by John Creasey
‘I will tell Mr. Francis myself,’ promised James.
He told Timothy that night, and Francis the following morning at Furnival Tower House, where there was great commotion because of a report of the loss of one of the Furnival Line ships in a hurricane in the Bay of Biscay.
But while he waited for a word with Francis before leaving to take part in the search, a messenger came posthaste from Bow Street with a missive for him, written in Winfrith’s small, easy-to-read hand. James tore it open and read:
All five boys have been found unharmed except for the fact that they are drunk on gin. Your brother appears likely to become conscious sooner than the others.
Yours obediently,
David Winfrith
The five had been discovered in a cellar next to an alehouse, and it was believed they had paid for the gin, so no known crime lay at their door. Word was dispatched to St. Giles and to Gordon School, where all five would be returned under escort from the House of Furnival. The discernment of the doctor who had examined them proved excellent: Johnny came to full consciousness some hours before any of the others, and James went to see him in a room at one of the cottages in Bell Lane. The boy still wore the knee breeches, green stockings and plaid shirt of Gordon School, but he had lost his shoes. He had bathed before James’s arrival, and his face had an innocent expression which momentarily deceived James.
‘Jamey!’ the lad exclaimed. ‘What a sight to see! I imagined at best a Furnival underling or even a lout from Gordon School. How are you, Jamey?’
‘Why did you run away?’ demanded James, not to be distracted.
‘To see the sights of London’s river! I asked permission to come and was rudely refused so I took what I believe is called French leave. Were you at the pageant? Wasn’t it a truly glorious spectacle?’
James hardened himself against his brother’s glowing eyes.
‘Yes, Johnny. Why did you defy your masters?’
‘To obey them all the time would make life unbearably dull. I am too old for school. I wish—’
‘You are not yet eleven years old,’ James interrupted.
‘Compared with some of the young gentlemen’ - Johnny sneered the last two words - ‘I am a full-grown man. And I am too old and too intelligent to have to take orders from masters who are my mental inferiors, get up at four-thirty each morning, go to chapel for a service of worship I do not believe in, have three hours of lessons which are not worth learning before breakfast—’
‘I am well aware of school routine; it is similar at most,’ James interrupted. ‘If you consider yourself superior, why not prove it by industry and example?’
‘Jamey, you sound like a scolding woman! I’ve known some sent to the stocks for less!’ Laughter seemed to bubble in the lad’s eyes, bloodshot though they were. ‘I have had my glimpse of freedom and will now go back to jail and take my punishment. Leave me happy memories of you.’
‘Johnny, you can’t reject all discipline—’
‘I’ll not talk about it,’ the younger brother interrupted, suddenly cold-faced and sharp-voiced. ‘What I do I do, and that is all there is to it.’
‘Johnny,’ James said, ‘your father died on the evening of the pageant.’
‘I am aware of it. I read both the notice and the obituary in The Daily Post. What does it matter? He was dead while he was still alive. Am I to grieve for a corpse?’
Slowly, out of sudden pain, James said, ‘You could grieve for your mother, and for yourself.’
‘When the day comes, I may grieve for myself,’ Johnny retorted. His expression softened as he stretched out a hand and touched his brother’s. ‘There is only one other person in. the world for whom I could grieve, Jamey, and that is you. My mother gave me nothing; her love and care were all for that wreck of a man. If there is one good thing to be said of my father, he lived his own life and damned the rest of the world. In such a way I shall live. Can you not live that way also?’
‘You make one mistake,’ replied James, speaking very quietly. ‘He lived his own life but he damned no one except lawbreakers and the wicked.’
Across the other’s face passed an expression which was difficult to understand unless it was one of cunning or deception. The moment it was gone Johnny gripped both of James’s hands in his, held them tightly and declared, ‘I will think on what you say, Jamey, have no fear.’
James sensed two things in that moment. First, despite the warmth of assurance, the boy’s words had a hollow ring of insincerity, more hurtful than anything else which had transpired. Second, although Johnny was so many years the younger, he seemed, in that moment, to be the elder and the more dominant of the two.
Before either brother could speak again there was a flurry of movement outside the cottage and the sound of approaching footsteps, and in the next moment Francis limped in, accompanied by one of the senior members of the guard of the House of Furnival.
On the instant, Johnny’s expression changed yet again and became soft and cherubic, his eyes touched with humility, as he said, ‘Uncle Francis, how can I tell you how sorry I am to have caused so much commotion? I do declare it was simply born out of my eagerness to see the river pageant, a tribute to the House of Furnival which my masters denied me. But I know now that I should not have behaved so, and that immediately afterward I should have come to ask your forgiveness.’
No one could have sounded more contrite, and it was hard to believe that this was the arrogant boy who had spoken with such truculence only minutes ago.
‘The important thing is that you seek and obtain the forgiveness of Mr. Gordon,’ Francis said, ‘and that you realise how much distress such escapades cause your mother. We are ready to start the coach for the journey back to Rochester. Your unfortunate companions are already in it.’ There was no sternness in his tone, and it was obvious that Johnny had fooled him with his show of contrition.
