Murder in Grub Street (4 page)

“Uh … Sir John?”

“Yes, Jeremy?”

“I shall have to find a new master.”

“That much is clear.” I thought this perhaps his only comment upon the matter, for he had nothing more to say for a long space of time. Then at last he added: “1 must think upon it. Perhaps I shall talk again with Samuel Johnson.”

“As you will, Sir John.”

“As I will, as I will,” he mimicked me. “Indeed, all of you seem eager to give me my wish in all things. What I wish is that this terrible thing had not happened; I wish that what seems to be so simple were not so complicated.

“Consider this, Jeremy. We have a prisoner who was taken with the murder weapon, or at least one of them, in his hand. How was he found? By backtracking a cluster of boot prints in blood tracked down from the upper floors. Did our man in the Bow Street strong room wear boots? Indeed he did not. He was barefooted when caught and had been walked barefooted by Constable Cowley to the lockup, probably on this same route we are taking now.

“Could one man have killed so many? I doubt it. The cries of some would have roused the rest. All were more or less murdered in their sleep. I think it unlikely that one man could have moved undetected and so quickly from one group of sleepers to the next. Yet there he was, axe in hand, a patch of vomit on the floor, looking for all the world like a murderer who had beheld his own work, and sickened at it. All agree to that. The patch of vomit is left, yet we no longer have the axe. Our constable left that — may he now have learned his lesson!—and it was no doubt taken as some sort of perverse souvenir of this awful event by one of that gang of helpers that afterwards rampaged through the Crabb house. They distributed their bloody footprints through every part of the building. I’ll have at least one of them up for obstructing an inquiry, I promise you that. This whole affair has been handled badly from start to finish!”

I had never heard Sir John speak so angrily. He puffed from the exertion of it, though he maintained his quick step. It was all I could do to keep up with him. And perhaps I gave a bit too much attention to that and too little to what lay ahead. I recall that we had passed the Cock of the Walk and, to my relief, found no crowd at the front of it. We were entering a dark and shadowy patch of street when, of a sudden, two men jumped out before us, one of them holding a wicked-looking cutlass. I grabbed Sir John by the arm and pulled him to a halt.

“What is it?” he asked loud, turning his head this way and that.

“Robbers,” said I in a whisper.

“Aye, robbers,” said one of them, so close he had heard. He grinned, urging his companion forward. “Robbers we are. Come forward, Tom, and see the fish we have caught in our net. Upon my soul, ‘tis a blind man and a boy. Come forward, I say.”

Although Tom was more timid than his fellow, it was he who wielded the cutlass. He advanced cautiously, the point of his cutlass aimed in our near direction, wavering from one of us to the other.

“It is clear,” said Sir John, quite cool to their threat, “that you know not who I am.”

“Nor do we care! Give over what you got.”

With that, I plunged my hand quite automatically into my pocket in search of my shillings, but it came up hard against the butt of the pistol. And quite as automatically, I pulled it from my pocket and extended it at the two of them. It took both thumbs to get the hammer back, but back it came. And then, even more difficult in those circumstances, I sought to show them that ferocious face I had put on at the door to the Crabb house.

Each took a step back in quiet respect to the small pistol. I cannot believe my face afrighted them much.

“Now, boy,” said the bolder of the two, “be careful with that thing. You could hurt somebody with it.”

“I am Sir John — “

“I have an evil temper!” I shouted at them, making my voice its deepest.

“But you have but one pistol,” reasoned the more talkative. “You can only shoot at one of us.” He inched a bit forward.

“At this distance I cannot miss!” There was but six feet between us. “Shall it be you who takes the shot?” I swung the pistol so that it pointed directly at the bearer of the cutlass.

“Sir John Fielding, I day, and I am — *

“No!” shouted Tom with the cutlass, and back he fell a full three paces.

“Or you?”

And I swung the pistol at the bold one. In truth, reader, I could not have missed at such range, for somehow the thing held steady in my hands, and my finger did not tremble on the trigger. Would I have pulled it? I know not, but I believe perhaps I would have.

He gave no answer but fell back with his fellow, Tom.

“Then if I may not kill either of you, I have only this to say… . Be gone!”

