Murder in Grub Street (35 page)

“So it was goodbye to Mr. Dodsley?”

“And up your arse, says I. This will work out well for me,” said he. “Mr. Rees informs me they allow regular recess! Makes the fellows work better. But this ain’t it for me, so I’d best get on with my job. I could not let you go without greeting you.”

“You’ll do well here.”

“I know it. Give my best to Sir John. He’s a grand man, he is.”

The man whom most had forgot in all the commotion of the great ambuscade at Boyer’s was none but John Clayton. He languished still in the Fleet Prison. Yet Sir John had not forgot. On the morning I visited Boyer’s to surrender the pistol, he took a hackney to Bloomsbury Square and visited William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. From him he sought the papers necessary for Mr. Clayton’s release. In point of fact, Sir John had it in his power to make the release; he sought the Lord Chief Justice’s signature merely as a matter of courtesy, since he it was who had been so eager to try him. Yet that was many arrests and a broadsheet ago. The Lord Chief Justice would surely be most cooperative — and he was, to a point. He did, however, make one request: that upon Mr. Clayton’s release from the Fleet, he be brought to him for a brief interview.

While that seemed a modest enough request, Sir John thought it an opportunity to make a point regarding Mr. Clayton. And so he arranged that upon Mr. Clayton’s release the next morning, he would be met by Dr. Samuel Johnson at Lord Mansfield’s, and that I myself would convey Mr. Clayton from the prison to the residence. We would all be present at said interview.

“In this way,” said Sir John, “you shall demonstrate with Dr. Johnson’s presence the poet’s high standing in literary circles. This was Johnson’s idea, for he means to give Clayton a helping hand. He has offered him his hospitality until matters are settled for him.”

“And what will my presence demonstrate?” I asked, all innocent.

“That this former inmate of Bedlam, this accused murderer, may without fear be entrusted to the care of a boy of your tender years… You are without fear in this matter, I take it?”

And so it came to pass as he had planned it. Entrusted with money to pay for the hackney carriage, reminded to tip the driver, I set off alone quite early next morning for the Fleet Prison. When the carriage arrived, I instructed the driver to wait, and presented myself first to the gatekeeper and then to the governor of the prison. I offered the papers for John Clayton’s release and was told he would be brought presently.

“Who is to accompany him?” asked the governor of the prison.

“I am, sir.”

“Hmmmm,” said he — and no more than that.

I waited in the governor’s office a moderate length of time until Mr. Clayton was brought forth. He looked no worse than he had when last I had seen him in Sir John’s chambers — actually a bit better. Clean-shaven he was and properly washed. He would indeed have looked fit to present to any, were it not for his filthy clothing. They smelled a bit unpleasantly, too.

I could not help but note that he seemed slightly disappointed to see me, and only me, awaiting him.

“I had thought that Dr. Johnson might be here,” said he.

“We are to meet him at the residence of the Lord Chief Justice.”

I could not resist a look at the governor. He took careful note of our destination, and as I bowed my thanks to him, he quite amazed me by standing and offering Mr. Clayton his hand. Mr. Clayton was also amazed, yet he shook it.

“Well,” said the governor, “I trust your stay with us was not too unpleasant, Mr., uh, Clayton.”

“Nevertheless, I am glad to leave.”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.” He forced a laugh. “I can have the gatekeeper send a man to fetch you a hackney.”

“We have one waiting,” said I.

“Oh, so you do, so you do.”

“Mr. Clayton?”

I gestured to the door, and together we left.

Once in the hackney and on our way, Mr. Clayton seemed most uneasy. He folded and unfolded his large hands, then spread them out and grasped his knees tightly. I feared he was in some sense slipping from me. I did not wish to see Eusebius make an appearance, much less Petrus.

“Is the Lord Chief Justice responsible for my release?” he asked of a sudden.

“Oh no, sir. It was Sir John Fielding did it all. The Lord Chief Justice merely accommodated him.”

