The Masters of Bow Street Read online

  As the barge drew father into the river James saw that more watermen were keeping a space clear. It was yet three hours to full tide but already the river level was high and most if not all of the mud flats were covered with water. From the banks naked boys dived and swam, going up to ships riding at anchor and holding out their hands in supplication. Most of these were water thieves by night, the mudlarks who swam close to the ships to secure and swim away with stolen articles of all kinds tossed overboard by crew members or by ratcatchers or other workers from the city.

  There were masses of people.

  On ships and on quaysides, on terraces and on roofs, there were people. On the castellated walls of the Tower of London there were people, for the Tower Gardens had been thrown open. On the cannon and on the walls, people sat and watched and waited, while street sellers moved among them, never still, never silent.

  ‘Look!’ cried a youth next to Timothy, and he pointed with joy towards a church steeple. On the top two lads were clinging, getting the finest view of all London and the pageant. If only they did not fall and break their necks, thought James grimly.

  Slowly the barge turned the curve in the river between Temple and Charing Cross, and gradually Westminster Bridge came into view. Sated though they were with spectacle, not one among the company failed to gasp in astonishment, for here there were more ships, banked tight at the sides, three more men-of-war and thousands of small craft.

  At the steps by one of the arches, elaborately adorned with flags and pennants and with carved crests and shields painted in bright hues, was the Royal Barge. There were enough men aboard, all bustling fore and aft, to make sure that it was shortly to be used.

  ‘Is the King coming to Furnival’s?’ a young man called out in awe.

  ‘It is unlikely,’ answered Timothy. ‘But those of you who wish may doubtless be presented to the Prince of Wales.’ He waited for the chorus of exclamations to die down, then went on: ‘His Majesty was gracious enough to send a message of congratulations and good will, and the assurance that he will be represented, and I have it from the Lord Chamberlain himself that the Prince of Wales will join us. Now perhaps the time has come to explain what has been planned. For the first time in history a pageant has been organised by a private company, with the cooperation of all the guilds concerned as well as that of other great houses, shipping companies and dock owners. The new docks opposite Furnival Tower House will be known as Furnival Docks, where there are sufficient berths to house ten ships at one time - not little coastal vessels but ocean-going merchantmen with a weight of a thousand tons.’

  Timothy paused, for the barge went beneath one of the arches, and instinctively everyone on board became silent, although there was ample room for two of the oarsmen to keep the barge in motion, and the quiet was uncanny as they passed. On the far side the scene was very different, sylvan and meadowed in long stretches on either side, with only small craft on the river, for no ship with a mast much higher than fifteen feet could pass with safety. As the oarsmen swung the barge round for the return voyage, Timothy resumed his peroration of the coming events of the night, as if there had been no interruption, but he soon had to raise his voice because of the increasing noise from the crowds.

  He broke off again as a dinghy with one small boy in it, naked to the waist, came across their bows, both arms outstretched. His ribs stuck out against his skin; it was a miracle that he had the strength to row. Several of the guests tossed pennies, and his cries of gratitude wafed after them as the barge ploughed on through the water and Timothy resumed speaking.

  ‘After the formal approach of the craft and the receiving of the masters by the directors of the House of Furnival, there will be a reception in the main hall and on the terrace, with more than seven hundred guests, including officers from the ships, the Prince of Wales and his entourage, the Lord Mayor of London, the Governor of the Tower of London, at least three bishops, no less than seventeen Members of Parliament. . .’

  Through gaps in the buildings and in between the sails, James caught fleeting glimpses of the gallows at Tower Hill, and thought again of Tyburn and the day Frederick Jackson had been hanged. He had no doubt that pickpockets and cut-purses were active among this crowd, that every kind of theft was being perpetrated, and that some would be caught and sentenced to death or to transportation for life. Yet, by whatever standards he judged, this was a great day.

  All of the group which called itself the New Mohocks were downriver from the new docks, at the beflagged windows of a tall warehouse. But the flags did not hide the sign which was fastened to the wall:

  Ebenezer Morgan & Sons

  Nine Other Establishments in London

  Fine Teas Coffees Spices Rare Fruits Nuts

  Finest Produce from all Corners of the World

  All Goods of Highest Class

  Jacob Rackham put a naval telescope to his eye and studied the gallows at Tower Hill across the river. When he lowered the glass, he spoke through a tight-lipped smile.

