by John Creasey
‘Well, you young people—’ James began.
‘Be quiet!’ Dorothy whispered to two of his grandchildren who were talking, and they went as still as frightened mice, so that there was hush everywhere.
‘I’ve never known such a noisy bunch,’ went on James. ‘I can hardly hear myself speak.’
One or two of the older ones laughed, as he had intended that they should.
‘I’ve never known so many people to have a birthday on the same day, either. Grandmamma, can you explain that remarkable series of coincidences?’
There was more laughter in which some of the smaller children joined, either because they understood or because they sensed this was the time to follow their elders.
‘I want to tell you that your grandmother and I love to have you all here. I can’t understand why we should but—’
The laughter came freely now, few having to pretend.
‘So there must be something nicer about you than I can see. Eh, Mrs. Marshall?’ He peered about, as if trying to look over couches and beyond chairs, and shook his head. ‘Well, I suppose you must have some nice qualities or you would not have so many friends here to join you. I have, in this little basket’ - he glanced at the basket, which now rose higher than his head, and won another delighted laugh—’a small gift. A birthday gift and yet rather more than that - a way of saying how glad we are to see - and hear - you enjoying yourselves. Some of you don’t understand what I am saying, of course - will those who have understood every word indicate by shouting aye?’
A few called ‘Aye!’ in a startled way.
‘As few as that?’ deplored James, looking about again and pursing his lips. ‘I am disappointed.’
‘Can we try again, sir?’ a young man called.
‘Hey? What’s that? Try again?’ James hesitated and then waved his hands. ‘Oh, very well. Will all of those—’
‘Aye!’ came a roar from three-quarters of those present.
‘That’s much better,’ approved James, glancing at Mary, who enjoyed this charade at least as much as he. ‘However, if you haven’t understood me, don’t worry. There is always next year, and during that year you will have learned much - or I will have learned how to make myself understood better.’ They chuckled and laughed and one boy began to cough. ‘In any case, a large number of grown men and women don’t understand me when I talk - eh, Mrs. Marshall?’
‘Even I don’t always understand you,’ Mary retorted.
Now this was as happy a group as could be. Soon they came forward one by one to collect their gifts, not only sweetmeats and gaily coloured dolls for the young, but handkerchiefs and porcelain figurines for the older ones, with almonds and chestnuts in a lace bag. When it was done and the young people had roared their thanks, with a little guidance from two of the mothers, James waved to them all and went back to the small room.
Quite suddenly he felt exhausted.
He lowered himself slowly into the old chair - brought in now from the garden - as the strength seemed to ooze out of his body. He was hardly aware of the others, Mary and Richard, but felt the glass in his fingers, and his hand raised by her, and the bouquet of cognac stealing into his nostrils. Gradually he lost his overwhelming sense of fatigue and looked about him, first at Mary, who was obviously anxious, then at Richard.
‘You put too much effort into what you do,’ Mary scolded.
‘Would you have me pay the children less respect than I do that mob of monkeys at Westminster?’
‘I would have you conserve your strength,’ Mary retorted.
He smiled at Richard, sipped, and said, ‘Have you ever known such a woman?’
‘No, sir, nor ever expect to,’ Richard replied.
‘You are a perceptive young man,’ James approved. ‘Have you yet decided on your future?’
‘No, sir. I am considering some alternatives while I am studying in my room at “Mr. Londoner”.’
‘I trust the alternatives are all pleasing,’ said James, ‘but I asked for a more selfish reason, Richard. I am too tired to go out this evening, much though I wish to. If tomorrow promises a fine day, I would like you to drive me to a number of places.’
‘And such good sense, not to go out tonight! I declare I hardly recognise you,’ Mary applauded, and slipped away.
Would Richard do what he, James, would so like him to? wondered James. He looked at the lean face, tanned as if the young man spent more time out of doors than in. No other member of his family except Jimmy had ever taken more than a passing interest in the establishment still known and even more famous as ‘Mr. Londoner’. James himself had gone into the offices at least once a week while he had still been an active Member of Parliament but he had not contested the last election: Parliament was for younger men. At first he had missed the House of Commons so much that there had been hours of anguish but now he was much more resigned.
‘I shall present myself at ten o’clock and be at your service for as long as you wish,’ Richard said. ‘Is there more I can do now, sir?’
‘No, Richard. I need nothing more.’
Thoughtfully he watched the lad go off.
32: RICHARD
The next morning James awoke feeling as fresh as he had felt for a long time. Richard arrived a little before ten o’clock and drove him through all those parts of London he knew and loved. Then, finding themselves outside Morgan’s Coffee House, Richard suggested they go in.
‘Do you know, my boy, I think you have the makings of a keen intelligence allied to common sense!’ said James. ‘That is exactly what I would like to do.’
Richard looked affectionately at his grandfather as he helped him from the carriage. From the earliest time he could remember he had loved and respected the older man, enjoying his company far more than that of his own father. When at school close by his home at Holborn, he had frequently walked the four miles to Chelsea, and could remember to this day his sense of disappointment on those occasions when his grandfather had not been there. When he had been told that ‘Your grandfather is in the House’, he had been puzzled, for he was nowhere to be found, until he learned that ‘the House’ meant the House of Commons, the seat of government at Westminster Palace. So he had become interested in politics and the activities in ‘the House’ at a much earlier age than most.
