Free Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Page B

The door was open, but the room was unlit. He sat in the dark, as he always did when alone, for what should it matter to a blind man whether it be dark or light?
    I knocked lightly upon the door.
    “Jeremy? Come in, boy, come in.”
    I entered, and without much difficulty found the chair set opposite him, with his desk the barrier between us.
    “Would you like some light? There is a candle by you, I believe.”
    “No, sir. I’m quite all right.”
    “What did you draw from that grotesque display in the courtroom today?”
    “I was shocked,” said I, “for I have never seen a man in such a state.”
    “I should never have let him go on so long,” said he. “But I thought perhaps in this new guise he would have something to say — anything!—in his own defense.”
    “Dr. Johnson spoke to me as he left,” said I. “He said that you were brave to conduct the matter as you did and could only have sent John Clayton away. He asked me to give to you his commendation.”
    “He did, did he? Well, I shall remember that when the stones and arrows begin to fly my way. My threats did, in any case, force the delivery of the murder weapon. Albert Burnley brought it in shortly before I left my chambers. He also delivered the apologies oi Rum Ben Tobin for the trouble he had caused.”
    Sir John spoke not a word then for quite some time. I could just make out his form from the dim light that entered through the window. Yet it was his form only that I saw, for the features of his face and their expression were quite hidden from me.
    “It was not, however, to discuss this afternoon’s proceedings that I called you here, Jeremy,” said he at last. “You may have expected something to be discussed in that meeting this morning which was not discussed.”
    “The meeting with Dr. Johnson? Well… .”
    “Not more than two weeks ago, when we talked about your future, you expressed the strong desire to remain here in my household. Do you still feel so?
    “Oh yes, sir, I do!” All my heart was in that answer.
    “Two weeks ago, it seemed to me that the right path—the only path — for you to follow was the one you had started on before you came to London. It seemed to me that you were made for the printing trade, for publishing — and what brighter future could a boy with your intelligence and skill with words hope for? I only wanted what was best for you. Please believe that, Jeremy. But it was, perhaps, presumptuous of me to take it upon myself to decide the future of another. That was brought to me in the events of last night. There was, first of all, the awful probability that had you left us for your apprenticeship even a day earlier, you would have been counted the seventh victim in that great killing that took place in the Crabb house. I am not, by even a generous standard, a religious man, but when an omen is given to me I am humble enough to accept it as such.
    “Having accepted it,” he continued, “I began to reconsider. Among the matters that pertained in this reconsideration was your great help in the Goodhope inquiry: You did everything I asked and then exceeded that. You learned quickly. You showed bravery when the situation demanded it. And indeed you showed courage again last night in driving away those two footpads with your pistol, when I, in my vanity, thought us immune from attack. All this I took into consideration, as I did also your good nature, your helpfulness to Mrs. Gredge, and the way you quite won the heart of my poor, dear Kitty when she was with us. It was against her wishes, I confess, that I sent you off to apprentice yourself to Mr. Crabb. You see the extreme limits of my presumption?
    “And so,” he concluded, “when I talked with Dr. Johnson today, there seemed no need to ask his aid in finding you another place in the printing trade before I had discussed this with you. And since you still desire to stay, I should be delighted to have you.”
    I was quite overcome. I managed to