by John Creasey
When she returned, his head had lolled forward, chin on chest, as if he had fallen asleep, and she placed everything in position before going closer to him. If he were in too deep a sleep she would not wake him.
She caught her breath, for he looked so strange.
His lips and nose and part of his cheeks were blue in colour, his mouth drooped open, his eyes were neither open nor closed but a little of each. Ruth felt in that awful moment that he was dead, but she steeled herself to feel for his pulse and detected a rhythm; she could hear breathing deep in his chest, too. She straightened up and ran out of the room, calling ‘Tom, Tom!’ but it was another constable who came hurrying to her. ‘Get a doctor!’ she cried. ‘Doctor Anson if possible, but please hurry for a doctor!’
A youthful doctor, partner to elderly Anson, came within fifteen minutes, by which time the servants were in the room where John Furnival now lay on two chairs, more comfortable, while Ruth stood over him, bathing his forehead.
Soon the young doctor said with assurance, ‘I have no doubt, Lady Furnival, that your husband has suffered a major seizure of the heart. I would recommend constant care with the best possible trained assistance. The Royal Physician will come, I am sure, and I can recommend excellent women to care for him until such time as we can be sure he will recover. But I am hopeful, ma’am, most hopeful.’
‘Lady Furnival,’ the King’s physician said, two weeks later, ‘with care and constant attention your husband will live for many years, provided he can accept what is now, I fear, inevitable. His left side is paralysed, and he will not be able to walk. His will be a life of enforced retirement from public affairs and I would strongly recommend that the whole household move to St. Giles Farm. It will be a terrible blow to him, ma’am, and a great burden upon you, but I see no alternative.’
Quietly Ruth said, ‘It will be no burden, sir. If he can use his mind, I can be his arms and legs and can do whatever he wants of me. Is he able to understand what is going on about him now?’
‘Vaguely, I fear - but vaguely.’
‘Then we should have him taken to St. Giles before he recovers well enough to protest,’ she said, ‘and I will be grateful if you and Doctor Anson will make what medical arrangements are needed. I will call upon his brothers and get their permission to move permanently to St. Giles.’
She did not add that she would implore one of them, at least, to take up where John had been forced to stop.
‘Ruth,’ said Francis, standing beside his desk, ‘none of us can continue with the work he was doing because we do not believe in it sufficiently. But two things we can promise you. We shall never stand in the way of any man who follows him. And we shall forever regard you as one of ourselves because you are so much part of John.’
BOOK II
1751–1783
13: THE INVITATION
‘Have no doubt,’ Timothy McCampbell, Sarah’s son, said to James Marshall, ‘I believe you should come, James, and persuade your mother to come also. It will be a very great occasion, and properly used it could mend a breach which I think should have been mended long ago. If it were practicable for your father to be moved I would urge that he come as well.’
They were walking across the new Westminster Bridge. The setting sun of that autumn day of 1751 threw the spires of nearby churches into sharp relief against the sky and reflected on the roof and the two towers of Westminster Abbey, solid and impressive. The great buildings of Mayfair and Piccadilly, and closer, the Royal Stables at Charing Cross, gleamed whitely, and they had but to turn their heads to see the clear outline of the dome of St. Paul’s. Below were the flags of gaily bedecked ships with their masses of passengers, many coming to see this year-old bridge for the first time. The watermen of the Thames, who had fought so bitterly against the proposal to build a bridge there, fearing loss of trade, now made a fortune taking Londoners and hosts of visitors from the provinces through one of the great arches as far as the open countryside between Westminster and Chelsea.
A stiff breeze filled the sails of big ships and small, and ruffled the muddy-looking surface of the river; and it stirred James Marshall’s jet-black hair, which he wore exposed to both sun and wind, seldom wearing a peruke or any covering save a soft leather cap. The sun caught his high forehead, and hooked nose, deep-set eyes and thrusting chin drew the gaze of many a girl and matron who passed. He was of a height with Timothy McCampbell, but a more striking contrast it would have been hard to imagine, for Timothy favoured his mother, with her blonde hair and pleasantly rounded features. Timothy, who gave no outward sign that he could match James’s strength of will and character, was a follower rather than a leader, and he laughed easily, his cornflower-blue eyes crinkling readily at the corners.
