by John Creasey
He gave Richard no time to ask what he meant by triumph but led the way into a small, exquisitely furnished and lighted room, where the table was laid, silver and glass shimmered, and a fire glowed in the beautiful marble fireplace.
‘We shall dine here tonight, Richard, since there are but four of us.’
Four? wondered Richard.
Out of a doorway at the other side of the room came Susan, so beautifully gowned that he hardly recognised her; and, a step behind her, another, somewhat younger woman, elegant in dark-green velvet, wearing only a single brooch upon her corsage, amber-pale shoulders glowing in the candlelight. She was taller than Susan, moved with grace, and although was not by most standards beautiful, her eyes had the colour and brightness of emeralds and her lips were generous- looking and full.
‘Richard, I am eager to present Mrs. Katherine Hooper. Katherine, you have often heard me talk of my blood brother, Richard. I hope you find him more distracting company than me! Susan, my love, if you will ring for service, we will, I trust, sharpen our appetites.’
Almost at once a white-haired butler came in bearing a tray, and when they each held a glass of sherry, Simon said,- ‘To new friends and old customs!’
‘New friends,’ Richard echoed, ‘and old customs.’
Katherine was the widow of Cornelius Hooper, Richard learned, grandson of a former Lord Mayor of London and one of three brothers on the board of Hooper, Rill, Bankers, well known among the smaller independent banking houses. At one time the family had been merchants and shipowners as well as bankers, but they had sold these interests to the House of Furnival and now concentrated on banking.
During the next two days, while they remained as guests - the heavy snow, which had gone on until it would have made travelling even short distances difficult, preventing them from leaving - Richard saw a great deal of Katherine, and learned much about her. Her husband had been twenty-four years older than she; she had been married at seventeen, and the only child of the marriage had died in its first year. She was the daughter of a family of goldsmiths whose business had been absorbed by larger companies, had brothers, sisters, and a host of nieces and nephews. She had spent two years at school in Versailles and spoke French fluently. These facts he was told, some by Susan, some by Katherine herself, but other things he discovered in the course of conversation.
She knew a great deal about the work he had done, had studied social and economic history, and could hold her own with Simon on many aspects of trading and of banking. And she could quote Sir John Furnival, the Fieldings and Bentham and Chadwick as freely as he, Richard. He had never known a woman so familiar with what had been taken for granted as a man’s world.
She most astonished him by her knowledge of conditions in London. ‘And in the last few years there has been little improvement,’ she asserted. ‘The whole of London is a rabbit warren of thieves’ hiding places. There is one near Fleet Ditch, close to Saffron Hill—’
‘Number Three West Street?’ Richard interrupted.
‘So you know of it!’
‘It is famous - or infamous - throughout London, full of ways of escape, secret panels, trap doors, concealed staircases—’
‘It is said that Jonathan Wild once lived there,’ said Katherine.
‘It is certain that some who have escaped from the Fleet or Newgate have holed up in the house for months, that whenever the Runners search for stolen goods they have no more than one chance in five of finding what they look for, but always discover the proceeds of some crime, or the skeleton of a man promised succour and then sealed in a wall to die of starvation. And there are six or seven places by which one can reach the roof and a dozen directions to escape from there.’
‘Do you know, Richard, you sound most excited!’ Katherine teased.
‘And in my way I am,’ admitted Richard. ‘Every time I think about the situation I am more convinced that it must be changed.’
‘So much has to be changed,’ Katherine responded quietly. ‘Reform is needed in workshops, in mills, in the streets, in Parliament. You have concentrated on the police, I know, but one day that will no longer be necessary. What will you turn to then?’
‘I shall decide if and when the time comes,’ replied Richard. ‘True reform of the peace-keeping and police systems in London is not yet achieved despite a hundred years of striving by men far greater than I.’
‘Not all men define greatness in the same way,’ she replied lightly, switching the subject to the Bill for Improving the Police In and Near the Metropolis, of which she knew a surprising amount.
They were walking in the garden which, on the night of the Furnival ball, had been the scene of so much bloodshed. Now the children of a dozen families hurled snowballs or climbed trees and dropped into the snow or, with the help of grownups, made giant snowmen.
‘I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that Mr. Peel likes the bill in its present form,’ Katherine said suddenly.
Richard stopped in his tracks, staring at her.
‘I don’t understand you. How can you possibly know the Home Secretary’s mind? I have not yet heard from him myself.’
‘You mean that Simon did not tell you?’ Katherine’s voice rose in astonishment. ‘There was some matter of taxation on which Mr. Peel and the Lord of the Treasury sought Simon’s advice. Mr. Peel told Simon there was only one word, just a single word, that he wished to change in the bill.’
They stood in the snow, facing each other.
Richard saw the admiration in her eyes, as well as their beauty.
She saw this man with the eagle’s face and the grey eyes that might have been made of finely tempered steel, this man who talked with the voice of reason, this man whom she knew Simon greatly loved, staring at her openmouthed.
She saw the incredulity in his expression.
And she saw the tears, the actual tears, which filled his eyes.
