Murder in Grub Street (21 page)

1 5 8 K II U C E A I. E X A N I) K R

The door opened, and there she stood, looking for a brief moment slightly disconcerted as she recognized me hopping eagerly upon her doorstep.

“Oh,” said she, “Jeremy, how good of you to come by.” Yet she seemed a bit uncertain of that.

“I have a message from Sir John,” said I.

“Well, then,” said she, “deliver it me, by all means.”

“He asks, if your ankle be up to it, would you accompany him on a ride through the town, a dinner at a respectable dining place, and afterwards to a bit of musical entertainment at the Crown and Anchor Tavern in the Strand. He wishes me to assure you that although it is indeed a tavern and usually frequented by men, on musical nights such as this one sponsored by the …” And here, reader, I hesitated, for the word was long and unfamiliar to me. “By the An-ac-re-on-tic Society, it is widely attended by ladies of good character accompanied by gentlemen. The entertainment tonight is something by Handel with interludes by a small orchestra.”

Because of the rigor with which I had exercised myself in reaching her quarters, and because of the length of the message, I ended my recitation somewhat out of breath. She noted this and smiled sympathetically.

“Have you run so far to tell me this?” she asked.

“I ran, yes, but it was no more than my good spirits bade me do it.”

“Well, you may run or walk, as you choose, with my response,” said she, “but tell Sir John that I accept his invitation most happily, and that I shall look forward to seeing him — at what hour?”

“Oh yes, I omitted that, did I not? At five o’clock, if that will be suitable.”

“That will be most suitable.”

“Thank you, then, Mrs. Durham. I shall tell him.”

I backed off with a wave, and she bade me goodbye. Leaving, I heard the door close after me. And then, to my great surprise, I caught the muffled sound of voices behind the door. I would not, could not, go back to eavesdrop, so of course I continued down the stairs, yet I was seized with great curiosity to know who was there with her. For one of the voices, deep and rumbling, had been distinctly masculine.

And so, reader, I did something which it now shames me to admit. I found a secluded doorway, deeply recessed, from which I had a view of the stairs leading to Mrs. Durham’s quarters but could not, I was sure, be seen. I determined to keep to this post until her visitor appeared.

I had not long to wait. It was but a few minutes when I heard a door close loudly, and then a moment or two after that, Mr. Tolliver, the butcher, stepped down the last few stairs, turned, and started down Berry Lane in the direction away from me. I was of course surprised to see him. Yet upon a moment’s reflection I understood that there was no reason for me to be surprised. He, after all, was a friend to her. Had he not rescued Mrs. Durham — indeed, rescued me, as well — from that squad in black who had caused her injury and such keen embarrassment? Certainly he had. It was only natural that he should call upon her to inquire after her recovery, and proper that he make his call on a Sunday morning. Yes, I was greatly relieved to see that Mr. Tolliver was her visitor.

Why then did I further shame myself by following him? I cannot say, but in doing so I saw what puzzled me somewhat. Though I had seen his face only briefly before he turned and started away, Mr. Tolliver did seem to wear a right solemn expression. Yet as I trailed behind him, I seemed to read his face without so much as glimpsing it. Never did a man display so plain with his body what was inside him. He shuffled along, head hung low, the very picture of discouragement and low spirits. I wanted to run forward and comfort him, to thank him for his quick action there in Covent Garden a few days past. Yet I did not. I did nothing at all but turn off at the first corner and leave him, for I feared that I might be seen.

I walked back to Bow Street, all in turmoil, once again by this mighty matter that lay between men and women. For indeed I sensed that it was this that lay at the heart of it all, responsible no less for Sir John’s uneasiness of the morning than for Mr. Tol-liver’s evident sadness. I was much confused and wanting counsel.

I was told, upon my return, that Sir John’s court was in session, and for the first time in my memory forwent the opportunity to attend the session. Instead, I fetched down the book from above that I had been reading at the time, and returned to sit on the plain bench outside Sir John’s chambers and wait for him there. I read desultorily as my thoughts returned again and again to my discovery and the question of what it might mean. All this did, however, lead me to a reasonable resolve, one which now seems to me to have been remarkably mature for one so young: I determined to say nothing of this to Sir John.

