by John Creasey
He walked with beautifully controlled movements, inclined his head and said, ‘I am Simon, the son of Simon.’
‘I am Richard Marshall.’
‘No name will ever win greater respect in my family than that of Marshall,’ young Simon Rattray declared. ‘I believe my father has kept himself alive so as to see your grandfather one last time. He had what the doctor calls a seizure during the night.’
‘I could not be more sorry.’
‘It will be a greater loss than most men realise,’ replied young Rattray. ‘Will it interest you to see a collection of his speeches and the work he has done for the advancement of the poor? They are kept in his office at the back of the house.’
‘I would like that very much,’ Richard said gratefully.
Among the medley of thoughts that passed through the mind of James Marshall as he followed Simon Rattray’s wife into the house was that he had never visited Simon Rattray here, and wished now that he had; and also that this house was at least twenty years old and had a solidness which he found pleasing. The passage beyond the front door was wide, a curved staircase rising at one side. Opposite the bottom stair a door stood open, and Mrs. Rattray led the way in.
‘It is Mr. Marshall, Simon,’ she announced.
Obviously this room had been converted into a bedroom from its original use as a study. One tall, narrow window overlooked the garden, and light from this reflected on the glass of a large bookcase which rose from floor to ceiling. In a corner facing the window stood a double bed with a solid carved head panel, as solid a one at the foot. In this lay Simon Rattray, propped up on pillows, his eyes closed. He opened them slowly and turned his head towards James, who saw with shock and pain how thin he had become, sunken cheeks now more like dried parchment than leather; even his once bull-like shoulders seemed to have shrunk. His hair had turned snow white and looked as soft as down. Only his eyes remained as James remembered them, bright, yet mellow. He moved a brown and beveined hand slowly, and although his grip had no power, it was firm. James stood so that the other could see him without twisting around.
‘It is good to see you,’ Rattray said in a tired-sounding voice.
‘It was good that you sent for me,’ replied James.
‘I have lain here for a long time and spent much of it looking back over the years,’ said Rattray, ‘and there are few things for which I have no .regrets. But I have none at all over my acquaintance with you, Mr. Marshall.’
‘It has been a long and valuable friendship, little though we have met,’ James agreed.
‘It has been friendship to you, also?’ Rattray’s expression kindled.
‘Deep and abiding,’ James assured him.
‘I have never felt more rewarded.’ Simon Rattray gave a wry smile. ‘I do not often consider the matter of reward, but I suppose no man can live without some share of them. The three most bountiful for me have been my wife, my son, and James Marshall.’ Rattray withdrew his hand slowly but made no attempt to hoist himself higher on his pillows. ‘We should have allowed our families to meet, not selfishly kept them apart.’ Before James could say that he had been thinking that very thing, Rattray went on: ‘May I have your attention on two counts, sir?’
‘Readily.’
‘You are very kind. The first concerns a young man who came to help in the organisation of our work only two years ago and has since proved invaluable. I do not know whether his name will be familiar; it is Jackson, Frederick Jackson.’
The name struck into James’s mind like a knife cut, laying open the past so vividly that for a moment he was silent. Frederick Jackson, Jacker, the highwayman who had killed James’s father and whom he had seen kicking from the gibbet in Tyburn Fields. Even the roar of the crowd came to his ears; the sound of marching soldiers, the way John Furnival had faced the hostile thousands. He could recall the facts he had learned about Eve Milharvey, Jackson’s mistress, that she had borne a son by the highwayman after his death. Those things which he had learned at later periods were dimmed but these, including a picture of Eve Milharvey herself, were very vivid. He could not recall ever discussing how his father had died but Rattray had many sources of information. He had not discussed Jackson’s son with Simon Rattray either, but Simon would not wish to talk of this youth unless he was sure of their association.
As if he could read what was passing through James’s mind, Rattray went on:
‘You recall his grandfather, then?’
‘So he is a grandson of the highwayman.’
‘Yes, and is aware of it,’ answered Rattray. ‘He is the son of Eve Milharvey’s first child, to whom she gave the surname Jackson. This grandson of hers is one of eleven children born in the village of Saint Marylebone, as poor and needy a family as one could find. This has fired him with great zeal to reform, Mr. Marshall, and I commend him to you as a young man with much potential. He lives in a cottage with a widowed sister, the only other members of the family to rebel against their lot. The sister’s husband was killed in a riot during a march by the workers and apprentices of the Steam Engine Company. Both are dedicated but I do not believe they are fanatics or that they have any sense of personal injustice: If you can help them you may make yet another great contribution to the greatness of London.’
‘I shall most certainly try,’ James promised.
He was tempted to urge the other to relax, for his speech had plainly tired him. It would not have surprised James had Rattray’s wife now enjoined him to rest but she remained silent, and at last Rattray went on:
‘The second matter concerns my son, Simon.’
‘If there is a way in which I can help him, it is as good as done.’
