The Masters of Bow Street Read online

  James put the note aside and was thinking now of David Winfrith, of whom he had seen practically nothing for a month. David on the one side and Johnny on the other, both shunning him. It was the strangest and most painful experience. He felt guilty, blaming himself for failing to see what was responsible.

  Slowly, he opened other letters, mostly of encouragement for the coming campaign, but none significant enough to draw his mind from gloomier reflections. The next envelope appeared to contain a stiff card, which fitted so tightly that he had difficulty in pulling it free.

  As he did so he caught his breath for he looked down at an unmistakable caricature of himself hanging from a gallows. So vivid was the facial likeness that it was impossible to believe that whoever had drawn it did not know him well. He turned it over - and, unable to control himself, was taken by a fit of shivering. For on the back of the card was an identical picture of his face but here his body was cut into four as would be that of a man who had first been drawn, then hanged and quartered.

  One word was printed in black across the foot of the card: Traitor.

  ‘It could have been sent to frighten you, the work of some cartoonist with a twisted mind,’ suggested Benedict. ‘There is no doubt of strong opposition. What does surprise me is that the opposition should have remained so subdued. I would give this to David; he can show it to others at Bow Street who might recognise the work and be able to identify the artist.’

  It was on the tip of James’s tongue to say that he had no desire to consult David; then he decided that this might be a good opportunity to break the barrier which had grown up between them. Rather than go to Bow Street he would invite David to dinner and discuss it with him afterward. When he suggested this to Mary he was surprised by her momentary reluctance, but she quickly infused warmth into her voice. The idea was stillborn, however; David sent a brief note that he was sorry but had no time as work at the court was getting heavier every day.

  ‘If I did not believe it nonsense, I would say that David was deliberately avoiding me,’ James remarked to Mary. ‘Can you imagine any way in which I have upset him?’ He hardly noticed that her ‘No’ was very subdued as he went on: ‘This is the last straw. I shall go to see him and demand to know what it is all about.’

  ‘No!’ Mary exclaimed. And then as if to explain her sudden vehemence, she went on hurriedly: ‘I believe he is very sick, Jamey. I do not think it will be good if you try to make him talk against his will.’

  ‘If he is as sick as that I should try to help him,’ replied James, placing his hands gently on her shoulders and looking into her eyes.

  For a moment she turned her head away as if frightened, but recovered her direct gaze almost at once as he went on.

  ‘Do you know anything about David that you haven’t told me? Have I been so busy with my own affairs that I have let you carry my anxiety, my burden?’

  She gasped. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no!’ Suddenly she was in tears and there was nothing he could do to calm her, but after a while she quieted and dried her eyes, forced a laugh and said huskily, ‘No, James, you are the last man in the world to neglect anything. I - I am tired and I think’ - she caught her breath - ‘I think I am with child again.’

  ‘With child?’ His eyes brightened. ‘Is that a cause for tears? Are we so poor or you so ailing that we cannot be happy at such a thought? But rest - yes, my love, rest you must. And there shall be more help in the household. I am not even sure we should not move into the country, where the air is so much fresher and—’

  ‘No, James! I do not want to leave London. But - but when your mother was last here she was anxious to persuade me to take the children to St. Giles and spend some weeks with her. It would please her and if it would also please you—’

  ‘Would it please you?’

  ‘I think I would greatly enjoy it.’

  ‘Then it shall be arranged! And another thing, Mary - it has been in my mind for some time to suggest that with our next child you should go to St. Giles. You must talk to Mother about that.’

  She did not hear; she had heard him say ‘our next child’, and her mind had boggled and gone hazy. Their next child. How could she be sure? What would happen if the child took after David Winfrith, or the man who many believed had sired David, Silas Moffat?

