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The Rookery! Who, passing through Saint Giles’s on the way to the city or back, hasn’t glimpsed its squalid hovels and ruffianly occupants through narrow alleyways? Who hasn’t marveled that such a cesspool of vice and crime is permitted to fester in the heart of the metropolis, like a gangrenous sore corrupting the entire system? Only recently has the march of progress demanded its eradication. For years, this den of iniquity was tolerated, its foul presence complained of yet unchallenged, like an unwashed wound ignored by a negligent physician. Now that it’s been mostly razed, replaced by a broad and airy street, a brief recollection of its former horrors seems fitting.

Entering a narrow street guarded by posts and cross-bars, a few steps from the bustling thoroughfare brought you into a nightmare realm, the lair of half the city’s lawless denizens. Coarse profanity assailed your ears, and vile odors plagued your nostrils. As you picked your way through filth-filled gutters and over heaps of decaying refuse and oyster shells, the full repulsiveness of the place unfolded before you. The savage, grotesque spectacle was both mesmerizing and revolting. The houses were sordid, encrusted with the leprosy of vice, reflecting the degradation of their tenants. They were horrors in themselves: windowless, or with panes replaced by brown paper or tin; doorless, openly displaying the squalor within. Rather than conceal the wretchedness, it was flaunted. Miserable rooms, nearly devoid of furniture, their floors and walls caked with grime or adorned with gaudy, coarse prints; shameless, debased women; children barefoot and in tatters; these were the common sights. Few men were seen, presumably out on nefarious business; those present had sinister looks and mean attire, perfectly suited to the setting. These dismal dwellings were teeming, every room from garret to cellar swarming with inhabitants. The cellars, dark and cavernous, seemed too wretched even for beasts. Clothes-lines stretched from house to house, festooned with every kind of garment. Branching off the main street were numerous alleys and passages, equally, if not more, wretched, and teeming with life. Personal safety forbade exploration of these labyrinths, but the imagination could easily conjure their horrors from the given sample. Every step brought insult or annoyance. Every soul seemed brutalized, degraded; the women especially, utterly lost to decency, their cries, quarrels, and curses ringing through the streets. To escape this hellhole and breathe clean air again was a profound relief.

Such was the Rookery by day. Imagine its horrors when night cloaked its denizens in darkness! Yet it is at this hour we must now enter its innermost depths.

After escaping the ruined house on Vauxhall Road, the two ruffians, breathless and wild-eyed, sprinted through the labyrinthine streets towards Saint Giles’s. They reached the Broadway just as the church clock struck two, the ominous chimes echoing in the desolate night. Ducking into a narrow alley, they barreled through obstructions, emerging onto a slightly wider cross-street before slipping into a shadowy entryway. At the bottom of this passage was a swing-door, which admitted them into a small, grim court.

A dwarfish figure, swathed in a tattered watchman’s greatcoat, sat on a rickety stool with a horn lantern in his hand and a cutty pipe clenched between his teeth. The glow of the pipe illuminated his withered, craggy features, casting grotesque shadows that danced eerily on the walls. This was Old Parr, the deputy-porter of the lodging house. The ruffians acknowledged him with a nod before pushing through another door into a dim, smoke-filled kitchen.

At the far end of the room, a fire blazed cheerfully under a large copper kettle, the warmth a stark contrast to the squalor surrounding it. A deal table stood off to one side, surrounded by men of sinister aspect and sordid attire, engaged in a tense game of cards. Another, smaller table was situated near the fire, and a rickety staircase led to the upper rooms. The place reeked of neglect; the floors, blackened with years of grime, and the walls, thick with filth. In one corner, a boy lay sprawled on a heap of coal and coke, fast asleep, his skin as blackened as a chimney sweep’s. He was the waiter.

The primary illumination came from a single candle stuck against the wall, its flickering flame reflected by a tarnished tin plate. Before the fire stood a peculiar figure: a man in a velveteen jacket with ivory buttons, a striped waistcoat, and drab knee-breeches. His faded black silk neckcloth was tied in a great bow, and ancient Wellingtons climbed halfway up his disproportionately thin legs, contrasting starkly with his square, robust frame. His face was broad and jolly, with a bulbous nose, fleshy lips, and cunning light gray eyes. Long flakes of dunnish red hair dangled over his ears and neck, matching his whiskers and beard. A superannuated white castor hat, adorned with a black hat-band, was jauntily cocked on one side of his head, giving him a rakish air.

