The Masters of Bow Street (58 page)

‘I can think of nothing more likely to persuade me,’ Richard said.

James nodded but made no further comment, and they were just about to leave when heavy footsteps sounded from the shop door and a newcomer drew the gaze of most of the men at the middle table. Many began to whisper to their companions.

The man appeared suddenly at the end of the booth, and Richard exclaimed, ‘Mr. Godley!’

‘The very man I am seeking,’ said Henry Godley, perhaps the second most famous of the Bow Street Runners. He was massive and deliberate in movement and manner, black-haired and with a short black beard. He doffed his round hat to James and went on: ‘It is an honour to meet you, sir. I saw your carriage pass by a while since, hence I knew you were in London. I have a message of some urgency for you.’

‘For my grandfather?’ Richard exclaimed.

‘Indeed yes, sir. The message is relayed from your residence in Chelsea, where a messenger arrived in haste soon after you had left to ask if you would be gracious enough to visit the home of Mr. Simon Rattray. I have his address by me, sir. Mr. Rattray is ill and I understand he has expressed a wish to see you.’

Even before the Bow Street man had finished, James was beginning to get to his feet.

‘I will go and bring the carriage.’ Richard turned towards the door.

‘I have a coach waiting outside,’ said Godley. ‘I did not know how far away your carriage would be stationed. Mr. Rattray lives near Lincoln’s Inn, so the journey will not take you long.’

For James, the years rolled back with painful vividness.

As the coach passed through streets where there had once been green fields and reached the tiny Unitarian Church he had first seen forty-odd years ago, he recalled the lad, so startlingly like his half brother Johnny, walking towards the gate with his empty pail. He had come from a cottage behind the church, he remembered. The church remained, dwarfed by houses nearby, but the cottage had been swept away and had been replaced by a row of houses at least three storeys high, built of warm red brick with slate roofs.

As the coach drew up, the door of one of those houses opened and a woman appeared on the step who, James believed, was Simon Rattray’s wife. She approached them quickly, her heavy wool dress falling like a sack about her, her pale face deep set with luminous eyes.

Godley, who had stayed with them, opened the door and climbed down, then put a strong arm up so that James could steady himself.

Richard heard the Runner say, ‘I’m very glad we found him, Mrs. Rattray.’

‘And I am eternally grateful for your coming, Mr. Marshall,’ the woman said. It was impossible to doubt that the words came from her heart. ‘And to you for your help, Mr. Godley.’ Despite the obvious gravity of the situation she looked at Richard, saying, ‘There can be no doubt that this is your grandson, sir. I am very glad to meet you.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ Richard replied. Then he . asked, ‘Have I your permission to walk in your garden while my grandfather visits Mr. Rattray?’

‘You are most understanding,’ Mrs. Rattray said.

Richard watched the three go into the house, Godley bringing up the rear. He followed slowly in their wake but before he had gone far there was a movement behind him and, turning, he saw a young man of about his own age, but heavier and more thickset, with powerful shoulders and a short neck. The most arresting thing about the newcomer, however, was the colour of his hair and eyes; the colour of honey fresh from the comb.

He walked with beautifully controlled movements, inclined his head and said, ‘I am Simon, the son of Simon.’

‘I am Richard Marshall.’

‘No name will ever win greater respect in my family than that of Marshall,’ young Simon Rattray declared. ‘I believe my father has kept himself alive so as to see your grandfather one last time. He had what the doctor calls a seizure during the night.’

‘I could not be more sorry.’

‘It will be a greater loss than most men realise,’ replied young Rattray. ‘Will it interest you to see a collection of his speeches and the work he has done for the advancement of the poor? They are kept in his office at the back of the house.’

‘I would like that very much,’ Richard said gratefully.

Among the medley of thoughts that passed through the mind of James Marshall as he followed Simon Rattray’s wife into the house was that he had never visited Simon Rattray here, and wished now that he had; and also that this house was at least twenty years old and had a solidness which he found pleasing. The passage beyond the front door was wide, a curved staircase rising at one side. Opposite the bottom stair a door stood open, and Mrs. Rattray led the way in.

