by John Creasey
Now he knew near-perfection.
Afterward, afterward, he remembered how he had said to Lisa Braidley that he wished her breasts held milk so that he could draw sustenance; and soon he found his lips gently about Ruth’s nipples, drawing no sustenance yet drawing peace. The moment came when he fell asleep, his cheek against her breast.
When she felt it would not disturb him she eased herself away from him with great care, thankful that the huge bed did not creak. She stood for a few moments, naked, looking down at him and smiling. Soon she shrugged herself into her robe, drew it up and tied it at the neck, left the tea things on the table lest she should make enough noise to wake him, and went out. In the flickering light of candles in iron wall sockets Silas Moffat was reading a manuscript through the tiny lenses of gold-rimmed spectacles. He stood up immediately as she crossed to him, saying in a low-pitched voice, ‘I do believe that he will sleep.’
‘I hope it has not overtired him; I am troubled about his health. But pleasure followed by sleep can only be good for him,’ he added more happily. ‘I will go and see the Reverend Smith and try to find more of what he wants, and make an appointment for tomorrow, if it seems necessary.’ Ruth nodded and moved aside as he asked, an anxious note in his voice, ‘Must you go to your, cottage?’
‘Is Meg Fairweather there?’
‘And will stay all night if needs be.’
‘Then I can stay here for as long as I am needed,’ Ruth said.
‘I will sit in a chair so that he will see me the moment he wakes and I can get anything he needs.’
‘Ruth,’ Moffat said, touching her hand with his gnarled and veined fingers, ‘I have served John Furnival for thirty years, and I do declare this is the first time I ever thought him lucky.’
‘Away with you!’ she whispered, and kissed him lightly on the cheek before tiptoeing back to Furnival’s room and across to see him. He had not moved, and his sleep was of deep exhaustion. She turned away, glanced at his huge chair, decided that it would not be wise to risk his waking and finding her in it, then found another that was comfortable. She placed coals with great care on the fire, then sat with the light from three slow-dripping candles shining on the tapestry which she had started long before Richard had died.
She felt completely at rest.
Furnival woke in near-darkness, to see her asleep in her chair, a silhouette against a faint glow from the fire; all the candles had burned themselves out. He looked at the watch standing now by the bedside. It was half-past three; he must have slept for eight hours or more! He went across the room and looked down at her, thinking: She is but a child. But she was not a child, and he had full proof! He eased his arms beneath her and raised her gently. She stirred. Carrying her across the room, he placed her on the bed, hesitated, and then undid the tapes of her gown. By God, she was not a girl! He moved her over as far as he could and then got in beside her, not expecting to sleep again, expecting, rather, to be teased by the desire for her.
Yet he fell asleep, and daylight showed at the tiny window when he woke again.
She was still beside him.
She woke at his touch, and stirred, and soon he knew that the fire he had kindled in her only yesterevening was one which would not easily be quenched.
8: ‘A MAN OF GOD’
The Reverend Sebastian Smith had a curious way of walking on the balls of his feet, so that he appeared almost to hop. Although a small man, the top of his head not reaching Furnival’s chin, he was well proportioned, and reports came in from time to time that in defence of himself and his parishioners, he had put many a ruffian to flight. He was fair-haired and his grey-blue eyes changed according to the light. He had a youthful look although he was a man of at least fifty and had been a curate at St. Hilary’s for ten years before eventually becoming the vicar. He wore a black gown cut out at the neck to show that he was a cleric, with plain braid and buttons, and slit at each side of the shirt, which gave him freedom of movement.
The last time Furnival had seen him had been at Tyburn on the hanging day when Frederick Jackson had died. It was difficult to realise that this small, mild-looking man had such lungs and a voice which could boom above the noise of the mob.