And so they were gone; they left, walking swiftly, arguing betwixt themselves, each accusing the other of cowardice. I watched them until they disappeared, and informed Sir John that it was safe to proceed. We went slower and with greater care than before, and I kept the pistol in my hand, guarding against their possible return.

Nothing was said between us for quite some time. At last Sir John said, “There were two of them?”

“Two of them, yes, sir.”

“They must both have been new to the city, don’t you think? That is, not to have recognized me — most unusual, most unusual.”

If I often found it difficult to keep abreast of Sir John on those frequent occasions when I accompanied him on his walks through the streets and lanes of London town, it was well nigh impossible for me to keep pace with Samuel Johnson as I sought to deliver him, as directed, to the magistrate, who awaited us at a coffee-house in the Haymarket.
Dr. Johnson led the way through the streets, I hopping along at a jog trot beside him.
As is well known, he was quite a large man, a good six feet in height and sixteen stone or more in weight, yet his bulk impeded him not at all. His stout legs were no longer than one might expect for a man of such proportions, yet he moved them with remarkable poser and swiftness for a man who was then in his sixtieth year.

Sir John had sent me forth to Johnson’s Court, letter in hand, not much more than an hour after our arrival at Bow Street. By then the sun had made a timid appearance and shone forth its light irregularly betwixt banks of swift-moving clouds. Armed with explicit directions provided by Mr. Baker, I made my way quickly across the city through streets that had eve then begun to fill with beggars, casual laborers, and workingmen on their way to their regular employment. It was then, as it is now, a working city, and the pulse of it had begun to beat right rapid. Strange it is to see our great place come alive. Even today it is my favorite hour in the city.

Greeted at the door I was by a female servant of Dr. Johnson’s. When I presented the letter, she bade me enter and invited me to sit on a bench in the foyer whilst she presented it to her master. There I waited — and waited and waited — until at last I heard sounds of snuffling and coughing from deep somewhere within the house. Then the maid came to me and ushered me into a dining room wherein the great man sat alone, breakfasting on bread and bacon. He invited me to sit with him at table and questioned me closely on the events of the night before, or perhaps better said, somewhat earlier that very morning.

I well knew how much Dr. Johnson had learned from the letter I had delivered, for it was in my own hand. Sir John had dictated it to me in the absence of Mr. Marsden. It explained that there had been a terrible crime of murder committed in Grub Street in the home of Mr. Crabb. An individual had been apprehended by a constable at that very location and was now being held in suspect, one known to Dr. Johnson, perhaps by reputation or perhaps even personally — by name John Clayton, a poet. Sir John requested Dr. Johnson’s presence at Preston’s Coffee House in the Haymarket that they might discuss said Clayton, as he had proved quite reticent in answers when questions had been put to him.

Simply that and no more. For a man of Samuel Johnson’s all-consuming curiosity, such a communication as the one I had delivered would merely whet his appetite to know more of the matter. Sir John had foreseen this and instructed me that I might tell all that I had seen, with the exception of his attempt to question John Clayton — nothing of the condition of the prisoner in the strong room; nothing, too, of what I might have heard from others, Constable Cowley or his witnesses, regarding Clayton’s arrest; and certainly nothing of Sir John’s conjectures on any of these matters.

Dr. Johnson regarded me sternly from across the table. One eye, I perceived, was near blind. The other, while none too healthy, fixed me with a solemn stare, so that I expected the worst up to the very moment he spoke.

“Have you eaten, lad? Would you care for something?”

“A cup of tea, perhaps, sir.” For I had been well fed by Mrs. Gredge.

“That we can surely manage.”

Then, as if summoned by the power of his thought, the maid appeared with a man-sized cup and saucer, which she placed before me. She filled it from the teapot on the table and was gone without a word. (Yet certainly not far, for she must indeed be listening at the door.)

“Now,”’ said Dr. Johnson, “you must tell me more of this remarkable event.”

“What would you know, sir?”

“Why, all of it — as much as you have to tell me. Sir John spoke in his letter of a terrible crime …”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of murder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, boy, how terrible was it? Who was it was murdered?”

“As terrible as can be conceived,” said I, taking the cup to my lips and risking a sip of the strong, well-steeped tea. (I do confess, reader, that with this pause I hoped to add drama to what I had to say.) “All were murdered, sir.”

“All?” His best eye widened in shock. “Crabb, you say, and his wife, as well?”

