Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

“You’ll do well here.”

“I know it. Give my best to Sir John. He’s a grand man, he is.”

The man whom most had forgot in all the commotion of the great ambuscade at Boyer’s was none but John Clayton. He languished still in the Fleet Prison. Yet Sir John had not forgot. On the morning I visited Boyer’s to surrender the pistol, he took a hackney to Bloomsbury Square and visited William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. From him he sought the papers necessary for Mr. Clayton’s release. In point of fact, Sir John had it in his power to make the release; he sought the Lord Chief Justice’s signature merely as a matter of courtesy, since he it was who had been so eager to try him. Yet that was many arrests and a broadsheet ago. The Lord Chief Justice would surely be most cooperative — and he was, to a point. He did, however, make one request: that upon Mr. Clayton’s release from the Fleet, he be brought to him for a brief interview.

While that seemed a modest enough request, Sir John thought it an opportunity to make a point regarding Mr. Clayton. And so he arranged that upon Mr. Clayton’s release the next morning, he would be met by Dr. Samuel Johnson at Lord Mansfield’s, and that I myself would convey Mr. Clayton from the prison to the residence. We would all be present at said interview.

“In this way,” said Sir John, “you shall demonstrate with Dr. Johnson’s presence the poet’s high standing in literary circles. This was Johnson’s idea, for he means to give Clayton a helping hand. He has offered him his hospitality until matters are settled for him.”

“And what will my presence demonstrate?” I asked, all innocent.

“That this former inmate of Bedlam, this accused murderer, may without fear be entrusted to the care of a boy of your tender years… You are without fear in this matter, I take it?”

And so it came to pass as he had planned it. Entrusted with money to pay for the hackney carriage, reminded to tip the driver, I set off alone quite early next morning for the Fleet Prison. When the carriage arrived, I instructed the driver to wait, and presented myself first to the gatekeeper and then to the governor of the prison. I offered the papers for John Clayton’s release and was told he would be brought presently.

“Who is to accompany him?” asked the governor of the prison.

“I am, sir.”

“Hmmmm,” said he — and no more than that.

I waited in the governor’s office a moderate length of time until Mr. Clayton was brought forth. He looked no worse than he had when last I had seen him in Sir John’s chambers — actually a bit better. Clean-shaven he was and properly washed. He would indeed have looked fit to present to any, were it not for his filthy clothing. They smelled a bit unpleasantly, too.

I could not help but note that he seemed slightly disappointed to see me, and only me, awaiting him.

“I had thought that Dr. Johnson might be here,” said he.

“We are to meet him at the residence of the Lord Chief Justice.”

I could not resist a look at the governor. He took careful note of our destination, and as I bowed my thanks to him, he quite amazed me by standing and offering Mr. Clayton his hand. Mr. Clayton was also amazed, yet he shook it.

“Well,” said the governor, “I trust your stay with us was not too unpleasant, Mr., uh, Clayton.”

“Nevertheless, I am glad to leave.”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.” He forced a laugh. “I can have the gatekeeper send a man to fetch you a hackney.”

“We have one waiting,” said I.

“Oh, so you do, so you do.”

“Mr. Clayton?”

I gestured to the door, and together we left.

Once in the hackney and on our way, Mr. Clayton seemed most uneasy. He folded and unfolded his large hands, then spread them out and grasped his knees tightly. I feared he was in some sense slipping from me. I did not wish to see Eusebius make an appearance, much less Petrus.

“Is the Lord Chief Justice responsible for my release?” he asked of a sudden.

“Oh no, sir. It was Sir John Fielding did it all. The Lord Chief Justice merely accommodated him.”

“He seemed unfriendly to me when I met him. On what condition am I released?”

“On no condition at all. You are quite free. Did you not hear the news?”

“Why, no,” said he. “Dr. Johnson, who was my source, was unable to come visit yesterday. What have you to tell?”

A great deal had I to tell to him, and I spun the tale out so that it lasted the entire distance to Bloomsbury Square. I told how his information on Mr. Crabb and the surly preacher was well confirmed by the testimony of Tom Cranford. I gave him the trap set by Sir John at Boyer’s. I described the great battle, and even (though it would have displeased Sir John) my modest part in it. Then, reminding him of the great wind that blew three nights before, I told Mr. Clayton how the very house of the Brethren of the Spirit had fallen near upon them, and how their leader had been shot in a blind attempt to escape.

I flatter myself that I told it well. If I were to judge from Mr. Clayton’s response, then I told it as a master. Once it was begun, he seemed to hold tight to every word and was quite transported from his anxieties. When I finished, he heaved a great sigh, which had naught of misery in it, but a great relief.

“Then,” said he, “these were the men who murdered all those in the Crabb household? Them it was I heard when I hid? Was it so?”

“Indeed it was.”

“And they have been arrested for those terrible murders?”

“Yes, sir, and bound over for trial.”

“Then hallelujah, and three great huzzahs for Sir John Fielding. He was on my side, after all.”

“You may be sure of it,” said I.

Then, looking through the window of the hackney, I saw that we had come quite near to Bloomsbury. In fact, as we drew to a halt before that grand palazzo, I spied Dr. Johnson at its front, pacing impatiently.

“I have but one question,” said Mr. Clayton to me. “If I am free without condition, why must I now meet with the Lord Chief Justice?”

“That I cannot say, sir. He wished it so, and Sir John thought it best to honor his wishes.”

I paid the driver what he asked, then tipped him a full shilling, as Sir John had instructed me, for waiting at the Fleet. As I attended to this, Mr. Clayton rushed over to Dr. Johnson, who greeted him cordially, and confirmed (as I overheard) that all that I had told him was true.

I went confidently to the door while the two men continued to discuss passionately the events of the past three days and nights. I had dressed carefully in my best clothes, and in my own eyes at least, looked quite the figure of the young man of the town. Well I remembered having been refused entry by the butler because of my ragged appearance. He would not turn me away this day.

I knocked loudly upon the door, and the butler arrived promptly. He was not impressed.

“Yes, boy, what is it?”

“Mr. John Clayton, Dr. Samuel Johnson, and Master Jeremy Proctor are here to call on the Lord Chief Justice at his invitation,” said I.

“I thought only Mr. Clayton, but” — he sighed — “come ahead.”

And so we entered, I last of all, in good position to note the butler’s disdain at poor Mr. Clayton’s attire, which was more ragged and dirty than mine at my worst; he raised his eyes to heaven and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Yet he remained ever proper.

“This way, please.”

He led us to the library and bowed us inside. The Lord Chief Justice rose from his desk and offered his hand all around, yet remained on his feet, signaling that we were to do so, too. This was to be indeed a brief interview.

“Well, Mr. Clayton,” said he, “out now, are you? A free man.”