Eventually he came. I greeted him and informed him of Kath-erine Durham’s answer to his invitation. He, it seemed, was immediately elated by her acceptance.

” ‘Happily,’ did she say? She accepts ‘happily.’ Well, I doubt not I can show her a pleasant evening. What say you to that, Jeremy?”

I did not say what I thought, which was that I wished that I, too, could be invited to accompany them. What I did say was that I was sure they would both enjoy themselves mightily.

“Indeed, oh indeed, but now, Jeremy, I shall be going to meet Mr. Humber at the London Coffee House on Ludgate Hill to inform him of my change of plans. I had put him on notice. This should not come as a complete surprise to him.”

“I’m sure he will understand, Sir John.”

“Oh, he more than most. Do tell Mrs. Gredge that I’ll be dining out, will you?”

“Oh, certainly, Sir John.”

“And I’ll not be needing you the rest of the day. Go, boy, enjoy yourself. Here,” said he, digging deep into his pocket, “take a shilling — nay, have two or three. You’ve gone too long unpaid.”

He extended his hand to me, palm full of coins. We argued briefly. He insisted I take three shillings at least, which I did with thanks. “Will you be satisfied with a shilling a week? Nay, you deserve more. I must talk this over with Mr. Humber.”

So saying, he popped his tricorn on his head and set off for the street door. “Don’t wait up for me,” he called.

I wandered about the streets for more than an hour, pitying myself greatly that I had been left out of Sir John’s plans. Somehow, even after I delivered the invitation to Mrs. Durham, I had supposed that at the last minute he would realize his omission — or say to me, “But of course you were meant to come, too, Jeremy. Did you not realize?

Yet, as I have reported, he said no such thing, and so I was forced to wander alone, wallowing a bit in my disappointment. For the first time since I had come to London I felt myself in the grip of loneliness. I felt myself truly orphaned.

I returned through Covent Garden, which seemed to bustle with activity and rough entertainment at any time — even, indeed, quite late on a Sunday afternoon. A troupe of jugglers and acrobats had taken a place at the exact center of the piazza, where the pillar then stood. I lingered for a while, amazed at their skills, wondering at the years it must have taken to perfect them. Yet not so many, surely, for here was a boy no older than I, keeping no less than four balls in the air at a time. And over there a girl even younger — pretty and dark-haired — climbing to the top of a pile of men and boys to stand precariously, her feet planted on the shoulders of the two boys. Then at once the entire arrangement came down, as all its human elements dove and rolled about the pallets that were set beneath them. She dove the furthest, rolled skirts atumble with the boys — her brothers? I applauded with the rest of the crowd that had gathered around. Feeling rich with the shillings Sir John had forced upon me, I tossed one to her. She looked at me, picked it up, kissed the coin, and called out what I took to be her thanks in a language I knew not. Then she turned from me and busied herself picking up the rest of the coins that had landed near her.

I was quite thrilled by the jugglers and the acrobats — by her, in particular — but felt drawn back at that moment to Bow Street. Though it was not yet near the dinner hour, I thought it time to return. Perhaps I could see her again next Sunday. Perhaps I would somehow get to know her, and she would teach me her strange language. Perhaps … My young brain raced with the rich possibilities of life.

As I entered through the door that led to the rear at Number 4, I noted that Constable Fuller, seated a good distance down the hall, looked my way and bestirred himself from his chair. He walked toward me, frowning, as if annoyed at me. Yet I had done him no harm, as I knew, so I simply smiled an innocent smile and greeted him by name.

“You should not associate with his like,” said he.

“Beg pardon, Constable? With whose like?

“The one what’s waitin’ for you down yonder. I’ve had my troubles with that one, no doubt about it. We all have. Leave him be.”

Then, a bit late, I realized that it must be Jimmie Bunkins, boldly come to visit me at Bow Street. Had he been made so daring by his meeting with Sir John Fielding?

He was there, seated uncomfortably on a bench by the strong room. He rose, looking right and left; then staring over my shoulder at Constable Fuller, he whispered, “I been waitin’ on you — a long time.”

“I was in the Garden,” said I, “watching acrobats.”

“Ain’t that a rum way to spend your day.” Then he added, “Just like I figured, the hornies here don’t like me.”

“The hornies?”

