Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

Moving past them, I noted that Sir John did not quicken his pace, though I myself was eager to get us away. When we were some distance away I ventured to turn back and take a look. I saw with some relief that we were not followed.

“None would dare,” said Sir John.

“Sir?” said I, suspecting for a moment he had read my thoughts.

“You lagged behind a moment. I take it that like any sensible soldier you were making sure our rear was safe from attack. I commend you for that, even though there was no need. I have my eminence to protect me — sufficient is it to guard you as well, I think. Should even that fail us, there is always the pistol in your pocket — loaned to you, I believe, by Mr. Baker, was it not?”

“Yes, sir, but …” I hesitated, a moment dumbfounded. “How did you know?”

“Oh, he has his tricks, has Mr. Baker. He seems to believe I had need of an armed guard each time I go out after dark. Not so. Nothing of the kind. Now, if I am not mistaken, he slipped you the pistol — probably a small one — as we were leaving Bow Street. Is that correct?”

“It is, yes,” said I. “But he said nothing. I said nothing.”

“Your pocket spoke. You usually carry a few coins in your pocket, probably no more than a few shillings — remind me to pay you a bit for services rendered, by the by. Occasionally the coins jingle in your pocket. Yet ever since we began on our walk they have been clanging away against a larger metal object, of steel no doubt. Knowing Mr. Baker’s worries about me and his love of firearms, I supposed that he must have presented you with a pistol. Though in general I do not disapprove of his precautions, I do question his wisdom in handing a loaded gun to a thirteen-year-old boy — that is your age, is it not, Jeremy?”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“Mind you do not shoot yourself in the foot.”

With that bit of advice he let the matter pass. We were by then hard by Grub Street, in any case, just one crossing distant. I had it in sight. In truth, I knew the way well by then, having made three or four trips there and back from Bow Street in the past week, and perhaps one in the week before. Grub Street was then, though it is somewhat less today, a place given chiefly to booksellers and publishers and the impecunious writers whom they employed. At Sir John Fielding’s appeal, no less than Dr. Samuel Johnson had bruited my name about among the publishers and printers on the street as a likely lad to serve as an apprentice to one of them. Several expressed interest, and Dr. Johnson chose the one he deemed most respectable. I was sent hence with a formal letter of recommendation, and my prospective employer took time from his day to talk at length with me. He assumed I was a young protege of Dr. Johnson’s, and when he heard I was a native of Lichfield (famous as Dr. Johnson’s place of origin), he took that to be the connection between us; I allowed him to do so. Quite interested was he when I told him my father had been a printer and that he had had a small shop of his own. He assumed it to have been in Lichfield; I allowed him to do so.

“And how came you to London?” asked my prospective employer, no doubt wondering why I had not formally apprenticed with my father.

“My mother died three years ago. My father passed away recently,” said I, making no reference to the shameful circumstances of his death. “I am an orphan.”

“Ah,” said he, “of course. My condolences, young sir.”

“But I can set type,” said I, eager to prove myself.

“At your age?”

“Oh, indeed, sir. I’ve been at it since I was nine, and I truly believe I was of some help to my father during the last year or two.”

He looked at me keenly; an expression between doubt and curiosity kindled in his eyes. “Would you care to demonstrate your skill?” he asked.

“I should be happy to.”

And so he took me to the back shop where work proceeded apace. It was of good size, containing type stands, a press, and a small bindery. A journeyman printer worked at one stand and an older apprentice at another. Another journeyman worked at the press, and a binder pursued his labors with the aid of another apprentice of about my own age. I had never before been in a shop given to book printing and was quite taken by all the bustle inside.

The master ordered the older journeyman to step aside; a box was found for me to stand on; and I quite amazed them with my ability. The journeyman applauded me. The master named me a “prodigy.” Even the apprentice was impressed, though he took pains not to show it. I lacked neither in speed nor in accuracy.

With all that, I was told my place with them was assured. I rejoiced to hear it; but then, recalling that my acceptance meant certain separation from Sir John’s household, I wondered if I might not have served my cause better by appearing less able. But truth to tell, able or incompetent, separation seemed sure, and so I allowed myself to enjoy the moment and thanked them all most graciously.

And so the articles of apprenticeship were drawn up in my absence. I fetched them on the appointed day and brought them back to Sir John, as he had requested, for his perusal. I read the papers to him, and he was satisfied. But then he surprised me somewhat, asking for a quill and ink that he might sign the document. He explained then that this was quite proper, for in the absence of my deceased parents, he stood as my legal guardian for as long as I was a ward of the court. And so I did as he had directed, placed the quill in his hand and then at the proper place on the paper. He then delivered a most handsome signature, even added a flourish which surely none but he could duplicate. I had seen him do this on earlier occasions, signing documents and letters drawn up for him by Mr. Marsden, the court clerk, and I had never ceased to wonder at the remarkable skills of this blind man.

No discussion followed. He simply sent me back with the document after I had added my signature to his own. The articles of apprenticeship were accepted by my new master and signed by himself. Then it was agreed between us that I would enter his household a week hence. He apologized for the delay, saying that room would have to be found for me. This would have ended my journeys to Grub Street but for one last visit made upon his request two or three days later. It seemed the new master had been boasting up and down the street of his new apprentice, namely me, and he wished to give a demonstration of my skill to his leilow tradesmen. I was sent for by his elder apprentice, and so with Mrs. Gredge’s permission, I left with him to take the walk to the shop. His name was Clarence, as I recall, and he proved quite a disagreeable young fellow. There were implications and veiled threats made along the way by him, who was four or five years my senior. What was said clear to me was that “prodigy” though I be, I would still be under his thumb, so long as he, too, was an apprentice. This was not an arrangement which pleased me much, yet I determined to make do as long as it was necessary. As for the demonstration, it went well enough: I was praised once again by my master and hailed by his competitors. I left, knowing the way well by then, though quite unsure of what would await me once I had made a new home there on Grub Street.

And Grub Street was where we then arrived, Sir John and I, at a late hour, near three in the morning, on that night which was to alter the course of my life for all time to come.

As we turned up the way, I spied a small crowd by the dim light of the lamps. They had gathered before a building of some size near halfway down the street. That place, I realized, was quite familiar to me. It had been my destination on each of my previous trips to Grub Street. That building housed the store and shop of Ezekiel Crabb, bookseller and publisher, the master to whom I had been apprenticed; it was to be my home and workplace beginning eight o’clock in the morning of that very day. Had Sir John taken it upon himself to deliver me early? That made no sense. And why this group of curious onlookers?