Murder in Grub Street (32 page)

Yet the two who had just reported insisted on discussing the matter further and yet further, each offering critiques of the other’s conduct, each with a question to Sir John as to some detail of that part of the plan which remained yet to be executed. Mr. Bilbo, too, joined in with a few questions of his own. Thus it continued until Sir John threw his hands up in exasperation and suggested that, the storm notwithstanding, all adjourn to the modest but respectable eating house, Shakespeare’s Head, which was nearby. The rule being, however, that the plan, which was now under way, could not be discussed once they left the premises of Number 4 Bow Street. All agreed, and so together they left.

The general invitation that was issued, however, did not extend to Jimmie Bunkins and myself. Perhaps Sir John felt that, while respectable by the standards of these men of the town, Shakespeare’s Head, popular with the Covent Garden crowd, was in no wise suitable for boys of our years. In my case, he would indeed have been correct. With regard to Bunkins, however, he had greatly underestimated the degree of experience of the wrong sort the latter had crowded into his thirteen or fourteen years (he was ever unsure of his true age).

In any case, as they made for the door, Sir John took me aside and whispered to me that I was to take my young friend up to our kitchen and feed him.

I was glad to have the chance to talk to him alone, as I was most curious to know what had transpired during those hours after he had disappeared, trussed up like a live pig on Mr. Bailey’s shoulder.

So I brought him along up the stairs into the kitchen, happy to find it empty. A candle burned on the table still, so Mrs. Gredge could not be long gone. Finding bread and beef, I cut him a slice of each. I found the teapot had still a cup of cold tea in it. As I poured it for Bunkins, he looked upon it somewhat disdainfully.

“No beer?” he asked.

“No,” said I. “Sir John will drink a bottle after court. It is brought to him each day.” I then added priggishly: “Besides, it will do you no good to drink such stuff.”

“Black Jack gave me beer. He’s a grand fellow, is Black Jack.”

Jimmie Bunkins said nothing more for a minute or two as he tore away in canine fashion at the bread and beef. He washed it down a bit reluctantly with a swallow of the tea I had put before him. Then he gave me what he meant to be a hard look.

“You turned snitch on me,” said he accusingly.

“What did you expect?” I asked, most indignant. “You boasted that you would set a fire, said you cared not if innocents were burned in it, so long as you had your revenge. Of course I told Sir John of it, and would do so again if the circumstances were the same. He is my master. I owe him my first loyalty and always shall.”

He listened to this, chewing on, and ruminated further once I had stopped, as if giving the matter weighty consideration.

“That’s as Black Jack put it to me,” said he at last. Then he winked reassuringly. “All’s good between us. You done right.”

“Mr. Bilbo seems to have given you wise counsel.”

“He said my trouble ” — pointing at himself— “was that I had no cove to tell me what to do, to make me toe the line. He said if I kept on the knuckle I’d wind up in Duncan Campbell’s Floating Academy, or more likely at Tuck em Fair. Which is what I myself knowed but always made not to.”

(The first reference here in his curious flash-boy talk was to the hulk which was permanently moored in the Thames and served as a prison for long-term convicts; and “Tuck ‘em Fair” was Tyburn Hill, where public hangings took place.)

“The last I saw, you were riding on Mr. Bailey’s shoulder. What was it happened?”

And so Bunkins began the tale of his redemption, or its beginning, at the hands of one who was said to have been formerly a pirate. Mr. Bailey and Mr. Bilbo had come to a parting just beyond the churchyard gate. The load, which was Jimmie Bunkins, was transferred from one strong set of shoulders to another. Mr. Bilbo conveyed him by means of hackney carriage to his recently acquired residence on St. James Street. (I knew it well; it had been the home of Lord Richard Goodhope.) He had just taken possession, and the place was quite bare but for a few pieces of furniture Black Jack had filched from his gaming establishment. He dumped Bunkins in a chair, untied him, and took the handkerchief from his mouth. Then he began to lecture him.