His curiosity had long been insatiable. He had raged when his grandfather had been opposed - often harshly and maliciously in what he was trying to do, had hugged himself with delight when some great national figure, such as Jeremy Bentham, had applauded instead of damning him. He had a boy’s sense of admiration, even hero worship, for highwaymen, who were often glamorised at their hanging and glorified after death, but the constant fight which the older man made for Bow Street officers caught his imagination. Soon he had taken to going to Bow Street and offering to do odd jobs such as holding horses or cleaning the brass or leather of harness or carriage. Not only had he come to know every officer by sight, from the youngest, de Beer, who had the courage of a lion and the skill of a veteran at seventeen, to the oldest, but had often been drawn into conversation with them.
Richard did not believe that he would ever forget the pride which had filled him when, on learning his identity, Todd, greatest of all the Bow Street men of that period, had told him the time-honoured story of the clash with the Twelves, alias the New Mohocks. His grandfather’s part in this had become legendary, even to the account of his singlehanded attempt to capture the escaping horseman. Clearly there was not a man among those now at Bow Street who did not regard James Marshall as a hero.
When Richard had decided to study law and had become articled to a lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn, his interest had been concentrated on criminal law, much in the way of his grandfather. He had applied his knowledge to real-life problems, often assisting in the interrogation of prisoners - or more often suspects - and was often consulted by the Runners on points of law which were obscure to them. All had a nodding acquaintance with most laws affecting
arrest, detention and trial, but there were areas in which they were in doubt. Seldom wishing to consult any of the magistrates, who were kept under inexorable pressure of business in the court, the Runners would consult Richard.
Inevitably, the boy had come to know the seven other magistrates’ courts. He was also familiar with the prisons, especially Bridewell and Tothill Fields, the Palace of Newgate, as the Runners called it sarcastically, the Fleet, Gatehouse and King’s Bench in Westminster, Coldbath and Clerkenwell. As inevitably he came to know London and its labyrinthine maze of streets as few others knew them.
He constantly marvelled at his fascination even with the worst parts of London, and while he had never talked of this to any of his family, he had often wanted to discuss his activities with his grandfather. But despite his fairly frequent visits to the House by the River, he very rarely saw James alone; and on this particular occasion he needed all his concentration on guiding the carriage.
That was why, on seeing the coffee house, he had suddenly decided that he could wait no longer to unburden himself and had suggested they go inside.
Morgan’s Coffee House was a revelation in comfort and appearance. Its seats were high-backed, more like those of a chophouse, so that there was a degree of privacy if patrons wished, but at the same time each booth offered a view of much of the rest of the long, narrow room, especially that section in the middle where there were dozens of padded armchairs with copies of newspapers and journals fastened by long chains to a central table. Here, one paid, but not excessively, for comfort and quality. The floor boards were narrower than most and dull-polished, not being covered with sawdust, and the benches were ornately carved with the heads of great figures in literature and the arts. Each booth had a different likeness and the appropriate name carved on the wall panel at one end of the booth. James peered at these names intently.
Ben Jonson was there, of course, and Hogarth, with Defoe, Gray, Sheridan, Garrick and Gainsborough. Obviously James was on the lookout for a particular name and he stopped abruptly by an empty booth, peering as if he were not sure of the words. But no one could be of two minds about the likeness carved on the front panel.
Richard chuckled.
‘I should have known, sir.’
‘Is that Henry Fielding?’
‘And with it are some of his characters, Tom Jones and Amelia—’
‘I am more concerned with Henry Fielding himself,’ declared James, and he eased into the booth on one side as Richard slid opposite him.
When the tray of coffee and biscuits was placed on the table Richard began to tell his grandfather the essence of what he had been doing and how much he had learned. The more he talked the more he found to tell; not only was he explaining to his grandfather, but he was also explaining to himself, and during the recital he began to feel more than ever sure of what he wanted to do with his life.
James sat back in his seat and listened closely. When at last the young man fell silent he leaned forward.
‘Tell me, what would you do about the situation as you see it?’ he asked.
‘Engage it in battle, sir!’
‘A praiseworthy purpose but how would you go about it?’
‘I would follow a time-honoured and proven successful course, sir.’
‘There is no such thing.’
‘I believe there is, grandfather,’ Richard replied quietly. ‘The Fieldings did not realiy fail; they simply did not live long enough to see their plans come to fruition. I would follow them, sir - which means that I would follow in your steps to the best of my limited ability. I would watch for all abuse of the law, all injustice, and use every means in my power to bring about improvements. And I could want no better mentor than yourself.’
When he stopped, the expression in his eyes was one of pleading, both for his grandfather’s approval and for his guidance.
He means every word, James Marshall said to himself, in great exultation. I must be sure not to dampen his ardour, yet at the same time I cannot allow him to think this is an easy path. He saw the eagerness in the eyes so like his own, and in a moment of deep feeling he stretched out his hand and covered Richard’s. He could feel its warmth and strength.
