For John Furnival, Saturday morning was likely to be a light period in court, a good day for clearing up his records, making brief and factual notes in his diary, and reviewing pending cases. John Furnival saw a great deal, most of it through the eyes of a man steeped in the morass of London’s crime. He felt, on such days as this, very lonely: perhaps more truly on his own. There were two other justices one each for the County of Middlesex and the City of Westminster, and though fair men, Furnival doubted whether it had occurred to either of them to try to change some of the iniquitous laws: those, for instance, which made hanging the penalty for a child of seven or eight caught stealing bread because of his hunger. He had long since given up arguing with them or, in fact, with anyone whose understanding could not help him to reach his goal: a substantial police force to patrol the whole metropolitan area of London and keep down the murderers and robbers, the highwaymen and cheats, paid for by the citizens or by the State and paid sufficient to make most of the peace officers incorruptible.
He had no illusions. The difficulties were enormous, for there was not one city but three, although the distinctions were growing more difficult to see. First there was the original walled City of London with its many gates, the rookeries and slums built close to the stone walls, many of these with tunnels beneath so that criminals could come and go at will.
One great route out of the City of London was the Strand, the highway to Westminster, the seat of Parliament, the home of royalty. With a hundred and fifty thousand people in ten parishes, it had its great houses and its unbelievably foul slums. The other and even more important highway was the crowded Thames, crammed with ferries, small boats plying between the two cities, and small vessels which could pass beneath London Bridge. They had a strong but unorganised force against thieves.
All three groups, the two cities and the Thames workers, as well as the County of Middlesex, made a solid front against any attempt to create a force which could both prevent crime and catch criminals. And not one, of all these parishes, was properly protected. Each was becoming more and more vulnerable to thieves and footpads, highwaymen and murderers.
Londoners, then, indeed the English generally, regarded the concept of a national police force with genuine horror. They pointed to France and to other Continental nations and said in tones of dread: ‘A national police force can only lead to a police state, and no Englishman will stand for it.’
So, instead, there were the private forces, such as that organised by the Furnival family and by most of the great banking and commercial corporations and all who could afford to pay for loyalty, which also meant for honesty. But it was loyalty to their employers, not to the nation, and many of these men outside their own strict duties would break the law with any man who could get away with it.
Justice could be bought and sold. Perjury was heard in every court at least as often as the truth. Honest witnesses were either bribed to lie or else were terrified into lying. Hardened rogues would cheerfully give evidence against a man they had never seen, even though it meant sending him to the gallows, for a share of the reward. Furnival never allowed himself to forget that most justices and peace officers were as corruptible as any, for they had to make their money out of payments made by the government for catching a man or from victims whose goods they ‘found’ for a handsome reward, shared with the thieves. With more than a hundred crimes now punishable by hanging and more being added yearly to the statute book in the false belief that vicious punishment would reduce the amount of crime, there was a lively and thriving trade in every kind of malpractice.
He did not yet know about James Marshall but such affairs were an everyday occurrence, and Furnival believed this would remain and perhaps become worse until there was a professional force to replace the thief-takers, the watchmen and the parish constables.
This morning he came in his diary file upon a petition which he himself had placed before the Minister of State, Sir Robert Walpole, exactly a year ago. Without the help of his family, he had begged that the nation take on the responsibility of the payment of such a force, and had offered to continue to maintain his organisation centred on Bow Street.
A secretary had acknowledged the petition, and Furnival did not know whether it was still in existence or whether it had been destroyed. But here was a copy in Silas Moffat’s beautiful copperplate hand. Every petition, every recommendation that he made was carefully copied and recorded; at times Moffat employed two clerks who did no more than stand at their sloping desks making copy after copy of some long plan which would be sent not only to the Minister of State but to other Cabinet ministers, and to many of the lords and commoners outside London who might take some interest.
Very few did.
He read this particular petition slowly and shook his head, but he did not feel the anger which usually assailed him on such an occasion. He was in a calmer mood than he had been for some time but had not yet attempted to stand back from himself to try to discover why. Sooner or later, he would do this.
He replaced the petition in a pigeonhole marked September 1739 and as he did so he heard voices outside the room. Moffat’s voice was unmistakable. The other man’s - ah - it was Tom Harris. Neither would disturb him unless convinced that the matter was of utmost importance. He waited for Moffat’s tap on the door and called, ‘Come in.’
They entered, Harris close on Moffat’s heels, both looking so concerned that Furnival said jestingly, ‘What bad news do you bring me?’ He paused, then added, ‘Has Fred Jackson come back from the dead?’
‘You might almost say that is what’s happened,’ growled Harris, and there was no doubt of the seriousness of his words. He hesitated, giving Moffat an opportunity to take up the story, but the older man stayed silent, while Furnival stared at them both with those compelling eyes that could ‘see’ a lie. ‘’Tis Eve Milharvey’s work, if I know owt, sir,’ Harris continued at last.
‘It would help me if I were to know what work,’ remarked the justice.