Very slowly and only when they had turned and begun to move back towards the house did Katherine Hooper say, ‘So it means so much to you?’
Huskily Richard replied, ‘It is not possible to tell you how much it means. If I have made a fool of myself I am sorry, but even now, I can scarcely believe it. Peel approves? He will present the bill to the House of Commons?’
‘There is even a date set aside,’ Katherine told him. ‘It will not be as early as he had wished, because there is some work to be done behind the scenes to diminish any likely opposition. If you know anything about Robert Peel you know that he does not like to be defeated in the House of Commons! It is to be in April - as early in April as can be arranged. The Leader of the House is already planning it. Why, I have even been promised permission to be present when Peel introduces the bill.’ After a few moments she went on. ‘Does it disappoint you that he, not you, will make the introduction to the House?’
Richard frowned in puzzlement.
‘No, no, not in any way. On the contrary. Peel will have ten times the authority I could have.’ Slowly he shook his head and in a wondering voice went on: ‘How could Simon forget to tell me?’
‘In truth I thought I had told you on the night when you arrived,’ Simon defended himself. ‘I have the clearest recollection of referring to your triumph. What other triumph could you expect? I assumed that you already knew what I meant and were behaving with your customary humility!’
‘If ever a word fitted a man, humility fits Richard,’ Katherine smiled.
‘Peel himself will introduce the bill and I believe the House will approve by a handsome majority,’ Sir Douglas Rackham told a secret meeting of justices and, high constables in the high-ceilinged drawing-room of his home at Kensington. It was furnished with extraordinary effectiveness; the pale-gold and soft-green colouring soothed and warmed. ‘It will be a waste of time and effort to try to prevent its passing. We must therefore devote ourselves to stirring up hostility among the public so that the new police force becomes a total failure. If, once it is tried, it proves unsuccessful, th
en we can be done with this nonsense for the rest of our lives.’
Every one of the thirty men at that meeting voiced his approval, even the one man on duty as a guard, who at the age of twenty was a Bow Street patrol member. He was Arthur Jackson, son of Frederick Jackson, long since retired. No one present dreamed that Arthur was planning to apply for a post with the New Police while remaining a spy within this group. Not even Todhunter Mason, the man responsible for Timothy McCampbell-Furnival’s murder, suspected young Jackson. Had his greatgrandfather not been hanged at Tyburn Fields?
Mason, who had a foot in the magistrates’ as well as the thieves’ camps, listened with approval.
On that sixteenth of April, 1829, a bright and sunny day with great banks of clouds vividly white against the deep blue of the sky, every narrow bench in the House of Commons was full and some Members were actually to stand throughout the first reading and the debate which followed the second. Sitting on a cross-bench between the two parties, Richard was directly opposite the Speaker and had full sight of Peel as he spoke with quiet effectiveness, not haranguing the House but set on keeping the temperature cool.
‘I do not wish to disguise that the time is come when, from the increase in its population, the enlargement of its resources and the multiplying development of its energies, we may fairly pronounce that the country has outgrown her police institutions, and that the cheapest and the safest course will be the introduction of a new mode of protection.’
There was a rustle of movement and calls of approval, with as yet no single voice raised in opposition. Richard sat spellbound as Peel went on.
‘Such men will be recruited from the ranks of ex-soldiers and ex-bailors, as well as trusted officers already employed by courts such as Bow Street, with whose Runners they will cooperate. The Runners, of course, will remain the chief detective department. None shall be older than thirty-five or less than five feet seven inches in height, and all must be men of exceptional courage for they will be unarmed save for a staff or stick, so that the charge of being a civilian army established to bend the people to the government’s will cannot justly be levelled against them. And so that the new force may be able to rely on the cooperation and good will of the public at large, there shall be the following principles embodied in the instructions given to each member of the force, instructions drawn up with great care by your committee.’
This time his pause was obviously for effect, and as he held the attention of the House he bowed first to Lord John Russell on the Whig benches and next, with equal deliberation, to Richard; and he paused again so that Members could call out their approval, as most did.
Among the loudest was Sir Douglas Rackham.
‘I shall read those instructions to the House,’ Peel went on at last.
Richard closed his eyes and listened to the persuasive voice, repeating the words to himself almost as if this were a litany.
‘It should be understood at the outset that the principal object to be attained is the prevention of crime. He, the constable, will be civil and obliging to all people of every rank and class. . . Particular care is to be taken that the constables of the police do not form false notions of their powers or duties.’
The approval was deep-throated and universal, and when Richard opened his eyes he saw nearly every Member’s mouth open, many papers waving, only here and there a scowl or straight face of disapproval. He had no doubt at all that the bill would soon become an Act of Parliament, that the skeleton organisation could be formed and its leaders named, that an arrangement would be made for recruiting - not a handful, as Furnival and the Fieldings had begged for, not a few dozen men, but a force of police more than three thousand strong.
In the House of Lords, the Duke of Wellington, using much the same phraseology, moved the bill and was warmly received.
