Murder in Grub Street (14 page)

“I like it not that Mr. Bilbo was singled out, detained, and given offense because he was thought to be a Jew. Whether he is or is not is not pertinent in this matter. Were Brother Isaac and Brother James here before me now, I would give them stern warning against ever repeating such actions in the streets of London. As it is, for their failure to appear when charged by Constable Cowley to do so, I hold them in contempt of court and bid them appear before me, or face a term in prison as a consequence.

“With all this so, such fighting in the streets cannot be tolerated by this court or any other. John Bilbo, you are a grown man and should know better than to behave as you did. Punishment ol some sort is in order. Let it be a fine. You said, as I recall, that you are good for a touch for those who are down. I know of a particularly needy case — a good woman who lost her roof and her livelihood in the high wind that also left Mr. Lilly ruined. Let it be understood that your fine will go to put her back on her feet.”

“I would welcome the chance,” declared Mr. Bilbo.

“It will not go cheap. Let us say, oh, five guineas.”

“Let us say ten, and it will be done.”

“Your generosity is admirable, Mr. Bilbo, but I hope never to meet you again — in my court, that is.” “Nor more than I, Sir John.”

I wondered, as I filed out with the rest, if any but me knew that it was Moll Caulfield for whom Black Jack Bilbo’s fine was intended. I wondered, too, if knowing the circumstances, any but me would have seen a parallel between his case and my own. What was it Sir John had said? “Fighting in the streets cannot be tolerated by this court or any other.” I feared that punishment of some sort awaited me. If his hot anger toward me had cooled somewhat, I believed that this meant only that he now had time to calculate in leisure what form that punishment might take.

My fear was made most real when Mr. Marsden stopped me as I passed by his alcove and informed me that Sir John wished to see me in his chamber. Knowing what awaited and liking it not, I nevertheless went as directed, knocked upon Sir John’s door, and announced myself.

I entered and was told to sit.

“Jeremy,” said he, “we have something to settle between us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You disappointed me greatly this morning, rolling about in the streets as you were. I’m afraid some punishment must be doled out.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. But, sir?”

“What is it, Jeremy?”

“I could not but notice certain similarities between Mr. Bilbo’s case and my own.”

“I suppose, to stretch a point, there were a few. But I would remind you that he was punished with a fine.”

“I have money,” I said, “a few shillings. You may have them.”

“Damn! I must look into giving you some sort of regular amount.” He shook his head, annoyed at himself “No, Jeremy” he said then, “I do not wish to take your money from you. I wish only to make an impression upon you so that you will not shame me in the street again. If that takes corporal punishment, then so be it. I’ll have Constable Cowley administer it — or Mr. Bailey, if need be.” This was a problem he clearly wished to be quit of.

“Sir John?”

He sighed. “Yes, Jeremy?”

“Wouldn’t you say that in one way, chiefly, Mr. Bilbo’s case differed from my own?”

Again he sighed. “And what way was that, boy?”

“You allowed Mr. Bilbo to give his own account of the matter.”

“So I did, so I did. All right, Jeremy, you have me. Let me hear your story.”

So saying, he leaned back and listened as I gave a full and true account of what it was transpired upon the steps of Number 3 Berry Lane that morning. I yielded not to the temptation to improve myself in the telling; and while I could not quote the rude boy who had used such strange talk in hawking his stolen goods, I could and did make the point that they were doubtless stolen. When I called him a thief and threatened to convey him to Bow Street, it was then be attacked me. I had done naught but defend myself, I assured Sir John.

“You have no witnesses to speak in your behalf?” said he, stating the obvious.

“No, sir, none, but you have my word that it was so.”

“I accept it. But just as you have no witnesses now, you had no witnesses then to prove the boy a thief. In all probability he had picked some pockets to gather his booty. Though the rings—well, they could have been slipped from the fingers of some bawd in a drunken doze. But you did not see these acts of theft, nor could you produce others who had seen them. Had you succeeded in getting him to Bow Street, and had he appeared before me, he would have sworn he had found these valuables in the street. Unlikely as this might have seemed to me, I would have released him, for in English law we must assume innocence unless guilt can be proven. So you see, Jeremy, how useless it would have been for you to have brought in your captive? You see that, don’t you?”

“I do, Sir John, but — “

“And another thing, my lad — by what authority were you to have arrested this young pickpocket? You are no constable. You have no warrant. Surely you yourself suffered enough at the hands of an independent thief-taker not to wish that profession for yourself.”

