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Late one night in the spring of 1830, two shadowy figures emerged from a dilapidated public-house near Millbank, heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. Avoiding the river footpath, they skulked along the farther side of the road where the open ground allowed for a swift escape if needed. The intermittent moonlight, breaking through heavy clouds, revealed their haggard features etched with the marks of crime and debauchery: fierce, restless eyes, beards of several days’ growth, and wild, unkempt hair. Their attire matched their disreputable appearance—sordid, ragged clothes, shoes without soles, and old hats without crowns.
One was tall and gaunt, his large hands and feet betraying latent strength despite his meagerness. The other, shorter but broad-shouldered and bow-legged, had a long aquiline nose and coarse mouth that emphasized his brutish nature. His stubby red beard and sandy hair, coupled with white brows and eyelashes, gave him an almost spectral appearance. The taller man’s face was dark and blotchy from habitual intemperance, his leering, malignant eyes accentuated by a blood-spotted handkerchief tied across his brow, contrasting starkly with his matted black hair.
The shorter ruffian hefted a mallet on his shoulder, while his companion concealed a dark lantern beneath his coat. They moved silently, ever vigilant, their quick, shambling steps echoing in the quiet night. Occasionally, sounds arose from the riverbanks—a splash in the water or a distant cry from passing boats—but otherwise, all was still. The moonlight illuminated the Dutch-like structures on the opposite bank, the coal-barges, timber-yards, and the ominous Penitentiary—a dismal fortress-like edifice casting a shadow over the sleeping metropolis.
Oblivious to their surroundings, the men continued until they were a couple of hundred yards from the bridge. Suddenly, as if by prior arrangement, they veered off the road, leapt over a rail, and ran across a field, plunging into a hollow formed by a dried-up pit. There, they paused momentarily.
“You ain’t gammonin’ me, Tinker?” the shorter man, known as Sandman, growled. “The cove’s sure to come?”
“Can’t swear for another like I can for meself, Sandman,” Tinker replied. “But if his word’s good, he’ll be there. I heard him clear as day—‘I’ll be here tomorrow night—same hour.’”
“And that was one o’clock?” Sandman pressed.
“Thereabouts,” Tinker confirmed.
“And who did he say that to?” Sandman demanded.
“To hisself, I s’pose,” Tinker shrugged. “Didn’t see no one with him.”
“Think he’s one of our lot?” Sandman asked.
“Bless you, no,” Tinker said. “He’s a right swell.”
“That’s no reason,” Sandman retorted. “Many a first-rate swell dabbles in our trade. But he can’t be right in the head to come to a place like that and act as you say.”
“Can’t say about that,” Tinker replied. “Don’t matter much to us.”
“Devil a bit,” Sandman agreed. “Except—you’re sure it weren’t a spirit, Tinker? They say this place is haunted. I don’t fear no living man, but a ghost’s another thing.”
“Well, you’ll find our swell is flesh and blood,” Tinker assured. “So come on, and let’s not scare ourselves with old women’s tales.”
With that, they climbed out of the pit, crossed the field, and entered a narrow alley lined with a few scattered houses, eventually merging into the Vauxhall Bridge Road.
Here they kept to the shadows, crossing the street only when necessary to avoid the lamplight. Soon, two watchmen appeared from Belvoir Terrace. As the guardians of the night drew near, the ruffians slipped into an alley, holding their breath until the watchmen passed. Once the coast was clear, they emerged and hastened their pace, arriving at a row of abandoned, crumbling houses—their destination.
The desolate dwellings, more than a dozen in number, were likely entangled in legal limbo, sharing the fate of most such properties. They stood in a state of severe disrepair—roofs missing, windows shattered, floors rotted away. Only the bare, crumbling walls remained, their dilapidated condition a testament to neglect. These forsaken structures served as repositories for old iron, blocks of stone and wood, and other heavy debris. The eerie and foreboding atmosphere of the place deterred any passerby after dark.