“And his sons,” I added, “and his two apprentices. Six in all. I saw their bodies carried from the house in Grub Street.”

The great man fell silent for a moment, quite overcome by the intelligence I had just supplied. Then, recovering, he asked, “You were present?”

“I accompanied Sir John to the place. There were no hackneys on the street at the hour we set out. He needed my help because of his …” I hesitated. “Because of his affliction.”

“Yes, yes, of course. So you were there indeed. Tell me what you saw and heard.”

And that I did, editing my report along the lines that Sir John had urged. Even so, I included details aplenty to fascinate and revolt Dr. Johnson. I did not spare him the tale of the Raker’s arrival, nor his grisly jokes, nor indeed his quite outrageous play with the severed member. Through it all, he listened attentively, yet he was neither so fascinated nor so revolted that he ceased to eat through my long recitation. Indeed, he ate a great, huge breakfast of bread, butter, and near a whole flitch of bacon. His servant made trips to and fro, replenishing his plate. He chewed with such fervor and intensity that perspiration stood out on his brow.

We two finished, by happenstance, at about the same moment—I with my story and he with his eating. He pushed back from the table and trumpeted forth a grand belch. Then he regarded me once again with another steady gaze, though one which seemed in some sense less severe than earlier.

“Well told,” said he. “But what can you tell me now of John Clayton?”

“Who is that, sir?” I asked, all innocent.

“Why, he is the prisoner. It was he who was taken at the Crabb house, was it not? Sir John mentioned him specifically in his letter.”

“Did he, sir? That’s as may be, but there was none taken whilst I was there. I do allow, however, that I heard the name mentioned in Bow Street before being sent along here with the letter.”

“Then you can tell me nothing of him and his present state?”

Thankful that he had phrased the question so (for I had no wish to lie to such an august personage), I answered the question truthfully thus: “I regret that I am unable to shed any light upon that matter.”

(I reasoned that Sir John’s instructions had rendered me unable to do so, and that indeed I did regret it, for were my tongue not tied by my promise, I could have given Dr. Johnson a description of sullen Petrus in his cell clothed only in a bloodstained nightshirt which would indeed have astonished him. If such play with words seems specious and Jesuitical, dear reader, it is nevertheless a habit of thought which comes natural to lawyers and lawyers-to-be.)

“Well, then …” said he, and making a bellows of his mouth, let forth a great puff of air which seemed nearly to empty his lungs. Then, with a nimbleness that surprised me, he jumped to his feet. “Let us be off to our meeting.” He seemed quite eager to go. I followed him out into the hall and to the street door. There he grabbed up his tricorn and stick and made ready to leave. Yet he turned to me then and asked with something like a smile, “Why does Sir John wish to meet in an obscure coffeehouse and not in his chambers?”

“Upon that I could only speculate, sir.”

“Proceed then: speculate.”

Though Sir John had not covered this in his instructions to me, I could well suppose the true reason: The way to his chambers led past the strong room where the prisoner was housed. He had no wish that Dr. Johnson see the man in such a state. It would not do to tell this, and so I was forced to improvise.

“It could be,” said I, “that he wishes the meeting to be of an informal sort, to put you at your ease. What is said in his chambers is often taken down by the clerk in deposition. This makes some shy to speak.”

“I? Shy? Hmmnph! It could be, too,” said Samuel Johnson, “that he wishes no one at Bow Street to know that he seeks my advice!” With that he laughed a great, conceited laugh, threw open the door, and plunged out into the courtyard.

I pulled the door shut after me and ran to catch him up.

And I continued to run, it seemed, through the length of our long journey by foot. Yet if he was a fleet and energetic walker, he was also a silent one. We were nearly to the Haymarket before he ventured his first words to me. They came in a grumble tossed over his shoulder in my direction.

“I suppose,” said he, “that I shall have to find you a new position as apprentice.”

“It would seem so,” said I, hopping up beside him, awaiting further words on this subject. But none came. He simply set his face in an attitude of thought and pressed on through the growing crowd of pedestrians. After a few paces together, I fell inevitably behind.

But once more he spoke out before we reached our destination: “When were you to begin with Mr. Crabb?” he called out.

“That would have been today, sir,” said I, once more running up to him.

“Fortunate for you that it was not yesterday, eh? There would have been seven victims then. Had you thought of that?”

