Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Read Free Book Online

the wondrous aroma of the brew; quite welcome after our long immersion in the foul smells of the streets.
    Looking about, I spied Sir John alone at a corner table and beckoned Dr. Johnson to follow. The place was not near as crowded as it would be. The table given us would do well for the sort of quiet tete-a-tete which the magistrate wished. Yet Dr. Johnson was unaccustomed to quiet; and if noise were in short supply, he could provide it in plenty. He barked out a greeting in a voice loud enough to frighten off a footpad.
    Heads turned. The nearest serving girl, pot in hand, stopped sudden as a shying horse, slopping coffee on a floor often slopped before.
    “Dr. Johnson, though I may be blind, I am not deaf,” said Sir John, with a smile meant to soften the sharpness of his words. “But do please sit down, so that we may discuss this matter I mentioned in my letter.”
    “Has you baffled, has it? You wish my counsel in it?”
    “Your counsel is always welcome. Yet what is most needed is your knowledge.” Sir John raised his hand then in hope of being seen by the serving girl. “Let us have coffee first to sharpen our minds.”
    She was there in a trice, setting two cups and pouring three. I grabbed mine up at once, sipping it hot, sore in need of the stimulation it would give. My day had begun much too early.
    “My knowledge, you say, sir?”
    “Yes, your knowledge of this man, John Clayton. I sought you out since you seem to know, or know of, nearly every literary man in London.”
    “That may be, sir, yet your man Clayton has happened merely to be in London. He is not of it—if you will honor my distinction.”
    “Certainly,” said Sir John. “Nevertheless you do know him?”
    “After a fashion,” said Dr. Johnson. “We met but a scant twelvemonth past upon the occasion of his first book’s publication. A collection of verse it was. And Mr. Crabb invited me, among others, to his bookshop to meet this remarkable discovery of his.”
    “Remarkable, you say. In what way? You said it as if there were something quite unique about him.
    “Indeed there seemed to be,” said Dr. Johnson. “Crabb presented him as a ‘peasant poet.’ ” At that point he broke off, screwing his powerful features into a great frown. “And now poor Crabb is dead, murdered. Is it so?”
    “No question of it.”
    “The lad gave me quite a graphic account— six victims, dear God!” He shook his head solemnly. “Ezekiel Crabb could be quite a contentious man, but he had standards. He published only what he deemed of value. He certainly made the reputation, if not the fortune, of John Clayton. As I say, he presented the fellow as a ‘peasant poet.’ And it is true that Clayton had a distinct rural background—a farm laborer from some benighted parish in Somersetshire. Can you imagine it? He’s had little formal education, yet there is no doubt, sir, that he has a poetic genius of sorts.”
    “Of sorts?”
    “Well, yes. His verse is not altogether to my liking. He glories in nature, yet glories in it for nature’s own sake. I should say that there is no better writer of descriptive verse in England today, if one is to judge from that first book of his—yet it is merely descriptive. He does not go beyond that to philosophy, and much less to wisdom. The poet’s duty is to draw lessons from nature, and not simply to portray it. That, however, may be too much to ask of a peasant poet, or perhaps in particular of a peasant poet’s first collection of verses.”
    “I see,” said Sir John. “Yet you would say that John Clayton is possessed of a true poetic talent?”
    “Oh, without doubt, sir. I have brought with me a copy of that first book of his, by name The Countryman* Calendar and Other Ve/vej.” Thus saying, he dove deep into the voluminous pocket of his coat and pulled from it a small volume that fit easily into his large hand. “One may open this book to any page and find phrases of particular charm, some quite