At last he said, ‘Nothing will make the task easy, Richard, but for you I believe the achievement is much nearer. Do you wish to become a Bow Street - ah - Runner, is it?’
‘I am not sure what way is best, sir.’
‘I found that the legal help I was able to give the poor and the unjustly treated was of great value,’ remarked James, ‘and I am sure that much odium is going to be cast on the Runners—’
‘But why, sir?’ Anger sounded in Richard’s voice.
‘Because a substantial number of people for a great variety of reasons do not want them to become the foundation of a metropolitan police force and will therefore do all they can to discredit them. I think you would be wise to choose some other way.’
‘As a lawyer, do you mean?’
‘I know of none better. Unless you decided to go early into politics! In a nation where a young man in his early twenties can be so powerful as was Pitt, you are not too young.’
‘I do not think I have the making of a politician,’ Richard demurred.
‘Why not, Richard?’
‘I become too angry at conniving and trickery.’
‘Yes, and so do I,’ James replied with feeling. ‘But it is the government which makes new laws and changes or improves old ones, and as the years pass I think you may look on politics differently. For the present, the law would earn you a living and give you the influence you need.’ When Richard did not answer, James went on with a dry smile. ‘But a poor living, I declare. Have you ever felt any desire to work with “Mr. Londoner”? Your father would welcome you.’ He did not add that Jimmy, who was ailing, had never been a great enthusiast for the shop.
‘Is there scope, sir?’
‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed James. ‘There is always room for expansion in any business. And as I know well, both the work for “Mr. Londoner” and for Bow Street can be carried out at one and the same time. It is possible to buy a great variety of objets d’art, curios, and even small antiques from the little shops in the byways of London. Your father does not enjoy buying, but you might. Give it deep thought, and if you decide that this is what you would like to do, tell me so at once.’ He smiled into the other’s eyes and went on: ‘It will be a great comfort to me if you decide to accept the sobriquet of “Mr. Londoner” after your father, and your grandmother will be as pleased as I.’
‘I can think of nothing more likely to persuade me,’ Richard said.
James nodded but made no further comment, and they were just about to leave when heavy footsteps sounded from the shop door and a newcomer drew the gaze of most of the men at the middle table. Many began to whisper to their companions.
The man appeared suddenly at the end of the booth, and Richard exclaimed, ‘Mr. Godley!’
‘The very man I am seeking,’ said Henry Godley, perhaps the second most famous of the Bow Street Runners. He was massive and deliberate in movement and manner, black-haired and with a short black beard. He doffed his round hat to James and went on: ‘It is an honour to meet you, sir. I saw your carriage pass by a while since, hence I knew you were in London. I have a message of some urgency for you.’
‘For my grandfather?’ Richard exclaimed.
‘Indeed yes, sir. The message is relayed from your residence in Chelsea, where a messenger arrived in haste soon after you had left to ask if you would be gracious enough to visit the home of Mr. Simon Rattray. I have his address by me, sir. Mr. Rattray is ill and I understand he has expressed a wish to see you.’
Even before the Bow Street man had finished, James was beginning to get to his feet.
‘I will go and bring the carriage.’ Richard turned towards the door.
‘I have a coach waiting outside,’ said Godley. ‘I did not know how far away your carriage would be stationed. M
r. Rattray lives near Lincoln’s Inn, so the journey will not take you long.’
For James, the years rolled back with painful vividness.
As the coach passed through streets where there had once been green fields and reached the tiny Unitarian Church he had first seen forty-odd years ago, he recalled the lad, so startlingly like his half brother Johnny, walking towards the gate with his empty pail. He had come from a cottage behind the church, he remembered. The church remained, dwarfed by houses nearby, but the cottage had been swept away and had been replaced by a row of houses at least three storeys high, built of warm red brick with slate roofs.
As the coach drew up, the door of one of those houses opened and a woman appeared on the step who, James believed, was Simon Rattray’s wife. She approached them quickly, her heavy wool dress falling like a sack about her, her pale face deep set with luminous eyes.
Godley, who had stayed with them, opened the door and climbed down, then put a strong arm up so that James could steady himself.
Richard heard the Runner say, ‘I’m very glad we found him, Mrs. Rattray.’
‘And I am eternally grateful for your coming, Mr. Marshall,’ the woman said. It was impossible to doubt that the words came from her heart. ‘And to you for your help, Mr. Godley.’ Despite the obvious gravity of the situation she looked at Richard, saying, ‘There can be no doubt that this is your grandson, sir. I am very glad to meet you.’
‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ Richard replied. Then he . asked, ‘Have I your permission to walk in your garden while my grandfather visits Mr. Rattray?’
‘You are most understanding,’ Mrs. Rattray said.
Richard watched the three go into the house, Godley bringing up the rear. He followed slowly in their wake but before he had gone far there was a movement behind him and, turning, he saw a young man of about his own age, but heavier and more thickset, with powerful shoulders and a short neck. The most arresting thing about the newcomer, however, was the colour of his hair and eyes; the colour of honey fresh from the comb.