“He seemed unfriendly to me when I met him. On what condition am I released?”

“On no condition at all. You are quite free. Did you not hear the news?”

“Why, no,” said he. “Dr. Johnson, who was my source, was unable to come visit yesterday. What have you to tell?”

A great deal had I to tell to him, and I spun the tale out so that it lasted the entire distance to Bloomsbury Square. I told how his information on Mr. Crabb and the surly preacher was well confirmed by the testimony of Tom Cranford. I gave him the trap set by Sir John at Boyer’s. I described the great battle, and even (though it would have displeased Sir John) my modest part in it. Then, reminding him of the great wind that blew three nights before, I told Mr. Clayton how the very house of the Brethren of the Spirit had fallen near upon them, and how their leader had been shot in a blind attempt to escape.

I flatter myself that I told it well. If I were to judge from Mr. Clayton’s response, then I told it as a master. Once it was begun, he seemed to hold tight to every word and was quite transported from his anxieties. When I finished, he heaved a great sigh, which had naught of misery in it, but a great relief.

“Then,” said he, “these were the men who murdered all those in the Crabb household? Them it was I heard when I hid? Was it so?”

“Indeed it was.”

“And they have been arrested for those terrible murders?”

“Yes, sir, and bound over for trial.”

“Then hallelujah, and three great huzzahs for Sir John Fielding. He was on my side, after all.”

“You may be sure of it,” said I.

Then, looking through the window of the hackney, I saw that we had come quite near to Bloomsbury. In fact, as we drew to a halt before that grand palazzo, I spied Dr. Johnson at its front, pacing impatiently.

“I have but one question,” said Mr. Clayton to me. “If I am free without condition, why must I now meet with the Lord Chief Justice?”

“That I cannot say, sir. He wished it so, and Sir John thought it best to honor his wishes.”

I paid the driver what he asked, then tipped him a full shilling, as Sir John had instructed me, for waiting at the Fleet. As I attended to this, Mr. Clayton rushed over to Dr. Johnson, who greeted him cordially, and confirmed (as I overheard) that all that I had told him was true.

I went confidently to the door while the two men continued to discuss passionately the events of the past three days and nights. I had dressed carefully in my best clothes, and in my own eyes at least, looked quite the figure of the young man of the town. Well I remembered having been refused entry by the butler because of my ragged appearance. He would not turn me away this day.

I knocked loudly upon the door, and the butler arrived promptly. He was not impressed.

“Yes, boy, what is it?”

“Mr. John Clayton, Dr. Samuel Johnson, and Master Jeremy Proctor are here to call on the Lord Chief Justice at his invitation,” said I.

“I thought only Mr. Clayton, but” — he sighed — “come ahead.”

And so we entered, I last of all, in good position to note the butler’s disdain at poor Mr. Clayton’s attire, which was more ragged and dirty than mine at my worst; he raised his eyes to heaven and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Yet he remained ever proper.

“This way, please.”

He led us to the library and bowed us inside. The Lord Chief Justice rose from his desk and offered his hand all around, yet remained on his feet, signaling that we were to do so, too. This was to be indeed a brief interview.

“Well, Mr. Clayton,” said he, “out now, are you? A free man.”

“So I was given to understand by this young man who presented the papers for my release and accompanied me here.

Pointing to me, he said in surprise, “He was your escort here?’

“Yes, sir, I was,” said I, unbidden.

“Well,” said he to me, “you may tell Sir John he has made his point.” Then to Dr. Johnson: “And what brings you here? I had thought you had better things to do than appear at such occasions as this.”

“My Lord,” said Dr. Johnson, “I am come to vouch for this man, John Clayton, if that be necessary, to assure you of his poetic talent, and of his ability to earn with it. He has told me he has fair copies of all the works which were to comprise his second volume of verse. A reputable publisher has agreed to bring it out at terms favorable to him. It is likely to sell better than his first book, which was a considerable financial success … to the publisher, the late Mr. Crabb.”