‘Sir, it is not the easiest of stories to tell. I beg you to excuse me if I make heavy going of it! Last night the Marshall lad did not return to the cottage in Bell Lane, and his mother confided in me.’ Both men saw the tightening at Furnival’s lips but he did not speak and Harris went on. ‘So I pursued inquiries, sir, and without going into detail, which I can, however, provide, having written it all down in black and white, the upshot is that he was charged with theft from a silversmith in Fleet Street. The charge was heard in his absence before a trading justice, in a nearby shop and he was committed to Newgate to await trial. It is four weeks to the next Sessions, and in four weeks the lad can be turned into a lecher or can be so used by the men that he—’
‘Have you been to Newgate?’ Furnival interrupted.
‘I’ve come straight from there, sir. For a fee of ten shillings the head jailer allowed me to see the entry and the charge. He would not tell me where the lad has gone, sir.’
Furnival stared from one man to the other and finally back to Harris.
‘How well do you know the boy?’
‘I was at his baptism, and know him almost as well as I knew his father.’
‘Is there any chance that he is guilty?’
‘Absolutely none, sir. I swear my own future on it. I can find no one else who has reason to hate the boy or the family, but - there’s more, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘Peter Nicholson was seen at the gate when the boy was taken into Newgate and must have ridden straight off to Eve Milharvey, for he was seen there half an hour later. I’ve checked closely, sir.’
‘Ah. What more?’
‘The justice who committed the boy is Lionel Martin of—’
‘I know where that drunken rascal lives. More?’
‘The silversmith is a friend of Justice Martin’s, sir, and the two thief-takers who took the boy were very conveniently at hand at the time of the alleged robbery.’
Furnival ran his thumb and forefinger over his chin and after a few seconds remarked in a hard tone, ‘What are the worst aspects of the situation?’
‘There are at least three eyewitnesses who swear they saw the boy go into the shop and come out again. One I would trust; the others would lie away a life for a few pounds. James stated that he did not go into the silversmith’s, having no reason to, and I believe him.’
‘Then how can you believe—’ began Furnival, only to break off before adding the words ‘young James’? It seemed a long time before he went on. ‘You think there were two boys?’
‘That is my considered opinion, sir.’
‘And a very carefully laid plot.’
‘To discomfort you, sir,’ Harris declared.
‘And well it could be,’ conceded Furnival. After another pause he asked bitterly, ‘How does one handle such snivelling cowards who will strike at a boy and a woman to avenge themselves on a man?’ Obviously he did not expect an answer and Harris attempted none. Furnival closed his eyes and in those few moments looked very tired; his voice lacked its usual strength when he went on, his eyes still closed. ‘How long will it be before we get rid of the corruption and the treachery, I wonder? How long must one suffer the trading justices who will sell a man’s life for a few pounds?’ He opened his eyes and they seemed to be on fire. ‘Go on, Thomas Harris, give me an answer!’
Harris answered quietly, ‘Too long, sir.’
‘Hah! With a dozen men as wise and experienced as you what couldn’t I do with this cesspit they call London!’ He turned to Moffat, who might have sunk into the floor for all the notice taken of him or the disturbance he made. ‘Silas, hie you to Justice Martin and ask him to have the courtesy and grace to meet me in the lodge at Newgate in one hour’s time. Tom, hie you to the two thief-takers who say they caught the boy in the act and find out whether they’ll retract best if we frighten them or we cross their palms with silver. On your way tell Forbes to have my horse saddled and bridled in fifteen minutes. Bring me word at Newgate.’ Now he was speaking at a great rate and all signs of tiredness had gone. ‘Hurry, hurry, I can’t bear a man who stands still when there’s much to do.’
But when they had gone, he stood motionless by his chair in front of the fire until he pulled at the pigeonhole and took out the petition again. He read it, slowly and deliberately, then put it away and pulled a rope at the side of the fireplace, ringing a bell in the kitchen which would bring a maid hurrying. In a few moments he heard light footsteps outside and a creaking board at the door before there came a tap.
‘Bring me an undershirt and stockings,’ he called, ‘and have my riding boots brought up as soon as I’ve had time to dress.’ The footsteps sounded again and he doused his face in cold water, which was standing in a porcelain basin near the necessary room, then sat on the side of the bed and pulled off his shirt, showing fullness at chest and stomach. He pulled off the undervest and sat in his breeches, staring at the tiny window until once again footsteps sounded and there was another tap at the door. ‘Bring them in!’ he ordered, without turning, and the door opened and he could hear the swish of a girl’s dress. ‘Put them by me,’ he went on, still staring at the window, ‘and tell Mistress Marshall I wish to see her in five minutes. Not four, not six, but five.’
‘I will return in five minutes, sir,’ Ruth replied.
Furnival looked around, startled. He felt a rare thing for him: selfconsciousness about his half nakedness. She was sober of men and he could see the dark shadows beneath her eyes, an indication that she had slept badly, if at all.
Abruptly he said, ‘As you’re here, put that undershirt over my head; the way they shrink when washed ‘tis like squeezing a quart into a pint pot.’
She picked up a vest and unfastened the buttons and stretched it, then placed it over his head and pulled one sleeve as she so often did for the girls and had done, not long ago, for James.
‘Those boots,’ he added.
‘They are at the door, sir.’
‘Get them,’ he ordered.
When she turned around with the shining boots in her hand he had shrugged himself into the undershirt and was drawing on a ruffled shirt, cream in colour. As he drew this down she picked up the woollen stockings and stretched them, then held them so that he could push his feet into them.
‘Do you think I’m helpless?’ he grumbled.
‘I think you are very - very kind, sir, to try to help my son.’
