Murder in Grub Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

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?