Murder in Grub Street Read online

  Moving past them, I noted that Sir John did not quicken his pace, though I myself was eager to get us away. When we were some distance away I ventured to turn back and take a look. I saw with some relief that we were not followed.

  “None would dare,” said Sir John.

  “Sir?” said I, suspecting for a moment he had read my thoughts.

  “You lagged behind a moment. I take it that like any sensible soldier you were making sure our rear was safe from attack. I commend you for that, even though there was no need. I have my eminence to protect me — sufficient is it to guard you as well, I think. Should even that fail us, there is always the pistol in your pocket — loaned to you, I believe, by Mr. Baker, was it not?”

  “Yes, sir, but …” I hesitated, a moment dumbfounded. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, he has his tricks, has Mr. Baker. He seems to believe I had need of an armed guard each time I go out after dark. Not so. Nothing of the kind. Now, if I am not mistaken, he slipped you the pistol — probably a small one — as we were leaving Bow Street. Is that correct?”

  “It is, yes,” said I. “But he said nothing. I said nothing.”

  “Your pocket spoke. You usually carry a few coins in your pocket, probably no more than a few shillings — remind me to pay you a bit for services rendered, by the by. Occasionally the coins jingle in your pocket. Yet ever since we began on our walk they have been clanging away against a larger metal object, of steel no doubt. Knowing Mr. Baker’s worries about me and his love of firearms, I supposed that he must have presented you with a pistol. Though in general I do not disapprove of his precautions, I do question his wisdom in handing a loaded gun to a thirteen-year-old boy — that is your age, is it not, Jeremy?”

  “Yes, Sir John.”

  “Mind you do not shoot yourself in the foot.”

  With that bit of advice he let the matter pass. We were by then hard by Grub Street, in any case, just one crossing distant. I had it in sight. In truth, I knew the way well by then, having made three or four trips there and back from Bow Street in the past week, and perhaps one in the week before. Grub Street was then, though it is somewhat less today, a place given chiefly to booksellers and publishers and the impecunious writers whom they employed. At Sir John Fielding’s appeal, no less than Dr. Samuel Johnson had bruited my name about among the publishers and printers on the street as a likely lad to serve as an apprentice to one of them. Several expressed interest, and Dr. Johnson chose the one he deemed most respectable. I was sent hence with a formal letter of recommendation, and my prospective employer took time from his day to talk at length with me. He assumed I was a young protege of Dr. Johnson’s, and when he heard I was a native of Lichfield (famous as Dr. Johnson’s place of origin), he took that to be the connection between us; I allowed him to do so. Quite interested was he when I told him my father had been a printer and that he had had a small shop of his own. He assumed it to have been in Lichfield; I allowed him to do so.

  “And how came you to London?” asked my prospective employer, no doubt wondering why I had not formally apprenticed with my father.

  “My mother died three years ago. My father passed away recently,” said I, making no reference to the shameful circumstances of his death. “I am an orphan.”

  “Ah,” said he, “of course. My condolences, young sir.”

  “But I can set type,” said I, eager to prove myself.

  “At your age?”

  “Oh, indeed, sir. I’ve been at it since I was nine, and I truly believe I was of some help to my father during the last year or two.”

  He looked at me keenly; an expression between doubt and curiosity kindled in his eyes. “Would you care to demonstrate your skill?” he asked.

  “I should be happy to.”

  And so he took me to the back shop where work proceeded apace. It was of good size, containing type stands, a press, and a small bindery. A journeyman printer worked at one stand and an older apprentice at another. Another journeyman worked at the press, and a binder pursued his labors with the aid of another apprentice of about my own age. I had never before been in a shop given to book printing and was quite taken by all the bustle inside.

  The master ordered the older journeyman to step aside; a box was found for me to stand on; and I quite amazed them with my ability. The journeyman applauded me. The master named me a “prodigy.” Even the apprentice was impressed, though he took pains not to show it. I lacked neither in speed nor in accuracy.

