Murder in Grub Street (15 page)

“That seems only just,” put in Sir John.

“Perhaps, but the cost of that broken arm near broke my poor parents.”

“What of Eusebius? When did he first appear?”

“Not long afterwards. The incident with Petrus disturbed me greatly, particularly my inability to remember what had transpired. I avoided contact with my fellows, afraid that a simple disagreement might bring forth this monstrous double, who would then wreak havoc upon some innocent. Occupied with such thoughts, fearing the worst, I neglected my studies. And one day, called upon by the schoolmaster to answer a question to which I knew not the answer, I stood up, hemmed and hawed a bit, and then suffered a similar absence of consciousness. When I came to myself again, I heard the laughter of my classmates and realized that the schoolmaster was pushing me bodily back down into my seat. Confused and abashed, I sat quiet in my seat until the end of the schoolday, wondering what I had done. It was only then that I learned that rather than admit my ignorance of the question’s proper answer, I had rambled and spouted upon the subject in a most peculiar manner, as if I had great wisdom and the schoolmaster had none. He tried to silence me. I would not be silenced. I went on talking nonsense for minutes, all in the name of Eusebius, until the schoolmaster took action and pushed me back into my seat. Luckily, Petrus did not take offense at the laying of hands upon me and make his appearance.”

Lord Mansfield spoke up for the first time. “And how often were you visited by these two …” He hesitated, then submitted to the term Clayton had used: “These two natures?”

“Not often, sir.”

“I am properly addressed as ‘my Lord.’ “

“Then, not often, m’Lord. Because of this incident and because of the other, I found myself unwelcome at school and soon left. Though still a boy, I was man-sized and could do a man’s work. Earning money of my own, contributing to the family economy, I began eventually to think myself quite independent, drinking beer and spirits. There were a few embroilments at which Petrus made an appearance over the years; one of them brought me to a small hospital such as this one in my native shire.”

“I know of that incident,” said Sir John. “I received a letter from a Dr. James Andrews describing it and your stay in his hospital.”

“A good man,” said Mr. Clayton. “I fear I held back a little of my personal history from him. I made no mention of Petrus. In a way, all this had a beneficial effect upon me, for as I troubled over this odd aspect of my life, I was driven inward, and inside myself I found poetry. As a schoolboy, I had a love of words and made a few childish attempts at verse. But working in the fields as I grew up, I found lines, whole stanzas welling up within me. I could hardly wait until work was done so that I might get home and write down what had come to me, perhaps continue it, should my inspiration drive me on. When I — “

“Well and good, well and good,” broke in Lord Mansfield, “but what of this other presence—what name has he?”

“Eusebius, m’Lord. He also has made appearances, and somewhat more frequent. When John Clayton stands mute before authority, Eusebius speaks for him. He prattles on, often making no sense, perhaps usually so, but sometimes he convinces. There was the time before our local magistrate that he argued me into Dr. Andrews’s hospital for study. That was not me but Eusebius. I found myself on the hospital roll as Eusebius Clayton. I explained that away by claiming Eusebius as my middle name. Then not long ago, when I was in negotiation with Mr. Crabb, Eusebius intervened and, I fear, made a fool of me. Mr. Crabb immediately perceived what was amiss, did not challenge Eusebius, but waited until I had come to myself again and calmed down. I confessed then this difficulty of mine, and he accepted it.”

“Did you tell him also of Petrus?” put in Sir John.

“No, sir, I did not.”

“And why not?”

Mr. Clayton did not answer readily, but after some consideration, he said, “Because I did not wish to frighten him.”

“I see. Tell me now what happened when you appeared before me at the Bow Street Court.”

“I came to myself in that room for prisoners to the side of the court.”

“The strong room.”

“Is that what it is called? In any case, there I sat in a bloodied nightshirt. The clothes that had been fetched from Crabb’s were there for me to put on. I sat, as I say, for near an hour trying to remember what had happened. There were memories, awful pictures in my mind, but they came to me in a great confusion. Had I imagined these things? That seemed unlikely, for here was my bloody nightshirt to prove that they were real. Reluctantly I dressed, still trying to remember, still trying to put in some order these impressions and pictures. When I was taken into the courtroom and was sat before you, I left myself completely and Eusebius came in my stead. No doubt with disastrous results.”

