Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

“Pray God,” said Sir John, “that the Brethren were not so close that they heard. Now, Jeremy, you must go and tell the Runners they are on their way in force and could arrive at any minute. Go, boy, now!

I slipped from the Goose and Gander, looking up and down the street to be certain there were none of the men in black at either end. Then, moving close along the buildings between, I made swiftly for Boyer’s. The rain had all but stopped-yet how the wind blew! Surely it would have covered over Mr. Neville’s cries.

I had not been told whether I should go to the back or front. I know not why, but when I came to the walkway which ran the length of the publisher’s building, I ducked down it, moving to the rear. As I came close to the end of the structure, a noise caught my ear, then another and another. I heard the clank of metal, the slip of a foot, a grunt. These were not noises from inside the house, but from just ahead of me — perhaps in the mews behind it, or in the plot at the rear. The Brethren were already here!

I had come soft, and I left softer, hastening on tiptoes to the front door. I tapped quiet but insistent upon the window, caught movement through it, and a moment later the door to Boyer’s came open a bit and a firm hand dragged me inside. I recognized the man as Mr. Nicholson, Mr. Boyer’s young partner, as he had been pointed out to me at the court appearance of John Clayton. Mr. Bailey stood behind him.

“They are here!” I whispered. “In the rear, perhaps yet in the mews.”

Without a word, Mr. Bailey turned and gestured to others invisible to me. Then he himself faded away, all six and a half feet of him, and I was left alone with Mr. Nicholson.

“Come,” said he in a whisper, “we must disappear.”

He led me swiftly to an alcove in the back of the bookshop, which was all but filled by a good-sized desk. He put us behind it in a squat, then eased the bottom drawer open and from it took two dueling pistols of a small caliber. Handing me one, he put his pointing finger to his lips, urging me quite unnecessarily to silence.

We waited. We listened.

There had been some brief discussion at Bow Street as to the placement of the Runners within the Boyer house. Mr. Bailey had favored challenging the Brethren upon the ground floor, the moment they were all inside. Yet Sir John insisted that they allow them to the upper floors that they might prove their murderous intent. “You’ll have them trapped upon the stairs,” he had said.

“That way, if there must be a Fight, it will be waged under better circumstances.”

Quite naturally, Sir John prevailed. And Mr. Nicholson had seen to the stationing of the Runners in the vacated bedrooms — the entire household had been moved to a lodging house some distance away for the night. There was a large common room, which also served for dining, as well as a kitchen, on the floor directly above. And above that were the bedrooms of the Boyer family-Mr. and Mrs. and the two unmarried daughters. And at the very top were the quarters kept for the apprentices and the Boy-ers’ two female servants. (Mr. Nicholson, as well as a master printer and three journeymen, lived off the premises.) The plan called for the largest parts of the force to be placed at the top and bottom of the stairs, thereby forcing the Brethren downward, and at the same time denying them the possibility of escape.

There were six Runners sequestered around us at various points on the ground floor, including Mr. Bailey. All were so well hid I had no idea of their whereabouts.

It did not take long before we were aware of the Brethren inside. The wind made a cold sweep through the premises as the door in the back remained open long enough for a considerable party to file in. Then it must have closed, for the draft ceased, and I was aware of the slightest footfalls approaching. They moved as silent as ever grown men in boots could move. There must have been a dozen who ascended the stairs. One, if I was not mistaken, remained here below. They seemed to know the design of the house well, for they moved quickly beyond the floor directly above to the bedroom floors. Isham Henry had done his traitorous work well. Not only had he provided a key to the rear door, he had also acquainted his fellows with the exact positioning of their putative victims.

Moving slowly and silently as they did — there were but a few creaks upon the stairs — it seemed to take an eternity for them to reach their assigned locations. Then it seemed that for an equally long time, there was nothing but the purest, most absolute silence, broken only by the rattling of the door by the wind. I could bare hear my own self breathe. Then the silence was broken, not by the sound of doors banging open, nor shouts, nor shots, but rather, the steady voice of Benjamin Bailey.

“You have the chance to surrender,” called he in a tone of command that resounded through the house. “Resist and no quarter will be given.”

But drowning out Mr. Bailey’s last few words, another voice: “We have been betrayed!”

I popped up from my hiding place behind the desk just in time to see in the dim light that one of the Brethren had raised his axe to Mr. Bailey and was advancing upon him. The constable shot him dead. The man in black fell not ten feet from where I watched.

Then, as if by that signal, shots rang throughout the house — from high above and not so high above. There were thuds. There was scrambling on the stairs. Now there were shouts aplenty above us.

I felt myself being pulled down by Mr. Nicholson.

“Get down, boy! Do you wish to be killed by a stray ball?”

Then there was a great stampede above our heads, and a call for help from one of the Runners: “They’re makin’ a stand in the big room!”

“Come along, lads!” shouted Mr. Bailey. “Up we go!”

And he led the way up the stairs, every inch the sergeant major he once was, and his constables followed, pistols drawn, brandishing cutlasses.

All this I witnessed, peeking above the desk. Yet seeing them go, I realized something was amiss. The way of escape was no longer barred. I squeezed out from behind the desk.

“Where are you going?” shouted Mr. Nicholson, right petulant.

“To protect the door,” said I.

Yet at the moment I pulled back the hammer of that pistol in my hand, hoping it was loaded, hoping I would not have to try it to find out, that very door I sought to defend was thrown open wide and Black Jack Bilbo came rushing in.

“Where is the fight?” he yelled at me.

The commotion above answered him. He looked up wild-eyed, quite frightening in appearance.

“I must have a weapon!”

I pointed to the fallen Brother on the floor. His axe lay half beneath him. Black Jack grabbed it up and turned to the stairs. But at that moment two figures of even more frightening aspect crashed down them — black clothing torn, blood dripping from face and hands. Somehow they had got through. One carried an axe, and one did not.

Black Jack went for the armed man, who threw his axe about him so strong and with such skill that he near tore the weapon from the hands of the former pirate when first they clashed.

The unarmed man gave them a wide berth, which brought him in my direction.

“Stop!” I yelled. “I’ll shoot!”

Yet he was past me before I had the pistol up and aimed proper. Just as he pulled open the door, I saw my shot and took it. Smoke billowed so from the barrel when I fired that my target was for a moment quite invisible to me. When the smoke cleared but a moment later, I saw that he was gone. I had missed.

“You hit him, young man, you did!” crowed Mr. Nicholson with great enthusiasm, standing to his full height behind the desk where we had hid. “I saw him stagger and clutch at his shoulder. Well done, young sir!”