That last was a painful reminder of how 7 I, new to London, received my introduction to Covent Garden’s criminal society and came before the Bow Street Court. Though much good had come of it, the incident was one I would put from my mind. I attempted to frame some sort of reply, yet I found it difficult, for the plain truth was that I, a thirteen-year-old boy, had no given authority.

My attempt to devise a response was also made difficult by a commotion of shouting that arose of a sudden beyond the door.

“Jeremy,” said Sir John, “go see what that is about, will you?”

I arose from the chair and started for the door, yet it flew open ere I reached it, and Mr. Marsden pushed his head through.

“Sir John, I wish to announce the — “

“Oh, enough of that, enough of that!”

This from a large man, richly though not gaudily dressed, who bustled past the clerk, pushing him aside in his passage, and made straight for Sir John. Though I had never seen him before, he bore unmistakably the air of authority. He came in, waving pages of what proved to be a pamphlet, and threw it down upon the table before Sir John.

“Have you seen this?” shouted the visitor.

Sir John, who liked not to be caught in company without his periwig upon his head, struggled to replace it.

“My Lord,” said he, “I … I … well, what is it you refer to?”

“Well, I know you haven’t seen it. Even I couldn’t see a thing through that black band you wear about your eyes.”

(William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, may have been Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, and for his time a good judge, but it will be understood from this rude remark that like many men content in their power, he lacked much in common courtesy and even more in human consideration.)

At last, satisfied he had his periwig on aright, Sir John answered with greater composure: “If you will but seat yourself, my Lord, I shall be happy to discuss with you whatever it is you have put before me.”

“It is an annoyance,” said the Lord Chief Justice, “near a provocation. In short, sir, it is a pamphlet, one that is now being hawked and sold all over the streets of the city. Its title is given as ‘A Call for Justice for the Victims of Grub Street.’ And though its anonymous author is presumptuous enough in his text to tell us our duties, I grant that he has done no more than to say in print what others have spoken in the streets.”

“I take it,” said Sir John, “that it treats the murder of Ezekiel Crabb and his household.”

“Indeed it does! Just listen to what is written in this damnable thing.” He shuffled through its pages until he found a proper passage. He cleared his throat and began: ” ‘While the entire Crabb family and the two luckless apprentices who dwelt with them now molder in their graves, the villain who was captured at the scene, bloody axe in hand, goes untried, uncondemned, and unhanged. He has been tucked away in Bedlam by the magistrate of the Bow Street Court, safe from justice, safe from the hangman.’ “

“Why, that is monstrous,” said Sir John. “It presumes his guilt. Any who might happen to read it would be prejudiced against him instantly.”

“But more! Give an ear: ‘Perhaps in committing the man with the bloody axe to a hospital rather than to Newgate for trial, Sir John Fielding was acting upon orders from the King’s Bench. Grub Street, its printers, its publishers, and its poor scribblers, have long been a trammel to licentious authority in this Kingdom. Ezekiel Crabb himself published many works extolling the Rights of Man, such as — ‘ Oh, never mind all that. But here, listen how it ends: Let the Crabb family be avenged. Try John Clayton for their murder now/’ What think you of that, John Fielding?”

“Well, it’s … It’s …”

“It’s seditious, that’s what it is,” the Lord Chief Justice blustered on, “seditious of the King’s justice. And it is plain falsehood to suggest you sent this fellow Clayton off to Bedlam on my orders. You know very well I sent you a note in which I disapproved of your decision. But if this pamphlet, such as it is, were all we had to contend with, I would not trouble you with it. I’d simply search out the author and throw him into Newgate.”

“What more then, my Lord?”

“An influential Whig lord has given me his opinion that the man should be tried, no matter his condition. They are talking of it in the House of Commons. I understand that one, an old ally of Wilkes, has threatened to bring a question to the floor.”

“What then do you propose?” asked Sir John.

“That we put this Clayton on trial in Old Bailey.”

“But you cannot try a man for murder who is in no condition to answer for his crime. If you had seen John Clayton during his appearance here at Bow Street, there would not have been the slightest doubt in your mind that he should be carted off to Bedlam.”

“Did he rave? Murderers are often known to resort to dramatics to avoid the hangman.”

“He did not rave. He talked nonsense. He even earnestly denied that he was John Clayton.”

“It could have been to deceive,” the Lord Chief Justice insisted.

“Further, three years past he was confined for a time in a mad hospital in Somersetshire. I have a letter to that effect from the doctor in charge.”

