by John Creasey
‘No,’ he said most positively. ‘You are right and I should be there - but I should be alone.’
He stood on the spot where he had come as a boy to watch Frederick Jackson hang.
He saw the hordes of people, many half drunk, the fashionable men and women in the stands, the price of which had doubled for this last great occasion. He saw those selling the ‘Last Words and Confessions’ of many who could neither read nor write. He saw the orange and apple sellers, the sellers of pies and pasties, of sweetmeats and gin and lavender. He saw the cutpurses and the pickpockets; and he saw the six men hanged.
He did not see young Frederick Jackson, grandson of the first Frederick, who was present with his father.
He did not see Simon.
He did not see Timothy.
He watched the swinging bodies and the creaking carts carrying them to the new Butchers’ Hall and to new hospitals where surgeons needed bodies on which to experiment and so learn to save lives. After he had turned away and walked for what seemed a very long time, he saw the house at Bow Street with strangers on duty both inside and out. The men of Bow Street no longer lived only on a share of blood money or of reward money; their livelihood now depended, at least in part, on their acceptance by the government.
In his mind’s eye he saw the mob coming to tear the courthouse apart and burn it to the ground.
But there it still stood, the home of true justice, a house of hope for those who, if they were innocent, need fear no longer. A monument to miracles of achievement and an even greater monument to failure. It was utter madness that the growing metropolis, now spread far beyond the cities of London and Westminster, should be without a civil peace force. He must not cease to fight. He must harry whatever government at every opportunity, presenting the Ministers always with cold facts, the viciousness of corruption, the fact that justice could be bought and sold. . .
A chill wind blew from Westminster, making him shiver.
BOOK III
1784–1829
30: A PROMISE OF A BILL
‘I regret the need for so constantly harassing you sir,’ James Marshall said to William Pitt. ‘I have no doubt you will be weary of me. Yet I persist because the need is as great now - indeed, far greater - as it has ever been. With the press of population and the increasing number of soldiers back from Europe and America, many now without work, as well as increasing trade and prosperity, the present system of parish watch and constable is nigh on collapse. I dare remind you that at the time of the Gordon Riots four years ago—’
‘Yes, I recall the subject,’ the Prime Minister interrupted with heavy sarcasm. ‘Nor am I unmindful of your persuasiveness or your pertinacity. I have discussed the matter further with Sir Archibald MacDonald, since it is within the province of the Solicitor General. He is to take advice from the magistrates at Bow Street and, of course, his own department, and on that advice prepare a bill which shall be submitted to the House of Commons as soon as practicable. I have no doubt that Sir Archibald will both need and welcome your guidance, and I trust the issue will be favourable. Good day to you, sir.’
As if he had conveyed a message by some unseen means, a tap came at the door of Pitt’s office in Westminster, and he rose from his padded chair, tall, strangely supercilious in manner. A secretary came hurrying in, wig askew, and James Marshall could do no more than bow and stammer his thanks.
‘I - I am overwhelmed, sir. The - the - the nation will be grateful.’
Pitt did not seem to hear him, and the moment James had finished the word ‘grateful’ the secretary began to speak. James, escorted by a youthful flunky in uniform, went out of this part of the Palace to the lobbies with which he was more familiar and where a few Members stood about talking as they waited for interviews with Ministers or for committees.
At that moment James was in no condition to talk to anyone; all he could think of was getting into the open air, by himself, and repeating the incredible tidings . . . ‘prepare a bill which shall be submitted to the House of Commons as soon as practicable’.
A bill - a peacemakers’, or a police, bill - prepared on the advice of the Bow Street magistrates! Drawn up by the Solicitor General! As the fullness of the truth burst upon him he wanted to shout ‘A bill. There is to be a police bill!’ at the top of his voice. His excitement showed in his eyes and on his face, and several Members stopped to point at him, while one called out: ‘Hast come into a fortune, Jamey?’ Once again it was on the tip of his tongue to cry ‘There is to be a police bill, glory be to God!’ when a man appeared at his side, the dishevelled secretary who had entered the Prime Minister’s room as James was leaving. The man’s wig was set even more on one side and his breathlessness was greater.
‘Mr. Marshall, an urgent matter,’ he whispered hoarsely, close to James’s ear.
James looked at him uncomprehendingly, beginning to realise that he must regain his composure.
‘Mr. Marshall, I come to you with an urgent message,’ the secretary declared earnestly. ‘Mr. Pitt asks that you keep this matter in strict confidence until such time as the details have been decided and the form of the bill assured.’
‘In - strict confidence?’
‘In absolute confidence, sir, lest its opponents be able to plan the bill’s defeat even before it is presented.’
‘I understand,’ James assured him, relieved that the message had caught up with him in time.
‘Have I your assurance, sir?’
‘My absolute assurance,’ James replied, and suddenly he smothered a laugh, for this man, who had obviously been sent rushing after him because the Prime Minister had been too preoccupied to enjoin him to silence, would never dream that two minutes later he would have come upon James Marshall, M.P., doing a jig. As it was, James went out of the chamber and into Whitehall walking on air.