Both young men were passed by hundreds of workers, hastening home mostly from shops and small manufacturers near Westminster, and the road was thronged with carriages, sedan chairs and groaning carts.
When James did not respond at once, Timothy asked, ‘Do you have no answer?’
‘I have two,’ James replied. ‘My mother will not come without John Furnival and I am reluctant to come without her.’
‘For what possible reason?’ demanded Timothy impatiently.
James shot him a sideways glance and his lips curved in a smile as he answered, ‘None whatsoever, except custom and prejudice.’
‘Which are not worthy of you! Here, I, tell you, is a great occasion, the opening of the new Furnival Docks, opposite Furnival Tower House, the finest and most modern in London - in all the world, more like. There will be a great procession on the river, an escorted visit to the new docks, and a ceremony as the first ship enters, all this followed by a show of fireworks the like of which you have never seen. Doesn’t the prospect entice you?’
‘You forgot to remark upon the delectable food,’ observed James.
‘There are times when you are exasperatingly impossible!’
‘I am aware of it,’ conceded James Marshall. ‘I marvel at your patience but would be a sad man if you lost it. I am inclined—’
He broke off as an enclosed one-horse cart came smartly towards them. On a high board above the head of the driver, as well as on the sides, was printed:
Ebenezer Morgan & Sons
Always the Highest Class in Groceries
Finest Fresh Dairy Produce . . . Tea, Coffee, Cocoa
and Spices all of the Finest Quality
Long Acre and Establishments elsewhere
in London
Timothy looked at his companion thoughtfully. ‘Do you live much in yesterday, James?’
‘I like to remind myself how much I owe John Furnival,’ James said. ‘Sometimes I wonder where I would be and what I would be doing had I stayed with Morgan.’
‘Driving that old cart, most likely!’
‘Or one like it, yes. I hear that Morgan actually has nine other shops in different parts of London now instead of just the one in which I worked. Timothy, I have decided what to do. If John Furnival has no objection to my visiting you, then I will come, even if alone. But not if it is against his will.’
‘’Tis fair, enough,’ responded Timothy in a tone which implied that he did not really think so. ‘Will you go to St. Giles this Saturday and Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will have, your answer by Monday,’ Timothy remarked with restrained satisfaction. ‘I hope you will convince my uncle that everybody desires his presence.’
‘I have never fully understood what happened in the family,’ James said, ‘but I do not think there was ever an open quarrel.’
They walked from the northern end of the bridge into Whitehall, past the palace, past the stables, where crowds gathered to watch the Royal horses and their brilliantly clad grooms, down the wearing stone steps towards the crowded Embankment. The two friends walked on past the statue of King Charles, then turned right at the Strand into such a commotion of traffic that it was hard to comprehend. Four or five sailors, mostly m
iddle-aged, were being thrust out of Charlie Wylie’s notorious brothel, while in the doorway stood several middle-aged prostitutes, shaking their fists and screaming at the sailors. The two men carrying staves, from Henry Fielding, chief magistrate at Bow Street, were in the middle of the road, endeavouring to make a passage for one vehicle at a time in each direction, but with little success. The traffic was piled up in a great mass as impatient riders and drivers pressed on from behind, not knowing the cause of the holdup. Three small boys and a girl no more than six, all bare-footed and in rags, were darting about among the crowd, dipping into fob pockets and purses and dashing off with their loot.
Suddenly a cry was raised: ‘Stop thief ! Stop thief!’
James’s breath hissed through his teeth and Timothy was startled at his set face.
There was a raucous bellow of laughter as a woman at a second-floor window emptied a chamber pot over one of the sailors.
One of his companions was roaring, ‘We’ll have you for this, you bitches! We’ll have the lot of you!’
