The Masters of Bow Street (59 page)

Richard saw the causes only too clearly. The men were possessed of great courage, but their interest was not in the murderers and footpads who committed violence for a few pounds; there was little profit in blood money compared with that in finding stolen goods and receiving handsome rewards for the recovery. Catching the thieves was incidental. Very few men argued against their motivation; even Jeremy Bentham declared that the only way to fight crime was to give the fighter a prospect of substantial reward.

Some of the great Bow Street officers, such as Godley and Todd, received handsome fees for guarding the Royal Family on special occasions, for attending the Bank of England when dividends were being paid, and for being on hand at many great events. The larger the reward, it was believed, the greater the endeavour to earn it. Some Runners were employed by foreign governments to protect their envoys and also to guard valuables being transported from one place to another. No great ball or banquet was without its Bow Street men, handsomely rewarded to make sure that nothing was stolen.

So the rich benefited; seldom the poor. All of these things James Marshall observed from the big chair in his room at Chelsea as the months passed, or heard from Richard, who lost some of his hero worship for the Runners, but little of his liking.

James had discovered one thing which had pleased him, if somewhat wryly. Young Frederick Jackson had applied for a post with the Bow Street patrols and had been accepted. His great ambition, it appeared, was to become a Bow Street Runner! James arranged for Richard to inquire after Jackson from time to time.

Every week, Richard came to Chelsea for an evening meal and sat and talked with his grandfather, giving him news and learning from him more of a past which in some mysterious way they seemed to share.

On one of these nights, towards the end of August 1796, Richard brought young Simon Rattray to The House by the River.

Throughout the meal James watched the young guest, who was so like his father and his father before him. The boy had the same deliberate way of speaking, giving the impression that he said nothing without considering it deeply. Yet he was not difficult to talk to, had a sound general knowledge of London and affairs, and a firm grip on political realities at Westminster. It was not possible to judge whether he knew why he had been brought there. Mary, who had developed the habit of retiring to bed soon after the evening meal, bade them all good night, and James noticed a little anxiously that she looked more tired than usual.

He poured port for both the young men and offered them tobacco, but neither smoked or took snuff.

Settled in the big chair, James placed both hands on its arms and asked, ‘Have you ever been curious about your family, Simon?’

‘No, sir, I cannot say that I have been,’ Simon replied. ‘I was grateful for the mother and the father that I had, and for my . grandfather. Did you know him, sir?’

‘The Reverend Thomas Rattray?’

‘Yes, he was my grandfather. He adopted my father.’

‘I met him occasionally and had great respect for him,’ James replied. He hesitated before he asked with some diffidence, ‘So you knew that he was not your grandfather by blood?’

The honey-coloured eyes did not change their expression.

‘Yes, sir. I did.’ Simon raised his hands in a defensive or apologetic gesture. ‘I was not unaware that a great number of children were foundlings and of these only a few fortunate ones were adopted by good families. I did not inquire beyond what I knew because I did not wish to find out whether my antecedents were good or bad.’ When James did not respond, the young man asked in the same steady voice, ‘Are you about to inform me, sir?’

‘Yes,’ James replied flatly.

‘At my father’s wish?’

‘But for that it would not have occurred to me to interfere.’

‘What if I were to say that I did not wish to know, sir? Would you regard continued silence as betrayal of a promise to my father?’

James pursed his lips and rubbed them together in concentration before answering.

‘No. I would regard it as a failure of my obligation to you.’

‘Despite the fact that I really may not wish to know?’ insisted Simon.

‘A greater failure,’ replied James, smiling very faintly. ‘I do not think it is characteristic of you to turn your face from the truth if it is possible for you to see it. If it is hidden from you, you have no guilt, but if it can be revealed.’

‘I am sorry that I have been obstinate,’ Simon interrupted quietly. ‘If you have the truth I would most certainly desire to hear it.’

