Murder in Grub Street (28 page)

“Sir John,” said I, “there is one more matter that I feel I must pass on to you.”

“Still more? Jeremy, you quite overwhelm me.”

And so, making it that I had met Jimmie Bunkins by chance in Grub Street, for I had no wish to report on the matter between him and Ormond Neville, I told Sir John of the threat made against the Brethren of the Spirit by him. “He said,” said I, “that the idea had been formed in his mind to set a fire in Half Moon Passage like the one he had watched burn in Maiden Lane to settle with ‘those buggers in black.’ “

“He said that, did he?”

I hesitated. “He did, Sir John. I think him a good sort. I tried to point out to him that you were gathering evidence, proof against them, but … well, he paid little attention to me.”

“I’ve half a mind to let him and his fellows set their fire, and let Brother Abraham and his fellows roast in it. It would serve ‘the black buggers’ right. But then we should have to arrest Bunkins. You would have to give witness against him. And Lord Mansfield would have to hang him. We cannot have that. You must tell him …” He hesitated. “But very likely you can tell him nothing he would listen to. Am I right in that?”

“Indeed you are.”

“Leave it that I shall look into it. Did he suggest when you two might meet again?”

“At Moll Caulfield’s funeral.”

“So be it.

I rose, half expecting to be dismissed by Sir John, when upon the door three stout knocks sounded forth.

“See who that is, will you, Jeremy?”

I did as directed and found Constable Fuller there, just as I expected. Ignoring me, he shouted into the room.

“Sir John,” said he, “there’s a foreigner with a beard says you want to see him.”

“Would his name be Rabbi Gershon?”

“Something such.”

“Send him in.” And to me: “You may stay, if you like, Jeremy.”

“I will,” said I, for I thought Rabbi Gershon to be one of the most curious and singular men I had ever come across. Undoubtedly he was wise, yet in a way I had never seen before — naive, humorous, making no show of his wisdom as the preachers so often do. Withal, he was a brave man. Only one of great courage would have reentered that burning building to rescue—what? A scroll. It was no doubt of great value — still, to risk one’s life for a roll of parchment seemed to me then a bad bargain.

He entered. Dressed in strange garb he was, all in black. His outer coat covered him near complete. On his feet were countryman’s boots, and on his head one of those odd fur hats that seemed to be favored by the men in his congregation. His beard was not near so long and impressive as before, for much of it had been singed off by the flames he had braved. On his right cheek he wore a poultice held in place by a bandage. It covered the place I had noticed the night before that had been burned raw; I doubted that his beard would ever grow again in that spot.

Sir John stood at the rabbi’s arrival and offered his hand, which the latter grasped and shook firmly.

“You are most welcome here, Rabbi Gershon. There are a few matters that I feel require discussion. Jeremy? Find a chair for him, will you?”

There was no need. Our visitor settled into the chair I had vacated, and I pulled one for myself from the corner.

“Let me first inquire as to your condition,” said Sir John to him.

“Oh, I am well enough—some burns on my hands and on my face. A physician of the Jewish community gave me his attention. Mr. Martinez took me to him immediate.”

I had not noticed his hands previously, covered as they were by the long sleeves of his outer coat. One was bandaged entire; the other showed the fingers only.

“You were not given a good chance of return when after you brought your family to safety, you rushed back into that inferno.”

“I fear the fires of Gehenna more.”

“You are lucky to survive.”

“Blessed. I returned with the prize I sought.”

“You must instruct me on that,” said Sir John. “It must be an item of great worth for you to risk your life so.”

Rabbi Gershon bobbed his head in a swift gesture. “Amen,” said he. “It is indeed of great worth.”

“An antique? Those are ancient scrolls then?”

“About thirty years old,” said the rabbi. “Fifty at the most.”

“Then what is written on it that makes it so worth saving?”

“The Books of Moses — the first five books of the Bible, what we call the Torah.”

