by John Creasey
She said, with sudden confidence, ‘I can promise you my body but I cannot promise you children.’
‘Have you reason for saying that?’ he demanded sharply.
‘None, except that some women are barren.’
‘Not you,’ declared Simon Rattray-Furnival with overwhelming confidence. ‘Not you, my sweet.’ His expression changed to a frown and he went on: ‘I’ll have you know one thing. Once you are mine, you are mine, and I’ll kill any other man who touched you. Do you understand that?’
‘I’ve no wish to watch my husband die on the gallows,’ she retorted.
‘You’ll never see me die,’ he declared as if there could be no possibility of doubt. ‘But the choice is yours, Hermina Morgan. Marry me and I am the only man you will know for the rest of your life. Refuse to marry me and your life will be your own. How is it to be?’
He released her shoulders, lowering his hands to the small of her back, and pressed her close.
‘Say no, and I’ll go away,’ he told her. ‘The waterman will come and take you wherever you will. Say yes. . .’ He paused. ‘Which is it to be, Hermina? Yes or no?’
She found her breath coming in shallow gasps.
She found thoughts flashing through her mind: that she could ask for time; that it was ludicrous that any man should propose in this aggressive way; that now his body set fire to hers; that if she delayed he might turn on his heel and stride out, and if he did, he might never come back. The pressure of his body grew more relentless, and now his eyes seemed to burn right through her.
‘I’ll ask you just once more,’ he said. ‘Which is it to be? Yes or no?’
She made herself say, ‘What if I cannot give you a child?’
‘Yes - or - no?’ he ground out between his teeth.
‘Oh, dear God, save me,’ she cried, and suddenly her body went limp. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes!’
Never had there been such triumph in a man’s eyes as that which shone in his as he picked her up and carried her into the room beyond.
There was a moon when he rowed her back to Westminster Steps; a moon and brilliant stars, quiet lapping of the water, only a few other boats, the lights of London gaining in brightness, the flares at the foot of the steps. He left the boat with a Furnival waterman and they walked to the embankment where a coach waited and they were driven to her home, in Lancaster Square.
At the doors, Simon said with a droll kind of humour, ‘The quicker we arrange the marriage date, Hermina, no doubt the better.’
‘It cannot be too soon for me,’ she said.
‘One month?’
‘One month, and I can have all the clothes I need, every invitation out and answered.’
She looked into his eyes. He did not stoop to kiss her and she did not show any outward sign of affection, but when she went to her bedroom she looked at herself in the mirror and pictured him beside her.
Every newspaper, every journal, every announcement, called this the most spectacular wedding of the decade. There were more peers of the realm, more Members of Parliament, more food, more finery, more magnificence than at any but a royal wedding.
Standing in close attendance, hiding both thoughts and feelings, was Richard Marshall. Even on this day Hermina’s beauty could stab right through him.
A year almost to the day after the wedding, in October 1801, their first child was born. They named their daughter Grace.
Three years later, on October 28, their second child was born and to Simon’s joy this was a boy. He was christened Marriott, and he took after his mother in both looks and colouring.
At the time of Marriott’s birth London was undergoing one of the periods of panic which danger from the French and Spaniards could bring. For Napoleon, with much of Europe at his feet, was known to be mustering a huge army across the Channel, and a fleet of flatbottomed boats to bring men and horses and cannon for the invasion which had been talked of for so long. Not only London but the whole of Britain was in the grip of fear, for if Napoleon once got a foothold on the Channel coast, what chance would there be of forcing the French Army back?
On the twenty-ninth of October of the following year, the Rattray-Furnivals’ third child and second son was born, and not only to their own rejoicing. Out in London’s streets and public places the people had gone wild. Church bells rang and rattles clattered, whistles blew and bands played, for Nelson’s smaller fleet had smashed both the French and the Spaniards at Trafalgar, destroying any hope Napoleon might ever have of coming back to the Channel coast and launching his attack on England.
By the time the news came through of Nelson’s death the gin and beer and joy of victory had carried the people beyond sadness. London and all Britain rejoiced, while Simon looked down at his second son, the shape of whose head and face made him quite unmistakably a Furnival in the grand tradition.
He was christened John.
Timothy McCampbell-Furnival felt tired but happy, relaxed and well fed. For a man of seventy-seven he was in remarkably fine fettle. As he stood on the terrace of Furnival Tower House and looked across at the lights and the bustle at Furnival Docks, heard the shouting and the squealing of winches and hoists, the lapping of the Thames in a stiff breeze, he felt not only contented but had a stirring of interest in having company in bed that night. It was only a passing thought and indicated fancy more than active desire. He did not feel seventy-seven; he had not felt sixty-seven ten years ago.
He had been present that afternoon at the baptism of Simon’s third child - the second son, John, who was now nearly a year old.
In the years since Simon had married, he had also grown in stature. No one now seriously doubted his right to the leadership of the House of Furnival. Occasionally some of the other relatives conspired and played politics but he had defeated them by sheer indifference, as if leadership was his by some kind of divine right. And his wife - what a magnificent woman she was!
