The Masters of Bow Street (16 page)

Gradually the words of their hymn became clear and pure in sound:

‘He that on the throne doth reign,

Them the lamb will always feed.

With the tree of life sustain.

To the living fountains lead.

He shall all their sorrows chase,

All their wants at once remove,

Wipe the tears from every face,

Fill up every soul with love.’

And as they sang they rose to their feet and from amongst them came James Marshall, who they had kept hidden from the savage beastliness of the men in this awful den. The boy’s eyes were feverishly bright and his face had a sickly pallor but his gaze was as direct as Furnival’s.

Furnival’s heart leapt as it might have had this been his own son.

There was growling and grumbling from the men who had threatened Furnival, but no move towards him or the boy. Furnival, turning, saw two of his Bow Street reliables by the open gate, pistols cocked.

The head jailer was at one side, and the Keeper’s assistant was demanding, ‘Who are those women? Why have they been committed here?’

‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t know!’ Bolson’s voice was unsteady.

‘Then go and find out, you dolt.’ The courage that had poured into the little one-eyed man was sterner than had seemed possible, and he pushed the hulking Bolson towards the steps as he ordered the other jailers, ‘Bring those women out and take them at once to the Press Yard. See also that they have good food and drink, whether they can pay for it or not.’ He looked up at Furnival, his one eye blazing. ‘Thank God you were in time, sir.’

‘Thank God indeed,’ said John Furnival dryly. ‘Boy, go with the ladies to the Press Yard, where the air is clean and no one will assault you. I trust you know well how to say thank you to those ladies.’

‘I shall be forever in their debt, sir,’ James Marshall declared in a quivering voice. ‘And in yours, sir.’

‘Remember the debt you owe them because you will never be able to repay it,’ replied Furnival.

He stood aside as the women, seven in all, walked out of the Stone Hold with their heads held high; all but one were in their twenties and thirties, each comely, the eyes of each lighting up at the sight of the rescued boy and of Furnival. They filed up the stairs, one jailer ahead and one bringing up the rear, while Furnival locked the gate as his own constables watched.

‘Stay here until the jailers return,’ said Furnival. ‘Then one of you report to the colonel in charge at Tilt Yard that the emergency is past at Newgate Prison, thanks’ - he looked into that one blazing eye - ‘to prompt action on the part of the Keeper’s assistant. Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. Heywood?’

‘Gladly, sir, gladly.’ Heywood sounded as humble as he had earlier sounded afraid.

They went up past the middle holds of the prison, from which came the same stench, and alongside the Press Yard, from where it was but a short distance to the assistant’s office.

‘If you will partake of a little refreshment with me, Mr. Furnival, I shall be delighted. Port, perhaps, or coffee—’

‘Good of you,’ said Furnival, ‘but I must be on my way. I trust you will report the incident in the greatest detail to the Keeper.’

‘The greatest detail, sir, I do assure you.’

‘And I will take it kindly if you will inform him that in my opinion Bolson was bribed by someone outside the prison to persuade the men to make a show of violence against me, and that I might well be dead but for your action.’

‘You are past grateful, sir. I declare I did no more than my duty. A duty in which I might have failed but for your example. If I may suggest - a letter, the shortest of letters, to the same effect to the Keeper. If it would not be too great a bother.’

‘It shall be done. And will you tell him, or be yourself assured, that I will pay for the privileges which are accorded the ladies, however long they are here. But they must be permitted the Press Yard and the best treatment and accommodation.’

‘Be assured of it, sir.’

Furnival nodded and turned, saying, ‘I would like to go for the boy.’

‘And I will come with you.’ The Keeper’s assistant could not get to the door fast enough to open it for the justice of the peace for the City of Westminster and the County of Middlesex, and they walked side by side, followed now by the two Bow Street constables. Behind, the Stone Hold was secured and guarded by jailers again.

Heywood led them along narrow passages which were pleasantly lighted by large windows, then through a doorway which opened onto the Press Yard. And almost the first thing Furnival saw was young James, gaping about him with a wonder surely as great as the terror he had felt when he had been in the dungeon.