  With all that, I was told my place with them was assured. I rejoiced to hear it; but then, recalling that my acceptance meant certain separation from Sir John’s household, I wondered if I might not have served my cause better by appearing less able. But truth to tell, able or incompetent, separation seemed sure, and so I allowed myself to enjoy the moment and thanked them all most graciously.

  And so the articles of apprenticeship were drawn up in my absence. I fetched them on the appointed day and brought them back to Sir John, as he had requested, for his perusal. I read the papers to him, and he was satisfied. But then he surprised me somewhat, asking for a quill and ink that he might sign the document. He explained then that this was quite proper, for in the absence of my deceased parents, he stood as my legal guardian for as long as I was a ward of the court. And so I did as he had directed, placed the quill in his hand and then at the proper place on the paper. He then delivered a most handsome signature, even added a flourish which surely none but he could duplicate. I had seen him do this on earlier occasions, signing documents and letters drawn up for him by Mr. Marsden, the court clerk, and I had never ceased to wonder at the remarkable skills of this blind man.

  No discussion followed. He simply sent me back with the document after I had added my signature to his own. The articles of apprenticeship were accepted by my new master and signed by himself. Then it was agreed between us that I would enter his household a week hence. He apologized for the delay, saying that room would have to be found for me. This would have ended my journeys to Grub Street but for one last visit made upon his request two or three days later. It seemed the new master had been boasting up and down the street of his new apprentice, namely me, and he wished to give a demonstration of my skill to his leilow tradesmen. I was sent for by his elder apprentice, and so with Mrs. Gredge’s permission, I left with him to take the walk to the shop. His name was Clarence, as I recall, and he proved quite a disagreeable young fellow. There were implications and veiled threats made along the way by him, who was four or five years my senior. What was said clear to me was that “prodigy” though I be, I would still be under his thumb, so long as he, too, was an apprentice. This was not an arrangement which pleased me much, yet I determined to make do as long as it was necessary. As for the demonstration, it went well enough: I was praised once again by my master and hailed by his competitors. I left, knowing the way well by then, though quite unsure of what would await me once I had made a new home there on Grub Street.

  And Grub Street was where we then arrived, Sir John and I, at a late hour, near three in the morning, on that night which was to alter the course of my life for all time to come.

  As we turned up the way, I spied a small crowd by the dim light of the lamps. They had gathered before a building of some size near halfway down the street. That place, I realized, was quite familiar to me. It had been my destination on each of my previous trips to Grub Street. That building housed the store and shop of Ezekiel Crabb, bookseller and publisher, the master to whom I had been apprenticed; it was to be my home and workplace beginning eight o’clock in the morning of that very day. Had Sir John taken it upon himself to deliver me early? That made no sense. And why this group of curious onlookers?

  “Is thu our destination, sir?” I asked. I had to know.

  “Yes,” said Sir John, “Ezekiel Crabb s home and place of business. A most terrible crime has been committed there.”

  He said not what the crime was, nor why he had not earlier told me. I had a sudden
multitude of questions, yet I held my tongue, thinking it best. As we approached, I merely called his attention to the crowd at the door.

  “I’m aware of them, Jeremy. Follow me through.”

  With that — shouting a cautionary “Make way! Make way!” — he plunged into the assembly, waving his stick before him. And as I had been bade, I went in his wake. There were no more than twelve there, but some of them of rather disreputable appearance. They parted before him in sullen obedience until we stood at the door. There, standing guard before it, was young Constable William Cowley.

  Indeed, he was the youngest of the Bow Street Runners, probably no more than eighteen years of age, and the least experienced of all, having come to that force, with Mr. Baker’s sponsorship, but a month before my arrival at Bow Street. He was nonetheless large and willing and had proved himself brave on more than one occasion since his arrival.

  Cowley came to an attitude of attention. “Sir John,” said he, “Mr. Bailey is inside, investigating the situation. He put me here to keep out the curious.”

  “Would you had kept them out when you first arrived upon the scene, Constable Cowley.”

