A Little World

“Break ’em open while you are about it,” cried D. Wragg, in tones that bordered upon a howl. “But don’t you make no mistake; I protest against this here, once more. I ain’t agoin’ to have my house sacked like this here for nothing. I should have thought as them gents would ha’ stopped it all; but never mind, I don’t care. It shan’t go to the bottom without some on you hearin’ of it.”

“Hold your tongue, will you, and give up the keys,” said the sergeant who looked just a trifle less impassive than usual.

“What is it you all mean?” cried D. Wragg, excitedly, “what is it you are all thinking about? You don’t suppose as I’m giving up my respectable business of a nat’ralist to go in for burking and doctor’s work, do you? You don’t suppose as I know anything of the young chap as is gone. Don’t you make no mistake: I can see through it all. You’ve been crammed and filled up with all sorts o’ gammon; but I wonder at you, Sergeant Falkner, a-listening to what such a thing as that says.”

D. Wragg pointed as he spoke at Mr John Screwby, which gentleman had, from a scarcity of watchers, and from doubts as to the probability of his staying so long as he was wanted, been brought up from stage to stage, to stand now, shuffling from foot to foot, and staring first at the irate dealer, and then at the door which concealed the interior of the attic from his graze.

“Somebody shall pay for all this, though,” cried D. Wragg, “as I said afore, and as I’ll say half a score o’ times.”

As he spoke, he looked full at Sir Francis, as if identifying him with the “somebody” who should be made to pay, although at the present time no mean sum of the baronet’s money had made its way into his pockets. But at last, seeing that Sergeant Falkner would not be trifled with, and that in another moment the door or doors would be kicked down, he produced the keys with a great many protestations, ending at last in a perfect whine of misery, one that strangely reminded the eager bystanders of the dogs below.

But the keys produced, D. Wragg’s importance decreased on the instant; for though there were those present who trembled at the thought of the door being thrown back, the majority were devoured by curiosity – the morbid curiosity which used to take a crowd to an execution, and even at the present day attracts hundreds to the Old Bailey that they may catch a glimpse of the black flag, and imagine for themselves the horrors going on behind the grim black stony walls.

There were no stony walls here though – only a few slight boards between the gazers and the mystery whose solution they were so eager to read.

“Here! stop him, will you!” cried the sergeant. “Have you any brains at all, Smith?”

P.C. Smith raised his hand to his head, as if to feel whether those thought-producers – brains – were really there; but he contented himself with a vicious scratch, as he once more took hold of D. Wragg, that gentleman having made another attempt to limp away.

“Don’t you make no mistake,” half-whimpered the dealer, rubbing his hands together, bending down as if in pain, and limping about to the extent of his tether – to wit, his own arm and that of the policeman. “I’ll be squared for this; just you see if I ain’t.”

“Very well – very well,” exclaimed the sergeant, with something of excitement in his tones; “only don’t make quite so much noise about it. Now then,” he cried, as he unlocked the fastening, and threw open the rickety door, whose rusty hinges creaked dismally, while the door itself was stopped, when little more than ajar, by the warped framework, which forced one corner upon the floor.

“Now I hope you’re happy,” said D. Wragg.

“Not yet – not yet,” said the sergeant, “but we mean to get there soon. Now then, pass him here, Smith. That’s right. Now Mr Wragg, you go first, and we’ll follow.”

Again, there was the dealer’s strong resemblance to the ragged terrier brought out; for the sergeant treated him precisely as a keeper would a dog that he was about to place in some fox’s hole, D. Wragg being thrust forward into the room – going, though, most unwillingly, and had he suddenly broken out into a sharp wailing bark, no one would have felt much surprised.

The sergeant laid his hands upon D. Wragg’s shoulders as he forced him in, peering over the said shoulders into the dingy place ahead, and then he drew back for a few moments.

“Here, Smith, you take my place,” he said; and the constable went next, while his leader crossed the low landing to where, arm-in-arm, stood Clayton and Sir Francis. “Just a moment, please, sir,” he said to Clayton, in a low voice; and then aloud to the others present, “Stand back there, will you: I go next!”

“What do you want to say?” said Clayton, glancing uneasily at the sergeant’s stern face, as the latter turned his eyes for a moment to where they had left Sir Francis.

“Only, sir,” said the sergeant, in a whisper, “that if I was in your place, I should think it my duty at any cost to get him away.”

The young man shook his head, for he knew that the sergeant counselled an impossibility.

“Well, sir, I thought it my duty to advise,” said the sergeant.

“Quite right – quite right,” said Clayton, hastily; “but he would not stir an inch. Now, pray end this horrible suspense.”

Clayton looked round once more to see that the women were not within hearing, and then, with Sir Francis and the other constable, he passed into the low, dingy, sloping-ceiled room.