The huddle of buildings which crowded upon Westminster Palace had lost its dilapidated appearance, and even the ale houses close by the main entrance, where too many Members repaired not only for refreshment but to dally with wenches beneath the crooked upstairs ceilings, were places of beauty. He was tempted to go into Minus, his favourite coffee house in the area, but other Members were sure to be there, mostly in heated discussion, and seeing his preoccupation would begin to harry him with questions. For the first time he regretted the need for silence.
Instead, he went towards Westminster Bridge and stood close to the Royal Steps, looking for a chair. He must sit quietly for a few moments, giving himself a chance to calm his excitement before he reached the offices of The Daily Clarion. For there was one man on whom he could rely: Benedict Sly could be trusted even with State Secrets, and indeed, on occasions, he had been.
James had to talk to someone.
‘I could not be more pleased and excited,’ Benedict declared, as they sat together in his Fleet Street office, which was both private and quiet. ‘I could not congratulate you more, Jamey. I hope they will consult you closely and not put too much faith in today’s Bow Street magistrates, who are not remotely of the same calibre as the Fieldings. How I wish the Fieldings were alive to know of this!’ He appeared to be overcome with satisfaction. ‘If there is any way at all that I can help be sure I will.’
From Fleet Street James went by hackney to Chelsea. Many buildings had been recently erected in the Strand and much activity was going on about Somerset House. The contrast between the magnificence of this palace and the huddle of hovels opposite it, hemming in the ancient church of St. Mary-le-Strand, was as unbelievable as it was incongruous.
Out by the gates of Hyde Park he had his hackney stop at an apple stall, buying some apples to munch instead of going into the nearby Hercules Pillars for a mug of ale and a pie. Here and there, beyond the park, many houses were being built, and the farms and farmland were severely reduced in area, but this was not James’s day for bemoaning the inroads of the city on the countryside.
He reached his Chelsea house in soft rain failing from skies which se
emed to become heavier every moment. To his relief, none of his children or grandchildren appeared, and he found Mary sitting in his big chair, reading the newspapers which had been delivered since he had left for Westminster. Startled at his early return, she turned to look at him with an obvious anxiety which instantly faded at sight of the elation in his eyes. When she took his hands, he held hers with great firmness.
Before he spoke, she said, ‘You have talked with Mr. Pitt and he has seen the light at last! Is that what has brought you?’
‘He has not only seen the light, he has enjoined me to silence about it. Had he known how quickly my wife could read my mind he would have known that was a waste of time!’
‘Oh, Jamey, Jamey, I am so glad for you,’ she cried, and as if without conscious effort added, ‘and for London, for everyone. Oh, Jamey, if only the Fieldings could know!’
He pulled her to her feet, held her close, and kissed her . . . and quite suddenly they were stripped of their years and they were together in the flesh and in the spirit as closely and as perfectly as they had ever been.
When, afterward, they lay together in the four-poster which had been so much trouble to move from the house in the Strand, James felt a deep contentment which her very stillness told him that she shared. Suddenly he heard cries from below; some of the grandchildren had arrived.
‘Keep quiet and pretend you are not here,’ James urged Mary lazily.
‘They would think the world had come to an end,’ she protested.
Watching her dress, James pondered what she had said.
‘So their world would come to an end if you were not here to welcome your grandchildren?’ he mused.
More cries followed his words, and, distinctly, the call ‘Grandmamma!’ came from below.
‘You take me too seriously, Mr. Marshall,’ Mary laughed.
‘Not seriously enough,’ he replied. ‘If you weren’t here my world would be at an end, Mary.’
‘Oh, tush!’ she exclaimed, but there was pleasure in her eyes.
As the door opened the sound of voices calling ‘Grandmamma! Grandmamma!’ billowed out more loudly; when she closed it behind her, her responding call came clearly.
And to think he had nearly lost her, James recalled with strange tension. He had gone that night to her father’s house and had been so attracted that he had persuaded her to postpone taking the post of housekeeper to the Weygalls - and then he had turned away from her. It would have been so easy for her to have met and married someone else. He had nearly thrown his future away.
These musings still hovered in his mind when he heard a scream from below of such piercing shrillness that it set his heart pumping and made him spring to his feet. There was great commotion as he hurried to the stairs, servants rushing, womenfolk running, one mother whose voice he could not identify crying, ‘Stay absolutely still. Don’t move, child. Don’t move!’
What was it? Some unsuspected danger from a feared creature; a rat, perhaps? Then he came to a spot on the stairs where he could see a ring of women and children with one small boy standing in the middle, black from head to foot. Behind him was a trail of black footprints. His face was so smeared that his eyes seemed abnormally bright.
‘How on earth did you do it?’ cried his mother, Esther, frantic at the sight.
Mary was kneeling in front of the lad, far more reassuring than the excitable mother, while James called out, making everyone turn around like so many puppets on the same string.
‘It is the price of progress,’ he declared. ‘There is some experimenting on tarred and macadamed roads nearby and - and - and’ - what was the child’s name? - ah! - ‘and Charles has obviously stumbled on one of the stretches where tar has been spread. Your sense of smell surely indicates that.’
