by John Creasey
The pun on Benedict’s name brought forth a gust of laughter and now half-a-dozen journalists spilled out of the coffee houses at this end of Fleet Street. It was late enough for most of the morning newspapers to have been ‘put to bed’ and so the men might have been expected to be inside; many of them spent the night talking and dozing, and breakfasted here before going to their rooms. Clearly there was some cause for this exodus.
‘What is this news you’re talking about?’ demanded Benedict. ‘Have we won a war or has the new king died?’
‘You don’t know?’
The man who had accosted Benedict seemed astonished; so did the others who had gathered in a circle.
‘I hope I shall soon,’ Benedict replied. ‘Could the Cabinet have fallen?’
‘That’s nearer the subject,’ a man declared. ‘The Member for Minshall was killed in a collision between his carriage and a post-office coach today. Died of a broken neck as clean as if the Shadows had attacked him.’ The Shadows was a name given to a newly organised gang of criminals. ‘You know what that means, Ben. Old Jerry Topham was for Pitt right or wrong, and no one could manipulate the House so well as he. Now Bute will have an even greater edge over Pitt, no matter who’s returned for Minshall at the by-election.’
‘If the Tories can keep Pitt down, the Ring will have more influence, and he’s already seeking too much,’ another put in. ‘We shall have peace abroad but at heavy cost.’
Politically, this was news of rare importance, James knew.
James, little concerned with foreign policy, his sense of national pride battered by conditions in London and the obstinacy of both government and opposition to a national peacemaking force, was concerned only with the impact of these tidings on this particular situation. Minshall was one of the new boroughs close to London which had a large population of houseowners. It could not be bought and sold or dealt with as patronage, like many of the rotten boroughs. Voting had always been close between Whig and Tory, and there was no way of telling who would win a by-election. His one hope was that the new member might be a champion of Sir John Fielding.
Bidding Benedict good night, he slipped quietly away. He did not quite know why he delayed returning to Mary; it was as if he were drawn by some unknown compulsion. First he walked at good speed to Ludgate, for a view of St. Paul’s. Then he turned left, into the shadowy lanes, the old haunts, which, despite new laws demanding more lights for all hours of darkness, had little light save a crack here and there from a window or doorway. The darkness, the distant noises, the furtive movements of men, did not worry him. Here he was at home. Soon he passed the archway leading to Ebenezer Morgan’s warehouses; there was the spot where he, James, had been shot down by the only one of the Twelves to escape; the narrow lane along which he had walked on the night of his meeting with Mary; the corner where he had flung Tom Harris against the wall.
Tom had since been a victim of the swift upsurges of cholera. And not a single man who had served John Furnival at Bow Street in a peace-keeping capacity was still there. Most were dead.
Just as the Twelves had at one time struck fear into the hearts of many, so now a new robber gang, the Shadows, made London an unsafe place to walk. Gradually a picture of the gang had evolved from tidbits of information from John Fielding’s men and from turnpike keepers as well as from victims of their attacks. The highwaymen struck swiftly and savagely out of the darkness. They used silent weapons: knives to drive between the ribs or into the bowels; cord of hemp with which to strangle; staves weighted heavily enough to crack a skull at a single blow. Increasingly reports came of attacks by footpads who wore cloth over their boots to silence all sound, stepped swiftly behind their victim, flung an arm about his neck, choking him to silence, then yanked his head back with such force that the neck snapped.
Hepburn, the man whom Charley Green was supposed to have killed, had died in such a way. The prosecution had made much of this because Charley’s arms had developed such powerful muscles as he shifted boxes and sacks of vegetables and fruit at the market.
James wondered tensely about the government’s reception of Sir John Fielding’s plan, all-encompassing, yet at the same time within reach. The authorities must stop the dreadful folly of widening the crimes for which the penalty was death. It was now one hundred and sixty! And for such crimes! Stealing more than one loaf of bread, entering an enclosed garden, cutting down a bush or a tree!
Surely Bute must listen to the magistrate; all London must listen! He, James, must make the whole of the metropolis take heed; he must find a way to compel the government to act.
But how?
Out of the blue the answer came, glaringly obvious to James now that he could see it. As suddenly and as urgently he wanted to see Mary. His strides lengthened and quickened as he swung into the Strand from St. Martin’s Lane. The crowd had thinned and many of the coffee houses were now closed, but he had no thought for anyone or anything but his wife.
He unlocked the side door of the premises and ran up the heavy oak staircase, calling, ‘Mary, Mary!’
Mary, lying awake with her strange, tormenting thoughts, said to herself: ‘I cannot talk to him tonight. I must pretend to be asleep.’
James heard one of the children cough as he reached the landing and lowered his voice as he called again: ‘Mary, my love. Mary!’
There was no whispered response when he reached their bedroom, the light from flares flickering about the room, reflecting from the mirror and the high gloss of the pitcher and bowl on the marble surface of the washstand. He tiptoed in, more eager than he had been for a long, long time.
‘Mary!’ he whispered urgently.
She lay with her back towards him, facing the window. He could see enough of her face to feel sure that she was asleep. When he stopped by the side of the bed, he could see the regular movement of her bosom and her lips. He had rarely seen her more exhausted.
