Murder in Grub Street (3 page)

It was but minutes he spent with Harry. And when he had done with him, he sent him on his way.

“But that ain’t fair,” protested Harry loudly. “I wish to wait on my mates.”

“If so, you’ll do it out of my sight,” said Mr. Bailey. “Now take yourself out of here, or I’ll plant my boot up your arse.”

Harry backed away, signaling to the others he would wait around the corner.

“You should not treat us so!” cried one of them, all indignant, to Mr. Bailey.

“By Christ, you should not!” said another.

“Was it not us who gave the alarm?” asked Bert. “Did we not enter with your young constable, knowing not what perils awaited us? Did we not help subdue the murderer?”

“And” queried Mr. Bailey, striding toward them, “was it not you who went through the place and turned it topside down the moment the constable was out of the way?” He stopped, facing them down, hands on hips, arms akimbo. “What was it you was looking for? The money box?”

“Aye,” said Bert, “we found it, and we turned it over to the constable when he returned.”

“Caught in the act is what you were. And one of your number made off with the murder weapon. The constable gave you orders not to return inside the house, did he not?”

“We was only tryin’ to be helpful.”

“Come along,” said Mr. Bailey to Bert. “I’ll give you helpful.”

And he seized upon him and walked him rudely to the place he had chosen beneath the streetlamp. There he began putting questions to him in the same subdued tone he had used before, all the more intimidating for his quiet control of it.

My attention taken, as it was, by the confrontation just recorded, I only then became aware of the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones quite nearby. So near was it, in fact, that it seemed but moments before a dray wagon drawn by two horses came in sight, rolling slowly up Grub Street in our direction.

Something strange happened then. Not only had I turned to look, but so had the others, as well. The two waiting witnesses left off their whispered talk; so, too, did Mr. Bailey interrupt his earnest questioning. They all stopped to give their attention to the dray wagon which seemed to appear and disappear in a ghostly manner as it moved from streetlamp to darkness, then back into the perimeter of dim illumination provided by the next streetlamp. All simply stared, so that where loud acrimony had prevailed not long before, there was now only silence, save for the steady clip-clop of the horses and the creaking of the wagon wheels.

The two men before me shrank back, far back, to the other side of the street as the wagon pulled up before the house of Ezekiel Crabb. It was only then that I got a proper look at the mysterious arrival and his remarkable conveyance. Whatever color the wagon had once been painted, it had by then faded to a dark, dirt-streaked gray, all except for a panel in the middle of it which had been rubbed clean; thereon had been painted a skull and cross-bones in white, all in stark contrast to the rest. The horses, too, were gray. Spavined and skeletal, they seemed half dead as they bowed their heads in evident exhaustion. They remained so, still as statues, for the remainder of their stay.

The driver, indifferent to them, tossed down the reins and climbed down from the wagon. He moved surely and deliberately, not a tall man but wide at the shoulders and thick at the waist. When he turned to me and started to the door, I noted his apelike bearing, how his long arms seemed to dangle and his short legs fell forward heavily with each step. He was a round-faced, ugly man, a week in need of a razor.

When he drew close, he thrust that face close to mine, smiled a carious smile and winked an eye at me — the one which was smaller than its fellow.

“Be a good lad,” said he in a low, hoarse voice, “and tell them the Raker is come.”

Quite overcome was I by the foul smell of him. I stepped back yet tried to maintain my stern demeanor.

Then Mr. Bailey called out to me: “Let him pass, Jeremy. Direct him to the floor above.”

I stepped aside then. “You heard that?” I asked. “Up above.”

“I heard,” said he as he lumbered past.

I knew not what to make of him — the skull and crossbones on his dray wagon, the apparent fear he had inspired in grown men. Could he be a pirate? Of course not. There were none such in London, save perhaps for Black Jack Bilbo, and he was retired from the trade. Who then? What then? What did he mean to call himself “the Raker”? (I learned soon enough.)

Mr. Bailey proceeded quickly with his queries and was done with the talkative and facetious Bert in no time at all. He, too, was sent off and left without complaint. The remaining two also seemed eager to be away. The next witness jog-trotted from his place across the street and presented himself to Mr. Bailey without summons.

