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Authors: James Benmore
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swung open and his master welcomed us in.
‘Dodger! How wonderful to see you, my boy!’ he beamed as soon as he was sure who it was. ‘I was only yesterday saying to old Lively that we never …’
But then he registered our bruises, cuts and the bloody fogle what Mouse was holding up to his nose and his countenance soon changed. We must have looked to him, with our achey movements and pained faces, like the very trio his pub was named after and he hurried us into his hostelry as if he expected our attackers to still be in pursuit.
‘Who done this to you, boys?’ he asked as Tom and myself had helped Mouse limp over the threshold and he had bolted the door behind us. ‘Peelers?’
‘Some Irishmen,’ I told him and he nodded his understanding. ‘We’re hoping you might help us fathom which ones.’
Mouse, who had taken the worst beating, was ready to collapse in that small back hallway and I asked Barney if we could use his taproom to crash down. Barney told me that there was a card game in progress through there. ‘There’s a shocking amount of drunk whisky bottles in that little room, Dodge, and someone is always losing, are they not? Might be safer for you to just go through to the bar instead.’
So instead we went to one of the many dark corners of the main saloon which was just as good as being in a private room. The Cripples was a thieves’ den after all and it had been almostdesigned to accommodate clandestine discussions such as the one we was about to have. We sat ourselves around a small table against the far wall of the saloon with boarded partitions what helped to screen us from prying eyes. Barney fetched us a pot of water and some flannels to dab at our cuts as well as three small glasses of whisky each and we sank these drinks without speaking. We lit up some clay pipes, and eyed everyone in the bar through their own clouds of tobacco smoke to see if any was paying us too much mind. There was always plenty of Irish in the Cripples and I wondered if anyone here might know who the Turpins was. The room was already thick with smoke and bustling with the low sort – prigs, fences, swindlers, magsmen, mollies and whores. I knew most in the place – and some raised their glasses to us as they passed by our little hole – but they would have seen from our demeanour that we did not care to be approached. Pickled Liz, a prostitute what lived in a room above and who never left that building, swayed over to us, burped a greeting and asked if we would be interested in her company. Tom told her to clear off and so she turned around and tottered back to the bar a few short feet away. Then Barney asked someone to strike up a melody upon the piano at the further end of the bar and offered one of the ladies a free drink if she would lead the place in a song. In this way our conversation was drowned out by the noise and once I was sure that nobody was eavesdropping I leaned in close to my two companions.
‘Now then,’ I began, ‘what in high heaven was all that about?’
The others shrugged in answer.
‘We took a proper battering,’ Mouse said at last, ‘there’s no denying it.’
‘Did either of you recognise who those Turpins was?’ I said as Barney brought over four pots of beer for us and handed them out.‘Behind the masks? Could they have been the Sikes gang doing voices?’
Tom, with a wet flannel pressed hard against her bruise, shook her head and Mouse said that he doubted it. The Sikes gang was not the sort to hide their faces while fighting, they would have liked us to know it was them.
‘ Turpins ?’ Barney asked as he pulled up a wooden stool and squeezed his fat self in around the small table. ‘What’s one of those then?’ He had left his daughters to tend bar while he joined our discussion and he looked most bewildered as I told him about the metropolitan highwaymen we had just encountered. After I had recounted the whole tale I asked if he had ever heard of such a
‘Dodger! How wonderful to see you, my boy!’ he beamed as soon as he was sure who it was. ‘I was only yesterday saying to old Lively that we never …’
But then he registered our bruises, cuts and the bloody fogle what Mouse was holding up to his nose and his countenance soon changed. We must have looked to him, with our achey movements and pained faces, like the very trio his pub was named after and he hurried us into his hostelry as if he expected our attackers to still be in pursuit.
‘Who done this to you, boys?’ he asked as Tom and myself had helped Mouse limp over the threshold and he had bolted the door behind us. ‘Peelers?’
‘Some Irishmen,’ I told him and he nodded his understanding. ‘We’re hoping you might help us fathom which ones.’
Mouse, who had taken the worst beating, was ready to collapse in that small back hallway and I asked Barney if we could use his taproom to crash down. Barney told me that there was a card game in progress through there. ‘There’s a shocking amount of drunk whisky bottles in that little room, Dodge, and someone is always losing, are they not? Might be safer for you to just go through to the bar instead.’
So instead we went to one of the many dark corners of the main saloon which was just as good as being in a private room. The Cripples was a thieves’ den after all and it had been almostdesigned to accommodate clandestine discussions such as the one we was about to have. We sat ourselves around a small table against the far wall of the saloon with boarded partitions what helped to screen us from prying eyes. Barney fetched us a pot of water and some flannels to dab at our cuts as well as three small glasses of whisky each and we sank these drinks without speaking. We lit up some clay pipes, and eyed everyone in the bar through their own clouds of tobacco smoke to see if any was paying us too much mind. There was always plenty of Irish in the Cripples and I wondered if anyone here might know who the Turpins was. The room was already thick with smoke and bustling with the low sort – prigs, fences, swindlers, magsmen, mollies and whores. I knew most in the place – and some raised their glasses to us as they passed by our little hole – but they would have seen from our demeanour that we did not care to be approached. Pickled Liz, a prostitute what lived in a room above and who never left that building, swayed over to us, burped a greeting and asked if we would be interested in her company. Tom told her to clear off and so she turned around and tottered back to the bar a few short feet away. Then Barney asked someone to strike up a melody upon the piano at the further end of the bar and offered one of the ladies a free drink if she would lead the place in a song. In this way our conversation was drowned out by the noise and once I was sure that nobody was eavesdropping I leaned in close to my two companions.
‘Now then,’ I began, ‘what in high heaven was all that about?’
The others shrugged in answer.
‘We took a proper battering,’ Mouse said at last, ‘there’s no denying it.’
‘Did either of you recognise who those Turpins was?’ I said as Barney brought over four pots of beer for us and handed them out.‘Behind the masks? Could they have been the Sikes gang doing voices?’
Tom, with a wet flannel pressed hard against her bruise, shook her head and Mouse said that he doubted it. The Sikes gang was not the sort to hide their faces while fighting, they would have liked us to know it was them.
‘ Turpins ?’ Barney asked as he pulled up a wooden stool and squeezed his fat self in around the small table. ‘What’s one of those then?’ He had left his daughters to tend bar while he joined our discussion and he looked most bewildered as I told him about the metropolitan highwaymen we had just encountered. After I had recounted the whole tale I asked if he had ever heard of such a
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