The Masters of Bow Street (65 page)

He had been present that afternoon at the baptism of Simon’s third child - the second son, John, who was now nearly a year old.

In the years since Simon had married, he had also grown in stature. No one now seriously doubted his right to the leadership of the House of Furnival. Occasionally some of the other relatives conspired and played politics but he had defeated them by sheer indifference, as if leadership was his by some kind of divine right. And his wife - what a magnificent woman she was!

It was not often that Timothy came to Furnival Tower House on a Sunday but two ships had berthed with precious cargoes from the Far East and he had wanted to be at hand to welcome the captains in the time-honoured Furnival fashion. Simon, of course, had been with him. Simon had wanted Timothy to leave with him, but one of the ship’s masters was an old friend who would soon come across the river from the Sea Lion and together he and Timothy would repair to Great Furnival Square for the night. Timothy heard more lapping of water than usual but could see no sign of a ship’s dinghy. He turned from the railing and looked at the windows and the lights of the docks reflected on the heavy glass.

He did not see the three men in the water close to the steps which led up to the terrace. Each had a bundle tied over his head; one had a knife between his teeth, one a heavy cudgel secured to his shoulders. They swam strongly but the noise they made was drowned by wind and tide.

It was strange, mused Timothy, that he thought of Simon as his son; not as his nephew, not as his grandson, but as his son. Consequently he saw Simon’s three children as his grandchildren and prayed that the two boys would inherit the qualities of their father.

Timothy often confused Simon with Johnny, of course. That was strange, because in so many ways his mind was as clear as ever. Simon - Johnny - Richard. He had not seen young Richard Marshall since James had died. It seemed strange to Timothy that he should be so much older than everyone about him. His cronies were gone, even his enemies! Not that he had made many enemies and those few only because of their jealousy. Simon had the same trait of making friends.

Timothy did not see the men climbing up the wet stone steps, each clad in breeches cut short at the knees, each now carrying a weapon.

They had been sent by the man who held them and so many others in his thrall: Todhunter Mason.

In spite of the wind it was not cold on the terrace, which was protected from both sides, and the wind must be coming from the west. What a noise it made! What a night for a ship to set sail. And one was setting sail from farther up the river, a bark which Timothy thought came from Morgan’s Wharf, a bonded tea and coffee warehouse belonging to the company which might soon be merging with Furnival’s. He had discussed this with Simon who, in his decisive way, had said, ‘Yes, sir. But not yet, I beg you.’

He had not explained why, but no doubt he would have a good reason.

Timothy watched the ship travelling faster than it should, as if the wind billowing its sails would soon take it out of the captain’s hand.

The three men were now behind him.

Two were by the doors leading into the house; one was creeping up towards him, the cudgel, with its spiked head, in his hand. Not until the last moment did Timothy sense than anything was wrong. Some sound which did not merge with the wind and the water made him turn, and he saw the man, water glistening on his naked shoulders, chest and arms, one arm descending with the cudgel gripped in it. Timothy made an involuntary movement but it was too late. A crushing blow fell on one side of his head. It did not render him unconscious but made him stagger. The man grabbed him by one arm, yanked him upright, and struck again.

A messenger came for Simon at half-past ten, when he was in bed with Hermina, teasing her about a fourth child; soon, he kept saying, soon: and we start now. When a servant knocked timidly on the door Simon could hardly believe anyone would dare cause such an interruption, but soon the knocking was repeated.

He pushed the bedclothes back and climbed out of bed as Hermina called, ‘It must be an emergency, Simon.’

‘I will teach them what an emergency is,’ Simon growled and opened the door.

The middle-aged man who looked after household affairs had not troubled to put a robe over his nightgown, had not even pulled his knitted sleeping cap off his bald head. He carried a candle in a tall brass stick and the flame quivered as he said, ‘It’s Mr. Timothy, sir. Mr. Timothy. They say he is sick unto death!’

The master of the
Seal Lion
had found Timothy when, delayed by customs officials as well as by drunkenness of his crew, he had been rowed to the steps and, not doubting that he would soon be met, had sent his boatman back. There was enough light to see the old man crumpled up on the terrace, even enough to see the blood on his head.

