Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

“Yet,” Black Jack Bilbo told him, “there is hope for you. You’ve a talent for survival. I’ll give you that, for to have lived even to your young years, you’ve shown considerable enterprise. You know naught of the world beyond Covent Garden, I’ll wager, but that can be remedied. I was your age myself before I learned to read and do sums. I’ll take a chance on you, Jimmie Bunkins. I’ll offer you a job right here and in my gaming establishment. What say you to that?”

Bunkins had never in his life been offered a job before. What he had seen of the world of work did not much attract him. Yet to work for such a man as this …

“What shall I do in this job?” he asked.

“Do? You will do whatever I tell you to do. I’ll be your master, your cove. If I tell you to give up thievin’, as I certainly shall, then you will give it up — no more on the scamp! If I tell you to deliver a hundred guineas to a gentleman, you will do so and not short him by one. If I tell you to learn to read, by God, you will learn to read. I’ll be a damn good cove to you, and if I ain’t, you may tell me so, and I shall listen. Your pay will be what I think you’re worth. Bed and board will be included. So what say you? Yea or nay?”

Jimmie Bunkins said yea. He took the big hand that was offered him and shook it awkwardly. A bath came later and a plain suit of clothes and a proper hat that was brought to him afterwards by Nancy Plummer, one of the hostesses from the gaming club. He’d done wipe prigging with her in the old days in the Garden and was quite happy to hear her good report on the cove. Truth to tell, he was happier than he had ever been in his thirteen or fourteen years.

And this he admitted to me in our kitchen when he had finished the beef and bread I had given him and sipped the last of the cold tea. At my suggestion then, we descended the stairs to await the return of Sir John and his party. And as we waited, we watched in fascination as the Bow Street Runners returned dripping wet, singly and in pairs, from their first round of the night on the streets. Thus the evening would begin as any other. Yet upon their return to Bow Street each was armed by Mr. Baker — a brace of pistols, a packet of powder and ball, and a cutlass. Then they departed, singly and in pairs, for Grub Street. They would take the back streets and avoid, insofar as possible, being seen by whatever souls were out on such a night, braving the storm. In this way, the Boyer establishment would be fortified most inconspicuously.

Sir John then returned with the others, grumbling mightily that he could not keep Mr. Boyer and Dr. Johnson from bladdering on in the eating house about the coming maneuver. Yet he seemed pleased to learn that all else was going according to plan.

“Has the Raker been notified?” he asked Mr. Baker.

“He has, sir.”

“How many have come through and gone off to Grub Street?”

“Ten, sir. They should all be on their way in a few minutes’ time.”

“Jeremy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You will be going with us in Mr. Boyer’s coach. And Master Bunkins?”

“Yes, guv — uh, yes, sir?”

“I have a special duty in mind for you. I understand that you are specially known for your fleetness of foot.”

And so we sat in the Goose and Gander, waiting for Jimmie Bunkins to appear. He had been placed at the junction of Maiden Lane and Half Moon Passage in a doorway, where he had a proper view of the house of the Brethren of the Spirit. It was his duty to keep a sharp eye on its entrance. Should they move out in number, or even in twos and threes, he was to take an estimate of their strength, pull away undetected, and then run as fast as he could, using his knowledge of the back streets and byways, and inform those waiting in Grub Street that the black-suited Brethren were on their way.

This, Sir John reasoned, would give the Runners who had hidden themselves at various points throughout the Boyer establishment a few minutes’ notice-yet an important few minutes they would be. The Runners would settle down in an attitude of silent waiting; and by the time their quarry arrived, the ambuscade would be set, and the trap would be sprung.

And still we waited.

I, who was youngest, believed I had the sharpest ears, and so I shut my eyes and concentrated on the manifold sounds of that stormy night — the rain, the wind, the rattling of the door, the measured breathing of those of us at the table.

Then said Sir John of a sudden: “I hear the boy now. He is coming.”

And but a moment later I heard him myself-a steady beating upon the cobblestones. It was Jimmie Bunkins — indeed it had to be — running at full speed.

I jumped up and made for the door. The others were on their feet.

There was a great bar of wood across the frame of it. I tugged at it hard. It would not at first budge, and I was about to call for help when at last it gave and slid from its housing. The door came open.

I leaped out into the street and saw Jimmie Bunkins, now not three rods away coming directly at me. Not daring to cry out, I waved him inside the Goose and Gander. He seemed not to see me, so intent was he on pumping his legs to the limit of his strength. I put out both arms that he might see me better and braced myself for a collision. Then I was seen. He did what he could to slow himself, yet like a launched projectile he had not control. The collision came, though it was not so great as it might have been. I leaned forward to take the impact, threw my arms about him, and staggered back with him a full five steps. I was immediately aware of his breathing, which struck me as most unnatural. It came in great, heaving sobs. I had not heard such tortured inhale and exhale since my mother breathed her last with typhus.

Mr. Bilbo was there. He separated us and carried Bunkins inside, whispering to him how well he’d done, how proud he was of him. I followed them inside quickly, pushing the door shut after me. Bunkins was on the floor, vomiting up the beef and bread I’d given him. Sir John reproached himself, saying he’d asked too much of the boy. Dr. Johnson and Mr. Boyer stood in the dim light of the bar lamp, looking on with great concern. Mr. Bilbo had a hand on the boy’s chest.

“He’ll be right soon,” said he. “His heart is beginning to slow a bit.”

“But we must — ” began Sir John.

Then he stopped, for Bunkins was attempting to speak. What he said came out in a near inaudible whisper. But Mr. Bilbo’s ear was close. He listened, nodding, waiting for the next whispered phrase, then touched the boy’s lips lightly with his fingers to silence him.

“He says there were many, yet they left in twos, so he had to wait to get a fair count, which was over ten. They were still coming when he left.”

“Jeremy — ” said Sir John, yet again he was interrupted.

The unbolted door of the Goose and Gander flew open quite without warning. I looked up in terror, half expecting to see one of the Brethren there, his axe poised above his head. Yet it was not.

The figure in the doorway took a few uncertain steps forward. And as he came, he shouted loud and belligerently.

“Innkeeper! Where are you? I am drunk and wish to get drunker!”

To my astonishment, I recognized the uninvited guest as Ormond Neville, poet and historian of the day-to-day.

“Why is it so fucking dark? And who are these men? Innkeeper!” He roared out the last so strong I feared he would be heard all the way to Bow Street.

“Silence him!” Sir John hissed it in an urgent whisper.

Dr. Johnson grabbed the unfortunate poet and grappled with him, which only brought forth more loud shouts. Then Black Jack Bilbo rose up from his place with Bunkins and put an end to the noise with a clout on Mr. Neville’s jaw which knocked him senseless.