Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

At that, Burnley brightened. He looked around him, nodding hopefully this way and that as if seeking permission to speak from the onlookers.

“Then,” said he, “I seems to remember his name is Rum Ben Tobin.”

“And his place of residence?”

“I … uh … well, sir, of that I’m not quite sure.”

“Let me, then, dismiss.you not only as a witness but from this very courtroom. Go and find Ben Tobin and inform him of the terms I offer. For while we may not know his place, we know yours, Albert Burnley. And while I intend to honor my bargain with you, if your friend Tobin does not advantage himself of my terms, then it may go ill for you if and when you should appear before me here again. Is this clear?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Good, then be off on your search.”

Burnley lost not a moment but made straight for the door. There he was joined by one whom I then recognized as Harry, his companion of the night before. A ripple of laughter followed them as the two exited hastily.

“Mr. Marsden,” said Sir John, “I have not been given the name of the next witness but merely his position. Will you summon him properly?”

With a nod, the clerk rose and consulted the topmost of a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Will Isham Henry please step forward?”

The man who obeyed that summons was quite unknown to me. Tall, dark of hair and complexion, he wore a somber, dour mien. He took his place before Sir John, but neglected to remove his hat. I thought this somewhat disrespectful, but the magistrate, of course, took no notice, and his clerk, though frowning his disapproval, said nothing.

“Your name, sir?” asked Sir John.

“As was announced,” said the witness in a deep voice that seemed to suit the rest of him quite well.

“Repeat it, please, for the court record, and state your position.”

“I be Isham Henry, and I be a journeyman printer in the employ of Ezekiel Crabb. Or so I was until what was happened last night.

Murder in Grub Street A \

He had a strange manner of speech, slightly archaic, and in a mode that indicated his origins as somewhat northerly. I could not call him direct to mind from my earlier visits to the Crabb establishment. He was not, in any case, the typesetter whose place I had temporarily taken.

“Your address, sir?”

“I have a room in Half Moon Passage.”

“You, I take it then, lived apart from your place of employment.”

He let forth a deep dark laugh at that, that had the odd sound of a rumble. “Aye, oh indeed, else I would be dead before you now.”

“We would not have that, would we?” said Sir John. “I am told that you came forth wishing to give witness here, but that you are only this day returned to London from a visit to your home in — where was it?”

“Nigh on Nottingham,” said he. “I come here, for I knowed there was bad blood between this man John Clayton and Mr. Crabb.”

“Is this man Clayton known to you by sight?”

“He is.”

“Point him out to Mr. Marsden.”

Isham Henry did so, plainly indicating the man seated between Constable Cowley and Chief Constable Bailey. Mr. Marsden took note of it and indicated to Sir John he had done so.

“Now then, what makes you so certain that there was, as you say, ‘bad blood’ between Mr. Clayton and Mr. Crabb?”

“Everybody knowed it.”

“Who is everybody?”

“All who worked for Crabb, or in some wise had to do with the publication of that first book of Clayton’s.”

“And that includes yourself?”

“Ain’t that what I’m sayin’? This Clayton fella grew quite fierce when it was revealed to him the great number of his books was sold, and him receiving just a pittance for to publish it. Threatened Mr. Crabb, he did.”

“You heard him do this?”

“Well, I …” Isham Henry hesitated.

“With your own ears?

“It was well discussed amongst us all.”

“But you yourself, I take it, were not direct witness to any threat, nor to any rancorous conversations between the two?”

Mr. Henry made no answer to that.

“I shall assume that your silence is intended as a negative response.” Sir John waited, but nothing further was forthcoming. “I had been made aware of the great discrepancy between Mr. Clayton’s meager reward for writing the book and Mr. Crabb’s considerable profit in publishing it, and indeed, as you suggest, there may have been bad blood between them because of this matter. But what you offer, Mr. Henry, is mere hearsay, and as such is not acceptable in this court. I thank you for giving forth that the man in question is John Clayton, which is indeed more than I could get from him. Nevertheless, I fear that we must disregard all else that you have had to say about him.”

Sir John paused, and in that brief space a grumble began from the assembled court crowd.

“You are dismissed, sir.”

Isham Henry looked right and left, as though not quite able to comprehend what had transpired between them. The grumble grew louder as he at last turned and retired to a place kept for him at the rear of the room. Things could have got quite out of hand had not Sir John then shouted out louder still the name that all had waited to hear:

“I call John Clayton to witness.”

There was no immediate response to the summons. All had grown silent of a sudden in expectation of a first long look at him who was even at that moment advertised in the streets as the murderer of the entire Crabb household. He seemed reluctant to display himself. At last, however, he was pulled to his feet and marched forward between Constables Bailey and Cowley to stand before Sir John.

“You delay, sir,” said the magistrate in a voice most calm. “Let me assure you, however, I call you as a witness and not as a man accused. I wish to know from you what you remember of the events of the night just past.”

“Not meaning the slightest disrespect,” said Mr. Clayton, “but my hesitation was due to the fact that I was not called in a proper manner.

His demeanor was altogether altered from the brute nature he had displayed but hours before. From where I sat I could see his face in profile. He was alert, near too alert if that be possible. Which is to say, his face, fine-featured and handsome, seemed unnaturally flushed and keen with nervous excitement. I noticed that his hand, dangling from a coat sleeve far too short, twitched in a motion in which the thumb seemed continually to be counting the four fingers as if to be sure he had them all. Yet his voice remained calm.

“Oh?” said Sir John. “How then? Would you prefer to be summoned as Petrus? You gave that name last night, did you not?”

“What’s in a name?” said he, flapping his arms of a sudden in a great shrug of his wide shoulders. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Or a knave as foolish,” said the magistrate in a tone more severe. “I charge you, sir, give a name to yourself. Are you John Clayton?”

“I am not. I am properly addressed as Eusebius.”

“Last night you were Petrus, and now you are Eusebius. What other surprises have you?”

“I have no surprises. I have only sweet reason at my command, and I shall use it, with your kind permission, in defense of John Clayton, for though you say you call him as a witness, I feel around me great anger and a thirst for blood, his blood. But let us not speak of that! No! Too much of that, sir, too much of what is pumped by the heart into the arteries and through the veins — too much of that which leaked and spurted last night!”

An uneasy titter ran through the courtroom crowd. It seemed they were not so much amused by this man Clayton as they were embarrassed in his behalf.

“Whether you are Eusebius, or Clayton, or that rude fellow Petrus, you must tell me of leut night, and you must tell me now.” Having spoken, Sir John set his jaw and waited. I had never before seen him thus in court: his face quite a mask of cold resolve.