Murder in Grub Street (20 page)

“Well and good — so you were tucked away out of sight.”

“Exactly so. As I say, I had slept well the night before and was deep in sleep on the night in question, still tired from my tramp to London. But some hours after falling asleep, I found myself half roused by noises in the cellar. It seemed that there were men there, a gang of them — four or five at least, probably more. Yet they were there only briefly before they must have made their way up the stairs. Supposing I had dreamed their presence, I turned over and went back to sleep; indeed I had barely left that state.”

“Can you say what sound they made that stirred you?” asked Sir John.

“No, I cannot, sir. It seemed that I was simply and of a sudden aware of their presence—yet only dimly, dream like.”

“I accept what you say, yet if indeed they were there, they must have forced the cellar door. You would have heard that, surely.”

“Surely,” agreed Mr. Clayton, “unless they had a key.”

“That seems unlikely,” said Sir John. “But obviously you were roused from your sleep — unless you took to sleepwalking that night.”

“In a sense that id what I did, though not until later. It could only have been minutes before they began their butchery, and I was made fully awake by the cries and screams of their victims. I wish to say at this point, sir, that these screams came all in a chorus, as if at some arranged signal the killing was begun. I think this of great importance.”

“Let me judge what is of importance and what is not.”

“As you say, but … well, I sprang from my cot in terror and started to rush up the stairs. Then I heard this gang of murderers descending from the floors above. I heard them talking amongst themselves. Luckily, my feet were bare, or I might have been heard at that moment. Fearing for my life, for those cries I had heard were unmistakably mortal, I hid myself in a closet at the rear, in the print shop.”

“And so you got no clear look at them, I suppose.

“No, sir, I did not. But I was aware that when they came to the first floor, they remained some minutes to search for something.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because there was a good deal of walking about, and there were calls back and forth.”

“Of what nature? What was said?”

“It was all through the door and indistinct, but I heard one say, ‘It is not here.’ And another in response, ‘It must be.’ Whatever they sought must have been found, for they left soon thereafter.”

“You heard them go? What exit did they take?”

“Once more through the cellar. I heard them descend the stairs and waited until I was sure they had gone. Only then did I venture forth. Memory begins to fade at this point. I remember climbing the stairs. I remember looking upon the bodies of Ezekiel Crabb and his wife, horribly bloodied and hacked in their bed. And that, I fear, is all I remember.”

Sir John, who had been sitting forward through this recital, leaned back at this point and considered for a moment. I had noted that Dr. Johnson had, throughout the interrogation, watched Mr. Clayton with growing fascination. At the end of it, his face bore an expression of shock and consternation.

Then said Sir John: “How do you, Mr. Clayton, account for your time between the moment you looked upon the dead bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Crabb and your discovery by Constable Cowley and his party?”

“I can only guess, sir, but I understand that I identified myself to you and to others as Petrus. As Petrus, I must have made a tour of the upper rooms, visiting each floor, for I was found in the topmost.”

“Found there with a bloody axe in your hand. How came you by that axe, Mr. Clayton?”

“That I cannot say, Sir John. I can only suppose that it had been left there by one of the murder gang.”

“Which seems unlikely, does it not?”

“Let us leave it then that I cannot say.”

“Yes, let us leave it at that. Just one more question have I for you. Are you acquainted with a man named Isham Henry?”

Mr. Clayton thought a bit; then: “I believe he was one of the two journeymen employed by Mr. Crabb. He was not about the day previous to the murders.”

“No, according to him, he was returning from Nottingham, as I recall. Eusebius, I take it, did not inform you, but Mr. Henry appeared as a witness against you during the aborted proceedings following the crimes. What he gave was hearsay, and therefore not admissible, but he did declare that you felt great hostility toward Mr. Crabb after the publication of your first book, that you felt cheated by him when you learned the great number of copies it had sold and the consequent profit he had made at your expense. He said that you threatened Mr. Crabb. How much of this was true?”

“Some of it,” said Mr. Clayton. “Most of it.”

“Oh? Then tell me of this, sir.”

