Murder in Grub Street (33 page)

“They are here!” I whispered. “In the rear, perhaps yet in the mews.”

Without a word, Mr. Bailey turned and gestured to others invisible to me. Then he himself faded away, all six and a half feet of him, and I was left alone with Mr. Nicholson.

“Come,” said he in a whisper, “we must disappear.”

He led me swiftly to an alcove in the back of the bookshop, which was all but filled by a good-sized desk. He put us behind it in a squat, then eased the bottom drawer open and from it took two dueling pistols of a small caliber. Handing me one, he put his pointing finger to his lips, urging me quite unnecessarily to silence.

We waited. We listened.

There had been some brief discussion at Bow Street as to the placement of the Runners within the Boyer house. Mr. Bailey had favored challenging the Brethren upon the ground floor, the moment they were all inside. Yet Sir John insisted that they allow them to the upper floors that they might prove their murderous intent. “You’ll have them trapped upon the stairs,” he had said.

“That way, if there must be a Fight, it will be waged under better circumstances.”

Quite naturally, Sir John prevailed. And Mr. Nicholson had seen to the stationing of the Runners in the vacated bedrooms — the entire household had been moved to a lodging house some distance away for the night. There was a large common room, which also served for dining, as well as a kitchen, on the floor directly above. And above that were the bedrooms of the Boyer family—Mr. and Mrs. and the two unmarried daughters. And at the very top were the quarters kept for the apprentices and the Boy-ers’ two female servants. (Mr. Nicholson, as well as a master printer and three journeymen, lived off the premises.) The plan called for the largest parts of the force to be placed at the top and bottom of the stairs, thereby forcing the Brethren downward, and at the same time denying them the possibility of escape.

There were six Runners sequestered around us at various points on the ground floor, including Mr. Bailey. All were so well hid I had no idea of their whereabouts.

It did not take long before we were aware of the Brethren inside. The wind made a cold sweep through the premises as the door in the back remained open long enough for a considerable party to file in. Then it must have closed, for the draft ceased, and I was aware of the slightest footfalls approaching. They moved as silent as ever grown men in boots could move. There must have been a dozen who ascended the stairs. One, if I was not mistaken, remained here below. They seemed to know the design of the house well, for they moved quickly beyond the floor directly above to the bedroom floors. Isham Henry had done his traitorous work well. Not only had he provided a key to the rear door, he had also acquainted his fellows with the exact positioning of their putative victims.

Moving slowly and silently as they did — there were but a few creaks upon the stairs — it seemed to take an eternity for them to reach their assigned locations. Then it seemed that for an equally long time, there was nothing but the purest, most absolute silence, broken only by the rattling of the door by the wind. I could bare hear my own self breathe. Then the silence was broken, not by the sound of doors banging open, nor shouts, nor shots, but rather, the steady voice of Benjamin Bailey.

“You have the chance to surrender,” called he in a tone of command that resounded through the house. “Resist and no quarter will be given.”

But drowning out Mr. Bailey’s last few words, another voice: “We have been betrayed!”

I popped up from my hiding place behind the desk just in time to see in the dim light that one of the Brethren had raised his axe to Mr. Bailey and was advancing upon him. The constable shot him dead. The man in black fell not ten feet from where I watched.

Then, as if by that signal, shots rang throughout the house — from high above and not so high above. There were thuds. There was scrambling on the stairs. Now there were shouts aplenty above us.

I felt myself being pulled down by Mr. Nicholson.

“Get down, boy! Do you wish to be killed by a stray ball?”

Then there was a great stampede above our heads, and a call for help from one of the Runners: “They’re makin’ a stand in the big room!”

“Come along, lads!” shouted Mr. Bailey. “Up we go!”

And he led the way up the stairs, every inch the sergeant major he once was, and his constables followed, pistols drawn, brandishing cutlasses.

All this I witnessed, peeking above the desk. Yet seeing them go, I realized something was amiss. The way of escape was no longer barred. I squeezed out from behind the desk.

“Where are you going?” shouted Mr. Nicholson, right petulant.

“To protect the door,” said I.