It was not often that Timothy came to Furnival Tower House on a Sunday but two ships had berthed with precious cargoes from the Far East and he had wanted to be at hand to welcome the captains in the time-honoured Furnival fashion. Simon, of course, had been with him. Simon had wanted Timothy to leave with him, but one of the ship’s masters was an old friend who would soon come across the river from the Sea Lion and together he and Timothy would repair to Great Furnival Square for the night. Timothy heard more lapping of water than usual but could see no sign of a ship’s dinghy. He turned from the railing and looked at the windows and the lights of the docks reflected on the heavy glass.
He did not see the three men in the water close to the steps which led up to the terrace. Each had a bundle tied over his head; one had a knife between his teeth, one a heavy cudgel secured to his shoulders. They swam strongly but the noise they made was drowned by wind and tide.
It was strange, mused Timothy, that he thought of Simon as his son; not as his nephew, not as his grandson, but as his son. Consequently he saw Simon’s three children as his grandchildren and prayed that the two boys would inherit the qualities of their father.
Timothy often confused Simon with Johnny, of course. That was strange, because in so many ways his mind was as clear as ever. Simon - Johnny - Richard. He had not seen young Richard Marshall since James had died. It seemed strange to Timothy that he should be so much older than everyone about him. His cronies were gone, even his enemies! Not that he had made many enemies and those few only because of their jealousy. Simon had the same trait of making friends.
Timothy did not see the men climbing up the wet stone steps, each clad in breeches cut short at the knees, each now carrying a weapon.
They had been sent by the man who held them and so many others in his thrall: Todhunter Mason.
In spite of the wind it was not cold on the terrace, which was protected from both sides, and the wind must be coming from the west. What a noise it made! What a night for a ship to set sail. And one was setting sail from farther up the river, a bark which Timothy th
ought came from Morgan’s Wharf, a bonded tea and coffee warehouse belonging to the company which might soon be merging with Furnival’s. He had discussed this with Simon who, in his decisive way, had said, ‘Yes, sir. But not yet, I beg you.’
He had not explained why, but no doubt he would have a good reason.
Timothy watched the ship travelling faster than it should, as if the wind billowing its sails would soon take it out of the captain’s hand.
The three men were now behind him.
Two were by the doors leading into the house; one was creeping up towards him, the cudgel, with its spiked head, in his hand. Not until the last moment did Timothy sense than anything was wrong. Some sound which did not merge with the wind and the water made him turn, and he saw the man, water glistening on his naked shoulders, chest and arms, one arm descending with the cudgel gripped in it. Timothy made an involuntary movement but it was too late. A crushing blow fell on one side of his head. It did not render him unconscious but made him stagger. The man grabbed him by one arm, yanked him upright, and struck again.
A messenger came for Simon at half-past ten, when he was in bed with Hermina, teasing her about a fourth child; soon, he kept saying, soon: and we start now. When a servant knocked timidly on the door Simon could hardly believe anyone would dare cause such an interruption, but soon the knocking was repeated.
He pushed the bedclothes back and climbed out of bed as Hermina called, ‘It must be an emergency, Simon.’
‘I will teach them what an emergency is,’ Simon growled and opened the door.
The middle-aged man who looked after household affairs had not troubled to put a robe over his nightgown, had not even pulled his knitted sleeping cap off his bald head. He carried a candle in a tall brass stick and the flame quivered as he said, ‘It’s Mr. Timothy, sir. Mr. Timothy. They say he is sick unto death!’
The master of the Seal Lion had found Timothy when, delayed by customs officials as well as by drunkenness of his crew, he had been rowed to the steps and, not doubting that he would soon be met, had sent his boatman back. There was enough light to see the old man crumpled up on the terrace, even enough to see the blood on his head.
Now, facing Simon, who had dressed in a trice and had ridden to Furnival Tower House at wild speed on a horse kept close by against emergencies, the seaman looked haggard and old. Two doctors were there, members of the staff, and the guards who should have prevented this murder had they been alert. On a couch brought to the room from which the terrace led lay the lifeless body of Timothy McCampbell-Furnival. Out on the terrace were a dozen men carrying flares; the river between Furnival Tower House and the docks was alive with small boats showing all the lights they could so as to reveal anyone or anything unusual in the water. Godley, now the most experienced of the Bow Street Runners, was searching the terrace, while other Bow Street men were going through the building.
Every room within easy reach was wrecked. Paintings had been slashed, portraits of long-dead Furnivals had been ripped, furniture had been smashed and broken. All small ornaments, silver candlesticks, some plate, a collection of coins from various Furnival offices overseas and two superb ivory carvings from Tientsin had been stolen. Precious carpets small enough to roll and carry with ease were gone, too; larger ones had been ripped with sharp knives. In everything that had been done, naked hatred showed; and Simon, after staying close to Timothy’s body for five minutes, turned and surveyed the scene, while nervous night watchmen stood at a distance and some of the office managers who slept nearby also watched.