“If all this be so,” said Sir John, “how is it you can speak now to us so convincingly and reasonably?”

“Well taken,” said the Lord Chief Justice, “indeed, indeed. How comes it so then, sir?” He ended with a laugh, as if to say he had caught him out.

“Because, sir and m’Lord, in the days I have been here at Bethlehem Hospital, I have had time to concentrate upon this matter. In truth, I’ve thought of nothing else. I have ordered my memories, focused my impressions, and now I believe I can give an account — though not a full one — of my experience there at Crabb’s on the night in question. In fact, I was so sure of it that I began a letter to you, Sir John Fielding, asking if I might impart this to you. Dr. Dillingham was kind enough to provide me with paper, pen, and ink. I failed to complete the letter because Dr.

Dillingham informed me last night of this interview. Anything I could say in the letter, I could say to you in my person. To put it briefly, I am well prepared. When my mind is ordered, and I am well prepared, there is no need for Eusebius to intrude. I am capable of handling my own affairs. Here is the letter.”

With that, John Clayton stepped forward and placed the sheet of foolscap on the table. Lord Mansfield then grabbed up the letter, which of course was addressed to Sir John, pulled out a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat, and began reading it with great concentration.

Sir John, aware of what had happened, turned to Dr. Dillingham to his left and said in a quiet tone, somewhat above a whisper, “What say you to this, Doctor? Three natures in a single body? I myself have never heard of such a thing.”

Lord Mansfield looked up from the letter. “Indeed!” said he. “It all sounds quite like the story of a cock and a bull to me.”

“No, no, let me assure you,” said Dr. Dillingham, “such cases are not so rare as you might suppose. I have seen a number of them in my years here at Bethlehem Hospital. And while cure seems impossible …”

“Impossible?”

“Well, of course, it’s very difficult to determine, for once a man has returned to his true nature, he seems altogether ordinary, as does Mr. Clayton now. He may remain ordinary, or in a given set of circumstances may allow the return of another, more riotous self, one who may cause problems.”

By this time, Lord Mansfield had lost interest in the discussion and returned to the letter. John Clayton, for his part, was much interested in it. He strained forward, favoring an ear in the direction of the magistrate and the doctor.

“In your opinion, Dr. Dillingham,” asked Sir John, “would you say that John Clayton is a sane man, one capable of standing trial?”

“Oh, indeed I would, but I cannot say the same for Petrus, or that other fellow — what was the name?—ah yes, Eusebius. I have met neither. The question is, of course, whether John Clayton can be tried for the crimes of Petrus.”

“Indeed, that is the question, is it not? Were we to — “

Lord Mansfield jumped to his feet, tucked away his spectacles, and grabbed up his hat.

“Let us be off, Sir John,” said he. “Our business here is done.”

Sir John turned this way and that in confusion. “What is it? What do you mean?”

“Why, it is all here, put plain in this letter of his. Have your boy read it you. Mr. Clayton says as clear as can be that he wishes to be tried for the murders in the Crabb household. That was the purpose of this inquiry. If he wishes to be tried, we must certainly oblige him.”

“Is this true?” Sir John asked of John Clayton. “You wish to be put before the King’s Bench at Old Bailey?”

“Oh yes, sir,” said he, with great certainty.

“But why, man? The question of responsibility, I would say, is still quite open to doubt.”

“Because I am sure of my innocence.”

When we emerged from the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem, a steady rain was falling. The driver and the footman held the team and looked mightily unhappy as the rain dripped down from the short brims of their round hats. The footman gave up the traces and rushed to open the coach door for Lord Mansfield. For his part, Lord Mansfield splashed to the door as best he could; then with the assistance of the footman, he managed to climb up inside.

As he leaned out to say his goodbye, his glance took in the road beyond the gate. There was, of course, no hackney carriage in sight.

“Come along, Sir John,” he called. “I’ll not have you tromping about in this rain looking for a hackney. The boy can ride up top.”

“I prefer to have him ride with us,” Sir John called back, holding his ground.