Hearing scuffling and the sound of great effort behind me, I stepped away from the door and waited but a moment before Constable Cowley and the Raker appeared with a heavy package between them. It was a corpus wrapped in a bloodstained sheet, and judging from the size and shape, it was likely Mr. Crabb himself. The two bearers made their way with some difficulty to the wagon.

Murder in Grub Street \ 7

“Ready?” said the Raker. “Then one … two … three!”

And they heaved their package up over the side and into the wagon, sheet and all. Yet as it flew through the air, the wrapping parted and revealed enough of its contents to confirm my identification.

It was so then. Ezekiel Crabb was the victim. In my mind I mourned him, for he had seemed a good man for certain sure. His liking for me would have made him a good and generous master. And as children will, who think most of themselves, I mourned my own circumstances, as well. Would I find another master as good? To whom would I now be apprenticed?

Yet the constable and the Raker returned into the house and my mind turned to the question of culpability. Who could have murdered Mr. Crabb? Could it have been that threatening fellow Clarence? Perhaps his place at the type stand was to be given me. Perhaps he had brooded upon it and struck down his master whilst he slept. No, more likely it was the madman in the strong room at Bow Street. He had been taken prisoner, after all. What could have angered him so to strike down Mr. Crabb? But of course madness required no reason.

Then there were more grunts and mutual warnings of “Mind, now” and “Have a care,” coming from the room behind me. And to my surprise, the constable and the Raker emerged with another corpus. This one, too, was wrapped in a bloody sheet, yet not so well that I did not fail to notice a mass of gray hair trailing out at one end. Was this then Mrs. Crabb, whom I had not met but only heard of? Yet there was no respect given her sex. She was given the same treatment — heave-ho and into the wagon — as her husband. And once again the Raker led the way back into the house. I heard him say in that phlegmy, rattling voice, “Fat old dame, wasn’t she now? I vow she was heavier than her man.” He cackled at that as if he had made a great joke.

Thus had begun the parade of the dead. Wrapped in sheets and blankets they came, borne between the two and deposited in the wagon in the same primitive manner. Whether from the labor or the nature of the task, Constable Cowley perspired heavily, though the night was cool; and it may have been, as I reflect upon it, that those rivulets upon his cheeks were tears, for he had a sensitive nature and was not yet inured to such carnage.

The Raker, for his part, went at it with relish, growing ever more jolly with each load he carried, making little grisly witticisms for the benefit of none but himself. Grisliest of all was his response to a mishap there at the doorstep. Constable Cowley stumbled slightly at the exit, and from the weighted blanket popped a human arm cleft off above the elbow, bloody bone, meat, and gristle protruding from the end of it. Where did the arm land but at my feet? I jumped back in horror. But quick as a wink the Raker was there to pick it up by the hand. He supported his end easily with one hand of his own, for the man was uncommon strong, and on the way to the wagon held a conversation with the dead owner of the arm.

“Well, I’m happy to make your acquaintance, my good fellow, so I am,” said he, shaking the hand of the thing in salutation, as if meeting for the first time. “How is you this fine night? Came upon you sudden like, did it? Well, that’s oft the way of it—when we least expect, so they say.”

Then, at the wagon, he tossed the arm upon the growing pile and with a “one-two-three” and the help of the constable sent the rest of the corpus to follow.

“Sweet Jesus’ sake,” said Cowley to him, near weeping with anger, “how can you carry on so?”

The Raker stood for a moment and regarded him with amused perplexity. “The dead don’t care,” said he at last.

Cowley pushed past him and went into the house. The Raker followed, giggling to himself.

I felt a soft grip upon my arm and found Mr. Bailey by my side. “Sorry you had to see that, Jeremy,” said he.

“Would that I had not.”

“I’ve talked to the last of that bunch who was inside the place. No need for you to remain before the door. Come inside, if you like.”

“Are …” I hesitated. “Are there more dead within the house?”

“Yes,” said he, “though none on the ground floor.”

“Well and good then.”

I found I had the pistol still in my hand. Indeed, when I became aware of it, it seemed quite sudden a great weight. And so I thrust it into the pocket of my coat and followed Mr. Bailey through the door.