He had a stubborn courage which made him take the Word anywhere he thought it would do good. He did not care whom he assailed with his tongue, the riffraff of the mob or the exquisite dandies who, deep-streaked with sadism, walked among the ruffians and the brutish poor. He might choose the Mall, most fashionable of promenades, where the aristocrats still promenaded. He might choose St. Bartholomew’s Fair, crammed with side shows of actors or puppets, or one might find the Reverend Smith preaching earnestly at Ranelagh Gardens or Vauxhall Gardens, both of which seemed out of place in London with their Chinese and Greek, their Moorish or Indian pavilions. Whenever a new tea garden was opened, be it at Marylebone, Pimlico, Pentonville or Hampstead Wells, there sooner or later he would be seen.
Some who knew said that it was less the spirit of the Lord than the spirit of the flesh, titivated and tantalised by all he saw. Whatever the cause he was forever at work, either among his parishioners at St. Hilary’s or in those places ‘spawned by the devil’.
It was four o’clock in the bright but chilly late afternoon of the day following Furnival’s visit to Eve Milharvey. By rare chance few cases had come up for hearing and no one of importance was waiting for his turn in court.
Moffat had brought Smith upstairs to the big study-cum-library and sun filtered through a corner of one window onto the leather spines of books, turning them from brown to russet colour. A newly fed fire blazed; a decanter of sack stood on a table between two chairs.
‘Mr. Furnival, it is very gracious of you to see me,’ Smith said, both looking and sounding nervous. This was unusual, for whenever he gave evidence as to the character of one of his poorer parishioners in court, and whenever he interceded with one of the parish constables to increase a sum being given to a destitute family, he was quiet but confident. What, then, would make this man whose faith in his God gave him such confidence in himself act almost as if he were afraid?
‘I should see you twice for being asleep when you were due here last night!’ said Furnival. He looked and sounded as fresh as he had been for a long time. ‘How can I help you, Reverend?’
Quite unexpectedly Smith said, ‘You can help to get the release of the Methodist women from Newgate. And also—’ But he could not go on and sat back in his chair, looking deeply troubled.
‘The Methodist - You mean the women who saved young James were followers of John Wesley?’ Furnival was quite taken aback. ‘What are they doing in London and above all what are they doing in Newgate? I’ve heard of Wesley’s preaching in the provinces, but I did not know he had come to London.’
‘Nor has he, yet,’ rejoined Smith, gaining some confidence. ‘The ladies and their husbands came to prepare the way for him, and they fell foul of the law. It is a ridiculous story and I’m not sure we yet know what is really behind it,’ he went on. ‘They went to the market in-Covent Garden and were told to help themselves and pay when a tally was made. Before they had finished they were charged with theft, and were thrown into Newgate. And the devil of it is, sir, looked at one way it might have been theft, for they cannot identify the two men who told them to help themselves. They could be lying.’ He looked more boldly into Furnival’s eyes and asked, ‘Could you spare enough men to find out, Mr. Furnival?’
Unhesitatingly Furnival said, ‘Yes. I will send an officer with you to Newgate to get a full description of the men and do whatever I can.’
‘I have their descriptions writ down, with notes on the clothes they were wearing and the sound of their voices. One man came from Lancashire, one from Norfolk, that is why the women trusted them. They are good but simple folk and familiar-sounding voices disarmed them.’
‘I hope the day will come when they will meet and recognise some honest Londoners,’ Furnival said, with a smile in his eyes. He leaned
forward and pulled a cord at the side of the fireplace. Almost immediately footsteps sounded in the passage, then up the stairs, and a young clerk came in.
‘Thomas, which men are standing by?’
‘Tom Harris, sir, and Ebenezer Noble. And two of the others are at the Cock Tavern, within call.’
‘Send Tom up to me,’ ordered Furnival, ‘and send Ebenezer to get the two men from the Cock to replace him and Tom.’
‘That I will, sir.’ The boy hurried off, unaware of the clatter he made, while the Reverend Smith stood up from his chair and spread his hands in front of the settling fire.
‘Mr. Furnival,’ he said, ‘you are not only a good man but the most efficient man I know. I doubt London and Westminster or indeed the whole metropolis know how much they owe you.’
‘I doubt it, too,’ said Furnival gruffly, ‘and I’ doubt they’d believe if you were to preach a sermon on it from your pulpit! Will you have a glass of sack?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
Furnival drew his brows together in a frown and then gave a deep laugh.