“All this matters, of course, but the only proper answer is that we must hold a hearing to determine whether or not he is capable of standing trial.”

“We should do this? Two men of the law?”

“Well,” said Lord Mansfield with a shrug, “it is a legal matter, is it not?”

“Not wholly, no. I believe we should receive advice from those who are familiar with such matters — from doctors.”

“Mad doctors?”

“That is the popular name for them, yes.”

“Well, they have them in good supply at Bedlam, I suppose. Let us hold the hearing there.”

“When?”

“Well, I think it important to attend to this as soon as possible. Why not tomorrow then?”

“Saturday? Well and good. And at what hour? Morning is best for me.”

“For me, as well. We shall meet before the gate at Bedlam then at half past nine, agreed?”

“Agreed, my Lord.”

Not even Newgate, which I had lately visited with Sir John, had presented so forbidding a picture to me as that gray, grim structure at which or hackney carriage pulled up outside Bishopsgate.
An old building of stone, centuries old, it was not overly large, yet with the high barred fence and ill-kept grounds that surrounded it, the place had the look of an ancient fortress. What windows I saw had stout bars upon them, as well.

As I climbed down and surveyed the drear aspect of the scene before me, Sir John paid the driver and bade him wait for us.

“I should prefer not to,” said the hackney driver.

“what do you mean?” said Sir John crossly.

“I mean I like this place so little that I would sooner give up the waiting time and the fare back to Bow Street than stay here,” said he. “There is too much misery inside that place. I may sound foolish to say so, but I fear that to remain here I would risk infection by it.”

“Go then,” said Sir John. “I’ll not order you to stay, though by rights I could. This is official business.”

“I hadn’t supposed you came here for pleasure — though some do.”

“Be not impertinent. Just be on your way.”

At that, the driver turned his team of two about and left us standing by the side of the road in front of the gate. It was a chill morning for May. The weather had mixed fair days with foul so thoroughly and in such confusion these last weeks that one knew not what to expect. Dark clouds rolled low over the building before us, moving swiftly west to east. There was a gatekeeper nearby who stood watching us expectantly; no other was to be seen before the structure. Yet on either side of its portals stood two guardians in stone, powerful figures in the Greek mode, pathetic rather than heroic: one wore an angry grimace and held his arms in a threatening way; the other seemed downcast, quite overcome with sorrow. They seemed to have been added as a later inspiration and fitted not so well with the square look of the rest.

“There you have it, Jeremy,” said Sir John, with a wave of his stick, “The Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem, which is known universally by its corrupted name, Bedlam. What is your impression of it?”

“Not a good one, I fear, sir. It is an old and ugly building.”

“Far uglier inside than out, and you may take that as gospel.”

“There are two figures, one on each side of the door. What do they represent?”

“Well,” said he, “while I have never actually seen them — “

“Forgive me for asking,” said I in a great rush of embarrassment. “I meant no — “

“Nonsense. Think nothing of it. I merely intended to say that I’m told they represent Mania and Melancholy. I should expect you would easily be able to tell them apart.”

“Oh yes,” said I.

“I suppose they are meant as some generalized portrayal of those inside — maniacs and melancholies. I wonder which outnumbers the other,” he ruminated aloud. “Melancholies, surely — oh, most certainly melancholies, considering the state of our world.”

To that I had no reply.

Even as we spoke, we had been passed by a number of conveyances. As each approached, Sir John gave it a moment’s attention until it passed us by. At last one did slow and stop just shy of where we stood. The horses stepped restlessly just ten paces away from us. Great, huge things, they seemed. They made me uneasy.

“That surely is not a coach-and-four,” said Sir John.

“No, a hackney carriage quite like the one we came in.”

“I thought so. Lord Mansfield has a coach-and-four. After all, the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench deserves nothing less.” This was said quietly, in a tone of jesting irony.

From the hackney four people descended — two young blades and their women. Even to my young eye they appeared to have caroused the night through. Their countenances, no less than their modish clothes, had a worn and wasted look to them. They wobbled when they walked. They talked in a kind of dazed style of purposeful merriment, assuring one another as they went what fun awaited them inside Bedlam.

“Some of them perform,” instructed one blade, “do tricks upon demand.”

“What kind of tricks, Harry?” asked his mistress.

“Quite naughty.”

There were forced giggles from the women and a guffaw from the other male in the group.

They ignored us completely, but went straight as their weak legs would carry them to the gate and rattled for the gatekeeper to admit them. He opened without comment, accepting the coin that was pressed into his hand by him who was called Harry. Again, he gave us a curious stare before resuming his chosen place to one side of the gate.