‘I will be forever at peace if I know he is to be told who his forebears were, and of his blood relationship to the Furnival family. I chose to ignore this and to make no attempt to win their interest, but a man has no right to make such a decision for his son. I have not told him, although the temptation has been great these past five or six years. He was a mature man at sixteen; today, at twenty-two, he is exceptional, both as an organiser and as a leader. I would like you to tell him, Mr. Marshall. I do not know what the effect of such realisation will be, but I am sure that he should know. He works with me and the men trust him, but I confess I do not believe his heart is with them, as mine has always been. I have been prepared for him to go his own way, and I suspect he has stayed with the work out of consideration for me, but that he will seek fresh fields when I am gone. This is another reason why he should know the truth about himself from someone who will make it clear he has no claim on the Furnivals but that he has their blood.’
‘I shall acquaint him with the truth,’ promised James.
‘You are very kind, sir.’
Simon Rattray’s hand moved and rested for a moment on James Marshall’s, and the parchmentlike face relaxed. He closed his eyes and it began to look as if he had finished, but when James attempted to withdraw his hand, Rattray pressed more firmly and uttered two words, which were only just audible.
‘Wait, please.’
‘For as long as you wish,’ James promised.
For some time it was difficult to be sure that Rattray was still breathing, he was so still, but his wife showed no particular concern, which was surely an indication that she was familiar with this stillness, as if Rattray were hovering between life and death. How long it was before the man’s eyes opened it was difficult to say; at first they appeared dazed and reflected bewilderment, but soon they cleared and he spoke with unexpected firmness and precision.
‘I am now able to do something for you, James Marshall.’
‘There is no need, none whatsoever.’
‘There is every need,’ insisted Simon Rattray, the dry, wry smile manifesting itself again. ‘You and I are both aware of the narrow gap between poverty and crime. Poverty can turn basically honest and good men into footpads, kind men into cruel, generous men into greedy brutes, but this you know.’
James
nodded.
‘However, there are other causes of crime,’ continued Rattray. ‘Some men have evil born in them; greed and lust and a savage enjoyment of making others suffer. And many have a hunger for power, which I sometimes believe is the greatest crime of all. Such men have infiltrated into the ranks of the parishes and the constables, accepting for their own nefarious purposes the work as watchmen. I believe some are even members of Bow Street patrols, and I am fearful lest they create conditions which could lead to revolution as bad as that in France, riding to power over the bodies of men who fight truly for a just cause.’
Again Rattray stopped.
There was no call for James to respond, and in truth there was little new in what Rattray said. James was virtually sure of what was coming when Rattray went on.
‘I have warned many people of this danger, but they have not listened. There are few who do not have great regard for you and your judgment, however, and you are regarded as a man of the world, whereas I - partly because I oppose violence so bitterly - am regarded as an impractical idealist. Use all your influence to make the poor understand the truth, I beg you. Do not allow yourself or them to be deceived.’
After a long time, when he was sure that the other man had finished, James Marshall answered.
‘None shall be deceived if I can help it.’
‘You do not know what good you do me.’
Rattray’s voice was now so husky that the words were difficult to distinguish one from another, and when he finished his chin slumped on his chest and his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow but not laboured, and his face had the calmness of a man at peace.
The following day a messenger came from Mrs. Rattray to say that her husband was dead. Only The Daily Clarion gave him space for an obituary. But ten thousand mourners jammed the fields near Lincoln’s Inn when he was buried in the tiny graveyard of the church where his stepfather had been minister.
33: THE YOUNG SIMON
Richard, now that his mind was made up, plunged into the activities of ‘Mr. Londoner’ with great vigour. At the same time he made himself available to plead for any victims of injustice sent to him by Bow Street. While he had no official association and, in fact, was not on personal terms with any of the magistrates, the members of the Bow Street patrols and patrols from other offices sent many needy men and women to him, some so old it was hard to understand how they could survive, some so young it was impossible to believe they had committed the crimes of which they were accused.
But, as the population increased, so did crime. And the consequent near breakdown of law and order brought yet further opprobrium on Bow Street.
Richard saw the causes only too clearly. The men were possessed of great courage, but their interest was not in the murderers and footpads who committed violence for a few pounds; there was little profit in blood money compared with that in finding stolen goods and receiving handsome rewards for the recovery. Catching the thieves was incidental. Very few men argued against their motivation; even Jeremy Bentham declared that the only way to fight crime was to give the fighter a prospect of substantial reward.
Some of the great Bow Street officers, such as Godley and Todd, received handsome fees for guarding the Royal Family on special occasions, for attending the Bank of England when dividends were being paid, and for being on hand at many great events. The larger the reward, it was believed, the greater the endeavour to earn it. Some Runners were employed by foreign governments to protect their envoys and also to guard valuables being transported from one place to another. No great ball or banquet was without its Bow Street men, handsomely rewarded to make sure that nothing was stolen.
So the rich benefited; seldom the poor. All of these things James Marshall observed from the big chair in his room at Chelsea as the months passed, or heard from Richard, who lost some of his hero worship for the Runners, but little of his liking.
James had discovered one thing which had pleased him, if somewhat wryly. Young Frederick Jackson had applied for a post with the Bow Street patrols and had been accepted. His great ambition, it appeared, was to become a Bow Street Runner! James arranged for Richard to inquire after Jackson from time to time.