‘But I haven’t the best memory of any man you know, have I? I’d forgotten that you don’t drink alcoholic liquor. Is there a reason for that?’
‘When there is no drunkenness, when there are no ginshops, then I will drink wine to warm my stomach,’ Smith replied. ‘But don’t let me prevent you—’
‘I’ll be better off without it,’ Furnival declared, and looked towards the door as Tom Harris appeared. Though twice the weight of the young clerk, he made not a tenth of the noise. ‘Come in, Tom,’ Furnival said, but did not ask the constable to sit down. ‘The Reverend Smith. . .’ He repeated Smith’s story almost verbatim, while the clergyman gave him three sheets of paper on which the writing was black and bold. ‘Take Ebenezer and find out what you can,’ Furnival ordered.
‘We’ll go at once,’ said Tom Harris. ‘But I shouldn’t be too sanguine, Reverend. Men from all the midland and northern counties as well as the east come with their wagons and unload and are off again before you can say “wink”.’
‘I shouldn’t be too pessimistic, either,’ Furnival retorted for Smith. ‘If you can’t find these men you can find the one who charged the women with theft. I’ll talk to him here,’ he added in a tone of great finality. ‘At any time.’
Tom Harris nodded.
‘And on your way out, Tom, have someone bring coffee - or would you prefer tea, Mr. Smith?’
‘Coffee would be most welcome, sir.’
Tom went off and Furnival leaned back in his chair, watching the parson. He himself felt calm, even contented, and the long night’s sleep had done him more good than a dozen bottles of physic. But his alertness was not dulled, and he felt sure that he had not yet discovered what was really worrying Smith.
Casually he asked, ‘When will John Wesley be here, Mr. Smith?’
‘He is due in ten days,’ Smith answered, ‘but whether he should be persuaded to postpone his visit I am not sure. He was persuaded by the Reverend Whitefield to preach with him in Bristol, out in the open air since few churches would admit him. Mr. Wesley was reluctant, I am told, but soon found it acceptable and a way of reaching multitudes.
‘Now he is due to come here. In truth, sir, I am persuaded that the man has in him the spirit of God, and he carries it not only to the rich and to the middling men but to the poor. We are in sore need of such a man in London, where the Church has lost its fire if not its faith. It has certainly lost its tolerance,’ Smith went on wryly. ‘I heard Wesley preach in Birmingham a month ago and came back hotfoot to open the pulpits to him, but few welcome him, few if any want him. And I have been ordered by the bishop not to give him the hospitality of my own pulpit. To me this is a wicked wrong, depriving a man of God of his right to minister and denying thousands their right to ministry.’ He looked away from the fire and straight into Furnival’s eyes. ‘You are not a churchman, Mr. Furnival, but you must see the iniquity of this attitude.’
‘The Church being as smug as it is, I’m not surprised,’ Furnival said. ‘I think you might have a bigger task stimulating the Church of England to action than I would in persuading the government that we need a professional force of peace-keepers!’ He pondered for a moment and then asked, ‘What kind of voice has John Wesley?’
‘A fine and powerful voice,’ declared Smith.
‘Then you should certainly find him a pulpit in the fields here also,’ said Furnival without hesitation. ‘In Spitalfields or Smithfield, even at Tyburn when there’s no hanging. He’d have every right, provided he preached neither treason nor popery. You’d find out whether the citizens of London would flock to hear a new prophet as they flock to see men swing.’
Smith had gone absolutely still. A new light, near-radiance, filled his eyes, and he looked as if he were too full for words. That was how Ruth saw him when she came in bearing a tray with coffee, and hot milk, sugar and some open jam tarts, and she was so startled by the parson’s appearance that she in turn stood still.
‘John Furnival,’ said Sebastian Smith, his voice taking on the familiar booming note, ‘you’ll never persuade me that you’re not a man of God.’ He caught his breath. ‘That’s what I’ll do. I shall announce open-air meetings in the fields, as they have in other cities. More people will be able to hear John Wesley than if he preached thrice from every pulpit in London and Westminster!’
