The Mysteries of London, v. 2/4 — Context and Discussion
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ribed as the Holy Land.
Accident shortly led the officers, who had originally entered upon the chase with him, to the spot where he was seated.
"Here is the gentleman himself," said one, turning the glare of his bull's-eye full upon our hero.
"No luck, I suppose, sir?" observed another. "You had much better have remained with us and given us some idea of the person that you want."
"Fool that I was!" exclaimed Markham, now perceiving his imprudence in that respect: "I have left you to pursue a shadow, instead of depicting to you the substance. But surely the name of Anthony Tidkins——"
"The Resurrection Man, as they call him," hastily remarked one of the constables.
"The same," answered Markham.
"Why—he blew himself up, along with some others and a number of our men, last year, down in Bethnal Green," said the constable who had last spoken.
"No—he lives, he lives," exclaimed Richard, impatiently. "My God! I know him but too well."
"And it was after him that you gave the alarm just now in Tottenham Court Road?"
"It was. I knew him at once—I could not be mistaken: his voice, laden with a curse, still rings in my ears."
"Well, since the gentleman's so positive, I 'spose it must be so," said the constable: "we musn't sleep upon it, mates. Ten to one that Tidkins has taken to burrow in one of the low cribs about here; and he means to lie quiet for two or three days till the alarm's blown over. I know the dodges of these fellers. You two go the round of Plumptre Street; and me and this gentleman will just take a promiscuous look into the kens about here."
The two constables to whom these words were addressed, immediately departed upon the mission proposed to them, and Richard signified his readiness to accompany the officer who had thus settled the plan of proceedings.
"We'll go first to Rats' Castle, sir, if you please," said the policeman: "that is the most likely place for a run-away to take refuge in at random."
"What is Rats' Castle?" asked Markham, as he walked by the officer's side down a wretched alley, almost as dark as pitch, and over the broken pavement of which he stumbled at every step.
"The night-house where all kind of low people meet to sup and lodge," was the reply. "But here we are—and you'll see all about it in an instant."
They had stopped at the door of a house with an area protected by thick wooden palings. All the upper part of the dwelling appeared to be involved in total darkness: but lights streamed through the chinks of the rude shutters of the area-windows; and from the same direction emanated boisterous merriment, coarse laughter, and wild hurrahs.
"You knock at the door, sir, if you please," said the policeman, "while I stand aside. I'll slip in after you; for if they twig my coat, and Tidkins really happens to be there, they'd give him the office to bolt before we could get in."
"Well thought of," returned Markham. "But upon what plea am I to claim admittance?"
"As a stranger, impelled by curiosity. You carry the silver key in your pocket."
The policeman withdrew a few paces; and our hero knocked boldly at the door.
A gruff voice challenged the visitor from the area.
"No one that will do you any harm," replied Richard. "I am anxious to witness the interior of this establishment; and here is half-a-crown for you if you can gratify my curiosity."
"That's English, any how," said the voice, softening in its tone. "Stop a minute."
Markham heard a door close in the area below; and in a few moments the bolts were drawn back inside the one at which he was standing.
"Now then, my ben-cull—in with you," said a man, as he opened the front door, and held a candle high up above his head at the same time.
Markham stepped into a narrow passage, and placed his foot against the door in such a way as to keep it open. But the precaution was unnecessary, for the policeman had glided in almost simultaneously with himself.
"Now, no noise, old feller," said the constable, in a hasty whisper to the man who had opened the door: "our business isn't with any of your set."
"Wery good," returned the porter of Rats' Castle: "you know best—it isn't for me to say nothink."
"Go first, sir," whispered the officer to Markham. "You seem to know _him_ better than me, for I never saw him but once—and then only for a minute or two."
"Which way?" demanded Richard.
From its opening chapter, 'Rat's Castle,' this second volume of The Mysteries of London plunges readers into a world where the city's low haunts and high drawing-rooms are equally treacherous. The narrative voice shifts between sensational action and moral commentary, as when Katherine Monroe, an orphan, strikes a bargain with an old woman who claims knowledge of her origins—a transaction that involves a hundred pounds and the ominous figure of the 'Resurrection Man.' The excerpt shows Reynolds layering suspense through precise details: the hag's sudden thought about a separate recompense, Kate's indignant refusal to be 'catechised,' and the farmer's pragmatic offer to supply funds without legal scrutiny.