“And what we sometimes call the Pentateuch, the Books of the Law,” said Sir John. “But you surely could have bought another. Or are those scroll editions so dear?”

“Sir John,” said he, “you are right. We could have bought another. It would not have been so dear that the congregation would not have paid, for it is necessary to our worship. We read from it. We study it. We argue endlessly over its meaning. If two Jews discuss any passage of the Torah, you are sure to have three different opinions heard — at least three. We are not a people who are afraid to disagree.”

“Contentious, I have heard.”

“Indeed, that might be said. So why did I not simply say to myself, ‘Gershon, it is sad that the Torah will be lost, but the congregation will buy another. The words will be the same.’ In fact, something of that kind came to my mind. Then another voice spoke to me and said, ‘Gershon, you dummkopf, these are not just anyone’s words. These are the words of the Almighty. Would you not die for them?’ And so back into the synagogue I went. I had no choice, you see.”

“I quite understand, Rabbi. I understand, too, your unwillingness to point a finger in accusation at those who interrupted your service some nights past. I will say, though, that men dressed in black were seen by witnesses leaving the vicinity of your place of worship only minutes before the fire was first observed.”

“I am wearing black. Many do.”

“Precisely what Brother Abraham, the man who addressed your congregation, argued when I taxed him with this bit of intelligence. No, we both knew that figures glimpsed at night with neither faces nor names to identify them would not count for much in a court of law. He is, as you yourself said, no fool. He knows, however, that I suspect him and his followers of setting the fire. Ordinarily, this would count as a distinct warning to a malefactor. Yet he seems to count himself above the law, or at any rate he seems indifferent to it.”

“There are such men,” said the rabbi. “Among them are counted some of history’s greatest villains.”

“And some of its greatest saints,” added Sir John. “Yet that is neither here nor there. For I would ask you now to hark back to that evening — Friday, was it not?—when your services were interrupted by Brother Abraham and those of his sect, who term themselves the Brethren of the Spirit.”

“What would you know?’

“First, to confirm — no direct threat was made against you, your congregation, nor your synagogue?”

“No, it was as I told you before, he said in the way of an afterthought to me, that perhaps the Papists had the best way to deal with Jews — by fire and sword.”

“Just that — in the manner of an observation?”

“That was as I remember it.”

“And not as a direct threat?”

“A direct threat? No. Perhaps he was too clever for that.”

“Were mathematics mentioned? Calculations?”

“Not directly, no. He cited no direct proofs. He did say, though, that it had all been worked out according to the laws of science and mathematics that this great event, the conversion of the Jews, was to take place in this century — and soon.”

“This was an event that was much discussed in the last century.”

“So he said. But he declared with great certainty it would take place in this one. A mistake had been made, he said, and he had made it right.”

“Rabbi Gershon, may I ask you a question that may seem simpleminded, or perhaps impertinent?”

“You may ask me any question, Sir John, and I shall give it a serious answer.”

“Are the Jews ever likely to be converted?”

“Ah, that is the great question,” said the rabbi, “is it not? Though I promised a serious answer, it will be with a story, if you permit. Yet let me assure you that it is a serious story.”

“Please proceed,” said Sir John. “I like your stories.”

“Once there was a great caliph of Turkey who brought into his harem the most beautiful woman in all the empire. Everyone agreed she was the most beautiful. But unknown to him, she was also the most intelligent. She knew very well that once he had tried her and enjoyed what she had to offer, she would be cast aside as so many before her had been. And so she did what no other woman before her had done. She refused him. She not only refused him, she kept his appetite whetted with tales of the indescribable joys he would eventually experience with her. She wrote poems to the glory of the love they would share, sang songs to it. He was stirred by her. His desire grew greater and greater. He demanded. He threatened. ‘Of course,’ said she, ‘you may force me. I will yield. But what you would have from me then would be only a small fraction of the joy you will have when I surrender myself to you most willingly.’ And so he did not force her. Yet she refused him still. And still he earnestly courted her. Thus years went by, and the caliph grew old. He died her suitor, and she died a virgin.

