Murder in Grub Street (11 page)

“Do you think it wise?” said she. “I would not have him know I had been made such a public spectacle.”

“Well, perhaps not.” How was I, a boy of thirteen, to comprehend such matters?

“I shall leave it in your hands.” She hesitated but a moment. “Goodbye, Jeremy. I am more in your debt than you shall ever know.” And then she hobbled inside. I eased the door shut after her and hurried off to the coach post bureau.

Though put off my course somewhat by my trip to Berry Lane, I found my way right enough, collected the letter to Sir John, and made it back to Bow Street in good time. The court session was done. I found Mr. Marsden, the clerk, at his desk, writing up the day’s record, and I inquired of him after the magistrate.

“He’s gone out, he has,” said Mr. Marsden.

“Did he give some idea of when he might return?”

“None. He went to keep an appointment with that man Johnson, who’s such a great talker. So there’s no telling.” He noticed the letter in my hand. “You’ve something for him?”

“A letter.”

“Best take it upstairs,” said he. “He has nothing to come back to here. I’ll be gone myself as soon as the constables arrive.”

And so, somewhat disappointed, I trudged up the stairs to Mrs. Gredge, let myself in quietly and listened. I determined rightly that she had taken herself into her room for a “lay-down,” as she called the naps she seemed to need these days.

There was nothing in the kitchen for me to attend to, so I sat down at the table to thrash out a problem. It was, of course, the question of whether or not I should inform Sir John of the ugly incident involving the Brethren of the Spirit, as they called themselves, in Covent Garden. It was plain that Katherine Durham was sore embarrassed by it, and her feelings mattered mightily to me. Yet there was more to consider here, for I had entrusted Moll Caulfield to the care of these people. She seemed frightened and shocked at what had been done by them to Mrs. Durham. It seemed evident I had made a considerable error. I hoped to make it right, and so there seemed nothing to do but make a full revelation.

It was not long after I had come to that decision that I heard Sir John upon the stairs. His heavy step was unmistakable. I was already on my feet, preparing my speech, when he entered.

“Jeremy?”

“Yes, Sir John?”

“Mr. Marsden said you had a letter for me.”

“I do, yes, but — “

“Read it me.”

“Well, all right …”

“It’s not from my sister, I take it,” said he, as I broke open the seal.

“No, from a place I’ve not heard of in Somersetshire.”

“Ah, good. Proceed.”

That I did, beginning with the rather flowery salutation and a first paragraph which spoke of the honor felt by the writer at receiving a communication from so distinguished a personage as Sir John Fielding.

But then he interrupted: “You may skip all that. Get to the meat of the thing.”

“As you say, Sir John.” I skipped down to the next paragraph and began to read aloud: ” ‘In answer to your query regarding John Clayton. It is true that he was a patient in our hospital for a short time three years past. The circumstances were these: He had fallen into an altercation at a tavern with no less than three men, and in defending himself against them was said to have behaved as “a madman,” claiming to be another and not John Clayton. In any case, he defended himself so well that he fought off the three and did great bodily harm to one. The constable who was summoned was able to subdue him only with a stout blow to his head with a club. Because the tavernkeeper gave it out that John Clayton was not at fault in the beginning of this affray, but was rather set upon by the three, the magistrate was unwilling to punish Mr. Clayton, bodily harm or no. But because an attitude of “madness” was mentioned, and confirmed by the tavernkeeper, Mr. Clayton was entrusted to our care to determine if he truly was mad, and if so, in what way.

” ‘As it happened, it was necessary to keep him no more than two weeks to make what I felt was a complete observation and determination. From the beginning he seemed quite reasonable, even docile, and exhibited a natural curiosity in the care and treatment of other patients and an interest in his own case. He was alert, helpful, and of good temper. I at last came to the only possible conclusion: that if he seemed irrational during the altercation at the tavern, it was the result of strong drink. If he had behaved as one “mad,” it may have been a matter of intimidation by the constable. When I communicated all this to the local magistrate, he instructed me to release John Clayton. Since the altercation at the tavern was not of his starting, he pressed no charges, but directed only that he was to contribute one quarter to the repair of damages done to the tavern.

” ‘I have had occasion to meet John Clayton on two or three occasions, though not in a professional manner, since his stay in our hospital here. While I was quite happy at his literary success, I cannot say that I was surprised. He showed me samples of his work while he was with us, and I recognized then that he was possessed of a true poetical talent.

” ‘I am naturally distressed to hear of his involvement in the way that you described in such an appalling crime, and doubly distressed that he was unable to speak in his own defense. Give him another chance, I pray, and I’m sure he will do better. Alas, the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem has a bad reputation. There are so many there that they cannot be attended to. I put my faith in your goodwill in this matter and in your excellent reputation to see justice done. Secure in them, I remain your humble and obedient servant, James Andrews, Doctor of Physick, OX.’ “

Upon my completion of the reading, Sir John, who had remained standing throughout, gave a sharp bang of his stick upon the floor, and a vigorous nod of his head.

