Daniel O'Thunder. Ian Weir

then he’ll admit that he’s been wrong. He’ll amend his ways, and accept the Lord who is Saviour of us all. So how’s that—eh? How’s that for a story? And more than that, it’s a young man saved from a life of depravity, and snatched clear out of the Devil’s grasp. So let me hear you say no to an opportunity like that.”

      “Let me see,” said he, “if I’ve got this straight.”

      “Of course you have, Daniel. Dead-straight, for there’s naught that’s crooked in it.”

      “You’ve got a young fighter with a rising reputation, but no character to speak of,” Daniel said. “So you’ll cook up this story of yours, and match him against an old warhorse—a decade out of the ring—who’ll go off at odds of ten to one, or higher. The Ruffian gets paid to lose the match, and meantime you’ve wagered everything you’ve got on the old warhorse. But you’re not finished yet. For lo and behold the warhorse has become a celebrated old nag, and more than that he believes he won the fight fair and square—he actually believes he’s rediscovered his youthful powers. So you persuade him to make another match. You match him against the real article, a genuine contender, and spin the story that he’s on his way to the Championship of All England. Then you wager all you’ve got—and more—on the contender. For of course this next fight isn’t a cross—it’s on the up-and-up—and the warhorse is naught but a wind-broke jade on his way to the knacker’s yard. So John Thomas wins a pot of gold, and no one loses at all—excepting for all those who were duped, and wagered the wrong way. And of course the warhorse himself, who had his few remaining wits a-beaten out of him—and his integrity too, which he gave away, just gave it away, for he hadn’t even the sense to put a price on it.”

      Well. I made no return for some while, for what can you reply to such cynicism?

      “Old friend,” said I at length, “you wound me.”

      “John Thomas,” said he, “I know you. Brother, you’d have matched your grandmother against Cribb, if you could have thought of a way to get the old girl up to the line of scratch.”

      I began to feel a certain desperation. I needed money badly, for reasons we don’t need to enter into just at present. And this was a solid scheme—the best I’d been able to come up with.

      “Look: one fight, against the Ruffian. A purse of twenty guineas to the winner—half to you, half to me. I plan to wager my share on your good self, and I’d urge you to do the same. Ten guineas at ten to one—a hundred guineas—and you use it all for God’s own work. A hundred guineas to feed the poor, or clothe the naked, or whatever holy purpose you prefer. Think of the lives you could save—think of the souls you could save—and then tell me no, that your conscience is too nice, and the Lord don’t want money that was wagered at a prize-fight.”

      He looked at me with sadness, and shook his shaggy head. “Just listen to yourself, John Thomas—like Satan himself in the wilderness, tempting Our Lord. Not that I’d ever mistake myself for the One—I hasten to say it—and not that you’re the other. No, you’re not the Devil, brother—just a crafty old sharper with an eye for the main chance and an angle to work, same as you always were.” The smile had faded completely. “And now it’s time for you to leave. Go with my blessing and the assurance that we’re still friends, John Thomas, and always will be, for I bear no malice at all against any man in the world, and certainly none against you. But go at once, brother, before I kick you down the stairs.”

      I suspect he’d have done it, too. But suddenly there was a sound of shouting on the street below. A moment later there were footsteps, and then a ragged apparition burst through the door. It was a lad, sixteen perhaps, in scarecrow clothes. He was a printer’s devil, apparently, filthy and stained with ink.

      “And here’s Young Joe,” said Daniel warmly, his face lighting up. “Have you finished with our printing, then?”

      “I need somewhere to hide oh Cap’n please oh Lord they’re right on my heels!”

      He was in a state of pure panic, and Daniel grew dismayed.

      “Who’s after you, young Joe?”

      There was a rusty brown blossom on the scarecrow’s breast. Daniel’s face began to grey, as if with awful premonition.

      “Is that blood, Young Joe?” he said. “It is—that’s blood that’s dried upon your shirt. What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

      “I never did what they’re saying! It isn’t true it wasn’t me I’m a good boy Cap’n help me!”

      Too late, for more voices were shouting, and more feet thundering up the stairs. A man burst through the door, followed by two Peelers. He pointed and cried out, in triumph and revulsion.

      “There he is—the one who done the deed. He butchered that girl like a calf!”

      “I didn’t!” the printer’s devil cried, and burst into tears.

MURDER NEAR CURZON STREET

      Citizens Pursue Nightwalker Slayer By William Piper The Morning Register 27 May, 1851

      The talk of St Giles Street, Holborn, is of a murder discovered yesterday morning, and a subsequent chase through the streets. It began when the body of a young woman, later identified as Louise Maggs, a prostitute, was found in an alley by an early rising tradesman. Our information, gleaned from witnesses who came upon the scene shortly thereafter, is that the woman had been assaulted and then most horribly slashed by a knife or similar cutting instrument, as if her assailant had begun with one intention but then worked himself into a frenzy. Members of the Watch being summoned, a search of the area was commenced, leading to the discovery that the perpetrator had gone to ground in a nearby cellar—either for fear of discovery in his gore-soaked habiliments, or (which is thought more likely) because like a wild beast’s his instincts compelled him to watch over his kill. Flushed from his hole, he took to his heels. But the hue and cry was taken up, and chase was given by constables and members of the citizenry, who sprang instantly to their duty. For a time, the killer appeared to give his pursuers the slip, before the scent was found again and pursuit resumed. At last he was traced to a well-known house of vice and sedition in the Gray’s Inn Road, and apprehended, following a violent struggle with his friends, including a great Scottish brute who put witnesses horribly in mind of Sawney Bean, and two ancient slatterns who fought on the murderer’s behalf like shrieking harpies. The killer has been identified as Joseph Gummery, who is notorious in the district, being known as the Devil’s Printer.

ERRATA

      The Morning Register 28 May, 1851

      Upon further investigation, certain details contained in yesterday’s account have been found to be in error. The notorious house of vice and sedition in which the murderer was apprehended has been more properly identified as an academy of self-defence which serves also as the office of a laudable Christian charitable organization. The great Scottish brute referred to by our correspondent is in fact a godly Irish evangelist, bearing no similarity whatsoever to Sawney Bean, the Hibernian highwayman and cannibal. Contrary to our report, there were no ancient slatterns on the premises. The Register apologizes unreservedly to the Misses Sherwood, two mature philanthropists of unimpeachable character, who mildly urged members of the police to observe due process and decorum while carrying out the arrest. The suspect Joseph Gummery is not in fact notorious throughout the district as the Devil’s Printer. Rather he is an apprentice in a printing house, or a “printer’s devil.” The Morning Register stands by the remaining elements of the account, particularly those details reflecting upon the industry of the police and the courage of local citizens.