  ‘We shall catch our man one day, Gabriel, and he will know what it is to suffer.’

  But Gabriel Morgan was too full of the pageantry and colour of the day to think about revenge. He was far more concerned lest it should rain.

  Among the crowds on the riverbank and the quays were thousands of people who would join the revels at every hanging day at Tyburn. The same sellers of fruit and pies, news-sheets and notices, the same thieves, the same singing groups, the same beggars. And most of the men who by night donned masks and became highwaymen or footpads were here also, jostling with others, enjoying every moment of this great occasion.

  Frederick Jackson, now over eleven years of age, was with some other youths, a handsome but sober-faced lad who had begged his mother’s permission to come to the pageant. Most people who had known his father might be aware of the likeness, perhaps puzzled by it until they heard the lad’s name - he had been given Jackson’s name at birth at Eve Milharvey’s insistence.

  Already on board one of the great barges at Westminster was Lisa, Duchess of Gilhampton, and also on board was not only her husband but at least five men who, in the past, had received her favours; yet few ladies received more respect than she. The Hewsons were on another barge owned by a customer whom they had ‘dressed’ for two generations. Tom Harris, whose duties left him free until dark, was also present; a subdued Harris, whose knee had not yet recovered from the sprain received when James had thrown him over his shoulder.

  One other person known to James Marshall was among the crowd, one of five boys who had broken out of their school in Rochester and had persuaded a wagon master to bring them as far as the southern end of the new bridge. From there they had walked to the Tower, and the ringleader of the escape was astride one of the guns, ignoring two Beefeaters who stood near. In the Tower, companies of dragoons were being dispatched to vantage points throughout the City and Westminster as well as the connecting highway. If trouble threatened after the pageant, as well it might, for much drink was already being tossed down hardened throats, the troops would be at hand to keep order.

  The boy astride the gun would have been even more readily recognised as his father’s son than Frederick Jackson as his, for this was Johnny Furnival, looking at least four years older than his ten years and startlingly like John Furnival had been in his youth, with the same honey-blond hair and honey-brown eyes which missed little. He was not only big but very strong for his age, and dexterous, too. Every now and then he espied a carelessly open pocket or a loosely held purse, and he would leap from the gun, snatch what he could find from the pocket and take away the purse, then return by a circuitous route to the cannon, where his friends kept a place for him.

  Had anyone told Johnny Furnival, son of Sir John and Lady Furnival, that for a single one of the offences he committed he could be hanged or transported, he would have laughed and scoffed, for whatever else was bad about him, he had high courage and great daring.

  Soon after the barge retu
rned to the steps at the side of Furnival Tower House, the Prince of Wales arrived, and the roaring of the crowd, which had a strong affection for the fledgling prince, grew deafening. Then the first of the merchantmen came into sight around the bend of the river at Wapping, and yet another wave of cheering began. Bands played on the decks of some of the larger ships, the men-of-wars’ bands struck up, and pipers who had been brought down from the Furnival offices in Glasgow and Edinburgh stirred everybody’s emotions with their swirling dirgelike tunes.

  The cheering was now so wild it had become a kind of hysteria. As the last merchantman was tied alongside, three guns boomed in salute, and as the echoes died away, every band struck up the national anthem. Suddenly the voices of the multitude were raised in. singing ‘God Save the King’ as if this were the most popular king England had ever known, not just a thirteen-year-old princeling.

  When the singing died away there were wet eyes everywhere until the bands swung into tunes known to be favourites with the Prince of Wales as well as with the crowds.

  Darkness came early because of the overcast skies, but so far no rain had fallen. Flares began to dance on the sides of the ships as well as on the buildings, none brighter than those on the terrace at Furnival Tower House as first the Prince and then his companions stepped from the Royal Barge. Only when they had been received did the ships’ masters arrive from their proud vessels.

