Murder in Grub Street (8 page)

Having said all this, he lapsed into a silence so long that I thought he might have drifted off to sleep where he sat. But then, as I rose quietly from my chair, he spoke up again: “We must get you some new clothes. Mrs. Gredge tells me those you wear have grown shabby.”

The days passed. Spring had blossomed forth in its full glory — even in London, in which flowers bloom in dirt patches and back gardens, and the trees leaf forth for the most part only in those parks and lanes which are habituated by the gentry. It was spring everywhere. I felt it in my life. It was though it had begun again. Imagine, reader, a boy such as myself — orphaned, virtually penniless, come to London bare of expectations with only his hopes to buoy him — such a boy thrust before a magistrate, falsely accused, rescued by the keen judgement of that great magistrate and now installed as a member of his household! For the first time in weeks I felt that I had a future. Though I could not foresee what precisely it might be, the rest of my life seemed now to open up before me like some great adventure on which I ws now about to begin.

In truth, however, life continued for me at Number 4 Bow Street about as I had known it in the past few weeks. I ran errands at the bidding of Sir John, for the most part of an inconsequential nature. Mrs. Gredge continued to avail herself of my talents as a “good scrubber”, and more and more she made use of me to do her buying at the greengrocers and butchers of Covent Garden nearby. I was, in fact, on just such an expedition when a chance meeting occurred that foreshadowed another, more momentous one day later.

Where but at the butcher stall of Mr. Tolliver, to which I was introduced to Katherine Durham, should I happen to spy her? I had met the good Widow Durham through Sir John, who had seen her son into the Navy; grateful was she for that and continually inquired after him at our meetings while buying in Covent Garden. She was then engaged in pleasant conversation with the proprietor himself, having made a purchase, and seemed about to leave. I held back, not wishing to interrupt; then she made to go and in turn spied me.

“Jeremy!” cried she. “How well met! I had only moments past heard from Mr. Tolliver that you have become his regular customer. How long has it been since I brought you here?”

“Oh,” said I, “three weeks — a month, perhaps. Much has happened since then.”

“I note that for one you’ve acquired a new coat — and that shirt also appears to be new. You look most handsome.”

I swelled a bit at her praise even as I thanked her. “I’ve been given a few new things by Sir John, as befits my new state, Mrs. Durham.”

“And what is that, Jeremy?”

“He has accepted me as a member of his household.” I meant to make it sound solemn and important, for such it was to me, yet it so excited me to announce it to one outside my immediate ken that I fair blurted it out.

“How wonderful—and how fitting,” said she, “but — ” And here she frowned quite prettily. “Do I not recall that you were set for the printing trade?”

“Indeed I was. In fact, apprenticeship papers had been signed with Mr. Ezekiel Crabb.”

Her hand went to her mouth in a gesture of shock. She spoke not a word for a moment. Then: “Good God! That horror in Grub Street — thank the Almighty you were saved from it.”

“But narrowly,” said I. This, reader, you know to be true enough, yet I confess I put a bit of drama into those two words, rolling my eyes heavenward and punctuating them with a sigh. I wished to be pitied. Thus in so short a time had I begun to lose my earnest innocence.

A sudden tumult of shouting broke out some distance away. We two turned to find its cause and saw a group of men and a few women, most of them dressed in black and deep gray, calling out in unison to the crowd passing through Covent Garden. Though loudly they shouted, their manner of speech was indistinct and some of the Garden crowd called back just as loud, so that it was near impossible to know just what was being shouted. Yet there was such enthusiasm in their manner, such strength of purpose in their voices, that it seemed certain to me that their message, whatever it be, was of a religious nature.

“Who are those people who make so great a din?” I asked Mrs. Durham. “I have seen them before, I believe, though at a distance and not near so many.”

“I fear,” said she, “that a plague of preachers has descended upon us. They seem to be here in this corner of the Garden every day at this time — oh, I have seen them other places, as well.”

“Are they Methodist?”

“Oh no, no, nothing so conventional. It is as though they came to us from the last century — Ranters, Levelers, all certain that the time of Apocalypse was upon us. They call themselves the Brethren of the Spirit. They have lately arrived here from somewhere.”

