by John Creasey
‘If this is what you prefer, of course I am agreeable,’ Leonardi replied. ‘I am as anxious as you not to give the ladies cause for alarm, and—’
But James was already asleep; and after pulling the blankets up to his chin, Leonardi walked softly from the room.
James had been wrong about the speed with which Jacob Rackham and his ruffians would be caught. For a while there was a marked fall in the number of holdups and it appeared that Rackham had gone into hiding. Despite the names and descriptions James was able to give, the Bow Street men made no arrests.
‘I’ll tell you this, sir,’ said one of their older members. ‘Since you know the name and appearance of the leader, they may soon make another attempt to kill you. You need to be doubly careful.’
James took this advice very seriously, not only for himself, but for Mary, and even though it meant that he saw her only once every two or three weeks, it was not difficult to persuade her to stay at St. Giles until after the election. The country suited her, but he sensed she was troubled. Had Mario Leonardi let something of the story out? Whether or no, the election drew near, he was seldom alone, and after a few weeks he forgot the measure of the danger.
25: THE NEW MEMBER FOR MINSHALL
In the constituency of Minshall the candidates went from village to village, exhorting, pleading, with, exciting the crowds. No by-election in the century had attracted more attention. The Tories had selected Lord Gellow as their candidate; the Whigs had as champion George Whitfield, a member of the Goldsmiths’ Guild in Lombard Street, who had his home within the constituency and who was renowned for his good works; few men were better liked, and in his early fifties, he had the vigour and appearance of a much younger man.
Both men had wealth. Each man spent money without let or hindrance. All of a sudden, dilapidated cottages on the estates of supporters of each candidate were repaired; an army of carpenters, stonemasons, bricklayers, and plasterers descended on the constituency not only from nearby villages but from as far afield as London. At the same time, the landlords of the taverns were courted to display the blue favours of the Tory or the orange ones of the Whig, and free ale, free food, even free gin, poured from these places from morn until night. Farmers found new, high-paying markets for their crops; all they had to do was fly the colours of one candidate or the other. As election day drew nearer, newspapermen appeared from London and Oxford and other provincial cities; there was hardly a spare bed to be had anywhere in the constituency.
Gellow campaigned passionately for peace and absolute loyalty to the King.
Whitfield campaigned for Pitt and policies which would strengthen the economy by adding new territories to the Empire.
Throughout all this James fought quietly and steadily, with no great show of wealth, but with careful spending; no free beer or food or patronage but promises that if elected he would fight in the House for reforms. Whereas the other candidates were prodigal with pamphlets and campaign newspapers, he issued one pamphlet only, the front page carrying a picture of himself superimposed over a section of the ‘Mr. Londoner’ shop and beneath it the slogan:
FREE THE PEOPLE FROM CRIME . . .
FREE THE PRESS FROM POLITICAL PRESSURES
Most of the time he campaigned from a shop in the village of Minshall itself, lent to him by its owner, who, thanks to John Furnival’s men twenty years before, had recovered the whole of his plate and money after a burglary. Streams of well-wishers came to take away supplies of pamphlets printed free of cost to James by The Daily Clarion and several other newspapers as well.
Two days before polling day a rider climbed from his horse outside the headquarters and approached James as he sat with Nicholas Sly, and for the second time James saw a man who at first sight might be his brother Johnny.
But this was not Johnny; it was Simon Rattray. Simon had become a larger man than Johnny and more solid, but the likeness of the features, especially of the eyes, was quite remarkable. Only one thing was missing: the glint of fire, of defiance. Yet these eyes were the same honey-brown, perhaps slightly darker, and when Simon spoke it seemed to James that Johnny’s voice must come from those well-shaped lips. But this man’s voice was deep and rougher in tone, though well controlled.
‘Mr. Marshall, sir, I would be grateful for a little of your time.’
‘You will forgive me if it is indeed little,’ James said warily. Rattray did not look the fanatic that some reformers were, but there was no way of being sure whether a man was coming to offer solid help or advice or whether he wanted support for some crackbrained scheme or wild policy which was ‘Certain to sweep you to victory, sir.’ He led the way to a small office at the back of the shop where he held confidential discussions. As he indicated a chair he went on: ‘It is Simon Rattray, is it not? We met once, some years ago, and I saw you in Bow Street at the trial of Benedict Sly.’
‘You have a good and gracious memory, sir!’ Rattray could not be more than twenty-four or five but he both looked and sounded much older. ‘I come with a warning and an offer of help, and will not waste your time. It has come to the ears of one of the congregation of my father’s church that there is much concern among the supporters of your two opponents because of the progress you are making in your campaign.’
‘I would like to believe it,’ James replied.
‘You can believe it, sir. I repeat that I have not come to waste your time, and I am sure of my facts. It is the intention of both opponents to employ a large number of men - men of the mob, sir, poor people, many of whom will cut a man’s throat for a shilling. They are to descend upon the village and close off all the polling places and they will exert themselves to frighten away all who cannot be relied on to vote Whig or Tory.’
Very softly James said, ‘I was warned by one of Mr. Fielding’s men that some such persuasion might be attempted.’