James, however, felt with acute distress that he was now seeing his half brother as he really was.
After the coach in which Johnny departed turned the corner, Francis swung round and said to James, ‘I don’t know what magic you used, Jamey, but you made a remarkable impression on your brother! Your mother has told me that when he was younger you were the only one of the family to whom he would listen and for whom he showed any affection.’ Francis placed a hand lightly on James’s shoulder, and, looking at his uncle, James was suddenly acutely aware of the hidden strength in this man who had mastered so completely the handicaps of his infirmity. ‘But then,’ went on Francis, ‘they would be strange human beings who would not have affection for you.’
James flushed scarlet as he stammered, ‘Y-you are too generous, sir!’
‘Not many, if any, would agree.’ Francis gripped James’s shoulder for an instant, then released his hold and began to limp towards his carriage. ‘I must go back; seldom has so much happened in one day. The name of Johnny has not been blessed at Furnival Tower House! But before we part I have a message for your mother which I hope you will give by word of mouth. It is the firm opinion of my brother and sisters that the foundation of Saint Giles should be a matter for us all as individuals, and we pledge the sum of five thousand pounds each, a total of twenty thousand pounds, together with such an annual sum as may be necessary. We shall consider it a memorial to our brother. Now, James! I must be on my way.’
Dazed by news of such munificence, James watched as Francis was handed into the coach and was driven off. He glanced at the turnip-shaped silver watch in his fob pocket: it wanted fifteen minutes of five. He must ride back to St. Giles at speed, but before he fetched his horse he must have a word with Winfrith and perhaps one or both of the magistrates. Turning, he found Winfrith and Benedict Sly coming towards him.
‘I cannot thank you or the justices enough—’ began James.
‘Do not try,’ interrupted Winfrith. ‘Your uncle has already done so magnificently. He rewarded the boys’ actual finder with twenty-five pounds, all our officers with ten
pounds each, and deposited a further fifty pounds in the poor-law box.’
‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ remarked Benedict. ‘And I swear that a kinder family I have never met.’ He threw back his head, laughed, and then went on in a challenging voice, ‘Jamey, are you prepared to spare me an hour of your time?’
‘An hour? You know well that I plan to start back immediately for St. Giles!’
‘If you can delay for this hour I believe you will find it worthwhile,’ Winfrith assured him earnestly.
‘There is ample time for you to come with me and still reach Saint Giles this evening,’ Benedict urged earnestly.
‘Do we need horses?’ James asked.
‘It will be quicker to walk,’ Benedict replied, and James fell into step beside him.
Soon they had plunged into a rabbit warren of lanes and yards lined with dilapidated buildings where there was an unrelenting stink, the worse to James because he had become unfamiliar with the noxiousness of open sewers. Then, suddenly they were in open fields, close by Lincoln’s Inn. Here and there small houses had been built, new and clean-looking, even though the all-pervasive odour was still discernible.
One such building proved to be a small church, with a house adjacent.
James had never seen so small a church, but its size was explained when he saw the noticeboard outside, reading:
UNITARIAN CHURCH
The Fields
Minister: The Reverend Thomas Rattray
A sign in the small garden of the house said simply Manse and James was more and more puzzled at being brought here, until a youth of fourteen or fifteen appeared from the side of the vicarage, and James knew on the instant what Benedict wanted him to see.
This youth was remarkably like Johnny: so alike that they might be brothers.
18: THE HALF BROTHER
The youth, carrying a milking pail and a three-legged stool, drew nearer, and as he did so, what differences there were between him and Johnny became more apparent. He had a placid expression, and his eyes were a darker brown than Johnny’s, although his hair and the rest of his colouring was much the same. He had a scar about an inch long above the right cheekbone from a wound which must have come perilously close to blinding him. He was broader and more solid-looking than Johnny but about as tall, perhaps because Johnny was far above average build for his age.
‘May I help you gentlemen?’ he asked in a well-modulated voice.
‘I was passing and wanted to find out details of the Reverend Rattray’s sermon times this Sunday,’ Benedict Sly answered.
‘He preaches thrice, at nine o’clock in the morning and six o’clock in the evening from the pulpit, sir, and once at three o’clock in the Lincoln Fields.’
‘Are you his son?’ asked Sly.
‘That is my privilege, sir. I am Simon, the eldest of his six children.’
‘You are very kind to give us the information so freely,’ Benedict said. ‘Let us not delay you further.’
The lad inclined his head and moved out into the field, where two cows grazed among dozens of busily pecking fowl.
When Benedict and James were back among the huddle of buildings, Benedict glanced sideways at his companion and asked, ‘What occurs to you, Jamey?’
‘Was Simon Rattray discovered in the search for Johnny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can there be serious doubt who his true father was?’
‘I would say very little.’
‘What more do you know?’ asked James.
‘No more than you about the family, except perhaps that Thomas Rattray has an excellent reputation and his sermons are more thoughtful than is usual.’
‘His - wife?’
‘Her name is Dorothy and she is, I am told, known for her charity to the sick and the poor among the congregation. It would not be difficult for me to find out more.’
James frowned. ‘Without stirring up trouble for the Rattrays?’ he asked.