“A good letter,” said he. “Jeremy, would you not say that one was a good letter?”

“Oh, indeed I would, sir.”

“Does it not seem that the doctor and the magistrate exhibited remarkable good sense?”

“Oh yes, sir, I would say so.”

“Well, keep that close to you, and we shall use it to draft some documents tomorrow. I shall be glad to be quit for a day with this business of thanking people.”

And with that, he began to make his way to the stairs, quite pleased with himself of a sudden. I felt I had to stop him before he ascended the stairs and disappeared for an hour or two.

“Sir John?”

“Yes, Jeremy? What is it?”

Then did I deliver the speech I had prepared, describing the attack of the Brethren upon Katherine Durham, making little of my part in her rescue, but presenting also a picture of Moll Caulfield and her shock at these events, and her wish to dissociate herself from them.

He listened soberly; then, with a much darker expression, he said to me: “Damn, I do wish Mr. Donnelly were still with us. I have so little use for other doctors and surgeons that I can recommend none. Get a name from Mr. Bailey. He is downstairs. Then run to the one he sends you to and have him go forthwith to Mrs. Durham. Tell him I shall pay. You say she is now at home?”

“Yes, I helped her there to Berry Lane.”

“Good boy. I’ll not have this sort of disturbance under our noses. That fellow you talked to yesterday, the one without a name, was he present during the attack?”

“No, Sir John. I give him credit that they may have acted more sensibly had he been there.”

“Yes … well, perhaps. In any case, I see a busy day for us tomorrow. We shall pay an overdue visit to Mrs. Durham, and then look in on Moll Caulfield to see how she is getting on. But for the moment, go, Jeremy, while there is still light, and send that surgeon on his way.”

Thus I came to be seated up on the steps the next morning at Number Three Berry Lane. They led upward to the abode of the Widow Katherine Durham, wherein Sir John Fielding sat in earnest conversation with the householder. While from their voices mingled in manner generally grave, there wer nevertheless moments of levity in which I heard her voice rise in dignified laughter and his join in, rumbling in amusement. They were, in short, talking as friends, and though I sat too low on the steps to divine the precise nature of their discussion, its tenor and lenght were such that I was greatly pleased by it. And why not? It is always pleasing when those one holds in high regard share happily, each in the other’s company.

We had come, Sir John and I, not much past nine that morning in order to confirm the state of her health following the visit to her by one Amos Carr, a surgeon of former military practice. He had been recommended by Mr. Bailey as “a good man for bones”, and so indeed he proved to be. After making his call, he came to make his report at Number 4 Bow Street and, not incidentally, to collect his fee. Met by Sir John’s sharp questioning, he indignantly declared himself to be good enough at his trade to tell a sprain from a break. As for treatment, he had done no more than was required: he had a[[lied a poultice and wrapped the ankle and expected her to be walking without difficulty in two or three days.

It seemed the next morning that his optimistic prognosis would prove accurate. When I advanced up the stairway and knocked upon her door, she answered it in good time and seemed much improved since last I had seen her. The blush of well-being was in her cheeks, and her spirits were altogether better.

“Why, Jeremy,” said she, “what a good surprise this is. And how good of Sir John to send that Mr. Carr to me to look after my poor ankle. It is ever so much better.”

“That was what we hoped, Mrs. Durham.”

“You say ‘we’?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sir John sent me in advance to inquire if he might pay a visit to discuss the details of your injury — that is, the attack upon your person.”

“Oh, certainly. I should be happy to welcome him under any circumstances — even these. When will he arrive?”

“Uh, well … indeed he is here.” I gestured below. “He awaits your welcome at the bottom of the stairs.”

Her eyes widened at that. She, who had been standing in such a way as to favor her hurt foot, leaning against the doorpost, shot out suddenly and glimpsed him below. Then, just as quickly, she pulled back, a look of great consternation upon her face.

“Goodness, Jeremy, he is here now! What shall I do? I am not properly dressed. My rooms, such as they are, are not cleaned for such an occasion.”

Then quietly, in a whisper, I pointed out to her the obvious. “Mrs. Durham, it matters naught to him. Remember his affliction.”

“But of course,” said she, a look of generous sympathy replacing the anxiety that had been written there but a moment before. “Please tell Sir John that he is most welcome. Let him come ahead. Perhaps you might show him inside.”

And so I retreated down the steps, offered him my arm, which he refused, yet accompanied him up the stairway, if only to say, when we reached the top, “To the right — just here.”