‘Help anyone who suffers an injustice,’ growled Furnival. ‘Your son or—’ He broke off, looking at her as she knelt in front of him with the other stocking ready. ‘Don’t worry, Ruth,’ he said in a different tone. ‘But for me he wouldn’t be in trouble, and I’ll soon have him out.’
‘That is not—’ she began, but broke off. Furnival fastened the breeches below his knees, then pushed his feet into the black boots which she held ready.
Soon, he was outside on the cobbles of Bow Street, mounting his horse from a high platform placed there officially to make it easier for all comers to get in and out of carriages and on and off their horses. Forbes, his broad, short groom and man of all work, held the bridle. He rode off at a fair clip through thick traffic and the inevitable cacophony of clattering hooves, but did not plan to go straight to Newgate Prison, which was barely a mile away. He need not be there for half an hour and he did not intend to wait on the magistrate Martin; rather the other should wait on him. He passed the jail and the Old Bailey beyond, riding faster to the Tower, and as he rode, cloak loose about him, fair head bared to the morning sun, people stopped and pointed him out. A man hurled an apple at him, missing by two feet or more, but on the whole the people were more well disposed than ill, and he sensed this. A great many had been against his hanging of Fred Jackson, the highwayman, who had won many friends, but it was over now, and there was respect for that rare creature: an honest justice of the peace, a man who could not be bought.
Furnival was not thinking of any of these things, but of the face of Ruth Marshall and the way her son had been trapped - and the reason why.
He turned into Thames Street and there at the foot was Furnival Tower House, with its five storeys towering over most of the others. A guard at the doorway recognised him and came hurrying, staff held like a lance, wearing a breastplate, three-cornered hat pulled low over his forehead, the ribbon of the Furnivals in a bow at one side, rosettes at each lapel of his jerkin and tied, like garters, beneath each knee.
‘Why, Mr. John. ‘Tis a long time since you honoured us with a visit.’
‘If honour is the word,’ Furnival retorted dryly. ‘Is Mr. William here?’
‘Why yes, sir. And Mr. Francis.’ The constable handed Furnival down and took the reins.
Furnival strode up the steps and into the building, and thought as he had thought a dozen times before that it was like a palace, with its magnificent paintings, its mosaics on the floor, the dome which spread light everywhere, the great staircase. A dozen managers and clerks were moving about, all hurrying except two middle-aged men who held papers near the foot of the staircase. One was tall and elegant in a suit of smooth pale-grey wool; the other was more roughly dressed in homespun tweed, a sailor, probably the captain of a Furnival ship which had just come into the Port of London. The elegant man glanced up at Furnival and seemed to freeze.
‘Very good to see you, Mr. John.’
‘Tappen,’ Furnival acknowledged, and went up the stairs, hurrying at first but slowing down when he was halfway up, for he did not want to be breathless when he met his brothers.
The offices of all the members of the family were built around the staircase so that the light from the dome fell upon each of the tall, honey-coloured polished doors. The colour of the doors and of the balustrade and of all the woodwork was no accident; John Furnival’s grandfather had himself gone to Florence to be sure of the quality of Italian marble and to Venice for the superb craftsmen who had created the many-coloured mosaic around the inside of the dome, where the theme was discovery, exploration and trade. The design depicted great sailing ships on pale-blue oceans and an outline of the once-unknown continents of America, Africa and much of Oriental Asia.
The middle of the seven doors led into the board room; on either side were lodged the senior members of the board, now William and Francis; in the rooms adjacent to these were William’s two sons, not yet fully experienced but never likely to be as bright as their forebears, Robert Yeoman, and, when in England, Jason Gilroy.
The smaller offices were used as a training ground for the younger staff members, apprentices and clerks who handled the shipping and the exporting sides of the business and kept close track of the way members of Parliament voted, checking on those who it was believed would allow a fat bribe to sway their vote.
The women seldom visited Furnival Tower House, a male stronghold where most of even the most menial work was carried out by men or youths. At the head of the stairs and on the landing were messengers and guards, and John Furnival was well aware that word had been carried to his brothers the moment he had entered the building; perhaps before he had dismounted. So it did not surprise him when the middle door opened and Francis appeared.
Francis had the face of an angel, the misshapen body of a cripple, and the mind of a Machiavelli. His long dark hair, over which he seldom wore a wig or a peruke, was a frame for a face of such exquisite beauty that Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo or, more likely, Titian might have first painted and then breathed life into it, for there was a sheen of red in the dark hair, a tinge of honey in the complexion. Here on the windowless landing the light from the chandeliers enhanced the Titian-like red, the golden skin.
‘Why, John!’ Francis came forward, dragging his left leg so badly that it was hurtful to see, and dropping low on his left side with each step, although he gave no impression of effort or of pain. ‘This is an unexpected and welcome pleasure.’ He offered his hand, small, beautifully shaped; only his arms and hands and face had escaped the deformity with which he had been born. His grip was firm, and lingered, while John responded with equal warmth.
‘I hope it remains a pleasure,’ John replied. ‘I’ve but a few minutes, Francis; I’ve urgent work to do at Newgate.’
