Near that section of the Thames where the church at Rotherhithe stands, the buildings on the banks are at their filthiest and the vessels on the river are blackened by coal dust and the smoke of crowded, low-roofed houses. Here lies one of the most extraordinary and revolting locations in London, a place hidden from view and unknown even by name to the vast majority of the city’s inhabitants.
To reach this area, a visitor must navigate a maze of narrow, muddy streets thronged by the roughest and poorest people who work along the water. The shops are filled with the cheapest provisions, while the coarsest articles of clothing hang from every doorway and window. Pushing through a crowd of unemployed laborers, coal-shifters, and ragged children, one makes slow progress, surrounded by the offensive smells of the narrow alleys. At length, the visitor reaches more remote streets where the houses seem ready to collapse over the pavement. Here, one finds dismantled walls, crumbling chimneys, and windows guarded by rusty iron bars that have been nearly eaten away by time and neglect—every possible sign of desolation is present.
In this neighborhood stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch that is six or eight feet deep and nearly twenty feet wide when the tide is in. This inlet from the Thames is known as Folly Ditch. At high tide, the inhabitants of the surrounding houses can be seen lowering buckets and pails from their back doors to haul up the water. The houses themselves are a sight of pure decay. They feature fragile wooden galleries where people look down upon the slime below, and broken windows patched with rags. The rooms are so small and filthy that the air feels poisoned. Wooden structures lean out over the mud, threatening to fall into the ditch as others have done before. Every repulsive feature of poverty and decay ornaments the banks of Folly Ditch.
On Jacob’s Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty, and the doors of the abandoned buildings fall into the streets. Thirty or forty years ago, this was a thriving place, but now it is a desolate wasteland. The houses have no legal owners; they are broken into and occupied by those desperate enough to live there. Only those with a powerful motive for secrecy or those in a state of total destitution would ever seek refuge in Jacob’s Island.
In an upper room of one of these houses—a detached building that was ruinous but strongly defended at the doors and windows—three men were assembled. They sat in a gloomy silence, occasionally glancing at one another with looks of anxiety and expectation. One was Toby Crackit, another was Mr. Chitling, and the third was a fifty-year-old criminal named Kags, whose face was marked by a frightful scar from an old fight. Kags was a man who had recently returned from a penal colony.
“I wish,” Toby said, turning to Mr. Chitling, “that you had picked a different hideout when the old ones became too dangerous, rather than coming here.”
“Why didn’t you use your head!” Kags added rudely.
“Well, I thought you’d be a little happier to see me than this,” Chitling replied miserably.
“Look here,” Toby remarked. “When a man has kept himself as hidden as I have, it’s a bit of a shock to have a visit from someone in your situation—no matter how pleasant a person you might be to play cards with.”
“Especially,” Kags added, “when Toby already has a friend staying with him who has just arrived from abroad and is too modest to want to meet the police.”
There was a short silence. Toby Crackit, seemingly unable to maintain his usual arrogant manner, turned to Chitling. “When was Fagin taken, then?”
“At two o’clock this afternoon. Charley and I escaped through the chimney, and Bolter tried to hide in an empty water barrel. But his legs were so long they stuck out the top, so they caught him too.”
“And what about Bet?”
“Poor Bet! She went to the hospital to identify the body,” Chitling replied, his face falling. “She went completely mad, screaming and beating her head against the walls. They had to put her in a straitjacket and take her away.”
“What happened to young Bates?” Kags demanded.
“He’s waiting until dark to come here,” Chitling replied. “There’s nowhere else to go. The people at the Three Cripples are all in custody, and the pub is full of police.”
“This is a disaster,” Toby observed, biting his lip. “More than one of us will hang for this.”
“The court is in session,” Kags said. “If they finish the inquest and Bolter testifies against us—which he certainly will—they can prove Fagin was an accessory to the murder. He’ll be on trial by Friday and executed within a week.”
“You should have heard the crowd groaning,” Chitling said. “The officers had to fight like demons to keep the mob from tearing Fagin apart. You should have seen him—covered in mud and blood, clinging to the police as if they were his best friends. I can still see the people jumping up to get at him, snarling like animals. I can still hear the women swearing they would tear his heart out!”
