The Masters of Bow Street (12 page)

‘Newgate!’ cried James in a sudden onslaught of dread. ‘You can’t take me to Newgate! I must go before a justice; I must be taken to Mr. Furn—’

‘You’ve been before a justice and have been committed. Don’t gab so much.’ The man leaned across and struck him in the mouth and blood began trickling down his chin. It was shock as well as pain which made James silent. Newgate, most dreaded of prisons, which had horrified his father and was a living hell, a stinking blot on the face of London. The man had no right to take him first to Newgate; only a justice could commit him there.

The carriage stopped close to the spot where he had stood on the night of Frederick Jackson’s hanging, and a jailer came out of the gatehouse as the thief-taker pushed James out. He slipped and, unable to help himself, fell heavily. Over his body the thief-taker and the jailer spoke briefly.

‘Is this the young rapscallion?’

‘Take him and put him in the Stone Hold, ‘twill be good for his soul,’ the thief-taker said, and roared with laughter.

The jailer bent down, yanked the boy to his feet and pushed him towards the lodge and beyond.

In the saddle on a grey horse opposite the main gates Peter Nicholson waited until jailer and boy had disappeared and the thief-taker was back in the coach. The man winked at Nicholson through the window and Nicholson winked back, then slapped his horse and made for Eve Milharvey’s house in Loxley Yard. He tied his horse to a wooden post and went lightly up the stairs. The old creature who had served Frederick Jackson for much longer than Nicholson had known the criminal was coming out of Eve’s bedchamber. She was bent half double.

‘She’s still abed,’ she croaked. ‘And she won’t want any but good news this morning.’

‘I’ve all the good news she can ask for,’ Nicholson replied, and rapped on the door, calling out, ‘’Tis I, Peter. May I come in?’

After a moment she called, ‘Come in and keep your voice low. My head is splitting.’

He opened the door and saw her sitting up in bed with a tray in front of her. Her hair was well brushed and she wore a frilled jacket, high at the neck. He walked towards her, clapping his hands together yet making little noise.

Her eyes were glistening.

‘So you got him, then?’

‘Tight as a drum!’ boasted Nicholson. ‘He’s in Newgate at this moment, and he won’t come out of there except to talk at his trial and then onto the hangman’s cart. We’ve three witnesses who saw him go into the shop and a magistrate who committed him to await trial. The trick worked perfectly. I told you before, Eve, you’re magnificent.’

She stared at him, her eyes no longer shining.

‘I want to know how Furnival responds to this, and also the boy’s mother. Do you understand me?’

‘None better,’ he assured her.’ ‘No one will be better informed.’ He blew her a kiss and gave a little bow before going out.

‘Eve Milharvey,’ he whispered, ‘the day will come when you won’t talk to me as if I were a lackey. You’ll beg me for help.’

His smile was hard and set as he went downstairs.

Eve lay back on the pillows, not smiling, looking up at the heavy tapestry canopy over the bed and feeling the weight of the tray on her stomach. She now had no doubt that she was suffering from morning sickness, and sometimes this elated her and at others enraged.

Did it explain, at this moment, why she felt that she hated Peter Nicholson?

In a much larger and lovelier room, of pale blues and greens and golds, with French furniture shipped from Rouen especially for her, Lisa Braidley also lay on her pillows with a breakfast tray beside her. The bed was huge and billowy soft, and on one of the four pillows were some short, dark hairs from the man who had spent much of the night here. He, at thirty, had been full of tremendous vitality and she was tired. That was not unusual, for her lovers were seldom placid or content first to lie with her and then by her side; and there was no reason why they should, for to get into this room cost a fortune: to less than a hundred guineas she turned a cold face.

But she was tired.

And the young man who had been with her, Lord Fothergill, had exasperated her with his prattle and, she admitted to herself, stung her with one piece of gossip.

‘They do say that John Furnival has taken a new wench to his bed, and installed her as mistress of his household. ‘Tis age taking its toll, Lisa, the man wants his slippers warmed as well as his bed.’

She remembered John’s need of comfort when she had last gone to him and wondered whether the ‘new wench’ would lead to any relationship with John. If there were a man in London she would like to marry it was John Furnival, but the very thought was folly; so was the sting of jealousy. She knew he had a hundred mistresses, would even take witnesses into that little apartment to ‘question them’ in private - oh, he was a sexual profligate, it was his sole weakness. She had never been in any doubt about that, so why should the fact that he had installed a new wench under some fancy name sting her?