“Indeed, I did feel badly treated by Mr. Crabb. If I could not say he had cheated me — and that I could not say — he had, I felt, taken advantage of me in my ignorance. However, I did, as I say, reach an agreement on my second book. By then, I would say that we had reached a settlement of our differences. I told you earlier of the arrangement.”

“Yes, yes, but what of the threat? Did you, in fact, threaten him?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“And in what way?”

“I threatened to go to another publisher for my second book.”

At that, Dr. Johnson let out a great guffaw. “That brought him to heel, did it?”

“We reached an agreement.”

“With the help of Eusebius?” put in Sir John.

“In spite of Eusebius,” said Mr. Clayton.

“Very well, very well. Dr. Johnson, do you have any questions?”

“Sir, I do have one. Mr. Clayton thought it of great importance that the screams of the dying on that terrible night came, as I believe he put it, ‘in a chorus.’ I, for one, would like to know why he thought this of such moment.”

“All right,” said Sir John, with a sigh, “answer Dr. Johnson’s question, Mr. Clayton.”

“With pleasure, sir. I thought it important because, having given great thought to it in Bedlam, I had decided that the murder of six people in their beds could only have been accomplished by more than one man—at the very least, three. The fact that I heard those horrible screams, which echo in my ears to this moment, for a comparatively brief period and coming from every floor of the house indicates that the butchery was done simultaneous.”

“There,” said Dr. Johnson to Sir John, “does that not make good sense? Is that not well reasoned? I congratulate you, Mr. Clayton.”

Sir John rose from his chair.

“And I,” said he, “dismiss you, Mr. Clayton. Constable Fuller, you may return the prisoner to the Fleet Prison.”

Mr. Fuller jumped to the command, and in no time at all, John Clayton had been ushered from the room. He threw a troubled look back at Sir John as he went, no doubt puzzled at his swift dismissal. I, too, wondered at it.

The prisoner and his keeper were scarce through the door when Dr. Johnson jumped to his feet and brought his stick down sharp upon the floor.

“Why did you do that, Sir John?” he asked, his face all red with anger.

“Because,” said the magistrate, “I feared that the next thing I might hear from you would be a demand for his release.”

“Why not?” thundered the lexicographer. “He is obviously telling the truth.”

“It is not near so obvious as you believe.”

“His point about the number of men necessary to kill six people in their beds is perfectly well argued. His logic is unassailable.”

“Yes,” said Sir John, “and if you’ll recall, that lout Burnley, who testified before Eusebius made a shambles of the proceeding, gave witness that agrees precisely with Clayton’s version. What was it Albert Burnley said? ‘A jumble of screams from folk being murdered’ — very colorful language, that — and it lasted less than a minute.”

Dr. Johnson looked blankly at Sir John. “I do not understand, sir,” said he. “You seem to be agreeing with me.”

“Of course I am agreeing with you, you pompous, conceited old bear! I, too, believe he is telling the truth in the way, and to the extent, that he remembers it. But if you think that what we have just heard from him will be sufficient to win him a not-guilty verdict at Old Bailey, then you are a bigger fool than that fellow Boswell who seems to hang upon your every word. And further, if you think his logic is unassailable, then just wait until Lord Mansfield begins to assail it. No, Dr. Johnson, before John Clayton goes to trial, he must be made to account for his presence on the scene with the murder weapon in his hand. That, and only that, is what Lord Mansfield will tell the jury is significant in the matter.”

“But it could have been left behind.” “All things are possible, yet that is not probable.” Dr. Johnson sank back into his chair, lost for a moment in thought.

“No,” said he. “I suppose not. But, sir, tell me, what was this talk of ‘Petrus’? I remember the name being passed between you two in the courtroom, as well. Who or what is ‘Petrus’?”

“In a way,” said Sir John, “it is of little importance who or what he is, but briefly, let me explain. John Clayton claims — and for what it matters, I believe him — that three natures reside in his single body. They are, first of all, his own; secondly, that of Eusebius, who prattles intellectual nonsense when challenged by authority; and lastly, of Petrus, who acts for Clayton in the face of violence. Eusebius you saw in the courtroom; you will recall that he insisted that it was he who was speaking in John Clayton’s behalf. Petrus I met when Clayton was brought in by Constable Cowley — right nasty and brutish he was, let me assure you. Such wonders of the soul are, I admit, new to me, but Dr. Dillingham of Bedlam assured us that such cases are known, though of course not common.”