“The Midlands?”

“No, the North American colonies, I believe.”

“And they have come to preach?”

“Clearly,” said she, “in order to save Londoners from perdition. No doubt we are all in need of salvation, Jeremy, I most of all, yet what they preach is so, well …” She paused, unable for a moment to continue. “To give them credit, though, they have opened a shelter to house and feed the most wretched of the poor. They do good works. And that, to me, is the test.”

She addressed me as she would an adult, and I liked her for it. Yet, as sometimes happens between adults, our exchange seemed to hang at that point, as she stared distractedly at the dark-garbed group and the unruly audience they had attracted.

Raising my voice above the continuing din, I endeavored to get us unstuck: “I noted you present at Lady Fielding’s funeral.”

“What? Oh … yes, of course. I could not but share in the dear man’s sorrow. I sent a note of sympathy to Sir John.”

“He received so many. We work together, answering them all.”

“Yes, well, I understand. But Jeremy, I must away. Remember me to him, if you will.”

“Goodbye, then.”

She moved away with a quick smile. Yet as I watched her go, she threw a hard glance at those who had interrupted us, gave a shake of her handsome head, and then hurried on.

I stepped up to Mr. Tolliver’s stall, but then found I must needs consult the list Mrs. Gredge had dictated, to be reminded what it was I had come to buy there.

Whilst out and about, doing errands for Sir John, I became involved in another portentous event, which gave me a shock and near took my life. It made plain to me that London was a dangerous place in ways I had never supposed.

As I mentioned in passing to the Widow Katherine Durham, Sir John had made it his task to respond to each and every message of condolence sent to him upon the death of his wife. In this considerable work, I served both as amanuensis and messenger. He took an hour or so each morning, yet in that time he would manage to dictate no more than four, since in each he tried to make some personal reference to the message received, or to his relationship to the addressee. It took some thought on his part and often a bit of ingenuity. His prodigious memory served him well.

As for myself, I took down his halting words and was usually left with a sheet replete with blottings-out and emendations, and so it was then my duty to make decent copies of that day’s production and present them to him for his scrawled signature. Then came delivery, which I liked much better. My journeys here and there with these letters of response took me all over London. They added greatly to my knowledge of the streets, alleys, and lanes of the great city. I soon began to put together a sort of map in my head, taking shortcuts when it suited me but sometimes returning by the longest route, so that I might take in all that was to be seen along the way.

And there was much there to catch the roving eye of a boy of thirteen. I discovered, for instance, that our particular part of Westminster, namely the parish of Covent Garden, was filled to bursting with single women seeking accompaniment. Just where it was they wished to be taken was then something of a mystery to me, though when they addressed me direct, “bed” was often mentioned. Since these walks of mine took place in the daytime, it seemed to me passing strange that what these women and girls offered, and sought to be paid for, were naps in the daytime. Yet here I play the fool somewhat, for I confess that I had come to understand, even in my imperfect way, what it was went on between men and women, and that whatever that something was, it took place between the covers. I was, in short, not so naive that it did not thrill me a bit in some mysterious way to be solicited by these women, though in truth I never sought them out.

I well recall the surprise that awaited me when I delivered the missive Sir John had addressed to Peg Button, prostitute and probable pickpocket. She had written Sir John as a child might, in big block letters, regretting, as she put it, that “his wyf dide and lef him.” She went on to say that she “knowd abt dine cause it took her ma a teribl long time to get it don.” To this, Sir John had replied, in part, “Indeed the worst of Lady Fielding’s departure was its length. Neither I nor she would have had her suffering protracted so, life in pain being not at all precious. You, having watched your mother so long in mortal illness, will know how helpless I felt, though my dear wife’s pain was eased toward the end by means of physic.” And so on — a right honest reply, his was, from one sufferer to another.

