Murder in Grub Street (34 page)

“Who is there?” demanded Sir John. “Is it you, Jeremy?”

“It is, yes,” said I. “But the hanged man, he is Isham Henry.”

“Ah, the printer. They must have hung him for a traitor — Brother Abraham thinking it easier to believe he had a Judas in his midst than that he himself might have been deceived.” Sir John turned in my direction, giving me his full attention. “Thank you, Jeremy. You were most helpful. Now leave.”

“But Sir John — “

“Leave.”

“This building — “

Before I could warn him, and before he could direct me once more out the door, another voice sounded a distance away that won our immediate attention.

“Sir John Fielding! Come forward!” It was the voice of Brother Abraham, I was sure.

Without a further word to me, Sir John began moving forward in the direction indicated by the sound of that voice. Mr. Bailey and I looked at each other — he in curiosity and I in alarm.

“What is that smell here?” I whispered.

“Lamp oil,” said Mr. Bailey. “Now go. You heard Sir John.”

Then he, like the loyal soldier he was, hied after his chief, who was just then turning left through an open door. It led, I was sure, into the hall of worship which had been converted from the large dining room of the place that previously occupied these premises.

These premises indeed! I was sure they would not last the night from the terrifying sounds I heard above me and all around me. As the wind buffeted, the house responded with groans and shrieks. Last the night? It seemed to me that the place might collapse on us at any minute. Could they not tell? Was Mr. Bailey deaf? I knew Sir John was not. Or perhaps it was that unless one had been in an earlier, like situation, then it would seem quite impossible that such a catastrophe might actually take place. How could one believe that the very roof was quite ready to cave in? Or the walls about to collapse? Ah, but that was the message I received from this poor house. I felt it incumbent upon me to transmit that message to Sir John.

He had told me that it was sometimes necessary to batter down even his defenses. I would batter them down. I went — still ever so quiet — to that door wherein Sir John and now Benjamin Bailey had disappeared. I stood quite uncertain at the entrance, flattened against the wall, wondering how I might convince the two of them to leave.

They had stopped at a point about halfway to the end of this long room. At its end, behind the pulpit, stood Brother Abraham, a burning torch in his hand.

“Come closer,” he called to them.

“No,” said Sir John, “this is quite close enough.”

“You do not trust me! A pity, yet the distrust is mutual. Tell your man to put away those pistols he has in his hands, or I shall plunge this torch down where I stand and set us all on fire. It is in my power. Revelation thirteen, thirteen: ‘And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men.’ “

At a sign from Sir John, Mr. Bailey tucked away his pistols.

“If I remember aright, the ‘he’ in that which you have just quoted is one of those great beasts which crowd the pages of that confusing book. Surely you do not cast yourself in such a role?”

“The great beasts play an important part in the prophecy. It is not a confusing book if you have the key, as I do.”

“Oh, no doubt you do. Yet I have not come to argue Scripture with you. I have come to persuade you to surrender.”

“To you? You old blind fool, the very boards on which you stand are soaked with …”

Brother Abraham’s last words were blotted by a great thumping from well above, the sound of scraping and falling. Perhaps part of the roof had given way, or perhaps a chimney had collapsed. Yet from the smell that rose all around, and from its identification by Mr. Bailey, I well knew with what the boards had been soaked.

“And where are the rest of the Brethren? They must also surrender.”

“Did you not understand? You are a dead man, as is your constable — as dead as your spy that we hanged but minutes before you arrived. He betrayed us, as the old woman also tried to do. All who oppose me will die and suffer eternal damnation. It is writ in the book so. I — and only I — have the key.”

“Neither of the two you named were my spies. You were not betrayed by Isham Henry, rather by your own self-conceit. You, sir, were the greater fool.”

“But … But think of the great havoc a conflagration will wreak on a night of great wind such as this!”

“If I am, as you say, a dead man, then there is nothing I can do to prevent it. I can but appeal to you one last time to surrender.”