From previous visits to the Crabb establishment I knew this to be the shop for the sale of books. Though not large, it was well stocked with those of Crabb’s own publication, as well as others. At that moment it was lit by the light of a single candle. By that light I saw Sir John sitting on a chair in one corner, his hands folded upon his stick, his tricorn firm upon his head. His face wore an expressionless mask I had seen before when he was deep in thought. After some moments, however, he roused and turned in our direction.

“Is that you, Mr. Bailey?”

“Yes, sir, me and Jeremy.”

“Ah yes, Jeremy. I wish I had left him abed and not tarried to talk to that poor creature back at Bow Street. Little good it did.” He rose then from the chair. “Mr. Bailey, I should like you to take me to the cellar. I understand that the way is through the printing shop in back. Is that the route, Jeremy?”

“I believe so,” said I.

“Why not stay here then? We’ll not be long.”

And thus they left me there in the dark, for Mr. Bailey had taken with them the candle that had lit the room. Yet not completely in the dark, for there were candles lit on the floor above which showed some light down where I stood; and through the shop window that looked out upon the street there came a glow from the lamp and perhaps a hint of the dawn that was to come.

As I stood waiting, two more bodies were ushered to the wagon and deposited there. With a full load, the Raker busied himself rearranging it for the journey he would make; he hauled the dead about, tossing them this way and that like so many sacks of grain, no longer mindful to keep them covered. Once he had suited himself as to their disposition, he threw a tarpaulin over them all and secured it at the four corners of the wagon. He seemed to sing some ditty or ballad to himself as he went about it. I could not catch the words to it, but they seemed to amuse him.

Sir John then returned with Mr. Bailey and, calling out, summoned Constable Cowley to him. Them he instructed to secure the building as best they could. He proposed that rope might do to tie the door. “Also,” said he, “you must post a sign, warning all away on pain of fine and imprisonment. Sign my name to it, though in no wise try to copy my signature.

“As you will, sir.”

“As I will? Yes, Mr. Bailey, I can only wish that all things were as I willed them, or as I willed them not to be. Well, no matter. Jeremy? Are you prepared to see us back the way we came?”

“I am, Sir John.”

“Would you not prefer to wait, Sir John?” asked Mr. Bailey. “The two of us constables could accompany you back to Bow Street.”

“No,” said he, most emphatically. “I must get this boy back to his bed, if indeed he can sleep after the horrors he has witnessed this night.” He cocked his head more or less in my direction. “Jeremy?”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“Let us be on our way.”

I then touched him at the elbow and guided him forth from this place in which the infamous “massacre in Grub Street” had taken place. We stepped together into the street. There I saw the Raker, who had mounted the driver’s seat and was now ready to depart.

“Quite a harvest, Sir John,” he called out. “I’ve not had such a haul for months or more, perhaps a year.”

“You will be paid for it, of course,” said Sir John.

“Ah yes,” said he, “all part of the job. Would you and the lad care to accompany me? I’m going your way.”

“No, I think we’ll walk, thank you.”

And at that he laughed most heartily. “Few wish to do so,” said the Raker. “Indeed, few do.”

And then with a whip he stirred his dead horses back to life and they started on their way. I watched them go. Sir John set off at a good pace, and I hopped along to keep up with him.

“Who is that man?” I asked. “What does he mean calling himself ‘the Raker’?”

“I know not truly who he is,” said Sir John. “He calls himself only that — the Raker. It is a title passed down from the last century, during the plague years, when some ancestor of his went through London town collecting the plague dead. It was dangerous work, leaving all who pursued it open to infection. Somehow, his line survived, and so the ugly business passed down to him. He is employed by the city of London to collect bodies and hold them until they be claimed. If they are not, he sees to their burial in potter’s graves.”

“All seem to fear him a little,” I ventured.

Sir John sighed. “He enjoys his work too much. There is something unholy about the man. There are rumors about him we need not discuss.”

“I understand, sir.” Though in truth, I did not.

We walked along in silence until we came to the crossing where we had earlier turned up Grub Street. I guided Sir John at the corner with no more than a touch at the elbow. And thus in an easterly direction we went, picking up the pace once again.