by John Creasey
‘It could be a case of mistaken identity,’ muttered the magistrate.
‘D’you swear to that?’ Furnival demanded. ‘In front of these witnesses?’
‘Readily,’ the first thief-taker declared. ‘No one would want to see an innocent lad convicted of theft. Why, he could be hanged for it!’
‘One day you’ll make a mistake too many and you’ll be hanged,’ Furnival said coldly. He looked demandingly at the other thief-taker. ‘Do you swear to a mistaken identity, Godden?’
‘Why, surely, sir, I do!’
‘If you ever cross my path again and I find you’ve given false evidence, I’ll see you hanged, the pair of you. Now get out.’ He frowned as they scurried away, then turned to Martin. ‘It will take too long to withdraw the charge at the lodge and half the jailers are probably in the plot, anyhow. We’ll see the Keeper and you’ll tell him the two men who arrested James Marshall have retracted and you have cancelled your notice of committal. Just that and no more. D’you understand?’
The man who dealt in justice for profit looked at him with unexpected defiance and replied, ‘Yes. But one day, John Furnival, you’ll go too far. If the hangman doesn’t get you, the thief-takers will.’
‘I can remember Frederick Jackson saying that very same thing,’ Furnival replied derisively. He turned to the inoffensive little man with thin features. ‘Have you orders to take us to the Keeper?’
‘Yes, Mr. Furnival, sir, I am one of his turnkeys. I have already sent for the boy to be found and brought to the Keeper’s office. What a terrible miscarriage of justice nearly took place, sir.’ He took two strides for every one of Furnival’s, and the ships’ chandler’s length of stride came somewhere in between. ‘But the Keeper himself is in the country, sir, and his assistant will be seeing you, a Mr. Heywood.’
He talked on ceaselessly as he led them through the dark, forbidding corridors of grey stone, the walls high on either side, every window, large or small, barred to make escape impossible. Yet without the bars and the darkened windows, the building could have been a palace rather than a prison, so nobly was it proportioned and so fine was the decorative work on the ceilings.
The Keeper, Furnival felt sure, was somewhere in the living quarters of the prison, anxious not to meet him face to face, so that he could deny any part in or knowledge of what had happened. His assistant, a one-eyed man, was fulsome in his greeting, offered wine, assured them there would be no difficulty, heard the ships’ chandler’s cancellation and the state-merits of retracted evidence, jumped when a tap came on the door, sharp and clear, and called ‘Come in.’ At once a huge man entered, keys clanking from the thick leather belt at his waist. He was handsome in a bold and rugged fashion, with glossy black hair, cleanshaven at the lips and chin but heavily hirsute on the cheeks. There was an air of the brigand about him, a swagger emphasised by the belted jacket and full-cut breeches and leather boots, and gaiters. Everything about him was the more impressive because of his size.
Furnival had expected to see James Marshall with him but the jailer was alone.
‘Well, Bolson, where is he? Where is the boy?’ demanded the Keeper’s assistant.
‘He can’t be found, sir, nowhere,’ declared the huge man. He looked not at the Keeper’s assistant but at Furnival; it was difficult to judge whether there was more defiance than triumph in his eyes. Very deliberately he went on: ‘You know what can happen if the prisoners take a fancy to a boy.’
Furnival stood absolutely still when Bolson declared that the boy could not be found.
Tom Harris exclaimed: ‘In God’s name, no?
Heywood put a hand to his one eye as if to hide from the expression in Furnival’s and said stridently, ‘It could not have happened!’
‘I’ve known them dead before the men have half finished with them,’ the head jailer said. ‘I’ve known them live, too.’ He touched his forehead with a meaningful gesture. ‘They ain’t never been the same, though.’