This man, known as Ginger, was a dog-fancier—a dealer and stealer of dogs, well-versed in the nefarious tricks of his trade. His self-satisfied demeanor bespoke a confidence born of cunning and knavery, while his droll, winning manners made him adept at duping his customers. His true name was Taylor, but among his cronies, he was simply Ginger. A beautiful black-and-tan spaniel peeked from one coat pocket, while a pug nestled in his breast and two Blenheims were tucked under each arm. At his feet lay an Isle of Skye terrier and a cropped French poodle, its snowy fur adorned with a red ribbon.

As the Sandman and the Tinker entered, Ginger nodded familiarly. “Well, my ’arties, what luck?” he inquired with a sly grin.

“Oh, pretty middlin’,” the Sandman replied gruffly, settling himself at the table near the fire. He kicked the sleeping boy awake. “Fetch us a pot of half-and-half.”

The Tinker took a seat beside him, both men waiting in silence for their drink. When it arrived, they disposed of it in two hearty swigs. Ginger, seeing they were occupied, sauntered over to the card table, his four-legged entourage in tow.

The Sandman, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, pulled out a worn pocket-book. “Let’s see what fortune has given us,” he muttered, his voice tinged with greed and anticipation.

So saying, the Sandman unclasped the pocket-book, while the Tinker leaned in with eager anticipation. Their search for money, however, proved fruitless. No bank-notes surfaced, only several memoranda, slips of paper, a few cards, and an almanac for the year. Their faces fell with bitter disappointment.

“All this trouble for nuthin’, and nearly gettin’ shot to boot,” snarled the Sandman, slamming the book onto the table with an oath. “Wish I’d never taken the job.”

“Don’t give up so quick,” the Tinker urged. “There might be somethin’ useful in them papers. Let’s take a closer look.”

“Look ’em over yourself,” the Sandman replied curtly, shoving the book towards him. “I’m done with it. Hey, lazy-bones, bring us two glasses of rum-and-water—stiff, you hear?”

As the groggy youth scurried to comply, the Tinker meticulously examined each memorandum and scrap of paper in the pocket-book. He read them once, then again, rubbing his hands together with growing glee.

“What’s got you all excited?” the Sandman asked, lighting a cutty pipe and settling back to smoke.

“There’s secrets in here worth a hundred pounds or more,” the Tinker exclaimed, unable to contain his satisfaction. “We didn’t go through all that trouble for nothin’.”

“Glad to hear it,” the Sandman said, narrowing his eyes. “What kind of secrets?”

“Hangin’ secrets,” the Tinker replied with ominous emphasis. “This bloke’s done some serious crimes—murder, wholesale.”

“Wholesale!” echoed the Sandman, removing the pipe from his lips. “That sounds bad. But what kind of fool keeps a record of his crimes?”

“He didn’t expect the pocket-book to end up with us,” the Tinker pointed out.

“Maybe not,” the Sandman conceded. “But someone else could’ve seen it. Only an idiot would keep such records. Imagine if we did that—what a mess we’d be in when the accounts were settled!”

“Our business is different,” the Tinker retorted. “This bloke’s a whole different kind of mystery. How old do you reckon he is?”

“Twenty-five, tops,” the Sandman guessed.

“More like sixty-five,” the Tinker corrected. “There are dates going back that far.”

“Sixty-five devils!” the Sandman exclaimed. “Must be some mistake in the reckonin’.”

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“No mistake,” the Tinker insisted. “I checked twice. One paper, dated 1780, mentions other documents.”

“Must be his granddad’s then,” the Sandman reasoned. “No way they’re about him.”

“They are,” the Tinker said, growing irate at having his assertion doubted. “If his own word’s to be trusted. These papers are valuable. If no one else believes them, he will, and he’ll pay to get them back.”

“Sounds like a scheme worthy of an Old Bailey lawyer,” the Sandman mused. “What’s the bloke’s name?”

“Anthony Darcy,” the Tinker answered, reading off a card.

“Any address?” the Sandman asked.

The Tinker shook his head. “None I can see.”

“That’s a setback,” the Sandman muttered. “No clues?”

“None,” the Tinker confirmed.

“Then we’re back where we started,” the Sandman sighed. “But no matter. Not much chance of makin’ a deal with him now. That crack to the skull I gave him likely finished him off.”

“Nothing of the sort,” the Tinker retorted, eyes glinting with a sinister light. “He always recovers from every kind of accident.”

“Always recovers!” The Sandman echoed in disbelief. “What a constitution he must have!”

“Surprising, ain’t it?” replied the Tinker, voice low with unease. “He never suffers from injuries—least not much; never grows old; never expects to die. Says what he plans on doing a hundred years from now.”