“And I, one last time, reject your appeal, and I call down a curse from heaven upon you.”

“Mr. Bailey,” said Sir John in a tone of steady authority, “take out your pistol and shoot that man dead.”

Brother Abraham, who could scarce believe his ears, pitched down his torch, and a weak, steady flame began — hardly the inferno he seemed to have anticipated.

At the same time, there began a great ripping from above. I ran down the aisle to Sir John and Mr. Bailey. All manner of plaster and other debris rained down upon me. I grabbed at both of them, just as Mr. Bailey fired his pistol at Brother Abraham, who ran in panic for a door behind the pulpit to the right. The shot went awry.

“Come away, now!” I shouted. “The ceiling is collapsing!”

Brooking no argument, I took Sir John by the arm as all that was above began to fall in great chunks; the very walls trembled and then shook mightily. I dragged him bodily for the door. Mr. Bailey caught us up and grasped his other arm. Sir John’s legs pumped stoutly; he required only direction from us.

Then we were out of the big room, running past the corpse of Isham Henry, which swung wildly from its length of rope. His feet kicked at me as I passed; I pushed them away.

Thus we three emerged and ran well out into the street. Constables Kelly and Sheedy fell upon us, thumping us and pum-meling us as they shouted their congratulations upon our escape.

With a great final roar then, the walls collapsed. They fell inward for the most part, though the one nearest us, with the weight of the others upon it, seemed almost to disintegrate before our eyes, spewing wood and glass well out into the street so that we were all forced to fall back even further to the opposite curb.

Then came what seemed a silence — though it was not, for the wind still blew. Yet there was nothing of the building left to fall. It was but a great heap of wooden rubble. Then I became aware of a most peculiar sound. It was the sound of laughter. I looked to my right and found Sir John quite shaking with laughter. I feared that perhaps the poor man, overcome by the experience, had of a sudden become hysterical.

“What is it, sir?” I asked. “Are you well?”

“Oh, quite well,” said he, still chuckling most heartily. “I was thinking upon Brother Abraham.”

“He has escaped.”

“Oh, perhaps, though I doubt it. No, what struck me was that though the fellow may know his Scripture well, he is certainly no chemist. His expectations of lamp oil astound me.”

“It would not burn?”

“Oh, it would burn indeed. I take it you were there to see it light up.”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“But it burns slow and steady. That is its advantage. It burns all night. The poor fool did not know that. He had probably never been to a city before London that had streetlamps on its every corner and along each way. He must have looked upon them with wonder and said to himself, T can make a great fire with this.’ Well, he might have done so tonight had it been given time enough to catch. Now the house has collapsed upon it and snuffed out its beginning. You see no smoke, do you?”

“No, sir — dust but no smoke.”

“Even so, we must wake the Lord Mayor and tell him to send the pumpers in case it should flare up.” He paused, frowning. “But am I deceived, or is the wind not dying down?”

So it was indeed. What had roared now whispered. We now spoke in our normal voices where but minutes before it had been necessary to shout.

“Oh, Jeremy, Jeremy,” said Sir John, with a great shake of his head, “God save us from the evil deeds of such bumpkin preachers as Brother Abraham.”

Having said so, he lapsed for a moment into silence. Then he burst out laughing once more. At last, he managed to gain control of himself.

“Come to think upon it, he has.”

The end of Abraham Watt, otherwise known as Brother Abraham, proved to be somewhat anticlimactic. Having rushed out of Benjamin Bailey’s sight for fear that a shot from the constable’s second pistol might prove more accurate than the first, he ran to join a small party of his followers who stood near the rear entrance, praying in fear at the noise and shaking of the house in collapse. They sensed — nay, they saw — that the ceiling was coming down on top of them, yet they remained, as Brother Abraham had instructed them to do. For though their faith was in God, they knew Brother Abraham to be his prophet and obeyed his commands without question.