“So there you have it, Sir John. We have a part in Christian prophecy. If there are no Jews left to be converted, then the prophecy will not be fulfilled. Let them court us. Fire and sword will not do.”

“Brother Abraham has not heard your story, I’m sure,” said Sir John. “I wonder what his reaction to it would be.”

“It is impossible to look into the mind of one like him. He has no experience of other languages or cultures. I recall I offered him but one practical objection. I pointed out to him that a great many Jews, perhaps most, live within the limits of the Turkish Empire.

‘And the Holy Land itself,’ I said to him, ‘where the triumphant return of your Messiah will take place — that also is held by Turkey.’

“And how did Brother Abraham respond to that?”

“I believe that was when he made his remark about fire and sword.”

“I see.”

“Sir John,” said Rabbi Gershon, “I wonder if you might enlighten me on a point.”

“I’ll try, of course.”

“I’ve heard it said in passing since we came to England that there was a great discussion of the Jewish conversion among theologians in the last century. You mentioned it yourself. When was this to come to pass?”

“Oh, there were various dates given, most of them very specific, but they all seemed to fall somewhere in the middle of the century. Conversion was to have been complete by the end of it. That was a time of great political turmoil here.”

“That is most interesting to me as a Jew, for in the middle of the last century there came from Smyrna a rabbi named Shabbatai Zevi who proclaimed himself to be the Messiah, our Messiah. Thousands upon thousands of Jews accepted him and followed him. He was the one we now call the False Messiah, the latest in a long line of them — but the most powerful. He eventually converted to Mohammed.

“And that, as I said, began in the middle of the last century at a time when similar delusions were discussed most seriously here. Interesting — that the Devil was busy sowing confusion in our two camps at that same time. Why do I bring this up? I’m not sure, except that when I think of this Brother Abraham I think also of Shabbatai Zevi. He seems to me a False Messiah in his own way. Do the Christians have such?”

“Oh yes. They come and go, though most wear the mantle of politics. What you say is interesting, though. I had said, or at least thought, the same of our man, Brother Abraham.”

“We agree then, it is interesting.”

Sir John rose and extended his hand. “And most perplexing. I’ll not detain you further, Rabbi. Let us touch hands merely. I fear I gave your burned fingers too great a squeeze earlier.

They did as he suggested, said their goodbyes, and Rabbi Gershon made ready to leave.

“Jeremy,” said Sir John, “see the rabbi to the street, if you would.”

I jumped to the task, escorting him through the door and down the long hall.

“Your name is Jeremy,” said he.

“That’s right, sir.”

“A good name, a Jewish name, from the prophet Jeremiah. And are you related to Sir John? A son? A nephew?”

“Oh no, sir. But I am a member of his household,” I said proudly. “I call myself his assistant, though I am not anything so grand. I do try to help him, though.”

“I’m sure you do. I want you to take good care of him, Jeremiah, for he is a good man — a good man in a bad time, as all good men have been in all past times. To help you to take care of him, I would like to say a blessing on you. Will you allow me to do that?”

“Why … why yes, sir. What must I do?”

We had reached the door. He paused there and gave me a smile most reassuring.

“Nothing,” said he. “Just stand and be silent.”

And so, as I stood by the door a bit awkwardly, he raised his bandaged hand and said some words in the strangest tongue that e’er I heard. And though he spoke not so long, the event made a great and lasting impression upon me.

When he had done, he smiled again and bade me goodbye as I held the door for him.

When I returned, I found Sir John’s door closed. Since I had no claim upon his attention, I took a seat on the bench bedist it and waited. Experience had taught me that unless I was formally dismissed, it was best to remain at hand and on call. Thought dinner time was not too far off, I suspicioned there might yet be duties to perform.

And I was not wrong. I had sat but a few minutes when the door opened and Mr. Marsden emerged, looking this way and that.