  For once the courtroom was in darkness and the house at Bow Street was nearly empty for Sir John Fielding was away for a few days of sorely needed relaxation and all cases were being referred to other courts. At last James reached the door of David’s home at one end of Bell Lane. This house was much larger than the row of cottages and there was a stable alongside it. Yellow light glowed at two windows and a flare flickered over the porchway, nearly dying when eventually David opened the door. He peered forward and suddenly James’s name exploded from him.

  ‘James! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need your help, David,’ James said, ‘and I could not find you at the court.’

  David hesitated, then stood aside. As they stepped farther into the house the smell of sewage and rotting vegetables assailed James’s nose and in the candlelight he saw that it was in a state of almost unbelievable chaos. In the living room David’s wife sat rocking herself to and fro while staring blankly into the fire. On the floor were a child’s clothes, and James needed no telling that David himself had put their surviving child to bed. The conditions were so bad that James felt guilty at having come and the importance of the cartoons faded in his mind. He had to explain his visit, however, so he told David the story while showing him the card. As he stared down in the light of two candles which stood in congealed wax in cracked earthenware dishes, David’s expression changed and he said sharply, ‘I have seen such drawings before. Not depicting you, but by the same artist, I swear - and of men hanging. They have been found at the scene of holdups believed to have been the work of the Shadows. But why should you be a recipient?’ He pursed his lips and then uttered the word ‘Traitor’ with great deliberation. Then, more briskly, he went on: ‘I will take this to the court in the morning and find out if any of Sir John’s men can throw a light on it.’ After a pause he demanded, ‘Are you frightened, James?’

  ‘I suppose I am, a little.’

  ‘From now until the election at Minshall you should never travel abroad alone, and I shall hope to arrange for two good men to watch over you. This is either the work of a madman or one of the utmost viciousness and depravity. I am glad you came, Jamey.’

  In one way James was also glad. In another, he wished he had stayed far away from that terrible home. He knew there were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, worse off; but - David.

  James was greatly relieved that Mary was going to St. Giles, for he became more and more preoccupied with the coming by- election, knowing that to fight it effectively he must live for a while in Minshall itself. It was already known that both a Whig and a Tory would fight and there was a rumour that a man who called himself ‘All for Pitt’ would also enter the fray. Three days after his talk with Mary, James went with her in a hired carriage to St. Giles, where, on his second evening at the farmhouse, he once again met the young doctor, Mario Leonardi, who was now resident doctor of the foundling home. James had been too concerned about his stepfather’s health to form any opinion of the man at their earlier meeting. Now, talking with him at some length, he found that he took to him immediately. Obviously Henrietta was greatly attached to him, as obviously she was delighted that he had given James a good impression. Nothing was said, however; perhaps, thought James, the young man was too shy or too cautious to commit himself.

  Walking in the grounds after the others had gone to bed, James was strangely ill at ease on this second night away. Yet Mary seemed content, and she, his mother and Henrietta always enjoyed one another’s company. The night air was cold, and he walked more swiftly until soon he was among the trees on the hillside. In the distance some lights winked from the village, and a coach with four gleaming lanterns swung along the highway. />
  Suddenly a figure appeared between him and the village; someone very close.

  ‘Who is there?’ he demanded.

  ‘You’ll soon find out who’s here,’ a man growled from one side, and as James spun around yet another hooked his legs from under him. Even as he fell, his arms were seized and he was forced face downward on the grass. Before he could think clearly, an evil-smelling cloth was slipped over his head and was drawn tight about his neck, and two men bound his wrists, together behind his back.

  Then a man said with a clarity which made him shiver, ‘Now you’ll see what happens to traitors.’

  At the word James had a vivid picture of the cartoons, of his own face and the hanging man and the quartered body, with Traitor in bold black letters beneath. Shock of the recollection was as great as the shock of the attack. He was aware of the thud of heavy feet close by and, a moment later, of being picked up by the shoulders and ankles and swung between two men as if they were going to fling him into the air. Next he was dumped over a horse’s withers and was held there while a man climbed into the saddle and began to ride. Every pace jolted his whole body, but a strong hand held him in position as they went uphill. Gradually, he became aware of other riders, four or five or more, and realised they were threading their way through thick trees to the top of the hill behind St. Giles.

