Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“That is all? There is no more to it?”

“That is all, sir.”

“It is quite enough.” He sat, inhaling deeply, saying not a word, until: “Never, and I repeat, never, have I known such a vicious and unprincipled piece of ordure to be printed and given general distribution in this city. Not only does it interfere with and impede my inquiry and thereby the judicial process, it also goes so far as to irresponsibly slander an entire people. Do you realize, Jeremy, that there are those who can read who truly believe that if even the grossest fabrication appears in print, then it must, for that reason, be true?”

Being myself at that age somewhat overawed by whatever I might happen to read, I had not given the matter sufficient thought. And so, under the circumstances, the best I could manage was a rather lukewarm agreement.

“I suppose that is so. Sir John.”

“Indeed it is! And perhaps the more lasting damage has been done the Jews. Who knows, when such an evil seed is planted, what may grow from it in years to come? I will not have such filth circulated in my precincts! I will not allow Londoners to behave in the manner of denizens of some benighted province of Eastern Europe.”

He punctuated this by beating with both fists upon the desktop. I had not seen him before quite so overwrought.

“I foresee a bad night ahead,” said he. “I shall have to post two men at three-hour intervals at Rabbi Gershon’s synagogue. I’ll not see it put to the torch again. And then let us — ” He broke off of a sudden and leaned across the desk towards me. “Jeremy,” said he then, “I know you to spend a good deal of time in Grub Street. You must have the acquaintance of one or two there?”

“I do, sir, yes.”

“Could you go asking about there and discover the author of this … this …”

So seldom was he at a loss for words that I relieved him of the task of putting a name to it. “There is no need. Sir John.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“I believe it to be the work of one Ormond Neville. You recall that he was author of the broadsheet which demanded the swift trial and execution of John Clayton, the poet?”

“I do indeed.”

“There have been others, not near as inflammatory, which have appeared since then which have caused you some distress. You recall the dissertation in support of public hanging?”

“I do, yes. It called for executions to be moved from Tyburn to Covent Garden. That was his?”

“Of that Tm sure, for we happened to meet at the shop of his printer, Boyer, and Mr. Neville claimed it proudly. He asked impudently what you thought of it.”

“He did, did he? Well, I shall be happy to tell him my opinion of this, his latest work. Do you know where this fellow lives?”

“No, but I know where he is likely to be found.”

“Excellent. After you have finished your hour with Constable Perkins …”

I looked at him questioningly. “But…,” I offered, having no idea what I might say beyond that.

“Ah,” said he, “you may have thought I knew nothing of his course of instruction, yet I do. And while I do not wholly approve, he has nevertheless made me see the sense of it. Go then, and when you two have done, I would like you both to go a bit out of your way to Grub Street, if that be where you would seek him, and bring Mr. Ormond Neville to me, that we might have a chat.”

Neither finding Mr. Neville, nor persuading him to come along with us, provided much difficulty. I led the way straight to the Goose and Gander across from Boyer’s on that street of booksellers, publishers, and the hacks who served them. It was an ordinary inn and eating place, much like the many situated round us in Covent Garden — dark, close, and at that hour of the day, quite crowded and noisy. Men stood round the bar and spilled out to the tables where they sprawled in circles and clusters, yelling out loudly at one another. There were very few women to be seen, perhaps two besides the barmaid, and they seemed as hacks rather than whores. Supposing that Ormond Neville would have been there at the Goose and Gander for most of the afternoon, I ignored the crowd at the bar and sought him at the tables. And there it was that I found him, surrounded by his fellows, the broadsheet in question spread out before him. There must have been five or six round him there, and the mood at the table was one of celebration — tankards were raised, tributes were voiced in rollicking tones, while above them all, Mr. Neville shouted out the text of the broadsheet, which he read by the candle on the table. One of them, however, seemed not so jolly as the rest.

“Is that him?” asked Constable Perkins.

“Indeed it is,” said I.

“Well, he’s havin’ a proper good time of it, ain’t he? Shame to spoil his party — but spoil it we must. Come along, Jeremy.”

He led the way. I noted that he had pulled out his crested club and held it up where it might be seen; that and his red waistcoat identified him unmistakably as one of Sir John’s force of Bow Street Runners.

As we pushed through the throng and between the tables, I shouted loud into Mr. Perkins’s ear, “There are a great many at the table. I’ll give you all the help I can.”

“That lot?” he shouted back. “They’ll give us no trouble.”

Though I was ready and felt myself capable of giving aid to Mr. Perkins, I was nevertheless relieved when he proved right. He announced our presence by slamming down his club on the broadsheet which lay upon the table. An immediate silence fell upon those ringed round Mr. Neville and spread swiftly to those seated nearby. Mr. Perkins had their attention.

“Mr. Ormond Neville?” said he.

In response, Mr. Neville simply nodded; his eyes bore a look, not so much of fear but of consternation.

“Are you the author of that broadsheet from which you was readin’?”

He looked about him. Having accepted the congratulations of his colleagues, he could hardly deny it. “I am,” said he.

I looked about the group at the table for signs of aggressive resistance — but saw none. What I did see, however, quite took me by surprise: one whose back had been turned as we approached now faced me. Our eyes met. I recognized him immediately as Thaddeus Millhouse, as he indeed must have recognized me, for he swiftly averted his face and raised a hand to shield it from my sight.

“I must ask you to accompany us to Number 4 Bow Street, sir,” said Constable Perkins to Mr. Neville. “Sir John Fielding would have some words with you.”

“Am I arrested then?”

“Only if you resist.”

“Then I have no choice?”

“None that I can see, sir.”

With that, Ormond Neville rose slowly, turning left and right to his fellows at the table. Seeing no help from them, he nodded his compliance.

“Why not take along your copy of the broadsheet, sir,” suggested Mr. Perkins, “since that is the matter to be discussed.”

Mr. Neville scooped it up, folded it roughly, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He lifted his chin.

Then said he in a manner most dramatic: “I am ready.”

Yet as we began to depart, one of those at the table took heart at last. It was him who was a bit sour-faced when the toast was drunk to Mr. Neville. Though careful to keep his seat and not rise to challenge the constable, he nevertheless spoke forth loudly and truculently. He had the look of an Irishman.

“See here,” said he, “what right have you to take him away in such style? Neville is no criminal but a poor scribbler, as are all of us here. Is it a crime to work by the pen? Is Britain not a free land?”

Constable Perkins stopped and fixed him with a cold stare.

“Perhaps you’d like to come with us and present your views to Sir John?”