Murder in Grub Street Read Free

somewhat, wondering what he had done to win it. He was not lenient, I reasoned, but he was fair. When seated upon the bench, he demanded evidence and from witnesses wanted only to know what they themselves had seen and heard and not what they had gathered secondhand. In sum, if ruffians such as these who gathered before the Cock of the Walk should come before him, they knew they had a chance to prove their innocence, or at least becloud their guilt; and this was all they hoped for. He was their man.
    Moving past them, I noted that Sir John did not quicken his pace, though I myself was eager to get us away. When we were some distance away I ventured to turn back and take a look. I saw with some relief that we were not followed.
    “None would dare,” said Sir John.
    “Sir?” said I, suspecting for a moment he had read my thoughts.
    “You lagged behind a moment. I take it that like any sensible soldier you were making sure our rear was safe from attack. I commend you for that, even though there was no need. I have my eminence to protect me — sufficient is it to guard you as well, I think. Should even that fail us, there is always the pistol in your pocket — loaned to you, I believe, by Mr. Baker, was it not?”
    “Yes, sir, but …” I hesitated, a moment dumbfounded. “How did you know?”
    “Oh, he has his tricks, has Mr. Baker. He seems to believe I had need of an armed guard each time I go out after dark. Not so. Nothing of the kind. Now, if I am not mistaken, he slipped you the pistol — probably a small one — as we were leaving Bow Street. Is that correct?”
    “It is, yes,” said I. “But he said nothing. I said nothing.”
    “Your pocket spoke. You usually carry a few coins in your pocket, probably no more than a few shillings — remind me to pay you a bit for services rendered, by the by. Occasionally the coins jingle in your pocket. Yet ever since we began on our walk they have been clanging away against a larger metal object, of steel no doubt. Knowing Mr. Baker’s worries about me and his love of firearms, I supposed that he must have presented you with a pistol. Though in general I do not disapprove of his precautions, I do question his wisdom in handing a loaded gun to a thirteen-year-old boy — that is your age, is it not, Jeremy?”
    “Yes, Sir John.”
    “Mind you do not shoot yourself in the foot.”
    With that bit of advice he let the matter pass. We were by then hard by Grub Street, in any case, just one crossing distant. I had it in sight. In truth, I knew the way well by then, having made three or four trips there and back from Bow Street in the past week, and perhaps one in the week before. Grub Street was then, though it is somewhat less today, a place given chiefly to booksellers and publishers and the impecunious writers whom they employed. At Sir John Fielding’s appeal, no less than Dr. Samuel Johnson had bruited my name about among the publishers and printers on the street as a likely lad to serve as an apprentice to one of them. Several expressed interest, and Dr. Johnson chose the one he deemed most respectable. I was sent hence with a formal letter of recommendation, and my prospective employer took time from his day to talk at length with me. He assumed I was a young protege of Dr. Johnson’s, and when he heard I was a native of Lichfield (famous as Dr. Johnson’s place of origin), he took that to be the connection between us; I allowed him to do so. Quite interested was he when I told him my father had been a printer and that he had had a small shop of his own. He assumed it to have been in Lichfield; I allowed him to do so.
    “And how came you to London?” asked my prospective employer, no doubt wondering why I had not formally apprenticed with my father.
    “My mother died three years ago. My father passed away recently,” said I, making no reference to the shameful circumstances of his death. “I am an orphan.”
    “Ah,” said he, “of course. My condolences,