It struck me sad to think that I should be losing the companionship of this good man in a week, or perhaps even less.
When, having completed our meal, we rose to leave the Cheshire Cheese, I thought how much I liked this place and the life in this great city of London. I remembered my first meal here with Mr. Donnelly when we had been put upon by James Boswell, now the constant companion of Dr. Johnson. And I wondered when I, in my good bottle-green coat, would eat here next and in whose company. I glanced up at the ceiling timbers darkened by tobacco smoke and wood smoke, then around me at the company of men (not a woman amongst them) seated at the rough tables; and then did I look further ahead to a time when I, as a lawyer, might visit with my client to discuss the handling of some perplexing matter. I should be known here, have a favorite table, perhaps that one by the fireplace. Then would I truly take part in London life. Forgive me, reader, for deviating from the true course of my tale, but these dreams of my adolescence haunt me still and do sometimes ask expression.
As we left, Mr. Donnelly and I paused just outside the door — perhaps only to breathe deeply of the pleasant November night air. But as we stood, both of us at once became aware of a certain muffled roar which persisted and seemed to grow louder as we listened. We exchanged curious looks. What was that ominous sound?
Then did a single figure emerge from Butchers Row, moving as fast as his legs would carry him. He sped past us into Fleet Street, where two men confronted him and attempted to block his way; he lunged at them, swinging his arm in a wide arc as an object in his hand glinted; the men fell back, throwing themselves out of his way.
From Butchers Row came a great crowd of people, men and women, some just hobbling along, shouting as they went: “Stop! Stop him! Murderer! Murderer!” This, their voices commingled, was the great roar we had heard but moments before.
“The hue and cry is raised,” said I to Mr. Donnelly, my own voice raised to a shout above their many. Then, realizing that what glinted in the light from the streetlamp must have been a knife, I shouted, “It must be the Covent Garden Killer!”
I began to pull away from Mr. Donnelly. He grasped at my sleeve. Then, as the crowd passed, I spied Mr. Benjamin Bailey, first of the Bow Street Runners, quite near the lead of the pursuit. I knew I must join him.
“It is Mr. Bailey!” I shouted, as if that were to explain all, and I jerked loose of the hold on my sleeve and ran as one might to catch the very Devil himself.
I, not having been so long at the chase, gained swiftly upon those in the lead, Mr. Bailey still among them. I noted that he had taken to the walkway, and following his example, I did the same. I soon saw why. The mass of people was confronted by a coach drawn by a team of two. The horses reared, their hooves flailing the air. The coach driver fought to master them and bring them under control; the footman could do little more than hold on tight, to keep from tumbling. Those in the street scattered, their cries of “Murder!” now screams of alarum. Thus was the number, though still considerable, depleted. I raced through this great hurly-burly, safe on the walkway, with not so many now between me and Mr. Bailey. Stretching my stride, I gained upon him. Farther away, though again not so far as before, I could see the shadowy figure of him we pursued.
Now, such a crowd as this is nothing more nor less than a swift-moving mob. I had seen in the instant why the constable had put himself at the forefront of the pursuit. When they had run the fugitive down, as surely they would, Mr.
Bailey would have to protect him against the fury of the mob. I was determined to lend him my help in this, and so I pressed on, gaining step by step.
We ran the length of Fleet Street. I was close upon Mr. Bailey and a few others, when something altogether strange occurred. I had but for a moment taken my eyes from the object of the chase when, as I looked back, I found I had lost him completely. I was not the only one. Mr. Bailey slowed, as did the three or four others with him. I caught them up. More followed behind me.
We were just at the site of the old Fleet River Bridge. A proper bridge it had been until, but a few years past, the river had been arched and paved over all the way to the Thames; it was now not much more than a rise in the road. It was here the fugitive had disappeared. The men stood panting, looking in all directions. I went to Constable Bailey.
“Jeremy!” said he, startled, when I tapped him on the back. Fighting to catch his breath, he managed to tell that there could be no doubt that the man we had pursued was the Covent Garden murderer. “He was seen in the act in an alley off Catherine Street — ” He took a gulp of air. “I left Constable Cowley with the body and joined the chase.”
“Where could he be?”
“No idea … He … he was lost once on the way … then seen again. He cut him who tried to hold him and escaped … right down the Strand.”
“Who is he? Do you know him?”
“Never got close enough to — ” He broke off, having got his bearings at last. “Where are we?”
“The end of Fleet Street.”
“At the old bridge, ain’t that it?”
“Why, yes, sir.”
“Then could there be only one place he had got to. Come along.”
I followed him through what was now a growing crowd; they milled about, muttering, grumbling, and quite without direction. He led the way down Fleet Market, which ran the course of the old river as far as Holbourn, and as he went he kept his eyes cast down to the ground. There, among the shuttered stalls, he found what he sought — a trap door situated tight in the street with paving stones all about it. He looked up at me and nodded, having tried it just enough to know that it would open without resistance.
“Jeremy, you see that woman over there with the lantern? See if you can bring her over without causing much notice.”
I went to her and recognized her from the Garden, a greengrocer from whom I’d bought in the past. She acknowledged me.
“Terrible thing, ain’t it, young sir? He do seem to have got away.”
“Well, we shall see,” said I. “Perhaps you could step over this way? Constable Bailey would like to speak with you.”
“With me?”
“Just for a moment.”
She nodded and made no argument as I brought her to Mr. Bailey.
“Madam,” said he with a polite bow, “I am Constable Benjamin Bailey of Bow Street.”
“I reco’nize you,” said she.
“I have need of your lantern.”
“You’ll not have it. It’s my on’y one.”
As if to make plain her refusal, she swung the lantern round and held it behind her back. Yet she did not walk away.
“Madam,” said he, “it is only for to borrow, and if it is not returned, you may have a better one from Bow Street.”
“A better one?”
“Larger, anyway. You have my promise on that.”
“Well…” She hesitated. “Awright.” And she handed it over.
He took it, a small hand-lantern that in truth shed little illumination, and handed it to me. Then he threw open the trap door and let the light shine below. I heard the flow of water.
‘it ain’t much,” said he, “but I be damned if I’ll go down there with no light at all. I left my lantern with Cowley. Now, Jeremy, I’m going to climb down there — it’s the Fleet River is what it is — and when I reach the last rung on the ladder, you hand me down the lantern. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said I.
He pulled out both pistols and handed me one. Then he took his club and clamped it between his teeth. Holding one pistol in his hand, he fitted himself carefully through the trap door, found the ladder with his feet, and began his descent. Then did I come to a most impulsive decision. Laying down pistol and lantern, I tore off my fine bottle-green coat and tossed it to the woman who watched all quite fascinated.