Then, with a great rush and flourish, the coach-and-four arrived. It was all I could do to move Sir John out of the way ere we be trampled by the matched team of four white beasts which pranced down upon us. The driver reined them in at the last moment, and the footman beside him bellowed, “Open wide the gates for Lord Mansfield!”

The gateman hopped to, pushing the barred gates far back on their hinges to admit the oversized conveyance. Then in it went, all in a rush, and up to the portals of Bedlam.

“Oh, damn,” said Sir John, “now we must foot it in and play welcomers to his Lordship. Come along, Jeremy. Point me in the right direction.”

He waved aside the gateman, who tipped his hat in salute as we walked on.

“I recall he said distinctly ‘before the gate.’ Is that not as you remember it?”

“Exactly so, Sir John,” said I.

“Ah, well.”

Lord Mansfield had, by the time of our arrival, moved his considerable bulk out of the coach with the aid of his footman. He moved about in an impatient manner, looking in every direction, it seemed, but ours.

“A good morning to you, my Lord,” said Sir John.

The Lord Chief Justice gave a glance at the sky. “Not so good as it might be. Sorry to be late — the press of office, you know.” Then, in a gesture meant no doubt to establish his leadership in this matter, he clapped his hands together. “Well and good, eh? Let us get this done as quickly as is possible. We both have other things awaiting our attention, do we not?”

“Indeed. They have been forewarned here of our coming, have they not?”

“Of course. I sent word by messenger.”

“And a doctor will be present?”

“Yes, damn it! All the niceties have been nicely arranged.”

“Then by all means, let us proceed.”

“Henry!” Lord Mansfield called out, and he gestured at the grand, arched doorway. The footman, who had been waiting a discreet distance at attention, sprang up the few stairs and to the great portal, whereon he banged with a knocker in the shape of a human hand. The portal swung wide, and as the footman conversed with someone inside, I became aware of a great hum of noise within.

The footman beckoned us with a “m’Lord,” and we three started forward. At that moment I happened to glance upward into the face of Melancholia. Though eyes in stone seldom seem to express much, those downcast orbs of his showed forth a look of misery so deep that it seemed to pierce my very soul. In spite of myself I gave a shudder and moved on, managing to keep step with the rest.

The man who met us at the door identified himself as Dr. Dillingham. He was quick to fawn over Lord Mansfield, civil to Sir John, and gave me not the slightest notice. Once we were inside, the hum of noise rose to a low roar. Since I was last in his line of followers, I caught none of Dr. Dillingham’s words as he led us to another large door of strong, thick oak. The doorman had left his post at the main portal and hastened ahead to open the inner oaken door for us. With that, the low roar intensified to a dreadful cacophony. The noise was nevertheless human, the sound of many human voices raised to a din of frightening proportions. Up a short corridor, which brought us three steps higher than where we began — then a turn to the right, and we were suddenly in the midst of the tumult. No, not among the inmates, quite; a long row of iron bars like unto that at Newgate saved us from such an ordeal. But the inmates circulated freely, each trying to outshout the other, it seemed. They yelled. They danced. There was a fiddler in their midst, sawing noisily away at a tuneless tune.

It was, at first impression, quite like Newgate. The smell of urine and ordure was heavy in the air, as it had been in that awful prison. Yet Bedlam seemed in some ways worse, and in some ways better. One or two were chained to the wall — I had not seen that at Newgate. But this place was much lighter — all of Newgate seemed a dark dungeon — and there were small individual cells, each against the wall, doors opened, some of them occupied at that moment and some not.

There was great contrast amongst the inmates, as well. They fascinated me. I had to spur myself on and keep up with our group as it stepped at a lively pace along the walk that ran the length of this extended common room. Given time, I would have dawdled and studied each one, diagnosing them after my own fashion, attempting to divine from each the secret of his malady. Even so, with my glances and quick looks, I discerned that all manner were mixed together — the feebleminded with the mad, the melancholies removed from the rest, slumped and indifferent along the wall. For the most part, the maniacs paid little attention to us, so taken were they with their own merriment. Those who noticed jeered or shouted obscenities. One showed his bare rump to us as we passed.

Another—well, near the end of our long walk we passed the mixed quartet that had preceded us into the building. I was close enough to hear the leader, who was called Harry, point through the bars with his stick and remark, “But look at the fellow. He is a veritable Priapus. See for yourself, Betty — Georgina, look!” I looked, too, whereat he pointed, and colored red for shame at my sex.

