The Masters of Bow Street (14 page)

‘I will return in five minutes, sir,’ Ruth replied.

Furnival looked around, startled. He felt a rare thing for him: selfconsciousness about his half nakedness. She was sober of men and he could see the dark shadows beneath her eyes, an indication that she had slept badly, if at all.

Abruptly he said, ‘As you’re here, put that undershirt over my head; the way they shrink when washed ‘tis like squeezing a quart into a pint pot.’

She picked up a vest and unfastened the buttons and stretched it, then placed it over his head and pulled one sleeve as she so often did for the girls and had done, not long ago, for James.

‘Those boots,’ he added.

‘They are at the door, sir.’

‘Get them,’ he ordered.

When she turned around with the shining boots in her hand he had shrugged himself into the undershirt and was drawing on a ruffled shirt, cream in colour. As he drew this down she picked up the woollen stockings and stretched them, then held them so that he could push his feet into them.

‘Do you think I’m helpless?’ he grumbled.

‘I think you are very - very kind, sir, to try to help my son.’

‘Help anyone who suffers an injustice,’ growled Furnival. ‘Your son or—’ He broke off, looking at her as she knelt in front of him with the other stocking ready. ‘Don’t worry, Ruth,’ he said in a different tone. ‘But for me he wouldn’t be in trouble, and I’ll soon have him out.’

‘That is not—’ she began, but broke off. Furnival fastened the breeches below his knees, then pushed his feet into the black boots which she held ready.

Soon, he was outside on the cobbles of Bow Street, mounting his horse from a high platform placed there officially to make it easier for all comers to get in and out of carriages and on and off their horses. Forbes, his broad, short groom and man of all work, held the bridle. He rode off at a fair clip through thick traffic and the inevitable cacophony of clattering hooves, but did not plan to go straight to Newgate Prison, which was barely a mile away. He need not be there for half an hour and he did not intend to wait on the magistrate Martin; rather the other should wait on him. He passed the jail and the Old Bailey beyond, riding faster to the Tower, and as he rode, cloak loose about him, fair head bared to the morning sun, people stopped and pointed him out. A man hurled an apple at him, missing by two feet or more, but on the whole the people were more well disposed than ill, and he sensed this. A great many had been against his hanging of Fred Jackson, the highwayman, who had won many friends, but it was over now, and there was respect for that rare creature: an honest justice of the peace, a man who could not be bought.

Furnival was not thinking of any of these things, but of the face of Ruth Marshall and the way her son had been trapped - and the reason why.

He turned into Thames Street and there at the foot was Furnival Tower House, with its five storeys towering over most of the others. A guard at the doorway recognised him and came hurrying, staff held like a lance, wearing a breastplate, three-cornered hat pulled low over his forehead, the ribbon of the Furnivals in a bow at one side, rosettes at each lapel of his jerkin and tied, like garters, beneath each knee.

‘Why, Mr. John. ‘Tis a long time since you honoured us with a visit.’

‘If honour is the word,’ Furnival retorted dryly. ‘Is Mr. William here?’

‘Why yes, sir. And Mr. Francis.’ The constable handed Furnival down and took the reins.

Furnival strode up the steps and into the building, and thought as he had thought a dozen times before that it was like a palace, with its magnificent paintings, its mosaics on the floor, the dome which spread light everywhere, the great staircase. A dozen managers and clerks were moving about, all hurrying except two middle-aged men who held papers near the foot of the staircase. One was tall and elegant in a suit of smooth pale-grey wool; the other was more roughly dressed in homespun tweed, a sailor, probably the captain of a Furnival ship which had just come into the Port of London. The elegant man glanced up at Furnival and seemed to freeze.

‘Very good to see you, Mr. John.’

‘Tappen,’ Furnival acknowledged, and went up the stairs, hurrying at first but slowing down when he was halfway up, for he did not want to be breathless when he met his brothers.

The offices of all the members of the family were built around the staircase so that the light from the dome fell upon each of the tall, honey-coloured polished doors. The colour of the doors and of the balustrade and of all the woodwork was no accident; John Furnival’s grandfather had himself gone to Florence to be sure of the quality of Italian marble and to Venice for the superb craftsmen who had created the many-coloured mosaic around the inside of the dome, where the theme was discovery, exploration and trade. The design depicted great sailing ships on pale-blue oceans and an outline of the once-unknown continents of America, Africa and much of Oriental Asia.