“The constables, chum. That one’s been glimmin’ me right queer.” At last he turned his gaze from Mr. Fuller and looked me full in the eye. “We must hop the twig, chum. There be something I wish to show yez.”

“Is it important?”

“Would I stick my head in here if it warn’t?”

“How long will we be?”

“Not long. How do I know? As long as you wish it to be.”

I thought a moment. I trusted him, no doubt of that; neither was there doubt that he had run some risk in coming here. Indeed, he must hold it important that I accompany him.

“All right,” said I to him, “but let’s be quick.”

“As you wish, chum.”

And with that, he led me off down the hall, past Constable Fuller, whom he chose to ignore completely.

“Sir John will hear of this,” the constable called after me.

“He has confidence in me,” said I. “This is, I believe, an important matter.”

“If we catch you thievin’, you’ll be treated the same as any other.”

“Agreed,” said I.

Constable Amos Fuller was not my favorite of the Bow Street Runners.

Once on the street, he set off at a jog trot, and I alongside him. He took me through the crowded streets by the shortest route to the Thames — catching a bit of the Strand to Fleet Street, past the Cheshire Cheese, then down from Fleet Street to the riverbank. It was difficult to talk while keeping such a pace, and besides, for once, Jimmie Bunkins showed no inclination to jaw.

On we went, along a pathway at the water’s edge, where there were warehouses, fishermen’s shacks, and strange houselike vessels floating in the water. At last we reached our destination. I had not known there was such a place along the river, nor would I have expected it. It looked quite like a small farm. There was much empty ground around the place, though nothing grew there; it was as if those who might have been closer neighbors had forgone the opportunity — or have I supposed this in hindsight? We crossed this uncultivated field and made for what might have been a small farmhouse. Behind it was an outbuilding that could have been a barn, though it was not entirely that. And then in a pen adjoining that outbuilding I saw first one horse and then a second. Two horses, then, both of which looked ill unto death — gray, sickly, spavined; each moved with a slow, swaying motion, as if each step might be his last. I recognized those horses. Having done so, I stopped abruptly as Jimmie Bunkins went on ahead. Then he, realizing he was alone, stopped aner walked back to me.

“Come on,” said he, “this be the place.”

“The Raker is here.”

“Right, chum, and we must now go to meet the gent hisself.”

“No, Jimmie Bunkins, I saw far too much of the man the night of those terrible murders in Grub Street.”

“Ah,” said he, “you was there, was you? Well, to tell the truth, I ain’t too fond of the cull meself. Right queer he is. But we wants somethin’ from him, so it be best if we treats him with respec’.”

“Well

“Come on now, show some sand. Shove your trunk.”

I consented and started off with Bunkins at a walk. I suspected and feared what the Raker might have to show us there. The Thames flowed darkly at our right. The lowering sun threw long shadows toward us. I swore to myself I would not be in this place after dark.

As we came close, I caught at last the awful smell of the place. I believe there is something deep-seated in all humans which makes that smell particularly repellent to them. It is the smell of that which awaits us all — death and decay.

I forced myself to move ahead, however, with Bunkins to the door of the place, on which he knocked. We waited but a moment until the door creaked open. There stood not the Raker but a woman in a dirty gown near as ugly as he. And ugly in the same way, for one eye, the right, was distinctly smaller than the left.

“Hullo?” said she in a manner most suspicious. Then, fixing Bunkins with her queer gaze, she gave a little smile, relaxing somewhat. “Ah, you be the boy come by before. Want another look at the ladies, do ye? I see ye brought a friend along. It’ll cost you another shilling, though.” She turned to me. “And a shilling for you, too.”

Reluctantly, I dug into my pocket and handed over the two shillings remaining of the three Sir John had given me.

“The mister is in back,” said she. “You knows the way now. Just tell him you paid, and I passed you.”

She gave a nod then and shut the door in our faces. We started round the house.

“Ain’t she a queer un!” said Jimmie Bunkins. “A proper old witch.”

“And with his same misshapen face,” I whispered.

“She’s the cove’s sister, or so I hear tell. She talked on and on when I come before about how none come by but for to claim their kin and she’s so lonely and all. Only then would she let me on to the back. She gave me pan bread to eat, and I was that hungry I ate it. But I would never take meat from her, no matter how hungry!”