They described how the criminals of London plied their trade, from the “lifters” who stole goods from shops by concealing them upon their persons, to “curbers” who used hooks on poles to steal things out of windows that had been left open, to the “jackmen” who forged licenses, to “divers” who used small boys to squeeze through windows or other narrow openings and steal for them, to “nips” and “foists” or cutpurses and their accomplices, Green’s pamphlets described all manner of thievery and “cozenage,” which was the art of gaining someone’s confidence so that the “cozener” or “con man” could then cheat or steal from the “gull” or the person being deceived. There was an entire language, called a “cant,” that was spoken by the members of the London underworld and doubtless, Smythe thought, Greene was not endearing himself to London ’s criminals by exposing so many of their tricks and secrets.
As he went outside, the bellman came walking by, carrying his pike and bell and lantern. The city gates were closed at nightfall and now he made his rounds, calling out the hour in his singsong chant:
“Remember the clocks, look well to your locks,
fire and your light, an’ God give ye good night,
for now the bell ringeth, eight of the clock!”
As part of the watch, the bellman ostensibly patrolled the streets in order to protect the citizenry at night, but in truth, he provided little more protection than did the other constables of the watch, which was to say practically none at all. His primary value was in his ability to sound the call in case of fire, which aside from the plague was probably the single greatest danger to the city, especially with so much shoddy construction and the buildings piled up so closely against one another. And in the event of fire, there was usually not much that could be saved, for the only recourse was to fight it with hooks and buckets brigaded from the wells, and the buildings, for the most part, were so cheaply made that they went up like kindling.
As he came out into the street, Smythe nodded to the bellman as he went by, then stood there for a few moments, enjoying the cool night air. The stench of the streets was somewhat tempered on this night by a good, strong breeze coming in off the river, for which Smythe was thankful. He did not know if he would ever become fully accustomed to the city’s smells. The little country village where he grew up was clean and fresh compared to London. Here, everyone simply threw their refuse out into the streets, so that the cobbles were almost perpetually covered with a coating of slime, which was rinsed away only by a hard rain, though not even a good downpour would wash away all of the refuse piled up and stinking in the streets. And the streets that were not cobbled were almost continually churned into a quagmire, so that navigating them became a challenge to man and horse alike. Here, where Smythe stood, the filth drained down into a depression that ran down the center of the street, and that in turn drained into Fleet Ditch, which stank so badly that it made the eyes water and sting.
He hopped over the ditch as he crossed the street, thinking perhaps to wander down by the river for a while, but then he looked back and saw Molly coming out of the tavern, wrapped in her threadbare, brown woolen cloak, her cap upon her head. She did not see him where he stood. It looked as if she were going home for the night, and Smythe thought that perhaps he should offer to escort her, for being abroad alone in London’s streets at night was not safe for a woman. Especially a woman as young and pretty as Molly. However, before he could go across the street and make the offer, Smythe saw her meet a man who had apparently been waiting for her outside.
In the darkness, as the man came up to her, Smythe did not get a very good look at him, but he seemed to be a tall, long-legged fellow, dressed in high boots and dark breeches, a long dark cloak, and a wide-brimmed, rakish hat. From the way the cloak poked out at the bottom, Smythe could tell that the man also wore a sword.