by John Creasey
Only the right side of his mouth moved; the left side of his face looked lifeless except for the brightness of his eyes. But it was a triumph that he could utter any words clearly, for over the years only Ruth had been able to understand him clearly, interpreting what he had said to others; she was not only his eyes and ears but she was his voice and she shared his spirit.
James had heard by letter that his half-brother, John the Fourth, had been sent to a small but highly respectable school in Kent, where he would have boys of his own age for company and where he would be trained to overcome a slight speech defect. He himself had written short missives to young John, who was known in the family as Johnny, but had received none in return, and he had not written for at least two months. So he asked his mother, shortly before dinner, how the younger boy was.
‘The reports from school are satisfying and apparently the lisp with which he was troubled has been overcome,’ she replied. ‘It does not matter how I scold him, though, he will not write to me beyond the few lines demanded by the school.’
‘When will he be home?’ James asked.
‘At the end of the month,’ his mother answered. ‘Indeed I hope that you will be able to go and fetch him from Rochester in Kent. It is a long journey for either of your sisters and I do not like to send a servant.’
‘Unless I am bound hand and foot, I will go!’ James promised extravagantly.
While the others were getting ready for dinner he went for a walk through the walled garden and across the nearer side of the hill, recalling with pleasure all the nooks and crannies he had rediscovered soon after Johnny had started walking and running. He wondered how the child of seven, already very like his father in appearance, with the same determination and a streak of wilfulness, which Sir John had no doubt possessed in his early childhood, had matured in the past three years.
Hearing the gong sound for dinner, he hurried back to the house, preoccupation about Johnny forgotten. His stepfather would not be there, for he was sensitive about his difficulty with eating, but his mother would be, and both of his sisters.
‘Is he strong enough to talk about serious things?’ asked James of his mother. It was after dinner and they were together in the bedroom which had been his since the move to St. Giles.
‘The day when he cannot talk about serious things will be the day he dies,’ Ruth replied. She sat on the side of a small four-poster bed, looking at James as he stood against the window. ‘He has made great efforts to talk but comparatively few sentences exhaust him. However, he will listen to you all night if you have news of London; and he will understand and consider and give his opinions, which are as valuable and as well weighted as ever. Have you much to discuss with him, James?’
‘With him and with you.’
‘Then start when we are all three together. He has a remarkable sense of perception, which his illness has increased rather than diminished, and if I am given prior knowledge of any subject, he will know.’
‘Then I will wait. Mother - are you happy about Beth’s wedding?’
‘I shall be content when she has settled down,’ Ruth answered a little hesitantly. She considered her next words with great care. ‘She has been a flighty one, and sometimes I think she is too pretty for her own good. For a while I feared she would find herself with child before she was married, fathered by a farmer named Nathaniel Cook, from the other side of St. Giles, but all now seems well.’
James made no comment except to ask, ‘But will you not miss her?’
‘In one way, yes, but in another I shall be glad,’ answered Ruth. ‘When the time comes for Henrietta to leave home that will be very different. But here am I, gossiping! We must go downstairs and talk to Mr. John!’
So she still thought of her husband as ‘Mister’, James noticed.
Furnival was now in a huge chair in front of a fireplace where only a few embers glowed, for the room was warm. Sitting with his legs bent at the knees, it was difficult to believe that he was so disabled. A maid came in bearing tea and coffee and a dish of lemon curd tarts, which James loved but could hardly find room for after the huge dinner of roast beef and chicken, pasties, strawberries and cream, and delicious-tasting cheese.
‘Now - tell - me - what - you - know - of - London,’ John Furnival asked, and he gave a one-sided smile.
James began to talk readily enough.
First he spoke of his own vivid impressions, skating over the molesting of the girl but talking of the New Mohocks, saying what he thought about the change in Tom Harris and Sebastian Smith. Through all of this John Furnival sat, stern-faced, while Ruth knitted, making only the faintest of clicking noises with her cream-coloured whalebone needles. Soon James talked of his discussions with Winfrith and Benedict Sly, recalling most of the salient things each had said.