‘It will be, sir. Have no doubt. The man who will arrange this is a fugitive from the Bow Street men and a notorious highwayman known as Jacob Rackham.’
As he spoke, a change came over Simon Rattray - a glow, the light of fervour which put life into the eyes and passion into the voice - and now he was the image of Johnny, who had written: ‘Jamey, you are a fool. Don’t do it!’ And who, on that dark and terrifying night, had cried: ‘Cut him down, Jacob. Cut him down, I say.’
‘He has already enlisted more than two hundred men, and the number will probably be doubled,’ Simon went on. ‘There is not one who would stop at murder. If they reach this constituency their very presence will keep all but your boldest supporters from the ballot.’
Rattray’s words struck cold apprehension into James. He had known of the strong current of support for him; he had also known what could happen if only a handful of drunken brutes was let loose on polling day to intimidate the voters.
‘My information is wholly reliable, sir,’ Rattray continued. ‘The source is unimpeachable.’
‘It is grievous,’ James found himself saying. ‘And it will need the closest thought.’ Suddenly he remembered what else this man had said and asked, ‘What is the help you offer, Mr. Rattray?’
‘Do you have a list of those who have promised you their vote?’
‘Yes. And a list of those we expect to come over to me.’
‘But some of the voters are even now afraid to say what they would like to,’ said Rattray, and anger sounded in his voice again. ‘We cannot stop these men leaving London or reaching here, sir, but we can provide protection of two guards for each of your known voters, and we can keep watch on their homes after the voting. If you will accept that we will not expect much trouble.’
‘Nor would I,’ said James thoughtfully. ‘Would your men be prepared for violence?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then it remains for me to ask who they would be,’ James said.
He fully expected to be told that they would be members of the little church he had been looking at when he had first seen Simon with his milking pail and that stra
nge air of maturity. But something in Rattray’s manner warned him that it might not be so simple, and he squared his shoulders as he awaited the answer.
‘It is necessary for you to know before you agree to have their help,’ Simon Rattray told him, ‘for there are those who say that mud sticks, and many would call these men mud. They are the workers, sir. Unskilled workers of many trades and professions who find it hard to earn a living wage and who desire to better their conditions. You could call them a Guild of Poor Men - but honest Englishmen, every one, each anxious to see you with a seat in Parliament. They seek political reform, sir, giving all workingmen as well as all property owners the vote, and thus making a true people’s government for this country. They’ll support any man of peace to the death if it will help them draw closer to their goal. But’ - Rattray paused, then went on with deep deliberation - ‘you might regret allowing it to be said that the mob helped to elect you, sir. It would make you a people’s candidate at a time when the people do not count for much in the minds of the upper and middle classes.’
James sat quiet and still for what seemed a long time, the uncanny family resemblance of this man forgotten, everything forgotten except what Rattray’s words implied. Slowly he stood up and moved to the window; as slowly he began to speak in measured words.
‘Mr. Rattray, that is the first thing you have uttered to which I take exception. What makes you imagine that I would regret being known as the Member who has the support of the people, be they poor or not? Do you think I use the cry “Free the People” simply as a catch phrase?’
That was the first time he had seen Simon Rattray smile.
Rattray’s men came in farm carts and delivery wagons, in drays and on horseback, by battered coach and shaggy donkey; some even came by foot. Never had James seen a more motley collection of patched breeches and worn-down boots; but each shapeless hat bore a white favour with three words printed on it in black: Vote for Marshall. They brought staves and poles but no other weapons, pouring into Minshall from all directions and taking up positions in doorways, at street corners, and outside alehouses and inns. They were of all ages, all strong men with impassive faces. Each brought a cloth filled with food, and a leather flagon hung from each belt. None went inside a tavern or any place where beer was sold, and when on the morning of the day of the election the mass of Rackham’s hired men arrived on horseback or by coach it was as if they had come upon a brick wall. Where-ever they went they were followed, and few got near enough to the voters even to begin to harass or threaten.
‘It was the quietest election day since elections began,’ said the mayor of Minshall as he prepared to read the result outside the town hall. ‘We people of Minshall may be proud of our respect for law and order.’ Despite the words he seemed uneasy. ‘I have the honour to announce in the name of the King,’ he added huskily, ‘that the following votes were cast for the candidates: Lord Gellow, one thousand and seventeen; George Whitfield, Esquire, one thousand one hundred and fifty-two; James Marshall, Esquire, two thousand and one. I duly declare James Marshall elected to. . .’
A roar went up from a thousand throats that split the evening heavens. No one who saw them that night would ever again call Rattray’s men impassive.
A few weeks after the election, Mary’s fourth child and third boy was born. Even from the earliest hours there was no doubt of his descent: he was the Reverend Sebastian Smith in miniature! From the beginning everyone dubbed him Little Seb, although they christened him Jonathan.
Sebastian Smith was much happier than he or Mary had dared to hope. The life of travel, of being an important figure in the growing Wesleyan movement, suited him. Moreover, the initial Wesleyan conflict with the Church of England lost its fire. To the discerning it was obvious that one day they would become two different establishments, but for the moment there was a state of suspended hostilities if not peace.