But there was Mrs. Durham to guide him, her hand at his elbow, her voice at his ear. If he could not see the smile upon her face, he could not mistake the pleasure in her voice as, hobbling, she brought him to a comfortable chair and sat him down in it.

“Ah, thank you, Kate. Very good of you to see me,” said he.

“None of that. Very good of you to come.”

Thus they argued over who had conferred upon the other the greater favor, as I backed toward the door. Mrs. Durham separated herself from the disputation long enough to charge me to leave the door open.

“I’ll not have him compromised,” said she. “Oh, and Jeremy?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Guard the stairs. Let us have no interruptions.”

And so I took my position quite near the bottom, content to watch the parade of passersby there on Berry Lane (a motley lot) and listen to the harmonious buzz of talk from the rooms above. Thus was I occupied for near an hour.

As I observed, I was in turn observed by the crowd. And what did they see in me? A boy moderately well dressed in his newest duds, chin in hands, daydreaming through this morning hour. A number who passed my way gave back my gawk. None stopped — yet one did return. He walked up to me, and said: “Hey, good me chum, would yez want to buy a wipe?”

He was a most peculiar-looking little fellow. Judging by his size, he seemed a good year or two younger than myself, yet he spoke with a voice more like a man’s than my own. He wore a capacious coat, with sleeves rolled, from which protruded his thin arms and soiled hands, one of which clutched a worn and dirty kerchief. The hat he had on covered near half his head; had he not addressed me direct, I would have sworn he could not see me, so low was that oversized tricorn balanced on the bridge of his nose. I was so fascinated by the picture he presented that I fear I failed to respond.

“I’ll let yez have it for a bobstick, though as any could see, it’s worth a ned.”

Still I could not answer. What was this queer talk of his?

“Silk it is.”

“You mean that handkerchief?” I managed at last. “You’re selling it? Is that it?”

“Ain’t that what I said? Don’t you jaw the cant?”

I ignored his arrogant rejoinder, but pointed to the rag in his hand. “It’s not silk,” said I. Any fool could see that.

‘ ‘Tis silk.” ‘Tisn’t.”

‘ ‘Tis. Give it a dabble, and you’d see.”

” Tisn’t.”

He was beginning to annoy me, and I him. He took a step toward me, and I rose from the step whereon I sat. My firm attitude seemed to discourage him, for he stood a moment, head tilted back, regarding me rather more in curiosity than in hostility. The moment of tension between us had passed. He pocketed the kerchief.

“You’re a queer one,” said he then. “There’s a rum blowen dorses above. You her Tom slavey?”

Though I understood little of that, I thought I grasped enough to respond to his question. “I am no one’s slavey,” said I proudly (knowing, however, that Mrs. Gredge might consider me hers).

“That bein’ so, you’ll not mind if I climb to her door and give her a glim of me wares.”

“She would not want your handkerchief.”

He sighed loudly, as if to signal his exasperation. “I got fams to show, and a tick.”

Then, as if to prove his boast, he dug deeper into his pocket and came up with two rings that appeared, unmistakably, to be of gold. He thrust them toward me for my inspection, and from the other pocket of his coat, he drew a watch, which he dangled before me. With this display, he made clear to me his occupation and his purposes. A dirty rag of a kerchief might be found in the street. But such as these could only have come into his possession by illegal means.

“You, young sir, are a thief,” said I to him, “and you’d best be on your way ere I take you off to Bow Street.”

He took a step back, dropped rings and watch in his pockets, and smiled a crooked little smile at my threat.

“You keep a dubber mum,” said he, which I understood as a threat. “You’ll do nicks to me, for I see no Beak-runners by your side, nor barking irons in your daddies.”

Believing I half understood him, and considering his puny size, I made to intimidate him further. Had I not, after all, frightened footpads away from Sir John but a few nights past?

So, boldly, I descended a step or two, and looking down upon him still, I declared, “I myself would take you there.”

Nothing passed between us for a long moment or two. Then, of a sudden, and quite without warning, he hurled himself bodily at me, throwing me back upon the steps. I fought back at him. We rolled down the two or three remaining stairs onto the street, flailing and banging at each other, clasping and grabbing in our fury. While I tried to wrestle him, there was no name for what he did to me, hitting and kicking like some lesser devil, poking his dirty little fingers at my eyes — I later found he’d given me a sound bite on my shoulder.

Though I had no way of knowing, we gathered a crowd around us as we twisted and rolled so savagely in the streets. No doubt we offered them amusement and they wished us to continue, for none made a move to separate us and end the fray. Who knows how long we continued thus? Far too long to suit me, for, reader, I confess that had our fight continued very much longer this young wildcat bred in the streets would have whipped me soundly.

