by John Creasey
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘If it pleases you I will stay here.’
She waited with the shorter guard for no more than five minutes before Tom Harris came out, buttoning his cloak at the neck; she thought from the look of him that he had been sleeping, but there was nothing sleepy in his manner as he took her arm and began to walk towards Long Acre.
‘There’ll be nothing to worry about,’ he reassured her. ‘That old skinflint Morgan is making James work late to avoid paying another boy, that’ll be the truth of it.’
She felt no certainty but was easier in her mind until they approached the shop.
It was in darkness; so were the windows above, where some of the assistants as well as the Morgans lived. Nor was there anything to suggest that the premises had only just been closed. A smell of rotting fruit hung heavy in the air. All of Ruth’s fears came crowding back.
‘He could have gone home by a different way; the boy has the biggest nose for odd corners I ever knew.’ Tom still tried to be reassuring. ‘But we’ll see if Morgan can give us any information.’ A few days ago Ruth would have been horrified at the thought of disturbing James’s employer but now she could think only of one thing: finding out what had happened to her son.
She stared up at the dark windows as Tom bellowed: ‘Mr. Morgan, sir, wake up. Mr. Morgan, sir!’
A watchman swinging his lantern came hurrying towards them, an old man who looked scared but who summoned enough courage to demand, ‘Who are you to disturb the peace?’ He peered shortsightedly at Tom, then suddenly recognised him and exclaimed ‘‘Tis Mr. Harris, I’ll be bound. I can tell ‘ee this, Mr. Harris, Morgan and his wife sleep in that room. I’ll bang on the window with my pole and you call out again.’
Slowly he pushed the pole up against the window and then began to tap, taking so long that it was all Ruth could do not to snatch the pole from his frail hands. But with this banging and Tom’s shouting they woke Morgan at last. The merchant pushed up the window and leaned out, woollen bedcap falling over his shoulder on one side, a blanket clutched about him.
‘Sorry to wake you, Mr. Morgan,’ called Tom. ‘But Mrs. Marshall’s boy James has not reached home yet. Do you know what time he left here?’
‘I can tell you. . .’ began Morgan.
Ruth’s heart began to beat sickeningly as she heard the querulous voice relaying that James had not returned from his first round; that he, Morgan, had been compelled to send a man out to check on his deliveries, fearful of an accident; that James had delivered to three addresses in Fleet Street and then had disappeared; a peace officer had found his yoke, his cart and his baskets in Wine Office Court, with no more than half the goods left in them. He had not even delivered his goods to the Cheshire Cheese! There was some talk of a robbery and of James’s running away.
‘And you knew all this but didn’t tell Mistress Marshall?’ growled Tom.
‘’Tis her responsibility to look after her offspring,’ replied Morgan tartly. ‘It would be different if the boy were to become an apprentice but he is leaving this Sunday, did you know that? To go to school.’ The man’s sniff could be heard from the window before he went on. ‘It won’t surprise me to find that he doesn’t want to go to school and has run away to sea.’
‘Where is the man you sent after him?’ demanded Harris.
‘Where he should be, I trust - in bed asleep and getting ready for tomorrow’s work.’
‘I want to know where to find him,’ Tom interrupted. ‘Will you tell me now or must I come up and make you talk?’
‘He’s in one of the sheds at the back,’ replied Morgan complainingly. ‘By name, Tip Hill. Don’t wake the others with him; we need everyone up early on a Saturday morning.’ He withdrew his head and slammed the window.
No other window in the street had opened; no one had dared to show his curiosity, for there was no telling where it would lead if he interfered with any fracas by night. Tom Harris turned to Ruth in the narrow, silent street, sharing the anxiety which showed so clearly on her face.
‘D’you want to come with me and find out what this man Hill has to say?’
‘Yes,’ she replied tensely. ‘Oh, Tom - what do you think has happened?’
‘I mean to find out,’ rasped Tom.