26: THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER
Two factors persuaded James to seek a house which had some open land about it, and where the air was cleaner than in the heart of the City. Not only were the rooms in the Strand now too few to house the family comfortably, but the business of ‘Mr. Londoner’ was expanding so fast under Nicholas Sly’s handling that it would have to take over more space or move elsewhere. Having the two shops and the rooms above them for a rent of only sixty pounds a year, with nine years of a lease from the Duke of Bedford still to run, it was clearly advantageous to stay.
James considered Southwark and beyond. Of the places he liked, however, Chelsea stood out as the most suitable. It was only ten or fifteen minutes from Chelsea Steps to Westminster by waterman’s barge, and it was possible to walk to the House when he had reasonable time. The broad expanse of the river, the meadows sweeping down on the other side broken by tiny villages, pleased both James and Mary, and at last they found a house only a hundred yards from the riverbank with an uninterrupted view over fields where cattle grazed, and where fresh milk, butter and eggs were freely available. Moreover, there was a dame school nearby, attended by children of the Chelsea pottery workers as well as other families that had moved from the crush of London itself. The house was of red brick, only twenty years old, and available on a long lease for forty pounds a year from the ducal estate.
Built on two floors, it had rare spaciousness, with one huge room stretching the width of the building, and mullioned windows which provided plenty of air and light. The main entrance was at one side, a wide carriageway in front, and brick columns supported a porch. The big room had three doors: one leading to the dining room and, beyond, the kitchen and outhouses; one, to the hall, with its fine oak staircase; and one to a suite of small rooms, one of which was to be James’s study. On the floor above were eight main bedrooms and three washrooms, while a second, narrower staircase led to ample accommodation for servants.
The front and sides of the house, which was referred to as The House by the River, had lawns and some formal gardens, but at the back was open pasture and a fine walled orchard, with the stables beyond. And beyond the stables were two small hothouses, one with a promising young vine.
Both Mary and James fell in love with The House by the River at first sight, early in September of the year 1762.
Mary’s one doubt was whether James could afford it, but he assured her that even if it were reasonably staffed they would still be able to live within their means. The business of ‘Mr. Londoner’ now flourished so much that considerable sales were made by post, and goods were shipped as far afield as the colonies of America, Hong Kong and India, where the growing British population cherished mementos from England. It would prove, James fervently hoped, their one and only home, large enough for great numbers of grandchildren.
With the birth of her fourth child Mary had recovered much of her old spirit and liveliness and, as always, she showed a shrewd interest in what was going on. Able to play in an orchard of apple, plum and pear trees, the children thrived. Paul Weygalls’ oldest daughter, Betsy, who now spent more time with the Marshalls than with her own parents, helped to look after the children, and Mary had four living-in servants. It was a comfortable household, and both James and Mary blessed the day they had first seen The House by the River.
Then, out of the blue, came a triumph for Sir John Fielding. The government at last replied to his recommendations, rejecting his proposal for detachments of troops near the turnpikes but authorising a civilian horse patrol of eight men, with an inspector, and allowing Fielding six hundred pounds for this patrol, just enough to pay each man four shillings a day for the six winter months. Never had James seen Fielding more jubilant. Within days the success of the plan seemed assured. Lurking highwaymen actually ran away at sight of the Bow Street Horse Patrol!
All who had supported Fielding were deeply pleased.
In his domestic life James was as content as a man could hope to be.
From time to time, however, a hideous memory would flash into his mind, of Jacob Rackham wielding his long knife, of
the fire, of the pressure of the noose beneath his jaw. And occasionally a voice would come out of nowhere, sharp and incisive: ‘Cut him down, Jacob.’ Could it be possible that Johnny had been that speaker? Johnny now held a roving commission on the continent of Europe, crossing the English Channel frequently to visit customers and associates of the House of Furnival. There was no way that he, James, could be sure that he had been in England that night.
The darkness of this lurking shadow became less intense as the months passed, and from his seat in the House of Commons in the Palace of Westminster, a hall so small and crowded he could hardly believe that so much history had been fashioned there, he watched the many-coloured pageant of the future in the making.
Two more moves were made to follow the suggestions of Sir John Fielding, but no credit was given to the magistrate himself, whose proposals had been pigeonholed for so long. The first and simplest was a great improvement in street lighting, a responsibility which was now accepted by the government. The second was likely to be by far the most far-reaching.
Following the well-tried example in the City of London, five new ‘public offices’, or magistrates’ courts, were to be set up, one near Bow Street and the others widespread.
But James was acutely aware of the folly of the King and the oligarchy he placed at the head of the nation’s affairs. All the time working to find supporters for the rest of Sir John Fielding’s police plan, James nonetheless was drawn into the vortex of passionate debate on matters not directly concerned with his closest interests.
One factor loomed larger in James’s mind all the time: the vast gap between information given to the House and the wild rumours which spread outside. No member of the press was able to attend parliamentary sittings, so no truthful reporting was possible, since Members who were bribed for information either wilfully or unwittingly misled the press.
