On the morning of Sunday, the thirteenth of October, 1739, John Furnival was driven in an open carriage towards Great Furnival Square. He was due to arrive to meet the family between eleven-thirty and twelve noon, and if he were to arrive early he would go to Cleo’s home, or Anne’s, for each would have been to church at St. Mary’s and would be at home to anyone who called. ‘Anyone’ would be members of the family, for no doubt it had been widely spread about that only family would be present. The sun was warmer than he had expected, and the Strand was almost empty, only an occasional coach or chair moving along and a few drunkards sleeping outside the grogshops or the brothels; the Sabbath had certainly quieted this part of London.
Seeing a throng of gaily dressed people come out of St. Martin’s in the Fields, he wondered how Smith was getting on at St. Hilary’s. Then he noticed a line of people dressed in dark clothes and wearing round hats with shallow tops walking by, carrying posters and calling out: ‘Go to the fields today to hear the word of God from the lips of His prophet, John Wesley.’ After a pause they repeated the same words, and Furnival saw that the times of the meetings were written on the placards. After the third refrain a man with a voice as powerful as Smith’s boomed out: ‘John Wesley will preach at Tyburn Fields at twelve noon. At Spitalfields at three o’clock of the afternoon. At Smithfield at half-past five in the evening.’
Furnival leaned forward and called up to his coachman, ‘Go up and down Whitehall and then to Tyburn Fields.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
It was a fine, clear day, and Furnival settled back to enjoy the sunshine. The roadways and the walks, already paved, were now crammed with people, and carriages and coaches were being drawn leisurely, some to go only as far as Westminster Abbey and the Parliament building, some to go along the embankment towards London Bridge, where they could cross for a Sunday at the gardens.
In these open thoroughfares on this beautiful autumn morning, the London of crime and treachery, of brothels and ginshops, of stinking sewers and rotting animal corpses, was easily forgotten. One could breathe clean air, could see contentment on many faces, could enjoy the sight of the couples arm in arm, some shepherding three or four children, the colourful fruit barrows, the cries of the street callers no longer strident. At the Abbey, where more throngs were leaving, the coachman turned his pair. They repassed St. Martin’s and Furnival wondered why Smith had not arranged a meeting for Wesley in the surrounding fields. Soon they were moving at a good clip across fields where sheep grazed and a few cattle roamed and dogs barked. The sun became almost too warm, but the hood of the coach would go no farther back and there was a light breeze.
The coachman, whom Furnival did not know well but who was a protege of Sam Fairweather’s, recently released from the Navy, touched the flanks of the horses so that they quickened their pace along Piccadilly, and Furnival looked across the open fields towards Buckingham House which, some said, was soon to be pulled down. Traffic was very thick as they approached the turnpike at Hyde Park, and suddenly Furnival was aware of a hand waving and someone trying discreetly to attract attention. It was Lisa Braidley, magnificently arrayed, by her side the young Duke of Gilhampton. Furnival touched his forehead to her and smiled.
Beyond the turnpike was Tyburn Lane, with its farms and inns and tall haystacks, and people were streaming along, mostly dark-clad; he could hardly have imagined a more different sight from a hanging day. Furnival heard one pretty girl call: ‘Sheets of John Wesley’s hymns, one penny!’
Groups were gathered in small circles, singing the hymns. Furnival recognised one of the women whom he had seen at Newgate, though she did not notice him. She had been out of prison for more than a week, for Harris and Noble had found the two provincials, porters, who had encouraged the women to take the goods so that they themselves could steal more and blame the women. Furnival had spent ten minutes with a tight-lipped merchant who seemed to have had no ulterior motive in charging the women but simply believed the porter’s story, and also that anyone who stole should at least be transported for life.
The widening fields revealed several thousands of men and women; and in their midst others were hammering as if preparing a scaffold, but they were in fact making a rostrum strong enough to bear Wesley, and barriers to keep back the press of the crowd.
