Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

Thus had begun the parade of the dead. Wrapped in sheets and blankets they came, borne between the two and deposited in the wagon in the same primitive manner. Whether from the labor or the nature of the task, Constable Cowley perspired heavily, though the night was cool; and it may have been, as I reflect upon it, that those rivulets upon his cheeks were tears, for he had a sensitive nature and was not yet inured to such carnage.

The Raker, for his part, went at it with relish, growing ever more jolly with each load he carried, making little grisly witticisms for the benefit of none but himself. Grisliest of all was his response to a mishap there at the doorstep. Constable Cowley stumbled slightly at the exit, and from the weighted blanket popped a human arm cleft off above the elbow, bloody bone, meat, and gristle protruding from the end of it. Where did the arm land but at my feet? I jumped back in horror. But quick as a wink the Raker was there to pick it up by the hand. He supported his end easily with one hand of his own, for the man was uncommon strong, and on the way to the wagon held a conversation with the dead owner of the arm.

“Well, I’m happy to make your acquaintance, my good fellow, so I am,” said he, shaking the hand of the thing in salutation, as if meeting for the first time. “How is you this fine night? Came upon you sudden like, did it? Well, that’s oft the way of it-when we least expect, so they say.”

Then, at the wagon, he tossed the arm upon the growing pile and with a “one-two-three” and the help of the constable sent the rest of the corpus to follow.

“Sweet Jesus’ sake,” said Cowley to him, near weeping with anger, “how can you carry on so?”

The Raker stood for a moment and regarded him with amused perplexity. “The dead don’t care,” said he at last.

Cowley pushed past him and went into the house. The Raker followed, giggling to himself.

I felt a soft grip upon my arm and found Mr. Bailey by my side. “Sorry you had to see that, Jeremy,” said he.

“Would that I had not.”

“I’ve talked to the last of that bunch who was inside the place. No need for you to remain before the door. Come inside, if you like.”

“Are …” I hesitated. “Are there more dead within the house?”

“Yes,” said he, “though none on the ground floor.”

“Well and good then.”

I found I had the pistol still in my hand. Indeed, when I became aware of it, it seemed quite sudden a great weight. And so I thrust it into the pocket of my coat and followed Mr. Bailey through the door.

From previous visits to the Crabb establishment I knew this to be the shop for the sale of books. Though not large, it was well stocked with those of Crabb’s own publication, as well as others. At that moment it was lit by the light of a single candle. By that light I saw Sir John sitting on a chair in one corner, his hands folded upon his stick, his tricorn firm upon his head. His face wore an expressionless mask I had seen before when he was deep in thought. After some moments, however, he roused and turned in our direction.

“Is that you, Mr. Bailey?”

“Yes, sir, me and Jeremy.”

“Ah yes, Jeremy. I wish I had left him abed and not tarried to talk to that poor creature back at Bow Street. Little good it did.” He rose then from the chair. “Mr. Bailey, I should like you to take me to the cellar. I understand that the way is through the printing shop in back. Is that the route, Jeremy?”

“I believe so,” said I.

“Why not stay here then? We’ll not be long.”

And thus they left me there in the dark, for Mr. Bailey had taken with them the candle that had lit the room. Yet not completely in the dark, for there were candles lit on the floor above which showed some light down where I stood; and through the shop window that looked out upon the street there came a glow from the lamp and perhaps a hint of the dawn that was to come.

As I stood waiting, two more bodies were ushered to the wagon and deposited there. With a full load, the Raker busied himself rearranging it for the journey he would make; he hauled the dead about, tossing them this way and that like so many sacks of grain, no longer mindful to keep them covered. Once he had suited himself as to their disposition, he threw a tarpaulin over them all and secured it at the four corners of the wagon. He seemed to sing some ditty or ballad to himself as he went about it. I could not catch the words to it, but they seemed to amuse him.

Sir John then returned with Mr. Bailey and, calling out, summoned Constable Cowley to him. Them he instructed to secure the building as best they could. He proposed that rope might do to tie the door. “Also,” said he, “you must post a sign, warning all away on pain of fine and imprisonment. Sign my name to it, though in no wise try to copy my signature.

“As you will, sir.”

“As I will? Yes, Mr. Bailey, I can only wish that all things were as I willed them, or as I willed them not to be. Well, no matter. Jeremy? Are you prepared to see us back the way we came?”

“I am, Sir John.”

“Would you not prefer to wait, Sir John?” asked Mr. Bailey. “The two of us constables could accompany you back to Bow Street.”

“No,” said he, most emphatically. “I must get this boy back to his bed, if indeed he can sleep after the horrors he has witnessed this night.” He cocked his head more or less in my direction. “Jeremy?”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“Let us be on our way.”

I then touched him at the elbow and guided him forth from this place in which the infamous “massacre in Grub Street” had taken place. We stepped together into the street. There I saw the Raker, who had mounted the driver’s seat and was now ready to depart.

“Quite a harvest, Sir John,” he called out. “I’ve not had such a haul for months or more, perhaps a year.”

“You will be paid for it, of course,” said Sir John.

“Ah yes,” said he, “all part of the job. Would you and the lad care to accompany me? I’m going your way.”

“No, I think we’ll walk, thank you.”

And at that he laughed most heartily. “Few wish to do so,” said the Raker. “Indeed, few do.”

And then with a whip he stirred his dead horses back to life and they started on their way. I watched them go. Sir John set off at a good pace, and I hopped along to keep up with him.

“Who is that man?” I asked. “What does he mean calling himself ‘the Raker’?”

“I know not truly who he is,” said Sir John. “He calls himself only that — the Raker. It is a title passed down from the last century, during the plague years, when some ancestor of his went through London town collecting the plague dead. It was dangerous work, leaving all who pursued it open to infection. Somehow, his line survived, and so the ugly business passed down to him. He is employed by the city of London to collect bodies and hold them until they be claimed. If they are not, he sees to their burial in potter’s graves.”

“All seem to fear him a little,” I ventured.

Sir John sighed. “He enjoys his work too much. There is something unholy about the man. There are rumors about him we need not discuss.”

“I understand, sir.” Though in truth, I did not.

We walked along in silence until we came to the crossing where we had earlier turned up Grub Street. I guided Sir John at the corner with no more than a touch at the elbow. And thus in an easterly direction we went, picking up the pace once again.

“Uh … Sir John?”

“Yes, Jeremy?”

“I shall have to find a new master.”

“That much is clear.” I thought this perhaps his only comment upon the matter, for he had nothing more to say for a long space of time. Then at last he added: “1 must think upon it. Perhaps I shall talk again with Samuel Johnson.”