  “I know, sir. Mr. Bailey has reproved me sorely for my handling of the matter. And I do regret it, sir. There was mistakes of judgment on my part, perhaps, but there was bad circumstances, too.”

  “And what were they? Why did you not deputize some who entered with you to convey the prisoner to Bow Street so that you might stay and protect the environs of the crime?”

  “Because I was afraid that once out of my sight, they would kill him. There was talk of it among them. One had gone off to get a rope.”

  “Then why did you not lock the place up?”

  “We broke the door to make our entry, sir. It’s half off its hinges now.”

  Sir John mused a moment. “So it was indeed locked from the inside. Is there a back door? Was it, too, locked?”

  “A stout cellar door, sir, and it was also locked tight.”

  “Well, it does look bad for our prisoner, does it not?”

  “Oh, right bad,” agreed Constable Cowley, “right bad. I caught him, sir, with the weapon in his hand.”

  “Yes, well … we shall talk of that inside, Constable.” With that, he turned to the crowd, which had fallen back a few paces from the door. And to them, he spoke loudly and most solemnly: “Any of you who first made entry with Constable Cowley are to remain here outside the house. We shall have questions for you. The rest I order to disperse. I am Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court. Those who fail to obey this order of mine will be subject to arrest, fine, and imprisonment for not less than thirty days. Think not to leave and then return, and you who remain do not consider reentry; you have done enough damage, as I understand it. I am leaving a guard at the door. This young man has an evil temper, and he is armed.”

  It struck me of a sudden that Sir John referred to me. An evil temper? Surely not. Yet I made a face suitable to his description and hoped to frighten them all with it.

  “Show them your pistol, Jeremy,” said Sir John sotto voce.

  I pulled it from my coat pocket and exhibited it boldly.

  “Loaded and primed it is,” he continued, “and he is under orders from me to shoot anyone who tries to push past him. Is this understood?”

  In response, a sullen grumble rose from the men at the door.

  “Now you have heard my instructions. Those who first made entry are to remain. To the others of you, I now say …” He paused but a moment, then shouted in a voice of great authority: “Be gone!”

  And indeed they went, falling back, looking over their shoulders, retreating like a company of soldiers in sudden disarray. There were but four left.

  “Look at those who remain,” said Sir John to Constable Cowley. “Were they with you?”

  Cowley went from face to face and nodded. “All who are here, yes, Sir John. Yet one is missing. There were five at the start.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “Uh … I took no names, sir.”

  “Ah, well, when Mr. Bailey questions them, perhaps he’ll get the missing man’s identity from his fellows.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Jeremy,” said he in a whisper, “that permission to shoot was given to impress them and not to be taken literally. A simple call for help will do wonders. One of us is sure to hear.”

  So saying, he left me there at the door, with Constable Cowley close behind. I held that ferocious face as long as I found possible, then slowly allowed it to relax into an expression of cold indifference. I looked this way and that over the heads of the four, and from time to time directly at them. The pistol I held rested in my folded arms. It seems certain, as I consider it today, that they were far more taken by it than by me, and far more deeply impressed by Sir John’s air of command than by either the pistol or the lad who held it.

  The four witnesses clustered together and talked among themselves in tones so low I could not hear. They did so for a goodly space of time. At one point the four erupted into a chorus of raucous laughter which, considering what they knew and had seen, was altogether inappropriate.

  But of course at that point I knew not what they knew, though I had some hint, surely, of what they had seen. When Sir John spoke of “a most terrible crime,” that could only be murder. But who in Ezekiel Crabb s household had been murdered? Was it the master himself? In that case, I reflected, what would that mean with regard to my articles of apprenticeship? I liked Mr. Crabb. He certainly seemed to like me. I hoped it was not him. Could it be that fellow Clarence, the elder apprentice? May God forgive me, considering my experience with Clarence and the dismal life I looked forward to with him as my submaster, I decided that if victim there must be, I hoped it would be he and no other. Beyond that, I could not think. There were others, I knew, housed in the Crabb domicile — another apprentice, sons, a wife who had been mentioned but not seen. The journeymen surely lived off the premises, as my father had in Lichfield, so that, then, was the question: Who was the victim?