Yet I was saved from such disgrace when we two were abruptly pulled apart — he by Mrs. Durham, and I by Sir John. To my humiliation, I was given a sharp blow on the buttocks by Sir John and a sound shaking, as well.

“You should know better, boy,” said he, greatly vexed. “Fighting in the streets like some wild urchin. Your father taught you different, did he not?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” said I, stammering in excitement.

A general grumble of disappointment went through the crowd that surrounded us, as our combat was concluded. I saw that Mrs. Durham was sore tested to keep her hold on my young opponent as he thrashed and twisted about in her hands. Yet she held on, until he came sudden stock-still when he peered across at me and recognized the personage in whose tight grip I was fixed.

“Gawd!” he exclaimed, ” ‘tis the Beak himself! I must hop the twig, or I’m sure a goner!”

Then he gave a great wrench of his frail body and broke free from Mrs. Durham. Scooping up his too large hat from the street where it had fallen, he ran pell-mell through an opening in the crowd that had of a sudden parted for him.

There was laughter at that, and our audience, satisfied then that the show was ended, began to disperse. Mrs. Durham came to us, wringing her hands.

“Ah, Sir John,” said she, “I fear he escaped me.”

“It’s of no matter,” said he. “We have the true villain here.”

“Oh, surely not,” said she, with a most sympathetic look to me. “If we but hear the circumstances …”

“He was a thief!” I cried. “He — “

“Silence, young man. If he was as you say, then he was a boy of low situation. And you, being better educated and in superior circumstances, should have known better than to tussle with him. You bear the greater responsibility. And in the streets! Really, Jeremy, you shame me.”

I could make no reply to that. I said nothing. At last he released his grip on my collar, and I made to brush my clothes clean of the dust and dirt that had attached to them as we had rolled about. Mrs. Durham gave me a rueful smile.

“Perhaps, Sir John,” said she, “I might take Jeremy upstairs and clean him off a bit.”

“No, Kate, I must be off. Had I not enjoyed our talk and your company so long this might not have happened. Yet we shall talk again on this matter before us, and I shall look to the practical aspect of it. As for Jeremy, let him now wear his dirt as his mark of disgrace. Come along, boy.”

Oh, indeed I came. Not a word from me. Scampering over to the stairs, I retrieved my own hat and received a whispered goodbye from Mrs. Durham. Then I set off at a jog trot to catch Sir John up.

I seemed never quite to accomplish that. He went at a fierce pace, which he could only have done knowing the streets and lanes around Covent Garden as well as he did. Yet I followed behind as loyally as any whipped dog might. Nothing was said to me the entire length of the foot journey, except near the end, when Sir John called back over his shoulder, “We should just have entered Half Moon Passage. Is that correct?”

How was I to know? I grabbed at the first passing stranger and asked the name of this narrow way between Maiden Lane and the Strand. He confirmed it as Half Moon Passage. I then ran full ahead to Sir John, for he had not slackened his speed in the slightest, and reported to him what I had learned.

“I know not how the numbers run hereabouts,” said he. “We seek Number seven, I believe.”

BRUCE ALEXANDER

This was spoken in a tone somewhat less severe than before. Thinking I might win back his favor with a quick reply, I raced ahead in search of a proper address, but I returned to him, disappointed, to report that we had passed it by.

“Yet where would it be?”

“Just at the corner of Chandos Street, I believe, sir.”

“Truly so? That space was occupied by a fair place for eating and drinking known as the Key. Yet I allow I have not been by this way for more than a twelvemonth, nor in the establishment for far longer. Is it a building of wood, somewhat ramshackled?”

“More than somewhat.”

“And is there no hanging sign in the shape of a key?”

“None.”

“Ah well, things change, I suppose. Let us try it.”

And so we marched back down Half Moon Passage to the corner. Coming to the door, I noted a number 7 of goodly proportions painted upon it and informed Sir John of this. Yet there was nothing without to indicate who dwelt within. I guided him with a light touch to the door. He found it with his stick and rapped stoutly upon it. There came no answer, and so he beat ever more stoutly. Then some noise was heard from beyond. We waited until at last the door came open, and a man dressed in black like all his fellows appeared before us. In truth, except for the man I spoke to in the Garden who had agreed to take in poor Moll Caulfield, I had difficulty in telling one from the rest.

“Praise the Lord,” said he. “How may I help you?”

“A pious greeting,” said Sir John. “I commend it. You may help me by conveying me to your leader. I am John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, and I am come to make inquiries into your sect.”

“We are no sect,” said the man in black, “but a brotherhood. And as a brotherhood, we have no leader. We are all equal in the sight of the Lord. We are the Brethren of the Spirit.” He recited it as if by rote.

“If that be so, then you will do as well as the next. Therefore, I charge you to invite us in, show us your shelter and meetinghouse, and introduce us to all who are here.”