Murder in Grub Street (12 page)

He who had greeted us at the door was clearly disconcerted by Sir John’s insistence. He turned away from the door, looking this way and that and mostly behind, as if the answer to his problem lay elsewhere.

“If you do not do so,” resumed Sir John, “I shall return with my constables, break down your door, if need be, and carry out the inspection I propose by force. I advise you to admit us at once.”

Reluctantly, the doorman stepped back and made space for us to enter. As we did, we found ourselves in a short hall. At the end of it stood the short man with the ascetic face and clear blue eyes with whom I had spoken. He stood exposed in light which slanted down from an upper window. He, like them all, was dressed in black and wore a round hat upon his head.

Sir John was immediately aware of his presence. “Who is there?” he called out.

“It is I, Brother Abraham.”

“You, at least, have a name. Perhaps you would serve as our guide here.”

“Perhaps I might.” Said with a smile that to me seemed somewhat insolent.

“This is no social call, but an official visit.”

“We recognize no authority but the Lord’s.”

“Whilst you are here in the City of Westminster, you had best recognize mine.”

“Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s?”

“Precisely.”

“Then you are welcome, Sir John Fielding. I shall show you about and answer your questions. Yet I fear you will be disappointed, for not many of our number are here just now. All are out in diverse parts of the city preaching the Word of God.”

“I shall contain my disappointment if you yourself prove forthcoming.”

“Then this way, please” — he glanced at me for the first time, giving me a sign of recognition — “both of you.”

As he led us off, the nameless doorman vanished behind some heavy curtains just past the entrance. I wondered what lay behind them.

Brother Abraham led us into a large room, in which rough-hewn benches were laid out in rows toward a front which was dominated by a large, high pulpit of good construction. Doors led off to the right, but the front, the wide area behind the pulpit, was curtained off in black. Our guide had walked somewhat deeper into the room. As he looked about it, taking obvious pride, I whispered a brief description of what I saw to Sir John.

“This is our meetinghouse,” said Brother Abraham. “We hold services here, morning and evening. They are simple. We sing hymns. Scripture is read. Some words are spoken, and together we pray.”

“Words are spoken? There is a pulpit, is there not? Who leads these services?”

“We take turns, as the Spirit of the Lord inspires us. We are all equal in the sight of the Lord.”

“So I was informed by your brother at the door.” Sir John turned his head as if giving the place an inspection. “I know this room,” said he. “I know this building. It was until not so long ago an eating place called the Key. It was known for its spacious eating area. More than a hundred at a time could be seated in this room.”

“Our congregation is not near so large, but it grows.”

“How came you by this building?”

“It stood vacant when we arrived in London. It was said to be unsafe, but we put our trust in the Lord, and we got it for a good price. We have carpenters in our number. Gradually, some repairs have been made.”

“And when was it you came here?”

“Just three months past.”

“From whence? What part of England? I find it difficult to place your region by your manner of speech. It is a talent of mine, and I find myself confounded by your style.”

Brother Abraham smiled that same smile once again. Was it truly insolence? There could be no doubt that the man maintained an air of superiority that contradicted the claim of the equality of all which he bruited.

“From no part of England,” said he.

“Then where, sir?”

“From a New Jerusalem of our own creation deep in the forests of a valley called Monongahela. We resisted the French and fought off the Indians. Monongahela is ours alone. The name has a magic sound to it, would you not say so?”

“I seem to recall it from reports on our late war with France. You have come then from our American colonies?”

“We have our own colony there. As I said, we recognize no authority but the Lord’s.”

“Ah yes, well, we shall leave that for the moment. You have come on a religious mission to London then?”

“To preach the Gospel and convert the populace.”

“Admirable. How many are you?”

“There were but thirteen of us made the voyage to this Sodom. Yet we have increased our number since coming; and have opened our doors in charity to a great many more. Some of these will be added to our number. Others come and go.” He turned his gaze direct upon me. “Like your Moll Caulfield. She will leave us soon.” This last was said in a most dismissive manner.