‘If I am told aright,’ he finished at last, ‘then the Fieldings are as frustrated as ever you were, sir, but they have a grave disadvantage.’
Furnival raised his right hand and articulated very slowly, ‘No - money?’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘Mr. Furnival makes some donations, paying for the wages of one clerk, and he also donates to the poor box at the court and to the foundling homes,’ Ruth interjected.
‘My - money - spreads - thin - these - days,’ Furnival declared.
James needed no telling that he could not ask his family for money to spend on Bow Street, wealthy though they were. He also knew that Furnival, expecting to die soon, was anxious to leave the largest possible competence for his wife.
The older man was trying to find control of his voice, and at last words came.
‘Do - you - feel - strongly - about - conditions?’
‘Bitterly angry to think so much work has been wasted.’
‘Mr. John does not think the time or the effort has been wasted, James,’ Ruth interrupted. ‘He has come to believe that the conflict between society and its criminals is an agelong war in which only the first battles have been fought. I can tell you this: he is anxious, as I am, to know what is in your mind.’
James said hoarsely, ‘I would like to join Henry Fielding.’
‘As one of his men, you mean? A thief-taker?’
‘Yes. What else? Both the Fieldings must be in desperate need of men. I know they can afford to pay little, but I would manage somehow, and would put all blood money in the poor box - and like Mr. Fielding himself I would if necessary adopt an additional occupation.’
‘I read in The Daily Clarion that he has just finished a new book called Amelia,’ his mother remarked.
It was not until John Furnival looked towards his mother that James realised how the news that he wanted to join Fielding might affect her, and he turned quickly, expecting to see her troubled. She was not outwardly affected, however, and he had a feeling that she was neither shocked nor surprised.
‘I think Mr. John is asking the question which is uppermost in my mind,’ she said. ‘With your law studies behind you and your degrees assured, could you not use your knowledge to better effect, perhaps as a barrister who will one day become a magistrate or a judge, or as spokesman for the poor who cannot properly speak for themselves in court? Have you thought of that, James?’
She turned towards him, her expression empty of emotion, trying simply to help make sure he had considered all aspects of his situation.
John Furnival raised his hand and both of the others watched and waited until he said, ‘Yes. Also - politics.’
‘Not politics!’ exclaimed James. ‘Politicians are more corrupt than merchants, in their way as bad as the worst thief-takers!’
Furnival raised his hand again and this time the waiting became almost interminable until he said with great effort, ‘And - always - will - be - while—’ For the first time he stammered, and something of the frustration and bitterness James knew he must feel showed in his expression until he said, ‘While - g-g-good - people - stand - a-a-aside.’
‘Of course you are right,
sir,’ James replied more quietly. ‘But I cannot imagine myself as a politician. I can imagine myself assisting the Fieldings out of my knowledge, of London and of crime, and also out of my knowledge of the law, which truly would not be wasted. And it is too early for me to be considered for the magistracy or the Sessions. Unless you have strong objections I shall go to see Henry or John Fielding one day next week.’
To his surprise he saw Furnival relax and smile, while his mother said with a glint of humour in her eyes, ‘And if either of us has strong objections you will still go to see the magistrates, no doubt. James, it is your life and neither of us would try to live it for you. I ask only that you do not take wilful risks.’
She paused as if to make sure that he understood that she meant exactly what she said, and Furnival’s nod of approval was quite vigorous. Then she turned the conversation to the Reverend Sebastian Smith and revealed that both she and Furnival were well informed about what was happening, for several of Furnival’s Bow Street men were watchmen, like Harris, and some came to visit and report. At St. Giles they also kept abreast of affairs through The Craftsman and The Daily Clarion.
