by John Creasey
‘Does he also bear the unmistakable stamp of John Furnival?’ demanded Simon, and for the first time there seemed a touch of bitterness in his voice.
‘No,’ James answered. ‘He is very like his mother.’
‘Then I need have no fear that I shall at any time meet my double!’ The bitterness, if it had ever been there, was gone completely. This young man, so like his father, had qualities which had never been apparent in the older man, humour and lightheadedness; he would not take life with the unadulterated earnestness which had characterised the first Simon Rattray. ‘May I think on this matter, sir?’
‘How could it be otherwise?’ James inquired, and his eyes twinkled.
Simon chuckled. ‘I mean think with a purpose! I do not know whether I would like to be received into the bosom of my grandfather’s family, even if they were willing. Did you give my cousin, a name, Mr. Marshall?’
‘His name is Peter, in Italian Pietro, and he carries his mother’s name of Levandi.’
‘I have a distinct sense that I would like to meet with my cousin Pietro, whatever else,’ young Simon said. ‘But I am presuming, sir. Would it be practicable for you to introduce me to the House of Furnival if such a thought grew in my mind?’
‘Indeed yes,’ answered James, ‘but I would advise you not to delay too long, for Timothy McCampbell-Furnival is at least as old as I.’
‘Your grandfather really is a most remarkable man,’ Simon Rattray declared when the young men were together. ‘It was a pleasure to meet him. As it is a pleasure to have met you, Richard.’
‘I do not know when I have had greater satisfaction from a short acquaintance,’ Richard said, more prosily than he meant. ‘I wonder how you will find the chairman of the House of Furnival?’
‘Do you know him?’ Simon asked.
‘I saw him once at a distance when there was some occasion on the river and the family was taken to see the fireworks. My grandfather used to know him well. And liked him,’ Richard added with feeling. ‘They were very close friends.’
Timothy McCampbell-Furnival was, in the opinion of those younger than he, likely to live forever. At sixty-seven, those who knew him declared that his grasp of affairs was better than it had ever been, and certainly there was no one in the House of Furnival who had anything like so exhaustive a knowledge of all aspects of the business.
Both of Francis’ sons had died in their teens of the galloping disease which ate their lungs, and the same disease had taken Francis after he had been driven by continued periods of sickness to try the climate of Italy. For some years William had ruled as chairman, but he too had had periods of ill health, and Timothy, who had taken the family name, now reigned virtually supreme.
He had grown in stature out of all knowledge, yet remained the Timothy whom James Marshall had known and liked so well. There was still and probably would always remain a streak of conflict between them, for despite the fact that Timothy had once said that James had all but converted him to the need for a metropolitan police force, the House of Furnival remained adamantly opposed to this. Rather than meet in conflict, they now met seldom. Yet each retained a deep affection for the other and cherished happy memories of their old friendship.
On a morning in September 1796, Timothy McCampbell-Furnival, was standing on the terrace overlooking the docks. A Furnival ship had tied up alongside the previous night, and Timothy had letters from a dozen major company offices on his desk; they told the constant story of expansion and the need for more men to head the various branches, men capable of accepting weighty responsibility. He watched the small boys begging for money from the crew as they swam and trod water, frowned as he saw one of the sewers emit a rush of evil-smelling mud just downriver from the docks. Six or seven men with poles and rakes and nets were wading among the filth, searching for treasure-trove. Many a golden guinea, piece of jewellery, valuable snuffbox or watch was dredged up through the ooze which seeped through these men’s fingers.
Timothy was not drawn to the terrace only by the ship, but because James Marshall was due to come to see him at twelve o’clock; he was to stay for luncheon. James’s impending visit turned Timothy’s thoughts nostalgically back over the past to the day of the great river pageant. He was sure that he would never see its like again.
He was interrupted by a clerk, who came from the room behind him.
‘If you will excuse me, sir—’
‘Yes, Abbott? What is it?’
‘Mr. Marshall is in the front hall, sir. Will you receive him here?’
‘No other place would serve so well.’
‘I will escort him myself, sir.’
Soon Timothy heard footsteps and turned with his back to the railings to look at his old friend. While on the one hand he was surprised and even shocked by the ravages of time in that sharp-featured face, the directness of gaze remained and James was as upright as a man could be although he moved slowly and with the aid of a stick. The old friends stood and appraised each other for what seemed a long time before each approached more closely and they shook hands.
‘I don’t yet know what has brought you,’ Timothy declared, ‘but even if it is yet another effort on your part to enlist my support for your civil army, I am thankful for it.’
‘I am sure it is too late to open your eyes to the simpler truths,’ retorted James. He moved towards the railing and surveyed the dramatic everyday scene as he went on: ‘Do you ever think of Johnny?’
‘Occasionally,’ replied Timothy, obviously surprised. ‘What brings him to your mind?’
‘An unexpected encounter with a nephew of his,’ said James, still watching the scene.
‘And which nephew may this be, Jamey?’ asked Timothy. ‘Why does it please you to be mysterious?’