  James could see all this perfectly, and he also saw John Furnival and Ruth, placed so that they were part of everything that went on. The reflected light from the flares turned John’s pallor into the flattering colour of his middle manhood. The music had stopped and the crowds were now silent.

  The first of the sailors, a small man with a straggly black beard, carrying a leather box, reached the welcoming group, bowed low to the Prince of Wales, but somehow created an impression of impatience during the courtesies and said to William Furnival in a clear and penetrating voice, ‘It is my honour to place in your hands missives from members of your family and of your staff in India. It is my deep regret—’

  The man behind called out, ‘Not now, Henry, not now!’

  Already there was bewilderment and embarrassment that the master should speak while the formal welcome to the Prince was not yet finished.

  William covered the awkwardness with a loud-pitched: ‘Captain Gamble, we shall be happy to see you for private discussions at the earliest moment. Captain Mortenson—’

  He presented two more sailors and there was some formal exchange of compliments before a military band once again played ‘God Save the King’, and then William and Francis escorted the Prince down to the great hall below. Here, a huge circular table was piled high with dishes of every description, dozens of footmen, chefs and wine stewards standing discreetly by. Music from two string quartets was now being played, and while two of the Furnivals’ most attractive young women were presented to the Prince, James Marshall - at the balcony on the second floor - saw Francis and William leave the hall and go up the staircase to a room which led onto the terrace. Timothy’s hand was on James’s shoulder.

  ‘I know a short cut to the terrace,’ he declared. ‘I want to hear what that idiot Gamble has to say.’

  One of the few guests remaining on the terrace, where it was much cooler than in the hall, was John Furnival, in his chair, with James’s mother and an elderly great-aunt sitting beside him. As the two young men came within earshot, Francis spoke in a sharper voice than James had yet heard from him.

  ‘Captain Gamble, what news is of such significance that you choose a formal occasion to relay it?’

  ‘I am sorry, sir.’ Despite his words there was nothing in Gamble’s voice to suggest that he felt distress, only a sense of injured pride. ‘I was charged both by our own representatives and by the East India Company on leaving Bombay with relaying this news at the earliest possible opportunity, and to have delayed would have been doing less than my duty.’

  William answered in an unexpectedly conciliatory fashion. ‘Be sure we are aware of your attention to duty, Captain. Will you now be good enough to present us with the news?’

  ‘With no pleasure, sir, no pleasure at all and only with the deepest regret. Shortly before we set sail from Bombay we received a fully accredited messenger from the office in Calcutta. I have the message in the box, sir. It appears that Mr. Jason Gilroy was ill advised enough to travel by road with his wife and their son and daughter between Delhi and Calcutta. At dusk one evening, when they were approaching a village only a day’s journey from Calcutta, they were attacked by Pindari bandits, their guards were killed, they themselves were robbed and slaughtered.’

  Captain Gamble paused as if to make sure that the full significance of the news was understood, and then went on.

  ‘My instructions were to advise you to notify His Majesty’s Government at the first opportunity and to request that they make urgent representation to the Maharajah of Gwada to heed the East India Company’s request for the immediate apprehension and punishment of the murderers. The outrage was committed in the Maharajah’s province.’

  For a moment there was complete silence, until Timothy said in a broken whisper, ‘Aunt Anne!’

  Then William spoke in a strange, taut voice. ‘Is there no doubt at all about this, Captain Gamble? No possibility of error or mistaken identity?’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir. The envoy was in fact Mr. Gilroy’s most trusted Indian servant and guide, who escaped during the attack and went back to the scene of the crime after the bandits had gone. He saw that each member of the family had been slain in the most despicable fashion. Moreover, sir, two smaller and faster vessels out of Karachi passed my ship and signalled the news to me.’

  No one spoke until Francis said, ‘Anne, dear Anne.’

  Someone out of sight exclaimed, ‘What a day for such news to come!’

  ‘I cannot be blamed for the circumstances, gentlemen,’ Captain Gamble said aggressively.