Francis smiled deprecatingly. Appearing behind him, William, at first surprised, drew his lips and brows together in a frown. He, too, came forward and shook hands, then drew John into the great room. It was forty-five-feet long and thirty wide, panelled in honey-coloured Spanish cedar and hung with portraits of the family. A long table, shaped like a wide horseshoe, was centred in the room, with ample space for thirteen carved chairs. Six were on either side of a chair on a raised platform that faced the door. According to one’s mood this could be seen as a throne or as a judge’s seat. Even were the chair occupied, no head and shoulders would have been large enough to hide the magnificent view of the River Thames through the long, high windows. Several doors at that end of the room opened onto a terrace overlooking the river. The tops of oak and beech trees showed immediately beyond the terrace, and beyond these, gardens as beautifully laid out as those in the great squares at the King’s palaces. Farther on was the crowded river, caught now by the sun, mirror-smooth save where rowboats, wherries and ferries plied up and down; and great sailing ships rode at anchor or at the quays, their cargoes being unloaded into flatbottomed barges or onto the stone quaysides. Beyond were more docks and squat warehouses, church spires rising sharp and clear above the huddle of buildings.
John Furnival took in all of this at a single glance as, with a brother on either side, he moved towards the windows.
‘Will you sit down, John, and join us in a glass of port?’
‘I would if I had the time,’ the justice replied, ‘but when I said I had urgent business I was not joking.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘In truth I come as a messenger from myself, anxious to make you understand that I mean what I say.’
‘Was there a time when you did not?’ asked Francis.
‘I pray not and pray that there never will be. Perhaps I should have said I want to convince you.’ He gave that remark time to sink in and then went on with great deliberation. ‘In spite of what I said to William when we last met, I am in a mood to make an arrangement with you all.’
Even Francis caught his breath.
‘You mean, retire from the bench at Bow Street?’ William demanded incredulously.
‘On certain conditions,’ replied John Furnival, ‘and I would wish to discuss them with all the family at the same time, not speak to appointed delegates.’ His eyes danced as he looked at William. ‘When is the first opportunity?’
‘Why, we can make one at any time to suit you,’ Francis declared. ‘Is that not so, William?’
‘Provided it also suits us,’ William replied. ‘Whom do you mean by all the family, John? The menfolk? Or the women also?’
‘I’ve a strong preference to have both sexes hear what I’m going to propose,’ Furnival replied, ‘but I’d not make it a condition.’
‘I don’t know what is in your mind,’ Francis said, ‘but a good time would be two weeks next Sunday, October thirteenth, when we are all to dine together at Furnival Square. Siddle and Montmorency will also be present, with some of our associates from the City here, bankers and merchants with whom we may shortly expect some family ties. Either before dinner or after would be suitable.’
‘Then before,’ answered John promptly, ‘and there will be less danger of anyone present - even our tame Members of Parliament - becoming comatose.’
‘Talk at one-thirty, then,’ said Francis, ‘after everyone is back from church and we have had some refreshment. Will you be at Great Furnival Square at twelve noon?’
‘I shall be there,’ promised John.
‘Will you give us no clue as to what you intend to ask of us?’ asked William.
‘No, William,’ John replied. ‘Not a single one you haven’t had already.’ He pulled his gold watch from his fob pocket and raised his eyebrows. ‘I must be on my way or I shall be late for an appointment with a fellow magistrate and the Keeper of Newgate. But first, I would like to step onto the terrace.’
‘I will open a door.’ Francis limped with surprising speed to one side, turned a key in the lock and pushed the door open, then stood aside for his brother, who dwarfed him.
Only out here did one realise the magnificence of the site which the old John Furnival had chosen for the offices and for this room. Not only was the whole south bank of the Thames visible; also one could see London Bridge spanning the river, crammed with foot and wheeled and horse traffic. An extra L-shaped platform had been added at the eastern end of the terrace, the foot of the L the great towers, and the white stone walls of the Tower of London seemed so close that it appeared possible to jump down to the parapets and join the scarlet Beefeaters. One could even see the ironwork of Traitor’s Gate, the cannons mounted on the parapet pointing along the river. Looking at the broad surface of the river, alive with flat-bottomed craft, was like looking at a colony of giant ants.
John Furnival raised his eyes and looked above him to the tall, majestic monument with its crown of gilded flames towering above the spires of the churches as a constant reminder of the fire which had destroyed much of London less than eighty years ago. Beyond was the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s, looking bright in the strong sun. He looked at this for a few moments and then his gaze shifted to Newgate.
He turned away.
‘With such a view of London I marvel that you don’t want to see it the best and cleanest and most trouble-free city in the world,’ he remarked. And with a sardonic smile he asked, ‘Did it ever occur to you that since the City marshals will pay as much as three thousand pounds for their posts, which carry no salary, they must have some way of making money? Such as corruption, perhaps?’ As neither of his brothers answered he shrugged, smiled more freely, and asked, ‘How often do you come onto the terrace?’
Still neither man answered.
‘It is as I feared,’ went on John Furnival. ‘You have lost your souls. You have until two weeks on Sunday to find them!’
He turned away, but quick as he was, Francis reached the terrace and the landing doors ahead of him, opened them and shook his hand.
‘Goodbye, William,’ John called, and William replied, ‘Goodbye, brother.’
He waited in the room until Francis came back from the head of the stairs, and as the door closed he asked, ‘What do you think it is he wants? Something very big or he would not humble himself to come here.’