‘It is Mr. Marshall, Simon,’ she announced.

Obviously this room had been converted into a bedroom from its original use as a study. One tall, narrow window overlooked the garden, and light from this reflected on the glass of a large bookcase which rose from floor to ceiling. In a corner facing the window stood a double bed with a solid carved head panel, as solid a one at the foot. In this lay Simon Rattray, propped up on pillows, his eyes closed. He opened them slowly and turned his head towards James, who saw with shock and pain how thin he had become, sunken cheeks now more like dried parchment than leather; even his once bull-like shoulders seemed to have shrunk. His hair had turned snow white and looked as soft as down. Only his eyes remained as James remembered them, bright, yet mellow. He moved a brown and beveined hand slowly, and although his grip had no power, it was firm. James stood so that the other could see him without twisting around.

‘It is good to see you,’ Rattray said in a tired-sounding voice.

‘It was good that you sent for me,’ replied James.

‘I have lain here for a long time and spent much of it looking back over the years,’ said Rattray, ‘and there are few things for which I have no .regrets. But I have none at all over my acquaintance with you, Mr. Marshall.’

‘It has been a long and valuable friendship, little though we have met,’ James agreed.

‘It has been friendship to you, also?’ Rattray’s expression kindled.

‘Deep and abiding,’ James assured him.

‘I have never felt more rewarded.’ Simon Rattray gave a wry smile. ‘I do not often consider the matter of reward, but I suppose no man can live without some share of them. The three most bountiful for me have been my wife, my son, and James Marshall.’ Rattray withdrew his hand slowly but made no attempt to hoist himself higher on his pillows. ‘We should have allowed our families to meet, not selfishly kept them apart.’ Before James could say that he had been thinking that very thing, Rattray went on: ‘May I have your attention on two counts, sir?’

‘Readily.’

‘You are very kind. The first concerns a young man who came to help in the organisation of our work only two years ago and has since proved invaluable. I do not know whether his name will be familiar; it is Jackson, Frederick Jackson.’

The name struck into James’s mind like a knife cut, laying open the past so vividly that for a moment he was silent. Frederick Jackson, Jacker, the highwayman who had killed James’s father and whom he had seen kicking from the gibbet in Tyburn Fields. Even the roar of the crowd came to his ears; the sound of marching soldiers, the way John Furnival had faced the hostile thousands. He could recall the facts he had learned about Eve Milharvey, Jackson’s mistress, that she had borne a son by the highwayman after his death. Those things which he had learned at later periods were dimmed but these, including a picture of Eve Milharvey herself, were very vivid. He could not recall ever discussing how his father had died but Rattray had many sources of information. He had not discussed Jackson’s son with Simon Rattray either, but Simon would not wish to talk of this youth unless he was sure of their association.

As if he could read what was passing through James’s mind, Rattray went on:

‘You recall his grandfather, then?’

‘So he is a grandson of the highwayman.’

‘Yes, and is aware of it,’ answered Rattray. ‘He is the son of Eve Milharvey’s first child, to whom she gave the surname Jackson. This grandson of hers is one of eleven children born in the village of Saint Marylebone, as poor and needy a family as one could find. This has fired him with great zeal to reform, Mr. Marshall, and I commend him to you as a young man with much potential. He lives in a cottage with a widowed sister, the only other members of the family to rebel against their lot. The sister’s husband was killed in a riot during a march by the workers and apprentices of the Steam Engine Company. Both are dedicated but I do not believe they are fanatics or that they have any sense of personal injustice: If you can help them you may make yet another great contribution to the greatness of London.’

‘I shall most certainly try,’ James promised.

He was tempted to urge the other to relax, for his speech had plainly tired him. It would not have surprised James had Rattray’s wife now enjoined him to rest but she remained silent, and at last Rattray went on:

‘The second matter concerns my son, Simon.’

‘If there is a way in which I can help him, it is as good as done.’

