Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

“Is thu our destination, sir?” I asked. I had to know.

“Yes,” said Sir John, “Ezekiel Crabb s home and place of business. A most terrible crime has been committed there.”

He said not what the crime was, nor why he had not earlier told me. I had a sudden multitude of questions, yet I held my tongue, thinking it best. As we approached, I merely called his attention to the crowd at the door.

“I’m aware of them, Jeremy. Follow me through.”

With that — shouting a cautionary “Make way! Make way!” — he plunged into the assembly, waving his stick before him. And as I had been bade, I went in his wake. There were no more than twelve there, but some of them of rather disreputable appearance. They parted before him in sullen obedience until we stood at the door. There, standing guard before it, was young Constable William Cowley.

Indeed, he was the youngest of the Bow Street Runners, probably no more than eighteen years of age, and the least experienced of all, having come to that force, with Mr. Baker’s sponsorship, but a month before my arrival at Bow Street. He was nonetheless large and willing and had proved himself brave on more than one occasion since his arrival.

Cowley came to an attitude of attention. “Sir John,” said he, “Mr. Bailey is inside, investigating the situation. He put me here to keep out the curious.”

“Would you had kept them out when you first arrived upon the scene, Constable Cowley.”

“I know, sir. Mr. Bailey has reproved me sorely for my handling of the matter. And I do regret it, sir. There was mistakes of judgment on my part, perhaps, but there was bad circumstances, too.”

“And what were they? Why did you not deputize some who entered with you to convey the prisoner to Bow Street so that you might stay and protect the environs of the crime?”

“Because I was afraid that once out of my sight, they would kill him. There was talk of it among them. One had gone off to get a rope.”

“Then why did you not lock the place up?”

“We broke the door to make our entry, sir. It’s half off its hinges now.”

Sir John mused a moment. “So it was indeed locked from the inside. Is there a back door? Was it, too, locked?”

“A stout cellar door, sir, and it was also locked tight.”

“Well, it does look bad for our prisoner, does it not?”

“Oh, right bad,” agreed Constable Cowley, “right bad. I caught him, sir, with the weapon in his hand.”

“Yes, well … we shall talk of that inside, Constable.” With that, he turned to the crowd, which had fallen back a few paces from the door. And to them, he spoke loudly and most solemnly: “Any of you who first made entry with Constable Cowley are to remain here outside the house. We shall have questions for you. The rest I order to disperse. I am Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court. Those who fail to obey this order of mine will be subject to arrest, fine, and imprisonment for not less than thirty days. Think not to leave and then return, and you who remain do not consider reentry; you have done enough damage, as I understand it. I am leaving a guard at the door. This young man has an evil temper, and he is armed.”

It struck me of a sudden that Sir John referred to me. An evil temper? Surely not. Yet I made a face suitable to his description and hoped to frighten them all with it.

“Show them your pistol, Jeremy,” said Sir John sotto voce.

I pulled it from my coat pocket and exhibited it boldly.

“Loaded and primed it is,” he continued, “and he is under orders from me to shoot anyone who tries to push past him. Is this understood?”

In response, a sullen grumble rose from the men at the door.

“Now you have heard my instructions. Those who first made entry are to remain. To the others of you, I now say …” He paused but a moment, then shouted in a voice of great authority: “Be gone!”

And indeed they went, falling back, looking over their shoulders, retreating like a company of soldiers in sudden disarray. There were but four left.

“Look at those who remain,” said Sir John to Constable Cowley. “Were they with you?”

Cowley went from face to face and nodded. “All who are here, yes, Sir John. Yet one is missing. There were five at the start.”

“Did you get his name?”

“Uh … I took no names, sir.”

“Ah, well, when Mr. Bailey questions them, perhaps he’ll get the missing man’s identity from his fellows.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Jeremy,” said he in a whisper, “that permission to shoot was given to impress them and not to be taken literally. A simple call for help will do wonders. One of us is sure to hear.”

So saying, he left me there at the door, with Constable Cowley close behind. I held that ferocious face as long as I found possible, then slowly allowed it to relax into an expression of cold indifference. I looked this way and that over the heads of the four, and from time to time directly at them. The pistol I held rested in my folded arms. It seems certain, as I consider it today, that they were far more taken by it than by me, and far more deeply impressed by Sir John’s air of command than by either the pistol or the lad who held it.

The four witnesses clustered together and talked among themselves in tones so low I could not hear. They did so for a goodly space of time. At one point the four erupted into a chorus of raucous laughter which, considering what they knew and had seen, was altogether inappropriate.

But of course at that point I knew not what they knew, though I had some hint, surely, of what they had seen. When Sir John spoke of “a most terrible crime,” that could only be murder. But who in Ezekiel Crabb s household had been murdered? Was it the master himself? In that case, I reflected, what would that mean with regard to my articles of apprenticeship? I liked Mr. Crabb. He certainly seemed to like me. I hoped it was not him. Could it be that fellow Clarence, the elder apprentice? May God forgive me, considering my experience with Clarence and the dismal life I looked forward to with him as my submaster, I decided that if victim there must be, I hoped it would be he and no other. Beyond that, I could not think. There were others, I knew, housed in the Crabb domicile — another apprentice, sons, a wife who had been mentioned but not seen. The journeymen surely lived off the premises, as my father had in Lichfield, so that, then, was the question: Who was the victim?

It was not long before the remnant of the crowd began to taunt me.

Said one to the rest: “I’d no idea Sir John was taking apprentices for the Runners — had you, Harry?”

“None at all,” said Harry. “What age would you take this one to be?”

“Near ten, I would say. Is that not what you would guess him?”

“Nay, not so old — seven or eight perhaps.”

“Careful you do not anger him by putting him too young. Lads of such an age are quick to take offense at those matters. Remember Sir John’s warning: He has an evil temper, Bert.”

“And a pistol in his hand!”

“Strange playthings they give children in such times as these.”

“Strange indeed.”

And thus they continued long past the point I had grown tired of their banter, until at last they grew tired of it themselves. Or was it Mr. Bailey’s predicted appearance that quietened them? I cannot rightly remember. In any case, after about half of an hour had passed, I started at a tap upon my shoulder and turned to find behind me Benjamin Bailey, who had ever a quiet tread.

“How goes it, young Jeremy?”

“Well enough,” said I.

“Have these layabouts been baiting you?” He looked sharply past me at the four waiting witnesses.

“Nothing to give me pause.”