“Nonsense. He is your servant, is he not?”

“No, indeed. He is a member of my household, a ward of the court.”

“Oh, bother such nonsense. Come along — come along, both of you.”

With that, he threw wide the coach door, and the two of us jogtrotted down the steps, through the puddles, and up to the conveyance. The footman aided Sir John inside, but when it came my turn, he helped me only so far, then gave me a shove that sent me sprawling into the interior of the coach.”

“Untangle your feet, boy,” said Lord Mansfield. “Be more careful.”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

“Here, Jeremy, beside me.”

As I took my place next to Sir John, I looked out the coach window through the streaking rain, and caught the smirk of the footman just as he turned away. Then, only moments later, we were under way — out the gate and onto the highroad.

We rocked along, Sir John and Lord Mansfield keeping their silence for a spell as I brooded upon the tale I had heard from John Clayton. It had not escaped me that his difficulties with Petrus and Eusebius had begun when he was thirteen — my age precisely. Had the fates some such nasty surprise awaiting me? I sincerely hoped they did not.

Upon consideration, I decided I had not much to fear. For if ever I had needed a Petrus to aid me, it would have been in that rough encounter the day before with the putative pickpocket. More likely, judging from the way he had fought beyond his size and strength, he had a Petrus within him. And then I reflected upon the story told by Black Jack Bilbo in Sir John’s court. He had readily admitted that he had no memory of his assault upon Brother Isaac and Brother James from the time his beard was pulled to the moment Constable Cowley tapped him on the shoulder. He had no idea of the length of time that had passed; it was sufficient, in any case, for a crowd to have gathered. What was it he had said at the end of his account?—that he was glad he had had no sword or pistol with him. The implication, of course, was that he might have slain them both. Mr. Bilbo had described his state as a “fighting rage.” Was that not perhaps a visitation by his Petrus?

I felt no better for my ruminations. But the thought of Mr. Bilbo and his strange encounter with the Brethren of the Spirit had pulled up a memory, a detail that I determined to impart to Sir John at my earliest opportunity.

Yet not here and now. The silence between him and Lord Mansfield invited no interruption. We passed by St. Giles Cripple-gate and quite near Grub Street. I noted that the rain had diminished somewhat. Even so, I was well satisfied to have made this journey warm and dry within the coach, rather than cold and wet atop it. So I was not a servant but a member of Sir John’s household. I wondered at the distinction.

“Sir John,” spoke up the Lord Chief Justice, “why not just send this fellow Clayton up to us at Old Bailey? You’ve given him one day at Bow Street. Shouldn’t that suffice?”

“He was not competent on that day,” said Sir John firmly. “You heard his explanation just as I did.”

“You mean Eusebius and all that nonsense? It made quite a good story — I own I was fascinated as he told it — but really, what can all that mean in a court of law? The law gives no recognition to such a circumstance. One man, one nature — that is how the law sees it.”

“Then perhaps the law should be changed.”

Lord Mansfield laughed indulgently at that.

“Besides,” said Sir John, “Mr. Clayton clearly had something, perhaps some several things, to communicate to us. Our departure was premature in my opinion. I think he should be listened to as any witness would be. He has not been convicted, not even formally charged as yet. So far as I am concerned, he is a witness. As the only survivor of that dreadful massacre, he may indeed be our best witness.”

“Ah, Sir John, it was ever thus with you, was it not? You see labyrinthical difficulties when the facts provide a straight path. Just send him to us.”

Sir John’s response was a grunt, nothing more nor less.

They rode along in silence once again for a certain space of time. We were now quite near Covent Garden. I glimpsed St. Paul’s rising above the lesser structures nearby. Somehow I had been made uncomfortable by these long pauses between them. I decided I would be glad when this drive was done.

Yet the silence was broken once again, this time by Sir John.

“My Lord Chief Justice,” said he, “you will soon receive from me a begging letter.”

“Oh? What will it be this time? A few more constables for your force of Runners?”

“No, though they would be most useful on the streets of Westminster and in the City. Please bear that in mind when next it comes up.

Lord Mansfield sighed. “I shall. What then do you now have in mind?”