Ah, there you are, Jeremy. I have written out a letter for Sir John, something in the form of a summons.”

“I’m to deliver it, sir?”

“Go in and talk to him. I believe he has special instructions for you.”

In I went and closed the door after me.

“Jeremy,” said Sir John, “I fear I must send you back to Grub Street, boy.”

The letter mentioned by Mr. Marsden lay on the desk just before him, sealed with wax, his sign of office stamped upon it. He pushed it toward me with his pointing finger.

“I would like this delivered to Mr. Boyer, the publisher, and only to him.”

“I have that, sir, — only to him.”

Taking the letter, I held it tight and made ready to go.

“Ah, but wait. That is not all. First of all, you must make haste, for I know not when his establishment closes for the day — soon, I think. Just as important is this: You must take pains
not
to be seen by that journeyman Isham Henry, who worked before for Ezekiel Crabb and now works for Boyer.”

“But he was not about during my visits to Mr. Crabb,” said I. “Off visiting somewhere, I believe.”

“Yet he might now know you by sight. Mind me in this, now.”

“As you say, Sir John.”

“Off with you then, and when you are back, wait for me, for there may be further tasks for you. Go now.”

“Like the wind!”

And I ran off, letter in hand, tricorn perched atop my head, coattails flapping. Out on the street, I avoided the crowd along the way by running on the cobblestones next the curb, leaping to the walkway to avoid being trampled by oncoming horses, jumping over their leavings. I thus made my way near as swift as Jimmie Bunkins might have done. I know not the time I set out for Grub Street, but it was still a bit before six when I arrived, so I had won my race against the clock. If Tom Cranford would be let off at Dodsley’s back shop at six, surely Boyer’s front shop would stay open till seven, and Mr. Boyer would just as surely stay as long as there was money to be made.

On this visit I found his establishment in no time and with no difficulty. It was the largest on the street, twice the size of Number 4 Bow Street and just four doors down from the Goose and Gander. Seeing that the bookshop in front was well filled with customers still, I took a moment to stand before it and catch my breath. It looked a good place to buy and an even better one to look; there were piles of books scattered higgledy-piggledy about the place, and gentlemen nosing through them contentedly as clerks busied themselves arranging shelves and attending to other clerkly matters. I liked the permissive air about the place. I vowed that the business I had taken from Dodsley’s I would give to Boyer’s.

Then into the store. I went straight to the nearest clerk and declared that I had a letter from Sir John Fielding for Mr. Boyer, and it was to be delivered only to him. I waved it in front of him that he might see the official seal that it bore. The young man promised me that he would find him, and left in a great rush.

Thinking to test them, I picked up a book from the nearest pile on the nearest table, and in full sight of another clerk began to peruse its contents. It was not ripped from my hands. I thumbed its pages. I began to read. It did not take me long to realize that quite by chance I had taken up a copy of Vulcan and Veniu, a Romance in Verje, by Ormond Neville. Since I had that very day met the author of the book, I took more than casual interest in it.

So it was that the book was before my face and my back turned when I was jostled most rudely by one who seemed to give me no notice at all. I looked up, indignant, and saw a figure in black making swiftly for the door. When he turned slightly in opening it, I saw that he was none other than Isham Henry, whom Sir John had said I must avoid at all cost. Well, strictly speaking, I had not avoided him, for he had near knocked me over. Yet had he actually seen me? I thought not. I hoped not. And would he have recognized me had he looked upon my face? Probably not. I was satisfied that I had satisfied the spirit, if not the letter, of Sir John’s instructions.

“All right, all right, let’s have it, boy.”

The man who looked at me most impatient was well over sixty, with a pouchy, florid face. He seemed the sort one would not dare to trifle with. Still, I told myself, I must be sure of his identity. I had seen him but once before, pointed out to me at Bow Street.

“Are you Mr. Boyer?”

“Of course I am. Give me the letter.”