It followed naturally that Ruth should ask after Timothy, and Furnival immediately showed keen interest. So James told them of the invitation to attend the opening of the new docks opposite Furnival Tower House. It was difficult to judge from Furnival’s expression how he reacted, but again he seemed to pass on the words he wished to utter to Ruth, who said, ‘I believe Mr. John would like to think on this, and perhaps discuss it further in the morning.’
Furnival nodded his agreement. He looked exhausted, and Ruth stood up and began to push his wheelchair nearer to him. James watched the way he manoeuvred himself into this with the help of his powerful right arm, and he had never before felt greater admiration for his stepfather. He walked with them, Ruth pushing the chair to the ground-floor room which had been converted from drawing room to bedroom, and bade them good night.
He was mentally very alert and did not wish to go to bed yet, so he went out by a side door which would be left unlocked until midnight. Strolling in the pleasant night air in the walled garden, he suddenly heard a breathless kind of giggle which reminded him vividly of the girl in the coffee house in St. Martin’s Lane. He was too close to the sound to turn back without increasing the risk of being seen, so he went on more slowly, his footsteps making hardly a sound on the springy turf.
Next, he heard a girl say, ‘Oh, I love it so, Nat. I love it so.’
The voice was Beth’s, and Nathaniel, James remembered, was the name of the farmer with whom she had dallied, not the name of the man to whom she was affianced.
Silence followed save for murmuring and rustling which grew louder as he passed close by and died away as he neared the wooden gate at the far end of the garden. James opened it and went out, closing the gate again with great care. Out of a sense of unbelief came a feeling first of shock, then of revulsion, so that he walked faster and farther than he intended, reaching the top of the hill where a giant oak grew in a hollow which, it was said, had been scooped out by Britons in the days of Roman occupation.
When at last he reached the house again he was still trying to rationalise Beth’s behaviour. It was the nature of some women as of some men to be promiscuous and to enjoy the act of mating for its own sake, he told himself. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he jumped wildly when a figure appeared from a doorway leading off the passage near the head of the stairs, a silhouette against soft candlelight.
It was Henrietta, still fully clad.
‘James, did you see Beth?’ she asked.
‘I both saw and heard her,’ James answered in a tone which betrayed his feelings clearly. ‘I can just understand her having lovers before becoming affianced, but at such a time as this it is beyond my understanding.’
‘It should not be,’ Henrietta replied as they turned into his room. ‘For as long as she lives Beth will have lovers, but don’t allow this to affect your love for her, Jamey. She is the gayest soul alive and she will give herself to her husband with the same abandon as to any lover. It may well be that as she begins to have children circumstances will persuade her to be more faithful, but the desire will always be in her.’
Henrietta, little past her sixteenth year, spoke with the wisdom of maturity, and at the same time was anxious to make sure he did not show hostility or disapproval towards Beth. Who else knew? he wondered. Had his mother had this at the back of her mind when she had talked so freely about Beth and, later, said, that he must live his own life, no one could live it for him? Was that how she felt about Beth?
At last he said, ‘I shall be here only tomorrow; it should not be difficult for me to feign ignorance. But what of you, Henrietta? Do you yet feel the same desires?’
‘I have still to be awakened,’ she replied simply, ‘and I pray that it will be by the man I love and whom I marry and that I shall want none other than he.’ She touched his hand and put her cheek up to be kissed. ‘Good night, Jamey. Don’t stay away for so long again.’
It was late the following morning before James saw John Furnival. He was reading The Daily Clarion which James had brought with him but set this aside at once. Ruth appeared a few moments afterward, adjusted a cushion at the small of Furnival’s back, then drew up a wooden stool for herself. She wore a dark-blue dress of a patterned Irish linen and a bonnet of the same colour.
‘Mr. John would like to go to the opening of the new docks,’ she announced to James’s pleased surprise, ‘and he would like also to visit the house in Bow Street, if that can be arranged. Doctor Leonardi will be here after church and will advise us what we must do to make the journey the least exhausting.’
‘I could not be more delighted,’ James declared, and the brightness in his eyes was matched by that in Furnival’s.