  ‘No one is attempting to blame you,’ Francis assured him, ‘but this is grievous news to pass on at such an occasion. If there were time to stop the fireworks—’

  Almost on the instant a great crack of sound came from across the river and a rocket burst high above the crowds, spreading white, blue and pink stars against the dark sky. In a moment there came another, then another, and suddenly the terrace was crowded as the guests from below came to see the display. Finally, there was a tremendous explosion and, high above the roofs of the new warehouses, one word and one word only burned as bright as day: FURNIVAL

  Whilst on the terrace, head lolling, body slack, Sir John Furnival lay back in his wheelchair: dead.

  17: JOHNNY

  John Furnival was buried in the churchyard at St. Giles only two days later, attended by his brothers, surviving sisters, and some other close relatives and friends. Among those not of the family who came to the simple funeral ceremony was John Fielding, who brought condolences and deep regret from his brother. Tom Harris came, too, and old Sam Fairweather, so crippled with arthritis that each step caused pain. Benedict Sly was also present, and the Reverend Sebastian Smith, who had journeyed with friends across London and had then taken the stagecoach from the Hyde Park Turnpike.

  When it was over, the members of John Furnival’s family departed from St. Giles except for Francis and his wife, Deborah, who were to stay the night. Beth and Henrietta stayed with the Tenches, and only Francis and Deborah, Ruth and James, were together at the farmhouse dinner of roast beef and batter pudding.

  ‘Ruth, this may not be the night to talk about the future, but I would like you to be sure of two things,’ Francis said. ‘For as long as you wish to stay at St. Giles, it is yours, and if there is ever anything you need that we at the House of Furnival can provide, that is yours also.’

  Ruth had said very little since her husband’s death, the only indications of her grief being pallor and a redness at her eyes. Now she looked at Francis with thoughtful intentness.

  �
��You are very kind,’ she replied. ‘I believe I know what I must do.’

  ‘You see, Francis,’ Deborah said, ‘I told you so.’

  It was seldom that Deborah spoke when in the company of those not part of her immediate family, so her intervention made James and Ruth look at her in surprise, but no greater surprise than that of Francis. Deborah was a short, broad woman, with not particularly, attractive features; at moments, when on horseback or out walking, she could be taken for a man. There were those who wondered whether her masculinity had appealed to Francis because of the contrast between them: his delicacy, her solidness; his almost feminine good looks, her plainness; his beautifully shaped fingers, her broad, flat-tipped ones. She wore few adornments and this evening looked even more sombre than usual in her unrelieved black dress. Only her eyes, pale grey, gave her any brightness.

  ‘What did you tell Francis?’ Ruth inquired mildly.

  ‘That you would know what you desired to do, and would be as stubborn as—’ Deborah broke off, perhaps because of the expression on Francis’ face.

  ‘As my husband,’ Ruth finished for her.

  ‘Deborah did not mean—’ began Francis.

  ‘Francis, perhaps Deborah would always speak more freely if you did not talk for her,’ Ruth interrupted, and James was astonished that she should speak in tones of rebuke. But Francis laughed, and his laughter brought a smile of relaxation from Ruth.

  ‘Indeed you may be right,’ Francis agreed pleasantly.

  ‘Well, he was as stubborn as a mule,’ declared Deborah.

  ‘As an ox would perhaps be better,’ countered Francis.

  ‘As a man who had great faith in what he was trying to do.’ Ruth put in equably. ‘Yes, he was stubborn, thank God! And he began changes in the thinking of men and women that will one day come to fruition. Francis, you have always been kind and affectionate towards John, and I would not reward you if I were to tell half-truths or pretend what I do not feel. I am grateful for your reassurance and it would not be surprising if one day I came to you for help. You know that John took all his inheritance and sold his shares in the House of Furnival so that he could spend freely on his chosen task. Yet he left me a goodly competence. Notwithstanding that, I cannot live here or for that matter anywhere else and do nothing. My life was full in every minute with John, and while I could serve him I was content. Now James is more than old enough to fend for himself, Beth is soon to be married, and Henrietta is an independent young woman who will decide her own future. I shall return to London and seek a post in one of the foundling hospitals for which I shall need no salary. I shall be dealing with those too young to have become incurably contaminated by the evils of the world.’ She paused a few moments, then asked, ‘Does that shock you?’