James was as wide-eyed as a young monkey while he looked about him in this place they called the Press Yard, for it was almost impossible to believe this was part of the same prison. The air was clear and pleasantly warm and there was no unpleasant odour. Apart from the heavy barred doors and the barred windows it was like being in a small London square, and the men and women here - nine men to every woman at least, save for the seven who had just come in with him - were dressed in expensive clothes, some with diamond pins in their cravats, all showing or at least pretending an elegance which seemed part of a different world. A group of four was playing cards, and he recognised Sir Roger Pilaff, a Member of Parliament accused of treason. He remembered his father telling him that at Newgate - as in all prisons - men and women of wealth could ‘buy’ their own apartment, their own wine and food, and could live in luxury, having wives or mistresses whenever they wished, and having their own servants. For these prisoners the jailers would run errands for a price which varied vastly according to the means of the patron.

Much that James’s father had told him he had only half absorbed, but from the moment he had been committed here until his release, he had been terrified, for he had experienced all there was to know about the helplessness of the poor prisoners, the near-certainty of conviction, and hanging or transportation for the humblest of thefts.

To him there were now two Newgates: this bright and airy part, where so many well-to-do lived and idled their hours away, and the nightmare beastliness of the stinkhole, where, he knew, he might have been killed by the more brutal inmates or from which he could have been raised into the death cart to be jogged and shaken on the way to Tyburn.

He could ‘see’ Frederick Jackson’s legs; and how soon they had gone still in death.

To James Marshall, moreover, there were two kinds of men: those whom he knew from Bow Street, with John Furnival leading them like a knight in shining armour, and men like the thief-takers and the head jailer. It seemed to him that all of life as well as all humankind must be divided in this way, and that bitter conflict was waged increasingly between the good and the bad.

He had been in the Press Yard for less than an hour when John Furnival came to fetch him. Before he left he went hesitatingly to the group of women who had succoured him, but when he reached them, all sitting cross-legged in a half circle and listening to the oldest of them, he could not find words; whenever he tried, his lips quivered but the words would not come. The oldest woman rose to her feet with ease and approached him, holding out her hands for him to grasp. He could see the deep lines etched at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

‘Go with God, James,’ she said gently. ‘And remember, we shall always thank God that we were able to help you. If you wish to thank us—’ She paused long enough for him to nod vigorously and to cry out ‘Oh, I do!’ Then she went on in the same gentle but authoritative voice. ‘Then thank us by remembering that the greatest heights to which a man or a woman can rise are the heights of serving others.’ She paused again and, as he nodded, mute, went on: ‘Simply remember that, James, and pray for us.’

She did not draw him to her.

He was aware only of her, although all were watching.

He did not know that a strange and rare silence had fallen upon the whole Press Yard. Every man and the few women present had stopped talking, stopped doing whatever they were at, and watched. Even Sir Roger Pilaff sat silent, cards fanned out in his hand.

Completely oblivious, James slowly went down on one knee and pressed the woman’s fingers to his lips, held them tightly, then sprang up and ran towards the door leading to the main passage and to the lodge, with John Furnival striding after him.

It was a long time before movement in the Press Yard began afresh and low-pitched voices broke the silence; but even as the talking grew louder and behaviour returned to normal, many a curious glance was cast towards the dark-clad women, whether they knelt in silent prayer or listened to their leader or walked in twos about the yard quietly rejoicing in their comparative freedom.

John Furnival returned to Bow Street straight from Newgate to find three accused footpads waiting for a hearing, and two debtors, one an elegantly dressed man attended by a servant and by a lawyer. None of the accused realised how reluctant he was to send anyone to Newgate or to the Fleet, which was at least as bad as the larger prison. Yet the evidence against the footpads was so great that he had no choice but to commit them for trial at the Sessions which would be held in Bailey Street in ten days’ time.

The lawyer for the accused debtor said, ‘If it please you, your worship, I wish to enter a plea for a denial of the debt claimed. My distinguished client—’

‘Why doesn’t he plead for himself?’ demanded Furnival.

‘Indeed he will, sir, on your insistence, but if I may prevail upon you to hear me. . .’

He claimed that his client was being sued for debts he had not incurred; for clothes which a tailor had not delivered, for perukes which a wigmaker had made ill-fitting and of poor quality, for a horse, saddle and equipage which had been unsatisfactory. On any other day Furnival might have questioned him closely, but he was in no mood to listen to the lies or half-truths of a fop.

