Murder in Grub Street (7 page)

“Prove it then!” cried Sir John harshly. The room had gone most deathly silent but for his voice. “Multiple murder has been committed in a house not far from here. You were the sole survivor. How came you to survive? It has been given that you were found with the murder weapon in your hand. How came you by it? Did you murder those six in their beds? If not, deny it. Tell your story, man.”

“Sir, since you perversely insist upon addressing me as if I were John Clayton, I shall speak for him, if I be allowed. John Clayton is a gentle soul. He has his faults like any other, yet I have known him to weep at the murder of birds by hunters in the field. Such a man as he could never commit the horrible crime you describe. You have my word upon it.”

“And you, Eusebius, could you do such deeds?”

A laugh escaped the witness then, one doubtless inspired by anxiety, yet full-throated, almost merry in manner. “I, sir?” said he, having at last calmed himself. “Oh, indeed not. Eusebius speaks with the voice of pure reason. The taking of another’s life is the most unreasonable of acts. Therefore, it is proven: Eusebius is incapable of it. That, sir, is a syllogism — a proof of reason! Quod erat demonstrandum. “

“Indeed,” said Sir John, “and what about the fellow I met last night — Petrus by name?”

At that, the man who called himself Eusebius stood quite still, frozen as it were in an attitude of deep consideration. “Petrus I know not so well,” said he. “In truth, he troubles me. He obeys not the rule of reason but that of the passions only. He lacks John Clayton’s sweet nature, though I cannot believe he would behave in so violent a manner, unless …”

“Yes? Continue. Unless … ?”

“Unless he was greatly provoked.”

“In what way?”

“I cannot say. He has never been thus provoked.”

“But am I to believe then that you know nothing of the activities of your friend Petrus during the night just past?”

“He is not my friend!” This objection he made most strenuously. And then in a manner that seemed timorous by comparison to the bold way he had spouted his idiocies and impertinences, he added this: “No, sir, I regret to say I know nothing of Petrus and his doings.”

Sir John nodded and gave thought to his next words. I noted then, as I had not before, that drops of perspiration stood out on his florid face. With the crowd of people inside that big room, it had become a bit close; yet he had not exerted himself physically, and so I could only suppose that it was the strain of this moment that had brought him to this condition.

“Mr. Clayton, Eusebius, or however you wish to call yourself,” said he, “I have borne with you long enough. Since you are unable to answer the questions put to you by me and you give every symptom of madness, as I understand them, I have no choice but to remand you to the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem until — “

A sudden murmur arose from those around me — whisperings of “Bedlam … Bedlam!” I had heard of that place.

Sir John slammed down his open palm and called for silence. “I T ntil, ” he then repeated, “when, and if you are capable of responding reasonably. And if, sir, you are shamming, then a stay in that godforsaken place will persuade you, as nothing else can, to cooperate in this inquiry.”

There was a terrible to-do among the spectators following Sir John’s pronouncement. They had come, the gentry no less than those of the lower orders, to see the “mad poet” sped on his way to the gallows. And they had then been disappointed. It took the exertions of Constable Cowley to clear the courtroom.

As Sir John disappeared into his chambers, followed (as was usual) by Mr. Marsden, I chanced to cross the path of Dr. Samuel Johnson. The lexicographer was making his way toward the door, one of the last to leave because one of the first to arrive.

“Well, boy,” said he to me, “what did you think of that?”

“In truth, sir, I know not what to think,” said I.

“Your master was very brave to conduct this matter as he did. He will receive censure for it, no doubt, most especially for his decision not to bind that poor fellow for trial, but he did right. Indeed, he did right. That man Clayton is quite mad.”

“I have never seen such,” said I.

“Nor have I.” He moved away. “Good day to you, and give my commendation to Sir John.”

Thus he departed, leaving me to dawdle. There was no call for me to report to the magistrate’s chambers, no need for me to search out Mr. Marsden to volunteer my services, since he had taken counsel with Sir John and would not be found at his usual desk in the space beyond the strong room. There was but one place for me to go, and that was up the stairs to present myself for duty to Airs. Gredge. There might still, at this late hour, be pots to wash. There would surely be floors to scrub — though I hoped not to be assigned the stairs, a remarkable hard task even for one with the energy of a thirteen-year-old boy.