Overwhelmed by the horror of what he had seen, Chitling pressed his hands to his ears and paced the room like a madman.
While the men sat in silence, a pattering noise was heard on the stairs, and Sikes’s dog bounded into the room. They rushed to the window and then downstairs, but the dog had jumped through an open window alone. There was no sign of its master.
“What does this mean?” Toby asked when they returned. “He can’t be coming here. I hope not.”
“If he were coming, he would be with the dog,” Kags said, examining the animal. “Give him some water; he’s exhausted from running.”
“He’s drank every drop,” Chitling said after a while. “He’s covered in mud and limping. He must have traveled a long way.”
“But where did he come from, and why is he alone?” Toby wondered.
“Do you think he—killed himself?” Chitling asked, avoiding using the murderer’s name.
Toby shook his head. “If he had, the dog would have stayed by the body. No, I think he’s fled the country and left the dog behind.”
This seemed the most likely explanation. The dog crawled under a chair and fell asleep. As it grew dark, they closed the shutters and lit a candle. The terrible events of the last two days had deeply affected all of them, and their own uncertain future made them jump at every sound. They spoke only in whispers, feeling as if the ghost of the murdered woman were in the next room.
Suddenly, there was a hurried knocking at the door below.
“That must be young Bates,” Kags said, trying to hide his own fear. But the knocking continued. It wasn't Charley; he never knocked like that.
Crackit went to the window and looked out. When he pulled his head back in, his face was pale with terror. The dog began to whine at the door.
“We have to let him in,” Toby said, picking up the candle.
“Is there no other choice?” the other man asked hoarsely.
“None. He must come in.”
Crackit went down to the door and returned followed by a man whose face was hidden by a handkerchief and a hat. When he removed them, the men saw a blanched face, sunken eyes, and a three-day-old beard. It was the ghost of Sikes.
He moved toward a chair in the middle of the room but suddenly shuddered and glanced over his shoulder. He dragged the chair against the wall as far as it would go and sat down. No one spoke. The three men avoided his eyes. When Sikes finally spoke, his voice sounded so hollow that they all started in surprise.
“How did that dog get here?” he asked.
“He arrived alone, three hours ago.”
“The papers say Fagin has been taken. Is it true?”
“It is true.”
They fell silent again. “Damn you all!” Sikes said, rubbing his forehead. “Do you have nothing to say to me?”
The men moved uncomfortably, but no one answered.
“Toby,” Sikes said, turning to Crackit, “do you intend to betray me, or will you let me stay here until the search is over?”
“You can stay, if you think it’s safe,” Toby replied after a hesitation.
Sikes slowly looked at the wall behind him. “Is the body… is it buried?”
They shook their heads.
“Why not?” he snapped, glancing behind him again. “Why do they keep such ugly things above ground? Who is that knocking?”
Toby signaled that there was nothing to fear and returned with Charley Bates. Sikes sat directly opposite the door, so the boy saw him immediately upon entering.
“Toby,” the boy said, backing away, “why didn’t you tell me he was here?”
Sikes, feeling the rejection of the others, tried to win the boy over by nodding to him.
“Let me go to another room,” the boy said, retreating further.
“Charley!” Sikes said, stepping forward. “Don’t you know me?”
“Don’t come near me!” the boy shouted, looking at the murderer with horror. “You monster!”
Sikes stopped, and his eyes fell to the ground.
“Listen to me, you three!” the boy cried, shaking his fist. “I’m not afraid of him. If the police come, I’ll give him up! I’ll tell them he’s here. He can kill me if he wants, but I’ll give him up even if he were to be boiled alive. Help! Murder! If you have any courage, you’ll help me! Down with him!”
Shouting these cries, the boy threw himself single-handedly upon the strong man. In his fury and the suddenness of the attack, he managed to bring Sikes heavily to the ground. The others were stunned and did not interfere as the man and the boy rolled on the floor. Charley did not stop calling for help, even as Sikes began to overpower him.
