Murder in Grub Street (19 page)

“The seller of the land objected, however. ‘This treasure you have found is not mine,’ said he. ‘I did not bury it. I sold you the piece of land and got a fair price. What you found upon it is yours.’

” ‘No!’ said the buyer sharply, for he was growing angry. ‘You must take the treasure, for I bought only the land. What was on it, or in it, is yours.’

‘ ‘Your generosity is great, but I cannot accept,’ said the seller.

“Feeling great anger now, for his plan to win the king’s favor was about to fail, the second farmer said, ‘You must accept the treasure I offer you, or I shall kill you.’ “

With that, the rabbi sat back with a smile, signaling the end of his story. Sir John waited, and waited a bit more, quite expectantly.

“Well, get on with it, man,” said he, somewhat in exasperation. “What is the end of your story?”

Rabbi Gershon shrugged, raising both palms upward. “Who knows?” said he.

“Well, did the buyer force the seller to take the treasure with his threat? Did the buyer kill the seller?”

“All this happened a very long time ago, so we can be sure that the seller of the land is dead. When he died and what were the circumstances, I cannot say. All men die — though that, in itself, is no matter for mourning. For him who dies it may be a matter for rejoicing. Who can tell?”

“Hmmph.”

Sir John let out just such a grunt and folded his fingers across his belly. He sat thus, uttering not a word for a considerable space of time.

Then at last he said, “Rabbi Gershon, was any threat made against you or your congregation?”

“Let me give it exact as I remember it. This man who calls himself Abraham opened his arms and declared that he greeted us all as brothers. If we were to accept the one you call Jesus as the Messiah, all the riches of heaven would be ours. How he knew this I cannot say. He asked all who would do so to come forward. I repeated his invitation in our tongue. When none came, he became angry and said, ‘The Roman Church knew how to deal with such as you — by fire and sword.’ “

“That was how he put it? The Roman Church knew how?”

“That was what he said.”

“Well, that much is historical fact.”

“Indeed,” said the rabbi.

“But the threat is implied,” put in Moses Martinez.

“Yet not stated,” said Sir John with a sigh. Then, summing up: “Trespass seems out of the question, since you welcome visitors from outside and have had them before. What about assault? Was any man hit by those who carried clubs?”

“No.”

“Was any handled roughly who tried to leave?”

“No. I instructed the members of my congregation to hold their places.”

“It seems then that all I can charge them with is the intrusion itself. All you need do is swear to the circumstances, and I shall fine them to the maximum for disturbing the peace.”

“Much as I would like to,” said Rabbi Gershon, “I will not do that.”

“But why not? We cannot allow such an outrage to go unnoticed. If we do nothing, then it could well happen again — and again and again. You cannot want that, sir.”

“No, I do not, but even less do I wish to call attention to ourselves. We have known such events before — in the Ukraine, in Poland, even in Holland. It always seems best to choose the quieter course.”

“But you must understand, Rabbi Gershon,” said Mr. Martinez, “that this is England. The law is with you. Sir John Fielding wants to help you and your people.”

“Where I grew up.” said the rabbi, “there was a great forest, and for awhile there wolves in the forest. They made themselves known ever night, howling to one another, howling at the moon. Then one year, the nobles of the district organized a great hunting party, one that lasted a week or more. All the wolves in the forest were killed. No more howling was heard from that time on. Now, there were foxes in that forest, too. The fox is a very shy animal, very quiet indeed. And there are foxes in that forest still today.”

