Bruce Alexander - Murder in Grub Street

Simply that and no more. For a man of Samuel Johnson’s all-consuming curiosity, such a communication as the one I had delivered would merely whet his appetite to know more of the matter. Sir John had foreseen this and instructed me that I might tell all that I had seen, with the exception of his attempt to question John Clayton — nothing of the condition of the prisoner in the strong room; nothing, too, of what I might have heard from others, Constable Cowley or his witnesses, regarding Clayton’s arrest; and certainly nothing of Sir John’s conjectures on any of these matters.

Dr. Johnson regarded me sternly from across the table. One eye, I perceived, was near blind. The other, while none too healthy, fixed me with a solemn stare, so that I expected the worst up to the very moment he spoke.

“Have you eaten, lad? Would you care for something?”

“A cup of tea, perhaps, sir.” For I had been well fed by Mrs. Gredge.

“That we can surely manage.”

Then, as if summoned by the power of his thought, the maid appeared with a man-sized cup and saucer, which she placed before me. She filled it from the teapot on the table and was gone without a word. (Yet certainly not far, for she must indeed be listening at the door.)

“Now,”’ said Dr. Johnson, “you must tell me more of this remarkable event.”

“What would you know, sir?”

“Why, all of it — as much as you have to tell me. Sir John spoke in his letter of a terrible crime …”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of murder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, boy, how terrible was it? Who was it was murdered?”

“As terrible as can be conceived,” said I, taking the cup to my lips and risking a sip of the strong, well-steeped tea. (I do confess, reader, that with this pause I hoped to add drama to what I had to say.) “All were murdered, sir.”

“All?” His best eye widened in shock. “Crabb, you say, and his wife, as well?”

“And his sons,” I added, “and his two apprentices. Six in all. I saw their bodies carried from the house in Grub Street.”

The great man fell silent for a moment, quite overcome by the intelligence I had just supplied. Then, recovering, he asked, “You were present?”

“I accompanied Sir John to the place. There were no hackneys on the street at the hour we set out. He needed my help because of his …” I hesitated. “Because of his affliction.”

“Yes, yes, of course. So you were there indeed. Tell me what you saw and heard.”

And that I did, editing my report along the lines that Sir John had urged. Even so, I included details aplenty to fascinate and revolt Dr. Johnson. I did not spare him the tale of the Raker’s arrival, nor his grisly jokes, nor indeed his quite outrageous play with the severed member. Through it all, he listened attentively, yet he was neither so fascinated nor so revolted that he ceased to eat through my long recitation. Indeed, he ate a great, huge breakfast of bread, butter, and near a whole flitch of bacon. His servant made trips to and fro, replenishing his plate. He chewed with such fervor and intensity that perspiration stood out on his brow.

We two finished, by happenstance, at about the same moment-I with my story and he with his eating. He pushed back from the table and trumpeted forth a grand belch. Then he regarded me once again with another steady gaze, though one which seemed in some sense less severe than earlier.

“Well told,” said he. “But what can you tell me now of John Clayton?”

“Who is that, sir?” I asked, all innocent.

“Why, he is the prisoner. It was he who was taken at the Crabb house, was it not? Sir John mentioned him specifically in his letter.”

“Did he, sir? That’s as may be, but there was none taken whilst I was there. I do allow, however, that I heard the name mentioned in Bow Street before being sent along here with the letter.”

“Then you can tell me nothing of him and his present state?”

Thankful that he had phrased the question so (for I had no wish to lie to such an august personage), I answered the question truthfully thus: “I regret that I am unable to shed any light upon that matter.”

(I reasoned that Sir John’s instructions had rendered me unable to do so, and that indeed I did regret it, for were my tongue not tied by my promise, I could have given Dr. Johnson a description of sullen Petrus in his cell clothed only in a bloodstained nightshirt which would indeed have astonished him. If such play with words seems specious and Jesuitical, dear reader, it is nevertheless a habit of thought which comes natural to lawyers and lawyers-to-be.)

“Well, then …” said he, and making a bellows of his mouth, let forth a great puff of air which seemed nearly to empty his lungs. Then, with a nimbleness that surprised me, he jumped to his feet. “Let us be off to our meeting.” He seemed quite eager to go. I followed him out into the hall and to the street door. There he grabbed up his tricorn and stick and made ready to leave. Yet he turned to me then and asked with something like a smile, “Why does Sir John wish to meet in an obscure coffeehouse and not in his chambers?”

“Upon that I could only speculate, sir.”

“Proceed then: speculate.”

Though Sir John had not covered this in his instructions to me, I could well suppose the true reason: The way to his chambers led past the strong room where the prisoner was housed. He had no wish that Dr. Johnson see the man in such a state. It would not do to tell this, and so I was forced to improvise.

“It could be,” said I, “that he wishes the meeting to be of an informal sort, to put you at your ease. What is said in his chambers is often taken down by the clerk in deposition. This makes some shy to speak.”

“I? Shy? Hmmnph! It could be, too,” said Samuel Johnson, “that he wishes no one at Bow Street to know that he seeks my advice!” With that he laughed a great, conceited laugh, threw open the door, and plunged out into the courtyard.

I pulled the door shut after me and ran to catch him up.

And I continued to run, it seemed, through the length of our long journey by foot. Yet if he was a fleet and energetic walker, he was also a silent one. We were nearly to the Haymarket before he ventured his first words to me. They came in a grumble tossed over his shoulder in my direction.

“I suppose,” said he, “that I shall have to find you a new position as apprentice.”

“It would seem so,” said I, hopping up beside him, awaiting further words on this subject. But none came. He simply set his face in an attitude of thought and pressed on through the growing crowd of pedestrians. After a few paces together, I fell inevitably behind.

But once more he spoke out before we reached our destination: “When were you to begin with Mr. Crabb?” he called out.

“That would have been today, sir,” said I, once more running up to him.

“Fortunate for you that it was not yesterday, eh? There would have been seven victims then. Had you thought of that?”

“It has been pointed out to me,” said I, most politely.

“Hmm. Yes … well … indeed.” He stopped suddenly and whirled about, looking this way and that, thus causing some confusion amongst those around him. We had come to the Haymarket. “Now, boy, tell me,” said he, “where is this place we are to meet?”

I knew it well, for I had drunk coffee there myself, having been introduced to the practice but a few short weeks before at Lloyd’s.

“This way,” said I, and for once took the lead, crossing the cobblestoned way with him impatient at my heels. We entered and were immediately assailed by the wondrous aroma of the brew; quite welcome after our long immersion in the foul smells of the streets.