Dr. Leonardi was a young, dark-haired man whom many took to be Italian but who had been born and bred in St. Giles and had followed his father as the only doctor, except for old Dr. Marsh, for many miles around. He spoke little until left alone with James for a few minutes.
Then he said, ‘I am in favour of allowing Sir John to do whatever he wishes, for the strain on his heart due to emotional distress might be as great as the physical strain imposed by making the journey. However, I must warn you, James, that he may have another attack at any time, brought on by the flimsiest of reasons; and he is as like as not to drop dead without more warning than a rattle in the throat. I have warned your mother and it is as well that you be warned, too.’
‘Then is it wise for him to travel?’
‘Wait six more months and it might be impossible,’ Dr. Leonardi replied. ‘He himself knows the risk and it is one he readily takes. My advice to you is to allow him to enjoy this visit as much as he possibly can. The one service you can render him is to ask his brothers and close relatives to avoid causing conflict, for unless they travel to St. Giles it is not likely that they will see him after this occasion.’
Deeply concerned, particularly in view of his newfound feeling for his stepfather, James faced up to the need for telling the other Furnivals of this. He would ask Francis and William to grant him an interview as soon as he was back in London. He had another decision to make at the same time and one which pressed heavily on him. He was reluctant to discuss it with his mother but needed to talk to someone who might see the situation more dispassionately than he.
That afternoon a tall, fair-skinned young man wearing a big old-fashioned peruke, the son of Sir Mortimer Tench, called for Beth to take her to his home for dinner. He was a fop, thought James, personable enough but of little stature, and a man whom Beth would probably find easy to deceive.
Furnival rested in the afternoon and Ruth stayed with him, leaving James alone with Henrietta. While strolling on the banks of the stream he told her, simply, about Mary; he had already told her and Beth of his decision to apply to Bow Street to become one of Henry Fielding’s men. It was hard to believe that Henrietta
was so young, he thought suddenly; she seemed to have a wisdom far in advance of her years.
Gravely, but without hesitation, she said, ‘If you work for the Fieldings, Jamey, you will have no time for family life, and your wife will be lonely and much of the time afraid. I think you will have to make up your mind which is the more important to you - Mary, whom you know very little, or this task to which you declare you are dedicated. Your surely cannot honestly have both at this early stage.’
He was forced, with the greatest reluctance, to agree.
He was up at six o’clock the following morning and, taking a fine bay horse from the stables, rode to London, where at eleven o’clock he called on Mary. In one way he dreaded the meeting, realising that he must have led her to expect that he would have some practical proposals to make; but in that event she made it very easy for him, affecting to have expected nothing but his charitable thoughts.
‘One thing is very pleasing, Jamey! If all goes well with the Fieldings you will be near at hand!’
He left her at half-past eleven with no idea that, as she watched him from the window, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Preoccupied now with his next task, he rode to Bow Street, finding that although no one was on the bench, debtors and felons, thief-takers and sheriffs’ officers, constables and witnesses, even wives and relatives, crowded the court. Winfrith was there and was delighted to see him in a small ante-room.
‘I know both brothers will be able to see you at three o’clock this afternoon,’ he promised. ‘Will you be back then?’
‘I shall not delay a moment,’ James promised.
He took the horse to a livery stable and walked along Bow Street into a sprinkling of rain out of what had seemed a clear blue sky. It was colder than when he had arrived, too, which meant that there was a sudden change in the weather which would make it difficult to get about. As he neared Thames Street a gust of wind brought the unmistakable stink of fish from Billingsgate Market, and he saw a group of fishwives, none with less than four baskets on their heads, gathered about an alehouse near the Monument. Their language was so coarse that he could understand only part of it and was astonished by the obscenities which flowed from their mouths. Walking quickly past, he turned into a narrow alley and came to Thames Street and the great building which the years had mellowed very little. Close by was another edifice in the same style, reached by a covered way from the main building. That was a measure of the growth of the House of Furnival.