Seeing him appear even more fearful than they, the remaining Brethren were thrown into confusion. HE did not stop to exhort them. He did not even pause to instruct them to follow him to safety. He simply flew into them, pushing aside any who stood between him and the door. And when he reached it, he threw it open and fled. This inspired panic in them, as well, and they pushed, and squirmed, and fought to follow him out the door.

Constable Rumford, faced by this sudden exodus, counseled young Constable Cowley to hold fast, then shouted to the first from the collapsing house to stop and surrender. Yet Brother Abraham did not stop. Constable Rumford raised his pistol and shot. He, being a former soldier, knew only to shoot to kill, and kill him he did. It was a clean shot at close range, direct through the heart.

The effect upon the Brethren was immediate, and to Constable Rumford somewhat puzzling. Oh, indeed they stopped. Yet as he reloaded the pistol, he saw them milling aimlessly about their fallen leader. He had once, in battle, seen a cannonball decapitate a soldier where he stood; whereupon, the dead man’s trunk had wandered a few steps before it collapsed. Just so, said he, did they seem as they silently moved about without purpose.

All this was reported by Constable Rumford to Sir John when he and Constable Cowley marched their prisoners around to the front of the collapsed house. Yet by then, with the wind down and the wakened neighbors out gawking at the ruin, Sir John was faced with a new problem. Cries for help had been reported from deep inside the fallen structure. The poor and dispossessed had been locked inside their cellar quarters, presumably to burn or suffocate in the great fire that Brother Abraham had planned. The prisoners were put to work at digging them out. Only one was exempted from that work, and he because of the gunshot wound in his right shoulder — the man I had shot. Having been told what to do, they worked with great industry and released the poor folk in no time at all.

The pumping unit came with their great engine after an hour’s delay. They took it ill that they had been summoned with no fire in evidence. Sir John’s explanation did not much mollify their chief, yet he agreed that they should remain awhile and inspect for incipient fire danger. They did not stay long, however, and left in a dark temper.

We, too, eventually left this site of so much misery and deceit. Sir John left a single constable on guard — Mr. Jaggers, who had marched over with the few from Grub Street — and warned all those who had come to watch back into their houses. So it was that we came at last back to Bow Street and the end of this long night.

I know not how late he stayed up, nor how early he rose. I learned, however, that he had taken his place upon the bench that day and heard evidence against those of the Brethren who had survived the battle at Boyer’s — including, of course, him I had wounded.

The sad-eyed Brother Elijah, who had immediately surrendered, gave witness against his fellows in the matter of the murderous expedition against the Crabb household. He admitted having been there himself and allowed that he had struck a blow, yet was so sickened by what he had done and by the dying cries of the victims that he had vomited and thrown down his axe. Which, of course, explained how John Clayton had had it in his hand when he was apprehended. Brother Elijah had been severely punished for this and had been sent out with the murder gang to Boyer’s in order to prove himself. Tom Cranford gave testimony, as well as Mr. Boyer himself. And the prime mover in these horrible crimes — to which were added the murders of Moll Caulfield and Isham Henry—was named by Sir John as Abraham Watt, now deceased. All the prisoners were bound over for trial at Old Bailey and sent to Newgate — save for Brother Elijah, who was sent to the Fleet Prison.

All this I heard about, rather than witnessed, for by Sir John’s strict orders I was allowed to sleep the day through. When I stumbled down the stairs it was near dinnertime, and I was obliged by Mrs. Gredge to wait till then to be fed. Sir John appeared at dinner and gave me the events of his busy court session. Yet he seemed somewhat dissatisfied with matters as they stood. There was the problem of those who were taken prisoner by Constable Rumford as the house collapsed.

“Now, one of them we know took part in the action at Boyer’s,” said Sir John to me, “for you wounded him there. By the by, I would much rather you have nothing to do with firearms, Jeremy. I allowed you to brandish a pistol some time ago, which was a mistake. You still have in your possession the pistol passed to you by Mr. Nicholson, do you not? Please return it tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said I.

