.”

“He suspect?” returned the tinker, indignantly. “Not he. I was as good as gold.”

“It’s no use making a long palaver about the matter,” ejaculated Gregson. “Let’s to business.”

The three burglars made direct for Oakfield House. In the space of a few minutes they were busily at work to

effect an entrance, but they found this by no means so easy a task as they had imagined. The windows and doors
of the habitation were carefully secured, and, although they knew it not at the time, there was one inmate of the
establishment keenly alive to every movement.

This was Jane Ryan, who was aroused from her lethargic reverie before the kitchen fire by a sound which was

new to her ears.

Jane started and rose from her seat.

“I said something was about to happen,” she murmured, pressing her hand against her side. “I could have

taken a Bible oath of it.”

She paused for a few moments, apparently in doubt as to what course to take; presently she appeared to have

decided upon her line of action. She glided from the room with long, stealthy, and noiseless steps, carrying her
shoes in her hand.

A sudden surprise awaited her two young masters.

They were awoke from their sleep by a hand placed upon their shoulders. They stared around them sleepily,

as yet not realising the real state of affairs. It was dark in their bedroom, for the moon was behind a cloud.

When it gleamed out, they saw Jane Ryan standing before them. Her arms were naked to the shoulder; her

eyes glistened with a strange light.

She held a loaded gun in her hands.

The Ashbrooks were perfectly bewildered when they beheld this strange apparition awaking them in the silent

hours of the night.

“Jane!” exclaimed Richard Ashbrook, suddenly calling to his mind the warning given him in the earlier part of

the night by his faithful and devoted servant. “Jane—​what’s the matter? Speak, girl.”

“Hush!” she murmured, placing her finger on her lips; “make no noise, or it may be fatal. Listen.”

Both the farmers listened till their ears tingled, but they could hear nothing.

A thought crossed the minds of both almost simultaneously, that the girl was (to use the expression they made

use of afterwards) off her head.

The brothers stared at each other in mute astonishment.

“I can’t hear anything,” said John Ashbrook.

“Don’t speak, master, but watch and wait; you will hear,” said Jane, in a low whisper.

She was standing as if in anxious expectation—one hand raised to her ear, the other grasping the fowling-

piece.

The two Ashbrooks listened again, and as the moonlight ebbed slowly from the room like a great white wave

streaming back towards the sea, they heard a thin scraping sound, which was unlike anything they had heard
before. This mysterious sound was followed by deep and heavy blows.

“Are you satisfied now?” said the maid.

“What is it?” they inquired.

She answered in a low, horse voice—

“Robbers, burglars, assassins!”

The two farmers stole hastily but silently from their beds.

Jane immediately left the room.

They at once proceeded to arouse Mr. Cheadle and Jamblin. All this was done as noiselessly as possible.

When the four men were up and dressed, Maude Ashbrook joined them, declaring that she would not leave the
side of her brothers upon any consideration.

They left the door wide open, and all crouched together in a corner.

The sound of the burglars’ tools soon ceased—​a sign that they were worked by practised hands.

Indeed, no more skilful “cracksmen” existed at this time than Charles Peace, the Badger, and Cooney—the

two first-named men have never been surpassed.

The farmers and their friends silently awaited the movements of the robbers, who had without doubt, by this

time, effected an entrance into the house.

The party in the bedroom stood prepared for any emergency—​they all cocked their guns.

“Let us have no firing, except in self-defence,” said Mr. Cheadle. “There are four able-bodied men here, and it

must go hard with us if we cannot hold our own.”

“I shan’t be at all particular about peppering the scoundrels, whoever they may be,” returned John Ashbrook.

“A set of lawless, midnight marauders—​fellows of their stamp do not deserve pity or consideration.”

They now heard muffled footsteps in the room beneath them, and immediately afterwards similar sounds were

heard on the stairs.

They began to breathe a little quicker, and grasped their guns more tightly.

A gleam of light fell across the threshold.

They could see a slipper lying there—​one that Maude had dropped.

The burglars had probably perceived this, and thence argued that people were afoot, for the light disappeared,

and they could hear whisperings outside the door.

The big bedroom, as it was called, was a square chamber, barely furnished. The two bedsteads had been

placed close to the window on the left-hand side.

Round and about these beds the six besieged persons were crouched or seated.