‘Mr. Heywood,’ said Furnival in a cold voice, ‘I desire to make a thorough search of every ward in the prison, male and female, debtors’ and felons’, until the boy is found. Tom,’ he barked at Harris, ‘go you to Tilt Yard at once, riding any horse if you have none of your own here, and tell the colonel in charge, be it Colonel Treese or Colonel Hammond, that a company of dragoons must be available to quiet an expected riot in Newgate Prison. Go then to Bow Street and send every available man to act as messengers. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Perfect, sir, perfect!’ Tom turned to go.
‘Mr. Heywood,’ went on Furnival in the same cold voice, ‘if anything happens to or delays Constable Harris on this errand, I shall hold you personally responsible and charge you with conspiring to cause a miscarriage of justice.’ He turned his head slightly. ‘Head jailer—’
‘You’re wasting your time. I’ve already searched, I tell you.’ Bolson was aggressively sure of himself.
‘You are in charge of the inmates of this noisome place and if any harm has befallen the boy Marshall you also will be charged with conspiracy, and you had best pray that he is not dead or grievously hurt. Mr. Heywood, will you escort me in person, if you please?’
‘I - I—’ began Heywood, and he looked as if he would burst into tears. ‘If the Keeper were here—’
‘Either come with me or send for the Keeper, wherever he is hiding.’ Again Furnival turned to the head jailer, who still smiled faintly, as if he were enjoying this fuss and feared no harm. ‘Your name is Bolson, I understand.’
‘Yes, sir. Jake Bolson.’
‘We will go to the Stone Hold first.’
Bolson looked astounded, but much of his expression seemed put on.
‘The Stone Hold, sir? Why it wouldn’t be safe for a gentleman like you.’
‘We shall find out if it is safe for a scoundrel like you. Lead the way - at once.’
Bolson hesitated, looked at Heywood, and obviously realised that there was no help coming from him. He shrugged and turned to the door. Over his shoulder he slung a single sentence. ‘No blame to me if they cut your throat.’ He turned into a stone-flagged passage and then down a narrow stone staircase; the stench which rose was enough to make Furnival choke. Jailers were at iron gates leading to other wards, or holds, astounded at the sight of Furnival.
Bolson and Furnival were halfway down the second flight of steps, lit only by rush flares in iron wall brackets, when the Keeper’s assistant called, ‘I am coming, wait for me. I am coming!’
Bolson growled, ‘More fool you, you—’
Furnival stretched out a hand and held him loosely about the throat. The hard voice was cut off. Bolson looked over his shoulder as if for the first time he knew a moment of fear.
‘Head jailer,’ Furnival said, ‘if we have to fight, I shall kill you, and if I have to kill you, it will be a happy day for thousands of poor wretches fated to come here. Lead the way.’ He released the man, who turned and moved on, saying no word; cowed.
The stench was now so thick and nauseating that Heywood began to cough and Furnival had to fight to prevent himself from being sick. They came upon a sight so awful that Furnival, who had heard of this place and who had been to other parts of the prison he had thought so bad that nothing could be worse, was appalled. Inside one huge stone-floored dungeon, with only dim light from a barred window built high in the wall and two casements, there must have been three hundred people. A dozen, mostly men, were banging on the gate and rattling it so noisily that it seemed it must break; others were quick to join them. The stench of human body odours, excreta and gin came in a revolting wave. At one side, clearly visible, a man and a woman were copulating. Lying on their backs or on their stomachs or bent double as if in pain were men and women with gin flagons by their sides, so that apart from the rattling and the shouted threats there was snoring from dozens of throats. Against one wall another couple sat; within hand’s reach of them was a girl with an infant at her full, milky-white breast. She looked
dazed and oblivious of her surroundings as she suckled the child. In one corner, sitting in a circle, were six - or was it eight? - women all dressed in dark clothes which spread beneath them, all with their heads bowed as if in prayer. Each wore a white collar and had white cuffs. An old man was leaning against one wall, vomiting. Three children, two boys and a girl, were racing about the room, threading their way among the occupants, squealing with delight. A middle-aged woman stood in the midst of a small group, reciting the Ten Commandments in a high-pitched voice. Sitting or squatting, many men and women were in attitudes of dejection and despair.