The middle of the seven doors led into the board room; on either side were lodged the senior members of the board, now William and Francis; in the rooms adjacent to these were William’s two sons, not yet fully experienced but never likely to be as bright as their forebears, Robert Yeoman, and, when in England, Jason Gilroy.

The smaller offices were used as a training ground for the younger staff members, apprentices and clerks who handled the shipping and the exporting sides of the business and kept close track of the way members of Parliament voted, checking on those who it was believed would allow a fat bribe to sway their vote.

The women seldom visited Furnival Tower House, a male stronghold where most of even the most menial work was carried out by men or youths. At the head of the stairs and on the landing were messengers and guards, and John Furnival was well aware that word had been carried to his brothers the moment he had entered the building; perhaps before he had dismounted. So it did not surprise him when the middle door opened and Francis appeared.

Francis had the face of an angel, the misshapen body of a cripple, and the mind of a Machiavelli. His long dark hair, over which he seldom wore a wig or a peruke, was a frame for a face of such exquisite beauty that Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo or, more likely, Titian might have first painted and then breathed life into it, for there was a sheen of red in the dark hair, a tinge of honey in the complexion. Here on the windowless landing the light from the chandeliers enhanced the Titian-like red, the golden skin.

‘Why, John!’ Francis came forward, dragging his left leg so badly that it was hurtful to see, and dropping low on his left side with each step, although he gave no impression of effort or of pain. ‘This is an unexpected and welcome pleasure.’ He offered his hand, small, beautifully shaped; only his arms and hands and face had escaped the deformity with which he had been born. His grip was firm, and lingered, while John responded with equal warmth.

‘I hope it remains a pleasure,’ John replied. ‘I’ve but a few minutes, Francis; I’ve urgent work to do at Newgate.’

Francis smiled deprecatingly. Appearing behind him, William, at first surprised, drew his lips and brows together in a frown. He, too, came forward and shook hands, then drew John into the great room. It was forty-five-feet long and thirty wide, panelled in honey-coloured Spanish cedar and hung with portraits of the family. A long table, shaped like a wide horseshoe, was centred in the room, with ample space for thirteen carved chairs. Six were on either side of a chair on a raised platform that faced the door. According to one’s mood this could be seen as a throne or as a judge’s seat. Even were the chair occupied, no head and shoulders would have been large enough to hide the magnificent view of the River Thames through the long, high windows. Several doors at that end of the room opened onto a terrace overlooking the river. The tops of oak and beech trees showed immediately beyond the terrace, and beyond these, gardens as beautifully laid out as those in the great squares at the King’s palaces. Farther on was the crowded river, caught now by the sun, mirror-smooth save where rowboats, wherries and ferries plied up and down; and great sailing ships rode at anchor or at the quays, their cargoes being unloaded into flatbottomed barges or onto the stone quaysides. Beyond were more docks and squat warehouses, church spires rising sharp and clear above the huddle of buildings.

John Furnival took in all of this at a single glance as, with a brother on either side, he moved towards the windows.

‘Will you sit down, John, and join us in a glass of port?’

‘I would if I had the time,’ the justice replied, ‘but when I said I had urgent business I was not joking.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘In truth I come as a messenger from myself, anxious to make you understand that I mean what I say.’

‘Was there a time when you did not?’ asked Francis.

‘I pray not and pray that there never will be. Perhaps I should have said I want to convince you.’ He gave that remark time to sink in and then went on with great deliberation. ‘In spite of what I said to William when we last met, I am in a mood to make an arrangement with you all.’

Even Francis caught his breath.

‘You mean, retire from the bench at Bow Street?’ William demanded incredulously.

‘On certain conditions,’ replied John Furnival, ‘and I would wish to discuss them with all the family at the same time, not speak to appointed delegates.’ His eyes danced as he looked at William. ‘When is the first opportunity?’

‘Why, we can make one at any time to suit you,’ Francis declared. ‘Is that not so, William?’