The moonlight poured in at the window in such a manner that while the whole of the opposite side, except one

corner, was as light as day, the little nook by the beds was buried in impenetrable darkness.

The one dark corner on the opposite side was formed by the chimney, which jutted out some little way into

the room.

They listened breathlessly for some moments, till they fancied that they heard a board creak inside the room

close to the door; and at that moment, as if by magic, a voice issued from the corner of the chimney.

“We are armed with loaded revolvers; if you come a step nearer we fire!”

The lurid flash of a pistol flamed within the room, and they heard a ball strike sharply against the wall.

Maude betrayed their hiding-place with a shriek, and fell fainting in her brother John’s arms.

A loud report rang in their ears, and the room was filled with a thick, sulphurous smoke.

By the light of the powder’s flame when the first shot was fired, there was one who had seen the robber’s face

—a face, once seen, not soon to be forgotten. The dark cavernous eyes of the “Badger” had been distinctly
visible to Jane Ryan, who gave a scream of triumph and revenge.

It was but momentarily that she had caught sight of the forbidding features of the miscreant; but it was enough

for her purpose.

She levelled her master’s gun at the supposed spot where the robber was; and as she fired, something fell

heavily upon the floor.

A shudder passed over them like a cold wind. They drew their breath and heard the same whisperings outside

the door.

John Ashbrook placed his sister behind himself and his brother. There was an interval of silence; they began to

hope that the burglars had gone, when presently they perceived something on the opposite wall.

They watched it with fascinated eyes. It was a small, dark shadow, creeping towards them along the wall.

It was the shadow of a man’s hand.

Then they heard a harsh, rustling sound, as if something was being dragged along the floor.

The robbers were taking away the dead body of their comrade.

They did not dare to move, for they knew the burglars were armed to a far greater extent than they were, and

exposure might prove fatal.

Ten minutes passed thus; ten minutes of frightful suspense to these farmers—who were brave but not

phlegmatic—​who now fought men for the first time, and fought them in the dark.

They could not possibly tell how many there were of their enemies. To fire the only three remaining charges

they had would have been an act of madness; they therefore thought it prudent to keep these in reserve for the
grand or final conflict.

But the worst was over, as far as the Oakfield housebreakers were concerned.

Presently the eager tramp of men’s feet echoed from the road before the farm, and a dozen rough voices were

heard bawling to each other.

The besieged party rushed to the window, and saw in the front of the house one of the village constabulary

force, who was accompanied by a posse of strong-bodied youths of the immediate neighbourhood. In addition to
these there were shepherds armed with crowbars, stablemen with their pitchforks, bird-keepers with their rusty
fowling-pieces, woodmen with their billhooks, and a tall relation of Jane Ryan’s with a substantial kitchen poker.

The reports of the gun and pistol in the dead hour of the night had aroused the whole neighbourhood.

As may be readily imagined, the strong reinforcement at once dispelled all anxiety or doubt in the minds of the

farmer’s household.

Three men were instantly mounted, and started off in the dark to the three nearest railway stations. The rest

were invited into the kitchen to wait till daybreak.

There had been an unprecedented number of burglaries committed at several houses in the neighbourhood

within the space of a few months—hence it was that the rustic population were so keenly alive when any signal of
alarm was given.

To capture the robbers was the wish of everyone assembled at Oakfield on that eventful night.

With the first streaks of dawn the party congregated in the yard, and took counsel on the best means of

pursuit.

“If they have been carrying a body with them they can’t be very far off,” said Mr. Jamblin.

“They are lurking about somewhere hard by, I dare say,” said the police-officer.

“Where’s Jarvis?” cried Will, the carter. “He’d be the boy to find ’em for us. He’d ketch ’em if they burrowed

underground like a rabbit.”

“Would he?” ejaculated the policeman. “He must be a clever chap.”

“Aye, that he be,” returned another rustic.

“Have you got any more of his sort in this neighbourhood?” asked the officer.

The rustics made no reply.

“Who is this Jarvis you were speaking of?” inquired John Ashbrook.

“Jarvis, sir? Why, him as ’listed some years ago, and fought under Lord Clyde in the Injies. Arter that they

sent him to the other Injies, where the red men be, and they’ve taught him a power of strange tricks. He came

here wi’ us, but he’s got lost since, or summat.”