‘I was not his only half brother, as you well know,’ said James. ‘He had many others, some of whom died, some of whom emigrated or were transported, some who are still in London of middling means. But there was one whom I believe only I knew, and who kept to himself because he had neither time nor love for those things that the House of Furnival stands for. Does the name Rattray mean anything to you?’
Timothy exclaimed, ‘Simon Rattray, the troublemaker?’
‘Simon Rattray, the reformer.’
‘I read that he died quite recently.’
‘What you did not read was that he was John Furnival’s son, and that he had a son much like himself and his father in appearance but, I suspect, very different from both in character and in attitudes. The son, also named Simon, learned of his real ancestry only last month, and that from me. I wanted to form some opinion of him before bringing him to you, and I had some Bow Street men inquire about him. He appears a highly reputable if sometimes forthright young man. He assisted his father in much of his work but since Simon Rattray’s death has been seeking an occupation of a more commercial nature. Not unnaturally he is curious about you and would be pleased if you will see him. I have concluded that you will not be displeased.’
‘The son of Simon Rattray,’ Timothy said, as if he could not believe he was uttering the name. ‘And John Furnival’s grandson! How old is he, James?’
‘About the same age as my grandson, I believe,’ James replied. ‘Twenty-two or three. Richard has come to mean more to me than any of my children or other grandchildren, and I have learned to respect his judgment. He has formed a high opinion of this Simon.’
‘James,’ said Timothy, with a glimpse of his youthful heartiness, ‘I will gladly see him, and it may help if I were to see Richard, also. How soon can it be arranged?’
‘If you wish, this very day,’ answered James. ‘I came with them and they are at this moment walking in the grounds of the Tower. If they have taken the route which I recommended they should soon be by the cannon on the ramparts overlooking the river.’
Five minutes later, when the two young men appeared, walking slowly and taking in all there was to see, Timothy rang for Abbott and sent him hurrying to fetch them.
‘What I require above all else is a young man to serve as my personal assistant and for the time being I have no more to offer but that. If you ask James Marshall here he will no doubt explain that I mean a lackey. The man for me should be a second pair of eyes and a second pair of ears, a second pair of hands and arms and a second pair of legs. He should consider my interests his own and remember that all interests are the interests of the House of Furnival. What knowledge he has of banking, shipping, the British Empire and, indeed, the rest of the world, of politics, of history - all of these things are unimportant save that he uses them to perform his single-minded task: to serve me. What he knows now is of less significance than what he will learn. Ignorance is no bar, but refusal, reluctance, or inability to acquire knowledge would be the greatest barrier of all. Do you think you could fill such a position, Simon Rattray?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Simon.
Richard saw the smile in his grandfather’s eyes and felt a desire to laugh aloud, for that answer, uttered with such a ring of confidence, might have come with the same assurance - and with sound reason - from Johnny himself.
They had not touched upon this subject early during the meal, which was laid in a small annex to the terrace, in full view of the river and so of the shipping. Since Timothy had swung to the matter, however, none other had been discussed. First he had outlined his problems, his needs in general, and indeed his disappointment at the twists, of nature which had left so few Furnivals taking an active part in the affairs of this mammoth concern. Then he had touched upon its wide-spread interests. No one could have drawn a clearer picture, and when it was done, Timothy had made it clear that he and only he was fully cognisant of the activities of the House of Furnival, and that while others had both knowledge and virtual control of specific areas, he must be consulted on all decisions of major significance.
‘So I must be fully informed,’ he had finished. ‘My sources are many and my servants are loyal, but what I require above all else is a young man to serve as my personal assistant, an ever-present aide-de-camp. Do you think that you could fill such a position, Simon Rattray-Furnival?’ he asked again.
‘I do,’ said Simon.
‘And will you, as I have done, add the name of Furnival to that already yours?’
‘I would be proud to, sir.’
‘James,’ said Timothy in a strangely husky voice, ‘I do not know whether in this young man you have brought me my salvation or my damnation. But if he proves to be as valuable as I hope to God he will, the House of Furnival will find a way of making the politicians give you your police force!’
34: 10,000 THIEVES
Each year after that first meeting in 1796 Timothy McCampbell-Furnival invited James and Richard to dine with him and Simon Rattray-Furnival at the great business house by the Thames. From the beginning it was evident that Simon was likely to make a success of the position which had been thrust upon him with such little warning. Just as Richard was in rapport with his grandfather, so Simon was in rapport with his father’s cousin. His mind was as quick and sharp as Johnny’s had been but he appeared to be completely free both from Johnny’s sadistic streak and Johnny’s bitter prejudices. Most people took to him. He did not presume upon his new position or his employer and very quickly gained the good graces of the other relatives and chiefs of departments. Given two rooms at Great Furnival Square in an apartment of the main house, he was always at hand should Timothy need him, yet had plenty of time to study the history of the group. Timothy made no formal attempt to train him, so he trained himself until, even after one year, he knew more about the intricacies of the House of Furnival than all but the most senior of its leading members and staff.
The first anniversary luncheon was, to James, a joy. He had never seen Timothy more free of troubles, or been so sure of a young man as he was of Simon. If he had any regret it was only that old Simon Rattray had not lived to see that day.
