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Grewter had been disobliging. "Me and father are old-fashioned people," he said; "and we're not above living over our place of business, which most of the Barbican tradespeople are nowadays. The old gentleman is taking tea in the parlour upstairs at this present moment, and if you don't mind stepping up to him, I'm sure he'll be proud to give you any information he can.
The clerk said he did not know; but his tone implied that, in his opinion, I could not see Mr. Grewter. "Perhaps you could go and ask," I suggested. "Well, yes. Is it old or young Mr. Grewter you want to see?" "Old Mr. Grewter," I replied. "Very well, I'll go and see. You'd better send in your card, though." I produced one of George Sheldon's cards, which the clerk looked at.
Alas for me! the only ledger I have ever known is the sainted patron of the northern racecourse. One young man came forward and asked my business, with a look that plainly told me that unless I wanted two or three gross of account-books I had no right to be there. I told him that I wished to see Mr. Grewter, and asked if that gentleman was to be seen.
I've a sort of notion that the name of the village was something ending in Cross, as it might be Charing Cross, or Waltham Cross." This was vague, but it was a great deal more than I had been able to extort from Mr. Grewter.
I was not to present myself to the worthy John Grewter, wholesale stationer, before the afternoon; but I had no particular reason for staying at home, and I had a fancy for strolling about the old City quarter in which Matthew Haygarth's youth had been spent.
Grewter, with increasing grumpiness; "I didn't trouble myself about other people's affairs then, and I don't trouble myself about them now, and I don't particularly care to be troubled about them by strangers." I made the meekest possible apology for my intrusion, but the outraged Grewter was not appeased. "Your best apology will be not doing it again," he replied.
He likes talking of old times." This was the sort of oldest inhabitant I wanted to meet with a very different kind of individual from Mr. Grewter, who doled out every answer to my questions as grudgingly as if it had been a five-pound note. I was conducted to a snug little sitting-room on the first-floor, where there was a cheerful fire and a comfortable odour of tea and toast.
I went to look at John-street, Clerkenwell, and dawdled about the immediate neighbourhood of Smithfield, thinking of the old fair-time, and of all the rioters and merry-makers, who now were so much or so little dust and ashes in City churchyards, until the great bell of St. Paul's boomed three, and I felt that it might be a leisure time with Mr. Grewter.
Grewter unappeasable, I left him, and went to seek a more placable spirit in the shape of Anthony Sparsfield, carver and gilder, of Barbican. I found the establishment of Sparsfield and Son, carvers and gilders.
Grewter, whom I found rather inclined to be snappish, as considering the Meynell business unlikely to result in any profit to himself, and objecting on principle to take any trouble not likely to result in profit. I believe this is the mercantile manner of looking at things in a general way. I asked him if he could tell me where Samuel Meynell was buried.
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