Murder in Grub Street (13 page)

“Mr. Lilly, tell me,” said Sir John, inclining his head in the direction of the defendant, “when and why did you judge the house unsafe?”

Although he responded quickly to Sir John’s question, the defendant seemed to address the complainant. “There was another day of just such strong winds last March,” said he. “The house rocked and creaked something fierce. We feared then it would come down on top of us so. And when the blowing was done, you could tell, just looking, that there was danger of collapse.”

“I recall the March day whereof you speak. Mr. Cotter, was the condition of the house just so evident?”

“It leaned a bit,” said he grudgingly.

“Why then, Mr. Lilly, did you not simply move out of the house if you judged it unsafe?”

“Because, sir, I had signed a lease in January, and this … person would hold me to it, no matter what. He threatened me with the law then, just as he does here and now. We are weavers, sir, and our livelihood depends on having a place large enough for our loom. We had to keep working, in spite of the poor condition of the house. I saw no help for it but to withhold the rent. I had the money laid aside and would have paid him, had he braced the house proper. He railed and raved, yet in the end, he made a promise which he never kept.”

“Is this a fair account, Mr. Cotter?” demanded Sir John.

The complainant said nothing.

“Mr. Cotter?”

“He signed a lease, m Lord, and a lease is a contract. It is no crime to hold a man to a contract.”

“Do not lecture me on the law, sir. I know it far better than you.” Then to the defendant: “Mr. Lilly, you said you had the rent money laid aside. Do you still have that amount?”

Mr. Lilly sighed. “No, sir, I do not — not in whole. My wife’s leg was broke in moving our two children out of the house. The doorpost fell upon her. I paid a surgeon to have it set and bound.”

“And what of your loom?”

“It was crushed in the collapse. It is quite beyond repair.”

Sir John leaned forward toward the complainant. “Well, Mr. Cotter, what say you to this problem? Mr. Lilly has confessed that he no longer has the entire amount you seek from him, nor has he the means of earning it, for his loom was lost when the house came down. What solution do you see for it?”

“That is not my problem, is it? Let him borrow the sum, say I. And if none will lend it, then into debtor’s prison with him.”

Sir John sat silent for a considerable time, as if considering the matter. Those who crowded the courtroom were also silent, awaiting the outcome.

“No,” said he at last. “I believe I have a better answer. First of all, I deny your petition for the sum of two months’ rent in arrears to be paid by Mr. Lilly. He is forgiven the debt by the court. Secondly, I must say that in the years I have sat on this bench, I have never heard a suit so unfair brought before me. You, Mr. Cotter, have shown contempt for this court in bringing said suit, and in recognition of this, I fine you for contempt of court, the exact sum of which will be the price of a new loom to be provided Mr. Lilly and his family.”

As Sir John banged out his judgment on the table before him, Cotter raised his voice in disjointed phrases of protest. There were many “but”s, a declaration that the judgment was “unfair,” and a howl of “outrage.”

“I warn you, Mr. Cotter, if you do not silence yourself, I will fine you further and further again, until you find yourself in Newgate. Li thui dear?”

Cotter fell silent and nodded. Lilly wept for relief and gladness. Sir John instructed Mr. Marsden to fix the sum of a loom from Mr. Lilly and collect it from Mr. Cotter. He waited as this was done, and then he bade Mr. Marsden call the last case of the day.

“John Bilbo,” Mr. Marsden sang out, “accused of grievous assault on a city street on yesterevening; taken into custody by Constable Cowley on his first round of the evening; released on his own recognizance; please come forth.”

There was a great stir among us watchers to hear the name of one so famous called in open court. Black Jack Bilbo, as he was better known to one and all, was proprietor of what was then London’s best-known and best-attended gambling club. He was, withal, a plain man, a blunt man, one who had no more respect for the lords and gentlemen who patronized his establishment than he did for those he employed. Sir John had introduced me to him in the course of his investigation of what came to be known as the Goodhope affair. He confessed to me at the time that in spite of the dark rumors regarding Mr. Bilbo’s past — said to have been a pirate, no less — he liked the man well and held him in high regard. For my part, I was quite in awe of him.