James and Timothy crossed the road and turned towards St. Martin’s in the Fields, nearing the pillory, where two men stood with their heads and hands through the holes, a small boy hurling tomatoes at them. At last the crowd began to thin and the traffic moved more freely.
‘Does the cry of “Stop thief!” still affect you?’ asked Timothy.
‘No matter how I try to prevent it, yes.’
‘Time will make you forget the hurt. Have no fear, James. Have you decided yet what to do with your life?’
‘Not fully,’ James replied thoughtfully.
‘There is ample scope for you at Furnival Tower House, you must know that.’
‘And I am not unmindful, Timothy.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help you come to a decision?’
Very slowly James shook his head. They walked on in silence for a few moments, then turned into Mee’s Coffee House, which was within sight of Whitehall and of Leicester Fields. The one large room was half empty, and they went to a corner opposite the foot of a narrow staircase. As they sat down a girl giggled, and a moment later a slim young woman with a frilly dress caught high at the neck and at the hips came towards them, tray in hand.
‘I declare this is the first coffee shop where I have been served by a wench,’ Timothy remarked.
‘I hope it won’t be your last, sir!’ The girl, merry-eyed but pale-cheeked, bobbed a curtsy and took their order of coffee and seedcake, then disappeared into a room beneath the staircase, where, out of sight, she giggled again. A few minutes later she brought their order, and said, ‘I hope you are aware that you can get all the comforts of home here, young gentlemen!’ She pranced off.
‘What on earth does she mean?’ asked James, baffled.
Timothy laughed. ‘James you are truly the innocent of innocents or a better actor than any who appears at Covent Garden or Drury Lane! She meant, if you wish to know, that this establishment has not been making enough money selling coffee, tea and cigars, so it has hired a female staff that will take you upstairs to bed for a modest sixpence or a shilling! James, don’t take me so literally! And I declare I’ve seen less attractive bed companions than our young woman. If it weren’t for fear of the French disease I might be tempted. That is one thing which I have learned, where to go to disport myself. There are some young ladies whose freedom of the disease can be positively guaranteed.’ Timothy picked up his coffee, sipped, and shook his head sadly. ‘Abominable stuff! I well understand why they had to stoop to such tricks to keep this shop open!’
‘Did you know what manner of place it was when we came in?’ asked James.
‘Do you think I would willingly bring you so close to the gates of hell, Jamey?’
‘I confess I don’t know what I think you would do,’ declared James. He was smiling, and out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of another girl coming down the stairs. Still looking at her he remarked, ‘No, Tim, I don’t think you can help me make my decision.’
‘One thing I warrant: you’ll never be a justice or a judge!’
‘What makes you say that?’ flashed James.
‘You take too long to make up your mind,’ replied Timothy. ‘My! You are a sensitive creature on some spots; even I can light on them without intent.’ He drank more coffee, made a face, and went on: ‘Well, my future was decided from the day I was born. Given the death of two uncles and a variety of relatives I shall one day be chairman of Furnival’s! Meanwhile, please God, Uncle Jason will decide he needs extra help in Bombay or Calcutta, in working with the East India Company, or else I shall be dispatched to the American colonies, where they say there is much danger from Indians and outlaws but much money to be made. To this end I have been sent to the great seat of learning at Oxford and covered myself with degrees and glory. Whereas you covered yourself with more degrees in Leipzig and this past year at Oxford. There can be few with more. What will you do with your doctorate of law, Jamey? Or your doctorate of literature? Old John will want an answer from you soon.’
James laughed, but there was a sombre note in his voice as he replied. ‘I doubt if he will much like the desire which takes me most.’
‘Then you have a desire! You old fox - you have been pretending uncertainty all this time but in fact your mind is made up!’
‘No,’ James said. ‘Not quite.’
‘You’ll wait and let him make it up for you, will you?’
‘No,’ replied James, taking the suggestion seriously, ‘but I’ll know for certain when I see him on Saturday.’