“But as for the remaining five, one or two at least must have taken part in the hanging of Isham Henry. That fellow, Brother Elijah, was quite explicit that none of the five had been involved in the earlier assault on the Crabb household. I know not how to separate the guilty from the bystanders in that matter, for none will give evidence against the rest. I have not charged any, but leave them in the strong room to reflect — either on trial for murder, or giving evidence and going free. That is what I offer them.”

“I see the problem, Sir John,” said I. “Could you talk to them and convince them that it is foolish to hold back?

“I have tried.” said he. “Yet they all talk the same and seek to confuse me in the same way. I fear that Brother Abraham lives still through them.”

“Could you put them with Brother Elijah? Perhaps he might persuade them.”

“Perhaps they might hang him.”

Thus we talked in the kitchen that evening, long past the time when Mrs. Gredge had Lade us goodnight and charged me not to forget my after-dinner duties.

At last he came to the matter that may have induced him to begin this conversation with me.

“We have something between us,” said he.

“Yes, sir.”

“You disobeyed me.”

“It’s true, sir.”

“I specifically told you to leave after you were kind enough to identify Isham Henry for me. Yet you did not leave, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“You did not depart the building and then reenter?”

“No, sir.”

“So in no way did you follow my instructions. Your first impulse was to disobey me, and you followed that impulse through to the end. Were you merely curious? What have you to say for yourself? “

In truth, I had no prepared answer for him, though I well knew this occasion would arise between us. Now that it had, all I could do was speak from my heart.

“Sir,” said I, “though I was curious and am always so in your handling of matters of the law, it was not that which prevented my leaving. When I helped Moll Caulfield from the collapse of that building which left her without a home, it was quite the most fearful experience of my life. I knew that I would always remember the groans and shrieks of the timbers that preceded their final coming apart. That night, last night, I heard those same dreadful sounds in that house of the Brethren of the Spirit. I tried to warn you that it would soon collapse, but I’m sure your mind was on what lay ahead. I felt that in this case only, I knew the danger better than you. And so I remained. I told myself that I would know when the final fall was near, and when that came I would run forward and pull you out, no matter how you resisted. And, Sir John, that is what I did. I did not interrupt you to plead you out of there. I did not intentionally listen — though I admit I heard all. I did but wait until I could wait no longer.” I paused, then added, “I was told — “

“Do you think you can — ” Then he paused. “No, proceed. I would have you say all you have to say.”

“I was told by that rabbi that I was to look after you, and he said a blessing on me to help me do that.”

He slammed the table with the palm of his hand. “I will not be looked after by a thirteen-year-old boy, nor a rabbi. You did insult not only to me but to Mr. Bailey, as well. I can look after myself, and in those instances when I cannot, Mr. Bailey will protect me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sat silent longer than I liked, his face quite inscrutable.

“You must not overreach yourself, Jeremy,” said he at last. “Remember your age. Respect it. Enjoy it — insofar as is possible. It is not proper for a boy of your years to join in the fray and discharge firearms, any more than it is that you decide which of my instructions are to be obeyed and which are not. Though you did not think it so, both Mr. Bailey and I were aware of the danger signaled by the loud creaking and groaning of the rotten timbers in that old house. I have, as you know, very keen hearing. Yet we proceeded. It was my decision that we do so. Mr. Bailey did not challenge it, though he could have. We took that risk together. It is our lot at times by the nature of our work to take such risks — Mr. Bailey, bless him, more often than I.

“However, since in both instances, the firing of the pistol and the disobedience of my instructions, your actions were well intended and had not bad results, I would be less than just if I did not overlook them.”

“Thank you, sir,” said I, most gratefully.

“In the future, for many years to come, remember my words, if you will: Do not overreach yourself. Make no rush into manhood.”

Then, having had his say, he clapped together his hands, signaling an end to it, and rose from the table.