Now, facing Simon, who had dressed in a trice and had ridden to Furnival Tower House at wild speed on a horse kept close by against emergencies, the seaman looked haggard and old. Two doctors were there, members of the staff, and the guards who should have prevented this murder had they been alert. On a couch brought to the room from which the terrace led lay the lifeless body of Timothy McCampbell-Furnival. Out on the terrace were a dozen men carrying flares; the river between Furnival Tower House and the docks was alive with small boats showing all the lights they could so as to reveal anyone or anything unusual in the water. Godley, now the most experienced of the Bow Street Runners, was searching the terrace, while other Bow Street men were going through the building.

Every room within easy reach was wrecked. Paintings had been slashed, portraits of long-dead Furnivals had been ripped, furniture had been smashed and broken. All small ornaments, silver candlesticks, some plate, a collection of coins from various Furnival offices overseas and two superb ivory carvings from Tientsin had been stolen. Precious carpets small enough to roll and carry with ease were gone, too; larger ones had been ripped with sharp knives. In everything that had been done, naked hatred showed; and Simon, after staying close to Timothy’s body for five minutes, turned and surveyed the scene, while nervous night watchmen stood at a distance and some of the office managers who slept nearby also watched.

There was no expression on his face, but his eyes glittered as if with great pain. When he moved, it was stiffly and slowly. There was no way of telling whether he actually took in what he saw or whether his gaze was piercing the curtains of the past. After a while, and when he had seen all the material damage, he turned towards the terrace. Godley was now at an open door; studying him. The Runner was tall and bony-looking, his hair cut short so that he looked gaunt, almost skeletal. He wore a loose-fitting tunic and boots which rose to his knees over tight-fitting breeches.

Simon beckoned him and sat at a heavy Genoese silver table which had been badly dented by blows from a heavy object. He looked up at the man from Bow Street and then asked in a taut voice, ‘Your conclusions, Mr. Godley?’

‘One or two men came first, swimming, and forced their way in. The water marks of feet are still on the terrace, but there are other footmarks of men wearing muddy boots. One of the swimmers surely killed Mr. Timothy for his blood is mingled with the marks of bare feet. Others followed, by boat. Marks on the stanchions show where a boat was tied, and already three men bear witness to seeing one moored alongside about the time this evil deed was committed.’

‘The destruction?’

‘Hate, sir. Pure hate.’

‘The thefts?’

‘By men who knew what they could sell, sir. This is an expert job if ever I saw one. Very experienced men.’

‘Would hate be an added motive?’

‘Practised thieves can hate, sir. Many of them know Mr. Timothy favoured the marine police.’

‘What ideas do you have?’

‘Ideas I like to keep to myself, sir. My trade is in facts.’

‘For the murderers of Mr. Timothy I will give a reward of ten thousand pounds,’ Simon declared. ‘For that I want facts, ideas, opinions -
answers
to any questions I ask. Do you want the commission?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘What ideas do you have?’

‘There’s been a lot of talk for years, sir, among the criminal fraternity about getting back at the Furnivals for what the Furnivals did at Great Furnival Square on the night of Mr. Timothy’s ball. This could be one result, sir.’

‘After nine
years
?’

‘Criminals have long memories, sir, as long as the law. Longer at times. And there’s one in particular who remembers better than most, but we’ve never been able to prove anything against him. We get his men, but never him.’

Simon leaned back farther in his chair and studied the gaunt man before him. Silence engulfed the room except for lapping water and an occasional movement on the terrace itself.

Where a lesser man would have started to justify himself Godley stood still, without shifting his gaze, and Simon stirred at last, asking, ‘Do you know this man’s name?’

‘Mason, sir. But I’ve no proof.’

‘Do I understand you have the Bow Street magistrates’ consent to investigate this crime?’