‘Then I will tell it as simply as I can,’ James promised. ‘The simplest way is to remind you that my mother married Sir John Furnival many, many years ago, and of that union there was one child, a son - not your father but so much like him that there could be no doubt of the relationship. Your father and my half brother stemmed from the same tree. A newspaper friend of mine went to some considerable trouble to make sure, and there was no doubt that your grandmother was at one time closely associated with Sir John Furnival. I can tell you that your father was aware of the relationship and that the Reverend Thomas Rattray was doubtless aware of it at or about the time of his marriage to your grandmother. And I have sufficient knowledge to convince me that it was a very happy marriage.’

James’s voice faded into silence. His body seemed to shrink farther into the chair and his hooked nose and thrusting chin dominated the deeply lined face. He did not look away from the youth, who showed no sign, immediately, of having heard.

Richard found young Simon’s silence painful, and sensed that his grandfather did, also. He had never seen age written so clearly on the old man’s face. But at last Simon Rattray stirred, and both to Richard’s surprise and relief the strong face broke into the relaxed expression of a smile.

‘You could not have told me more clearly, sir, or with more consideration, had you been my father. I am grateful. As for my forebears, I am most interested to hear, and I understand now why my father on occasions discoursed on the qualities of Sir John Furnival! If I am to believe what I have heard, it is likely that I have a great many uncles and aunts and a positive proliferation of cousins in London, few of whom know of my relationship. It is not my nature for such things to weigh heavily on me, I may say.’

James replied, obviously with much relief, ‘You make a not unreasonable assumption.’

‘Are there any of my contemporaries known to you?’ asked Simon. ‘Or your half brother, for instance. Is he one of the partners in the House of Furnival?’

‘He died in 1780,’ James answered.

‘Without issue?’ Simon wanted to know.

‘Leaving one son.’

‘Do you know the son, sir?’

‘Very slightly,’ James answered. ‘He lives at Great Furnival Square with his mother, who was accepted by the family, although—’ James broke off abruptly.

‘Although there had been no marriage?’ Simon asked.

‘As you infer, there had been no marriage. But the family felt an obligation to her.’

‘But may not to me - a man. What does this son do?’

‘He is active but too young to be a leader in the affairs of the House of Furnival. Since his mother is Italian he is bilingual and I understand that the business between Italy and this country, particularly with Milan and Rome, is thriving. I do not know the details but he is being trained to take charge of all or part of that side of the business.’

‘Does he also bear the unmistakable stamp of John Furnival?’ demanded Simon, and for the first time there seemed a touch of bitterness in his voice.

‘No,’ James answered. ‘He is very like his mother.’

‘Then I need have no fear that I shall at any time meet my double!’ The bitterness, if it had ever been there, was gone completely. This young man, so like his father, had qualities which had never been apparent in the older man, humour and lightheadedness; he would not take life with the unadulterated earnestness which had characterised the first Simon Rattray. ‘May I think on this matter, sir?’

‘How could it be otherwise?’ James inquired, and his eyes twinkled.

Simon chuckled. ‘I mean think with a purpose! I do not know whether I would like to be received into the bosom of my grandfather’s family, even if they were willing. Did you give my cousin, a name, Mr. Marshall?’

‘His name is Peter, in Italian Pietro, and he carries his mother’s name of Levandi.’

‘I have a distinct sense that I would like to meet with my cousin Pietro, whatever else,’ young Simon said. ‘But I am presuming, sir. Would it be practicable for you to introduce me to the House of Furnival if such a thought grew in my mind?’

‘Indeed yes,’ answered James, ‘but I would advise you not to delay too long, for Timothy McCampbell-Furnival is at least as old as I.’

‘Your grandfather really is a most remarkable man,’ Simon Rattray declared when the young men were together. ‘It was a pleasure to meet him. As it is a pleasure to have met you, Richard.’

‘I do not know when I have had greater satisfaction from a short acquaintance,’ Richard said, more prosily than he meant. ‘I wonder how you will find the chairman of the House of Furnival?’

‘Do you know him?’ Simon asked.

‘I saw him once at a distance when there was some occasion on the river and the family was taken to see the fireworks. My grandfather used to know him well. And liked him,’ Richard added with feeling. ‘They were very close friends.’