‘I will be forever at peace if I know he is to be told who his forebears were, and of his blood relationship to the Furnival family. I chose to ignore this and to make no attempt to win their interest, but a man has no right to make such a decision for his son. I have not told him, although the temptation has been great these past five or six years. He was a mature man at sixteen; today, at twenty-two, he is exceptional, both as an organiser and as a leader. I would like you to tell him, Mr. Marshall. I do not know what the effect of such realisation will be, but I am sure that he should know. He works with me and the men trust him, but I confess I do not believe his heart is with them, as mine has always been. I have been prepared for him to go his own way, and I suspect he has stayed with the work out of consideration for me, but that he will seek fresh fields when I am gone. This is another reason why he should know the truth about himself from someone who will make it clear he has no claim on the Furnivals but that he has their blood.’

‘I shall acquaint him with the truth,’ promised James.

‘You are very kind, sir.’

Simon Rattray’s hand moved and rested for a moment on James Marshall’s, and the parchmentlike face relaxed. He closed his eyes and it began to look as if he had finished, but when James attempted to withdraw his hand, Rattray pressed more firmly and uttered two words, which were only just audible.

‘Wait, please.’

‘For as long as you wish,’ James promised.

For some time it was difficult to be sure that Rattray was still breathing, he was so still, but his wife showed no particular concern, which was surely an indication that she was familiar with this stillness, as if Rattray were hovering between life and death. How long it was before the man’s eyes opened it was difficult to say; at first they appeared dazed and reflected bewilderment, but soon they cleared and he spoke with unexpected firmness and precision.

‘I am now able to do something for you, James Marshall.’

‘There is no need, none whatsoever.’

‘There is every need,’ insisted Simon Rattray, the dry, wry smile manifesting itself again. ‘You and I are both aware of the narrow gap between poverty and crime. Poverty can turn basically honest and good men into footpads, kind men into cruel, generous men into greedy brutes, but this you know.’

James nodded.

‘However, there are other causes of crime,’ continued Rattray. ‘Some men have evil born in them; greed and lust and a savage enjoyment of making others suffer. And many have a hunger for power, which I sometimes believe is the greatest crime of all. Such men have infiltrated into the ranks of the parishes and the constables, accepting for their own nefarious purposes the work as watchmen. I believe some are even members of Bow Street patrols, and I am fearful lest they create conditions which could lead to revolution as bad as that in France, riding to power over the bodies of men who fight truly for a just cause.’

Again Rattray stopped.

There was no call for James to respond, and in truth there was little new in what Rattray said. James was virtually sure of what was coming when Rattray went on.

‘I have warned many people of this danger, but they have not listened. There are few who do not have great regard for you and your judgment, however, and you are regarded as a man of the world, whereas I - partly because I oppose violence so bitterly - am regarded as an impractical idealist. Use all your influence to make the poor understand the truth, I beg you. Do not allow yourself or them to be deceived.’

After a long time, when he was sure that the other man had finished, James Marshall answered.

‘None shall be deceived if I can help it.’

‘You do not know what good you do me.’

Rattray’s voice was now so husky that the words were difficult to distinguish one from another, and when he finished his chin slumped on his chest and his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow but not laboured, and his face had the calmness of a man at peace.

The following day a messenger came from Mrs. Rattray to say that her husband was dead. Only
The Daily Clarion
gave him space for an obituary. But ten thousand mourners jammed the fields near Lincoln’s Inn when he was buried in the tiny graveyard of the church where his stepfather had been minister.

Richard, now that his mind was made up, plunged into the activities of ‘Mr. Londoner’ with great vigour. At the same time he made himself available to plead for any victims of injustice sent to him by Bow Street. While he had no official association and, in fact, was not on personal terms with any of the magistrates, the members of the Bow Street patrols and patrols from other offices sent many needy men and women to him, some so old it was hard to understand how they could survive, some so young it was impossible to believe they had committed the crimes of which they were accused.

But, as the population increased, so did crime. And the consequent near breakdown of law and order brought yet further opprobrium on Bow Street.