‘Mary,’ he said brokenly, ‘never have I needed you so.’
I cannot talk to him, she thought desperately. I cannot because of what could follow. I cannot lie with him tonight.
She heard the hopelessness in his voice when he said again, ‘Mary.’
Silence followed, and was broken only by rustling movements as he turned away and began slowly to undress. He had come burning with the desire to talk, to tell her what had happened, and yet, if she was so exhausted, how could he wake her?
He did not try again.
He moved to the bed and began to shift the bedclothes carefully, so as not to disturb her, when suddenly one of the children screamed, and on the instant, Mary opened her eyes and stared beyond her husband to the door. James turned and hurried out as the child screamed again, and in a moment he saw Charles sitting up in bed, eyes wide with terror.
By the time he reached the bed, Mary was at the other side, hands on the child, saying in a soothing voice, ‘It is all right, Charles beloved. You were having a bad dream. It is all right . . . it is all right.’
The child clutched his mother, but after a few minutes his eyes closed and Mary allowed him to sink gently back onto the pillows. She appeared to concentrate only on the child but she was thinking with unexpected calmness: It is the voice of God making me listen to Jamey.
Soon she smiled up at James, saying, ‘He will sleep now, I think. He dreams so much.’
They moved towards the foot of the little bed, and James put his arm about her and she rested her head on his shoulder.
In that position they moved to the other bed and the cot and Mary adjusted the bedclothes of both Jimmy and Dorothy before turning back to the door. As they got into bed, she felt her husband’s body against hers and the pressure of his arm, she gave a little shudder.
‘Are you so cold?’ James asked.
‘I think I was a little frightened.’
‘You were waked out of a dead sleep. No wonder you were frightened!’ He kissed her cheeks and held her more closely, going on in a voice of great contrition. ‘Mar
y, I know I have been difficult to live with during these past few weeks. I am sorry.’
‘Your trouble is your conscience,’ she said with forced lightness. ‘I suspect that you have tried yourself more than you have me.’
‘Bless you!’
He kissed her again, but as yet there was no passion and she sensed his deep preoccupation and what he was going to say. She even thought that his preoccupation might be so great that he would talk until he fell asleep.
‘Mary,’ he said, ‘I have decided what I must do.’
‘And what must that be?’ she asked. But before he could answer she went on: ‘If Sir John Fielding, with his position and his authority, his reputation and his friends, cannot succeed, dare you have even hope?’
‘More,’ he said. ‘I am sure I can do it.’
She looked into his face, and as she absorbed the warmth of his body, she felt the memory of what had happened with David receding. This night, if she could do it, she must be utterly his.
She made herself ask, without scoffing, ‘And how will you go about it, Jamey?’
‘I shall stand for Parliament as the Member for Minshall.’ James explained what he had heard from the newspapermen, and went on with great confidence. ‘I am known well enough by the electors of Minshall to win the seat there, and I shall be the voice in Parliament and the country for all those things which must be done. I believe that once a voice is raised in Parliament, then both Members and the people will listen. And I have sufficient money, Mary, you need not fear. The business will flourish more when it is owned by Mr. Londoner, Member for Minshall!’ There was fierce excitement in him. ‘Tell me! Is that not the answer? Don’t you agree?’
She thought: Those he fights will marshal all their resources against him. What chance has he to win? But there was no mistaking the eagerness within him, and this was not the moment to pour cold water on his dreams.
‘Jamey,’ she said, ‘it is the only answer.’
‘What a wife you are!’ he cried. ‘I tell you I have not felt so much a human being for weeks. The hanging of young Green has haunted me, but this way I can avenge him and countless others. This way all the reforms so desperately heeded can be brought into being.
‘When they pulled down so many of the houses in Long Acre and in Cheapside most of the people moved to Minshall, and I myself protected their rights, made sure those who owned their property were properly recompensed. It is like the finger of God pointing the way.’
The finger of God, she thought, in the death of a man on London’s streets.
The voice of God in the scream of a child.
How long, how long, were human beings going to blame God for the way they lived and the things they did?
‘Mary,’ James said in a husky voice, ‘I feel as if I have been away from you for a long time and am now back.’
‘I know how you feel,’ she answered him.
She felt his hands upon her, the desire in him, and she closed her eyes and tried to ease the tightness of her body.
‘Mary,’ he said, ‘I love you. How I love you. There can never be anyone for me but you.’ He was kissing her. ‘Mary, I love you. . .’
When, not long afterward, he was asleep by her side and she lay between sleeping and waking, she was aware of shame and she was aware of David and of what had happened earlier that night. She recalled to her amazement that for several moments with James she had actually forgotten David. I am no better than a whore, she thought. And, more sharply, she wondered what would happen if James found out what had taken place between her and David. She answered herself: He can never find out. Only David knows, and he will feel as great a shame as I.
She did not expect to sleep, but when she awoke the following day it was almost as if that passionate interlude with David had been a dream, and she was soon plunged into a whirl of morning activity which prevented her from dwelling on what had happened.
