Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

“So in no way did you follow my instructions. Your first impulse was to disobey me, and you followed that impulse through to the end. Were you merely curious? What have you to say for yourself? “

In truth, I had no prepared answer for him, though I well knew this occasion would arise between us. Now that it had, all I could do was speak from my heart.

“Sir,” said I, “though I was curious and am always so in your handling of matters of the law, it was not that which prevented my leaving. When I helped Moll Caulfield from the collapse of that building which left her without a home, it was quite the most fearful experience of my life. I knew that I would always remember the groans and shrieks of the timbers that preceded their final coming apart. That night, last night, I heard those same dreadful sounds in that house of the Brethren of the Spirit. I tried to warn you that it would soon collapse, but I’m sure your mind was on what lay ahead. I felt that in this case only, I knew the danger better than you. And so I remained. I told myself that I would know when the final fall was near, and when that came I would run forward and pull you out, no matter how you resisted. And, Sir John, that is what I did. I did not interrupt you to plead you out of there. I did not intentionally listen — though I admit I heard all. I did but wait until I could wait no longer.” I paused, then added, “I was told — “

“Do you think you can — ” Then he paused. “No, proceed. I would have you say all you have to say.”

“I was told by that rabbi that I was to look after you, and he said a blessing on me to help me do that.”

He slammed the table with the palm of his hand. “I will not be looked after by a thirteen-year-old boy, nor a rabbi. You did insult not only to me but to Mr. Bailey, as well. I can look after myself, and in those instances when I cannot, Mr. Bailey will protect me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sat silent longer than I liked, his face quite inscrutable.

“You must not overreach yourself, Jeremy,” said he at last. “Remember your age. Respect it. Enjoy it — insofar as is possible. It is not proper for a boy of your years to join in the fray and discharge firearms, any more than it is that you decide which of my instructions are to be obeyed and which are not. Though you did not think it so, both Mr. Bailey and I were aware of the danger signaled by the loud creaking and groaning of the rotten timbers in that old house. I have, as you know, very keen hearing. Yet we proceeded. It was my decision that we do so. Mr. Bailey did not challenge it, though he could have. We took that risk together. It is our lot at times by the nature of our work to take such risks — Mr. Bailey, bless him, more often than I.

“However, since in both instances, the firing of the pistol and the disobedience of my instructions, your actions were well intended and had not bad results, I would be less than just if I did not overlook them.”

“Thank you, sir,” said I, most gratefully.

“In the future, for many years to come, remember my words, if you will: Do not overreach yourself. Make no rush into manhood.”

Then, having had his say, he clapped together his hands, signaling an end to it, and rose from the table.

“Remember your after-dinner duties for Mrs. Gredge, and do all else she has charged you to do. But I, Jeremy, will now go to bed, and I hope to sleep sound for many more hours than is usual with me. I am quite exhausted.”

Next day, late in the morning and following my release by Mrs. Gredge, I returned to Boyer’s in Grub Street to seek out Mr. Nicholson and return to him his dueling pistol. It is an awkward thing to go through the streets of London in daylight with a pistol in your hand, and so I tucked it deep into my coat pocket and over it put a linen handkerchief supplied to me by Mrs. Gredge in order to disguise the true contents of my pocket. Even so, I kept my hand thrust inside on the walk to Grub Street as a safeguard against “wipe-priggers” (one of a number of new terms I had picked up from Jimmie Bunkins).

I found Boyer’s establishment quite crowded with the curious. Word had circulated far and wide of the events of two nights past. There was even a broadsheet sold on the streets-“Grub Street Killers Caught in Ambuscade”-which had no doubt been dashed off by Ormond Neville and published quickly by Mr. Boyer. It had brought in their regular clients to exclaim and question, as well as many who had never before been in their shop. Many books were bought, a few stolen, but the increase in trade would more than compensate for the damage done in subduing the Brethren of the Spirit.

I squeezed through the many at the door, and seeing that Mr. Nicholson was not at the alcove desk behind which we had hid, found that same clerk who had brought Mr. Boyer to me. I asked for Nicholson.

“He is back in the print shop. What business have you with him?”

“I must return his pistol.”

“His pistol? Ho, I know you. You’re the one had that letter from Sir John Fielding started this entire affair. Now you wish to return Mr. Nicholson’s pistol. You must have been present during the great battle.”

“I was, yes,” said I most modestly.

“Tell me true, did he really shoot and wound one of those black-suited devils?

I fought the impulse to set him right with a boast. “Oh yes,” said I, “it was just as he said.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said he. “Imagine! Our Mr. Nicholson!” He shook his head, quite overcome. “Well, you may go back and find him yourself. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you — comrades in arms, so to speak.”

I thanked the fellow and passed through the door to the print shop and bindery. Boyer’s was near twice the size of the modest workshop at Crabb’s, and it hummed with industry and purpose. I found Mr. Nicholson inspecting a title page proof and greeted him in friendly manner. He, however, seemed somewhat embarrassed by my coming. He muttered his thanks, inquired after my health, and excused himself, complaining of the burden of work that had been heaped upon him. Perhaps he feared I might expose him if I remained longer than the moment he had allowed me.

A lesson, thought I, in human frailty. As I glanced back at him on my way out, I noted that he had tucked the pistol in his belt like some buccaneer from the Caribe. He would cut quite a figure so.

“Jeremy! Jeremy, boy!”

Hearing myself hailed, I turned and found an aproned Tom Cranford approaching. These were for him strange surroundings. I wondered at his presence here. He grabbed my hand and gave it a great squeeze. All his high spirits were returned.

“Come through the great battle well enough, did you?”

“Oh, well enough indeed.” Then, not wishing to seem intrusive, yet quite curious, I asked, “But Tom, may I inquire, what are you doing here at Boyer’s?”

“Why, I work here,” said he. “My first day it is. Mr. Boyer and I both gave testimony at Sir John’s court yesterday. And afterwards, I put it to him, I said, ‘Mr. Boyer, you’re down a journeyman, for that traitorous fellow Isham Henry has now gone on to his just deserts. I should like to apply for his position, for I am twice the man at setting type he ever was.’“

“And what did he say to that?”

“He says to me, ‘I like your manner, young man. I remember you applied at the same time as Henry, when Crabb’s was murdered out of business. I chose Henry because he was your senior- made journeyman five years before you, as I recall. Besides, you gave good testimony today.’ So Mr. Boyer tells me then to report to his master printer, Mr. Rees, in the morning — which is today.”

“So it was goodbye to Mr. Dodsley?”

“And up your arse, says I. This will work out well for me,” said he. “Mr. Rees informs me they allow regular recess! Makes the fellows work better. But this ain’t it for me, so I’d best get on with my job. I could not let you go without greeting you.”