by John Creasey
‘Fielding’s committed them to Newgate,’ a man said angrily. ‘There’ll be trouble after this, you may be sure.’
The next moment James heard a volley of shots, and one of Fielding’s men on horseback came tearing around the corner and cried, ‘There are four thousand sailors on the march from Tower Hill. They say they’ll set fire to all of London if their men aren’t released.’
‘And there are a thousand men on the way to stop them.’ We had word of the gathering at Tower Hill,’ another added.
James would not have been surprised to hear the tumult of battle, but now all the streets were lined at intervals with troops, and very slowly the crowd began to break up in an uneasy peace. The disturbances of the morning made it impossible for him to see David Winfrith, for everything at the court was badly delayed. He walked back towards the end of the Strand and realised for the first time that Wylie’s brothel and the Gock Tavern were razed to the ground.
‘Wylie will have to find somewhere else for his girls to take their men tonight, and the old Cock won’t be serving ale for many a month, if ever,’ Timothy remarked late that evening, when they were getting ready for bed. ‘What time will you leave for St. Giles?’ he added.
‘Any time before noon will be early enough,’ replied James. ‘I am told there is a coach leaving Hyde Park at every hour on the stroke, heading for Birmingham as well as Oxford and other places in the middle provinces and the north, and each will stop at St. Giles village.’ After a moment he asked lightly, ‘Did you do all you hoped to do?’
‘That’s a sly one,’ declared Timothy, laughing. ‘Will it be answer enough if I tell you that I am exhausted?’
James joined in the laughter but his was edged with anxiety. In one way he would have liked to talk to Timothy but he did not think the slightest good would come of telling him how he felt about Mary, so he said nothing, and it wasn’t long before each was in his own small room, undressed and ready for bed. Again it was some time before James went to sleep, and for at least an hour he struggled with his thoughts and fears and listened to Timothy’s rhythmic snoring.
The longer James lay awake the more vivid Mary’s face became.
15: THE HOUSE AT ST. GILES
When James left the rooms next morning, he carried his bag by sedan chair to the coach departure place at Hyde Park, had the baggage roll well marked with his name and destination, then set out for the Chapter Coffee House. The morning promised a fine day, and so he walked a northerly route until he reached St. James’s Park. Some families were already in the park, children playing on the lake with small boats as their mothers watched. From St. James’s he took another sedan chair, one of whose bearers was a Negro who ran between the front shafts. James paid the Negro sixpence before stepping towards the narrow oak door of the Chapter Coffee House.
This, he knew, was a meeting place of at least three worlds. Men of letters, were they humble journalists or writers of renown such as Dr. Johnson, went there to talk with friends who shared their love of literature, of writing, and of the sound of their own voices. Book publishers and printers also attended, together with bankers and merchants from the area north of St. Paul’s and a sprinkling of clerics from the cathedral or from churches within easy reach.
James was momentarily afraid that the coffee house would not be open, for it lacked five minutes of ten o’clock, but the door yielded to his hand and he stepped into a room so brightly lit from panels of glass in the ceiling that there was no need of lamps. On the walls were some front pages of various newspapers as well as some Hogarth sketches and caricatures of prominent men of letters, politicians and members of the Royal household. Racks of churchwardens, all marked with tiny labels, hung around the walls beneath the pictures, and some were suspended by leather thongs from the wooden beams across the ceiling. That morning no more than a dozen men were present and James did not see Winfrith. He was hovering between waiting hopefully and giving up when Winfrith, emerging from a door marked closet in a corner, approached a nearby table and sat with a thin-faced man with close-trimmed jet-black hair and beard. Winfrith glanced at James and then suddenly spun around to stare at him. In that moment the likeness between this man in his early thirties and James’s memory of Silas Moffat was startling, the clear, pale, blue-grey eyes, with their innocent expression, the most similar of all.
‘It is James Marshall!’ Winfrith exclaimed, and sprung to his feet, both arms extended. In spite of his angular thinness the grip of his hand was firm. ‘Jamey, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you! Did you come by chance or to seek me out?’
