Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Page B

prophesy what sure must be: The conversion of the Jews.
    It seemed to me then, and has ever after, a strange concern for Christians. Yet little I thought of it at that moment, for my mind was concentrated upon the problem at hand.
    I waited respectfully until they finished, with the pathetic Moll at my side. Around us were just a few stragglers from the stalls, idlers, and skeptics who came, paused, and went, taking what was offered so earnestly by the six men in black and the two women in gray as mere entertainment.
    At last the singers concluded their song and made ready to leave. I tugged the sleeve of him who was nearest me. He withdrew his arm so hasty that one might have thought I had done him injury.
    Yet certain of my mission, I said what I intended: “Sir, are you the leader? And if not, could you direct me to him?”
    He stammered something and seemed for some reason quite unable to speak. I had spoken up loud and clear. The others had heard. All eyes, it seemed to me, went to one man, the most arresting among them. Though smaller in stature than all but the women, his face was handsome in an ascetic manner. His eyes, a clear, near-colorless blue, seemed almost to shine, even in the fading light. He stepped forward and looked me up and down.
    “We have no leader,” said he to me. “We are all brethren, equal in the sight of the Lord.”
    “But perhaps you can speak for the rest,” I suggested.
    The hint of a smile flickered on his face. “Perhaps I can,” said he.
    In brief, I explained what had happened — the collapse of the building, Moll Caulfield’s escape, the loss of her pushcart and all else that she possessed.
    Having listened, he turned to Moll. “Is all this true?” he asked her.
    “Aye,” she said, “all of it, except he left out that it was him who took me from that place and made a brave try to save my cart. Took a nasty fall for it, he did.
    Then he turned to me: “And what business had you there? Did you, too, live in that den of thieves and cutthroats upon which the Lord hath made his judgment? Oh, we heard the great crash as it came down and saw the rush of the crowd to get there, and we rejoiced, reckoning it an answer to our prayers that the Lord might aid us in the great cleansing of this foul city of London. Yea, but only the beginning of our mighty work. Are you, too, a thief?”
    “No, sir, I am not,” said I, all indignant. “Nor is Moll Caulfield. I had come to deliver a letter to her.”
    “Yet she lived with thieves.”
    “And the Lord spared her. She is a good Christian.”
    “You argue well,” said he. “Yet why do you come to us?”
    “I had heard that you people in black kept a shelter for the very poor. Moll can work again as soon as she has a new cart. I had thought you might give her shelter till then. But evidently, sir, I thought wrong. Come along, Moll,” said I, taking her hand. “Let us look elsewhere.”
    “Nay, go not so swift,” said he. “It is true we have such a place, and we should be happy to give food and a roof to your Moll whilst she may need it.”
    “And where is this place?” I asked, made bold by my success.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “So that I might visit her.”
    He hesitated a moment. “Oh, Half Moon Passage,” said he at last. You have but to ask there, for it is well known. But let me put a question to you, young man. You said you had come to deliver a letter to her. Who was the sender of that letter?”
    Though it was none of his affair, pride made me answer: “It was from Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court.” Then I added, all puffed as a pouter pigeon, “I am a member of his household.”
    “Ah,” said he, “and why did you not offer her John Fielding’s hospitality? Charity begins at home.”
    I had a ready answer to that, for I had thought it through on the walk with Moll to Covent Garden. “I could not offer what was not mine to give,” said I. “I am a member of the household and not its