‘Am I to be given no inkling?’
‘I prefer not to be laughed at in a public place.’
‘No place could be better than here, it is all giggles!’ But despite his words there was earnestness in Timothy’s expression. ‘What is in your mind, James? You can’t say so much without telling me all.’
James looked his friend very straight in the eye. ‘I would like to go to Bow Street and work with Henry Fielding. I greatly admire much that he is doing to reduce crime. I doubt I am old or experienced enough, but there are some things in my favour.’
Timothy looked worriedly at his companion. ‘You mean that, don’t you?’ he asked thoughtfully.
‘With all my heart.’
‘But why, man? Why waste all that learning on the scum you will have to deal with? Why risk losing your head in a fight with cowards and killers, why—’ Timothy broke off, and with a rare gesture touched the back of James’s hand. ‘I am sorry, Jamey. I’ve no right to talk so wildly.’
‘Everyone else will,’ remarked James with a wry smile. ‘Loudest of all, I imagine, my mother. Such a prodigal waste of education, of opportunity, of—’ He too broke off. ‘You will have no difficulty filling in the gaps.’
‘No difficulty at all,’ agreed Timothy. ‘Is this because—’ He paused and looked away, as if momentarily touched by shame. ‘No matter! Will you have more coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Were you going to ask if I had this desire because my father was in the employ of Sir John Furnival at the time of his death? And whether I have a hatred of crime because my father was murdered by a highwayman?’
‘Truly I was, but it is none of my business,’ Timothy replied uneasily.
‘But I would like to answer. This is a difficult decision, and it will help to talk to someone who can be detached, as I believe you can be. It is not because my father worked at Bow Street against criminals. It is because I believe in what John Furnival has been trying to do these many years. I think, as he does, that we need a much stronger civilian control over crime than we have. The second day I came back to London, my first visit for three years, I went a-walking to all the old familiar places, and—’
‘Sentimentality,’ Timothy interrupted. ‘Mawkish sentimentality, nothing more.’ ’
‘Stench,’ countered James.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said “stench”. The same stench. The same filth in the st
reets. And as much crime. More crime than is usual in summer, in fact, and it is always worse in winter. Why, when John Furnival was at Bow Street the highwaymen kept outside the city walls, and even footpads seldom ventured into the wide thoroughfares. Today, today, as soon as darkness falls, they are everywhere; in the Strand, in St. James’s Square, no one is safe without an armed guard, so one who cannot afford an armed guard dares venture afield. They—’
James broke off as two middle-aged men came past the table, glancing curiously at his tense, white face and glittering eyes. When they had gone he continued, his voice throbbing with emotion.
‘Yesterday I saw a man being taken out of the stocks, his head and shoulders smeared with refuse, I saw gin-soaked men and women in the middle of the afternoon at Grog Lane, I saw some of the streets and alleys as bad as the wards in Newgate, and I saw thieves going among the drunkards, stealing what little money they had and snatching rings off the fingers of the women.’ He spread trembling hands across the table. ‘Oh, yes, I know what you will tell me: that I have walked across a fine new bridge and seen some fine new buildings and much prosperity. But I haven’t seen a street safe to walk in after dark - or a single yard or alley lit as the law demands. And why not? Simply because criminals terrify the householders into dousing them. This is why I want to work at Bow Street. The laws must be enforced; criminals must be brought to book; people must be protected.’
Timothy had listened with surprise and alarm, turning, finally, into obvious distress. He was silent for an appreciable time after James had finished, and then asked quietly, ‘Was this not in your mind before you came down from Oxford?’
‘No, Tim. I swear it.’
‘What had you in mind at that time?’
‘Oh, the law. Then I read Henry Fielding’s Enquiry into the Causes of the Late Increase of Robbers, with some proposals for remedying this growing Evil.’ James gave a sardonic laugh. ‘He asked for fresh legislation against receivers of stolen goods and fresh control of the sale of gin. And he also claimed that some thief-takers were most honourable men.’