“Remember your after-dinner duties for Mrs. Gredge, and do all else she has charged you to do. But I, Jeremy, will now go to bed, and I hope to sleep sound for many more hours than is usual with me. I am quite exhausted.”

Next day, late in the morning and following my release by Mrs. Gredge, I returned to Boyer’s in Grub Street to seek out Mr. Nicholson and return to him his dueling pistol. It is an awkward thing to go through the streets of London in daylight with a pistol in your hand, and so I tucked it deep into my coat pocket and over it put a linen handkerchief supplied to me by Mrs. Gredge in order to disguise the true contents of my pocket. Even so, I kept my hand thrust inside on the walk to Grub Street as a safeguard against “wipe-priggers” (one of a number of new terms I had picked up from Jimmie Bunkins).

I found Boyer’s establishment quite crowded with the curious. Word had circulated far and wide of the events of two nights past. There was even a broadsheet sold on the streets—“Grub Street Killers Caught in Ambuscade”—which had no doubt been dashed off by Ormond Neville and published quickly by Mr. Boyer. It had brought in their regular clients to exclaim and question, as well as many who had never before been in their shop. Many books were bought, a few stolen, but the increase in trade would more than compensate for the damage done in subduing the Brethren of the Spirit.

I squeezed through the many at the door, and seeing that Mr. Nicholson was not at the alcove desk behind which we had hid, found that same clerk who had brought Mr. Boyer to me. I asked for Nicholson.

“He is back in the print shop. What business have you with him?”

“I must return his pistol.”

“His pistol? Ho, I know you. You’re the one had that letter from Sir John Fielding started this entire affair. Now you wish to return Mr. Nicholson’s pistol. You must have been present during the great battle.”

“I was, yes,” said I most modestly.

“Tell me true, did he really shoot and wound one of those black-suited devils?

I fought the impulse to set him right with a boast. “Oh yes,” said I, “it was just as he said.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said he. “Imagine! Our Mr. Nicholson!” He shook his head, quite overcome. “Well, you may go back and find him yourself. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you — comrades in arms, so to speak.”

I thanked the fellow and passed through the door to the print shop and bindery. Boyer’s was near twice the size of the modest workshop at Crabb’s, and it hummed with industry and purpose. I found Mr. Nicholson inspecting a title page proof and greeted him in friendly manner. He, however, seemed somewhat embarrassed by my coming. He muttered his thanks, inquired after my health, and excused himself, complaining of the burden of work that had been heaped upon him. Perhaps he feared I might expose him if I remained longer than the moment he had allowed me.

A lesson, thought I, in human frailty. As I glanced back at him on my way out, I noted that he had tucked the pistol in his belt like some buccaneer from the Caribe. He would cut quite a figure so.

“Jeremy! Jeremy, boy!”

Hearing myself hailed, I turned and found an aproned Tom Cranford approaching. These were for him strange surroundings. I wondered at his presence here. He grabbed my hand and gave it a great squeeze. All his high spirits were returned.

“Come through the great battle well enough, did you?”

“Oh, well enough indeed.” Then, not wishing to seem intrusive, yet quite curious, I asked, “But Tom, may I inquire, what are you doing here at Boyer’s?”

“Why, I work here,” said he. “My first day it is. Mr. Boyer and I both gave testimony at Sir John’s court yesterday. And afterwards, I put it to him, I said, ‘Mr. Boyer, you’re down a journeyman, for that traitorous fellow Isham Henry has now gone on to his just deserts. I should like to apply for his position, for I am twice the man at setting type he ever was.’“

“And what did he say to that?”

“He says to me, ‘I like your manner, young man. I remember you applied at the same time as Henry, when Crabb’s was murdered out of business. I chose Henry because he was your senior— made journeyman five years before you, as I recall. Besides, you gave good testimony today.’ So Mr. Boyer tells me then to report to his master printer, Mr. Rees, in the morning — which is today.”