Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Page A

great piece of her floor give way, and with it the little place where she made her modest home. But she was there behind me as well, looking over my shoulder. She saw it all.
    “Oh,” said she, “what shall I do? What shall I do?”
    And still the old structure tumbled. We watched, now a great group of us, as the wind wreaked further havoc, separating timber from timber, nails from wood, and down, down it went into the courtyard.
    At last there seemed to come an end to it. Men behind me surged forward. I was carried along with them. They began digging through the wreckage. Was it for bodies we were searching? Survivors? I listened for moans or cries for help but heard nothing. Then I saw that it was goods they were after — pots, pans, bedding, clothes, whatever might be salable. There were a few women joining in the search, as well. Yet it was the men who pushed and scrambled, as still debris dislodged by the wind rained down from above. They were as coastal wreckers pillaging a ship caught on a reef. Each had begun his pile of salvage. Disagreements erupted as to what belonged to whom. I was pushed aside not once but twice.
    “Go away, boy,” one said to me. “This is man’s work.”
    And so I decided that indeed I would go away and see what I could do to help poor Moll Caulfield. I found her where I had left her, though now great tears streamed down her cheeks. It was not the wind that had set them flowing.
    “It seems,” said I to her, “that there is little to be done, little to be saved.”
    “Aye,” said she. ” ‘Tis no longer even safe to go in there.” Then she turned to me and, as if wondering for the first time, asked, “Who are you that came to fetch me from my place when it was about to tumble down?” She brushed away her tears with her sleeve and sniffed a good, loud sniff.
    I took but a moment to explain that I had come from Sir John Fielding with a letter in response to her message of condolence. I produced it from my pocket, surprised that, though wrinkled and besmirched, it had not been lost in all that had transpired. She took it from me and held it absently, not bothering to inspect its contents. I told her I had been directed to her dwelling by her friend Dotty.
    “Ah yes, Dotty,” said she. “We read Scripture together. She’s a good old girl.”
    “I … I’m sorry I lost your cart.”
    “Oh, I do not blame you. You did what you could. I saw. But …” And here she hesitated most pitiably. “But what am I to do? I have no cart, no place to sleep, nothing. What am I to do?”
    “Could you stay with Dotty?”
    “She has her daughter’s child with her. There is bare enough room for the two of them.”
    “But …” Then, rather than argue with her, I gave some thought to it and remembered something that Katherine Durham had told me a few days past. And of a sudden, my mind was made up.
    “Is there anything you can claim as your own in there?” I asked.
    “I would be afraid to try.”
    “Then come with me, Moll Caulfield, and we shall see what can be done.”
    We set off together toward Covent Garden. The wind, having done its worst, began to abate somewhat. By the time we reached the wide piazza, it blew only half as strong as before. Yet it now grew dark; the buyers were few, and the hucksters and merchants were closing their stalls. I knew it had grown late, far later than my expected time of arrival at Number 4 Bow Street. Yet I was determined to do what I could for this woman who had just lost everything she had.
    I saw the group I sought at the far end of the Garden and together we walked to them. Dark-garbed as before and easily recognized, yet no longer engaging in their somewhat eerie practice of preaching in chorus, they now lifted their voices in song, singing together a hymn which was quite unfamiliar to me. At this late date, though I was to hear it sung again, I can recall but a bare few lines of it: Brethren of the Spirit, we Shall bring to all Good News And