That night Sir Douglas Rackham saw several of those Members who were opposed to the bill, and also Todhunter Mason, one of the members of the syndicate that had bought The Daily Clarion. No one questioned the accuracy of Rackham’s prognostication now; they could not hope to prevent the bill from becoming law.
‘So we must use our utmost endeavours to make sure that the law fails,’ Rackham repeated.
‘As they plan to build, so must we plan to destroy. But for the time being I shall give limited praise to the new force in the columns of The Daily Clarion, so that when the time comes to attack, it cannot be charged that the newspaper has acted out of prejudice. As The Daily Clarion is again becoming a popular voice of the people, it will help to sway public opinion whichever way we desire.’
‘Don’t make any mistake about it,’ said Todhunter Mason.
‘If this police force is a success, we’re done, mates. Finished. Pickled in our own blood and that’s the truth. We want trading justices and Runners working together, thieves with one hand and thief-takers with the other, that’s what we want! If these new police get too strong, they’ll put an end to the Runners sure as I stand here.’
There was a roar of agreement from the crowded cellar beneath the Black Swan, and he gave the men time to settle before going on:
‘We’ve got to give them no peace, friends. And if they put spies among us then, God help us, we can provide a few, can’t’ we? Never let a little thing like a thief stop us, did we? So why let a spy or two? We’ll plant ‘em in the force, and we’ll let the magistrates find them when the time’s ripe, see. And we’ll make those bloody men o’ Peel’s so drunk they don’t know whether they’re arresting a thief or a Member of Parliament or a bloody bishop, lads. No corruption, Peel says. God help us, they’ll be so corrupt before we’ve finished with them that Parliament will squeal for us to get back to our legitimate work!’
His talk was punctuated by roars of laughter and much banging of tankards on the deal tables, but all of this paled into insignificance as he went on.
‘And we’ll put the women onto them, that’s what we’ll do. Old soldiers, are they? And old sailors? Ever known one of the King’s men who didn’t like half an hour with his doxy? We’ll tell the pretties to give them the eye, then we’ll catch them in the act. Rape, that’s what we’ll get ‘em for. Do you know what? I give them a year. No I don’t!’ he bellowed, ‘I give them six months. They’ll want to peel themselves off from Peel by then, don’t you worry.’
The roar made the walls and the ceiling of the cellar shake.
Again among those present was Arthur Jackson, the Bow Street Runner, unrecognisable in his disguise of black side whiskers and a moustache as the man who had been at Sir Douglas Rackham’s meeting not long ago. So far, he warned himself, this was only drunken talk. He must bide his time, and before he could take any effective action he had to join the new force. A guinea a week, food and lodgings would not set a man up for a lifetime, but Simon Rattray-Furnival would pay handsomely for information - and even more handsomely when he knew that Todhunter Mason was the man he had been seeking for so many years.
‘Were you proud?’ Katherine asked Richard, smiling at him across their table at Rules, a restaurant and oyster bar of renown in Maiden Lane, one of the narrow streets near Covent Garden. Prints of actors and journalists, authors and Members of Parliament, verses signed by their composers, sketches by both Hogarth and Rowlandson, were on the walls. The food was straightforward English style, the roast beef and steak and oyster pies especially good. Sole fresh caught in the English Channel only that morning was always available, and there was a note of elegance and quality everywhere. That night Richard and Katherine had arrived before the rush which would follow the arrival of the patrons from Drury Lane and the Opera House, and they were in a stall in a corner where they could not be overhead.
‘Yes,’ Richard admitted. ‘I was very proud indeed. I tried to see you in the Strangers’ Gallery but failed.’
‘I was quieter and less conspicuous than a mouse!’
‘Impossible,’ Richard riposted, and although he laughed there was seriousness in his manner. ‘Katherine,
do you know that I love you as deeply as I am capable of love?’
‘You are flattering me,’ she said, and her eyes danced.
‘You know better than that,’ he declared. ‘But what you may not know is why I have not yet declared myself nor told you that I would be truly proud if you were to marry me.’
She sat very still, as if oblivious of everything but his expression and the cool touch of his hand on hers.
‘I have assumed that it is because you have doubt of your feelings,’ she said, no longer smiling.
‘None whatsoever,’ he assured her. ‘Not a single moment. I am absolutely sure of my feeling for you. But I am almost twenty years older than you, Katherine. You have already been married to a man much your senior in years, and you would not be human if you did not sometimes long for a younger man, one of your own age. If you do, I—’ He broke off and pressed her hand firmly before going on. ‘I would ask you to forgive and forget what I have said. I think - I do believe the new bill has gone to my head like wine so that I dare speak when, sober, I would have the good sense to keep silent.’
She did not respond at once.
A waiter drew near and would have come to the table but an older one held him back, shaking his head surreptitiously. Both Richard and Katherine were unmindful of everything and everyone about them.
Richard thought, She is trying to find a gentle way of saying No. I cannot blame her but in God’s name I wish it were not so.
At last she spoke.
‘I am thirty-seven, Richard. Old enough to understand and love you, young enough, if it is your wish, to bear you children, strong enough to help you where you need help; experienced enough to become impatient with younger men.’