Oh, it was a show we were given, in truth, but a show most sane men or women would have paid dearly to avoid. Yet again I confess there was indeed something about this poor, misbegotten mass of humanity that fascinated me. I wanted no “tricks,” as Harry’s crowd had come to see; I wanted only to study the inmates at greater length in order to understand them better. (Thus was kindled in me my keen interest in those matters and later, those cases in which questions of madness or sanity were to be settled by law.”)

Our astonishing passage come at last to an end, we were shown down three stairs and into a room of modest size. It was sparsely furnished — a table and some chairs — and the only evidence of decoration to be seen was the addition of a colorful woven rug of no particular pattern and a few rather bizarre pictures hung upon the wall. This room, I assumed, was used for the visitation of relatives and friends to the inmates of the hospital. I guided Sir John discreetly to a chair behind the table and sat him down in it, taking a place behind him. Lord Mansfield sat heavily in a chair beside him, emitting a grunt of exertion as he did so.

“Well, Sir John,” said he, “if your man Clayton was among those poor wretches I just viewed, then you’ll have no argument from me.”

“Though I could not see them, I heard aplenty. Madness does have a frightful sound, does it not?”

“Indeed so, an unholy din it was.”

“I think you will agree that I showed no leniency to John Clayton by placing him here until such time as he could answer as a rational man.”

Lord Mansfield hesitated, then: “Reluctantly, yes.”

The door to the room opened. Dr. Dillingham entered, followed by a tall man whom I recognized as John Clayton, though he had previously claimed two other names, and last of all by a warder, who closed the door behind him and waited there.

Dr. Dillingham stood by his patient and addressed the following remarks to the seated judges: “I wish to say only that Mr. Clayton has been made to understand the nature of this inquiry and has agreed to cooperate with it fully. I shall take my seat with

°I modestly call the reader’s attention to my little book, De Jure el Dementia; only the title is in Latin.

you now, but be assured that I stand prepared to answer any and all questions you may have and to offer my opinion, should it be solicited.”

He then did as he said he would do: circled the table and took the empty chair beside Sir John.

Whilst the doctor spoke, my eyes were fixed upon John Clayton. I noted a number of things about him. First of all, he held in his hand a sheet of foolscap which I discerned had been written upon. Secondly, I noted the condition of his person: he was surely as well groomed as his circumstances permitted; his collar and cuffs were a bit begrimed, his cheeks were in need of a razor, yet his hair was combed and his hands and face were clean; I had seen many a man on the streets of London in less respectable condition. Lastly, and most striking of all, were his eyes, for from them shone unmistakable and bright the clear light of reason.

“Your name, sir,” asked Sir John in a tone most severe.

“John Francis Clayton.”

“And not Eusebius? For it was as him you presented yourself to me at our last meeting.”

“No, sir, not Eusebius.”

“And what has happened to him?”

“With all due respect, that is difficult to explain.”

“With all due respect to you, sir,” said Sir John, “it is incumbent upon you to try.”

At that, John Clayton began a story that had us three visitors to Bedlam quite agog. As the telling progressed, Sir John and Lord Mansfield sat forward in their chairs, amazed at what they heard. Only Dr. Dillingham, I noted midway, seemed to take it all in good stead, leaning back, nodding, unsurprised, as if he had heard it all before; and perhaps, I reflected then, he had.

“You see before you,” said Mr. Clayton, “one in whose body three natures reside. Eusebius you have met, but there is another named Petrus who — “

“Him I have met also,” interrupted Sir John.

“Ah yes, that would have been at the time of my arrest. So you know them all. I first learned of them when I was but a schoolboy, in or about my thirteenth year. My parents, though mere country laborers, wanted me to have all the schooling I might take. I had done well up to that time, but because of my size and adolescent awkwardness, I attracted the attention of older bullies in the school. They threatened me. Then their threats were made real one day just after school, and Petrus made his first appearance. I did not summon him. In fact, I myself knew nothing of his actions, for what specifically had happened was blotted from my memory. But it seemed that I had battered both boys senseless and broken the arm of one. My classmates who had witnessed the affray told me that during the course of it I called myself Petrus and would not listen to the bullies’ pleas for mercy. There was a great to-do about this, as indeed there should have been. The family of one of them, him whose arm I broke, wished to see me tried for assault and put in prison. Yet because of my young years, the local magistrate let it pass as a childish broil. He did, however, require my parents to pay for the treatment of the broken arm by a surgeon.”