He looked the part of a pirate done up in his plundered best as he strode in through the door to the street and took his place before Sir John. Black-bearded, swarthy of complexion, he removed his tricorn and displayed to the court no periwig but a head of dark hair, cut short, bushy in some parts, thinning in others, with a short braid in back. He stood erect before the bench, not a tall man but thick of body. He was, with the possible exception of Benjamin Bailey, chief constable of the Bow Street Runners, quite the most capable-looking of any I had seen in London.

“John Bilbo? It is you before me?”

“It is, Sir John.”

“How plead you to this charge of grievous assault?”

“I plead guilty, sir,” said he, then added, “with just cause.”

“Guilty with just cause. Is that it? Well, I can see we shall have a bit of unraveling to do before this skein is laid out proper before us. It would seem that the first we must hear from is the arresting officer. Is Constable Cowley present?”

“Here, Sir John.” Young Cowley stood and took his place beside Black Jack Bilbo. He looked much better than he had when last I saw him, carrying bodies forth with the Raker from the publishing establishment of Ezekiel Crabb. Alert, modest, ready to give his report, he seemed properly professional in his demeanor.

“Then give us your account, Constable.”

“I shall, Sir John,” said he, “and I can be brief. Whilst making my first tour of the streets surroundin’ Covent Garden, around the hour ol eight in the evening, I chanced to spy a commotion of considerable proportions on Maiden Lane. In spite of the crowd that had gathered, it being near a streetlamp, I could tell there was much happening within the crowd. There was arms flailing, a head bobbing, and great cries of excitement from the crowd. And so I hastened me there and pushed hard through them that was assembled, identifying myself as a constable. Once through them all, I saw this man, John Bilbo, crouched over a man in the gutter, striking him with his fist. Another man lay senseless beside this fellow, half in the gutter and half out. The two was dressed as in some uniform, or some manner of preacher’s garb, all in black they was. Anyways, I gave this man, John Bilbo, a stout rap upon the shoulder and told him to cease what he was doin’. He turned to me and looked near to attackin’ me, as well — the blood was in his eye, so to speak. But then he must’ve noted my red waistcoat, or the crest on my club, for he said, after gettin’ his breath, ‘Are you a Beak-runner?’ and I said I was, and that was that.”

“He gave you no trouble then?” asked Sir John.

“None at all,” said Constable Cowley.

“What of the victims?”

“Well, they posed a problem, they did, for we could not leave them where they lay. Nor could I give them my full attention — not if I was to bring this here gentleman into custody in a proper way. In the end, though, he took care of the matter.”

“And how did he do that?”

“Called for water, he did. He pitched a pail of it into the face of each one. That roused them proper. And though they was much the worse for his assault upon them, I took their names and charged them to appear at the Bow Street Court this day.”

“And are they here now? Let them come forward.”

There was a pause of some moments as Constable Cowley looked about the courtroom, yet in a manner, so to speak, of confirming what he had already concluded.

“No, sir,” said he at last, “they are not. They were right strange about all that. Though they heard me through, they made no promise to appear. In truth, one said to me that they did not accept the authority of your court.”

At that, Sir John heaved a sigh audible even to the back row where I sat. “And what were their names?”

“Brother Isaac and Brother James. That’s all the names they would give, Sir John.”

“And the address they supplied was on Half Moon Passage, was it not?”

“How did you know, sir?”

“Second sight—you may be sure of it. No, I make light, and I should not, Constable. Members of this religious community nave lately made themselves known to me in diverse ways. I simply assumed. Thank you, Mr. Cowley. You conducted yourself well, both at the time of the arrest and here in the courtroom. You may go or stay, as is your will.”

The young constable then retired to the seat he had left on the front bench, leaving Black Jack Bilbo alone before the magistrate. Sir John leaned forward and folded his hands before him. Had he sight, one might swear he was staring at him through the band of black silk that covered his eyes.

“Mr. Bilbo,” said he then, “you have heard Constable Cowley’s report. Do you wish to take exception to it in any regard?”

“No, sir, I do not. It was a good report, fair and right.”

“You do not contest that you set upon these men most cruelly and knocked each of them senseless?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Well, then, what have you to say in your own behalf?”