‘Provided it also suits us,’ William replied. ‘Whom do you mean by all the family, John? The menfolk? Or the women also?’

‘I’ve a strong preference to have both sexes hear what I’m going to propose,’ Furnival replied, ‘but I’d not make it a condition.’

‘I don’t know what is in your mind,’ Francis said, ‘but a good time would be two weeks next Sunday, October thirteenth, when we are all to dine together at Furnival Square. Siddle and Montmorency will also be present, with some of our associates from the City here, bankers and merchants with whom we may shortly expect some family ties. Either before dinner or after would be suitable.’

‘Then before,’ answered John promptly, ‘and there will be less danger of anyone present - even our tame Members of Parliament - becoming comatose.’

‘Talk at one-thirty, then,’ said Francis, ‘after everyone is back from church and we have had some refreshment. Will you be at Great Furnival Square at twelve noon?’

‘I shall be there,’ promised John.

‘Will you give us no clue as to what you intend to ask of us?’ asked William.

‘No, William,’ John replied. ‘Not a single one you haven’t had already.’ He pulled his gold watch from his fob pocket and raised his eyebrows. ‘I must be on my way or I shall be late for an appointment with a fellow magistrate and the Keeper of Newgate. But first, I would like to step onto the terrace.’

‘I will open a door.’ Francis limped with surprising speed to one side, turned a key in the lock and pushed the door open, then stood aside for his brother, who dwarfed him.

Only out here did one realise the magnificence of the site which the old John Furnival had chosen for the offices and for this room. Not only was the whole south bank of the Thames visible; also one could see London Bridge spanning the river, crammed with foot and wheeled and horse traffic. An extra L-shaped platform had been added at the eastern end of the terrace, the foot of the L the great towers, and the white stone walls of the Tower of London seemed so close that it appeared possible to jump down to the parapets and join the scarlet Beefeaters. One could even see the ironwork of Traitor’s Gate, the cannons mounted on the parapet pointing along the river. Looking at the broad surface of the river, alive with flat-bottomed craft, was like looking at a colony of giant ants.

John Furnival raised his eyes and looked above him to the tall, majestic monument with its crown of gilded flames towering above the spires of the churches as a constant reminder of the fire which had destroyed much of London less than eighty years ago. Beyond was the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s, looking bright in the strong sun. He looked at this for a few moments and then his gaze shifted to Newgate.

He turned away.

‘With such a view of London I marvel that you don’t want to see it the best and cleanest and most trouble-free city in the world,’ he remarked. And with a sardonic smile he asked, ‘Did it ever occur to you that since the City marshals will pay as much as three thousand pounds for their posts, which carry no salary, they must have some way of making money? Such as corruption, perhaps?’ As neither of his brothers answered he shrugged, smiled more freely, and asked, ‘How often do you come onto the terrace?’

Still neither man answered.

‘It is as I feared,’ went on John Furnival. ‘You have lost your souls. You have until two weeks on Sunday to find them!’

He turned away, but quick as he was, Francis reached the terrace and the landing doors ahead of him, opened them and shook his hand.

‘Goodbye, William,’ John called, and William replied, ‘Goodbye, brother.’

He waited in the room until Francis came back from the head of the stairs, and as the door closed he asked, ‘What do you think it is he wants? Something very big or he would not humble himself to come here.’

‘We have certainly never been more of a mind than about that,’ opined Francis. ‘He is to try to strike a bargain which he wants very much indeed. As for what it is - we shall have to wait to find out. I will admit one thing about brother John,’ he went on. ‘He inspires absolute loyalty in his servants, from Moffat down to a groom. We’ll never get a squeak of what he wants, until he tells us.’

‘We can put two and two together,’ growled William.

Not Tom Harris but another of the Bow Street retainers, Sam Fairweather, was outside the gateway at Newgate Prison when John Furnival arrived some time later. Three men were being bundled out of a cart and pushed and kicked towards the lodge, all manacled together; each looked innocuous compared with the savage thief-takers who were committing them. Furnival did not comment; at times part of his mind was closed to the iniquity of London. Fairweather, a little wizened-looking man with the most powerful hands and forearms of any man Furnival knew, gave him a hand down from the saddle.