Murder in Grub Street (27 page)

“Thank you,” said he. “I worked like a very demon gathering the facts and assembling them in good order. Though not a work of great inspiration, I take a certain pride in it. I used greater art in the pamphlet which I wrote on the same topic.”

“You wrote that, as well?”

“Ah yes, and did you not think it well argued? It put the blame on the magistrate for shielding that fiend who was caught red-handed, axe in hand, and tucking him away in Bedlam.”

I fought the impulse to argue with him at this point, to call to his attention his ignorance of questions of law and a score of other matters that he had treated right crudely in the publication’s twelve pages. What I might gain in personal satisfaction, I might well lose in intelligence. It was not for me to challenge him but to keep him talking. And so, I equivocated.

“I thought it very forcefully argued,” said I.

“Now that I have established myself, you may understand my purpose in approaching you thus boldly. You may have noticed that I stared at you when you came into this modest house. It is not my custom to stare. A gentleman never stares. Yet I was sure I had seen you before on an important occasion. And then at last it came to me: ‘twas at that mockery of a hearing at which John Clayton was assigned to Bedlam. I sat quite nearby, and I noted that you watched the proceedings with intelligent interest.

“Then, when your friend came in, I understood that you must have some special interest in this lamentable matter, for him I recognized immediately as Tom Cranford, former journeyman in the establishment of Ezekiel Crabb. I could not help but overhear the name Crabb mentioned over and over in the conversation that ensued between you. Do not think that I eavesdropped. I would not stoop so low. A gentleman never eavesdrops. Still, I did hear the name Crabb, in particular from the lips of Mr. Cranford, did I not?”

“You did,” said I, wondering as I did how much else he had heard. Yet he had sat far from us, and he would not be pumping me now had he truly overheard all that was said between Tom and me.

“How may I put this?” he asked himself. “Let me say it is not mere gossip’s curiosity that prompts my interest, but rather a scholar’s hunger for facts. I have it in mind to do a small book on this matter of the massacre when John Clayton is properly hanged and the thing is at an end. The fellow is not only a murderous fiend but an execrable poet — a bumpkin, a lumpkin!”

At this point he paused, realizing he had got off the track somewhat. Then reorienting himself, he proceeded: “Now, Mr. Cranford has refused to talk to me on this matter. He has his reasons, I’m sure, but will no doubt realize his debt to scholarship and open up to me eventually. However, you, young sir, are clever enough to grasp the importance of my enterprise immediately. I know you are! Now, I wonder, having heard what you’ve heard, and realizing your debt to the great public that awaits the book that I shall write — I wonder, Jeremy Proctor, if you would divulge to me the content of your conversation?”

What a long and devious route he had taken to get that question asked. Was this simply his manner, or did he hope to flatter me with his attention? Whether the one or the other, I had perceived his goal long before he reached it and had prepared my answer.

“Mr. Neville,” said I, “what you witnessed was a conversation between survivors. As you know, Mr. Cranford was spared his life because he lived apart from the Crabb establishment. I was spared mine by a matter of time. I was apprenticed to Ezekiel Crabb. The papers had been signed. I was set to move into the attic room with the other apprentices the day following the massacre, as you have called it. Had I moved in but a day earlier, I would have been one of the victims.”

Ormond Neville sat openmouthed in astonishment. His slender hand crept to his face till his fingers touched his chin. “But dear boy, that is amazing! And frightening! How the fates do work in our lives! That you should be chosen to live while others would meet their ends so horribly suggests that the gods do indeed have some special design for you.”

“That could be,” said I. “But I only hope it is not something worse.”

“What could be worse?”

I shrugged, indicating not so much indifference as resignation. “As for my talk with Mr. Cranford, we congratulated one another that we had escaped with our lives. He told me a few stories about Mr. Crabb — ‘old Crabb,’ as he called him — and we also discussed my apprenticeship with another printer.”

“Ah! I may be able to help you there.”

