Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Page A

wonderful—and how fitting,” said she, “but — ” And here she frowned quite prettily. “Do I not recall that you were set for the printing trade?”
    “Indeed I was. In fact, apprenticeship papers had been signed with Mr. Ezekiel Crabb.”
    Her hand went to her mouth in a gesture of shock. She spoke not a word for a moment. Then: “Good God! That horror in Grub Street — thank the Almighty you were saved from it.”
    “But narrowly,” said I. This, reader, you know to be true enough, yet I confess I put a bit of drama into those two words, rolling my eyes heavenward and punctuating them with a sigh. I wished to be pitied. Thus in so short a time had I begun to lose my earnest innocence.
    A sudden tumult of shouting broke out some distance away. We two turned to find its cause and saw a group of men and a few women, most of them dressed in black and deep gray, calling out in unison to the crowd passing through Covent Garden. Though loudly they shouted, their manner of speech was indistinct and some of the Garden crowd called back just as loud, so that it was near impossible to know just what was being shouted. Yet there was such enthusiasm in their manner, such strength of purpose in their voices, that it seemed certain to me that their message, whatever it be, was of a religious nature.
    “Who are those people who make so great a din?” I asked Mrs. Durham. “I have seen them before, I believe, though at a distance and not near so many.”
    “I fear,” said she, “that a plague of preachers has descended upon us. They seem to be here in this corner of the Garden every day at this time — oh, I have seen them other places, as well.”
    “Are they Methodist?”
    “Oh no, no, nothing so conventional. It is as though they came to us from the last century — Ranters, Levelers, all certain that the time of Apocalypse was upon us. They call themselves the Brethren of the Spirit. They have lately arrived here from somewhere.”
    “The Midlands?”
    “No, the North American colonies, I believe.”
    “And they have come to preach?”
    “Clearly,” said she, “in order to save Londoners from perdition. No doubt we are all in need of salvation, Jeremy, I most of all, yet what they preach is so, well …” She paused, unable for a moment to continue. “To give them credit, though, they have opened a shelter to house and feed the most wretched of the poor. They do good works. And that, to me, is the test.”
    She addressed me as she would an adult, and I liked her for it. Yet, as sometimes happens between adults, our exchange seemed to hang at that point, as she stared distractedly at the dark-garbed group and the unruly audience they had attracted.
    Raising my voice above the continuing din, I endeavored to get us unstuck: “I noted you present at Lady Fielding’s funeral.”
    “What? Oh … yes, of course. I could not but share in the dear man’s sorrow. I sent a note of sympathy to Sir John.”
    “He received so many. We work together, answering them all.”
    “Yes, well, I understand. But Jeremy, I must away. Remember me to him, if you will.”
    “Goodbye, then.”
    She moved away with a quick smile. Yet as I watched her go, she threw a hard glance at those who had interrupted us, gave a shake of her handsome head, and then hurried on.
    I stepped up to Mr. Tolliver’s stall, but then found I must needs consult the list Mrs. Gredge had dictated, to be reminded what it was I had come to buy there.
    Whilst out and about, doing errands for Sir John, I became involved in another portentous event, which gave me a shock and near took my life. It made plain to me that London was a dangerous place in ways I had never supposed.
    As I mentioned in passing to the Widow Katherine Durham, Sir John had made it his task to respond to each and every message of condolence sent to him upon the death of his wife. In this considerable work, I served both as amanuensis and messenger. He took an hour or so each morning,