Sir John Fielding allowed himself no day of complete rest of a Sunday. He could not, for the harvest of villains and malefactors was always greatest on a Saturday night. These felonies he would tend to, lest the strong room become to o crowded, yet he heard no civil cases on Sundays, nor low misdemeanors. This made, generally, for a more leisurely day. HE would rise late, for church attendance was not his habit, eat well, hear such cases as were necessary, then be on his way for the rest of the day and evening. Mar Alfred Humber, whom I had met at Lloyd’s Coffee House, had become his frequent companion on these weekly rambles about the town. He was a bachelor and SIr JOhn, of course a recent widower, but both men were of an agge and dignity that their nights out consisted of no more than a bit of pleasant strolling while it was still light, a good dinner at some eating place, and a bit of drinking afterwards. I beliefe that Mr. Humber’s intent was to ease Sir John’s bereavement. Thus in the past few weeks a pattern had been established, a pattern which would be broken on this Sunday whose action I am about to describe.

I was first surprised by his relatively early appearance. Though not yet fully dressed, he was well on his way. As I sat sipping my tea, finishing my bread and dripping, he emerged from his bedroom in breeches and shirt, asked Mrs. Gredge for a dish of tea, and me he asked to shave him. This was a duty I had taken over from Mrs. Gredge, her failing eyesight putting him risk. Though I was a couple of years away from shaving myself, I had watched my father at it many a time and had a fair notion of how it was done. I had become better at it in the past days, and he now seemed quite satisfied with the work I performed for him three or four times a week.

And so, as Mrs. Gredge heated water for the shaving pan, I finished my breakfast and laid out the shaving gear. How I loved to strop that razor!

“Shave me close, Jeremy,” said he to me. “It might be well to do the job twice.”

I did as he wished, taking care, drawing no blood; and after I had finished, he tested his cheeks with his fingertips and nodded his approval.

“I shall be needing you today, Jeremy. Dress well and wash. Be ready in an hour.”

I was. Yet it was still at the midpoint of the morning when we two descended to the ground floor. Sir John there asked after the number of prisoners in the strong room, which was not great, and the circumstances of their arrests. Satisfied, he led me to his chambers and inside.

“Leave the door wide,” said he, “for we shall be having company. Come to think of it, we may need some chairs. Three more are expected.”

“Then we shall need three more chairs,” said I.

“Attend to it, please.”

His manner that morning was most direct, almost brusque. He wasted few words. I took this not as a sign of his displeasure, for I had done naught to displease him, but rather that he was preoccupied by his consideration of matters that lay ahead. I made no question as I brought in the chairs. I kept my silence as I settled into one of them and waited. After a bit, he spoke.

“There was no report of Moll Caulfield,” said he. “The Runners were instructed to look sharp for her — she is known by sight to many — and to ask after her, as well.”

“Then she seems to have vanished.”

“I like it not.”

“Perhaps her friend Dotty could — “

“Perhaps.”

Silence again. Then:

“If only she had said something of substance in that note she passed to that urchin boy you brought here.”

“Yes, sir.

“By the by, he wad the same with whom you fought, was he

not

?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, wishing the matter had been forgotten and fearing the worst.

“Well,” said he, “since you have made your peace with him and he with you, it would be superfluous to punish you.”

Feeling great relief at that, I was about to thank him when he pressed on:

“However, remember my words to you regarding the event. Remember, in particular, what I said to you at the time: You, being better-educated and better-situated, bore the greater blame in the matter. A boy such as Bunkins knows nothing but the law of the streets.”

“He seems to have some good qualities, though.”

“Bunkins may be salvageable. Let us hope so.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Sir John.”

He grunted in response.

Then from the far end of the long hall came the sound of the door to the street opening and closing. Firm footsteps followed.

“It would seem,” said he, “that one of our party has arrived. There will be an interrogation. As it proceeds, I wish you to witness both what is said and how it is said. You have a good eye. Report to me afterwards any signs of visible stress or strong reaction to my questions. You have done it before. You know the sort of thing I seek.”

The footsteps grew close. Half expecting to see Brother Abraham appear, I was somewhat surprised when Dr. Samuel Johnson appeared.

“Since the door is open,” said he, “I take it I am free to enter.”

“You are indeed,” said Sir John. “Come ahead, Dr. Johnson.”

