The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 327: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“This will assist us,” said Sir Richard. “We will, before we actually begin excavating, endeavour to find some of the vaults which may run in that direction, and so perhaps save ourselves an immense amount of labour.” “Very good,” said Sir Christopher Wren, “I can at any time give you, from any place, the exact bearing of Todd’s house, for I have it fixed in my mind, and can read it off from the compass-plate in a moment.” They now at once made their way into the vaults, and by dint of keeping to the right hand, they avoided going much out of their course. These vaults were of great extent, and although some of them, owing to being full of the dead, had been bricked up, yet they were very easily opened, and in many cases a direct thoroughfare for considerable distances was affected. Ever and anon the compass was appealed to, and showed them that they were approaching Todd’s house. One of the party, a well-dressed gentlemanly-looking man, now stepped forward, and said to Sir Richard— “Here, according to the plans of the church, the vaults end.” “Then we can get no further?” “Not an inch, Sir Richard.” “Then here commences in reality our mission, which is to try to discover some communication between the lower part of the house occupied by Sweeney Todd, and these vaults. Let us each use our utmost discrimination to affect that object.” He lighted for himself a small lantern, and commenced a rigorous search of the walls, but for some few minutes could find nothing to excite the least suspicion. At length he paused at one portion of one of the vaults, where a kind of wooden tomb had been erected close to the wall. A large piece of dirty oak was placed upright against the earth work. “Tf there be any mode of leaving this vault, but the one we have entered,” he said, “it is here.” At these words, so significant as they were of some discovery having been made by Sir Richard, all those who were with him made their way to that spot, and from their several lanterns, a glare of light was thrown upon the wooden monument. “This,” said the person who had before spoken of the plan of the vaults, “this is the monument of a Sir Giles Horseman, who was killed by accident and interred here about twenty-two years ago. It was a very unusual thing to make any such erection in a vault, but his widow wished it, and the authorities saw no good reason for interfering.” The monument had evidently consisted of an oaken kind of square ornamental tomb affixed to the wall, and extending out about six feet into the vault. That portion of it which did so extend into the vault had fallen in, but the piece of oak which had been originally affixed to the wall there remained. “What leads you to suppose, Sir Richard,” said the architect, “that this place will show us anything?” “This,” said the magistrate, as he picked up from amid the rubbish of the broken monument, a nearly new glove of thick leather. “How did this get here?” The glove was passed from hand to hand, and duly examined. No one owned it, and the only remark that could be made upon it was, that it was of an immense size. “Then,” said Sir Richard Blunt, “since it belongs to none of us, I give it as my opinion that it belongs to Sweeney Todd, and has fallen from his hand in this place.” “Tt must be so,” said the fruiterer. “I know of no hand in the City of London that such a glove would fit but his.” “But how came he here?” said Sir Christopher. “That is the question. How could he get here.” “We shall see,” said the magistrate. “Lend me that small iron crowbar, Jenkins.” The crowbar was handed to Sir Richard Blunt, and at one touch with it, down came the piece of oak that was against the wall. That was conclusive, for, instead of the solid wall beyond it, there was a deep crevice or opening just sufficient to enable one person to go through it. “This is the place,” said the magistrate. There was a death-like silence among all present. Every ear was on the stretch, and every eye was fixed upon the narrow opening in the wall of the vault. It would almost seem as though every one expected Sweeney Todd to appear with one of his victims on his back that he had just, to use his own expressive phraseology, succeeded in polishing off. Sir Christopher stuck up his compass again, and it was his voice that first broke the stillness. “The route is direct,” he said. “To Todd’s house?” asked Sir Richard. “Yes, direct.” “Then all we have got to do is to follow it. It is an enterprise perhaps attended with some danger, and certainly with much horror, I think. Now, I do not ask any one to follow me, but go I will.” “T will follow you, Sir Richard,” said the fruiterer. “I reside in Fleet Street, and rather than not ferret out such a villain as Todd from the neighbourhood, I would run any risks. I am with you, sir.” “And I,” said Sir Christopher Wren. “And I—” cried every one. “Come on,” said the magistrate. “Come on. I will take the small lantern, and if I meet Todd, my great aim will be to take him a prisoner, not to kill him; and mind all of you, if by any chance a scuffle with that man should ensue, it would be a scandalous cheating of the gallows to do him any injury that might even delay his execution. Now, come on.” It required no small amount of real courage to lead the way in that expedition into the very bowels of the earth as it were; but with CORniclooo S CO)