three in the morning, on that night which was to alter the course of my life for all time to come.
As we turned up the way, I spied a small crowd by the dim light of the lamps. They had gathered before a building of some size near halfway down the street. That place, I realized, was quite familiar to me. It had been my destination on each of my previous trips to Grub Street. That building housed the store and shop of Ezekiel Crabb, bookseller and publisher, the master to whom I had been apprenticed; it was to be my home and workplace beginning eight o’clock in the morning of that very day. Had Sir John taken it upon himself to deliver me early? That made no sense. And why this group of curious onlookers?
“Is thu our destination, sir?” I asked. I had to know.
“Yes,” said Sir John, “Ezekiel Crabb s home and place of business. A most terrible crime has been committed there.”
He said not what the crime was, nor why he had not earlier told me. I had a sudden multitude of questions, yet I held my tongue, thinking it best. As we approached, I merely called his attention to the crowd at the door.
“I’m aware of them, Jeremy. Follow me through.”
With that — shouting a cautionary “Make way! Make way!” — he plunged into the assembly, waving his stick before him. And as I had been bade, I went in his wake. There were no more than twelve there, but some of them of rather disreputable appearance. They parted before him in sullen obedience until we stood at the door. There, standing guard before it, was young Constable William Cowley.
Indeed, he was the youngest of the Bow Street Runners, probably no more than eighteen years of age, and the least experienced of all, having come to that force, with Mr. Baker’s sponsorship, but a month before my arrival at Bow Street. He was nonetheless large and willing and had proved himself brave on more than one occasion since his arrival.
Cowley came to an attitude of attention. “Sir John,” said he, “Mr. Bailey is inside, investigating the situation. He put me here to keep out the curious.”
“Would you had kept them out when you first arrived upon the scene, Constable Cowley.”
“I know, sir. Mr. Bailey has reproved me sorely for my handling of the matter. And I do regret it, sir. There was mistakes of judgment on my part, perhaps, but there was bad circumstances, too.”
“And what were they? Why did you not deputize some who entered with you to convey the prisoner to Bow Street so that you might stay and protect the environs of the crime?”
“Because I was afraid that once out of my sight, they would kill him. There was talk of it among them. One had gone off to get a rope.”
“Then why did you not lock the place up?”
“We broke the door to make our entry, sir. It’s half off its hinges now.”
Sir John mused a moment. “So it was indeed locked from the inside. Is there a back door? Was it, too, locked?”
“A stout cellar door, sir, and it was also locked tight.”
“Well, it does look bad for our prisoner, does it not?”
“Oh, right bad,” agreed Constable Cowley, “right bad. I caught him, sir, with the weapon in his hand.”
“Yes, well … we shall talk of that inside, Constable.” With that, he turned to the crowd, which had fallen back a few paces from the door. And to them, he spoke loudly and most solemnly: “Any of you who first made entry with Constable Cowley are to remain here outside the house. We shall have questions for you. The rest I order to disperse. I am Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court. Those who fail to obey this order of mine will be subject to arrest, fine, and imprisonment for not less than thirty days. Think not to leave and then return, and you who remain do not consider reentry; you have done enough damage, as I understand it. I am leaving a guard at the door. This young man has an evil temper, and he is armed.”
It struck me of a sudden that Sir John referred to me. An evil