Come ahead he did, moving his great bulk swiftly across the intervening space, grasping Sir John’s extended hand. He acknowledged my presence with a nod of his head and took a seat at a far remove from me. Was Samuel Johnson to be interrogated? That seemed unlikely. Of what crime, or misdemeanor could a distinguished personage such as he be guilty? Of what could he even be suspected? Still, I listened with care and watched his face as the two men began to talk, though it soon seemed to me that their talk was of such a casual nature that it could have no investigatory purpose. It was of a literary nature. Sir John mentioned to him that he and I had been reading in our evenings, and that we both took a good deal of pleasure in it (which was quite true).

“And what have you been reading?” asked Dr. Johnson.

“Shakespeare, for the most part. We are near through his Dream of a AIuhutnnier-Nlght. “

“A pleasant work, certainly, full of fairies, rude mechanicals, and the like. No doubt the boy finds it pleasurable. You cannot do wrong reading Shakespeare.”

“You say that in such a way as to belittle the play.”

“Well, the great power of the man lies in his tragedies and some of the histories.”

“No question of that, yet there are times when amusement satisfies better than tales of murder and revenge, no matter how powerful they be.”

“No doubt,” said Dr. Johnson, somewhat patronizing.

“Perhaps you might recommend something of recent publication. I confess I know nothing of what is now being written.”

“Well, if it is amusement you seek, then perhaps Tristram Shandy would suit you. The final volume was published just last year. The author died, I believe, just two months past.”

“A man named Sterne, was it not? He had a bad reputation — immoral. To tell the truth, when the first volumes of the book appeared some years ago, my late wife, Kitty, read them to me, and I thought them too fantastical, downright silly. No,” said Sir John, as if settling the matter, “if we’re to read a romance, it will be Tom Jones. I should like to hear it again — it will be my third time through, and Jeremy has never had the pleasure of it. You may not credit this, Dr. Johnson, but his father kept it from him, thinking it an immoral book. Can you ever suppose that my good brother would ever write an immoral book? Who could think such a thing — much less say it?”

“Must we go down that road once again?” asked Dr. Johnson with a great show of exasperation. “I never said his was an immoral book; at least I did not say so in print, which is the matter at hand.”

“And what about that issue of your paper, The Rambler?”

“That was years ago, and I did not mention the book by name. And, sir, what I think it to be is my own affair.

“Well, I think it to be the best romance ever written.”

“Each is entitled to his opinion. I myself think Amelia is a better book.”

I had the notion, as I listened, that they might go on so for an hour or more, at which time Dr. Johnson would leave in a great huff. Yet just at that moment, the door to the street slammed shut and footsteps sounded again in the hall. This quietened them both.

“Let me ask you,” said Sir John in a more temperate tone, “have you ever been to Bedlam?”

“I visited Kit Smart there a time or two. The place is pure hell. If a sane man were confined, he would soon be driven mad there.”

“My thought precisely. That is why I have had our peasant poet removed to the Fleet Prison. I asked you here, Dr. Johnson, that you might question him where you see fit and afterwards comment upon his sanity, his ability to stand trial.”

“The man I saw in your courtroom was in no wise able, sir.”

“I agree. Yet I encountered a much different man when I visited Bedlam with the Lord Chief Justice. Be aware that John Clayton has asked to stand trial. But hush. He comes now.”

John Clayton appeared in the open door. His hands were manacled, but he had been spared the indignity of leg irons. He was invited forward by Sir John and followed in by Mr. Fuller of the day watch, who was armed with a brace of pistols.

“Sit yourself down here before me, Mr. Clayton,” said Sir John. “You are acquainted with Dr. Johnson, I believe. The young man is Jeremy Proctor, who serves as my assistant. You may remember him from our interview yestermorning.”

John Clayton bowed solemnly to me; then he turned to the distinguished personage at his right.

“Dr. Johnson,” said he, “I had not expected to meet you here. I own I am abashed for you to see me in these circumstances.”