There had once evidently been a partition, but this had been removed, and the attics turned into one long place, so that the whole of the top floor could be seen through at a glance, with its lumber of old cages, bundles of dried herbs, baskets of feathers, and broken furniture – chairs lame of one leg, halt and rickety tables, and an old wash-stand.

In three different corners, chained to staples in the wall, and each with its straw bed, were as many wretched captives, wasting their days in their lofty prison. But these were only three dogs, kept there for reasons best known to the occupant of the house.

“Nothing here,” was the mental remark of the sergeant, as he made his light play about the place, its rays falling strangely upon each of the dogs in turn, and eliciting howls that were doleful in the extreme.

That light, though, was allowed to rest longest upon the fourth corner of the room, where there were three well-filled sacks and a large flat basket.

“Look outside the window; there’s a parapet out there in the front. One of you had better crawl along a little each way, and see if you can make anything out,” said the sergeant, who directly after turned to another of his men. “Here, you!” he exclaimed, “climb up there,” and he pointed to a half-closed trapdoor in the ceiling.

His orders were obeyed, the bystanders watching eagerly the progress of events, till the man who had somewhat nervously forced his way through the trap came back covered with whitewash and cobwebs, which he brushed impatiently from his uniform.

“Well?” said the sergeant, as the man descended by means of the broken wash-stand and chair, which had been used for escalading purposes.

“No one been up there this side o’ six months ago, I’ll swear,” said the man; “the cobwebs would have told you that if you’d liked to look.”

The sergeant turned sharply upon his muttering subordinate, but his attention was taken off by the return of the man who had been sent outside to examine the gutter.

“Well?” said the sergeant again, as this man climbed back.

“Well, I ain’t seen nothing,” said the latter, dragging one leg after him into the room. “Quiet, will you?” he cried to a dog which bayed at him furiously. “You can go along out there for best part of a mile if you like, dodging in and out, for it seems to be a reg’lar rat’s run from winder to winder. There’s some nice games carried on, I’ll be bound, and any manner of thing might be done here or there, and hidden from place to place without us being a bit the wiser.”

“How many men would it take to make a good search?” said the sergeant.

“Hundred,” said his subordinate, gruffly, “would be nowhere. You’d want a man at every door, and at every attic window; and when you tried to stop ’em, they’d slip out somewhere else.”

The sergeant stood for a moment thinking, and then he made a step towards the sacks, looking curiously at the dog-fancier.

“Shouldn’t wonder if there was a tale hanging to every one of those dogs,” he said, grimly. “But what’s in these sacks?”

“Now look ye here – look ye here!” exclaimed D. Wragg, assuming not to have heard the last remark; “don’t you make no mistake. You’ve searched all from top to bottom now, gents, so let’s have an end of all this game.”

“Stand aside, will you,” cried the sergeant, roughly; and forcing D. Wragg back, he strode up to the sacks, threw them down one after the other, and felt through them.

“Pooh! corks!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, after a few moments’ examination. “Don’t know what you want with corks up here though, master. What’s in the basket? Tied down, eh?”

“Now look here, don’t you make no mistake – don’t now – I purtest agen it all.”

With a fierce rush, D. Wragg threw himself upon the great basket, clinging frantically thereto, and struggling viciously, and kicking with his club boot at the men who tried to drag him away.

A sharp scuffle ensued, for the dealer clung tightly to the great flat hamper, and it was not till after quite a battle that D. Wragg was dragged from his hold, to stand panting, hot, and glaring of eye, gazing from one to the other.

“Now do, sir – do take my advice,” said the sergeant, once more drawing Harry Clayton aside. “I tell you frankly, I don’t like the look of things; and only think of the old gentleman, sir, if anything should prove to be wrong. You’d better take him away – you had indeed.”

He left Clayton, and, as if seeking to make delays, went and spoke to the constables, and then threatened to handcuff the dealer if he did not quietly submit.

“I don’t care,” said D. Wragg; “you may handcuff me, and leg-cuff me, and put a collar round my neck if you like; but I ain’t agoin’ to stand still and see my place pulled all to pieces for nothing at all. Don’t you make – ”

“There! hold your tongue!” cried the sergeant; and he turned round to gaze at Harry Clayton, who had slowly crossed to where Sir Francis was standing, pondering the while upon the detective’s meaning looks and words.

He laid his hand upon the old man’s arm, but Sir Francis, on hearing his words, although he shudderingly turned from where lay the basket, sternly refused to go, and moved Harry aside as he grew more earnest and pressing.

Sergeant Falkner shrugged his shoulders, and muttered something about the obstinacy of old folks. Then he turned away, and, as a groan burst from D. Wragg, and he struggled with his captors, the basket was approached, the string that tied down the lid was cut; the said lid, set quite free, was dashed open, and then the sergeant stood gazing excitedly down into the straw which covered something with which the great wicker case was filled.