‘We have certainly never been more of a mind than about that,’ opined Francis. ‘He is to try to strike a bargain which he wants very much indeed. As for what it is - we shall have to wait to find out. I will admit one thing about brother John,’ he went on. ‘He inspires absolute loyalty in his servants, from Moffat down to a groom. We’ll never get a squeak of what he wants, until he tells us.’
‘We can put two and two together,’ growled William.
Not Tom Harris but another of the Bow Street retainers, Sam Fairweather, was outside the gateway at Newgate Prison when John Furnival arrived some time later. Three men were being bundled out of a cart and pushed and kicked towards the lodge, all manacled together; each looked innocuous compared with the savage thief-takers who were committing them. Furnival did not comment; at times part of his mind was closed to the iniquity of London. Fairweather, a little wizened-looking man with the most powerful hands and forearms of any man Furnival knew, gave him a hand down from the saddle.
‘Tom’s inside, sir,’ he said, ‘with the two thief-takers and Lionel Martin.’
‘Good,’ Furnival grunted. ‘How would you describe them, Sam?’
Lines leapt into the corners of Fairweather’s face as he screwed up his eyes with merriment. ‘Apprehensive, sir,’ he answered. ‘It has not been my pleasure to see more apprehensive gents for a long time.’
‘Better still,’ said Furnival. ‘Has Silas Moffat been here?’
‘And gone, sir. The Keeper is expecting you.’
Furnival nodded and turned towards the archway, and immediately a small inoffensive-looking man came from the gatehouse lodge, bringing through the open door a whiff of prison stench. He touched his cap and said, ‘If you will please follow me, sir,’ and led the way to the chamber where all who were committed to Newgate were taken. About the walls were iron rings for restraining violent prisoners; and there were heavy leg irons, balls and chains, as well as manacles.
No more than a dozen men and women were sitting on the stone floor and there was sign of James Marshall.
The man led the way to another door which was opened at once and more potent stench wafted through; everywhere was the pervasive Newgate stink which nothing could really overcome, try though one might with scents and flowers or the Frenchies’ garlic. In a front room with Tom Harris, all standing, were the three who had been instrumental in manufacturing the charge against James Marshall. The magistrate, a ship’s chandler who was a well-known spare-time justice, was short and plump and flaccid-faced. He doffed his three-cornered hat as he said, ‘My pleasure, Mr. Furnival, truly my pleasure.’
‘I hope it will remain that way,’ replied Furnival grimly. ‘You can take your choice, all three of you. Retract the evidence and the committal, in which case I’ll say no more about it, or be charged with conspiracy to defraud and to bearing false witness and accepting payment in consideration thereof. Which is it to be?’
The magistrate gulped. ‘But there were independent witnesses to the theft!’
‘You can take your choice but not your time,’ retorted Furnival. ‘It won’t take long to find plenty of witnesses to say there were two boys, and the wrong one was caught.’
This was the only explanation he could envisage, and the reaction on the faces of the men convinced him he was right. Their hypocrisy was nauseating enough to turn Furnival’s stomach but this was no time to say what he thought of them. He had one purpose: to find and release James Marshall even if it were only release on bail. But if these two thief-takers retracted, the boy would have complete freedom.
‘It could be a case of mistaken identity,’ muttered the magistrate.
‘D’you swear to that?’ Furnival demanded. ‘In front of these witnesses?’
‘Readily,’ the first thief-taker declared. ‘No one would want to see an innocent lad convicted of theft. Why, he could be hanged for it!’
‘One day you’ll make a mistake too many and you’ll be hanged,’ Furnival said coldly. He looked demandingly at the other thief-taker. ‘Do you swear to a mistaken identity, Godden?’
‘Why, surely, sir, I do!’
‘If you ever cross my path again and I find you’ve given false evidence, I’ll see you hanged, the pair of you. Now get out.’ He frowned as they scurried away, then turned to Martin. ‘It will take too long to withdraw the charge at the lodge and half the jailers are probably in the plot, anyhow. We’ll see the Keeper and you’ll tell him the two men who arrested James Marshall have retracted and you have cancelled your notice of committal. Just that and no more. D’you understand?’
The man who dealt in justice for profit looked at him with unexpected defiance and replied, ‘Yes. But one day, John Furnival, you’ll go too far. If the hangman doesn’t get you, the thief-takers will.’
‘I can remember Frederick Jackson saying that very same thing,’ Furnival replied derisively. He turned to the inoffensive little man with thin features. ‘Have you orders to take us to the Keeper?’
‘Yes, Mr. Furnival, sir, I am one of his turnkeys. I have already sent for the boy to be found and brought to the Keeper’s office. What a terrible miscarriage of justice nearly took place, sir.’ He took two strides for every one of Furnival’s, and the ships’ chandler’s length of stride came somewhere in between. ‘But the Keeper himself is in the country, sir, and his assistant will be seeing you, a Mr. Heywood.’
He talked on ceaselessly as he led them through the dark, forbidding corridors of grey stone, the walls high on either side, every window, large or small, barred to make escape impossible. Yet without the bars and the darkened windows, the building could have been a palace rather than a prison, so nobly was it proportioned and so fine was the decorative work on the ceilings.
