Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Page B

yet in that time he would manage to dictate no more than four, since in each he tried to make some personal reference to the message received, or to his relationship to the addressee. It took some thought on his part and often a bit of ingenuity. His prodigious memory served him well.
    As for myself, I took down his halting words and was usually left with a sheet replete with blottings-out and emendations, and so it was then my duty to make decent copies of that day’s production and present them to him for his scrawled signature. Then came delivery, which I liked much better. My journeys here and there with these letters of response took me all over London. They added greatly to my knowledge of the streets, alleys, and lanes of the great city. I soon began to put together a sort of map in my head, taking shortcuts when it suited me but sometimes returning by the longest route, so that I might take in all that was to be seen along the way.
    And there was much there to catch the roving eye of a boy of thirteen. I discovered, for instance, that our particular part of Westminster, namely the parish of Covent Garden, was filled to bursting with single women seeking accompaniment. Just where it was they wished to be taken was then something of a mystery to me, though when they addressed me direct, “bed” was often mentioned. Since these walks of mine took place in the daytime, it seemed to me passing strange that what these women and girls offered, and sought to be paid for, were naps in the daytime. Yet here I play the fool somewhat, for I confess that I had come to understand, even in my imperfect way, what it was went on between men and women, and that whatever that something was, it took place between the covers. I was, in short, not so naive that it did not thrill me a bit in some mysterious way to be solicited by these women, though in truth I never sought them out.
    I well recall the surprise that awaited me when I delivered the missive Sir John had addressed to Peg Button, prostitute and probable pickpocket. She had written Sir John as a child might, in big block letters, regretting, as she put it, that “his wyf dide and lef him.” She went on to say that she “knowd abt dine cause it took her ma a teribl long time to get it don.” To this, Sir John had replied, in part, “Indeed the worst of Lady Fielding’s departure was its length. Neither I nor she would have had her suffering protracted so, life in pain being not at all precious. You, having watched your mother so long in mortal illness, will know how helpless I felt, though my dear wife’s pain was eased toward the end by means of physic.” And so on — a right honest reply, his was, from one sufferer to another.
    When I sought to convey it to the address from whence her message had come, I found that Mistress Button had, in a manner of speaking, gone up in the world. She certainly would have reckoned her new station at Mrs. Gould’s infamous bagnio in the Little Piazza an ascent from her previous life on the streets. I was admitted by a woman of color in servant’s dress, yet large as any man. In fact, when she spoke to me, inquiring of my business there, I was not altogether sure she was not a man, so deep was her voice. The name of Sir John Fielding admitted me at once, and once inside, I had but to display the letter to Peg Button to have her brought down from one of the upstairs rooms to the parlor. There she greeted me and asked me to read the letter aloud to her. “I ain’t never got one before,” said she with innocent pride to her sisters in the parlor, all of whom were dressed, as she, in shifts and less. And so, to this troupe of lounging odalisques I gave forth the contents, which I knew well myself—so well, in fact, that at each full stop I was able to look up from the text and survey the room, then return to my place without confusion. It was, all in all, an impressive reading. They applauded their appreciation at the conclusion. I