Sebastian Smith was amongst them, leading a group in singing, while the hymn sheets were being offered by eager-faced young people in vivid contrast to the harridans who had sold copies of Jonathan Wild’s and Frederick Jackson’s fabled last speeches from the gallows.
Thinner crowds were coming from the countryside and from the village of St. Marylebone, even some from Cavendish Square, as the coachman turned his pair along narrow, rutted side streets, with children playing in the open sewers.
Only five minutes away was Great Furnival Square, as remote from squalor as any place could be; called by many the most clean-smelling group of buildings in London, with a sewer system which carried wastes to distant fields, even with the newfangled water closets at ground floor and second floor level. Furnival thought of this as his coach drew up outside Number 17, Cleo’s home. Before long he was going to be told that his family were in advance of any other in creating good, healthy living conditions for their workers, in taking care of them in times of adversity. He was going to be told that the patriarchal system developed by the Furnivals and many others served not only London but England best, for it kept all Englishmen free.
With short, dark, aquiline-featured Cleo on one side, in a gown of rich green, and tall, fair Sarah on the other, regal in a gown of ice- blue, which was drawn off her beautiful shoulders, John Furnival reached the head of the grand staircase and, arms linked, all three looked down on a scene almost as glittering as a ball by night. Outside, the day was full of sunlight, but there were no windows in this great circular hall, only doors leading to elegant rooms. All of these held tall windows but each door was now closed.
The huge glass chandeliers were glittering; the thousand candles, despite their flickering, gave a soft light which flattered both men and women, young and old. Although there must have been at least fifty people on the marble floor, with its signs of the zodiac inlaid with semiprecious stones, the hall seemed sparsely filled. Liveried servants stood at damask-covered tables with French wines, port and Spanish sherry, and even coffee and tea for those who preferred them. There were sweetmeats on one table, savouries on another, specialities like Cornish pasties, and pate de foie gras, tiny sausages, ham rolled about asparagus tips; and game and hog pies for those who felt they needed heavier fare before dinner, which would be served by four o’clock in the main dining room behind the staircase.
Descending slowly, John Furnival picked out many of his relatives and family associates, some of whom he had not seen for years. It was strange, perhaps, that Francis, so exquisite of face and misshapen of figure, should be the most outstanding. Deborah, his wife, was with him, a thick-set mannish-looking woman. With them was Robert Yeoman, recently re-elected Member of Parliament for one of the seats of the City of London. An erect, hook-nosed man who could be taken in passing for the Duke of Gilhampton and was vain enough to want to be, he was a shrewd and calculating politician, Tory or Whig when it best suited him, who did not hesitate to speak up and vote against a government measure if it appeared to be against the Furnival interest. Cleo, his wife, took little outward interest in politics but carried out her social duties with ease.
With Yeoman was Martin Montmorency, one of the Members for the City of Westminster, and his elegant, laughing, beautiful French wife, in rich blue; when he had married her, Montmorency had taken one of the few risks in his career: of losing favour because he was married to a woman from a country for which few Englishmen had much respect.
There also was portly Jeremy Siddle, Member for St. Albans and a Furnival spokesman in the House, who was so red in the face he looked likely to collapse with apoplexy any moment. His wife was an Englishwoman of elegance but little other distinction. William Furnival, more elegant in pale green and a longer peruke than most, was talking earnestly with a group .of men, all distant relatives by blood or by marriage and all with a share and an activity in the Furnival enterprise. Aldermen of the City of London and bankers, including a director of the Bank of England, great merchants, ship-owners, men from Lloyd’s and other insurance houses, all were present with their ladies. Furnival realised at the first sweeping glance that his brothers had kept their promise in spirit as well as letter; here were the senior members of the family, with hardly a youth or a girl among them. He was to be taken seriously, and this was a measure of how much they wanted him back among them.
It was ten years since he had left all the boards, retaining only a few shares, for his own wealth had seemed fully sufficient for his need. Most years he visited here for Christmas, but seldom more often.
Cleo looked up at him as they neared the foot of the stairs and said, ‘You appear to be very stern, John. Do you know that even those who pretend to be indifferent are looking at you?’