The Keeper, Furnival felt sure, was somewhere in the living quarters of the prison, anxious not to meet him face to face, so that he could deny any part in or knowledge of what had happened. His assistant, a one-eyed man, was fulsome in his greeting, offered wine, assured them there would be no difficulty, heard the ships’ chandler’s cancellation and the state-merits of retracted evidence, jumped when a tap came on the door, sharp and clear, and called ‘Come in.’ At once a huge man entered, keys clanking from the thick leather belt at his waist. He was handsome in a bold and rugged fashion, with glossy black hair, cleanshaven at the lips and chin but heavily hirsute on the cheeks. There was an air of the brigand about him, a swagger emphasised by the belted jacket and full-cut breeches and leather boots, and gaiters. Everything about him was the more impressive because of his size.
Furnival had expected to see James Marshall with him but the jailer was alone.
‘Well, Bolson, where is he? Where is the boy?’ demanded the Keeper’s assistant.
‘He can’t be found, sir, nowhere,’ declared the huge man. He looked not at the Keeper’s assistant but at Furnival; it was difficult to judge whether there was more defiance than triumph in his eyes. Very deliberately he went on: ‘You know what can happen if the prisoners take a fancy to a boy.’
Furnival stood absolutely still when Bolson declared that the boy could not be found.
Tom Harris exclaimed: ‘In God’s name, no?
Heywood put a hand to his one eye as if to hide from the expression in Furnival’s and said stridently, ‘It could not have happened!’
‘I’ve known them dead before the men have half finished with them,’ the head jailer said. ‘I’ve known them live, too.’ He touched his forehead with a meaningful gesture. ‘They ain’t never been the same, though.’
‘Mr. Heywood,’ said Furnival in a cold voice, ‘I desire to make a thorough search of every ward in the prison, male and female, debtors’ and felons’, until the boy is found. Tom,’ he barked at Harris, ‘go you to Tilt Yard at once, riding any horse if you have none of your own here, and tell the colonel in charge, be it Colonel Treese or Colonel Hammond, that a company of dragoons must be available to quiet an expected riot in Newgate Prison. Go then to Bow Street and send every available man to act as messengers. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Perfect, sir, perfect!’ Tom turned to go.
‘Mr. Heywood,’ went on Furnival in the same cold voice, ‘if anything happens to or delays Constable Harris on this errand, I shall hold you personally responsible and charge you with conspiring to cause a miscarriage of justice.’ He turned his head slightly. ‘Head jailer—’
‘You’re wasting your time. I’ve already searched, I tell you.’ Bolson was aggressively sure of himself.
‘You are in charge of the inmates of this noisome place and if any harm has befallen the boy Marshall you also will be charged with conspiracy, and you had best pray that he is not dead or grievously hurt. Mr. Heywood, will you escort me in person, if you please?’
‘I - I—’ began Heywood, and he looked as if he would burst into tears. ‘If the Keeper were here—’
‘Either come with me or send for the Keeper, wherever he is hiding.’ Again Furnival turned to the head jailer, who still smiled faintly, as if he were enjoying this fuss and feared no harm. ‘Your name is Bolson, I understand.’
‘Yes, sir. Jake Bolson.’
‘We will go to the Stone Hold first.’
Bolson looked astounded, but much of his expression seemed put on.
‘The Stone Hold, sir? Why it wouldn’t be safe for a gentleman like you.’
‘We shall find out if it is safe for a scoundrel like you. Lead the way - at once.’
Bolson hesitated, looked at Heywood, and obviously realised that there was no help coming from him. He shrugged and turned to the door. Over his shoulder he slung a single sentence. ‘No blame to me if they cut your throat.’ He turned into a stone-flagged passage and then down a narrow stone staircase; the stench which rose was enough to make Furnival choke. Jailers were at iron gates leading to other wards, or holds, astounded at the sight of Furnival.
Bolson and Furnival were halfway down the second flight of steps, lit only by rush flares in iron wall brackets, when the Keeper’s assistant called, ‘I am coming, wait for me. I am coming!’
Bolson growled, ‘More fool you, you—’
Furnival stretched out a hand and held him loosely about the throat. The hard voice was cut off. Bolson looked over his shoulder as if for the first time he knew a moment of fear.
‘Head jailer,’ Furnival said, ‘if we have to fight, I shall kill you, and if I have to kill you, it will be a happy day for thousands of poor wretches fated to come here. Lead the way.’ He released the man, who turned and moved on, saying no word; cowed.
The stench was now so thick and nauseating that Heywood began to cough and Furnival had to fight to prevent himself from being sick. They came upon a sight so awful that Furnival, who had heard of this place and who had been to other parts of the prison he had thought so bad that nothing could be worse, was appalled. Inside one huge stone-floored dungeon, with only dim light from a barred window built high in the wall and two casements, there must have been three hundred people. A dozen, mostly men, were banging on the gate and rattling it so noisily that it seemed it must break; others were quick to join them. The stench of human body odours, excreta and gin came in a revolting wave. At one side, clearly visible, a man and a woman were copulating. Lying on their backs or on their stomachs or bent double as if in pain were men and women with gin flagons by their sides, so that apart from the rattling and the shouted threats there was snoring from dozens of throats. Against one wall another couple sat; within hand’s reach of them was a girl with an infant at her full, milky-white breast. She looked dazed and oblivious of her surroundings as she suckled the child. In one corner, sitting in a circle, were six - or was it eight? - women all dressed in dark clothes which spread beneath them, all with their heads bowed as if in prayer. Each wore a white collar and had white cuffs. An old man was leaning against one wall, vomiting. Three children, two boys and a girl, were racing about the room, threading their way among the occupants, squealing with delight. A middle-aged woman stood in the midst of a small group, reciting the Ten Commandments in a high-pitched voice. Sitting or squatting, many men and women were in attitudes of dejection and despair.