Alongside Morgan’s premises was an archway for delivery carts to turn and this led to a yard where there were four sheds, each in darkness. The all-pervasive odour of rotting fruit and hay was worsened here by the stench from a nearby privy. The watchman pushed open two doors, where no one slept, then when he opened a third the light shone on the faces of three men, lying close together for warmth on some bundles of hay.
‘If I didn’t know better I would say this was a ginshop,’ muttered Tom Harris, while the watchman poked at the men until they stirred and he found out that Tip Hill was the one who slept in the middle. He sat up, blinking in the pale glow, a thin-faced, fair-haired youth of sixteen or seventeen with something girlish about his appearance. The others were older men.
‘I want to know exactly what you learned about James Marshall,’ Harris said in a tone which brooked no delay. ‘Be quick about it, Hill.’
One of the other men opened his eyes and listened; the third appeared to remain fast asleep. Hill edged himself to a more upright position, and only then did it become obvious that he was wholly naked, which no doubt accounted for the fact that he was sandwiched between the others.
‘I - I told Mr. Morgan—’ he began.
‘You told Mr. Morgan what you were told to tell him,’ interrupted Harris in a flat, accusing tone. ‘It was only half a story even though he did pretend to believe it. Now I demand the truth, and if you don’t want to appear in court on a charge of sodomy you’ll tell me the whole of it.’
The fair-haired Hill said fearfully, ‘I can’t tell you much more, Mr. Harris. I swear I can’t but there was a thief-taker near Cheshire Court who told me what had happened.’
‘Describe him to me,’ Harris ordered.
‘He was a big man, taller than you, sir, and he had a scar beneath his right eye, from a knife I would say. He - he went into a shop in Wine Office Court when I’d gone away; I saw him from the other side of the road.’
‘What shop was it?’ demanded Harris.
‘A silversmith and cutlery shop, where knives and scissors are also repaired, and some silver articles are hand made, Mr. Harris. I didn’t see the name. I swear—’
Harris said in that same flat voice which, carried so much menace, ‘If you’ve lied to me, you’ll rue the day.’ He took Ruth’s arm and led her out, making her walk fast once they were in the comparatively fresh air of Long Acre.
Neither of them spoke until they were in sight of the lights of Bow Street. Ruth found it difficult to breathe freely, so deep were her fears. The speed at which Tom made her walk added to the breathlessness, so that even as the thoughts went scalding through her mind she could not find breath enough to speak.
At last, Tom broke the silence between them.
‘Ruth, I don’t like the sound or the smell of what I’ve heard,’ he declared, ‘and the quicker I begin inquiries the better for us all. By noon tomorrow I want to be able to tell John Furnival all there is to know, if I haven’t found young James. It will be hard on you, but you’ll have to work and wait.’
She looked at him intently and in a choking voice asked, ‘Tom, what do you think has happened?’
‘I don’t deal in guesswork,’ Tom Harris replied gruffly. ‘I want the facts and I’ll get them, Ruth. I’ll tell you as soon as I know them all.’
‘Tom,’ she persisted, ‘do you think this is part of revenge for Frederick Jackson’s hanging?’
Tom replied, ‘If it is, then I’ll know where to start looking.’ He slowed down as they neared the front door of her cottage, and opened it for her but did not go inside. She had never seen him so forbidding; and in herself, she had never felt such fear. ‘And if I haven’t found out where he is by morning, I say, I’ll tell J
ohn Furnival. If I know him, he’ll put every available man on to finding out what happened.’
6: JOHN FURNIVAL GOES VISITING
For John Furnival, Saturday morning was likely to be a light period in court, a good day for clearing up his records, making brief and factual notes in his diary, and reviewing pending cases. John Furnival saw a great deal, most of it through the eyes of a man steeped in the morass of London’s crime. He felt, on such days as this, very lonely: perhaps more truly on his own. There were two other justices one each for the County of Middlesex and the City of Westminster, and though fair men, Furnival doubted whether it had occurred to either of them to try to change some of the iniquitous laws: those, for instance, which made hanging the penalty for a child of seven or eight caught stealing bread because of his hunger. He had long since given up arguing with them or, in fact, with anyone whose understanding could not help him to reach his goal: a substantial police force to patrol the whole metropolitan area of London and keep down the murderers and robbers, the highwaymen and cheats, paid for by the citizens or by the State and paid sufficient to make most of the peace officers incorruptible.