“It has been pointed out to me,” said I, most politely.

“Hmm. Yes … well … indeed.” He stopped suddenly and whirled about, looking this way and that, thus causing some confusion amongst those around him. We had come to the Haymarket. “Now, boy, tell me,” said he, “where is this place we are to meet?”

I knew it well, for I had drunk coffee there myself, having been introduced to the practice but a few short weeks before at Lloyd’s.

“This way,” said I, and for once took the lead, crossing the cobblestoned way with him impatient at my heels. We entered and were immediately assailed by the wondrous aroma of the brew; quite welcome after our long immersion in the foul smells of the streets.

Looking about, I spied Sir John alone at a corner table and beckoned Dr. Johnson to follow. The place was not near as crowded as it would be. The table given us would do well for the sort of quiet tete-a-tete which the magistrate wished. Yet Dr. Johnson was unaccustomed to quiet; and if noise were in short supply, he could provide it in plenty. He barked out a greeting in a voice loud enough to frighten off a footpad.

Heads turned. The nearest serving girl, pot in hand, stopped sudden as a shying horse, slopping coffee on a floor often slopped before.

“Dr. Johnson, though I may be blind, I am not deaf,” said Sir John, with a smile meant to soften the sharpness of his words. “But do please sit down, so that we may discuss this matter I mentioned in my letter.”

“Has you baffled, has it? You wish my counsel in it?”

“Your counsel is always welcome. Yet what is most needed is your knowledge.” Sir John raised his hand then in hope of being seen by the serving girl. “Let us have coffee first to sharpen our minds.”

She was there in a trice, setting two cups and pouring three. I grabbed mine up at once, sipping it hot, sore in need of the stimulation it would give. My day had begun much too early.

“My knowledge, you say, sir?”

“Yes, your knowledge of this man, John Clayton. I sought you out since you seem to know, or know of, nearly every literary man in London.”

“That may be, sir, yet your man Clayton has happened merely to be in London. He is not of it—if you will honor my distinction.”

“Certainly,” said Sir John. “Nevertheless you do know him?”

“After a fashion,” said Dr. Johnson. “We met but a scant twelvemonth past upon the occasion of his first book’s publication. A collection of verse it was. And Mr. Crabb invited me, among others, to his bookshop to meet this remarkable discovery of his.”

“Remarkable, you say. In what way? You said it as if there were something quite unique about him.

“Indeed there seemed to be,” said Dr. Johnson. “Crabb presented him as a ‘peasant poet.’ ” At that point he broke off, screwing his powerful features into a great frown. “And now poor Crabb is dead, murdered. Is it so?”

“No question of it.”

“The lad gave me quite a graphic account— six victims, dear God!” He shook his head solemnly. “Ezekiel Crabb could be quite a contentious man, but he had standards. He published only what he deemed of value. He certainly made the reputation, if not the fortune, of John Clayton. As I say, he presented the fellow as a ‘peasant poet.’ And it is true that Clayton had a distinct rural background—a farm laborer from some benighted parish in Somersetshire. Can you imagine it? He’s had little formal education, yet there is no doubt, sir, that he has a poetic genius of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

“Well, yes. His verse is not altogether to my liking. He glories in nature, yet glories in it for nature’s own sake. I should say that there is no better writer of descriptive verse in England today, if one is to judge from that first book of his—yet it is merely descriptive. He does not go beyond that to philosophy, and much less to wisdom. The poet’s duty is to draw lessons from nature, and not simply to portray it. That, however, may be too much to ask of a peasant poet, or perhaps in particular of a peasant poet’s first collection of verses.”

“I see,” said Sir John. “Yet you would say that John Clayton is possessed of a true poetic talent?”

“Oh, without doubt, sir. I have brought with me a copy of that first book of his, by name The Countryman* Calendar and Other Ve/vej.” Thus saying, he dove deep into the voluminous pocket of his coat and pulled from it a small volume that fit easily into his large hand. “One may open this book to any page and find phrases of particular charm, some quite brilliant. But here, let me demonstrate.”

Dr. Johnson brought it within inches of his poor eyes, shuffled a leaf or two, and stopped. “This will do,” said he. “It is a section of the longer poem which provides title to the rest. This one is given as ‘February.’ “