The Masters of Bow Street (62 page)

‘Miss Morgan, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Patrick Colquhoun?’ he asked.

‘My pleasure is much the greater,’ Colquhoun said in an attractive Scottish accent.

Colquhoun, Richard thought in surprise; he had not dreamed that the magistrate would be here. Later he saw him talking to Timothy and had little doubt that they were discussing the river police. He knew that his grandfather had spent several hours with the justice, no doubt offering some advice on those things which might lead to hostility within the City of London.

Quite suddenly, he wanted to leave this place. It had been exciting, fascinating, unforgettable - but he did not really belong. Simon did, but not he. Simon was now on his own on the staircase, surveying the multitude. Suddenly he moved and a few moments later Richard saw him with Hermina Morgan; if one had to say who was the most beautiful woman present, virtually all would have named her. Richard went out, past two footmen who were constantly opening the door, past the mass of carriages and men, who were laughing and talking in subdued tones. Soon he had left Great Furnival Square behind him. As he reached a corner a tiny figure darted out from beneath a carriage, hands outstretched in supplication.

‘Please, sir, my stomach is empty. I need money for food. Please, kind sir.’

Richard put a hand to his fob pocket and drew out his purse - and the urchin snatched it, gripped it tightly and ran off. Richard sprang after him, two words at his lips: ‘Stop thief!’ But he bit them back. He heard the padding sound as the child’s bare feet sounded on the pavement, and then he saw the tiny figure against a lamp on the corner of a house - and saw him recoil.

A larger figure appeared in silhouette and the boy screeched, ‘That’s mine. That’s mine!’

On that instant there was a vivid flash which lit up the roofs and the windows. As it faded, an even larger figure appeared, plucked the urchin from the ground and, to Richard’s horror, flung him brutally to one side. Now other figures were moving and there was more light, not only from the houses but from a host of flares; not two or three but dozens of men were approaching. The flash must have been some kind of signal, thought Richard, but who would be abroad at this hour and in this place?

He turned on his heel, stilling a desire to run, and began to retrace his steps. Soon he was approaching Great Furnival Square and could see the lines of carriages. No flares shone behind him now, but he felt sure men were still on the move. At last he dared quicken his pace to a run, but as he did so a man appeared out of the shadows, huge and terrifying.

‘That’s far enough,’ the stranger growled, and a powerful hand descended on Richard’s shoulder. ‘Who are you and where are you off to?’

‘Men are - coming,’ Richard gasped. ‘I think there are a lot of them, some with flares. They—’

He was interrupted by a shrill cry, the cry of a night owl; and this was taken up in several places, as if owls had suddenly swooped down from the rooftops. The man with his hand on Richard’s shoulder turned and as he did so he released Richard and pushed him in the direction in which he had been going.

‘If you want to keep your head on your shoulders,
run!’
he ordered.

Another man shouted, and almost at once more flares appeared in windows and doorways, spreading an eerie yellow glow and revealing dozens of men streaming out of the alleys and houses where they had been hiding. From not far off came the crack of a shot followed by a roar of voices.

Close by Richard was the wall of a garden. The chance of getting back to Great Furnival Square by the streets was negligible but he might be able to climb over the roofs.

He sprang towards the top of the wall, clawing to get a hold with his hands, missed once, tried again and caught the rough brick at the top. Gaining a firmer grip, he hauled himself up and edged his way along until he found himself on top of a house porch, able to see but not visible to any from street level. Dozens of men were clutched in hand-to-hand fighting, knives flashing, staves cracking against heads. Flares carried by some of the men were tossed towards waiting carriages and some caught fire. Horses began to rear and scream.

Richard realised exactly what was happening.

An enormous gang of thieves had come to raid Great Furnival Square, doubtless planning to break into the main house and the ballroom. But the raid must have been expected, and the waiting coachmen had obviously included constables and peace officers ready for the fray. There was little shouting but he could hear the heavy breathing of men as they fought, the thud of blows, the occasional gasp or groan. He had no doubt that the defenders were winning at this spot, but was that true everywhere? Were there places where the attackers had the upper hand?