  It was not long before the remnant of the crowd began to taunt me.

  Said one to the rest: “I’d no idea Sir John was taking apprentices for the Runners — had you, Harry?”

  “None at all,” said Harry. “What age would you take this one to be?”

  “Near ten, I would say. Is that not what you would guess him?”

  “Nay, not so old — seven or eight perhaps.”

  “Careful you do not anger him by putting him too young. Lads of such an age are quick to take offense at those matters. Remember Sir John’s warning: He has an evil temper, Bert.”

  “And a pistol in his hand!”

  “Strange playthings they give children in such times as these.”

  “Strange indeed.”

  And thus they continued long past the point I had grown tired of their banter, until at last they grew tired of it themselves. Or was it Mr. Bailey’s predicted appearance that quietened them? I cannot rightly remember. In any case, after about half of an hour had passed, I started at a tap upon my shoulder and turned to find behind me Benjamin Bailey, who had ever a quiet tread.

  “How goes it, young Jeremy?”

  “Well enough,” said I.

  “Have these layabouts been baiting you?” He looked sharply past me at the four waiting witnesses.

  “Nothing to give me pause.”

  “Well, p’rhaps I shall give pause to one or two of them.”

  He strode into their midst, grabbed one of them quite roughly, and pulled him over to the nearest streetlamp, which was some paces distant. Then, in a low, persistent, confidential tone he began to question the man, the one called Harry. They were beyond my hearing and beyond that of the waiting three, which seemed to annoy them, for after a whispered conference they began sidling over as a group toward Mr. Bailey and their fellow. Then the chief constable noted what they were up to and directed them emphatically back to their former station. S
ulking, they returned and once more took up their whispering.

  It was but minutes he spent with Harry. And when he had done with him, he sent him on his way.

  “But that ain’t fair,” protested Harry loudly. “I wish to wait on my mates.”

  “If so, you’ll do it out of my sight,” said Mr. Bailey. “Now take yourself out of here, or I’ll plant my boot up your arse.”

  Harry backed away, signaling to the others he would wait around the corner.

  “You should not treat us so!” cried one of them, all indignant, to Mr. Bailey.

  “By Christ, you should not!” said another.

  “Was it not us who gave the alarm?” asked Bert. “Did we not enter with your young constable, knowing not what perils awaited us? Did we not help subdue the murderer?”

  “And” queried Mr. Bailey, striding toward them, “was it not you who went through the place and turned it topside down the moment the constable was out of the way?” He stopped, facing them down, hands on hips, arms akimbo. “What was it you was looking for? The money box?”

  “Aye,” said Bert, “we found it, and we turned it over to the constable when he returned.”

  “Caught in the act is what you were. And one of your number made off with the murder weapon. The constable gave you orders not to return inside the house, did he not?”

  “We was only tryin’ to be helpful.”

  “Come along,” said Mr. Bailey to Bert. “I’ll give you helpful.”

  And he seized upon him and walked him rudely to the place he had chosen beneath the streetlamp. There he began putting questions to him in the same subdued tone he had used before, all the more intimidating for his quiet control of it.

  My attention taken, as it was, by the confrontation just recorded, I only then became aware of the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones quite nearby. So near was it, in fact, that it seemed but moments before a dray wagon drawn by two horses came in sight, rolling slowly up Grub Street in our direction.

  Something strange happened then. Not only had I turned to look, but so had the others, as well. The two waiting witnesses left off their whispered talk; so, too, did Mr. Bailey interrupt his earnest questioning. They all stopped to give their attention to the dray wagon which seemed to appear and disappear in a ghostly manner as it moved from streetlamp to darkness, then back into the perimeter of dim illumination provided by the next streetlamp. All simply stared, so that where loud acrimony had prevailed not long before, there was now only silence, save for the steady clip-clop of the horses and the creaking of the wagon wheels.