Yet at the moment I pulled back the hammer of that pistol in my hand, hoping it was loaded, hoping I would not have to try it to find out, that very door I sought to defend was thrown open wide and Black Jack Bilbo came rushing in.

“Where is the fight?” he yelled at me.

The commotion above answered him. He looked up wild-eyed, quite frightening in appearance.

“I must have a weapon!”

I pointed to the fallen Brother on the floor. His axe lay half beneath him. Black Jack grabbed it up and turned to the stairs. But at that moment two figures of even more frightening aspect crashed down them — black clothing torn, blood dripping from face and hands. Somehow they had got through. One carried an axe, and one did not.

Black Jack went for the armed man, who threw his axe about him so strong and with such skill that he near tore the weapon from the hands of the former pirate when first they clashed.

The unarmed man gave them a wide berth, which brought him in my direction.

“Stop!” I yelled. “I’ll shoot!”

Yet he was past me before I had the pistol up and aimed proper. Just as he pulled open the door, I saw my shot and took it. Smoke billowed so from the barrel when I fired that my target was for a moment quite invisible to me. When the smoke cleared but a moment later, I saw that he was gone. I had missed.

“You hit him, young man, you did!” crowed Mr. Nicholson with great enthusiasm, standing to his full height behind the desk where we had hid. “I saw him stagger and clutch at his shoulder. Well done, young sir!”

“Yet still he escaped,” said I, disheartened. “Sir, may I borrow your pistol?”

“Indeed you may — and I shall load the one you have just discharged. Here — “

We exchanged pistols, and I went to find Mr. Bilbo. He, it seemed, had proved an apt pupil at axe-dueling, for far in the rear of the print shop I found the two of them; the man in black was disarmed and cowering.

Then came Mr. Bailey down the stairs, announcing a great victory.

Sir John, as it proved out, was not so sure of that. One had got away. He would go straight to Half Moon Passage, and warn the others, he said.

“But Jeremy put a wound in him,” said Mr. Bailey, “or so says Mr. Nicholson. The fellow may not have made it back home.”

“Then again,” said Sir John, “he may have. Let us quickly be on our way.”

In short order, Mr. Boyer’s coach was brought round. In effect, Sir John commandeered it, for he persuaded the publisher to remain and survey the damage done to his establishment, while giving to them the use of the coach. It was given hard use indeed, for into and onto that vehicle of modest size was crammed and piled a whole squad of constables, as well as Sir John, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Bilbo, Jimmie Bunkins, and myself. The horses could barely pull the load when we started out.

It was lightened somewhat when, along the way, we chanced upon a hackney carriage for hire, surely the only one in London at this late hour on this stormy night. Sir John banged on the roof of the coach and ordered the driver to stop. Then, quite peremptorily, he ordered Dr. Johnson, Mr. Bilbo, and Bunkins out and into the hackney.

Dr. Johnson offered no objection, saying with a sigh that he had heard enough gunfire and seen enough dead men to last him a lifetime. He wanted no more of it. He climbed down.

Mr. Bilbo, however, objected mightily, on the grounds that they were not near enough along to take the Brethren by storm, which would be necessary if they had lost the advantage of surprise.

“You need me, Sir John,” said he. “I have experience along these lines.”

“Whatever your former qualifications, Mr. Bilbo, you are now one of the populace and are to be protected by such as us. You angered me greatly when you rushed into Boyer’s to do battle. You are impetuous, sir.”

“It is my nature.”

“Furthermore,” added the magistrate, “we need only block the departure of the Brethren and wait for the full of our force. Go now. The boy is still half ill from the task I gave him. Look to your responsibilities, and I shall see to mine.”

And having thus spoken, Sir John turned from him, indicating there was no more to be said.

Reluctantly, Mr. Bilbo then climbed down, took Jimmie Bunkins in his arms, and over the latter’s protestations, carried him to the waiting hackney.

Sir John then struck the roof with his stick and bade the driver move on.

“Is that the plan, sir,” asked Benjamin Bailey beside me, “to hold them inside until the lads come to help?”

“It will do as well as any.”

And that was the last that was said until the end of the journey.