The men by the gate stopped rattling it for at least ten seconds and then one of them screeched, ‘It’s the bastard Furnivall’
‘The hanging justice!’
‘Let me get at him!’
‘Send him in here, Bolly boy. We’ll tear him to pieces!’ screamed a man who was much the same build as Tom Harris.
Bolson drew back, a huge key in his hand attached to a bunch secured at his waist; and in the poor light his sneer showed and it sounded clearly in his voice.
‘Now do you want to go in?’
‘Open the door at once,’ ordered Furnival.
‘No, sir, I beg you—’ Heywood began.
‘I myself wouldn’t go inside that hellhole with them in that condition,’ Bolson declared.
‘I can well believe you,’ said Furnival icily. ‘Are you going to open the door or must I open it for you?’
He moved forward as if to pull the key from the other’s hand and Bolson screeched, ‘They’ll kill you!’
‘Every man in this hellhole knows that if I were to be murdered here he would be hanged next hanging day,’ said Furnival in a clear, carrying voice. ‘And you among them, for putting them up to this idiot behaviour.’
‘I - I - That’s a lie,’ gasped Bolson. ‘I never did!’
Furnival wrenched the key from the man’s grasp, thrusting him close to the bars so that he, Furnival, had room to instert and turn the key. He needed both hands and on the instant that he took one hand from the small of Bolson’s back he was at the man’s mercy. He felt Bolson thrust weight backward, then heard Heywood cry: ‘Enough!’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Keeper’s assistant’s pistol thrust against the jailer’s neck, and for the first time since he had sent Tom Harris off he felt that he was not alone. The key groaned in the lock as it turned. There remained the risk that one of the prisoners would attack him; and if one started, the others might follow.
‘Kill the devil!’ one man rasped.
‘Choke him to death!’
‘One more threat and one single act of violence and you will all be placed under sentence of death for attacking a magistrate,’ Furnival said in that clear, carrying voice. ‘Who among you wishes to be hanged so that Bolson can line his pockets?’ He paused long enough for the significance of his words to sink in, then added, ‘Let me pass.’
There was still a chance that some of the men would rush at him, but instead they drew back, as if the cold gaze from his eyes and the thin line of his lips intimidated them. He trod on slime; the floor was running with a filthy ooze. He looked at every man and woman and especially at every child, but he did not see James Marshall.
As he neared the middle of the hold, he heard singing.
At first it was so soft it seemed far away, but it was the voices of women raised in harmony, and he looked towards the group of dark-clad women in the corner, who seemed as out of place here as a virgin in a brothel. He went slowly towards them, noticing that those of the prisoners who were sober looked at them and listened, while even some who had been in the depths of misery glanced up, as if for a moment the awfulness of their plight was eased.
Gradually the words of their hymn became clear and pure in sound:
‘He that on the throne doth reign,
Them the lamb will always feed.
With the tree of life sustain.
To the living fountains lead.
He shall all their sorrows chase,
All their wants at once remove,
Wipe the tears from every face,
Fill up every soul with love.’
And as they sang they rose to their feet and from amongst them came James Marshall, who they had kept hidden from the savage beastliness of the men in this awful den. The boy’s eyes were feverishly bright and his face had a sickly pallor but his gaze was as direct as Furnival’s.
Furnival’s heart leapt as it might have had this been his own son.
There was growling and grumbling from the men who had threatened Furnival, but no move towards him or the boy. Furnival, turning, saw two of his Bow Street reliables by the open gate, pistols cocked.
The head jailer was at one side, and the Keeper’s assistant was demanding, ‘Who are those women? Why have they been committed here?’
‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t know!’ Bolson’s voice was unsteady.
‘Then go and find out, you dolt.’ The courage that had poured into the little one-eyed man was sterner than had seemed possible, and he pushed the hulking Bolson towards the steps as he ordered the other jailers, ‘Bring those women out and take them at once to the Press Yard. See also that they have good food and drink, whether they can pay for it or not.’ He looked up at Furnival, his one eye blazing. ‘Thank God you were in time, sir.’
‘Thank God indeed,’ said John Furnival dryly. ‘Boy, go with the ladies to the Press Yard, where the air is clean and no one will assault you. I trust you know well how to say thank you to those ladies.’
‘I shall be forever in their debt, sir,’ James Marshall declared in a quivering voice. ‘And in yours, sir.’
‘Remember the debt you owe them because you will never be able to repay it,’ replied Furnival.
He stood aside as the women, seven in all, walked out of the Stone Hold with their heads held high; all but one were in their twenties and thirties, each comely, the eyes of each lighting up at the sight of the rescued boy and of Furnival. They filed up the stairs, one jailer ahead and one bringing up the rear, while Furnival locked the gate as his own constables watched.