The men by the gate stopped rattling it for at least ten seconds and then one of them screeched, ‘It’s the bastard Furnivall’
‘The hanging justice!’
‘Let me get at him!’
‘Send him in here, Bolly boy. We’ll tear him to pieces!’ screamed a man who was much the same build as Tom Harris.
Bolson drew back, a huge key in his hand attached to a bunch secured at his waist; and in the poor light his sneer showed and it sounded clearly in his voice.
‘Now do you want to go in?’
‘Open the door at once,’ ordered Furnival.
‘No, sir, I beg you—’ Heywood began.
‘I myself wouldn’t go inside that hellhole with them in that condition,’ Bolson declared.
‘I can well believe you,’ said Furnival icily. ‘Are you going to open the door or must I open it for you?’
He moved forward as if to pull the key from the other’s hand and Bolson screeched, ‘They’ll kill you!’
‘Every man in this hellhole knows that if I were to be murdered here he would be hanged next hanging day,’ said Furnival in a clear, carrying voice. ‘And you among them, for putting them up to this idiot behaviour.’
‘I - I - That’s a lie,’ gasped Bolson. ‘I never did!’
Furnival wrenched the key from the man’s grasp, thrusting him close to the bars so that he, Furnival, had room to instert and turn the key. He needed both hands and on the instant that he took one hand from the small of Bolson’s back he was at the man’s mercy. He felt Bolson thrust weight backward, then heard Heywood cry: ‘Enough!’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Keeper’s assistant’s pistol thrust against the jailer’s neck, and for the first time since he had sent Tom Harris off he felt that he was not alone. The key groaned in the lock as it turned. There remained the risk that one of the prisoners would attack him; and if one started, the others might follow.
‘Kill the devil!’ one man rasped.
‘Choke him to death!’
‘One more threat and one single act of violence and you will all be placed under sentence of death for attacking a magistrate,’ Furnival said in that clear, carrying voice. ‘Who among you wishes to be hanged so that Bolson can line his pockets?’ He paused long enough for the significance of his words to sink in, then added, ‘Let me pass.’
There was still a chance that some of the men would rush at him, but instead they drew back, as if the cold gaze from his eyes and the thin line of his lips intimidated them. He trod on slime; the floor was running with a filthy ooze. He looked at every man and woman and especially at every child, but he did not see James Marshall.
As he neared the middle of the hold, he heard singing.
At first it was so soft it seemed far away, but it was the voices of women raised in harmony, and he looked towards the group of dark-clad women in the corner, who seemed as out of place here as a virgin in a brothel. He went slowly towards them, noticing that those of the prisoners who were sober looked at them and listened, while even some who had been in the depths of misery glanced up, as if for a moment the awfulness of their plight was eased.
Gradually the words of their hymn became clear and pure in sound:
‘He that on the throne doth reign,
Them the lamb will always feed.
With the tree of life sustain.
To the living fountains lead.
He shall all their sorrows chase,
All their wants at once remove,
Wipe the tears from every face,
Fill up every soul with love.’
And as they sang they rose to their feet and from amongst them came James Marshall, who they had kept hidden from the savage beastliness of the men in this awful den. The boy’s eyes were feverishly bright and his face had a sickly pallor but his gaze was as direct as Furnival’s.
Furnival’s heart leapt as it might have had this been his own son.
There was growling and grumbling from the men who had threatened Furnival, but no move towards him or the boy. Furnival, turning, saw two of his Bow Street reliables by the open gate, pistols cocked.
The head jailer was at one side, and the Keeper’s assistant was demanding, ‘Who are those women? Why have they been committed here?’
‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t know!’ Bolson’s voice was unsteady.
‘Then go and find out, you dolt.’ The courage that had poured into the little one-eyed man was sterner than had seemed possible, and he pushed the hulking Bolson towards the steps as he ordered the other jailers, ‘Bring those women out and take them at once to the Press Yard. See also that they have good food and drink, whether they can pay for it or not.’ He looked up at Furnival, his one eye blazing. ‘Thank God you were in time, sir.’