And so up I went, dragging a bit for want of sleep, I opened the door to the kitchen and called out in a quiet voice, announcing my presence. Receiving no answer, I assumed she must be off to do her buying for dinner. I sat down at the rough old kitchen table to wait for her return — and promptly fell deep into the arms of Morpheus.

My dreams were troubled and, in the way of dreams, utterly confounding. I cannot, at this distance in time, give a true sumMa rder ia Grub Street A 7

mary of them, but I do recall that the setting was, for the most part, the village print shop in which my poor, dead father labored so hard to make a success of his cautious venture into commerce. He was there, of course, overseeing my efforts at typesetting, yet so also was Sir John in the rarest sort of guise — or how can that be put more clear?—in a sort of metamorphosis. In one instance, I looked up from the type stand, and there was Sir John, looking with sober approval upon my work. But then he did what I had never seen him do: he reached under his tricorn and untied the black ribbon which covered his blind eyes. As the mask fell, his face became my father’s. While this seemed curious, it was not frightening. Yet I was frightened by what followed: The Raker appeared and, with another whose back was always to me, began hauling, one after another, a parade of the dead from the upstairs living quarters I had shared with my father. It was just as he had done in the Crabb house, though he made no jests and gave no leering smiles; and the unwrapped dead were not the same. The body of my mother and little brother, who perished of typhus in Lichfield, were first. They were followed by the wasted corpus of Lady Fielding, who had died of a tumor but weeks before. As she passed, I felt Sir John at my side and looked up to find him with his proper face, silk band in place and copious tears flowing from beneath it. Finally, carried between the Raker and his unknown helper, came the body of my father. His face was, as I had last seen it, half covered with ordure from his pelting in the stocks; yet it was he, unmistakably, and he was unmistakably dead. As he passed, I looked up at Sir John as he looked down at me, and then he placed his hand upon my shoulder. Strangely then, he began to shake it most briskly.

And I came reluctantly awake, with the hand of Mrs. Gredge on my shoulder where I had dreamed Sir John’s to be. I was greatly relieved to be returned to the land of the living. So relieved, in fact, that I minded not Mrs. Gredge s screeching exhortation to be up and about and help her in the preparation of dinner. There were potatoes aplenty for me to peel and carrots to chop, as Sir John liked them.

As it happened, Mrs. Gredge herself had been asleep most of the afternoon. She made no secret of it, complaining to me of the weariness she had felt of late. In truth the woman, who was then near seventy years of age, had quite exhausted herself in caring for Lady Fielding during the latter’s debilitating and protracted illness. I wonder, looking back, how she had managed it, along with her regular duties as housekeeper and cook.

“I shall be sorry to see you go,” said she to me. (Yet she said it in such a grudging manner that I near doubted her words.)

“I fear I have not been as much help to you as I might.”

“More than you know,” said she. “These old bones don’t move around as they once did. Once down on the floor for a fair scrub, I doubt at times I shall ever be able to rise again. If for no more than that, I shall miss you, Jeremy. You’re a good scrubber.”

I thanked her kindly, then called her attention to the fact that my departure had been somewhat delayed by the death of Ezekiel Crabb. I knew full well that the good woman paid no attention whatever to what went on in the court below, and even less to talk circulated on the streets of the city outside.

“Yes,” said she. “Sir John told me of the death of him you had apprenticed to. Pity, I suppose.”

And that was all she had to say about that.

The preparation of dinner proceeded apace. Sir John arrived and chose to take his meal with us, as had lately become his custom. He had little to say during the meal; none of it pertained to the events of the afternoon or the night before. Upon finishing, he congratulated Mrs. Gredge on her preparation of the chop he had just downed right quickly. Then he rose and announced he was early for bed that night and made his way toward the steps to the upper floors. Yet he lingered there, as if struck by a thought.

“Jeremy,” said he, “I have something to discuss with you.”

“Yes, Sir John,” said I, jumping to my feet, ready to follow.

“Yet let it wait a bit. Wash up for Mrs. Gredge. Do what she needs of you, then come to me in my study.”

“As you will, sir.”