I could not but retort: “She is a pious woman.”

Sir John touched my arm to restrain further comment from me. “May we speak with her alone?”

“No.” It was said in the manner of a refusal, but then he added: “She is off with others on a preaching mission to Shoreditch.”

“Ah, so far. Perhaps another time then.”

“As you say, perhaps.”

Sir John seemed about to reply sharply to that, then let the moment pass. “You have more to show us, I believe,” said he.

Thus Brother Abraham was made to show us all. There was a large kitchen off the meeting room. Below that was a cellar divided into a room for eating and two for sleeping — bare pallets upon the floor, no more. These, he explained, were the dormitories kept for the men and women off the streets. “Though perhaps not comfortable,” said he, “they are clean. And we all eat the same food. We make no distinctions.”

“There are floors above, are there not?”

Brother Abraham sighed. “Yes,” said he, “I believe they were kept for bawdy purposes.”

“The place had no such reputation — a small hostelry, an inn, rather. There are many brothels in Covent Garden and not so many inns.”

“I’ll not dispute the matter with you.”

“Good. Show me the rooms, if you please.”

They were shown to us. Although small, the quarters on the upper floors were far more comfortable than the dormitories below the stairs. Each was furnished with a rough-made bed and a chair and a Bible. I described them to Sir John—all quite neat and clean.

“These, I take it,” said Sir John, “are the sleeping quarters of the Brethren?”

“They are, yes. Surely you do not wish me to open each and every door.”

“There are many, I take it, and all alike?”

“Yes, many.”

“Then that should not be necessary. Show us only your own.”

He seemed to have some difficulty with Sir John’s request. He stood awkwardly for a moment, thinking one thing and then another. At last, he nodded and led us down to the end of the hall to a door like the rest. When it was opened, however, it revealed quarters quite different. Though not grand, it was better equipped than the rest. There was, in addition to the rudimentary bed and chair, a second chair more comfortable, a writing table with a double candleholder, and above it a shelf, spilling over with books. Atop the writing desk was a large sphere of a kind I had never then seen before, but now know to be an astrolabe.

I began, in a whisper, to describe all this to Sir John. But he stilled me with a touch on my arm. Then he himself ventured forth into the room, touching each item I have noted here lightly with his stick. He paused, particularly curious at the astrolabe, attempting, by the touch of his very hand, to discern its nature. Then, satisfied, he turned and walked out into the hall, where Brother Abraham awaited him, no smile but a scowl upon his face.

“Thank you,” said Sir John.

“Will that be all?”

“Not quite, but you may take us to the door.”

We followed him to the short hall wherein we had entered. Just there, Sir John pulled aside the curtains with his stick, behind which the doorman had disappeared. Nothing much was there — a space that was more than an alcove and less than a room. There was a chair and a table there — but no doorman. Again, Sir John sensed this.

“Where is the fellow who let us in?” he asked.

“Gone on an errand, no doubt,” said Brother Abraham. “Each of us has his particular duties here.”

“Oh? And what are yours?”

“Mine are like unto all the rest, except …”

“Yes, except what?”

“You will recall,” said Brother Abraham, “that I said that we have carpenters in our number. As they work with wood and tools, I work with pen. I write.”

“And what do you write?”

“What the Lord commands me to — hymns, sermons, commentaries. I am but his tool. He speaks through me.”

Sir John considered this for a long moment, then nodded. Of a sudden, he banged his stick sharp upon the floor, commanding attention.

“Brother Abraham,” said he in a tone quite severe, “I have had a report of an incident in Covent Garden of late yesterday afternoon. A woman was badly handled by members of the Brethren, and bodily injury was inflicted upon her. What do you know of this?”

“I was not present.”

“That I have heard.”

“But as I understand, she was a common strumpet, and they sought to denounce her as such. They became carried away somewhat, but she, it was, who tripped herself. Whatever bodily injury was done, she caused herself.”

Sir John had a firm grip on my arm, thus warning me against speaking out.