James, still excited at the prospect he had conjured up for himself, spent an hour with Nicholas in the shop, where every imaginable kind of oddment, old and new, was now for sale; the one condition that it had been made or long existed in London.
James did not know when Benedict Sly would be at his office but thought it likely that he had been up late the night before and might not arrive until the afternoon. Headlines announcing the death of the member from Minshall were everywhere, but whilst several newspapers carried long stories about the accident they said little about its political consequences. James glanced at these, then opened The Daily Clarion.
Benedict had not ignored the political significance of the M.P.’s death, which he described in detail in his leading article, and which James read with the closest attention. He became aware of Nicholas Sly at the doorway; so rapt had he been that he had no idea how long the younger man had been present. Nicholas, now in his early twenties, was sharp-featured, with expressive brown eyes and full, well-shaped lips; it would be hard to imagine anyone less like Benedict. This morning he looked troubled, which was unusual.
‘Are there any problems with which. I can help?’ asked James.
‘No, sir, but most certainly there are problems,’ Nicholas replied heavily. ‘Have you seen the risks which Benedict has taken in his article, speaking out against the King? I fear serious repercussions.’
‘I doubt whether the King or anyone would force such an issue yet,’ James said. ‘But I am going to see Benedict forthwith and I will find out what he and other newspapermen think.’
He fought back the temptation to tell Nicholas what was in his own mind, and went to Wine Court. The dining space there had been turned into a coffee house used almost exclusively by journalists, and James saw that Benedict was present and was surrounded in the smoke-filled room by at least a dozen other men of the press. James could feel the undercurrent of tension.
One man, the editor of The Record, which usually opposed everything The Daily Clarion stood for, was saying in a clipped, angry voice, ‘I’ll support you to the hilt, Benedict. You must refuse to go.’
‘It is an outrageous command,’ another growled.
Benedict, outwardly the calmest of those present, looked towards the door and espied James. Immediately he smiled and waved, and the crowd about him made a passage.
‘Come in, Jamey, come in!’ Benedict cried. ‘You are in time to see a unique moment; aye, a historic moment in history.’ Despite his smile and the hint of amusement in his deep voice James knew that he was serious. ‘The first moment on record when every London newspaper is in full agreement!’ There was a rumble of ‘Aye, aye’ and ‘That we are!’ followed with a thumping of fists on the table and feet on the floor. ‘It has pleased His Grace the Marquis of Bute to send a summons for me to appear before him and the Privy Council to answer a charge of sedition. To quote: “Your comments are false, scandalous and seditious libel,” and I am accordingly summoned to show cause why I should not be tried for treason and why The Daily Clarion should not be banned from publication.’
‘My God, they lost no time!’ one of the newcomers called out.
‘You will refuse to go,’ said another.
‘I have to go,’ replied Benedict. ‘And I have it on good authority that they plan to commit me to jail on a warrant sworn by the Secretary of State. Are you not glad you are not a journalist, Jamey?’
‘I feel almost ashamed to be an Englishman,’ James replied in stunned, cold anger.
‘What will you do if they take you under arrest?’ called a man standing on a bench.
‘Be guided by my lawyer,’ Benedict replied. ‘What would you have me do, Jamey?’
James said in a quiet voice which sounded everywhere because of the silence which fell, ‘I need a little time to think.’
‘Don’t take too much,’ urged the editor of The Record. ‘It will not be long before they send mounted constables from Westminster. Now that they have started this iniquitous persecution they can only serve their purpose by acting fast.’
‘W
e shall have some warning,’ a bearded man pointed out. ‘We have paid street sweepers at various vantage points on the several routes along which a troop of mounted men would come, and these will signal to each other until one on the roof of the nearest building to us in Fleet will wave a notice of close approach.’
‘You sound almost as if you had been forewarned,’ said James.
‘Only a dullard would have failed to see the imminence of an attempt to muzzle the press completely,’ the editor of The Record declared. He was short and stocky, boasting an iron-grey beard and a shock of iron grey hair. ‘Parliament is once again becoming a tool of the King and the aristocracy, with the great bankers supporting them.’ His voice trembled with rage and he shook a clenched fist as he went on. ‘If there is no voice of the people and Westminster takes no heed, then there must be a voice in Fleet Street!’
His outburst drew another, louder roar of applause, so full of emotion that James believed this must surely be a unique moment. Slowly silence fell, and James spoke.
‘There must be a voice of the people in the House.’
‘Jamey,’ Benedict said, ‘there are many voices but they are muted.’
‘There must be another in the new Member for Minshall,’ James declared. The smile was wiped off Benedict’s face, and every eye was suddenly turned towards James. ‘I propose to submit myself to the electors as worthy of representing them. I hope you will all be able to support me.’ While gasps of surprise were still echoing he continued in a voice of absolute conviction: ‘You should allow them to take you, Ben, and then have every man ride after you, demanding your release. I will go to John Fielding, and unless the Secretary of State accuses you of treason immediately, which I doubt, Fielding will soon have you out. This attempt to intimidate the press will fail, but its failure - and its purpose - will be ten times more apparent to the public if you are thrown into jail and then brought out.’
‘My God, Ben, you have a clever lawyer!’ a man called.