Skulking along the blank, dreary walls, Tinker, now a bit ahead, stopped before a door. Pushing it open, he entered the dwelling, followed closely by Sandman.
The sight that greeted Sandman’s eyes was a bizarre and unsettling array of objects, all shrouded in the gloom of the moonlight filtering through broken windows. The deserted appearance of the place only heightened the effect on his hardened yet superstitious nature.
He saw a jumble of huge millstones, enormous water-wheels, steam-engine boilers, iron vats, cylinders, cranes, iron pumps of peculiar designs, a gigantic pair of wooden scales, old iron safes, boilers, gas-pipes, water-pipes, cracked bells, birdcages, iron plates, pulleys, ropes, and rusty chains—an incongruous heap of discarded machinery and junk. In the midst of this chaotic mass loomed the bearded, colossal head of Neptune, once the figurehead of a man-of-war. Above it, on a makeshift framework, lay the prostrate statue of a nymph, alongside a bust of Fox, its nose partially demolished and eyes gouged in. Overhead, three garden divinities huddled together. To the left stood a tall, headless Grecian warrior missing his right hand. The whole grotesque ensemble was surmounted by an immense ventilator perched on the end of an iron rod, ascending like a lightning conductor from a steam-engine pump.
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In the eerie moonlight, the various objects cast strange, distorted shadows, blending the grotesque with the terrifying. The building itself, with its ragged brickwork overgrown with weeds, seemed to take on a sinister life of its own, the bricks forming eerie, watchful faces that appeared to monitor their movements.
A precarious means of crossing the building without descending into the vault below was provided by a pair of planks. The far wall was higher than the near one, and the planks were bowed with age, making the passage treacherous.
Without hesitation, Tinker leapt into the cellar, uncovering his lantern to reveal a sort of hiding place between a bulk of timber and a boiler. He beckoned Sandman to follow.
Sandman jumped down, grumbling, “The ale from the ‘Two Fighting Cocks’ is making me drowsy, Tinker,” as he stretched out on the bulk. “I’ll just take a snooze. Wake me if I snore—or when our spirit shows up.”
Tinker nodded, his eyes scanning the shadows. Sandman had barely drifted into a restless sleep when he felt a sharp nudge. Tinker whispered urgently, “He’s here!”
“Where? Where?” Sandman asked, his voice quivering with a mixture of excitement and fear.
“Look up, and you’ll see him,” Tinker replied, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide with anticipation.
Slightly shifting his position, the Sandman caught sight of a figure standing upon the planks above them. The figure belonged to a young man, his hat off, revealing features bathed in the cold radiance of the moon. His face was deathly pale, and though handsome, it bore a sinister expression. He was tall, slight, and well-proportioned, and his attire—a tightly-buttoned, single-breasted coat and a moustache upon his lip—gave him a distinctly military air.
“He seems to be walking in his sleep,” muttered the Sandman. “He’s talking to someone we can’t see.”
“Hush—hush!” whispered Tinker. “Let’s hear what he’s saying.”
“Why have you brought me here?” the young man cried, his voice hollow and chilling. “What is to be done?”
“It makes my blood run cold to hear him,” whispered the Sandman. “What do you think he sees?”
“Why do you not speak to me?” the young man cried again. “Why do you beckon me forward? Very well, I will follow you.”
He moved slowly across the plank.
“Look, he’s going through that door,” whispered Tinker. “Let’s follow him.”
“I don’t like it,” replied the Sandman, his teeth chattering with apprehension. “We might see something that will drive us mad.”
“Tut!” scoffed Tinker. “It’s only a sleepwalker. What are you afraid of?”
With that, he vaulted onto the planks. Peering cautiously through the open door, he watched the young man enter the adjoining house through a broken window.