Until that moment, Black Jack Bilbo had stood quite still before the bench in a posture almost military. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his legs were set wide. But as he began to tell his tale, he began to rock and shift, and his hands soon shaped into fists. It was as if he were, in nerve, sinew, and muscle, repeating the action even as he described it.

“Well, sir,” said he, “it was in this way it happened. I was walking down Maiden Lane on my way to the theater in Covent Garden to attend a play of no particular consequence. It was my intention to join a party of gentlemen and their ladies and convey them afterwards to my gaming establishment — visitors they were, from Holland.”

“You were on foot. Do you often go thus?”

“I do. I sit on my arse far too much during the day and night, and so I must take the chance to stretch my legs when I can.”

“And do you go armed?”

“Almost never. I would fear the consequences for any who opposed me. I’ve had no trouble on the streets until now. I would wish nothing more serious than what befell me last evening.”

“Very good,” said Sir John, “proceed.”

“Well, as I say, I was walking down Maiden Lane when I was set upon by these two in black.”

“Set upon? In what way?”

“Well, that was it, Sir John. What they did, they started preaching at me in a most peculiar way. Oh, I have been preached at often enough in my time, and in my own way I try to heed the Word, if you get my meaning. I run fair tables. I’m known for a good touch when a man or woman is down. Beyond that, well, I hope to make my peace before my time runs out. I’ve a thing or two on my conscience we need not go into here.”

“No, we need not.”

“But these two, they’re walking beside me, step for step, and telling me that I and all my people must accept Christ as the Messiah ere the great time come. They are shouting at me in this manner, you see, and I was much annoyed, so I quickened my pace, and then they began jog-trotting beside me, crying, ‘Jew, Jew, you must listen. You must convert to prepare the way!’ Well, in truth, Sir John, I am often taken for a Jew, and I would as soon be taken for one as any other. It is the beard which I wear, and which I shall always wear. I know Jews to be good gamblers and sensible men — which is more than I can say for those two. What they done was very foolish indeed.”

At this point, reader, Mr. Bilbo’s body was quivering so with the recalled action of the moment he described that I thought he might show as well as tell what came to pass. His arms were now at his sides, his elbows bent, his fists making little circles in the air. He took a deep breath before he continued as follows:

“Well, in order to detain me that they might preach the harder at me, one of them grasped me by the shoulder and dug in his heels. And the other — the other, he grabbed my beard and palled It.”

The courtroom crowd, which had been in an attitude of silent attention throughout this recital, exploded into a commotion of comment, so that Sir John was obliged to hammer them into silence. For his part, he then leaned forward even further, apparently eager to hear the end of the tale.

“Proceed,” said Sir John.

“There is not much more to tell. For to touch my beard in such a way, to” — and here Mr. Bilbo hesitated, as if to put such a deed in words were too much for him — “to pull it, is an offense I cannot and will not abide. I struck out at them, and I struck out ohen: I have no true sense of what then happened, nor how long it happened, for I was in a fighting rage until your young constable gave me a tap and told me to quit. Only then did I come to myself.

Quite right was he to stop me.” Then he added darkly: “Quite right was I, too, not to have a sword by my side.”

A tremor seemed to pass through the courtroom, a collective sigh, more or less. Sir John leaned back at last and put together his fingers, left upon right, one upon one.

“And so you plead guilty with just cause, John Bilbo. Have you any witnesses to corroborate your account? Anyone who saw the” — and here he hesitated, as well — “offense to 3’our person?”

“No, I do not,” said Mr. Bilbo, “but you have my word I have given a true account.”

“Let me assure you, John Bilbo, I value your word highly,” said Sir John. Then, addressing the court: “If we have an absence of witnesses, we also have an absence of victims. In this situation, seeing that Mr. Bilbo’s story of the incident in no way conflicts with that of the constable, seeing, as well, that he offered no resistance and even aided in the revival of the victims, I am willing to accept Mr. Bilbo’s account and take it, too, that he had sufficient provocation to deal punishment of some sort to those who had offended him. Whether or not the extent of the punishment he dealt was just is another matter, however.