He spoke like a man inspired. He was hardly aware of Ruth as she set the table, and certainly he did not see Furnival close his fingers about her wrist for a moment and then release her. She slipped copies of The Daily Courant and The Craftsman into a slot at the side of his chair, then, without waiting to be told, poured coffee, placed the dish of tarts within hand’s reach of each man, and went out.
When Sebastian Smith had gone - he had made no mention of Ruth - Furnival drew one of the newspapers from the slot and began to look through the inside news columns. Later he would look through the advertisements with a special eye on those of some of the bolder thief-takers, offering their services to look for stolen property, and those of more victims of robberies advertising for the recovery of their losses.
This was The Craftsman, a newspaper which so hated Walpole and his government that, like Henry Fielding with his plays, it might one day go too far. Two words seemed to rise out of the column and strike Furnival: ‘police force’. He read closely, knowing how this had come about as soon as he read the first lines.
CHIEF MAGISTRATE DESIRES TO ESTABLISH GENDARMERIE KIND OF POLICE FORCE FOR LONDON
Mr. John Furnival, renowned magistrate at Bow Street, recently responsible for the capture and hanging of the notorious highwayman Frederick Jackson, gave forth at Galloway’s Coffee house at the corner of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane yesterday on London’s crime. The chief magistrate would have a professional police force to guard our liberties. However, what liberties would there be left to guard if the existence of such a force were - by its very existence - to take them away.
This newspaper is seldom in agreement with Sir Robert Walpole and the scurrilous crew he has gathered about him at Westminster. We understand that to Mr. Furnival’s constant plea the administration returns a firm no. Liberty, it is obvious, makes strange bedfellows.
Furnival thrust his chin forward as he tossed the paper away and picked up The Daily Courant, which gave a shorter paragraph without comment. Those who did not actively oppose him would make no comment and might, he thought bitterly, just as well be hostile. Remembering an article he wished to read in The Craftsman he bent down for it and, in bending, wedged himself in an awkward, crouching position. He felt the blood go to his head and pressure grow in his chest and pain beneath his jaw.
He heard Ruth Marshall approaching and struggled to get up, but she was in the room before he could do so, and she, without a word, crossed and helped him.
‘No,’ he said, though she was still silent, ‘I will not see a doctor. But I will have some tea.’
; 9: FAMILY CONCLAVE
On the morning of Sunday, the thirteenth of October, 1739, John Furnival was driven in an open carriage towards Great Furnival Square. He was due to arrive to meet the family between eleven-thirty and twelve noon, and if he were to arrive early he would go to Cleo’s home, or Anne’s, for each would have been to church at St. Mary’s and would be at home to anyone who called. ‘Anyone’ would be members of the family, for no doubt it had been widely spread about that only family would be present. The sun was warmer than he had expected, and the Strand was almost empty, only an occasional coach or chair moving along and a few drunkards sleeping outside the grogshops or the brothels; the Sabbath had certainly quieted this part of London.
Seeing a throng of gaily dressed people come out of St. Martin’s in the Fields, he wondered how Smith was getting on at St. Hilary’s. Then he noticed a line of people dressed in dark clothes and wearing round hats with shallow tops walking by, carrying posters and calling out: ‘Go to the fields today to hear the word of God from the lips of His prophet, John Wesley.’ After a pause they repeated the same words, and Furnival saw that the times of the meetings were written on the placards. After the third refrain a man with a voice as powerful as Smith’s boomed out: ‘John Wesley will preach at Tyburn Fields at twelve noon. At Spitalfields at three o’clock of the afternoon. At Smithfield at half-past five in the evening.’
Furnival leaned forward and called up to his coachman, ‘Go up and down Whitehall and then to Tyburn Fields.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
It was a fine, clear day, and Furnival settled back to enjoy the sunshine. The roadways and the walks, already paved, were now crammed with people, and carriages and coaches were being drawn leisurely, some to go only as far as Westminster Abbey and the Parliament building, some to go along the embankment towards London Bridge, where they could cross for a Sunday at the gardens.