‘But how are we going to get him clean?’
‘Grandmamma will wash me,’ small Charles declared, and a general laugh followed. Mary, who had sent a maid for an apron, wrapped this around herself and picked the child up.
‘What did you use to clean the boy?’ asked James later in the evening.
‘There is a new soap which lathers badly but cleans well,’ Mary replied. ‘Thank goodness I didn’t have to rub him raw.’
James, in high spirits, laughed with satisfaction at his wife’s skill. It did not take much to make him laugh that day.
The rapture of the day was soon lost, however, in anxiety and uncertainty. James did not understand what went on about the proposed bill during the next months. Secrecy was one thing but to hide what was happening from him was surely carrying secrecy too far. He was not summoned to the meetings which, he learned, were taking place between MacDonald and the Bow Street justices, and on the several occasions when he attempted to see the Solicitor General at Westminster he was rebuffed.
Distressed by the situation but not prepared to make any formal request for information, he buried himself in his other House of Commons duties. Whenever a plea for assistance was made from one of the parishes, he was summoned to advise. Whenever a new charitable institution was formed, one which should be free from all obligations of tax, he was placed on the investigating committee. He became so busy that at times he wondered whether this was done deliberately to prevent him from taking a deeper interest in the police bill. The idea was less absurd when, one day nearly a year after Pitt had made his great concession, and as James was just about to leave for Westminster by the river, a carriage appeared at the side of the house and a servant came hurrying after him.
‘It is a Mr. Sly, sir, who begs leave to see you.’
Benedict? wondered James. Or Nicholas? Had there been some distaster at the premises of ‘Mr. Londoner’ in the Strand? He turned back from the garden, where he had been walking on a rain-sodden path, towards the mist-shrouded river, and saw that it was Benedict. Benedict’s beard was as thick and close-cut as ever but instead of being jet-black it was now uniformly grey. They met in the red-tiled hall and James drew his old friend into the small room which he used as a study.
Benedict was seldom perturbed and as seldom showed his emotions but there was no doubt of his distress.
‘James, I now have an explanation of why you have not been consulted over the police bill for London,’ he stated without preamble. ‘The bill proposes to put all authority for the police and the maintenance of law into the hands of the three justices of Bow Street. The other magistrates in London will be under them, and will lose money by receiving salaries instead of fees. Can you be surprised that the magistrates, except those who now lord it over Bow Street, are cold towards you, since no doubt they believe you have inspired this?’
James, standing by the side of a big chair, felt as if all the blood in his veins had been chilled. Most certainly he needed no more explanation. From the days when his stepfather had first conceived the idea of a police force paid for by the State, it had been assumed that the administration of the police, as of justice, should be in the hands of those who were most closely associated with the processes of the law and had the methods necessary to apprehend criminals and to discourage them. In the manner now suggested, the apprehension of criminals and the administration of justice would be under the same control; but there was not a justice outside Bow Street who would not fight such a bill bitterly. James had no words with which to answer Benedict, but he raised a hand in a helpless gesture, as if the news were too much for him to bear.
Mary appeared in the doorway. She did not speak, not even to welcome Benedict, but her expression showed that she had heard enough to be deeply concerned. James glanced at her and forced a smile.
At last he said, ‘So all but the Bow Street justices are to be reduced in authority?’
‘Yes. And the most bitter opponent is Sir Douglas Rackham,’ answered Benedict. ‘It is said he will resign the magistracy of Westminster Courthouse and go to the House of Commons to fight what he calls these iniquities.’
James did not know Rackham well. He was a distant relative of Jacob Rackham but
that could hardly be held against him. His reputation was that of a decisive man without sentiment, who applied the law strictly to the letter and with little regard for circumstances. It was not surprising that he would fight against being passed over, for Sir Sampson Wright and Sir William Aldington, now at Bow Street, were not men of great stature, and Thomas Gilbert was even less impressive.
‘The concept is that the other justices should administer justice, not control the police or any form of police, such as the parish constables or the Bow Street Runners; the police would be controlled, as I have said, by three salaried commissioners. The whole of the metropolitan area of London would be divided into nine divisions, each with its own chief constable, and? - Benedict paused and drew a deep breath, as if fully aware that he was about to deliver his next bombshell - ‘the City would be one of these divisions. All its present powers would be withdrawn, its effective system of law enforcement would be destroyed, and the City itself would have no say in the administration of the force or of the numbers of constables employed or—’
‘But this is madness!’ exploded James. ‘The City will be up in arms the moment it learns of those last provisions. No one with any awareness of the opinions of City bankers and merchants would contemplate such a force. Why, the City must have as many constables and peace officers as the rest of the metropolis put together! To reduce such an organisation to the status of one-ninth, and that ninth without any real authority, is - I tell you there is but one word for it: madness!’
‘I will go along with that,’ Benedict agreed. He began to pace the room, continuing to talk as he did so; speaking with great vehemence. ‘It is now abundantly clear why MacDonald gave you a wide berth. He knew you would try to prevent this, for you are known to be related by marriage to the Furnivals, suspected of having one foot in the City and the other in Westminster. You know what has really inspired this - this—’