He had no illusions. The difficulties were enormous, for there was not one city but three, although the distinctions were growing more difficult to see. First there was the original walled City of London with its many gates, the rookeries and slums built close to the stone walls, many of these with tunnels beneath so that criminals could come and go at will.
One great route out of the City of London was the Strand, the highway to Westminster, the seat of Parliament, the home of royalty. With a hundred and fifty thousand people in ten parishes, it had its great houses and its unbelievably foul slums. The other and even more important highway was the crowded Thames, crammed with ferries, small boats plying between the two cities, and small vessels which could pass beneath London Bridge. They had a strong but unorganised force against thieves.
All three groups, the two cities and the Thames workers, as well as the County of Middlesex, made a solid front against any attempt to create a force which could both prevent crime and catch criminals. And not one, of all these parishes, was properly protected. Each was becoming more and more vulnerable to thieves and footpads, highwaymen and murderers.
Londoners, then, indeed the English generally, regarded the concept of a national police force with genuine horror. They pointed to France and to other Continental nations and said in tones of dread: ‘A national police force can only lead to a police state, and no Englishman will stand for it.’
So, instead, there were the private forces, such as that organised by the Furnival family and by most of the great banking and commercial corporations and all who could afford to pay for loyalty, which also meant for honesty. But it was loyalty to their employers, not to the nation, and many of these men outside their own strict duties would break the law with any man who could get away with it.
Justice could be bought and sold. Perjury was heard in every court at least as often as the truth. Honest witnesses were either bribed to lie or else were terrified into lying. Hardened rogues would cheerfully give evidence against a man they had never seen, even though it meant sending him to the gallows, for a share of the reward. Furnival never allowed himself to forget that most justices and peace officers were as corruptible as any, for they had to make their money out of payments made by the government for catching a man or from victims whose goods they ‘found’ for a handsome reward, shared with the thieves. With more than a hundred crimes now punishable by hanging and more being added yearly to the statute book in the false belief that vicious punishment would reduce the amount of crime, there was a lively and thriving trade in every kind of malpractice.
He did not yet know about James Marshall but such affairs were an everyday occurrence, and Furnival believed this would remain and perhaps become worse until there was a professional force to replace the thief-takers, the watchmen and the parish constables.
This morning he came in his diary file upon a petition which he himself had placed before the Minister of State, Sir Robert Walpole, exactly a year ago. Without the help of his family, he had begged that the nation take on the responsibility of the payment of such a force, and had offered to continue to maintain his organisation centred on Bow Street.
A secretary had acknowledged the petition, and Furnival did not know whether it was still in existence or whether it had been destroyed. But here was a copy in Silas Moffat’s beautiful copperplate hand. Every petition, every recommendation that he made was carefully copied and recorded; at times Moffat employed two clerks who did no more than stand at their sloping desks making copy after copy of some long plan which would be sent not only to the Minister of State but to other Cabinet ministers, and to many of the lords and commoners outside London who might take some interest.
Very few did.
He read this particular petition slowly and shook his head, but he did not feel the anger which usually assailed him on such an occasion. He was in a calmer mood than he had been for some time but had not yet attempted to stand back from himself to try to discover why. Sooner or later, he would do this.
He replaced the petition in a pigeonhole marked September 1739 and as he did so he heard voices outside the room. Moffat’s voice was unmistakable. The other man’s - ah - it was Tom Harris. Neither would disturb him unless convinced that the matter was of utmost importance. He waited for Moffat’s tap on the door and called, ‘Come in.’
They entered, Harris close on Moffat’s heels, both looking so concerned that Furnival said jestingly, ‘What bad news do you bring me?’ He paused, then added, ‘Has Fred Jackson come back from the dead?’
