Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

At this point, Sir John interjected a question: “Is this weapon now in our possession?”

“No, sir, it ain’t. Its whereabouts is unknown. Whilst I conducted the individual to Bow Street for questioning, I left orders with the group of five men who entered the premises with me to remain outside and keep it safe till my return. When I came back, all was inside except one, and he was missing.”

“As was the axe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know the name of the missing man?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“One more thing,” said Sir John. “You made it clear that it was necessary to break down the door to Grub Street in order to gain entry. Was there another door to the establishment?”

“There was, sir — a rear door in the cellar.”

“Was it locked or unlocked?”

“Locked, sir, by key. There was no drawbolt on it.”

“Very good, Constable Cowley. Will you now, finally, point out the individual whom you conducted to Bow Street for examination and safekeeping?”

The young constable did as told, indicating John Clayton, alias Petrus.

“Mr. Marsden,” said the magistrate to his clerk, “will you make note of that, please?”

Then he dismissed Cowley, who returned to his place next the man he had pointed to, and called to witness one Albert Burnley, a name unknown to me. Yet when he stepped forward, I recognized him as the “Bert” who, with his companion Harry, had made such sport of me the night before.

All that Burnley could add to the tale told by the constable was something by way of a preface in which he described the screams from the Crabb house heard by him and others, and then the rush to find a constable with whom they might enter the place.

But early in his recital, at about this point, Sir John interrupted Burnley: “Would you describe the screams?”

“Describe them?” echoed the man. “They was horrible, they was — a jumble of screams from folk bein’ murdered.”

“And how long would you say they did last?”

Burnley screwed up his face for a moment in concentration. Then at last he said, “Not long.”

“Make an estimate for me,” said Sir John. “Would you say the screams continued during the time it would take a man to count slowly to a hundred? Two hundred? Three hundred?”

“I can’t be sure,” said Burnley. “I never had occasion to count so high.” The room, which had been quite silent up to that moment, exploded into sudden laughter at that. Burnley looked around, greatly annoyed at his audience. Then, once Sir John had shouted them down and beaten his gavel for silence, Burnley said with some show of dignity: “I would say, sir, that it wasn’t near so long as that — more like a count of fifty and maybe less.”

“Very good. Now, I should like you to tell me the length of time that elapsed between the time that you first heard the screams and the time you and the other men, along with Constable Cowley, managed to beat down the door and gain admittance to the place.”

“You mean, counting like?”

“Yes, Mr. Burnley — counting.”

He thought about that a moment or two. “Oh, that would be a high number, it would — fetching the constable, and so on, upwards to a count of three hundred and maybe more. We was not eager to go inside without a proper armed man in our number.”

“All right then, continue with your story.”

And that he did, sketching in a few grisly details left out before and bringing sighs and shudders from his listeners. He took heart from this and gave a great deal of drama to his account of their meeting with Clayton in the attic room with the dead apprentices. In doing so, he made the mistake of referring to him as “the murderer.”

Sir John slammed down his hand sharply on the table before him. “That will do, Mr. Burnley.”

“Sir?”

“You will leave the judging to the judges. The man in question has not been tried, has not even been properly charged. His guilt in this matter has yet to be determined.”

“But he was standin’ right there with his axe in his hand!”

“That will do!”

A great hubbub followed this exchange. The riffraff seemed to side with Burnley, for no better reason but that he seemed to be one of them. It took far too long to bring them back to order. Yet at last this was accomplished when Mr. Bailey grabbed up a loud individual sitting nearby and marched him to the door and out of it. The ease with which he accomplished this quietened them all.

At last Sir John resumed, diverting Burnley from further discussion of what he might or might not have seen in that upper room and directing him to account for the disobedience of Constable Cowley’s orders.

“Orders, sir?”

“Indeed. His orders that you and the others in your party remain without the premises.”

“Well, as it happened, sir, we got to talking, us fellows did, and we thought we might be of service to you and the constables if we was to go in and look about the place for evidence, as you might say.”

“And whose idea was this?”

“I couldn’t rightly say, sir.”

“Was it yours?”

“Oh no, sir. I’m sure it was not mine.”

“Just a follower, are you? A tool in the hands of your fellows?”

“As you say, sir.”

“Mr. Burnley, were you and the others not searching tor the cashbox? Did you consider that material evidence?”

“Uh … yes, sir, we did. We reckoned that such a considerable crime as this could only be done for a great sum of money. And it we could find where this … uh … ‘said person’ had hid it, we would have helped you establish the reason for the crime. Is that clear, sir?”

“Go on.”

“So we looked right hard for it, sir.”

“And you found it. Tell us where.”

“Well, it was in poor Mr. Crabb’s office, it was — in his desk.

“Under lock and key?”

“Well, it was necessary to force the drawer to get it open.”

Some snickers were heard from the crowd. Burnley turned and looked indignantly right and left in search of their source. But he was soon called back to his duty by the magistrate.

“And what,” asked Sir John, “was used to force the drawer?”

“Uh … well … an axe, sir.”

“Was it the same axe that Constable Cowley took from the individual he has identified for us?”

“It might have been at that, sir.”

“And if it was, then one of your number went up to the attic to get it from where it had been left.”

“True, sir. Aye, it must have been so.”

“Who was that man? Who was it disappeared with what appears to have been the murder weapon the moment that the constable returned and surprised you as you carried away the cashbox?”

“We did no such thing! We handed it to the constable the moment we spied him. We was being helpful.”

“Albert Burnley, let me tell you something. All in the world that will prevent me from charging you with hindering the investigation of a crime — and attempted robbery, as well — is to hear from you the name of him who disappeared with that axe.”

“But I-”

“And I must hear it this moment without further palaver or equivocation.”

Burnley was for a long moment struck dumb. His position was indeed not one he relished: to snitch was one thing — all of his class had done it one time or more — but to snitch in open court before a crowd of his fellows was quite another. He looked around him in a distinct state of unease. What was he to say?

“Might I ask something first, Sir John?” he asked at last, quite hopefully.

“You may ask. I cannot give guaranty of my answer.”

“What will happen to this hustler who napped the axe?”

The magistrate nodded thoughtfully. “A fair question,” said he. “Let us say, nothing — // said weapon be surrendered before this day be done.