She did not know; she only knew that she was badly stung.

In the corner of the tiny entrance to the cottage in Bell Lane was a grandfather clock that fascinated the younger children with its pictures of the moon and the sun and stars which changed each day, and with the deep-tone whirrrrr which preceded the striking of each hour as well as the boom-oom-oom of the notes themselves. It had a dark oak case already shining with years of polishing. Ruth did not at that time know its history and at first it troubled her; it was in fact the only thing about her new home which caused her any anxiety. She was afraid the whirring and the booming by night would disturb both her and the children, but the children had not appeared to be troubled even on the first night, and although she woke for a night or two to the striking of each hour, she was soon so accustomed to it that she slept right through.

On the fifth night, Friday, she heard the whirrrrr begin and she knew that it was eleven o’clock, very late for James. Fridays were long days for him; he was often not home until half-past nine, but eleven was rare. The clock began to strike in a deep and melodious tone and she counted; conceivably she had been wrong at the last striking and it was now only ten. Her hands clenched and her whole body was tense as she counted: ‘. . . eight. . . nine. . . ten. . . eleven.’

So it had been no error and she simply could not understand the lateness.

Because visitors often came late at Bow Street and someone was on duty there all night, Bell Lane was much better lit than Cobbold Yard had been, with two flares on either side of the back entrance, and there were other flares placed at John Furnival’s orders because he wanted to make sure that the guard he employed to keep Bow Street and Bell Lane secure could see anyone who turned into the lane from either end. As Ruth went up the narrow stairs she saw some of this light shine through the open door of the boy’s room and spread a glow into the larger chamber where the two girls slept.

Ruth went into this chamber. Beth, fair-haired and chubby, with curling eyelashes and already coquettish, lay on one side of a bed larger than Ruth and Richard had ever known, a bare arm bent over her head, the other snug. Ruth moved the cold arm gently and Beth opened her eyes, stared blankly, and closed them again at once. Henrietta, the younger, had jet-black hair, and only the top of this showed above the linen sheet. Ruth moved the sheet, so that the child should not breathe her own used air and crept out and down the stairs. The hall, though narrow, had a recess near the kitchen where hats and cloaks could be kept, and she took her heavy woollen cloak from the peg, pulled the hood over her head, then went into Bell Lane.

She looked in each direction along the row of cottages but there was no sign of James.

She moved towards Drury Lane and a guard carrying his lantern on a pole in his left hand and a cudgel in his right was quick to see her. He called in a low-pitched but carrying voice: ‘Stop there!’

Instead, she moved slowly towards him. For all the man knew she might be a whore looking for business, or even a visitor to John Furnival, although it was some time since the chief magistrate had brought a girl in off the streets; for one thing, he had become much too fastidious. But not all who worked at Bow Street were, and one or two even of Furnival’s trusted private retainers were not above a little dalliance while on duty with a witness who needed a favour or a supplicant who needed help for a husband.

Ruth stopped in front of the man and he said in surprise, ‘Mistress Marshall, bless my soul! What are you doing out so late as this?’

‘I’m worried about my son James,’ she replied. ‘I hoped you or one of the other watchmen had seen him.’

‘Not this night,’ the guard answered. ‘But I’m to meet Joe Kidder at the front of the court building. Come with me and we’ll find out if he’s seen anyone.’

She was glad of his company although the streets were deserted; tomorrow, Saturday, would be the night for noise and crowds and drunken brawling.

The other watchman was shorter and stockier, reminding her of Tom Harris.

‘No, I’ve not set eyes on him and I know him well,’ he replied. ‘Have you inquired of the merchant where he works?’

‘No. I must go and ask—’ she began.

‘Mistress Marshall, this is no time for you to go anywhere alone,’ the first watchman interrupted. ‘Tiny, do you know if Tom Harris is still here? . . . He is? . . . Then we’ll tell him what is worrying Mistress Marshall.’ He smiled down at Ruth and informed her, ‘After every hour one of us has to make a report to the chief officer on duty, and it’s my turn. I can see Tom at the same time. Will you come in and wait?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘If it pleases you I will stay here.’