“I see. Tell me, Mr. Clayton, where is this fair copy of your manuscript?”

“Why, sir, it is back in Somerset.”

“Then do me a great favor and post it to the publisher. In other words, Mr. Clayton, go there and stay there. We have quite enough on our hands trying those who, like most of us, can claim but a single nature. For those, such as you—and I accept your account in this—who are cursed with more than one, the law is not prepared to deal. I want no such difficulties ever put before me or my other judges. Am I clear in this?”

What was most clear was that Mr. Clayton found it hard to accept this provision. He hesitated. “Well … I …”

Dr. Johnson stepped forward. “My Lord,” said he, “while what you propose may be difficult for Mr. Clayton, it may be the best medicine for him as a poet. I have counseled him myself to remain in the country, where he derives his inspiration and lives more comfortably on less. ‘Leave London to the hacks,’ said I to him. However, even for a country poet, it may be necessary to make trips to London in order to see his works through the press and handle incidental matters regarding their publication.”

“I understand and accept that, Dr. Johnson, just so long as Mr. Clayton continues to reside well outside London and his visits to the city are simply that—visits.”

Then to Mr. Clayton: “In order to ease this burden I put on you, I offer you this, sir — ” And from his large coat pocket he brought a small pouch which clinked of silver when he dropped it on the table. “With the amount inside, I hope to compensate you in small measure for the time you spent in Bedlam and the Fleet Prison. There is sufficient to buy you a new suit of clothes, which you badly need, and to pay your coach fare back home. I ask you to sign no paper agreeing to the condition I have set forth, for no such paper would be valid; I only urge you to take this amount, for in doing so you will be giving your assurance to remain in residence away from this city. Is it agreed?”

John Clayton nodded. He stepped forth and took the pouch from its place on the desk.

“You give your word as a gentleman, Mr. Clayton?”

“I do, my Lord.”

“Let me have your hand on it.”

They shook hands solemnly. The door opened as if by magic, and the butler appeared to show us out.

And there on the street, John Clayton said aloud to himself, rather than to us, his listeners: “That is the first time ever in my life I was called a gentleman — and then it came from the Lord Chief Justice himself.”

The Brethren of the Spirit were dealt with far more harshly by the Lord Chief Justice. Those captured at Boyer’s, as well as the wounded man apprehended at the house in Half Moon Passage, were condemned to hang; the single exception was made for Elijah Biggie, also known as Brother Elijah, who gave testimony against the rest, and for it was given twenty years’ transportation to the colony of Virginia. A similar sentence of transportation was handed down for the five in connection with the hanging death of Isham Henry. They were sent on the same ship with Brother Elijah, who, midway on the journey, was said to have hanged himself in remorse for his betrayal of his fellow Brethren.

John Clayton kept his word and remained at home in Somerset. His second volume of verse was a great success when it was brought out by Boyer and Nicholson, due in part to the unwelcome celebrity that was thrust upon him by his arrest, hospitalization, and imprisonment in what would be known ever after as the Grub Street massacre. He earned sufficient on that book alone to marry and buy a cottage, where he continued to write. The fact that his succeeding books were not near so popular — nor, according to Dr. Johnson, as good — led him to drink. Petrus reappeared on a few occasions, which led to further stays in the local mad hospital, not all of them as short as the first one. Yet he continued to write, whether in or out of it, and he assured Dr. Johnson (by letter) that the work at which he was then engaged would be his greatest.

Sir John Fielding and Katherine Durham were married in a quiet ceremony at a chapel in St. Paul’s Covent Garden in the month of September. Tongues wagged at the short space of time that had elapsed since his first wife’s death. Yet Sir John cared nothing for the wagging of tongues; and after a brief wedding trip to Bath, the two, now man and wife, set to work on a charity that would occupy them for years to come, the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes.