The Masters of Bow Street Read online

  ‘Should you not talk to my father, sir?’

  ‘You can twist your father around your finger, and well you know it!’

  ‘But I cannot twist James Marshall, I perceive! If it pleases you I will delay until Monday but not later than noon on that day. I will not ask why you wish the delay because I trust you not to play with my future!’

  ‘I need time to think,’ James said huskily. ‘I need to—’

  He broke off, unable to say more because his heart was thumping so hard. He knew what had happened to him since he had stepped into this room yet could hardly believe it, and for a few moments his head whirled and a jumble of thoughts raced unbidden through his mind. He saw a different expression in Mary’s eyes, as if she caught a glimpse of the truth, and they were regarding each other in silence when Sebastian Smith came in and began to boom. How grateful the couple at the door had been, how glad he was to see Jamey again, he hoped they would meet again soon, if not in this house then in some other. He looked very tired, James thought, as he took his leave.

  He was halfway along the lane leading to Long Acre, the picture of Mary’s face still vividly in his mind, when he became aware of the murmur of muted voices. Would anyone lying in wait for a victim talk so audibly? James wondered. But perhaps they had not heard him approach. He was walking on soft earth and made little sound.

  He heard a man say clearly, ‘Here she comes!’

  Now he could make out the shapes of four or five youths lurking in the shadow of a tall building. Across the road was light from an alley and down the alley came a girl. Reaching Long Acre, she paused, looked up and down, saw no one, and began to hurry, half running, in the direction of Morgan’s new building. On the instant, the youths leaped from their hiding place and raced after her, whooping with glee. Two of them passed her and stood in front so that she could not go in any direction.

  ‘No,’ she gasped in terror. ‘No!’

  ‘Don’t worry, little one, we won’t hurt you!’ cried one.

  ‘Just have a little fun,’ another called.

  Two of them swooped again and, obviously with long practice, one seized the girl by the waist and whirled her upside down, so that her skirt dropped over her head. Two shoes shone in the reflected light as she kicked and struggled. But the other youths moved forward, and while one seized her right leg and one her left, another slipped his hand under her petticoats, ignoring her now muffled cries.

  All this had happened so quickly that James Marshall was at first astonished, then shocked, and then furious. He moved forward to cry out, but there was a movement behind him, a hand closed over his mouth, and a vicelike arm encircled his neck. Aware of what was happening to the girl, he could now do nothing to help her until he had dealt with his captor.

  Very slowly, James shifted his position.

  In Germany he had met a student from whom he had learned an ancient Japanese art known as jujitsu. He knew where to grip a man’s wrist or arm, shoulder or leg, to cause great pain and also a numbness which robbed the other momentarily of his strength. James moved until he had the right grip on his assailant’s wrist, then twisted. The other gasped. Exerting little strength, James heaved him over his shoulder. The man went flying and struck a partly built wall, the thud making the youths look around.

  James stooped down, picked up two bricks and hurled them at the pack, then seized the fallen man’s staff. As he rushed forward, the youths fled along Long Acre, one of them limping where a brick had caught him on the knee. The girl was in a huddled heap, her skirt and petticoats still tumbled over her head. He could hear her sobbing as he pulled her clothes about her more tidily until her tear-stained face appeared. She could be no more than fourteen or fifteen, and in spite of the tears she was pretty, her fair hair in long ringlets.

  ‘Thank you, oh, thank you!’ she managed to say, obviously wanting to get up. ‘Thank you a hundred times, sir. I - I beg you to say nothing of this to anyone. If it were known that I had been attacked by the New Mohocks I would live in shame; no one would believe I was not raped.’ She began to pull herself free of his hand as the words spilled out. ‘I shall be safe now. I have only to go a short distance along the street. I do beg of you, say nothing.’

  She turned from him and ran.

  James stood watching, baffled because for all she knew the gang that had attacked her could be waiting in some doorway or alley, but when she reached the archway between the Morgan shops she turned down it and disappeared. Did she lodge nearby? he wondered.

  He was sweating freely and had no heart for another encounter but he thought of the man who had attacked him and whom he had thrown so heavily. Was he still on the ground or had he also taken flight?

  The fellow was standing by the wall and he moved as James began to cross the street, but he limped badly. James judged that he was a much bigger man than the striplings who had tormented the girl. Holding the man’s pole firmly in his hand, he went towards him.

  ‘If I had my way—’ he began, and was going on to add that he would strip the watchman of his job when, with savage certainty, he realised that this was Tom Harris. Tom had tried to prevent him from rushing to the girl’s assistance; Tom had lurked in wait for him, would have allowed the young brutes to have their way with the child. James could hardly get the words out when he said, ‘Tom, if I didn’t know it was you I would never have believed this, but I cannot doubt the evidence of my eyes.’

  ‘No,’ Tom muttered, ‘no one would expect you to.’

  Questions rushed one after the other into James’s mind but he did not voice them; at heart he was afraid of hearing the answers. Just as he felt exhilarated only a few minutes ago, with Mary’s face thrusting everything else from his mind’s eye, now he felt a heavy weight of near misery.

  Tom said gruffly, ‘I wanted to prevent you from interfering, Jamey. I was afraid of what they would do to you if you attacked them. At least two carry knives, and I did not want you hurt.’

  ‘Obviously it did not matter what happened to the girl,’ James replied bitterly.

  ‘Oh, it mattered. Such things have scored my heart a dozen times, but the situation in London has become worse and worse. These New Mohocks are as bad as the first of their breed. After dark no woman or girl is free from the risk of being molested.’

  ‘I’ve known the time when you would have cracked their skulls.’

  ‘Aye,’ Harris agreed, ‘and no doubt I should have, but I know two of them are sons of Ebenezer Morgan, and I work for Morgan. Without the pittance he pays me I would be one of the poor wretches who go begging to the Reverend Smith and often come away empty-handed, since how can a man who has nothing give anything?’ When James did not respond Harris went on: ‘I did not save much money when I worked at Bow Street; I was never much for blood money. When Henry Fielding told me I could not stay with him, I had less than enough in my stocking to live for a year. I tried to get work, but no one would employ one of John Furnival’s men except as a Charlie. That’s the truth, Jamey. I am ashamed of what happened tonight and of what I have become but’ - he drew a deep, hoarse breath - ‘’tis better than living the life of a pauper, in and out of the workhouses.’

  James said huskily, ‘I am more sorry than I can say, Tom.’

  ‘Yes, you would be.’

  ‘But,’ James’s voice rose in protest at believing all that he had heard, ‘couldn’t Fielding keep you at Bow Street? Or one of the other courts? It is a crime to throw away a man of your experience!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Tom dissented. ‘I am too old for the work that has to be done, and both Fieldings are doing the best they can on very little money. I’ve a friend at Bow Street; do you remember David Winfrith?’ James had a quick mental image of an overeager young man who had acted as a messenger between the court and the private quarters at the Bow Street house. ‘He is still there and he tells me what goes on. There are times when David is so like Silas Moffat that I swear Silas must have sired a son no one dreamed about, unle
ss John Furnival knew and gave him the post as clerk. If you want to know what is happening, talk to him. You’ll find him in the Chapter Coffee House in Paternoster Row each morning after court. He gives the newspapers tidbits of information about cases important enough to warrant, their having a man at a hearing.’

  ‘You mean Fielding admits the press?’ James exclaimed. ‘Not officially - but the newspapers have their paid men present very often,’ Harris said. At last he stirred, putting his leg on the ground gingerly, then taking a few paces.

  James went with him, troubled and confused, and as they reached Long Acre he asked, ‘These New Mohocks, Tom. Is no one safe?’

  ‘No one fool enough to venture out alone after dark. They’re not the same breed as footpads and highwaymen; they do what they do for excitement and enjoyment.’

  ‘Would Mary Smith be safe?’

  ‘No one is safe, Jamey. Mary would not risk venturing out alone, mind you.’

  But Mary would soon be working for the merchant Weygalls, thought James, and living in this same area where the young Morgans and their cronies conducted a reign of terror over the local women. And in the meantime, what would happen in an emergency, for instance, if Mary had to fetch a doctor for her father?

  James shivered.

  Suddenly Tom said, ‘Hush!’

  Soon James became aware of voices and footsteps and marvelled at the sharpness of the older man’s ears. Presumably the group that had attacked the girl had entered Long Acre from a nearby alley, and at the same moment a stench as from an open sewer assaulted James’s nostrils, carried on the wind. Would the New Mohocks have opened a cesspit or a closed sewer? Or could they—

  Tom Harris made a funny little noise and James realised that he was stifling a laugh. Then he saw two of the youths go ahead of the others into the Morgan archway; the flickering light showed that their clothes were matted close to their bodies. The other three kept well to the windward of them as they all disappeared, and now Harris laughed aloud, how-beit keeping the sound low.

  ‘The builders dug into a cesspit this afternoon and did not cover it; those two must have fallen in. Please God each was a Morgan and may the stink stay with them all their lives!’ he said bitterly.

  One of the youths who had fallen into the open pit was Gabriel Morgan, the other the son of the owner of one of the big houses in Covent Garden, by name Jacob Rackham. They first washed the dirt off with a hose in the stables and then stood naked while the other youths poured buckets of water over them until the odour was all but gone. Their clothes were ruined but they were old, worn only on nights when the group went out for their ‘fun’.

  Gabriel Morgan shivered as he wrapped a cloak about him, and he said in a flat, deadly sounding voice, ‘If I ever find out who that man was tonight, I will cut his throat.’

  Rackham growled, ‘I’d draw him first to enjoy his screaming, then hang and quarter him. And I’d expect everyone here to help.’ He glared around at the others and demanded of them one by one:

  ‘Do you swear, Saul?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Do you swear, David?’

  ‘Upon my soul, I swear!’

  ‘And you, Charles?’ the youth demanded. ‘And you, Gabriel?’

  Solemnly each man swore that if they ever learned the name of the man who had robbed them of their entertainment and who had sent them running wildly to safety and the cesspit, he would help first to draw him while he was alive, then hang and quarter him.

  Leaving the near-deserted streets behind him, James Marshall turned out of Bow Yard and came soon to the northern end of Bow Street. Here, at least, there had been no major changes since his last visit. One man stood outside the courthouse doorway, and two horses were tethered to wooden posts, while several sedan chairs were placed nearby. At any other time James would have gone inside but he was virtually certain that except for Winfrith he would know none of the men who now served Henry Fielding.

  Suddenly his thoughts switched back to the gang, copying tricks their predecessors had been infamous for thirty and more years before. James could picture the girl, running, trapped, upturned. He could see her vividly when he had straightened her clothes, and on the instant he pictured not her pretty tear-stained face, but Mary’s.

  Such a thing must never happen to Mary - and yet no one was safe, Tom had said. No one.

  When he reached the top of the Strand a roaring sound penetrated the clouds of dread and confusion and anger in his mind and heart. For the second time that day the traffic in this great thoroughfare was piled up, and parish constables were calling out: ‘Go by Long Acre or Holborn, there is no path this way.’

  The one or two small carriages and a few horsemen who tried to go on were swamped by the mass of people on foot pressing towards the scene of the trouble. Suddenly James saw flames leaping out of the higher floors of a building. As he stared, aghast, two women jumped down onto the milling crowd below, mouths open in screams he could not hear.

  People were shouting. A riderless horse was screaming, rearing up on its hind legs and thrashing at the crush of people thronging, around it. As the flames leaped higher and the roof caught fire in a fierce and sudden blaze, James was knocked against a heavy sign which read:

  HEWSON’S

  dressmakers to the royal household

  His mother had once worked here. The sign was so heavy that he hauled himself up by the wrought ironwork which fastened it to the wall. In a few moments he was astride the top of the sign and had a perfect view of the astounding spectacle ahead. One glance was enough to show him that a dozen sailors stood in a half-circle about the burning brothel known as Charlie Wylie’s while screaming women came rushing out of the brothel carrying chairs and feather beds and cooking pots. The flames now blew across the street, and clearly there was a danger of a conflagration starting there. James saw a line of men carrying leather buckets already beginning to toss water onto the walls of the tavern next door, but no one seemed concerned with the brothel itself. There was no sign of fire carts, either, which, with their hand pumps, could have worked much more quickly than men with water-filled buckets.

  A hanging sign came crashing down while the crowd turned into a seething, screaming mob.

  Gradually, above the din was heard the tramp of marching feet and a bugle sounded. James waited for a moment until the space beneath him was clear, then lowered himself and dropped to the cobbles. Slipping into a narrow lane, he soon reached the river, a splendid spectacle with the reflections of flares and lamps in the water. At the corners and at all gateways, guards and watchmen were posted; this part of London at least was kept comparatively free from crime, for it was well lighted and well guarded.

  In a narrow street which led to Charing Cross, behind the Royal Stables, were three- and four-storey buildings, many of which were let to young men on their own in London. Timothy had such a flat, whose windows overlooked the river to the tree-clad south bank and beyond to St. Paul’s and the City. James was sharing this flat with Timothy until he made up his mind what to do, but the flat was now empty. He unlocked the door and was careful to lock it again from the inside before lowering himself into a chair by the window. Stretching his legs straight in front of him, he loosened his collar, Mary Smith, Tom Harris, the tear-stained face of the girl vividly in his mind.

  He was dozing when Timothy came in, tired but excited. Had James seen the fire in the Strand and did he know what had happened? Five sailors from a four-master tied up at Greenwich had visited the brothel and had been robbed while disporting themselves. They had demanded the return of all their goods and had threatened to pull the place down unless everything was given back. Charlie Wylie, used to the braggadocio of drunken sailors, had sent them off empty-handed, not dreaming they would return with dozens of their mates, hell-set to wreck the brothel.

  ‘And they tell me Saunders Welch persuaded the officer on duty at Tilt Yard to send troops in time to help save the whole district from being burned to the ground. W
hat do you know of this Saunders Welch, Jamey?’

  ‘That he is a friend of the Fieldings and a man of like calibre.’

  ‘So fully approved by James Marshall!’ Timothy stifled a yawn. ‘Did you do all you wanted to?’

  ‘Not quite,’ James said. ‘But I hope to finish tomorrow and go to St. Giles the following day.’

  Once in bed, he tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep, haunted by his experiences of the evening and troubled, also, by the behaviour of the crowd. There would have been a vast area of destruction but for the troops. But why hadn’t one of the Fieldings sent for them and not left the responsibility to a high constable?

  As a result of his restlessness, he slept late, and when he woke, Timothy had gone. James went out, depressed and worried, had a breakfast of sausages, chops and coffee at a coffee house in the Strand and read in a late edition of The London Advertiser that the Fieldings had been out of town the previous night.

  Outside, he saw crowds gathering, and they looked in an ugly mood. Two men whom he passed were talking.

  ‘Any time they use the troops against the citizenry, I’m against it,’ said one.

  ‘There’s talk that those sailors will be back tonight, in hundreds,’ said the other.

  As James drew nearer Bow Street, the crowds were even thicker, and to his astonishment they were outside the Bow Street court, yelling, brandishing clubs and iron bars. Some were chanting words which gradually became distinguishable.

  ‘Release them!’

  ‘Let the prisoners free!’

  ‘Release the prisoners!’

  ‘If they won’t, we’ll break down the doors and get them,’ a man near James growled.

  Suddenly James heard the thud of marching feet; obviously this time Henry Fielding had called out the troops. As the crowd began to divide for twenty or more soldiers, some of Fielding’s men appeared at the door of the house, a prisoner manacled to each man. The crowd began to hurl bricks and stones, but the troops impassively formed an impenetrable guard as the manacled men were marched off.