Richard, now a frequent visitor to The House by the River, came to collect his grandfather, driving the same open carriage, although Mary protested because it was spitting rain. Satisfying, or at least mollifying, her by taking an extra cloak, they started off, Richard, who had arrived earlier than expected, explaining that they were first to meet Simon at Morgan’s Coffee House. Arriving at Morgan’s, James saw Simon already sitting at the booth which had the carving of the Fieldings. Simon was obviously delighted not only to see them but with himself, and Richard appeared to be in a very good mood. Was that because they had planned this encounter? James wondered.
He asked no questions but could not repress his own high spirits, until after ten minutes or so Richard said, ‘If I did not know you better, sir, I would think you had put brandy in your coffee!’
‘My spirits always come from within,’ James retorted.
The younger men laughed, and Richard raised both hands from his coffee mug, saying, ‘Time to tell him, Simon, or he will be in so gay a mood he will not be able to understand.’
‘Tell me? Tell me what?’ demanded James. ‘If you two have come to make a fool of me—’
‘Neither of us would attempt the impossible, sir,’ Simon Rattray-Furnival responded gallantly. ‘On the contrary, I hope to be able to make a prophet out of you.’ He paused long enough to allow James to speak, but when the old man simply waited, he went on: ‘You once intimated to Mr. Benedict Sly that you needed to find a way to establish a police force which would not bring upon you the opposition of the City of London. Mr. Sly confided in Richard about this and Richard confided in me, on my promise to find out if there was a way of achieving such a purpose without being disloyal to the House of Furnival.’
James felt his heart begin to thump painfully, for this young man would not treat the matter lightly, and most certainly Richard would not. He felt his throat very tight as he responded, ‘And what success have you, Simon?’
‘Considerable, sir, I do believe.’
Now James’s blood began to drum in his ears and he thought that concern leaped into the eyes of the others as they faced him across the table. He made no attempt to speak. Simon’s voice seemed to come from a long distance off, yet every syllable was precise and clear.
‘It has been increasingly evident, not only to the House of Furnival but to every merchant who uses the River Thames, that every merchant vessel which comes from the estuary to London, every coaling vessel which comes from the northeast coast, and every passenger ship wherever it is from suffers from the depredations of the mudlarks. It is reliably estimated that at least ten thousand of these river thieves prey upon the river’s traffic. Nothing is safe. Naked boys climb aboard in dead of night, thieves work amongst honest dock labourers, warehousemen are under constant threat from cut-throats. Of an estimated thousand watermen, one quarter is regarded as dishonest, living on the edge of poverty as they do. There is greater terror on the river than there ever was on the highway between the City and Westminster. And the City suffers most, sir, either in direct loss, by meeting insurance claims, or by having prices on the Exchange affected after a particularly daring robbery. I repeat, Mr. Marshall, the City suffers where it hurts most. In its pocket.’
Now fully recovered, James murmured softly, ‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’ His voice gained strength and he leaned forward. ‘No doubt you have heard of Mr. Patrick Colquhoun, my boy, one of the Middlesex justices and a man for whom I have the greatest respect. Mr. Colquhoun went into great detail on this matter of a river police in his treatise published last year.’
“The proposals have been closely studied and the prospects have been examined,’ Simon replied. ‘It is not possible to police the river with ordinary patrols, only with experts, and these would have to be well paid so as to avoid risk of corruption. I have little doubt that the merchants who most use the Port of London would contribute handsomely towards a Marine Police Force, as Mr. Colquhoun describes it, under one commander - under single control, that is. I do not believe a voice of substance would be raised agains
t it. And since the bonded warehouses are within the region and the customs houses suffer great losses by smuggling, which such a force could restrict, I am of the opinion that the force would soon be taken over by the authorities. A river police force, sir - and one which could hardly fail to be successful since it would have everyone’s support - would be a perfect example for the land areas to follow.’
‘Simon, you may well be right,’ said James quietly. ‘Have you discussed this with Timothy?’
‘I have taken soundings, if I may use the phrase, and believe he would give full support to the forming of such a force. Moreover, Mr. Colquhoun’s proposals set out an excellent plan which no doubt he would consider in even greater detail, knowing of the prospects of success. But I would like you to propose that Mr. Colquhoun be consulted. Mr. Timothy is mindful of his promise to you on the day when you first brought us together.’
Into the brief silence that followed, Richard said almost apologetically, ‘This is why we wanted to see you before meeting Mr. Timothy for luncheon.’
‘That was most considerate of you,’ James replied, his heart beginning to thump again. He was looking into Simon’s eyes - into Johnny’s eyes - but did not know what he wanted to say to this young man. It was so much more than ‘Thank you’. It was as if in some miraculous way Simon had wiped out the stains left behind by Johnny, as if he were the man everyone had prayed Johnny would become.
Perhaps because of the intensity of the older man’s gaze, Simon looked away.
There was much to surprise the others in the sudden change which came over his expression. It was as if Simon had seen some vision which drove thought of everything else from his mind, even what he had just said with such controlled vehemence to James Marshall. Richard’s glance followed Simon’s - and immediately something like the same metamorphosis came upon him.