I fumbled so in handing it to him that I nearly dropped it. Yet he grabbed it from the air and seemed to rip it open in the same motion. His eyes moved quick over the single page.

“Is it urgent as all this?” he demanded.

Knowing not what else to say, I declared, “It is just as Sir John has stated in the letter.”

“Oh, bother!” He looked about and found the clerk who had fetched him. “Philip, run into the street and wave down a hackney for me, like a good fella. I must get my hat and stick.”

Thus Philip made for the door, and Mr. Boyer disappeared, then reappeared but a moment or two later properly attired for the street. He bustled past me, paying me as little attention as had Isham Henry but a short time before. I followed him through the door and outside. Philip had done his work. A hackney waited at the curb.

“Now, Philip,” said Mr. Boyer, “if Mr. Nicholson has not returned, you must clear the front shop and close up. I may be back in time, then again I may not.”

With that he ascended into the coach without a look in my direction, and shut the door tight. The hackney drove off. I had hoped to be offered a ride back to Bow Street.

Left there on the walkway, deserted by the clerk, I sighed deep and began trudging back the way I had come. I soon picked up my pace, moving along with the crowd. This was also a time I liked well in London — that space between dusk and dark, when the streets were full and safe and people had begun hastening from their places of employment to the places they claimed as home. There was a sense of relief and freedom in the air of this great city. The streets seemed to hum with possibility as men and women talked and laughed together. This was London as I had pictured it in my childish dreams as I labored in my father’s print shop.

So, in truth, I felt not so much put upon by Mr. Boyer’s discourtesy as disappointed by it. The evening was fair and warm and good for walking. Something of spring still lingered. And I was much cheered indeed when halfway home, I glimpsed ahead of me the figure of Tom Cranford. I hopped to catch him up. He walked along, head down, looking somewhat troubled.

When I touched his arm to notify him of my presence, he started a bit, then smiled to see me there. Yet he seemed not near so jolly as he had in the past.

“Ah so, Jeremy. It’s you again, is it?”

“It is,” said I. “May I walk with you to Bow Street?”

“My pleasure,” said he, though he seemed little pleasured by the prospect. We went along in silence for a space until he spoke up, revealing what troubled him: “Our last conversation brought me a bit of woe.”

“I’m very sorry, Tom. How was that?”

“I was upbraided proper by Mr. Dodsley when I returned to the shop. I told him, first, that I had gone at a slack time, and second, that the meeting had to do with the Crabb matter. Then he demanded to know what was discussed, and I refused to tell him, for I knew Sir John Fielding would not have me bladdering about what I had told you — then didn’t old Dodsley get himself into a fit! He would not hear of secrets from an employer, said he. ‘But sir,’ said I, ‘this is a matter of the law.’ He said he cared naught for the law, that my first loyalty and duty was to him, and I was to remember that always in the future.”

“Then he did not discharge you?”

“No, he did not. But he gave me a stern warning, and I must heed that warning, for I’ve a wife and a child on the way. Ah, Jeremy, ‘tis bad to work under such rule. I may have given you the wrong picture of Mr. Crabb. Contentious and a bit tight with a shilling he may have been, but he allowed a man to work at a reasonable pace, and if work was slack he thought it not a crime to pop out for an ale. Things is different now, for fair.”

“You must tell Sir John of this,” said I.

“It will do no good,” said he, “and may do much harm.”

So saying, he lapsed into silence, and I, not knowing what I might say to give him heart, said nothing. Thus we came at last to Bow Street. I showed Tom Cranford inside to the magistrate’s chambers. Yet the door was shut, and I heard Sir John’s voice rumbling beyond it. We were obliged to wait on the bench for some minutes until the door opened.

Out stepped Mr. Boyer. His face, which I had noted had a meaty, reddish hue, had paled so that it now seemed quite ashen. He took no notice of either Tom Cranford or me, yet staggered away as one who bore a heavy burden.