“No, I baint lost, Joe,” said a tall young man, whose left cheek was one great red scar, and whose face had

been bronzed by no English sun.

“Why, sure enough, it is Jarvis!” exclaimed Mr. Ashbrook. “Give us your hand, lad. Sure enough I shouldn’t

ha’ known ye, they’ve knocked ye about so.”

“Aye, that they have, Master Ashbrook,” returned the soldier. “But tell us, neighbour, what you can about this

night’s business.”

“You shall know all I know,” answered the farmer; who thereupon put the soldier in possession of all the facts

with which the reader is already acquainted.

When he had finished, the soldier said, “I’ll be bound for it that the body of the dead or wounded man is not

very far from here.”

“You think not?”

“Ah! that I do. We came up so soon that they’d have no time to get far away with that load upon their backs;

and most likely they’ve been forced to hide it in a slovenly way.”

CHAPTER II.

CAPTURE OF THE BRISTOL BADGER—​MURDER WILL OUT—​CHASE

AFTER CHARLES PEACE—​HIS MYSTERIOUS ESCAPE.

The sudden disappearance of Charles Peace and his two companions upon the arrival of the villagers excited

surprise in the minds of all who had assembled at the farmhouse. The police officer did not choose to commit
himself by any expression of opinion. He was not a man given to loquacity where silence was requisite. He did
not, however, attempt to deny the assertion made by soldier Jarvis—​namely, that the robbers were not far off.

Enjoining the villagers to stay where they were and to carefully avoid treading over more ground than was

absolutely necessary, the young soldier accompanied Mr. Ashbrook to the kitchen window, where the entrance
had been forced by removing the glass with a diamond—or “starring the glaze,” as it is termed in the burglar’s
phraseology—and after this had been done panelling the shutter. It was this last process that aroused Jane Ryan
to a sense of danger.

Jarvis carefully examined the ground beneath the window, and pointed to some footprints in the wet earth

which led towards the straw yard. In one place they were so plain that every nail in the soles could be
distinguished.

“They are the impressions of a strange foot—​that’s certain sure,” observed Ashbrook.

“We are on the trail of one of them,” returned Jarvis. “I dare say they thought they could do as they liked

among yokels, but we’ve got the trail and I mean to keep it.”

The speaker walked slowly across the yard, following the tracks with his eye as a bloodhound would have

followed them with his nose.

“They’re in this barn, Master Ashbrook,” he said, stopping before one of the doors. “No, they baint, though,

they’re come out agen and gone along the wall. But they’ve left their dead mate behind ’em. See how different
their track is now; they tramples quite close alongside of each other, while afore they carried the body from
shoulder to shoulder, and so were forced to walk one behind and a little way apart.”

The villagers gave a murmur of astonishment.

“Ah, he knows how many blue beans make five,” said the carter, as he took out the peg by which the folding

doors were kept dosed.

“I don’t feel quite so sure about the footsteps,” remarked the policeman; “they don’t appear to me to tally with

the others.”

“If I’m mistaken, we shall have to try back,” answered Jarvis. “Of course, it is just possible we are on a false

scent. Ah! what is this?” The speaker pointed significantly to some drops of blood upon the straw in front of the
barn. “What say you to that?”

“Blood, without a doubt,” observed the constable.

“That’s where they laid him down when they opened the barn door.”

“Ah!—​dare say—​most likely.”

The villagers were open-mouthed with wonder. They, one and all, voted the soldier a necromancer.

The doors were flung wide open, and they sprang over the rack into the body of the barn. There had been

some threshing done the day before, and there was a vast heap of chaff just outside.

While they were gazing around, a low moan, as of one in pain, fell upon their ears.

“Keep quiet, lads,” exclaimed Jarvis; “leave this matter to me and the constable. Keep where you are. We can

none of us tell what next will happen.”

“Here’s footmarks on the chaff, and blood on it also,” said the constable, who took a few steps further inside,

whereupon his eyes lighted on the prostrate figure of a man lying in the corner on a heap of straw.

He flashed his bull’s-eye on the face of the wounded burglar, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

The Bristol Badger lay helpless, and bathed in blood.

Jane Ryan, who had followed the constable and Jarvis, gave a slight scream.

“Don’t take on so, woman,” said the constable. “He’s only got his deserts.”

Heedless of this observation, Jane went close to the wounded burglar and peered into his face.