Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

Clayton then began a-pacing before he spoke a word; back and forth he went before the judge’s bench. The two constables, who had returned to their places, exchanged glances, no doubt wondering if they should allow this impropriety to continue. But at last the witness did speak, and as he did so, he began flailing his arms about in a most impassioned manner.

“There are things,” said he, “that must not be remembered. Who are we, after all, to enter the past? It is another country. They do things different there! They speak another language. They would communicate as we do, but can only talk in dreams. What are your dreams, sir? Are they of blood? Of hanged men? Do they speak to you so, as — ”

“Silence!” Sir John gaveled him down with the great wood mallet he kept at the ready. “If you keep bladdering on so, I shall hold you in contempt of my court.”

“And well you might, sir, for indeed I hold this court in contempt. It is neither a court of reason, nor a proper court of lords and ladies, nor could one, for all that, court a maiden here. What good is such a court? I ask. Who could but hold it in contempt?”

“Mr. Clayton,” said Sir John, “I believe you are mad.”

“The name is Eusebius, if I may remind you, sir, though indeed I speak for him you mentioned. Mad, you say? That is your belief. You are entitled to it, but why should it count for more than mine? I believe John Clayton to be sane — as sane as any man ere I knew.”

“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.