The fact that the only piece of furniture in the room was the one in which Bunkins sat allowed Mr. Bilbo to roam free around him and, incidentally, to bar his avenue of escape. Yet it soon was apparent that Bunkins had no intention of “scampering,” as he put it, for he was in awe of the man, his reputation, and the fact that the lecture that was delivered was given in no small part in “flash.” Mr. Bilbo knew the cant which was Bunkins’s native tongue. Bunkins may well have heard the content from others (including, briefly, from Sir John himself)* yet he had never heard the sermon preached to him in the language of Covent Garden. Besides, was this not one who was rumored to have made his stake at thieving on the high seas? Did he not show a fierce, even frightening presence as he rolled about the empty room on his short, strong legs? Did he not command attention when he thrust his dark, bearded face close to Bunkins’s own and predicted the boy’s future, rotting in prison or jerking at the end of a rope on the gallows tree?

“Yet,” Black Jack Bilbo told him, “there is hope for you. You’ve a talent for survival. I’ll give you that, for to have lived even to your young years, you’ve shown considerable enterprise. You know naught of the world beyond Covent Garden, I’ll wager, but that can be remedied. I was your age myself before I learned to read and do sums. I’ll take a chance on you, Jimmie Bunkins. I’ll offer you a job right here and in my gaming establishment. What say you to that?”

Bunkins had never in his life been offered a job before. What he had seen of the world of work did not much attract him. Yet to work for such a man as this …

“What shall I do in this job?” he asked.

“Do? You will do whatever I tell you to do. I’ll be your master, your cove. If I tell you to give up thievin’, as I certainly shall, then you will give it up — no more on the scamp! If I tell you to deliver a hundred guineas to a gentleman, you will do so and not short him by one. If I tell you to learn to read, by God, you will learn to read. I’ll be a damn good cove to you, and if I ain’t, you may tell me so, and I shall listen. Your pay will be what I think you’re worth. Bed and board will be included. So what say you? Yea or nay?”

Jimmie Bunkins said yea. He took the big hand that was offered him and shook it awkwardly. A bath came later and a plain suit of clothes and a proper hat that was brought to him afterwards by Nancy Plummer, one of the hostesses from the gaming club. He’d done wipe prigging with her in the old days in the Garden and was quite happy to hear her good report on the cove. Truth to tell, he was happier than he had ever been in his thirteen or fourteen years.

And this he admitted to me in our kitchen when he had finished the beef and bread I had given him and sipped the last of the cold tea. At my suggestion then, we descended the stairs to await the return of Sir John and his party. And as we waited, we watched in fascination as the Bow Street Runners returned dripping wet, singly and in pairs, from their first round of the night on the streets. Thus the evening would begin as any other. Yet upon their return to Bow Street each was armed by Mr. Baker — a brace of pistols, a packet of powder and ball, and a cutlass. Then they departed, singly and in pairs, for Grub Street. They would take the back streets and avoid, insofar as possible, being seen by whatever souls were out on such a night, braving the storm. In this way, the Boyer establishment would be fortified most inconspicuously.

Sir John then returned with the others, grumbling mightily that he could not keep Mr. Boyer and Dr. Johnson from bladdering on in the eating house about the coming maneuver. Yet he seemed pleased to learn that all else was going according to plan.

“Has the Raker been notified?” he asked Mr. Baker.

“He has, sir.”

“How many have come through and gone off to Grub Street?”

“Ten, sir. They should all be on their way in a few minutes’ time.”

“Jeremy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You will be going with us in Mr. Boyer’s coach. And Master Bunkins?”

“Yes, guv — uh, yes, sir?”

“I have a special duty in mind for you. I understand that you are specially known for your fleetness of foot.”

And so we sat in the Goose and Gander, waiting for Jimmie Bunkins to appear. He had been placed at the junction of Maiden Lane and Half Moon Passage in a doorway, where he had a proper view of the house of the Brethren of the Spirit. It was his duty to keep a sharp eye on its entrance. Should they move out in number, or even in twos and threes, he was to take an estimate of their strength, pull away undetected, and then run as fast as he could, using his knowledge of the back streets and byways, and inform those waiting in Grub Street that the black-suited Brethren were on their way.

This, Sir John reasoned, would give the Runners who had hidden themselves at various points throughout the Boyer establishment a few minutes’ notice—yet an important few minutes they would be. The Runners would settle down in an attitude of silent waiting; and by the time their quarry arrived, the ambuscade would be set, and the trap would be sprung.

And still we waited.

I, who was youngest, believed I had the sharpest ears, and so I shut my eyes and concentrated on the manifold sounds of that stormy night — the rain, the wind, the rattling of the door, the measured breathing of those of us at the table.