‘Yes, sir, Mr. Colquhoun’s, who is there tonight, Sir Richard Ford being away. He told me to use my best endeavours and as many men as I required. Already I have asked for a descriptive list of the stolen property so that I can circulate it among pawnbrokers and others who might be asked to buy, but there is a good chance that this kind of
objet d’art
will be offered to private collectors or museums, sir. All inquiries possible will be made. I have asked for space in the major newspapers to advertise the list of missing articles and have offered a reward for reliable information.’

‘I will pay any rewards. I want the actual murderer quickly, Mr. Godley. Without losing a moment. We can deal afterward with the Mason man.’

‘With respect, sir - you couldn’t want the murderer quicker than I do,’ Godley said. ‘If only—’ He broke off.

‘Well? Don’t start a sentence and leave it unfinished.’

‘Your pardon, sir. I was going to say that if there were the same organisation in the City and everywhere else in London as there is on the river, we could have four thousand men working for us. As it is, we will be lucky to have two hundred. So progress may be slow, sir.’

‘The purpose of the ten thousand pounds is to overcome the obstacles,’ Simon said, his voice as taut as ever. ‘Have you questioned the watchmen who were said to be on duty here?’

‘Yes sir, but I have to see them again.’

‘If you suspect them to have connived with the thieves, then find the evidence necessary and I will charge them.’ Now Simon’s voice rose. ‘Is it practicable for me to charge them with negligence while on duty?’

‘Connivance there could be, sir, though I doubt it. Negligence there was not.’

‘Six men are on duty to guard these premises. They allow an army of thieves to come in and their master to be murdered - that is not negligence?’ Simon now glared, and his right hand, on the table, began to clench and unclench. ‘I am becoming less sure that you are the right man for this investigation.’

‘If you would prefer one who will lie to you or tell you what he thinks you would like to hear, then I am not the right one, sir,’ Godley retorted instantly. He stopped and held silence, challenging Simon; indeed, defying him.

Somewhere, a man sneezed; it was like a shot from a gun. Some way off, downstairs, voices sounded; it was as if they came from a different world.

Simon said, ‘Why do you not consider them negligent?’

‘They were instructed by Mr. Timothy to leave him alone, sir.’

‘Or are they lying so as to save their skins?’

‘I know two of them well, sir. One was at Bow Street for two years before better conditions in private service took him away. He would not lie. It was the custom of Mr. Timothy to be alone on the terrace occasionally, as I understand it, and the guards say they thought nothing of it tonight. As for connivance, nothing of it shows on the surface, but I shall certainly probe deep to make sure.’

‘If there is the slightest evidence, they must be made to answer. If not—’

Simon did not finish, for now there was a disturbance at the main door; one of the guards on duty was keeping a newcomer at bay, and the newcomer’s voice sounded in subdued protest.

‘I wish Mr. Simon to know I am here.’

The words travelled clearly and Simon looked away from Godley towards the door. There was a break in the hard surface of his expression; for a moment his face appeared to crumple, but in another moment he was in full control again.

‘Day or night, I am to be informed,’ he said to Godley. ‘I will instruct all who work at Furnival Tower House to give you whatever assistance they can. Will the river police cooperate with you?’

‘Fully, sir.’

‘Conceivably theirs is the negligence,’ Simon said with a flash of anger, but he stood up and moved towards the door way, until he saw Richard just outside. The guard withdrew quickly.

Richard and Simon met, hands outstretched, and as they gripped, Richard said, ‘I could get here no sooner.’

Simon did not speak. For the first time in their years of friendship, Richard saw tears shimmering in Simon’s eyes, and the grip of his fingers was so tight that it crushed flesh against bone. At last Simon withdrew his hand and without a word turned towards the couch where Timothy lay. The face, even the forehead, was scarcely touched and the head had been expertly bandaged; the old man looked so young, so pleasant-featured, so peacefully asleep.

‘Richard, I would beg a favour of you,’ Simon said in a voice which threatened to crack at any moment. ‘I would like to spend the rest of this hideous night in your rooms. And I would be grateful if you will tell Hermina what has happened and allow her to believe that I am busy about the investigation.’ He gripped Richard’s arm fiercely and went on: ‘She does not believe that I have any of the human frailties. I would not wish her to see me distraught - and distraught I am.’