‘I shall commit the accused to Newgate but suspend the committal,’ he declared. ‘He may remain at liberty until called upon by a court official if he deposits one hundred pounds as security. See the court usher.’

He nodded and banged his gavel. The lawyer, obviously shrewder than he appeared, quickly ushered his client away from the bench. There were no other cases, and Furnival went out by the side door and into his offices and then into his ground-floor apartment. A fire was burning brightly enough to show that fresh coals had been placed on it not long before. Slippers were by the side of his huge armchair and two churchwarden pipes lay by a jar of sweet-scented tobacco. Resting against the jar was a folded paper, which he took up and opened. He read:

May God thank you, sir. I shall never have the grace to give thanks enough.

Ruth Marshall

The writing was clear and bold, and not a word was wasted although the note said so much. Furnival sat down and read it again and then folded it and tucked it into his fob pocket. He leaned back and closed his eyes and must have dozed, for he became aware of sound and a presence. He opened his eyes to see Silas Moffat backing towards the door.

‘What is it? What is it?’ Furnival demanded.

‘It is not important, sir—’

‘It’s important enough for you to creep in and find out whether I was asleep,’ growled Furnival. ‘What is it?’

‘Tom Harris was here, sir. He has gone off to see into a robbery at the home of Sir Roger Cass; some French and Dutch paintings of consequence are said to have been stolen. Before he left, sir, he told me there is no doubt that the case against James Marshall was instigated by Peter Nicholson, but that he would not be likely to think of and carry that through without someone else’s instigation, sir.’

‘Eve Milharvey,’ said Furnival flatly.

‘There is a rumour about her,’ declared Moffat.

‘Are you going to pass it on or must I go and find it for myself?’

‘The rumour is that she is with child,’ Moffat told him expressionlessly. ‘She frequently visited Fred Jackson in the Master Felons’ Side at Newgate.’

Furnival sat absolutely still, looking at the beautiful complexion of his old servant, with the silvery hair like a frame on three sides, the high ruffles and cravat of pale blue making the bottom of the frame. Furnival was still for so long that the stirring of the coals in the fireplace was plainly audible. Slowly he gripped the arms of his chair, as if he were going to get up. But before moving he said bluntly, ‘Have not other rumours told us that Eve Milharvey was faithful to Jackson?’

‘Any man known to touch her would have been castrated,’ Moffat replied simply. ‘She was absolutely faithful.’

‘Do you know what I’ve made you?’ demanded Furnival, his grip on the arms of the chair tightening. ‘A cynic, Silas Moffat. D’you mean that love alone would not have kept her faithful?’ He gave a bellow of laughter and sprang to his feet.

On that instant, he caught his breath. He would have fallen back had he not gripped the side of the chair for support. The colour drained from his face and he took in a dozen shallow breaths, until slowly the colour returned and, obviously, the pain receded.

‘Sir,’ Moffat began, ‘I beg you to see Doctor Anson. He—’

‘Tell Godden I want my horse,’ Furnival growled.

Silas Moffat did not move, but stood in front of him, hands held out in a kind of supplication and with deep pleading in his eyes.

Neither man spoke for some time, and then it was Furnival, who said roughly, ‘Oh, please yourself, please yourself. A carriage or a chair or a horse, I don’t care which.’

‘I will arrange for your carriage,’ Moffat promised, and withdrew.

Furnival lowered himself back into the chair slowly. He no longer felt pain but was absurdly breathless, as if he had run a long way. He heard whispering outside and imagined that one voice was a woman’s. If Ruth came fussing over him he would send her packing; he had no desire to be fussed over, wanted no surgeons bleeding him; they had some practices little advanced from barbarism and quacks. He waited for the door to open but it remained closed until Moffat came back, and by then he was feeling much more himself. He rose to his feet slowly, half fearful of what would follow, but the pain did not return and by the time he reached Bow Street he was taking his usual long strides. Godden was at the seat of an open carriage; a constable sprang to the door and opened it. He was Fairweather, a bronzed man with close-curled white hair; something of his country upbringing remained in his appearance, something of the Lincolnshire vowels lingered in his voice.