Free Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander

his florid face. With the crowd of people inside that big room, it had become a bit close; yet he had not exerted himself physically, and so I could only suppose that it was the strain of this moment that had brought him to this condition.
    “Mr. Clayton, Eusebius, or however you wish to call yourself,” said he, “I have borne with you long enough. Since you are unable to answer the questions put to you by me and you give every symptom of madness, as I understand them, I have no choice but to remand you to the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem until — “
    A sudden murmur arose from those around me — whisperings of “Bedlam … Bedlam!” I had heard of that place.
    Sir John slammed down his open palm and called for silence. “I T ntil, ” he then repeated, “when, and if you are capable of responding reasonably. And if, sir, you are shamming, then a stay in that godforsaken place will persuade you, as nothing else can, to cooperate in this inquiry.”
    There was a terrible to-do among the spectators following Sir John’s pronouncement. They had come, the gentry no less than those of the lower orders, to see the “mad poet” sped on his way to the gallows. And they had then been disappointed. It took the exertions of Constable Cowley to clear the courtroom.
    As Sir John disappeared into his chambers, followed (as was usual) by Mr. Marsden, I chanced to cross the path of Dr. Samuel Johnson. The lexicographer was making his way toward the door, one of the last to leave because one of the first to arrive.
    “Well, boy,” said he to me, “what did you think of that?”
    “In truth, sir, I know not what to think,” said I.
    “Your master was very brave to conduct this matter as he did. He will receive censure for it, no doubt, most especially for his decision not to bind that poor fellow for trial, but he did right. Indeed, he did right. That man Clayton is quite mad.”
    “I have never seen such,” said I.
    “Nor have I.” He moved away. “Good day to you, and give my commendation to Sir John.”
    Thus he departed, leaving me to dawdle. There was no call for me to report to the magistrate’s chambers, no need for me to search out Mr. Marsden to volunteer my services, since he had taken counsel with Sir John and would not be found at his usual desk in the space beyond the strong room. There was but one place for me to go, and that was up the stairs to present myself for duty to Airs. Gredge. There might still, at this late hour, be pots to wash. There would surely be floors to scrub — though I hoped not to be assigned the stairs, a remarkable hard task even for one with the energy of a thirteen-year-old boy.
    And so up I went, dragging a bit for want of sleep, I opened the door to the kitchen and called out in a quiet voice, announcing my presence. Receiving no answer, I assumed she must be off to do her buying for dinner. I sat down at the rough old kitchen table to wait for her return — and promptly fell deep into the arms of Morpheus.
    My dreams were troubled and, in the way of dreams, utterly confounding. I cannot, at this distance in time, give a true sumMa rder ia Grub Street A 7
    mary of them, but I do recall that the setting was, for the most part, the village print shop in which my poor, dead father labored so hard to make a success of his cautious venture into commerce. He was there, of course, overseeing my efforts at typesetting, yet so also was Sir John in the rarest sort of guise — or how can that be put more clear?—in a sort of metamorphosis. In one instance, I looked up from the type stand, and there was Sir John, looking with sober approval upon my work. But then he did what I had never seen him do: he reached under his tricorn and untied the black ribbon which covered his blind eyes. As the mask fell, his face became my father’s. While this seemed curious, it was not frightening. Yet I was frightened by what followed: The Raker appeared and, with another whose back was always