“Oh, he’s a lunatic!” the Sandman declared, his voice tinged with derision. “A downright lunatic. That explains his visit to that ruined house, thinking he heard someone talk to him. He’s mad, sure enough. Unless I’ve cured him.”

“I’ve a different opinion,” the Tinker countered.

“And so have I,” interjected Mr. Ginger, who had approached unnoticed, having overheard most of their conversation.

“What can you know about it, Ginger?” the Sandman growled, clearly irritated.

“I know this,” Ginger said, a cunning smile curling his lips. “You’ve got a good case, and if you let me in on it, I’ll make something of it.”

“Well, I’m agreeable,” the Sandman conceded.

“And so am I,” added the Tinker.

“Not that I pay much mind to what’s in those papers,” Ginger continued. “The gentleman’s evidently half-cracked, if not fully. But he’s just the type to manipulate. Thinks himself immortal, does he?”

“Exactly so,” confirmed the Tinker.

“And he thinks he’s committed a slew of murders?” Ginger pressed.

“A desperate lot,” the Tinker affirmed.

“Then he’ll be eager to buy those papers at any price,” Ginger said with a knowing nod. “We’ll handle this like I handle a dog—set a high price for its return.”

“We have to find him first,” the Sandman reminded.

“That’s no trouble,” Ginger reassured. “Keep an eye out, and you’re bound to run into him eventually.”

“That’s true,” the Sandman agreed. “And he won’t recognize us. I knocked him out cold the moment he turned around.”

“After all,” the Tinker mused, “there’s no trade as safe as yours, Ginger. The law’s on your side, and the coppers are too scared to touch you. I might become a dog-fancier myself.”

“It’s a good business,” Ginger said, a smug look crossing his face. “But it needs education. As I was saying, we sometimes get a high price for returning a favorite, especially with a soft-hearted lady. Some women love their dogs more than their own children. When we nab one of their pets, we ransom it like the brigands do with their prisoners—threaten to send an ear, then a paw, or a tail. Let me tell you what happened the other day. There was this lady—Miss White—desperate for her dog. Ugly little thing, but she’d lost her heart to it. Well, she lost it, and somehow or other, I found it. She was in great distress, and a friend of mine tells her she can have the dog back for eight pounds. She thinks it’s too much and hesitates, so I send word through my friend that if she doesn’t pay up, the poor animal’s throat will be slit that very night.”

“Ha!—ha!—ha!” The others laughed, their mirth echoing in the grimy room.

“Well, she sent four pounds, and I settled for it,” Ginger continued, “but about a month later she loses her favorite again. Strange, but I find it once more. Same game, and she coughs up another four pounds. This time, though, she takes precautions. As soon as she gets her dog back, she hops on a steamer to France, thinking she’ll keep it safe there.”

“Oh, Miss Bailey, unfortunate Miss Bailey! Fol-de-riddle-tol-ol-lol—unfortunate Miss Bailey!” sang the Tinker, his voice dripping with mockery.

“But there are dog-fanciers in France too, ain’t there?” asked the Sandman, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Lord bless you, yes,” replied Ginger, a sinister gleam in his eye. “There are as many fanciers in France as there are here. Why, we run a smart trade with them through the foreign steamers. Hardly a steamer leaves the port of London without a cargo of dogs. We sell them to stewards, stokers, and sailors—cheap, no questions asked. They go to Ostend, Antwerp, Rotterdam, Hamburg, and sometimes to Havre. There’s a Monsieur Coquillu who comes over to buy dogs, and we take them to him at a house near Billingsgate market.”

“So, you’re always sure of a ready market,” observed the Sandman, his voice dripping with a mix of envy and admiration.

“Certain,” Ginger affirmed, his tone triumphant. “Because the law is so kind to us. A policeman can’t detain us, even if he knows we’ve got a stolen dog, as long as we swear it’s ours. But he’d stop you in a minute if he saw you with a suspicious-looking bundle. Now, to show you the difference between our professions: I steal a dog worth maybe fifty pounds, perhaps more. Even if I’m caught, I might get fined twenty pounds or face six months’ imprisonment. But if you steal an old handkerchief worth three farthings, you’re looking at seven years abroad, guaranteed.”

“That seems harsh on us,” the Sandman reflected, a dark shadow crossing his face.

“It’s the law!” Ginger exclaimed, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “We generally escape by paying the fine because our pals go out and steal more dogs to raise the money. We always stand by each other. There’s a regular organization among us, so we can always bring witnesses to swear what we like. We confuse the judges so much that the case gets dismissed. The constable asks, ‘Which party should I give the dog to, Your Worship?’ The judge replies, shaking his wise head, ‘Give it to the person in whose possession it was found. I have nothing more to do with it.’ Of course, the dog is handed back to us.”