‘To seek you out,’ James replied. ‘I tried yesterday but you were busy. Two nights ago I encountered Tom Harris, who assured me you would be the one to tell me what is happening at Bow Street.’
‘Better even than Henry Fielding,’ declared the close-bearded man at the table. ‘Are you John Furnival’s stepson?’
‘Yes.’
‘I never met John Furnival but everyone who knew him tells me that is a great loss,’ the other replied. ‘I am—’
‘James, I would like you to meet one of Bow Street’s most worthy friends,’ Winfrith interrupted. ‘A man who serves us and what we are trying to do better than any other - Mr. Benedict Sly, of The Daily Clarion. What I forget, he can tell you. That is, if you have no objection to his presence.’
‘If the discussion is confidential I will at once excuse myself,’ declared Benedict Sly. There was a glint of humour in his eyes.
‘Although I confess I would prefer to be present.’
‘For my part, sir, you are very welcome,’ James assured him as he settled down to coffee. Some brandy snaps were placed before him on a porcelain dish which was marked Morgan’s Teas and Coffees - the best in the world.
Nine other establishments in London.
Two sons who were leaders of the New Mohocks.
A pretty, sobbing, outraged girl.
And Mary.
Neither man questioned him despite the tautening of his expression, and gradually all other pictures faded except that which now unfolded of the London these men knew so well, and of what was happening in Bow Street and other magistrates’ courts. All James’s fears as to the worsening state of London’s crime were confirmed by what Winfrith and Sly told him, and he very soon had no doubts that the system was failing, and that the parish constables, sheriff’s officers and the private forces employed to maintain the safety and the security of the wealthy were unable to cope with the increasing boldness of criminals. No one was safe. A dignitary might take with him an armed guard of six or eight men and the guard might be vanquished by a gang as fiercely armed and twice as strong in numbers. Where householders did place lights they were swiftly doused, either from devilment or at the behest of the gangs, which preferred to commit their depredations under cover of darkness.
Neck and neck with the growth of crime, and part of the cause of it, they told him, was London’s development as a commercial and industrial city. It was now not only the largest of England’s ports but did twice as much trade as the rest of the ports put together, and migration from the provinces, as well as from Ireland and the Empire, swelled the population. With this came greater prosperity for some, but terrible poverty for others, leading to yet more lawbreaking.
Yet Pelham’s Ministry appeared to have become moribund concerning the extent and the gravity of crime in London.
All of this poured out of Winfrith as if he had been longing for an audience.
When he had done and sat back to drink some coffee, the newspaperman Sly said dryly, ‘You must understand more clearly why the government does not concern itself with the condition of Londoners. It has its work cut out to keep a flow of trade and to protect British investments overseas. Our masters cannot find the time or the money to give us pure water, to bury the sewers deep, to help the starving. These urgent needs are left more and more to the private good will of individuals. And in the sacred names of freedom and liberty we have no o
rganisation against criminals!’
Hardly had he stopped than Winfrith leaned forward and said vehemently, ‘There is still worse!’ He began to talk as passionately as before.
The government made laws that were bound to be broken, demanding licences for music in an alehouse, making vagrants out of decent citizens who could not find work, condemning Henry Fielding for giving light sentences to those who, in desperation, stole food or clothing; and if a constable failed to see that laws like washing the street outside one’s house or keeping a light burning were kept, then he could actually be fined. If he failed to make others carry out Sunday observance, if he permitted the sale of obscene prints. . .
‘Madness!’ Winfrith went on hotly. ‘It forces worthy men to evade the duty of constable and leads to bribery and corruption!’
The time passed with almost frightening speed; even so, they would have talked on much longer had not a man in his late twenties, carrying a constable’s stave, come into the coffee house, now so crowded there was hardly a vacant seat at any table. The man bore down on Winfrith, who espied him and sprang to his feet.