“There was also a question I had for Mr. Cranford. I showed him and Mr. Crabb my abilities as a typesetter before my apprenticeship was arranged. They put before me a most challenging manuscript with much in mathematics and calculations of all sorts. The subject of it was the conversion of the Jews. That indeed may have been the title. It struck me as most interesting. I wondered what had become of it. Surely it was not lost when Crabb’s establishment was boarded up. I would hate to think that such a scholarly work would be — “

“Say no more,” Mr. Neville interrupted me. “In this I may be able to help you, as well, Jeremy. May I call you Jeremy?”

As I was nodding and smiling in a manner I thought to be ingratiating, the door to the street opened, and into the gloom walked a familiar figure, known to me not so much by his features, which I could barely discover, but by his odd dress and bearing. It was Jimmie Bunkins.

Mr. Neville, whose back was turned, continued talking as Bunkins came our way. “A manuscript of the sort you describe has appeared at my publisher’s, Mr. Boyer. He discussed it with me just the other day, said he would not publish it under his own name but had agreed to print it for a price. What interest could you have in — “

Without invitation, Jimmie Bunkins plopped himself down in the chair beside Mr. Neville. I wished that he had not. Surely, I thought, what business he had with me could wait. Yet I saw, to my surprise, that it was not my attention he sought but Mr. Neville’s. Yet, clearly, Mr. Neville did not wish to give it. He attempted to continue his conversation with me, ignoring Bunkins as best he could.

“What interest,” he repeated, “could you have in such a work? But no matter, we shall talk of it later, shall we not? Here, take my card.” His hand dove into his coat pocket and pulled forth a small gentleman’s calling card, which he dropped before me. He seemed to be preparing a hasty exit. What fear had he of Jimmie Bunkins?

“I live in the lodging house next to Boyer’s, but can be found many hours of the day just here in this humble spot,” said he, rising swiftly from the table. “I must hear your tale of your apprenticeship and near murder. It could make a chapter entire in the book I shall write of this most awful matter.”

“Just hold for a time, chum,” said Jimmie Bunkins, putting a firm hand on Mr. Neville’s arm. “Don’t go hopping the twig on me.”

“Take your hand from my arm, you rude boy.”

He attempted to shake loose, but Bunkins kept tight on him.

“I’ll have me bobstick, as promised, or you know what,” said Bunkins. “For here I find you layin’ a trap for another unsuspecting lad, bein’ up to your old tricks again. You should know better.”

“You’ll get no more shillings from me!” cried Neville. Then with a mighty wrench, he tore loose from the boy’s grasp and jumped clear, scampering for the door. “Jeremy, believe nothing that boy tells you!”

“Don’t be surprised the Beak-runners come a-calling for you!” Bunkins shouted, as Neville bolted out and into the light of day.

I sat amazed and quite baffled by the scene I had just witnessed. There could be no doubt that Jimmie Bunkins had put a great fear upon Ormond Neville — but what was the basis of it? Money was involved, a threat of some sort, but more than that I could not comprehend. What surprised me equally was the lack of interest shown by the others present in the Goose and Gander. The three men against the wall had shown more interest when Tom Cranford entered than when Mr. Neville departed. The serving maid and the innkeeper had barely turned to watch him go. I was most confused.

“What say, chum? Let’s be off, shall we?”

Which was the first notice Bunkins had given me since he sat down at my table.

“What was that all?” I demanded. “Why did you drive him away?”

Bunkins stood, and failing to answer my question, he asked one of his own: “You going to drink that?” He pointed to my beer.

When I said nothing, he took that as permission granted, reached over, and seized the tankard. In three swift, great gulps he downed its contents, stood silent for a moment, then emitted a great belch.

“Ah!” said he in satisfaction. “Come along now. Shove your trunk.”

He started away, beckoning me to follow; then at the door he beckoned again. I had no reason to remain. I knew indeed that I must get on to Bow Street to tell Sir John of what I had learned. Still, I was reluctant to leave, not wishing to put myself at his beck and call. Yet I would have regretted it had I not answered his last summons, so in the end I followed him out the door, from darkness to light, where I stood blinking in Grub Street.

We started off quickly in the direction of Covent Garden.

“What was you up to in there?” he demanded. “You ain’t no nancy boy, are you? ‘Cause if you are …”

“I was investigating,” said I, straining to keep up with his rapid pace, “seeking information for Sir John.”