When I sought to convey it to the address from whence her message had come, I found that Mistress Button had, in a manner of speaking, gone up in the world. She certainly would have reckoned her new station at Mrs. Gould’s infamous bagnio in the Little Piazza an ascent from her previous life on the streets. I was admitted by a woman of color in servant’s dress, yet large as any man. In fact, when she spoke to me, inquiring of my business there, I was not altogether sure she was not a man, so deep was her voice. The name of Sir John Fielding admitted me at once, and once inside, I had but to display the letter to Peg Button to have her brought down from one of the upstairs rooms to the parlor. There she greeted me and asked me to read the letter aloud to her. “I ain’t never got one before,” said she with innocent pride to her sisters in the parlor, all of whom were dressed, as she, in shifts and less. And so, to this troupe of lounging odalisques I gave forth the contents, which I knew well myself—so well, in fact, that at each full stop I was able to look up from the text and survey the room, then return to my place without confusion. It was, all in all, an impressive reading. They applauded their appreciation at the conclusion. I bowed and handed the letter to Mistress Button. Though they begged me to stay for refreshment and conversation, I reluctantly declined, saying truthfully that I had other letters to deliver.

None of the others was delivered to quite such colorful circumstances. Some, in fact, were brought to places of commerce and to grand houses of the gentry and aristocracy. Mr. Alfred Humber received his where, it seemed, he was always to be found: at Lloyd’s Coffee House. There he treated me to a cup of his favorite brew, for I could not refuse it. To the East India Company I jour-nej^ed to deliver two of Sir John’s messages of thanks: to Sir Percival Peeper, who gave me a shilling for my trouble; and to his Young lieutenant, Mr. Roger Redding, who had assisted at the inquiry into the Goodhope affair (a penny from him). In short, I saw London, high and low, nor did I ever see it so high or so low as I did on that fateful day to which I earlier referred.

It was a windy day, threatening rain. There had been a run of proper March weather in that first week of May, uncommon but not unknown. For two days previous, great dark clouds had been scudding in swiftly from the east, bringing rain squalls. As messenger for Sir John, I had been caught and drenched in my new suit of clothes early on my rounds, so that I had no choice but to return to Bow Street and don the old duds I had worn on my flight to London. I later had reason to be glad I had worn them — though not at first, for my next delivery took me to the residence of William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench.

It was by no means a long hike to his considerable abode, lor it was in Bloomsbury Square, just beyond Covent Garden. The wind was at my back for the distance, and a great wind it was, propelling me forward nearly at a run. From time to time I glanced ruefully at the sky, for I had no wish to be drenched again. Yet though there were clouds, and they moved as swiftly as before, they were white and billowing as full as sails on a three-master.

With all this, it took me no time to arrive at Bloomsbury Square and not much more than that to find the proper house. It took me much longer, however, to get inside — in fact, I never did so. I rang the doorbell with one hand and held my tricorn hard on my head with the other. The door was opened by a man in butler’s livery. He was larger in every way than Lord Goodhope’s Potter; it would be quite impossible to imagine such a man as he listening at the keyhole.

“Yes, boy,” said he, “what is it?”

“I have a letter for Lord Mansfield.”

“Give it me. I shall see he gets it.”

It seemed to me then that butlers, ushers, and others of their kind all over the realm must regard themselves as the last line of defense for their masters against the world outside. I determined to make an attempt to breach the ramparts.

“The letter is from Sir John Fielding. It is of a personal nature.”

“Oh?”

“He prefers me to lay the letter in the hands of him to whom it is addressed.” I fair shouted this out, for the wind swept hard across the unsheltered porch.

“No doubt,” said he, “yet here we have a problem, for Lord Mansfield is not at the moment present. Now, you have your choice of waiting on the porch where you stand and handing it to him upon his arrival, or leaving it with me. You may, however, have a long wait, since I have no idea when he will return, and the wind may make you most uncomfortable. It might also rain again.”

“There is a bench behind you in the vestibule. Why could I not wait there?”

He looked me up and down in a manner most skeptical. “Because, boy,” said he at last, “you are far too ragged to be admitted here.”

I seethed, seeking within me the wit to puncture his self-assurance; yet I found nothing there sufficient to the task.

“I shall wait for him here,” said I.