Bargains and Secrets
The negotiation between Kate and the old woman exemplifies Reynolds's method of building tension through incomplete information. The hag demands money to satisfy 'the man who is to be satisfied with money'—a circumlocution that hints at blackmail without naming the crime. Kate's resolve to meet again 'to-morrow evening' creates a deadline that propels the plot forward. Notably, the farmer Mr. Bennet intervenes to prevent Kate from consulting her lawyer, Mr. Wharton, arguing that a lawyer's 'calm and severe eye' might lead to arrests rather than revelations. This moment reveals a key tension in the novel: the conflict between legal prudence and emotional urgency. The characters choose to operate outside official channels, trusting instead in personal bonds and the promise of future recompense. Reynolds thus sets up a world where secrets are traded like currency, and where the pursuit of truth often requires bending or bypassing the law.
The City's Underworld and Its Denizens
The table of contents alone maps a geography of London's criminal and marginal spaces: 'Rat's Castle,' 'The Boozing-ken,' 'The Mint,' 'The Forty Thieves.' These are not mere settings but active forces in the narrative. The 'Resurrection Man'—a resurrectionist who sells corpses for dissection—appears as a recurring threat, his profession linking the city's medical establishment to its graveyards. In the excerpt, the hag warns that this man 'will watch me at a distance,' suggesting surveillance and coercion. Reynolds populates his London with figures who operate in the shadows: the old hag, the Thames pirates, the 'aristocratic villain' and the 'low miscreant' of a later chapter. The novel's structure, with its rapid alternation between chapters set in Castelcicala and London, reinforces the idea that corruption is not confined to one class or nation. The 'plague ship' and 'the royal breakfast' sit side by side, implying that disease and decadence are equally pervasive.
Voice and Moral Framing
Reynolds's narrator frequently steps back from action to offer commentary, as when Kate's friends conclude that the hag's demand for payment only after revelations is 'a proof of good faith.' This editorializing guides reader sympathy without eliminating ambiguity. The language is often heightened: Kate speaks 'indignantly,' the hag is 'well pleased with the resolute manner of the young orphan.' Such phrasing aligns virtue with firmness and vice with cunning. Yet the narrator also allows the hag a measure of complexity—she is not merely evil but 'apparently well pleased' by Kate's spirit. The chapter titles themselves function as moral signposts: 'Hypocrisy,' 'Morbid Feelings,' 'The Aristocratic Villain and the low Miscreant.' This dual impulse—toward sensation and toward moral instruction—is characteristic of the penny dreadful genre. Reynolds wants both to thrill and to edify, and the tension between those aims gives the prose its distinctive, urgent quality.
Structure and Serial Pacing
With 129 text sections and a word count exceeding 430,000, this volume was designed for serial consumption. Each chapter is short—often only three or four pages—and ends on a note of suspense or revelation. The excerpt from Chapter CC, 'A Maiden's Love,' breaks off mid-scene as the two young ladies retire to a bed-chamber. This technique keeps readers returning for the next installment. Reynolds also intercuts multiple plotlines: the Castelcicalan revolution (chapters on 'The Battles of Piacere and Abrantani'), the domestic drama of Kate and Ellen, and the criminal exploits of the Resurrection Man. The effect is a mosaic of London life, where a royal breakfast at Buckingham Palace can follow a chapter set in the Mint. This rapid juxtaposition creates a sense of a city teeming with simultaneous, interconnected stories—a literary equivalent of the panoramic illustrations that accompanied the original serial.
Readers approaching this volume should attend to the way Reynolds uses dialogue to convey character: the hag's evasive phrasing, Kate's indignant retorts, the farmer's pragmatic offers. The novel rewards attention to its recurring motifs—money as a tool of coercion, the contrast between public respectability and private vice, the constant threat of exposure. Because the excerpts are incomplete, the ultimate resolution of Kate's quest remains unknown, but the patterns of bargaining and surveillance established here are likely to recur. Treat each chapter as a piece of a larger puzzle, and note how the settings—from farmhouse to boozing-ken—shape the moral possibilities of the action.
There’s something in Reynolds’s second volume about how a woman’s history is stitched together by other people’s secrets, one hag’s bargain at a time. I kept thinking of that while lately wandering through the quieter, sunlit corridors of Miss Fairfax of Virginia: A Romance of Love and Adventure Under the Palmettos — Story, Setting & Ideas — different wilderness, same ache for knowing where you truly come from.
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