Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Page A

events of the previous night. Since by now, reader, you are familiar with them, there is no need to repeat here what he said. He did make it clear, however, that “an individual” was discovered in the attic room occupied by the two apprentices, deceased, and that “said individual held in his hand an axe which was thought to be the murder weapon.”
    At this point, Sir John interjected a question: “Is this weapon now in our possession?”
    “No, sir, it ain’t. Its whereabouts is unknown. Whilst I conducted the individual to Bow Street for questioning, I left orders with the group of five men who entered the premises with me to remain outside and keep it safe till my return. When I came back, all was inside except one, and he was missing.”
    “As was the axe?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Do you know the name of the missing man?”
    “No, sir, I do not.”
    “One more thing,” said Sir John. “You made it clear that it was necessary to break down the door to Grub Street in order to gain entry. Was there another door to the establishment?”
    “There was, sir — a rear door in the cellar.”
    “Was it locked or unlocked?”
    “Locked, sir, by key. There was no drawbolt on it.”
    “Very good, Constable Cowley. Will you now, finally, point out the individual whom you conducted to Bow Street for examination and safekeeping?”
    The young constable did as told, indicating John Clayton, alias Petrus.
    “Mr. Marsden,” said the magistrate to his clerk, “will you make note of that, please?”
    Then he dismissed Cowley, who returned to his place next the man he had pointed to, and called to witness one Albert Burnley, a name unknown to me. Yet when he stepped forward, I recognized him as the “Bert” who, with his companion Harry, had made such sport of me the night before.
    All that Burnley could add to the tale told by the constable was something by way of a preface in which he described the screams from the Crabb house heard by him and others, and then the rush to find a constable with whom they might enter the place.
    But early in his recital, at about this point, Sir John interrupted Burnley: “Would you describe the screams?”
    “Describe them?” echoed the man. “They was horrible, they was — a jumble of screams from folk bein’ murdered.”
    “And how long would you say they did last?”
    Burnley screwed up his face for a moment in concentration. Then at last he said, “Not long.”
    “Make an estimate for me,” said Sir John. “Would you say the screams continued during the time it would take a man to count slowly to a hundred? Two hundred? Three hundred?”
    “I can’t be sure,” said Burnley. “I never had occasion to count so high.” The room, which had been quite silent up to that moment, exploded into sudden laughter at that. Burnley looked around, greatly annoyed at his audience. Then, once Sir John had shouted them down and beaten his gavel for silence, Burnley said with some show of dignity: “I would say, sir, that it wasn’t near so long as that — more like a count of fifty and maybe less.”
    “Very good. Now, I should like you to tell me the length of time that elapsed between the time that you first heard the screams and the time you and the other men, along with Constable Cowley, managed to beat down the door and gain admittance to the place.”
    “You mean, counting like?”
    “Yes, Mr. Burnley — counting.”
    He thought about that a moment or two. “Oh, that would be a high number, it would — fetching the constable, and so on, upwards to a count of three hundred and maybe more. We was not eager to go inside without a proper armed man in our number.”
    “All right then, continue with your story.”
    And that he did, sketching in a few grisly details left out before and bringing sighs and shudders from his listeners. He took heart from this and gave a great deal of drama to his account of their meeting with Clayton in the attic room with the dead apprentices. In