‘At you and Sarah, my dear,’ Furnival riposted. ‘The men in envy and half the women in malice, I’ll be bound.’
‘How terrible it must be to be so often right.’ Sarah sighed and squeezed his arm. ‘John—’
‘John—’ began Cleo.
‘What advice are my sisters going to give me?’ asked Furnival.
‘John,’ repeated Cleo, ‘you will speak with reason, won’t you? You won’t damn them all without giving them a hearing?’
‘I shall speak with reason,’ Furnival assured her. ‘Who knows, I may wish to come back into the fold so much that I will even plead with them!’
He was aware of both women staring at him as if hoping that he meant what he said, then of William and Francis and their wives gathered near the foot of the stairs to welcome him, and his sister Anne, alone, telling him that Jason Gilroy was on one of his interminable journeys overseas. On that instant he was gripped by hand and arm and shoulder, his cheeks were brushed with warm, soft lips, and he was drawn to a dozen ample bosoms and as many that looked deprived despite their dressmakers. He was assailed by delicate perfumes and powders, the powerful odour of snuff freshly taken, of cigar smoke heavy on the breath of many men and of rum and port on the breath of others. He felt as he had never expected to feel here: like a prodigal son returning. Mellowed, he was told this piece of news and that piece of gossip and yet another of scandal. He was showered with invitations to dine, to attend home soirees and recitals. Even Handel, still in London and about to give a series of concerts, was offered as bait. The wives of the Members of Parliament, peers and men from the City of London were, according to their nature, insistent or effusive. No man during the first half hour spoke more than a courteous sentence or two. John Furnival went to the buffet with Francis’ wife, Deborah, and with Anne, a delicate-looking woman with fine blue eyes in a heart-shaped face.
‘Don’t eat too much before you talk,’ advised Deborah, ‘or you will hiccup and that will spoil the effect of what you are to say.’
‘So I am to lecture, not simply talk to you, one by one?’
‘John,’ Anne said, ‘they all want you back. They still miss you, and every man concerned with Furnival’s knows that you are the natural leader. Your presence will give the name even greater stature and—’
‘They want me off the bench at Bow Street, where the stature of the name shrinks!’
‘Fie, cynic!’ scoffed Deborah.
‘They would do a great many things to get you away from Bow Street,’ Anne agreed soberly. ‘But they know that they must listen to what you have to say and create the best circumstances for you to say it. Everyone present is a shareholder in one Furnival company or another, or in a company closely allied to us, and everyone will—’
‘One or two of the women may decide it is not for them to listen or discuss, but to follow their husbands blindly,’ Deborah interrupted.
‘True indeed,’ said Anne. Furnival was acutely aware of her fine eyes as she went on, and in his mind she rose greatly in stature while Deborah seemed to fade. ‘But most will come if only out of curiosity, some even’ - her eyes glinted - ‘just to look on Handsome John! They will be with you in the library,’ she went on. ‘Enough chairs and couches have been placed there.’
‘My request could not have been taken more seriously,’ Furnival agreed.
‘I tell you, John, there is not one among us who does not want you back,’ declared Anne. She took his hands and spoke as earnestly as anyone could. ‘Please, please come.’ She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek, then rested her fingers on the back of his hand.
‘Francis is coming for you,’ she said. ‘John, what is it you want? If they can possibly give it to you, they will.’
John Furnival looked down on her and smiled, gravely but with unmistakable affection. He was aware of Francis, approaching slowly, and knew that he had only a moment left. His smile broadened and he made a rare gesture, bending down and brushing her forehead with his lips.
‘What I want is a change of heart,’ he said. ‘If they can give me that the rest will follow.’
She gripped his hands so tightly that her rings hurt his fingers and he judged from her expression that she did not believe that he would be able to get that change of heart. Next moment Francis was by their side; a waiter came up and was waved away.
Anne and Deborah turned to mix with the others, and Francis said, ‘You and I will go into the library by the secondary door, John. If you wish you can wash in the closet before you go in.’