Sikes eventually pinned the boy down with a knee to his throat, but Crackit suddenly pulled him back and pointed to the window. Lights were gleaming below, and a multitude of voices could be heard. Hundreds of footsteps were crossing the wooden bridge. A man on horseback was among the crowd, and the sound of hoofbeats rattled on the pavement. Then came a loud knocking at the door and a furious roar from the mob outside.
“Help!” the boy shrieked. “He’s here! Break down the door!”
“In the King’s name!” the voices shouted from outside.
“Break the door down!” Charley screamed. “Run to the room with the light!”
Heavy blows began to rain down upon the door and the shutters. A massive cheer burst from the crowd, revealing just how many people had gathered.
“Open a door where I can lock this screaming brat!” Sikes cried, dragging the boy as if he were an empty sack. He threw Charley into a small room and bolted the door. “Is the front door secure?”
“Double-locked and chained,” Crackit replied, still bewildered.
“And the windows?”
“They are lined with iron.”
“Damn you!” the ruffian shouted, opening the window and threatening the crowd. “Do your worst! I’ll escape you yet!”
The crowd responded with a terrifying yell. Some shouted to set the house on fire; others told the officers to shoot him. The man on horseback—Mr. Brownlow—leapt from his saddle and cried out, “Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!”
The cry was echoed by hundreds. Some ran for torches, while others tried to climb the walls. The crowd moved like a field of wheat in a storm, joining in one continuous, furious roar.
“The tide was in when I arrived,” Sikes muttered, staggering back into the room. “Give me a rope! They are all in the front. I can drop into Folly Ditch and escape from the back. Give me a rope, or I’ll commit more murders and then kill myself!”
The men pointed to where the ropes were kept. Sikes selected the strongest cord and hurried to the roof. All the back windows had been bricked up except for one small opening in the room where the boy was locked. From that window, Charley had been shouting to the crowd to guard the back of the house. Consequently, when Sikes appeared on the roof, a loud shout from the mob announced his presence.
Sikes blocked the roof door with a heavy board and crept over the tiles to the edge. He looked down. The tide had gone out, and the ditch was nothing but a bed of thick mud.
The crowd went silent for a moment, watching him. But when they realized his plan to drop into the water had failed, they let out a triumphant cry. It seemed as though the entire city had come out to curse him. People pressed forward, their faces lit by the glare of torches. Every window in the surrounding houses was filled with people, and every roof was crowded.
“They have him now!” a man shouted from the bridge. “Hurrah!”
“I will give fifty pounds,” Mr. Brownlow cried, “to the man who takes him alive!”
Another roar followed. Word spread through the crowd that the front door had finally been forced open and that the first man had entered the house. The mob began to push toward the entrance, eager to see the criminal captured. In the confusion, many were pressed nearly to suffocation or trampled underfoot.
Sikes was now thoroughly terrified. However, seeing the crowd’s attention momentarily distracted, he determined to make one last effort. He would drop into the ditch and try to creep away in the darkness. He fastened one end of the rope tightly around the chimney and made a strong noose at the other end with his hands and teeth. His plan was to lower himself down as far as possible and then cut the rope with his knife.
At the very moment he put the loop over his head to slip it under his arms, Sikes looked behind him on the roof. He threw his arms up and let out a scream of pure horror.
“The eyes again!” he shrieked.
Staggering as if he had been struck by lightning, he lost his balance and fell over the edge of the roof. The noose was around his neck. As he fell, the weight of his body pulled the rope tight. He fell thirty-five feet before the rope snapped taut. There was a sudden convulsion of his limbs, and then he hung there, motionless, his open knife still clenched in his hand.
The old chimney shook from the shock but remained standing. The murderer swung lifelessly against the wall. Charley Bates, seeing the body dangling before the window, called out to the people to come and get him out.
Sikes's dog, which had been hidden until now, ran back and forth on the roof with a dismal howl. It jumped toward the dead man’s shoulders but missed its aim. The animal fell into the mud of the ditch below, struck its head against a stone, and died instantly.