With that, he left us, and I began clearing the table, eager to be done with my tasks so that I might get on to my appointment with Sir John.

“Mind now,” spoke Mrs. Gredge from her place at the table, “not so fast. I’ll not have none of those dishes broke.”

With her cautions, water to heat, and pans to wash, it was near half an hour before I was excused to climb the stairs to the smallish room that served Sir John for a study. The door was open, but the room was unlit. He sat in the dark, as he always did when alone, for what should it matter to a blind man whether it be dark or light?

I knocked lightly upon the door.

“Jeremy? Come in, boy, come in.”

I entered, and without much difficulty found the chair set opposite him, with his desk the barrier between us.

“Would you like some light? There is a candle by you, I believe.”

“No, sir. I’m quite all right.”

“What did you draw from that grotesque display in the courtroom today?”

“I was shocked,” said I, “for I have never seen a man in such a state.”

“I should never have let him go on so long,” said he. “But I thought perhaps in this new guise he would have something to say — anything!—in his own defense.”

“Dr. Johnson spoke to me as he left,” said I. “He said that you were brave to conduct the matter as you did and could only have sent John Clayton away. He asked me to give to you his commendation.”

“He did, did he? Well, I shall remember that when the stones and arrows begin to fly my way. My threats did, in any case, force the delivery of the murder weapon. Albert Burnley brought it in shortly before I left my chambers. He also delivered the apologies oi Rum Ben Tobin for the trouble he had caused.”

Sir John spoke not a word then for quite some time. I could just make out his form from the dim light that entered through the window. Yet it was his form only that I saw, for the features of his face and their expression were quite hidden from me.

“It was not, however, to discuss this afternoon’s proceedings that I called you here, Jeremy,” said he at last. “You may have expected something to be discussed in that meeting this morning which was not discussed.”

“The meeting with Dr. Johnson? Well… .”

“Not more than two weeks ago, when we talked about your future, you expressed the strong desire to remain here in my household. Do you still feel so?

“Oh yes, sir, I do!” All my heart was in that answer.

“Two weeks ago, it seemed to me that the right path—the only path — for you to follow was the one you had started on before you came to London. It seemed to me that you were made for the printing trade, for publishing — and what brighter future could a boy with your intelligence and skill with words hope for? I only wanted what was best for you. Please believe that, Jeremy. But it was, perhaps, presumptuous of me to take it upon myself to decide the future of another. That was brought to me in the events of last night. There was, first of all, the awful probability that had you left us for your apprenticeship even a day earlier, you would have been counted the seventh victim in that great killing that took place in the Crabb house. I am not, by even a generous standard, a religious man, but when an omen is given to me I am humble enough to accept it as such.

“Having accepted it,” he continued, “I began to reconsider. Among the matters that pertained in this reconsideration was your great help in the Goodhope inquiry: You did everything I asked and then exceeded that. You learned quickly. You showed bravery when the situation demanded it. And indeed you showed courage again last night in driving away those two footpads with your pistol, when I, in my vanity, thought us immune from attack. All this I took into consideration, as I did also your good nature, your helpfulness to Mrs. Gredge, and the way you quite won the heart of my poor, dear Kitty when she was with us. It was against her wishes, I confess, that I sent you off to apprentice yourself to Mr. Crabb. You see the extreme limits of my presumption?

“And so,” he concluded, “when I talked with Dr. Johnson today, there seemed no need to ask his aid in finding you another place in the printing trade before I had discussed this with you. And since you still desire to stay, I should be delighted to have you.”

I was quite overcome. I managed to stutter out my thanks and started to give assurances of loyalty and my desire to please him in every way. Yet in the dimness of that room, I saw him raise his hand and wave me to silence.

“Consider my invitation and your acceptance as a bond between us. There are no conditions and no period of trial. You are from this day forth a permanent member of my household. You will continue to help Mrs. Gredge. She has grown older of a sudden and needs aid in all manner of ways. At her best she can be difficult. Continue to show forbearance with her. There will also be duties you will perform for me. I have no idea what they will be. They will vary from day to day, perhaps from moment to moment. I invite you to ask questions of me, even challenge me privately when you feel I am seriously in the wrong. Though you are ignorant of much in the way of the world, you have a good mind. I want you to use it.”