Still the wind blew, in tones that ranged wide from the guttural to a high scream. It was as if some passage to hell had been opened and we were made to hear a great chorus of the damned. As we passed a burning streetlamp, I caught the eye of Constable Rumford, like Mr. Bailey a veteran of the French war. He gave me a nod which I’m sure he meant to be reassuring, though the expression of concern on his face made it less so than it might have been.

I, too, was apprehensive of what lay ahead, though not quite fearful. I took heart that I had behaved well in the fray just past. What had moved me to take part I cannot say — necessity, the excitement of the moment, the wish to behave as a man, probably all three. I had shot at a fellow human being with no more thought than to stop him. And though I had not stopped him, I was greatly glad I had not killed him. That would have been more than my young conscience could bear.

Near all the prisoners were wounded — all but one. He had thrown down his axe and thrown up his hands at first command. When he was pointed out to me, I recognized him as the small, sad-eyed fellow who had answered the door at our last nocturnal visit to the Brethren of the Spirit. Sir John, acting on some intuition, had instructed that he be kept apart from the five other prisoners.

They had suffered six dead, and we, two wounded. The wounds given by those sharp axes, however, were so fierce that they required the immediate attention of a surgeon who lived not far distant. It seemed likely that Constable Perkins might lose his arm at the elbow.

And so, with our wounded, one who accompanied them to the surgeon, another who would remain behind to help the Raker reap his harvest, and the three who would march the prisoners to Bow Street, it was evident that even when reinforcements arrived, we would not be reinforced by many — hence, Constable Rum-ford’s concern and my apprehension.

On Maiden Lane right near the burned-out synagogue, Sir John spoke up: “We must be close.”

Mr. Bailey instructed him as to our location.

At which Sir John banged a final time upon the roof of the coach and called for the driver to stop.

“We shall go the rest of the way on foot.”

In no more than a few moments, our little troop was assembled on the cobblestones, as the coach drove off into the night. Sir John was forced to talk loud over the wind as he gave instructions: “Two to the rear, two to the front. Don’t hesitate to shoot any who seek exit, though you must shout a warning first. Pistols loaded?”

There was a general affirmative.

“Then let us proceed. Mr. Bailey, set me in the right direction.”

He seemed to have quite forgotten about me. Though I had said not a word and had sat apart from him in the coach, I was sure he had been aware of my presence. Could he smell me? Did my breathing come in a different rhythm from others’? In any case, I did nothing to call attention to myself as we made our way to Half Moon Passage. I trailed the rest.

We came in short order to the hostel of the Brethren of the Spirit. There I spied what surprised and confused me no little. The front door of the place stood open. It seemed a bad sign. When he was informed by Mr. Bailey, Sir John thought it so, too. We gathered around him before the entrance.

“I like not the look of this,” said he, attempting to talk quiet. “Divide back and front as I directed, but I fear Mr. Bailey and I must enter to determine whether anyone is left inside.”

And so they proceeded. Sir John and Mr. Bailey delayed until such time as the two men sent to the rear might have taken up their places; then they went forward. I followed on tiptoe. Having not been told, specifically, to remain behind, I had chosen to accompany them, if somewhat surreptitiously. When I saw Mr. Bailey draw his pistol, I reached into my pocket and grasped the butt of mine — or Mr. Nicholson’s, which remained loaded and in my possession.

I stepped past the doorstep and was immediately aware of things not right. There was, first of all, a strange smell pervading the place. Secondly, I was aware of an awful creaking and cracking within the building as it was jostled and pounded by the wind. It reminded me ominously of the sounds that issued from Moll Caulfield’s ancient court building in St. Martin’s Lane just before its collapse. Finally, I saw a most peculiar sight illuminated by a candle, as if to call attention to it. A pair of legs swung from above, the shoed feet near touching Sir John’s shoulder as he turned this way and that in confusion. The rest of the body was invisible to me. But I approached cautiously in morbid curiosity, never before having seen a hanged man.

“No, sir, I don’t know him,” Mr. Bailey was saying. “I don’t know any of them, except for their black clothes.”

I stepped up beside Mr. Bailey and gazed up at the corpse. The face was hideous — quite distorted, with a darkened tongue drooping from the mouth. Yet I recognized him.