Then said Sir John of a sudden: “I hear the boy now. He is coming.”

And but a moment later I heard him myself—a steady beating upon the cobblestones. It was Jimmie Bunkins — indeed it had to be — running at full speed.

I jumped up and made for the door. The others were on their feet.

There was a great bar of wood across the frame of it. I tugged at it hard. It would not at first budge, and I was about to call for help when at last it gave and slid from its housing. The door came open.

I leaped out into the street and saw Jimmie Bunkins, now not three rods away coming directly at me. Not daring to cry out, I waved him inside the Goose and Gander. He seemed not to see me, so intent was he on pumping his legs to the limit of his strength. I put out both arms that he might see me better and braced myself for a collision. Then I was seen. He did what he could to slow himself, yet like a launched projectile he had not control. The collision came, though it was not so great as it might have been. I leaned forward to take the impact, threw my arms about him, and staggered back with him a full five steps. I was immediately aware of his breathing, which struck me as most unnatural. It came in great, heaving sobs. I had not heard such tortured inhale and exhale since my mother breathed her last with typhus.

Mr. Bilbo was there. He separated us and carried Bunkins inside, whispering to him how well he’d done, how proud he was of him. I followed them inside quickly, pushing the door shut after me. Bunkins was on the floor, vomiting up the beef and bread I’d given him. Sir John reproached himself, saying he’d asked too much of the boy. Dr. Johnson and Mr. Boyer stood in the dim light of the bar lamp, looking on with great concern. Mr. Bilbo had a hand on the boy’s chest.

“He’ll be right soon,” said he. “His heart is beginning to slow a bit.”

“But we must — ” began Sir John.

Then he stopped, for Bunkins was attempting to speak. What he said came out in a near inaudible whisper. But Mr. Bilbo’s ear was close. He listened, nodding, waiting for the next whispered phrase, then touched the boy’s lips lightly with his fingers to silence him.

“He says there were many, yet they left in twos, so he had to wait to get a fair count, which was over ten. They were still coming when he left.”

“Jeremy — ” said Sir John, yet again he was interrupted.

The unbolted door of the Goose and Gander flew open quite without warning. I looked up in terror, half expecting to see one of the Brethren there, his axe poised above his head. Yet it was not.

The figure in the doorway took a few uncertain steps forward. And as he came, he shouted loud and belligerently.

“Innkeeper! Where are you? I am drunk and wish to get drunker!”

To my astonishment, I recognized the uninvited guest as Ormond Neville, poet and historian of the day-to-day.

“Why is it so fucking dark? And who are these men? Innkeeper!” He roared out the last so strong I feared he would be heard all the way to Bow Street.

“Silence him!” Sir John hissed it in an urgent whisper.

Dr. Johnson grabbed the unfortunate poet and grappled with him, which only brought forth more loud shouts. Then Black Jack Bilbo rose up from his place with Bunkins and put an end to the noise with a clout on Mr. Neville’s jaw which knocked him senseless.

“Pray God,” said Sir John, “that the Brethren were not so close that they heard. Now, Jeremy, you must go and tell the Runners they are on their way in force and could arrive at any minute. Go, boy, now!

I slipped from the Goose and Gander, looking up and down the street to be certain there were none of the men in black at either end. Then, moving close along the buildings between, I made swiftly for Boyer’s. The rain had all but stopped—yet how the wind blew! Surely it would have covered over Mr. Neville’s cries.

I had not been told whether I should go to the back or front. I know not why, but when I came to the walkway which ran the length of the publisher’s building, I ducked down it, moving to the rear. As I came close to the end of the structure, a noise caught my ear, then another and another. I heard the clank of metal, the slip of a foot, a grunt. These were not noises from inside the house, but from just ahead of me — perhaps in the mews behind it, or in the plot at the rear. The Brethren were already here!

I had come soft, and I left softer, hastening on tiptoes to the front door. I tapped quiet but insistent upon the window, caught movement through it, and a moment later the door to Boyer’s came open a bit and a firm hand dragged me inside. I recognized the man as Mr. Nicholson, Mr. Boyer’s young partner, as he had been pointed out to me at the court appearance of John Clayton. Mr. Bailey stood behind him.