Timothy McCampbell-Furnival was, in the opinion of those younger than he, likely to live forever. At sixty-seven, those who knew him declared that his grasp of affairs was better than it had ever been, and certainly there was no one in the House of Furnival who had anything like so exhaustive a knowledge of all aspects of the business.

Both of Francis’ sons had died in their teens of the galloping disease which ate their lungs, and the same disease had taken Francis after he had been driven by continued periods of sickness to try the climate of Italy. For some years William had ruled as chairman, but he too had had periods of ill health, and Timothy, who had taken the family name, now reigned virtually supreme.

He had grown in stature out of all knowledge, yet remained the Timothy whom James Marshall had known and liked so well. There was still and probably would always remain a streak of conflict between them, for despite the fact that Timothy had once said that James had all but converted him to the need for a metropolitan police force, the House of Furnival remained adamantly opposed to this. Rather than meet in conflict, they now met seldom. Yet each retained a deep affection for the other and cherished happy memories of their old friendship.

On a morning in September 1796, Timothy McCampbell-Furnival, was standing on the terrace overlooking the docks. A Furnival ship had tied up alongside the previous night, and Timothy had letters from a dozen major company offices on his desk; they told the constant story of expansion and the need for more men to head the various branches, men capable of accepting weighty responsibility. He watched the small boys begging for money from the crew as they swam and trod water, frowned as he saw one of the sewers emit a rush of evil-smelling mud just downriver from the docks. Six or seven men with poles and rakes and nets were wading among the filth, searching for treasure-trove. Many a golden guinea, piece of jewellery, valuable snuffbox or watch was dredged up through the ooze which seeped through these men’s fingers.

Timothy was not drawn to the terrace only by the ship, but because James Marshall was due to come to see him at twelve o’clock; he was to stay for luncheon. James’s impending visit turned Timothy’s thoughts nostalgically back over the past to the day of the great river pageant. He was sure that he would never see its like again.

He was interrupted by a clerk, who came from the room behind him.

‘If you will excuse me, sir—’

‘Yes, Abbott? What is it?’

‘Mr. Marshall is in the front hall, sir. Will you receive him here?’

‘No other place would serve so well.’

‘I will escort him myself, sir.’

Soon Timothy heard footsteps and turned with his back to the railings to look at his old friend. While on the one hand he was surprised and even shocked by the ravages of time in that sharp-featured face, the directness of gaze remained and James was as upright as a man could be although he moved slowly and with the aid of a stick. The old friends stood and appraised each other for what seemed a long time before each approached more closely and they shook hands.

‘I don’t yet know what has brought you,’ Timothy declared, ‘but even if it is yet another effort on your part to enlist my support for your civil army, I am thankful for it.’

‘I am sure it is too late to open your eyes to the simpler truths,’ retorted James. He moved towards the railing and surveyed the dramatic everyday scene as he went on: ‘Do you ever think of Johnny?’

‘Occasionally,’ replied Timothy, obviously surprised. ‘What brings him to your mind?’

‘An unexpected encounter with a nephew of his,’ said James, still watching the scene.

‘And which nephew may this be, Jamey?’ asked Timothy. ‘Why does it please you to be mysterious?’

‘I was not his only half brother, as you well know,’ said James. ‘He had many others, some of whom died, some of whom emigrated or were transported, some who are still in London of middling means. But there was one whom I believe only I knew, and who kept to himself because he had neither time nor love for those things that the House of Furnival stands for. Does the name Rattray mean anything to you?’

Timothy exclaimed, ‘Simon Rattray, the troublemaker?’

‘Simon Rattray, the reformer.’

‘I read that he died quite recently.’

‘What you did not read was that he was John Furnival’s son, and that he had a son much like himself and his father in appearance but, I suspect, very different from both in character and in attitudes. The son, also named Simon, learned of his real ancestry only last month, and that from me. I wanted to form some opinion of him before bringing him to you, and I had some Bow Street men inquire about him. He appears a highly reputable if sometimes forthright young man. He assisted his father in much of his work but since Simon Rattray’s death has been seeking an occupation of a more commercial nature. Not unnaturally he is curious about you and would be pleased if you will see him. I have concluded that you will not be displeased.’