Richard looked up to the window above him and saw an overhanging ledge which would be within hand’s reach if he stood on tiptoe. He stretched cautiously, grasped the ledge and began to haul himself upward. Two or three bricks were loose, giving him a fingerhold, and the idea of climbing up to the roof and clambering over other roofs until he reached a spot from where he could look down into the square became a practical possibility. Glancing downward, he saw that the fighting was still fierce. No one appeared to have the slightest idea that anyone was above. He stretched up to the next ledge and repeated what he had already done. It was easier than he had hoped, but by the time he stood on the second ledge he was gasping for breath.

No one noticed him. The shutters were fastened in the house, which seemed to be empty.

Richard stared up at the stars and saw two more overhanging ledges: the second would be the last! He began again. Dust from the bricks began to settle on his face, irritating his eyes, tickling his nose and making him want to cough, but he fought against it. The din from the street seemed to grow louder and three shots were fired in quick succession. A man cried out and there was a lull in the struggling until another screamed, ‘At them, boys! At them!’

Richard began to climb again.

It became easier to think, for now he could move more mechanically. There could be no doubt that the men near the square had been prepared for the raid; no one but he had been taken by surprise - he and that poor urchin who had been so roughly flung aside.

Richard shuddered at the recollection, tried to push it in the back of his mind, quickened his pace - and slipped. For a terrifying moment he thought he was going to fall. He grabbed at the last ledge but it was the one below, on which his foot caught, which saved him. For several minutes he stood spread-eagled against the wall, gasping, shivering at the nearness of disaster, but soon he felt better and started on his way up again, giving the task every ounce of effort and concentration.

At last his hands reached the guttering. He put his weight on this gingerly lest it should loosen, but it held until he was able to put one knee onto the roof. Now it did not matter what noise he made, and soon he was standing upright, still unobserved. Perhaps because he was higher than when he had looked down before, perhaps because he was more accustomed to the light, the scene in the street below was even more vivid. He could see knives flashing, small groups fighting with great ferocity, and here and there a couple locked in what looked like a death grip. The main body of the fighting was nearer the end of the street from which he had run; the defenders were pushing their attackers back.

Richard turned away and began to climb towards the chimneys. The sloping roof made it difficult; once again he nearly fell, and after this he dropped to his hands and knees, going up on all fours. Now he forgot the scene behind him and could think only of what he would see in Great Furnival Square.

He reached the chimneys and stood up in their cover but could see only a narrow segment of the square at the foot of the houses opposite. Sitting down, he edged himself forward, acutely aware of the danger of falling, until he could view the incredible scene below.

There must have been five hundred men in Great Furnival Square!

Two or three large groups were fighting and he saw Simon - Simon - leap into the fray with a sword. The double doors of the great house were wide open but the approach was empty, although a few stood, obviously on guard, close to the footpath. The fence about the garden in the middle had been crushed in a dozen places, flower beds and grass trampled into shambles. Bodies lay everywhere, while those who had been wounded were crawling towards open spaces as if looking desperately for ways of escape.

Men were hanging from the branches of three trees!
At first Richard could not believe that this was so; then he saw three men grab another and hoist him high, saw four or five at the end of a rope heave as if this were a tug of war, saw the hoisted man swinging by the peck, kicking wildly but unable to save himself. The other end of the rope was then tied about a tree branch and the self-appointed executioners seized another victim.

Three men stood where that one had been plucked from, hands tied behind their backs, obviously in line for hanging. Richard wanted to scream
No!
but no sound came except that of heavy breathing. His chest was heaving, his whole body was clammy, and sweat dripped off his forehead into his eyes.

Through a blur, he saw a man sitting at a table brought from one of the houses and a group of manacled men on one side. One, standing in front of the table, was also manacled. The seated man clearly was acting as judge, the garden having been turned into a court for summary justice. From where he sat Richard saw his mouth open as he spoke, saw the victim drop onto his knees, saw him dragged away to stand with the others awaiting hanging.

The self-appointed judge was Sir Douglas Rackham; Richard was quite sure of that. Had there ever been clearer evidence of his lust for power?