“Investigating, is it? That Tom you was talking to will investigate you right out of your kicksies if you give him half a chance.”

He threw me a glance of dismayed disapproval. “Jeremy, me chum, you may talk like a gentleman and read all that’s been writ, but you act like a kid sometimes, I swear.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired, all indignant.

“I mean that if you value your arse, you will in no wise allow yourself to be gulled up into the lodging rooms of Mr. Ormond Neville.”

“Well, I … well …”

I had no answer tor that, for in truth I had not properly understood it. Yet since it was clearly advice given in earnest, I did not question it. And so I kept my silence even as we rounded the corner and left Grub Street behind.

Once we had done so, Jimmie Bunkins put to me a question in great seriousness.

“Jeremy,” said he, “you must tell me, what is the latest on poor Moll Caulfield?”

“The latest is that she will be given a good Christian burial, as she would have liked, out of St. Paul’s tomorrow at eleven.”

“Only that? What says the Beak? Will he send his Runners to arrest those buggers in black?”

“Jimmie,” said I, “he cannot arrest and bind to trial when there is not proof against them. Get him proof and evidence and testimony of witnesses, and he will act and act right swift.”

“To that I say what I said but a day past. Moll herself is your proof. She passed me a note in fear, and next night she is found dead in an alley. If that ain’t proof, I know not what it be.”

“Oh, you don’t understand,” said I, my exasperation all too apparent.

“And I suppose you do! Well, you listen, Mr. Know-All Proctor. I been talkin’ with the flash-boys in the Garden. A few of us was at the fire last night in Maiden Lane — right, chum, I seen you there with the Beak — and we was plannin’ amongst ourselves as to wouldn’t it be a great shame if there was another such fire in Half Moon Passage. That might take care of those buggers in black, particular if we nailed the doors shut on them.”

He stopped of a sudden in the middle of the walk and planted both fists on his hips. Those close by cursed him for blocking their path.

“There are others in the cellar, poor folk like Moll Caulfield,” said I.

“That’s their problem to work out, ain’t it?” He gave me a firm nod, so firm indeed that his tricorn dropped down to his nose. He pushed it up in a defiant gesture. “We’ll meet tomorrow at Moll’s goodbye party, we will. We can talk about it more then.”

And with that he ran away at full speed, dodging artfully through the pedestrians in the street.

I had a deal of telling to do when I reached Number 4 Bow Street, and I told it all to Sir John with the door shut to his chambers. He sat listening in that peculiar manner of his — silent, reserving comment or question, his head inclined in my direction yet without expression. I knew it as his attitude of complete attention. Others, because his eyes were hidden behind the black silk band, might have thought him dozing.

When I had finished telling him of my interview with Tom Cranford, I paused and waited that he might speak. He had no question as to the content, and no comment upon the importance of it. (I needed none.)

To me he said simply, “You did well to ask him to report this to me direct. Will he come?”

“Oh, he will. I’m sure of it. He expected to be here a bit after six.”

“Very good, Jeremy, excellent.”

“I have more to tell.”

“Oh? Proceed then, by all means.”

I took not near so long to tell of Ormond Neville. Yet I made certain Sir John knew that he was the author of the broadsheet and pamphlet on the Grub Street murders, and that Neville had attempted to persuade me to divulge the content of the conversation he had observed between myself and Mr. Cranford. Then I came to the point of it all: my question to Neville regarding the whereabouts of the manuscript on the conversion of the Jews. And his answer: that it happened to be with his publisher, Mr. Boyer, that very minute.

“With Boyer, you say?” said Sir John, exhibiting for the first time some degree of excitement both in his tone and posture.

Leaning forward he was, clasping his hands together as if to make one large fist.

“That is what was said, sir — that it would not be published by Mr. Boyer, but that he had agreed to print it for a price.”

Sir John brought that double-handed fist down hard upon his desk. “By God, then there may be a way.”

He sat contemplating, with his chin upraised, as if seeking inspiration from the light that came through the large window to his right. I wondered at his blindness. Could he distinguish between light and dark, or were they all one to him?

I waited; then somewhat timorously, and most reluctantly, I interrupted his thought.