She waited with the shorter guard for no more than five minutes before Tom Harris came out, buttoning his cloak at the neck; she thought from the look of him that he had been sleeping, but there was nothing sleepy in his manner as he took her arm and began to walk towards Long Acre.

‘There’ll be nothing to worry about,’ he reassured her. ‘That old skinflint Morgan is making James work late to avoid paying another boy, that’ll be the truth of it.’

She felt no certainty but was easier in her mind until they approached the shop.

It was in darkness; so were the windows above, where some of the assistants as well as the Morgans lived. Nor was there anything to suggest that the premises had only just been closed. A smell of rotting fruit hung heavy in the air. All of Ruth’s fears came crowding back.

‘He could have gone home by a different way; the boy has the biggest nose for odd corners I ever knew.’ Tom still tried to be reassuring. ‘But we’ll see if Morgan can give us any information.’ A few days ago Ruth would have been horrified at the thought of disturbing James’s employer but now she could think only of one thing: finding out what had happened to her son.

She stared up at the dark windows as Tom bellowed: ‘Mr. Morgan, sir, wake up. Mr. Morgan, sir!’

A watchman swinging his lantern came hurrying towards them, an old man who looked scared but who summoned enough courage to demand, ‘Who are you to disturb the peace?’ He peered shortsightedly at Tom, then suddenly recognised him and exclaimed ‘‘Tis Mr. Harris, I’ll be bound. I can tell ‘ee this, Mr. Harris, Morgan and his wife sleep in that room. I’ll bang on the window with my pole and you call out again.’

Slowly he pushed the pole up against the window and then began to tap, taking so long that it was all Ruth could do not to snatch the pole from his frail hands. But with this banging and Tom’s shouting they woke Morgan at last. The merchant pushed up the window and leaned out, woollen bedcap falling over his shoulder on one side, a blanket clutched about him.

‘Sorry to wake you, Mr. Morgan,’ called Tom. ‘But Mrs. Marshall’s boy James has not reached home yet. Do you know what time he left here?’

‘I can tell you. . .’ began Morgan.

Ruth’s heart began to beat sickeningly as she heard the querulous voice relaying that James had not returned from his first round; that he, Morgan, had been compelled to send a man out to check on his deliveries, fearful of an accident; that James had delivered to three addresses in Fleet Street and then had disappeared; a peace officer had found his yoke, his cart and his baskets in Wine Office Court, with no more than half the goods left in them. He had not even delivered his goods to the Cheshire Cheese! There was some talk of a robbery and of James’s running away.

‘And you knew all this but didn’t tell Mistress Marshall?’ growled Tom.

‘’Tis her responsibility to look after her offspring,’ replied Morgan tartly. ‘It would be different if the boy were to become an apprentice but he is leaving this Sunday, did you know that? To go to school.’ The man’s sniff could be heard from the window before he went on. ‘It won’t surprise me to find that he doesn’t want to go to school and has run away to sea.’

‘Where is the man you sent after him?’ demanded Harris.

‘Where he should be, I trust - in bed asleep and getting ready for tomorrow’s work.’

‘I want to know where to find him,’ Tom interrupted. ‘Will you tell me now or must I come up and make you talk?’

‘He’s in one of the sheds at the back,’ replied Morgan complainingly. ‘By name, Tip Hill. Don’t wake the others with him; we need everyone up early on a Saturday morning.’ He withdrew his head and slammed the window.

No other window in the street had opened; no one had dared to show his curiosity, for there was no telling where it would lead if he interfered with any fracas by night. Tom Harris turned to Ruth in the narrow, silent street, sharing the anxiety which showed so clearly on her face.

‘D’you want to come with me and find out what this man Hill has to say?’

‘Yes,’ she replied tensely. ‘Oh, Tom - what do you think has happened?’

‘I mean to find out,’ rasped Tom.

Alongside Morgan’s premises was an archway for delivery carts to turn and this led to a yard where there were four sheds, each in darkness. The all-pervasive odour of rotting fruit and hay was worsened here by the stench from a nearby privy. The watchman pushed open two doors, where no one slept, then when he opened a third the light shone on the faces of three men, lying close together for warmth on some bundles of hay.