‘’Tis not one o’clock already!’
‘It is ten minutes past,’ the other declared, ‘and if you want to see Mr. John angry, keep him waiting just ten more minutes.’
‘After one!’ gasped James. ‘I had intended. . .’
For several minutes there was a confusion of goodbyes, promises to meet again, courtesies which seemed interminable, before Winfrith was gone and James looked with dismay at the clock on the wall.
‘They make the most delicious pork pies and apple pasties here,’ Benedict Sly announced. ‘Join me in a meal, James, and allow me the pleasure of taking you to catch the next stage. There is one every hour, you say? I have my trap close by.’
The pies were as delicious as he had promised, the better for being washed down with fresh hot coffee, and as soon as they had finished eating, Benedict proved that he knew his way about London with any man, keeping his pony at a brisk trot along little-used roads and lanes so that when they reached the coach, due to depart at two o’clock, it had scarce begun to take on packages and passengers. Benedict did not linger and James watched him turn towards Kensington, the sprightly pony still trotting at a fair pace.
James felt more preoccupied than ever. Now he had reliable facts and figures from Winfrith and a dispassionate assessment of the situation. Benedict Sly, too, gave the impression of being a man who weighed his words before uttering them, and at least six times he had produced cuttings to illustrate the accuracy of what he had said.
One had been a reproduction of the pamphlet written by Henry Fielding headed:
Enquiry into the Causes of the Late Increase of Robbers
I make no doubt, but that the streets of this town and the roads leading to it, will soon be impassable without the greatest hazard. There are eleven major causes.
Each had been listed, and at the end had come Fielding’s final charge to the grand jury when he had been elected chairman of the Sessions.
James glanced through the morning’s Clarion, which Benedict Sly had thrust at him, as he sat on top waiting for the coach to fill up, the driver and an assistant hurling cases and rolls onto the hold at the top. On the back page was a cartoon depicting a familiar-looking man down on his knees before a crowd of people, and beneath this was a brief statement:
Gin shop and brothel destroyed by angry sailors. Owner’s plea of no avail. Firemen and troops arrive late.
Almost directly beneath this, in heavier type, was the headline:
JUSTICE FIELDING SUMMONS TROOPS
TO COMBAT SAILORS ON RAMPAGE.
COURT AT BOW STREET BESIEGED
BY ANGRY MOB
Beneath, in smaller type, was continued the telling of the events of the day before, concluding:
Why Englishmen are so opposed to law enforcement, whether by a military or a civilian force - the latter advocated by Sir John Furnival and it is believed supported by Mr. Fielding and his brother John and also the High Constable Saunders Welch - we cannot presume to guess. We only know that Mr. Fielding has aroused much resentment against himself for calling on the troops. The Londoners’ hatred of such a course appears to make them risk another Fire of London.
His lips set in a curiously wry smile, James then scanned the newspaper for other news to do with crime. There were two reports of thieves committed to Newgate Prison by the magistrates at Bow Street, another of a Mr. David Hooper who had recovered all the property stolen from him two months ago, thanks to the good offices of a well-known thief-taker named Hardy.
On the same page he came across a small paragraph headed:
THE PLEASURES AND COMFORTS OF NEWGATE PRISON
We hear that a new scheme is on foot for enlarging the prison of Newgate by knocking down bakehouses near the Sessions House yard. It is intended to erect piazzas so that the prisoners may have room to walk about in the open air, as well as facilities for receiving prostitutes. This will be a great comfort to all prisoners who are wealthy.
James lowered the newspaper as the elderly driver started the team of six horses. Soon the coach began to move at a fair pace, passing Tyburn Fields, where some youths were playing cricket. Gradually these sporting events gave way to green and cultivated fields, and soon every neck was craned to see a strange machine cutting the stalks of late corn, while men walked behind to gather it in sheaves, and women and children followed to pick up the gleanings that were left by tradition for the farm labourers and their families.