“That woman is as nimble-footed as any can be. I have discussed this matter with her, and she declines to lodge a formal complaint. That is her choice. Yet a surgeon was called, and for his treatment of her took a fee of half a guinea. That sum will be paid to the Bow Street Court as a fine for this disturbance. Since you are all equal, it matters not who pays it. See only that it Is paid.”

Sir John nodded at me, and I opened the door.

“See, too, that such a disturbance never again occurs. Let us be good neighbors here in Covent Garden.”

With that, he walked through the door, and I shut it behind us, catching only a glimpse of the angry face Brother Abraham set against us at our leaving.

Though Sir John was quite as silent during our walk from Half Moon Passage to Bow Street as before, I felt it was no mere sulk. My offense in Berry Lane seemed forgotten as we ambled along together at a more reasonable pace. I considered making an apology, but the time seemed not propitious. Clearly, he had deeper things on his mind.

When we arrived, he sent me up to Mrs. Gredge, as I had expected, and went off to discuss the day’s docket with Mr. Marsden. Mrs. Gredge greeted me with screeches of dismay at my appearance, again as I had expected, and declared I looked as bad that morning as when she first laid eyes upon me, fresh off the road to London. In truth, I was not near so dirty, yet into the bath I went, a fair cold one it was, too, for she wasted no pity on me. It was then that I discovered the bite upon my shoulder. My adversary had not broken the skin, yet left proper welts there. Afterwards, Mrs. Gredge treated it with brandy and warned me against playing with such rough boys.

“We were not playing,” said I to her. “We were fighting.”

“Tish-tosh,” said she. “For boys such as yourself, that is a form of play. Remember that I have had three of my own.”

Though softened somewhat, she was not so sympathetic that she excused me from my household duties. These, which included a bit of scrubbing up and a buying trip to Covent Garden, were accomplished in good order. Though Mrs. Gredge put no meat on her list, I stopped at Mr. Tolliver’s stall in the Garden to tell him of Airs. Durham’s improved condition. He, in turn, called my attention to the absence of the black-clothed troupe that had so abused her.

“Perhaps we frightened them off, eh lad?” He bellowed a great laugh at that and bade me wish her a quick recovery for him.

Thus I returned with ample time to hear an hour of the proceedings of Sir John’s court. I never missed a chance to attend. I confess that like so many of the layabouts and drabs who attended, I was often entertained by what came to pass there in the courtroom. Sir John Fielding had a way of dealing in short fashion with petty pretensions and deceptions that left all but the pretenders and deceivers quite amused. Yet in ways of which I was not then fully aware, these sessions, at which were paraded all the miseries, foibles, and sins of humankind, provided an education that a bookish thirteen-year-old such as myself might only otherwise have obtained at great risk to his character. I was given a window through which I might view it all, protected as it were by a stout pane of glass. And lest from my observations I draw conclusions too dark regarding human nature, I had before me in Sir John an exemplar of those qualities most worthy of emulation. He was the chief actor in these dramas — no mere protagonist but rather, to me, the hero.

I slipped into a seat along the last bench quite in the rear of the room, as Sir John summed up a civil case that had been brought before him. The complainant and the defendant stood with some distance between them, as if separated by keen animosity. Looks passed between them, yet neither dared mutter a word whilst the magistrate spoke.

“And so I am to understand, Mr. Cotter,” said he, “that having heard from the defendant that the house he had rented from you was unsafe, you gave false assurances that all would be put right, and the house would be made safe for habitation. When repairs were not made, as promised, Mr. Lilly withheld rent for two months running. Now you come asking that the court force him to pay those two months’ rent after said house had collapsed in the windstorm of two days past. Is this correct?”

“Well,” said the more richly dressed of the two men, “not altogether, m’Lord. I would not say I made false assurances to this man here.”

“What would you say then?”

“The intention was there. I had not found the proper carpenter to do the work, was all.”

“That was all, was it? And in the meantime, you judged the house safe for habitation?”

“They inhabited it. I mean to say, if they lived in it, they should pay the rent, ain’t that so?”