So saying, he raised his manacled hands in demonstration.

“Sir, put it from your mind. I have been in circumstances near as low myself,” said Dr. Johnson. “I am come only to assist. You have my sympathy.”

“Please take your seat,” said Sir John in a manner somewhat more stern.

Mr. Clayton did immediately as directed. His keeper, Mr. Fuller, had meanwhile pulled his chair back near the door, which he now closed. Thus could he better watch his prisoner and bar his way should he try to escape.

“Now, John Clayton, our interview of the day past was cut somewhat short by Lord Mansfield when he discovered that it was your wish to be put on trial so that you might prove your innocence. How do you propose to do that?”

“Why, sir, by giving an account of what I remember of that night.”

“It seemed to me,” said Sir John, “that you were ready to do so then. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir, indeed it is.”

“That being the case, I thought it best to remove you from the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem and install you in the Fleet Prison so that I might have easier access. While the Fleet cannot be pleasant, I trust it is at least an improvement on your earlier accommodations? “

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then I charge you to forget the barred cage to which you must return and the chains that bind your wrists. Speak as a witness and not as one accused. That is how I shall hear you. Give me your account of the events of that terrible night.”

“Well, sir,” said the witness, “I was asleep in the cellar when — “

“I must interrupt you,” said Sir John. “We need not rush through this. In point of fact, we ought not. It would be best for my purposes if you were to answer this: How came you to be there?”

“I had come,” said Mr. Clayton, “to see my second book through the press. It was thought that if I were to be present, reading proofs and making corrections as the type was set, the cost of printing could be kept low, and there would be no delays as were caused in the past with my first book.”

“Your new book was also a volume of poetry?” asked Dr. Johnson.

“Yes, sir, it was. I was hoping to make such a great success with this book that I might never have to return to Somersetshire. I hoped to make a living by writing poetry.”

“Vain hope, sir,” declared Dr. Johnson sternly. “To make a living on poetry is like trying to live on air. I well remember that I, too, came to London with just such a hope more years ago than I care to remember. I was then forced to put in a long apprenticeship as a Grub Street hack. What would I not write about if given a fee? Knowledge played no part in it, and less did art. I caution you, sir, Grub Street is not the answer.”

“I note that, Dr. Johnson,” said Sir John, “as I’m sure Mr. Clayton does. But shall we get on with this? Mr. Clayton, I was counseled earlier by Dr. Johnson that although Ezekiel Crabb was all in favor of publishing books that added to the store of art and the intellect, he was less inclined to pay a fair price for them.”

“He was cheap,” said Dr. Johnson, “no other word for it.”

“As you say,” said Sir John, “but you, Mr. Clayton, went with him again. Was there some degree of acrimony in your negotiations on this second book?”

“There was, yes.”

“And Eusebius appeared as your negotiator?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what effect had that?”

“Not a very good one, I fear, though in the end I was satisfied with the bargain we struck.”

“Which was?” asked Dr. Johnson.

“A royalty on each copy sold.”

“Would there have been any lump sum advanced?” — again, Dr. Johnson.

“A very modest one. It was because it was such a small sum that I agreed to stay in his cellar and eat with his apprentices.”

“When did this arrangement begin?” asked Sir John.

“The day before the night in question.”

“So you had had one night in the cellar previous to that one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was nothing that happened on that first night of an unusual nature.”

“Nothing at all, no. I slept very well that night.”

“But you did not on the second night?”

“In a way, I believe I slept all too well.”

“That, I fear, is unclear. Explain, please.”

“Well, perhaps if I described my sleeping arrangements in the cellar?”

“Proceed.”

“I had been given a cot in a corner. Some efforts had been made for me since it was expected that I would be there the better part of a week. Boxes of books had been piled high around the cot and some space had been left, so that I had a bit of privacy to myself, something like a room. Although one to pinch a penny, Mr. Crabb could be quite considerate in such ways.”