The fighting was nearly done. More prisoners were taken to swell the size of the manacled group, and at least thirty were now awaiting ‘trial’ while ten or twelve were hanging and twice as many lay stretched out on the grass, some of them in the fine clothes of revellers at the ball.

Richard looked for Simon and saw him talking to another, bigger man. Who was it? Colquhoun, Patrick Colquhoun! Was such a man party to this travesty of justice, this horror piled on horror? Richard felt an icy coldness as Simon left the magistrate and went to the table, standing between Rackham and the latest manacled victim. What he said Richard could not hear but at once there was a roar of protest.

‘No!’

‘Hang them, hang them!’

So Simon was trying to stop this hangman’s holiday.

Two of the bellowing men from a dozen or so who were acting as guards rushed forward, one with cudgel upraised, and Richard felt a rush of fear: if that descended on Simon’s head it would most certainly kill him. Simon turned at the last minute, his sword flashed from its scabbard, and with astonishing ease he ran the man through. Others from the ball came running to his assistance, and the man who had been passing sentence of death with such swift pleasure rose from his seat and was hustled away.

All the fighting had stopped now, and Richard prayed that none of the Furnivals had been hurt. He was so far removed from the tumult below that he could hear distant sounds, then the striking of several clocks and, clear and shrill, a watchman who could not be unaware of the fighting calling out: ‘Eleven o’clock and all’s well.’

‘All’s well,’ Richard choked. ‘What use
are
the Charlies if they can call such nonsense?’

He began the hazardous climb down. Before doing anything else he must find that child.

Standing at the windows of the great house were the women guests and a number of older men. At one, by herself, was Hermina Morgan. She watched only Simon, and at the moment when he was about to be attacked she drew in her breath with a hiss that a sword might make being drawn swiftly from its scabbard. She saw Simon turn and run the man through and her eyes glistened with rare brightness.

Richard dropped from the lowest ledge, brushed himself down, hesitated, then turned his back on Great Furnival Square and took the lane he had walked along earlier that evening. It was like a battlefield, wounded men being attended by their friends, coaches and carriages smashed and broken, sedan chairs in pieces, fifty or sixty horses huddled together and kept calm by a youth who was talking to them all the time in a monotonous Irish undertone. Richard reached the corner where the lad had accosted him and walked more slowly. There was no damage here but many people were standing about, and others from nearby houses had come out and were offering them beer and cider, some food as well.

He came upon a coat spread over the kerb.

He hesitated, staring down, for from beneath the coat poked a boy’s foot. After a few moments he made himself go forward, bend down, and draw the coat aside.

There lay the child: dead.

The face was unbruised, but the back of the head was crushed and death must have come on the instant. As Richard knelt beside the emaciated body he heard footsteps approaching. They stopped, and looking up, Richard saw a priest standing there.

‘Do you know the child?’ he asked.

‘No, Father,’ answered Richard. ‘We - we met just once.’ He straightened up but still looked down. ‘Did you cover him?’

‘Yes, my son, as I have covered too many on this sad night.’

‘Where will you take him?’ Richard asked.

‘Where else but the nearest poor hole?’

‘To a grave of his own in a churchyard, the churchyard of Saint Anselm’s if need’s be. How much will it cost?’ Richard asked, opening the front of his jacket, for in an inside pocket he kept more money than he ever carried in his purse. ‘Will two guineas suffice?’

‘It is generous, my son, and will help to feed some who are hungry.’

Richard said, ‘Bury the boy deep,’ and turned and walked on.

It was an hour and a half before he reached the Strand and his rooms at the top of the four-storey building which now housed ‘Mr. Londoner’. A candle fluttered at each landing of the narrow staircase, and he left them burning, for others who worked at the shop also slept here. Entering a raftered room with two gabled windows overlooking the roofs and smaller buildings at the back, he lit a candle, sat down in a William and Mary slung chair, which had a heavy leather back and was more comfortable than most of its kind, and put his feet up on an old milking stool. Everything in this room was old, and he had bought each piece himself, from the two Roman urns which stood in recesses on either side of the main window to the four-poster bed brought over by one of the immigrants fleeing from religious persecution in Holland before that country had established religious toleration.