“But how can you say this is not important?” blustered Dr. Johnson. “It is obviously of the utmost importance. It explains everything — or a great deal, at any rate.”

“I say it is unimportant because Lord Mansfield will say it is so. In trial, he will hold it immaterial. In fact, in private conversation he has already given that as his opinion.”

“Then what can be done for the poor fellow?” “What can be done will be done, I assure you,” said Sir John. “But let him not be given false hopes. Clayton has already betrayed himself as greatly naive in thinking that all he need do to establish his innocence is tell his story. He knows he is innocent, yet it is quite another thing to convince a judge and a jury of that. If I was a bit harsh with him, it was because I want him to keep thinking, trying to remember details that may help us catch those he calls ‘the murder gang.’ Something said, something … anything. “

“But could you not on your own authority discharge him? You could say that you have heard his account and believe him innocent of all wrongdoing.”

“The man who was apprehended at the scene with the murder weapon in his hand? You have seen the broadsheet? The pamphlet against him? What would then be the uproar among your colleagues on Grub Street? But uproar or no, my belief or no, there is still inarguable cause to bind him over for trial. Besides, he has cuiked to be tried — in writing.”

Dr. Johnson sat glum and discouraged. I saw him then, as I had seen him before, as the good man he was. Bluff, gruff, and probably pompous, but a good man, withal.

“May I convey this to him?” he asked.

“You intend to visit him in Fleet Prison?”

“Yes, poor fellow.”

“You may tell him some but not all. Stress the importance of thinking further on it, of remembering details, even the slightest sort, that might help us. But do not tell him that I accept his story. Make me the ogre, if you like, but present me as one who must be convinced.”

Dr. Johnson rose and made himself ready to go.

“All right then,” said he, “it will be so. I shall go this very afternoon. Thank you, Sir John. Though you have insulted me and made me feel a nitwit, you have given me a right strong taste of the law’s harsh reality.”

“You have my sincerest apology, sir. I was carried away somewhat. Goodbye, then. There are matters I must attend to before the court begins.”

With his goodbye, Dr. Samuel Johnson then departed. Sir John called me over to him. As he stood there, he betrayed a certain nervousness in his demeanor, fidgeting with his tricorn, turning it this way and that. This surprised me. He was usually the very picture of composure.

“Jeremy,” said he, “I have an errand for you. But first I must ask you, what impression did Mr. Clayton’s account make upon you?”

“A powerful one,” said I. “Truly, I was quite astonished.”

“And convinced?”

“Yes, sir. He did not claim too much.”

“A good point indeed. And what, if anything, did his face betray?”

“Not as much as I might have expected, sir, considering the weight of the tale he told. He was direct and cool, for the most part, as if recounting what he had worked through carefully in his mind.”

“As he no doubt had.”

“Yes, sir. Only once did he show powerful emotion, and that was when he described climbing the stairs and looking upon the dead bodies of Ezekiel Crabb and his wife.”

“Odd. I detected nothing then in his voice. What did he show you?”

“He wept. As he spoke in a peculiarly calm tone, tears ran down his cheeks. Not many, but I did indeed see them.”

With that, Sir John nodded, indicating that I had given him as much as he needed. Then said he to me: “Jeremy, I have a message of a personal nature that I should like you to deliver to Kath-erine Durham.”

Though there was no need to do so, I ran the distance to Berry Lane. It was not a great distance, nor did I run it at full speed. Yet to be the bearer of such a message as I had to deliver, from one great friend to another, filled me with such exuberance that mere walking simply would not do. As I loped along across Cov-ent Garden, dodging among the worshipers exiting St. Paul’s, I felt the sun of early summer upon me as a source of fuel to my young body. I sensed the health and vigor of adolescence broiling within me.

Thus came this healthy young colt in no time at all to Number 3 Berry Lane. I was up the stairs in a trice, banging loudly on the door of the Widow Durham. I felt suddenly chagrined, realizing how rude my knock would seem. And so I knocked again, quieter and in a manner I deemed more respectful.