  The constant jolting brought his teeth snapping; and his head, jerked to and fro, struck agonisingly against a branch. Now and again a blinding flash, as of lightning, shot through his mind, and every time it revealed the cartoons. Words seeped through cracks in his consciousness, always the same: ‘Now you’ll see what happens to traitors.’

  The going became more steady; they were close to the top of the hill, where the trees were more sparse, but where, in a hollow which hid it from sight of all except those at very close quarters, there was a huge oak tree. Suddenly the truth slashed through him. They would hang him on the branches of that great oak!

  His captor pulled at the reins and the horse stopped; others were dismounting. Muffled voices sounded, but his head was swimming and his ears were ringing and he was unable to distinguish what was said. He felt himself lifted by a man who must surely be a giant, slung over huge shoulders and carried no more than twenty yards. The sound of branches being pushed aside was all about him. Without warning he was lowered, feet first, to something flat beneath his feet. One man supported him and another pulled at the rope behind his back; he was being secured to the trunk of a tree.

  Only then was the hood pulled roughly from his head. At first, he was aware of a flickering light and of chill, fresh night air. He breathed shallowly, then more deeply, and his vision began to clear. Not far off beyond the sweeping branches was a fire with half a dozen men about it; swinging from the branches were several lanterns, swayed by a soft wind. On a table in front of him gleamed the sharp blades of some knives. And the red-hot glow of a smaller fire lit up a butcher’s chopper. The awful significance of these instruments struck with savage force. He was to be hanged; he was to be cut down and drawn while alive and his vitals burned; then he was to be quartered.

  One man among the group moved towards him, grinning. He was strikingly handsome, the reflected firelight in his eyes giving him a fearsome expression. The fact that he did not trouble to wear a mask proved beyond hope that he meant to kill.

  Others, including the giant who must have lifted James from the horse, came forward. It was this giant who drew close to him and, reaching up, took a noose from the branch above his head, lowered it, then placed it carefully around James’s neck. The grinning man watched, without speaking, while the giant moved to one side and pulled the rope slowly until it was tight beneath James’s chin. When it seemed that he was to be hoisted off his feet, the pressure eased. The man in front kicked at what proved to be an upended barrel on which he was standing. The barrel rocked and the noose pulled his head first this way and then that, but did not tighten to choke him.

  The movement steadied.

  ‘So Mr. Londoner is going to contest the Minshall constituency in the name of law and order,’ the grinning man said in an educated voice. ‘And Mr. Londoner is going to put an end to public hanging. And Mr. Londoner is going to clear London of all highwaymen and footpads, is he?’ After a moment he swept his hand around and struck James on the side of the face. ‘Answer me, you traitorous pig. Answer me!’

  The blow had been hard enough to make James’s head ring, and a strange result followed. His head cleared of its buzzing and his mind cleared of dread. He now had no doubt of the inevitability of pain and death and perhaps because of that he ceased to fear them and was calm. He could see everything more clearly, too, and for the first time he noticed a coach drawn up, with a woman at the open door. A woman here to watch him suffer!

  ‘If you prevent me, others will do what I set out to do,’ he managed to say.

  ‘Speak up! We want to hear you. Every condemned man has a right to speak!’

  The man waved towards the giant and almost at once the pressure of the rope slackened, making speech easier. The ring of men stood still; one of the horses whinnied and pawed the ground, but there were no other sounds.

  ‘If you prevent me from fighting to put an end to criminals like you, others will take my place. If you kill me, others will fight to bring a peace-keeping force to London and sweep you and those like you away.’

  ‘You’re a bloody madman!’ the man said roughly. ‘They’ve been trying for more than a hundred years; even Cromwell the Dictator couldn’t control the country with his military. You’ve been wasting your time, James Marshall. All those like you have been wasting time. Well? Have you more to say?’