“The law seems made for dog-fanciers,” remarked the Tinker, a note of resignation in his voice.

“Here’s a tale for you,” Ginger continued, eyes glittering with malevolence. “I was standing at the corner of Gray’s Inn Lane with some of my pals near a coach-stand when a lady walks by with a dog—a real beauty, a long-eared spaniel—following her. The moment I see it, I untie my apron, scoop up the dog, and cover it in a trice. The lady sees me and gives me in charge to a policeman. But that doesn’t matter. I bring six witnesses to swear the dog was mine, and that I’d had it since it was a blind little puppy. I even bring its mother, which settles the point. So I’m discharged; the dog is given to me; and the lady goes away lamenting. I then play the amiable and offer to sell it back to her for twenty guineas, seeing how she had taken a fancy to it. But she doesn’t bite. So if I don’t sell it next week, I’ll send it to Monsieur Coquillu. The only way you can go wrong is by stealing a dog with a collar on. If you do, you might get seven years’ transportation for a bit of leather and a brass plate worth a shilling, while the animal, though worth a hundred pounds, can’t hurt you. There’s the law for you—ha, ha!”

“Dog-fancier’s law!” laughed the Sandman, shaking his head.

“Some of the Fancy are cruel,” Ginger went on, his voice darkening. “They crop a dog’s ears or pull out its teeth to disguise it. But I’m too fond of the animals for that. I may frighten old ladies sometimes, but I never seriously harm their pets. Nor do I ever kill a dog for its skin, as some do.”

“And you’re always sure of getting a dog if you want one, I suppose?” inquired the Tinker.

“Always,” replied Ginger with a wicked grin. “No man’s dog is safe. I don’t care how it’s kept; we’re sure to have it in the end. We feel out the servants and find out how much the master or mistress values the dog. Soon after, the animal’s gone. With a bit of liver, prepared in my particular way, I can tame the fiercest dog, take him off his chain, and have him follow me at a gallop.”

“Do respectable people ever buy dogs knowing they’re stolen?” the Tinker asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Of course,” replied Ginger, his eyes narrowing. “Sometimes first-rate nobs. They set us up to it themselves. They’ll say, ‘I’ve just left my Lord So-and-So’s, and there I saw a couple of the finest pointers I ever laid eyes on. I want you to get me just such another couple.’ We understand in a minute, and in due time, the identical dogs find their way to our customer.”

“Oh, that’s how it’s done?” remarked the Sandman, a dark smile curling his lips.

“Yes, that’s the way,” replied Ginger, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Sometimes a client needs a couple of dogs for the shooting season. We ask, ‘Which way are you heading—into Surrey or Kent?’ Depending on the answer, we arrange our plans.”

“Well, your trade seems both profitable and safe, I must say,” remarked the Sandman, his eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and envy.

“Perfectly so,” Ginger confirmed with a sinister smile. “Nothing can touch us until dogs are declared property by statute and stealing them a misdemeanor. And that won’t happen in my lifetime.”

“Let’s hope not,” the other two murmured in agreement, their voices echoing the dim room’s oppressive silence.

“To return to the point from which we started,” said the Tinker, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Our gentleman’s case isn’t as surprising as it first appears. There are some who believe they will never die—and I share that belief. Our old deputy here, whom we call Old Parr, claims he lived in Queen Bess’s time, remembers King Charles being beheaded perfectly well, and recalls the Great Fire of London as if it happened yesterday.”

“Walker!” exclaimed Ginger, his skepticism clear as he tapped his nose.

“You may laugh, but it’s true,” the Tinker insisted, his eyes dark and earnest. “An old man told me he knew the deputy sixty years ago, and he looked just the same then as he does now—neither older nor younger.”

“Humph!” Ginger grunted, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. “He doesn’t look that old now.”

“That’s the curious part of it,” the Tinker continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He doesn’t like to talk about his age unless he’s in the mood. But once, he confided in me that he didn’t know why he lived so long, except it might be due to a potion he swallowed, brewed by his master, who was a great conjurer in Queen Bess’s days.”

“Pshaw!” Ginger scoffed, shaking his head. “I thought you were too clever, Tinker, to be taken in by such an old wife’s tale.”

“Let’s bring the old fellow in and talk to him,” replied the Tinker, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Here, lazy-bones,” he called, rousing the sleeping youth slumped in the corner. “Go and fetch Old Parr. Tell him we want his company over a glass of rum and water.”