‘Stay here until the jailers return,’ said Furnival. ‘Then one of you report to the colonel in charge at Tilt Yard that the emergency is past at Newgate Prison, thanks’ - he looked into that one blazing eye - ‘to prompt action on the part of the Keeper’s assistant. Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. Heywood?’
‘Gladly, sir, gladly.’ Heywood sounded as humble as he had earlier sounded afraid.
They went up past the middle holds of the prison, from which came the same stench, and alongside the Press Yard, from where it was but a short distance to the assistant’s office.
‘If you will partake of a little refreshment with me, Mr. Furnival, I shall be delighted. Port, perhaps, or coffee—’
‘Good of you,’ said Furnival, ‘but I must be on my way. I trust you will report the incident in the greatest detail to the Keeper.’
‘The greatest detail, sir, I do assure you.’
‘And I will take it kindly if you will inform him that in my opinion Bolson was bribed by someone outside the prison to persuade the men to make a show of violence against me, and that I might well be dead but for your action.’
‘You are past grateful, sir. I declare I did no more than my duty. A duty in which I might have failed but for your example. If I may suggest - a letter, the shortest of letters, to the same effect to the Keeper. If it would not be too great a bother.’
‘It shall be done. And will you tell him, or be yourself assured, that I will pay for the privileges which are accorded the ladies, however long they are here. But they must be permitted the Press Yard and the best treatment and accommodation.’
‘Be assured of it, sir.’
Furnival nodded and turned, saying, ‘I would like to go for the boy.’
‘And I will come with you.’ The Keeper’s assistant could not get to the door fast enough to open it for the justice of the peace for the City of Westminster and the County of Middlesex, and they walked side by side, followed now by the two Bow Street constables. Behind, the Stone Hold was secured and guarded by jailers again.
Heywood led them along narrow passages which were pleasantly lighted by large windows, then through a doorway which opened onto the Press Yard. And almost the first thing Furnival saw was young James, gaping about him with a wonder surely as great as the terror he had felt when he had been in the dungeon.
James was as wide-eyed as a young monkey while he looked about him in this place they called the Press Yard, for it was almost impossible to believe this was part of the same prison. The air was clear and pleasantly warm and there was no unpleasant odour. Apart from the heavy barred doors and the barred windows it was like being in a small London square, and the men and women here - nine men to every woman at least, save for the seven who had just come in with him - were dressed in expensive clothes, some with diamond pins in their cravats, all showing or at least pretending an elegance which seemed part of a different world. A group of four was playing cards, and he recognised Sir Roger Pilaff, a Member of Parliament accused of treason. He remembered his father telling him that at Newgate - as in all prisons - men and women of wealth could ‘buy’ their own apartment, their own wine and food, and could live in luxury, having wives or mistresses whenever they wished, and having their own servants. For these prisoners the jailers would run errands for a price which varied vastly according to the means of the patron.
Much that James’s father had told him he had only half absorbed, but from the moment he had been committed here until his release, he had been terrified, for he had experienced all there was to know about the helplessness of the poor prisoners, the near-certainty of conviction, and hanging or transportation for the humblest of thefts.
To him there were now two Newgates: this bright and airy part, where so many well-to-do lived and idled their hours away, and the nightmare beastliness of the stinkhole, where, he knew, he might have been killed by the more brutal inmates or from which he could have been raised into the death cart to be jogged and shaken on the way to Tyburn.
He could ‘see’ Frederick Jackson’s legs; and how soon they had gone still in death.
To James Marshall, moreover, there were two kinds of men: those whom he knew from Bow Street, with John Furnival leading them like a knight in shining armour, and men like the thief-takers and the head jailer. It seemed to him that all of life as well as all humankind must be divided in this way, and that bitter conflict was waged increasingly between the good and the bad.
He had been in the Press Yard for less than an hour when John Furnival came to fetch him. Before he left he went hesitatingly to the group of women who had succoured him, but when he reached them, all sitting cross-legged in a half circle and listening to the oldest of them, he could not find words; whenever he tried, his lips quivered but the words would not come. The oldest woman rose to her feet with ease and approached him, holding out her hands for him to grasp. He could see the deep lines etched at the corners of her eyes and mouth.
‘Go with God, James,’ she said gently. ‘And remember, we shall always thank God that we were able to help you. If you wish to thank us—’ She paused long enough for him to nod vigorously and to cry out ‘Oh, I do!’ Then she went on in the same gentle but authoritative voice. ‘Then thank us by remembering that the greatest heights to which a man or a woman can rise are the heights of serving others.’ She paused again and, as he nodded, mute, went on: ‘Simply remember that, James, and pray for us.’
She did not draw him to her.
He was aware only of her, although all were watching.
He did not know that a strange and rare silence had fallen upon the whole Press Yard. Every man and the few women present had stopped talking, stopped doing whatever they were at, and watched. Even Sir Roger Pilaff sat silent, cards fanned out in his hand.
Completely oblivious, James slowly went down on one knee and pressed the woman’s fingers to his lips, held them tightly, then sprang up and ran towards the door leading to the main passage and to the lodge, with John Furnival striding after him.
It was a long time before movement in the Press Yard began afresh and low-pitched voices broke the silence; but even as the talking grew louder and behaviour returned to normal, many a curious glance was cast towards the dark-clad women, whether they knelt in silent prayer or listened to their leader or walked in twos about the yard quietly rejoicing in their comparative freedom.