There was no expression on his face, but his eyes glittered as if with great pain. When he moved, it was stiffly and slowly. There was no way of telling whether he actually took in what he saw or whether his gaze was piercing the curtains of the past. After a while, and when he had seen all the material damage, he turned towards the terrace. Godley was now at an open door; studying him. The Runner was tall and bony-looking, his hair cut short so that he looked gaunt, almost skeletal. He wore a loose-fitting tunic and boots which rose to his knees over tight-fitting breeches.
Simon beckoned him and sat at a heavy Genoese silver table which had been badly dented by blows from a heavy object. He looked up at the man from Bow Street and then asked in a taut voice, ‘Your conclusions, Mr. Godley?’
‘One or two men came first, swimming, and forced their way in. The water marks of feet are still on the terrace, but there are other footmarks of men wearing muddy boots. One of the swimmers surely killed Mr. Timothy for his blood is mingled with the marks of bare feet. Others followed, by boat. Marks on the stanchions show where a boat was tied, and already three men bear witness to seeing one moored alongside about the time this evil deed was committed.’
‘The destruction?’
‘Hate, sir. Pure hate.’
‘The thefts?’
‘By men who knew what they could sell, sir. This is an expert job if ever I saw one. Very experienced men.’
‘Would hate be an added motive?’
‘Practised thieves can hate, sir. Many of them know Mr. Timothy favoured the marine police.’
‘What ideas do you have?’
‘Ideas I like to keep to myself, sir. My trade is in facts.’
‘For the murderers of Mr. Timothy I will give a reward of ten thousand pounds,’ Simon declared. ‘For that I want facts, ideas, opinions - answers to any questions I ask. Do you want the commission?’
‘Yes, sir, I do.’
‘What ideas do you have?’
‘There’s been a lot of talk for years, sir, among the criminal fraternity about getting back at the Furnivals for what the Furnivals did at Great Furnival Square on the night of Mr. Timothy’s ball. This could be one result, sir.’
‘After nine years?’
‘Criminals have long memories, sir, as long as the law. Longer at times. And there’s one in particular who remembers better than most, but we’ve never been able to prove anything against him. We get his men, but never him.’
Simon leaned back farther in his chair and studied the gaunt man before him. Silence engulfed the room except for lapping water and an occasional movement on the terrace itself.
Where a lesser man would have started to justify himself Godley stood still, without shifting his gaze, and Simon stirred at last, asking, ‘Do you know this man’s name?’
‘Mason, sir. But I’ve no proof.’
‘Do I understand you have the Bow Street magistrates’ consent to investigate this crime?’
‘Yes, sir, Mr. Colquhoun’s, who is there tonight, Sir Richard Ford being away. He told me to use my best endeavours and as many men as I required. Already I have asked for a descriptive list of the stolen property so that I can circulate it among pawnbrokers and others who might be asked to buy, but there is a good chance that this kind of objet d’art will be offered to private collectors or museums, sir. All inquiries possible will be made. I have asked for space in the major newspapers to advertise the list of missing articles and have offered a reward for reliable information.’
‘I will pay any rewards. I want the actual murderer quickly, Mr. Godley. Without losing a moment. We can deal afterward with the Mason man.’
‘With respect, sir - you couldn’t want the murderer quicker than I do,’ Godley said. ‘If only—’ He broke off.
‘Well? Don’t start a sentence and leave it unfinished.’
‘Your pardon, sir. I was going to say that if there were the same organisation in the City and everywhere else in London as there is on the river, we could have four thousand men working for us. As it is, we will be lucky to have two hundred. So progress may be slow, sir.’
‘The purpose of the ten thousand pounds is to overcome the obstacles,’ Simon said, his voice as taut as ever. ‘Have you questioned the watchmen who were said to be on duty here?’
‘Yes sir, but I have to see them again.’
‘If you suspect them to have connived with the thieves, then find the evidence necessary and I
will charge them.’ Now Simon’s voice rose. ‘Is it practicable for me to charge them with negligence while on duty?’
‘Connivance there could be, sir, though I doubt it. Negligence there was not.’
‘Six men are on duty to guard these premises. They allow an army of thieves to come in and their master to be murdered - that is not negligence?’ Simon now glared, and his right hand, on the table, began to clench and unclench. ‘I am becoming less sure that you are the right man for this investigation.’
‘If you would prefer one who will lie to you or tell you what he thinks you would like to hear, then I am not the right one, sir,’ Godley retorted instantly. He stopped and held silence, challenging Simon; indeed, defying him.
Somewhere, a man sneezed; it was like a shot from a gun. Some way off, downstairs, voices sounded; it was as if they came from a different world.
Simon said, ‘Why do you not consider them negligent?’
‘They were instructed by Mr. Timothy to leave him alone, sir.’
‘Or are they lying so as to save their skins?’
‘I know two of them well, sir. One was at Bow Street for two years before better conditions in private service took him away. He would not lie. It was the custom of Mr. Timothy to be alone on the terrace occasionally, as I understand it, and the guards say they thought nothing of it tonight. As for connivance, nothing of it shows on the surface, but I shall certainly probe deep to make sure.’
‘If there is the slightest evidence, they must be made to answer. If not—’
Simon did not finish, for now there was a disturbance at the main door; one of the guards on duty was keeping a newcomer at bay, and the newcomer’s voice sounded in subdued protest.