Signaling to the Sandman, who was close behind, Tinker crept forward on all fours. Reaching the window, he raised himself just enough to peer inside. Unfortunately, the moon was obscured by clouds at that moment, and he could only make out the dusky outlines of various objects similar to those in the neighboring house. He listened intently, but not the slightest sound reached his ears.
After a tense period of silence, Tinker began to fear the young man had departed. Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed through the dwelling. Something heavy crashed to the floor, and footsteps approached the window.
Hastily retreating to their former hiding place, Tinker and Sandman had scarcely regained it when the young man reappeared on the plank. His demeanor had changed drastically. He staggered rather than walked, his countenance even paler than before. After crossing the plank, he moved along the top of the broken wall towards the door.
“Now, Sandman!” hissed Tinker. “Now’s your time!”
The Sandman nodded. Grasping his mallet with deadly determination, he sprang noiselessly onto the wall and overtook his intended victim just as he reached the door.
Hearing a sound behind him, the young man turned, his eyes widening in horror. The mallet descended upon his head before he could react. He fell, crushed and senseless, to the ground.
“The work’s done!” cried the Sandman to his companion, who instantly approached with the dark lantern. “Let’s take him below and strip him.”
“Agreed,” replied the Tinker, eyeing the lifeless form. “But first, let’s see what he’s got in his pockets.”
“With all my heart,” replied the Sandman, rummaging through the victim’s clothes. “A wallet! I hope it’s well-lined. We’ll check it below. The body would tell awkward tales if anyone happened to peek in.”
“Shall we strip him here?” asked the Tinker, noticing the fine attire illuminated by the lantern. “Now that we can see, he’s wearing some famous togs.”
“Do you want to get us hanged, fool?” snarled the Sandman, leaping into the vault. “Hoist him down here.”
He positioned the wounded man’s legs over his own shoulders, and with the Tinker’s help, was in the process of lowering the body when the street door suddenly flew open. A stout figure, flanked by two watchmen, burst in.
“There the villains are!” shouted the newcomer. “They’ve been murdering a gentleman. Seize them!”
As he spoke, he fired a pistol, the ball whistling past the Tinker’s ear. Without waiting for another shot, the ruffian kicked the lantern into the vault and sprang after the Sandman, who had already disappeared into the shadows.
Familiar with the labyrinthine layout, the Tinker led his companion through a hole into an adjoining vault. They scaled a wall, slipped into the next house, and exited through an open window, making their escape while the watchmen futilely searched under every bulk and piece of iron.
“Here, watchmen!” cried the stout man who had acted as leader. “Never mind the villains right now. Help me get this poor young gentleman to my house, where we can render proper assistance. He still breathes, but he’s received a terrible blow to the head. I hope his skull isn’t broken.”
“Let’s hope not, Mr. Thorneycroft,” replied the foremost watchman. “But those were two of the most desperate characters I’ve ever seen, capable of any atrocity.”
“What a frightful scream I heard!” exclaimed Mr. Thorneycroft. “I was certain something dreadful was happening. It was fortunate I hadn’t gone to bed; even more fortunate that you happened to be coming up at the time. But we mustn’t stand here chatting. Bring the poor young gentleman along.”
Preceded by Mr. Thorneycroft, the watchmen carried the wounded man across the road towards a small house. The door was held open by a female servant holding a candle. The poor woman uttered a cry of horror as the body was brought in.
“Don’t be crying out in that way, Peggy,” said Mr. Thorneycroft sternly. “Go get me some brandy. Here, watchmen, lay the poor young gentleman down on the sofa—there, gently, gently. And now, one of you run to Wheeler Street and fetch Mr. Howell, the surgeon. Less noise, Peggy, less noise, or you’ll wake Miss Evaline, and I wouldn’t have her disturbed for the world.”
With that, he snatched the bottle of brandy from the maid, filled a wine-glass with the spirit, and poured it down the throat of the wounded man. A choking sound followed, and after a few moments of violent struggle for breath, the young man opened his eyes.