Every week, Richard came to Chelsea for an evening meal and sat and talked with his grandfather, giving him news and learning from him more of a past which in some mysterious way they seemed to share.
On one of these nights, towards the end of August 1796, Richard brought young Simon Rattray to The House by the River.
Throughout the meal James watched the young guest, who was so like his father and his father before him. The boy had the same deliberate way of speaking, giving the impression that he said nothing without considering it deeply. Yet he was not difficult to talk to, had a sound general knowledge of London and affairs, and a firm grip on political realities at Westminster. It was not possible to judge whether he knew why he had been brought there. Mary, who had developed the habit of retiring to bed soon after the evening meal, bade them all good night, and James noticed a little anxiously that she looked more tired than usual.
He poured port for both the young men and offered them tobacco, but neither smoked or took snuff.
Settled in the big chair, James placed both hands on its arms and asked, ‘Have you ever been curious about your family, Simon?’
‘No, sir, I cannot say that I have been,’ Simon replied. ‘I was grateful for the mother and the father that I had, and for my . grandfather. Did you know him, sir?’
‘The Reverend Thomas Rattray?’
‘Yes, he was my grandfather. He adopted my father.’
‘I met him occasionally and had great respect for him,’ James replied. He hesitated before he asked with some diffidence, ‘So you knew that he was not your grandfather by blood?’
The honey-coloured eyes did not change their expression.
‘Yes, sir. I did.’ Simon raised his hands in a defensive or apologetic gesture. ‘I was not unaware that a great number of children were foundlings and of these only a few fortunate ones were adopted by good families. I did not inquire beyond what I knew because I did not wish to find out whether my antecedents were good or bad.’ When James did not respond, the young man asked in the same steady voice, ‘Are you about to inform me, sir?’
‘Yes,’ James replied flatly.
‘At my father’s wish?’
‘But for that it would not have occurred to me to interfere.’
‘What if I were to say that I did not wish to know, sir? Would you regard continued silence as betrayal of a promise to my father?’
James pursed his lips and rubbed them together in concentration before answering.
‘No. I would regard it as a failure of my obligation to you.’
‘Despite the fact that I really may not wish to know?’ insisted Simon.
‘A greater failure,’ replied James, smiling very faintly. ‘I do not think it is characteristic of you to turn your face from the truth if it is possible for you to see it. If it is hidden from you, you have no guilt, but if it can be revealed.’
‘I am sorry that I have been obstinate,’ Simon interrupted quietly. ‘If you have the truth I would most certainly desire to hear it.’
‘Then I will tell it as simply as I can,’ James promised. ‘The simplest way is to remind you that my mother married Sir John Furnival many, many years ago, and of that union there was one child, a son - not your father but so much like him that there could be no doubt of the relationship. Your father and my half brother stemmed from the same tree. A newspaper friend of mine went to some considerable trouble to make sure, and there was no doubt that your grandmother was at one time closely associated with Sir John Furnival. I can tell you that your father was aware of the relationship and that the Reverend Thomas Rattray was doubtless aware of it at or about the time of his marriage to your grandmother. And I have sufficient knowledge to convince me that it was a very happy marriage.’
James’s voice faded into silence. His
body seemed to shrink farther into the chair and his hooked nose and thrusting chin dominated the deeply lined face. He did not look away from the youth, who showed no sign, immediately, of having heard.
Richard found young Simon’s silence painful, and sensed that his grandfather did, also. He had never seen age written so clearly on the old man’s face. But at last Simon Rattray stirred, and both to Richard’s surprise and relief the strong face broke into the relaxed expression of a smile.
‘You could not have told me more clearly, sir, or with more consideration, had you been my father. I am grateful. As for my forebears, I am most interested to hear, and I understand now why my father on occasions discoursed on the qualities of Sir John Furnival! If I am to believe what I have heard, it is likely that I have a great many uncles and aunts and a positive proliferation of cousins in London, few of whom know of my relationship. It is not my nature for such things to weigh heavily on me, I may say.’
James replied, obviously with much relief, ‘You make a not unreasonable assumption.’
‘Are there any of my contemporaries known to you?’ asked Simon. ‘Or your half brother, for instance. Is he one of the partners in the House of Furnival?’
‘He died in 1780,’ James answered.
‘Without issue?’ Simon wanted to know.
‘Leaving one son.’
‘Do you know the son, sir?’
‘Very slightly,’ James answered. ‘He lives at Great Furnival Square with his mother, who was accepted by the family, although—’ James broke off abruptly.
‘Although there had been no marriage?’ Simon asked.
‘As you infer, there had been no marriage. But the family felt an obligation to her.’
‘But may not to me - a man. What does this son do?’
‘He is active but too young to be a leader in the affairs of the House of Furnival. Since his mother is Italian he is bilingual and I understand that the business between Italy and this country, particularly with Milan and Rome, is thriving. I do not know the details but he is being trained to take charge of all or part of that side of the business.’