‘Thank God indeed,’ said John Furnival dryly. ‘Boy, go with the ladies to the Press Yard, where the air is clean and no one will assault you. I trust you know well how to say thank you to those ladies.’
‘I shall be forever in their debt, sir,’ James Marshall declared in a quivering voice. ‘And in yours, sir.’
‘Remember the debt you owe them because you will never be able to repay it,’ replied Furnival.
He stood aside as the women, seven in all, walked out of the Stone Hold with their heads held high; all but one were in their twenties and thirties, each comely, the eyes of each lighting up at the sight of the rescued boy and of Furnival. They filed up the stairs, one jailer ahead and one bringing up the rear, while Furnival locked the gate as his own constables watched.
‘Stay here until the jailers return,’ said Furnival. ‘Then one of you report to the colonel in charge at Tilt Yard that the emergency is past at Newgate Prison, thanks’ - he looked into that one blazing eye - ‘to prompt action on the part of the Keeper’s assistant. Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. Heywood?’
‘Gladly, sir, gladly.’ Heywood sounded as humble as he had earlier sounded afraid.
They went up past the middle holds of the prison, from which came the same stench, and alongside the Press Yard, from where it was but a short distance to the assistant’s office.
‘If you will partake of a little refreshment with me, Mr. Furnival, I shall be delighted. Port, perhaps, or coffee—’
‘Good of you,’ said Furnival, ‘but I must be on my way. I trust you will report the incident in the greatest detail to the Keeper.’
‘The greatest detail, sir, I do assure you.’
‘And I will take it kindly if you will inform him that in my opinion Bolson was bribed by someone outside the prison to persuade the men to make a show of violence against me, and that I might well be dead but for your action.’
‘You are past grateful, sir. I declare I did no more than my duty. A duty in which I might have failed but for your example. If I may suggest - a letter, the shortest of letters, to the same effect to the Keeper. If it would not be too great a bother.’
‘It shall be done. And will you tell him, or be yourself assured, that I will pay for the privileges which are accorded the ladies, however long they are here. But they must be permitted the Press Yard and the best treatment and accommodation.’
‘Be assured of it, sir.’
Furnival nodded and turned, saying, ‘I would like to go for the boy.’
‘And I will come with you.’ The Keeper’s assistant could not get to the door fast enough to open it for the justice o
f the peace for the City of Westminster and the County of Middlesex, and they walked side by side, followed now by the two Bow Street constables. Behind, the Stone Hold was secured and guarded by jailers again.
Heywood led them along narrow passages which were pleasantly lighted by large windows, then through a doorway which opened onto the Press Yard. And almost the first thing Furnival saw was young James, gaping about him with a wonder surely as great as the terror he had felt when he had been in the dungeon.
James was as wide-eyed as a young monkey while he looked about him in this place they called the Press Yard, for it was almost impossible to believe this was part of the same prison. The air was clear and pleasantly warm and there was no unpleasant odour. Apart from the heavy barred doors and the barred windows it was like being in a small London square, and the men and women here - nine men to every woman at least, save for the seven who had just come in with him - were dressed in expensive clothes, some with diamond pins in their cravats, all showing or at least pretending an elegance which seemed part of a different world. A group of four was playing cards, and he recognised Sir Roger Pilaff, a Member of Parliament accused of treason. He remembered his father telling him that at Newgate - as in all prisons - men and women of wealth could ‘buy’ their own apartment, their own wine and food, and could live in luxury, having wives or mistresses whenever they wished, and having their own servants. For these prisoners the jailers would run errands for a price which varied vastly according to the means of the patron.
Much that James’s father had told him he had only half absorbed, but from the moment he had been committed here until his release, he had been terrified, for he had experienced all there was to know about the helplessness of the poor prisoners, the near-certainty of conviction, and hanging or transportation for the humblest of thefts.