John Furnival had first entered the library about thirty years ago by this same door when his grandfather, the first John Furnival, had sat at the huge carved oak desk, soon after the house had been formally opened and the families in Great Furnival Square had taken up residence. He, the young John, had been fascinated by the masses of books which rose from floor to ceiling and by the beautifully carved twisting oaken staircase to the gallery, from which one reached one section of the shelves. There had been few changes. Two walls were solid with leather-bound books and there were more on either side of the great fireplace.
Those who entered the library by the secondary door found themselves on a platform raised some eighteen inches above the wooden-block floor, from which one could see and be seen while speaking.
John Furnival stood on this platform now.
Every chair, every stool, every couch, was occupied; the fifty or so people who had seemed so sparse in the hall now crammed the room so that there could hardly be space for another half dozen. Husbands and wives sat apart, men on one side, women on the other, and the Members of Parliament and the men from the City of London were grouped together as if they felt they would be in need of protection.
A babble of talk had stopped as Francis entered and held the door open for his brother. They made a strange contrast, one so frail, the other so massive, but the disparity faded as Francis smiled and raised his hands as a priest might in a blessing.
‘I don’t really know whether we’re going to hear a sermon or a political speech,’ he began, and was forced to stop as laughter, starting slowly, drowned his words. He allowed it to die away naturally, then looked around and up at his brother and added: ‘Or a boxing match.’
Once again came a roar of laughter, and John Furnival found it easy to join in, glad that Francis was relaxed and amusing; this was the best side of his brother.
The others soon settled and Francis went on, still in a light tone but with obvious seriousness.
‘No one could be more pleased to see him here than I—’
There was a chorus of agreement but John Furnival noticed little came from the solid phalanx of politicians and financiers and merchants. Could they have come to oppose for the sake of opposing?
‘And I’m very glad that I am the host and he is not—’
A woman cried, ‘He means he’s glad we’re not at Bow Street!’
The phalanx of men relaxed into smiles this time, and John looked appreciatively at his brother, who was creating the most receptive atmosphere possible. Francis smiled back at him.
‘I have no idea what he has to talk about; I only know that there has at last been a crack in that granite-hard mind of his, and he thinks there is a way by which he could rejoin us in our multifarious activities. I cannot imagine any prospect more to be desired.’
Francis sat down on a monk’s stool obviously placed in position for him, and John Furnival moved to the centre of the platform. He knew exactly what he wanted to say and was adept in varying the way he spoke to fit the mood of a meeting. There was some applause, mostly from the women, as he looked about him.
‘Why on earth you should want me when you have Francis—’ he began, and immediately was drowned by a burst of applause. In a way this was a political meeting, and feelings were aroused much more than he would have thought possible. But the City group, though smiling, was still wary; and it was they, with his brothers and their sons, who would make the decisions. As the noise died down he went on more gravely. ‘I doubt that many of you present really understand why I left the - ah - bosom of my family and went to Bow Street, although the reason was simple and may be clearly apparent. I believe in the law, not a law merely for those who can afford it, not a law which a man can break with impunity if he has enough money to buy his freedom from prison or the hangman’s rope, but a law free from corruption and indeed incorruptible, as rigid for the rich as for the poor, a protection for the poor who cannot buy protection for themselves. I went to Bow Street as chief magistrate and later became a justice of the peace for Westminster and the County of Middlesex in the faith that I could create - or at the very least help to create - such a law not only in London but throughout the land. I could do what few others could: pay for reliable men to serve Bow Street and the law. I could and did afford to pay each man enough money so that he did not need, for his stomach’s sake, to accept bribes or depend on a share of the blood money. So they were able to be thief-takers, not thief-makers.’
For the first time, he paused. There was not a sound in the room and not an eye was turned away from him; it was as if all those present had stopped breathing. He looked from one side to the other without focusing his gaze on anyone before going on.
‘I was able, also, to pay constables in some parishes, or those hired by constables to do their work, money enough to keep them - or most of them - from temptation.’
