Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

“Well, p’rhaps I shall give pause to one or two of them.”

He strode into their midst, grabbed one of them quite roughly, and pulled him over to the nearest streetlamp, which was some paces distant. Then, in a low, persistent, confidential tone he began to question the man, the one called Harry. They were beyond my hearing and beyond that of the waiting three, which seemed to annoy them, for after a whispered conference they began sidling over as a group toward Mr. Bailey and their fellow. Then the chief constable noted what they were up to and directed them emphatically back to their former station. Sulking, they returned and once more took up their whispering.

It was but minutes he spent with Harry. And when he had done with him, he sent him on his way.

“But that ain’t fair,” protested Harry loudly. “I wish to wait on my mates.”

“If so, you’ll do it out of my sight,” said Mr. Bailey. “Now take yourself out of here, or I’ll plant my boot up your arse.”

Harry backed away, signaling to the others he would wait around the corner.

“You should not treat us so!” cried one of them, all indignant, to Mr. Bailey.

“By Christ, you should not!” said another.

“Was it not us who gave the alarm?” asked Bert. “Did we not enter with your young constable, knowing not what perils awaited us? Did we not help subdue the murderer?”

“And” queried Mr. Bailey, striding toward them, “was it not you who went through the place and turned it topside down the moment the constable was out of the way?” He stopped, facing them down, hands on hips, arms akimbo. “What was it you was looking for? The money box?”

“Aye,” said Bert, “we found it, and we turned it over to the constable when he returned.”

“Caught in the act is what you were. And one of your number made off with the murder weapon. The constable gave you orders not to return inside the house, did he not?”

“We was only tryin’ to be helpful.”

“Come along,” said Mr. Bailey to Bert. “I’ll give you helpful.”

And he seized upon him and walked him rudely to the place he had chosen beneath the streetlamp. There he began putting questions to him in the same subdued tone he had used before, all the more intimidating for his quiet control of it.

My attention taken, as it was, by the confrontation just recorded, I only then became aware of the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones quite nearby. So near was it, in fact, that it seemed but moments before a dray wagon drawn by two horses came in sight, rolling slowly up Grub Street in our direction.

Something strange happened then. Not only had I turned to look, but so had the others, as well. The two waiting witnesses left off their whispered talk; so, too, did Mr. Bailey interrupt his earnest questioning. They all stopped to give their attention to the dray wagon which seemed to appear and disappear in a ghostly manner as it moved from streetlamp to darkness, then back into the perimeter of dim illumination provided by the next streetlamp. All simply stared, so that where loud acrimony had prevailed not long before, there was now only silence, save for the steady clip-clop of the horses and the creaking of the wagon wheels.

The two men before me shrank back, far back, to the other side of the street as the wagon pulled up before the house of Ezekiel Crabb. It was only then that I got a proper look at the mysterious arrival and his remarkable conveyance. Whatever color the wagon had once been painted, it had by then faded to a dark, dirt-streaked gray, all except for a panel in the middle of it which had been rubbed clean; thereon had been painted a skull and cross-bones in white, all in stark contrast to the rest. The horses, too, were gray. Spavined and skeletal, they seemed half dead as they bowed their heads in evident exhaustion. They remained so, still as statues, for the remainder of their stay.

The driver, indifferent to them, tossed down the reins and climbed down from the wagon. He moved surely and deliberately, not a tall man but wide at the shoulders and thick at the waist. When he turned to me and started to the door, I noted his apelike bearing, how his long arms seemed to dangle and his short legs fell forward heavily with each step. He was a round-faced, ugly man, a week in need of a razor.

When he drew close, he thrust that face close to mine, smiled a carious smile and winked an eye at me — the one which was smaller than its fellow.

“Be a good lad,” said he in a low, hoarse voice, “and tell them the Raker is come.”

Quite overcome was I by the foul smell of him. I stepped back yet tried to maintain my stern demeanor.

Then Mr. Bailey called out to me: “Let him pass, Jeremy. Direct him to the floor above.”

I stepped aside then. “You heard that?” I asked. “Up above.”

“I heard,” said he as he lumbered past.

I knew not what to make of him — the skull and crossbones on his dray wagon, the apparent fear he had inspired in grown men. Could he be a pirate? Of course not. There were none such in London, save perhaps for Black Jack Bilbo, and he was retired from the trade. Who then? What then? What did he mean to call himself “the Raker”? (I learned soon enough.)

Mr. Bailey proceeded quickly with his queries and was done with the talkative and facetious Bert in no time at all. He, too, was sent off and left without complaint. The remaining two also seemed eager to be away. The next witness jog-trotted from his place across the street and presented himself to Mr. Bailey without summons.

Hearing scuffling and the sound of great effort behind me, I stepped away from the door and waited but a moment before Constable Cowley and the Raker appeared with a heavy package between them. It was a corpus wrapped in a bloodstained sheet, and judging from the size and shape, it was likely Mr. Crabb himself. The two bearers made their way with some difficulty to the wagon.

Murder in Grub Street \ 7

“Ready?” said the Raker. “Then one … two … three!”

And they heaved their package up over the side and into the wagon, sheet and all. Yet as it flew through the air, the wrapping parted and revealed enough of its contents to confirm my identification.

It was so then. Ezekiel Crabb was the victim. In my mind I mourned him, for he had seemed a good man for certain sure. His liking for me would have made him a good and generous master. And as children will, who think most of themselves, I mourned my own circumstances, as well. Would I find another master as good? To whom would I now be apprenticed?

Yet the constable and the Raker returned into the house and my mind turned to the question of culpability. Who could have murdered Mr. Crabb? Could it have been that threatening fellow Clarence? Perhaps his place at the type stand was to be given me. Perhaps he had brooded upon it and struck down his master whilst he slept. No, more likely it was the madman in the strong room at Bow Street. He had been taken prisoner, after all. What could have angered him so to strike down Mr. Crabb? But of course madness required no reason.

Then there were more grunts and mutual warnings of “Mind, now” and “Have a care,” coming from the room behind me. And to my surprise, the constable and the Raker emerged with another corpus. This one, too, was wrapped in a bloody sheet, yet not so well that I did not fail to notice a mass of gray hair trailing out at one end. Was this then Mrs. Crabb, whom I had not met but only heard of? Yet there was no respect given her sex. She was given the same treatment — heave-ho and into the wagon — as her husband. And once again the Raker led the way back into the house. I heard him say in that phlegmy, rattling voice, “Fat old dame, wasn’t she now? I vow she was heavier than her man.” He cackled at that as if he had made a great joke.