‘That is a rotary reaper,’ declared the driver. ‘It was invented by Jethro Tull. The harvest can be reaped in half the time it takes with scythes.’
‘And a quarter of the men,’ a grey-haired passenger complained. ‘These machines are of the devil.’
It being broad daylight and the sun warm, a large number of riders and carriages was on the road, especially when they clattered through straggling villages, past churches, farmhouses far back from the road, and here and there an inn, each with its thatched roof and narrow doors.
In the village the road surface was tolerable, but on the open road there were great ruts, and sometimes stones and flints jutted up from the surface high enough to lame a horse or to overturn a coach. The driver showed uncanny skill in avoiding the worst places without slowing down. Only two huge flocks of sheep, their thick wool filthy with the mud of a hundred miles of being driven, forced him to a standstill, as did one big herd of cattle.
Two and a quarter hours after he had left Hyde Park, James saw blue smoke rising from the tall chimneys of St. Giles against the wooded hillside. On one side of the highway a small group of people waited, some to catch the coach, some to welcome alighting passengers. As he drew nearer he could discern the shape of the building clearly, and the rich, warm red of the bricks where they caught the sun. The walled garden with its bushy fruit trees was ablaze with colour and for a breath-catching moment he recaptured the sight of the burning brothel in the Strand. Next moment he recognised Beth and Henrietta running down from the house towards the highway, whilst far behind them, hurrying, a youth pushed a wheelcart, doubtless to carry his luggage.
The driver began to pull at the leaders’ reins, the brakes were applied gently and the coach drew up. Even before his bag had been handed down James was being hugged by Beth and Henrietta, both so excited that for a moment it was as if they were still children. Then, as both girls drew back, he became aware of the fact that - like Mary Smith - Beth had grown from girl to woman since he had last seen her, golden hair now piled high on her head, whereas Henrietta still had no more shape than a boy, her hair dark and glossy as a raven’s wing, hanging sleekly to her shoulders. Together, they walked to the house, whilst the youth trundled the cart behind them. Beth chattered on without ceasing, Henrietta making no attempt to speak but seldom looking away from her brother.
‘And such news I have to tell you,’ Beth declared, gripping his arm. ‘I am soon to be married! And
to such an elegant gentleman, the son of Sir Mortimer Tench, who lives in St. Giles parish. Sir Mortimer is the justice of the peace and a great landowner. Everything is arranged between the families! Is that not wonderful news?’
‘Magnificent, Beth! I wish you every happiness.’
Yet he could not understand why a curious sense of depression weighed on him. She was of an age to be married and obviously eager and agog. It could not be that he would miss her for he had seen her so little. It was a feeling for his mother, he decided, whom he saw walking from the main gates. He broke free from his sisters and ran towards her. As he drew near and as the lights blazed on her face he realised how beautiful she was, and his heart smote him, that she should be shut up in this place, virtually a prisoner, taking care of John Furnival. His own feelings towards his stepfather had always been, at best, ambivalent. He did not know the man, only the love and devotion he inspired, and it occurred to him now that his mother’s love and devotion were costing her too dear.
On that instant he drew close enough to see her clearly; she was not only lovely of feature but serenity and happiness glowed in her, and the brief thought that caring for John Furnival was costing her much faded in his pleasure at being with her again. Talking and laughing, they entered the drive, with its grassy banks, tall elm and oak and beech on either side. Soon it widened into a carriageway large enough for a coach-and-four to swing around and stop at the great front doors; and there, framed in the open doorway, sat Sir John Furnival.
He was in his same wheelchair, although it was immediately apparent that changes had been made at the sides of the chair. Slowly John Furnival moved his arms and hands and by turning a wooden wheel on either side propelled the chair forward with surprising speed. So he had regained a little use of his left arm and hand!
As James moved ahead of his mother and sisters he saw that Furnival, though still heavy at shoulders and belly, had a hardier appearance than when he had been here those three years ago. His hand grip was firmer too, and with great deliberation he said, ‘It - is - good - to - see - you - James.’