‘That is the last thing I would wish to do,’ Benedict assured him. ‘I would cause no trouble for his church, either.’ He broke off and suddenly changed the subject. ‘Is it still in your mind to become one of those who serve at Bow Street?’
‘More than ever,’ James assured him, ‘and only one thing would stop me now: the continued refusal of Mr. Fielding to. accept me.’
‘Oh, he’ll accept you sooner or later,’ Benedict Sly declared with confidence. ‘Once he is convinced that you know the dangers and are ready to face them. David asked me to give you some advice.’ The black-bearded face broke into a contagiously attractive smile. ‘It appears that Mr. Henry and his brother are having some difficulty with the government, who require Bow Street to put down crime in the metropolis but do not wish to pay for the service.’
‘That is hardly a new situation,’ James pointed out.
‘However,’ went on Benedict, ‘the Fielding brothers have lately come upon three cases in which trading justices have held their courts in alehouses and have accepted gifts of money from witnesses and thief-takers. So angered are the Fieldings that they are placing the facts before the Minister of State and asking that the iniquitous system of trading justices be investigated.’
‘Have they any hope of success?’ asked James eagerly. ‘In my opinion - and David’s also - none whatsoever. There has been less crime of late, due entirely to the Bow Street men and the Gin Act, but this may be only a temporary lull. It could be almost suppressed if the government would pay for only twelve parish constables,’ said Benedict bitterly. ‘Instead, Fielding’s eight have to rely on what they earn as thief-takers.’
‘And yet I would gladly join for no reward!’
‘They consider you too young and inexperienced.’
They were now at the stables close to the Bow Street offices, and seeing James, a stableboy went to get his horse.
‘So you advise me that there is little use in my approaching Mr. Henry?’ James asked.
‘David advises you that a more appropriate time will come.’
‘Then I will be guided by him, if reluctantly.’
‘And one of us will tell you as soon as the right moment approaches,’ promised Benedict.
The horse was brought out, saddled and bridled, and James placed a piece of hard bread saturated with dried honey on the palm of his hand and allowed the horse to lick it from him, slipped two pennies into the stableboy’s hand, then checked the stirrups. He sprang into the saddle effortlessly, unaware of the imposing figure he cut, and equally unaware of the fact that Mr. Henry Fielding was peering at him through a small window in the Bow Street house.
‘Do you have any advice for me?’ James asked Benedict Sly.
‘Since you ask, I dare offer it! Yes, Jamey. Come and live in London, near Bow Street. Offer your services as a man of the law to poor defendants and others who need legal help but can afford only a little for it. Develop some other business - if you must, as Henry with his writing and John with his Universal Register Office. But first and foremost, prove to the court that you are truly familiar with the extent of crime in London and are aware of the need that many have for protection from both crime and the law. You will probably not make a fortune but you will prepare the way for becoming a very rare bird.’
‘Rare in what way?’ demanded James.
‘A well-liked, well-respected thief-taker once the Fieldings called on you!’
Both men laughed but James’s smile faded as he started out, then picked up the main highway to the northwest and St. Giles. Rain was falling steadily now and the road was greasy, while mud was beginning to collect in the treacherous ditches at the sides of the road. Most of the traffic was agricultural or commercial. Two herds of cattle caused hopeless tangles as their drovers tried to keep the animals on the road and out of the ditches and unprotected fields. A carriage-and-pair which had been caught in a large flock of sheep got clear and the young driver, obviously furious at the delay, whipped his horses to greater speed, making the carriage tear p
ast James and everyone on the road. One of its wheels caught in a mud-and-rain-filled rut and the carriage went crashing to one side, pulling the horses with it and flinging the driver twenty feet away. As the horses screamed and struggled, they became entangled more and more in the harness.
The driver lay still; he was dead of a broken neck.
It was dark before James reached home, but a reddish glow from a flare at the gate guided him. Soon he had changed into dry clothes and was sitting in front of a huge log fire, telling his mother and Henrietta what had happened. Beth was with the Tenches again for some family celebration.
Neither his mother nor sister was surprised at Johnny’s escapade, although both were troubled.
At the same time they were overwhelmed by the news about the promised finance and annual support for the home, and it was a good time for James to ask, ‘What will you do, Henrietta?’
‘I shall stay here and work with Mamma,’ answered Henrietta promptly. ‘I would have gone to work with her in London, had that been necessary. What will you do, Jamey?’
He answered without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I shall take rooms in London, close to Bow Street, where I can both live and have a law office. I shall set up as a poor man’s legal adviser together with whatever other business finally attracts me. Also, I shall be available for Mr. Henry or Mr. John Fielding as a Bow Street man at any time.’
It was after dinner, while they were still at the table, that he asked, ‘What could Johnny do to upset Beth’s plans to marry Randolph Tench? If there is a real danger of that, I do believe that I should know.’
‘Sir Mortimer has always made it clear that if Johnny should get into any more trouble with the law it would compel him to withdraw his approval of the marriage,’ answered Henrietta. ‘And there have been times when I believed that Johnny would do some unlawful thing simply out of spite, for he hates Sir Mortimer Tench.’
