Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

Yet now, as I waited, I sensed something of great moment in the air. Though I might not see this inquiry through to its end, I should at least be present at its beginning. Remembering that evening, but a short time past, when we first visited the residence of Lord Goodhope and the mystery of his death began to unfold, I took heart that this night might also be one such. Little did I know the shocking revelation and attendant horror that awaited me.

And so, at a respectful distance, I made to eavesdrop a bit, catching words, names, and phrases from the conversation that continued between Sir John and Mr. Bailey. I distinctly heard the name John Clayton passed from Mr. Bailey, followed a sentence or two later by “under lock and key.”

Sir John took that in, nodded, and said, “I shall talk to him, certainly.”

Mr. Bailey laughed loudly and declared, “You’ll not get much out of that one!”

“That’s as may be, but I must try. But be on your way, Mr. Bailey. So much has so far been done wrong, you must do what you can to put it aright.”

“As you say, Sir John.”

“Who is on duty downstairs?”

“Mr. Baker.”

“Good. Off you go then.”

And with a touch of his hand to his tricorn, Mr. Bailey disappeared through the open door and thundered down the stairs.

“Mrs. Gredge,” Sir John called out, “did you wake Jeremy?”

She was no longer present, gone back to bed perhaps.

“I am here, Sir John,” said I. “Ah, I had no idea. Dressed, are you? Ready to go?”

“I am, Yes.”

“Then we must first make a visit to the strong room to talk to one in a most unfortunate state and then be off to visit the place ol his arrest.”

All that sounded quite reasonable, as stated, yet what a world of pain it hid. He must have wished not to frighten me.

“Shall I put out the candles, sir?”

“Yes,” said he, “do that, but leave the longest burning for our return.”

I did so, and together we descended the stairs — I preceding him, and he with his hand on my shoulder. Thus came we to the ground floor, where only a few steps away lay the strong room. There Mr. Baker stood, staring with great fascination at its contents. From the angle of our approach it was at first impossible to glimpse inside, yet even then, knowing nothing of the prisoner and the cause of his imprisonment, I was quite curious, knowing not what to expect.

I confess that when I laid eyes upon the man who would come to be known to us all as John Clayton, I was somewhat disappointed. Because of the lateness of the hour, Sir John’s solemn demeanor, and Mr. Baker’s keen interest, I had expected to discover a more impressive figure behind the bars. What I found, rather, was a large man dressed in a nightshirt, looking more forlorn than any I had ever before seen. He sat on a stool, his knees wide apart and his hands clasped so tight between them that they seemed together to make a single fist. His eyes were quite impossible to read, for they were shut tight. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about him at all, except the sense of desperation that his posture conveyed, and the fact that he was dressed for bed. But then I noticed that the hem of his nightshirt had been splashed with blood.

I looked to Sir John, wondering if I should tell him of that detail. Such, he had ever said, were often of the utmost importance. Yet he was off to one side now, listening close as Mr. Baker whispered in his ear.

Whatever was said, it was not much, for Sir John turned from him with a quick nod and called out to the prisoner: “You in there, identify yourself. What is your name?”

The only answer he got was a great, sad moan.

“Are you John Clayton? Is that who you are?”

At that, he who had been addressed shook his head vigorously and spoke for the first time and in a deep, heavy growl. “I am Petrus,” said he. And as he did so, he seemed to take heart, opening his eyes and regarding his questioner for the first time, rising from the stool whereon he had sat, striding with apparent confidence to the bars that separated them.

“I think you are not,” said Sir John. “No matter who you think you are, or say you are, I believe you are John Clayton.”

“And who are you?” asked the prisoner.

“I am John Fielding, the magistrate before whom you must appear tomorrow. My advice to you, sir, is to organize yourself. Prepare to answer questions, because I have many to ask. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Do you understand?” Sir John put the question to him with great severity. His face was but inches from the prisoner’s, separated only by the bars of the strong room. Had he sight, one would say he was staring into the man’s eyes, which were both wild and vacant and most frightening to behold.

For a space of time they stood thus. At last, with no answer forthcoming, Sir John turned in my direction. “Let us be gone, Jeremy,” said he. “I fear we’ll find no hackney carriage at such an hour. No doubt we must make our journey by shank’s mare.”

As I then started to follow him to the corridor which led to the Bow Street door, Mr. Baker pulled me aside and, with a finger to his lips commanding silence, shoved a small pistol into my coat pocket. Then, with a wink and a slap on the back, he sent me on my way.

“Jeremy?”

“Coming, Sir John.”

Indeed, as he had foreseen, there was no hackney waiting at the entrance, though Mr. Bailey had promised to send one to us, should he encounter it as he went ahead. Nor did we catch a glimpse of one as we went at length through the near-deserted, though not altogether quiet, streets of the city.

The reason he wished me to accompany him was made plain quite immediate. “Lad,” said he to me, “you’ve made many a trip to Grub Street the past week or two. Can you guide me there? I know not the way.”

“I’m sure I can, sir.”

“In the dark of night?”

I looked down the street, which was dimly lighted by lamps. A wind had risen and taken with it the fog which so often, then as now, lay over London. The night was clear. “This way, Sir John,” said I, giving him but a touch on the elbow to start him in the right direction.

Thus we went: I, moving him left or right at a crossing of the streets, giving him a word of advice when the walkway dipped, or disappeared altogether; otherwise he made his way quite by himself with the aid of his stick. We moved swiftly so, though the journey was not without incident.

I recall well that as we turned one corner, we came upon a gang of men and their drabs before a low drinking and gaming place known as the Cock of the Walk. There were murmurs among them. My right hand went down into my coat pocket wherein Mr. Baker had placed the pistol. Once, in an idle moment, he had demonstrated to me how the thing worked: pull back the hammer and pull the trigger. I had not the love of firearms that he had; I was altogether uneasy with them. Yet in such a situation, it seemed right to have one such at hand. I grasped the butt of the pistol tightly. One ball would not mean much in such a crowd. Yet the threat of the pistol might well hold them all at bay. Perhaps I should pull out the pistol and show them I was armed.

While still pondering this and about to step among them, I was quite surprised to see a way open up before us. There were greetings called to Sir John by even the roughest among them. Some knew him as “the Blind Beak,” others addressed him more formally, but all seemed to know him and spoke to him with a certain respect. And so we passed through pacifically, Sir John acknowledging the greetings of those whom he recognized, giving a general hello to the rest. I walked by his side, and as I went I examined those hard faces which were turned toward him in expressions of approval, and I marveled somewhat, wondering what he had done to win it. He was not lenient, I reasoned, but he was fair. When seated upon the bench, he demanded evidence and from witnesses wanted only to know what they themselves had seen and heard and not what they had gathered secondhand. In sum, if ruffians such as these who gathered before the Cock of the Walk should come before him, they knew they had a chance to prove their innocence, or at least becloud their guilt; and this was all they hoped for. He was their man.