  Still with that new-sent calm, James asked, ‘Why do you call me a traitor?’

  ‘Because you insulted the King and conspired with every accursed newspaperman and busybody in London to insult him. Highwayman I might be, but no one is more loyal to the Throne.’

  ‘Or the system which lets you live on the blood of others.’

  ‘Enough of that!’ the man roared. ‘And there are other reasons. It took me a long time to find out you were the fine hero who rescued a girl in distress and nigh broke my head doing it. And it also took me a long time to discover that you betrayed me and the Twelves to the Bow Street men. Yes, Mr. Londoner - I am the missing leader of the Twelves, now leader of the Shadows.’ He was almost hoarse when he finished and swung about, roaring at the others: ‘It is time we began. You have one more minute, Mr. Londoner, before you swing. And while you are swinging I’ll play some little tricks with the knives to entertain the lady, before cutting you down and burning your guts! Hey, Nell! Here’s what you begged of me.’ He backed away with one of the knives in his hand, his voice growing shrill.

  He’s mad, thought James. No doubt about it; the man is mad.

  ‘One more question!’ the highwayman roared. ‘Never let it be said that Jacob Rackham refused a dying man his last speech. One more question.’

  ‘Who are you in truth?’ James asked huskily.

  The man threw up his arms and roared with laughter. Then he turned to face the others, shouting, ‘Hear him? He wants to know who the leader of the Shadows is. He is so innocent that he doesn’t know the fame of Jacob Rackham, darkest of the Shadows!’

  The angle at which James saw the man reminded him vividly of the moment when he had seen a rider easing his mount into Long Acre; the man who had shot at him as he had tried to leap. Every word he said was true.

  Now he stood with arms upraised, as if he were invoking not the men watching but the devil, and he screamed, ‘Big Will, when I slash with my knife, pull!’

  James felt a rush of fear, all calm gone in the tumult of terror, feeling the tightening noose and the rolling barrel even before that dreaded knife flashed. But while his heart thumped as if driven by some great unseen power, while the giant waited for the word of command, while the knife seemed to shiver as it was about to descend, a voice came out of the darkness,
loud and clear.

  ‘Cut him down, Jacob,’ the unseen man ordered. ‘Let go of the rope, Big Will, or I’ll fill you so full of shot you will shake like a rattle.’ There was a moment of paralysis - of utter stillness - before the man said again, ‘Cut him down, I say!’

  At that last word, James thought in stupefied disbelief: The voice is Johnny’s. On that thought he fainted.

  When James came around he was alone. He was on the ground close to the fire, which had faded to red embers; he felt a faint glow on his cheek and on his right hand. Soon he realised that he lay on the grass with a cloak thrown over him. His body ached, his head throbbed, and his neck was painful; above were the stars and about him the emptiness of the hillside, the only sound the stirring of night creatures. The past nightmare events were still vivid in his mind, the most vivid of all that swift thought: The voice is Johnny’s.

  Haunted by this thought, James began to move cautiously until he was on his feet and walking unsteadily downhill. There was enough light to see by, and soon he saw stars re-fleeted in the stream; to reach the house he had only to follow the rippling water. Every movement was painful but at last he reached the side entrance and he knew which room was Dr. Leonardi’s. A glow shone beneath the doctor’s door. James almost fell against it, then banged on the panels until a moment later Leonardi appeared, eyes rounded in alarmed astonishment as James nearly fell into the room.

  Half an hour later, rubbed from head to foot with a liniment which already soothed the pain, and with a draught of brandy from a supply Leonardi kept on his window sill, James was in bed.

  ‘I don’t want Mary or my mother and Henrietta alarmed on my behalf,’ he said, ‘so we will tell them I had a fall while walking. And I’ll have a man drive me back to London tomorrow. There will be no more danger,’ he went on reassuringly. ‘I know the name of the leader and some of his men and the Bow Street men will have him and his gang before the week’s out.’