‘You might almost say that is what’s happened,’ growled Harris, and there was no doubt of the seriousness of his words. He hesitated, giving Moffat an opportunity to take up the story, but the older man stayed silent, while Furnival stared at them both with those compelling eyes that could ‘see’ a lie. ‘’Tis Eve Milharvey’s work, if I know owt, sir,’ Harris continued at last.
‘It would help me if I were to know what work,’ remarked the justice.
‘Sir, it is not the easiest of stories to tell. I beg you to excuse me if I make heavy going of it! Last night the Marshall lad did not return to the cottage in Bell Lane, and his mother confided in me.’ Both men saw the tightening at Furnival’s lips but he did not speak and Harris went on. ‘So I pursued inquiries, sir, and without going into detail, which I can, however, provide, having written it all down in black and white, the upshot is that he was charged with theft from a silversmith in Fleet Street. The charge was heard in his absence before a trading justice, in a nearby shop and he was committed to Newgate to await trial. It is four weeks to the next Sessions, and in four weeks the lad can be turned into a lecher or can be so used by the men that he—’
‘Have you been to Newgate?’ Furnival interrupted.
‘I’ve come straight from there, sir. For a fee of ten shillings the head jailer allowed me to see the entry and the charge. He would not tell me where the lad has gone, sir.’
Furnival stared from one man to the other and finally back to Harris.
‘How well do you know the boy?’
‘I was at his baptism, and know him almost as well as I knew his father.’
‘Is there any chance that he is guilty?’
‘Absolutely none, sir. I swear my own future on it. I can find no one else who has reason to hate the boy or the family, but - there’s more, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘Peter Nicholson was seen at the gate when the boy was taken into Newgate and must have ridden straight off to Eve Milharvey, for he was seen there half an hour later. I’ve checked closely, sir.’
‘Ah. What more?’
‘The justice who committed the boy is Lionel Martin of—’
‘I know where that drunken rascal lives. More?’
‘The silversmith is a friend of Justice Martin’s, sir, and the two thief-takers who t
ook the boy were very conveniently at hand at the time of the alleged robbery.’
Furnival ran his thumb and forefinger over his chin and after a few seconds remarked in a hard tone, ‘What are the worst aspects of the situation?’
‘There are at least three eyewitnesses who swear they saw the boy go into the shop and come out again. One I would trust; the others would lie away a life for a few pounds. James stated that he did not go into the silversmith’s, having no reason to, and I believe him.’
‘Then how can you believe—’ began Furnival, only to break off before adding the words ‘young James’? It seemed a long time before he went on. ‘You think there were two boys?’
‘That is my considered opinion, sir.’
‘And a very carefully laid plot.’
‘To discomfort you, sir,’ Harris declared.
‘And well it could be,’ conceded Furnival. After another pause he asked bitterly, ‘How does one handle such snivelling cowards who will strike at a boy and a woman to avenge themselves on a man?’ Obviously he did not expect an answer and Harris attempted none. Furnival closed his eyes and in those few moments looked very tired; his voice lacked its usual strength when he went on, his eyes still closed. ‘How long will it be before we get rid of the corruption and the treachery, I wonder? How long must one suffer the trading justices who will sell a man’s life for a few pounds?’ He opened his eyes and they seemed to be on fire. ‘Go on, Thomas Harris, give me an answer!’
Harris answered quietly, ‘Too long, sir.’
‘Hah! With a dozen men as wise and experienced as you what couldn’t I do with this cesspit they call London!’ He turned to Moffat, who might have sunk into the floor for all the notice taken of him or the disturbance he made. ‘Silas, hie you to Justice Martin and ask him to have the courtesy and grace to meet me in the lodge at Newgate in one hour’s time. Tom, hie you to the two thief-takers who say they caught the boy in the act and find out whether they’ll retract best if we frighten them or we cross their palms with silver. On your way tell Forbes to have my horse saddled and bridled in fifteen minutes. Bring me word at Newgate.’ Now he was speaking at a great rate and all signs of tiredness had gone. ‘Hurry, hurry, I can’t bear a man who stands still when there’s much to do.’