Tom and I exchanged looks of surprise and puzzled surmise. Then from within my name was called. I went to the door.

“Yes, Sir John.”

“Is your friend Tom Cranford here?”

“He is, sir.”

“Show him in, by all means; then take yourself up to dinner. I’ll not be needing you further. I’m to dine tonight with Mrs. Durham again. Please God I’ll not be called away to another fire tonight.”

It was a small party which saw Moll Caulfield from St. Paul’s into the churchyard the next morning. There were six of us bearing her body in the plain oaken casket. Before me was Constable Cowley and behind, Constable Baker. Jimmie Bunkins, who was as surprised as I to be pressed into service as a pallbearer, was directly across from the casket from me to my right. Ahead of him was none other than Black Jack Bilbo, who had insisted to me before the service he had come merely to see how his money was spent. Behind Bunkins was Benjamin Bailey, captain of the Bow Street Runners.

Following us, dressed in ritual array, his prayer book open, was the young vicar who had conducted the brief service within the church. And behind him, in no particular order, came Katherine Durham, Moll’s chum Dotty, and a few other old dames from the Garden. It must have been the humblest funeral cortege to pass through the portals of St. Paul’s in many a year.

A place had been dug for old Moll in the far corner of the churchyard. The grave, which I had inspected before the service, was a bit shallow, only about four feet deep, so I suspicioned there would be another beneath her to keep her company, perhaps a nun from the ancient, long-destroyed convent that had given the Garden its name. It was Moll, however, who would get the tombstone. Mr. Bilbo had promised it.

The six of us moved together at a slow, solemn pace proper to the occasion. Constable Cowley and Black Jack steered a true course through the paths that crisscrossed the graves, while behind us the vicar intoned his prayers, no doubt from memory. I heard no pages rustle behind me.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” declared the vicar. “I shall not want.” And on he went through that familiar psalm, known well even to my doubting father. But then he came to these words: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.” And I knew that poor Moll had feared the evil she perceived about her, for she had sent a note to Sir John asking to be taken from the Brethren of the Spirit. By the time we had received her plea, the poor woman was dead. I felt the burden of her death hard upon me. I had not told Bunkins it was I who had put her in the hands of Brother Abraham—nor would I ever. Of that I felt deeply ashamed.

At last we had come to the grave site. The hole was prepared with two stout boards across it whereon the casket would be balanced. It was laid thereon by us six, who then stepped back right smart, three on one side and three on the other. Thus we stood as the mourners circled round. There we listened again to the vicar. How different it had seemed inside St. Paul’s that morning from my earlier occasion there. The big nave of the church was near filled to overflowing at the funeral of Lady Fielding. All of Covent Garden and more had come to pay their last respects to her and express their continuing respect for Sir John. Yet here at graveside it was not much different for Moll Caulfield than it had been for Lady Fielding. The day was better. There was little likelihood of rain. But the same final prayer was said.

“Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return,” declared the vicar, and continued on in a strong voice until at last it was all said and done.

He then gave a nod to us pallbearers, and we set about our work in the manner we’d been told to do. The four men lifted the casket as high as need be off the boards that held it above the grave, whilst Jimmie Bunkins and I each seized a board and pulled it clear. Then came the slow release of the ropes in time together as the casket was lowered into the grave.

When it touched bottom, the vicar invited all present to toss a bit of earth upon the casket in remembrance of Moll Caulfield. I held back, as did Bunkins. He had been near silent through it all, only saying to me before the service that he would speak to me later of “re-venge,” for it was only proper that something be done in the name of poor Moll. I looked forward to that conversation with him with the greatest foreboding, for I feared there was nothing I could say that would dissuade him. But now he stood across the grave, then bent down of a sudden and pitched in a handful of dirt. Giving me a hard look then, he silently mouthed a word to me: “Re-venge.”

As one by one, we mourners repeated that same grim gesture, Mr. Bailey on one side and Mr. Cowley on the other hauled up the ropes with which the casket had been lowered.