‘There is no such thing as an incorruptible man,’ a member of the City group rasped. ‘Men are wholly trustworthy only when they are watched.’ The speaker, a lantern-jawed man with a heavy moustache and mutton-chop whiskers, was Cornelius Hooper, the husband of a sister of Sarah’s husband and one of the wealthiest merchants in the City, with shares in most great banks and companies. Wherever the Furnivals married, they made sure of strengthening their position and gaining support for their policies.
Furnival heard him out and for the first time felt a stirring of anger, but he suppressed it and actually smiled as he said acidly, ‘I have at least twenty retainers whom I would trust with my life and my possessions, Mr. Hopper. I am sorry that your philosophy has made you less fortunate. Now if I may proceed?’ No one interrupted and he went on: ‘Thank you. Taking as a guide a count, over six months at all the magistrates’ courts in the two cities and the counties, however, for every reliable constable employed by the parishes there are at least fifty men who call themselves thief-takers. These men will falsify evidence, perhaps themselves accept bribes, falsely accuse the innocent, all for the sake of their share of the government reward paid to every thief-taker for a conviction. If this were not bad enough, for every magistrate with a court and court officials, such as at Bow Street, there are twenty trading justices. These hold court in taverns and alehouses, yes, and even in brothels, and commit men to Newgate and other abominable jails on evidence they know to be false simply for their share of the reward.’ He paused as several of the women drew in their breath, and then went on with great deliberation. ‘It is not justice, it is a prostitution of justice. When you see a Hogarth picture of the people of London you see many as they really are, not—’
‘I must protest!’ Hooper interrupted. ‘Hogarth seeks out the drunken lechers and the gin-sodden who present nothing but the filth in which they live. Nine citizens of London out of ten, aye, ninety-nine citizens out of a hundred are decent and respectable. You’ll do no good making the situation out to be worse than it is.’
‘If there is to remain a London it cannot become any worse than it is,’ Furnival retorted. ‘Because you keep the crime at a distance from you by employing a strong and well-paid force of private peace officers, you will not be able to hold it back forever, any more than by having water closets and sewers here at Great Furnival Square and at Furnival Tower House you can keep the stench of open sewers and open cesspits away when the wind carries it from outside your walls. You may carry the waste to fields and keep it from the Thames and the Tyburn, but others don’t and they befoul the air you have to breathe. So the crime in the rest of London befouls the House of Furnival and all those like it. It is useless to be farsighted if all you can see is a brick wall.’
He stopped, glaring at Hooper. Robert Yeoman put a restraining hand on Hooper’s arm, and, without getting up, Francis spoke in his bell-like voice, ‘Brother John, if you could continue uninterrupted for - for a while - not too long,’ he added, smiling, ‘would you answer any questions afterward?’
‘Yes,’ barked Furnival.
‘Then I shall be absorbed in what you have to say - and fascinated to find out what you want us to do.’
‘So shall I,’ growled Hooper.
Furnival was aware of Anne watching him intently, and her expression suggested that she was pleading with him to keep the peace, to avoid an open quarrel. That was right, of course, and what he had to do, but it was far from easy.
‘Telling you what I want is simple, but only useful if you see the need to support me,’ he said. ‘We have in this huge city and its close environs three-quarters of a million people, more, perhaps, than are gathered in any other area in the world except possibly the capital cities of China and Japan. Among these in the metropolis of London we have an estimated one hundred and fifteen thousand people who live on the proceeds of crime. We have a small, exclusive number of very rich people who live better than they could anywhere in the world since London has long since been the greatest port for the importation of exotic foods and spices in the Western Hemisphere. We have - and you will see how little we have changed since Defoe’s figure of 1720 - about one hundred and fifty thousand people of middling income, who, if they work hard, can eat and clothe themselves and their families well; and we have more than five hundred and fifty thousand who can barely earn a living, who are hungry most of the time. This is the breeding ground of our drunkards and our criminals. It exists. And we have to clean it up just as we have to clean up our streets and our sewers and our rivers. The Act of 1737 demanded half as many watch boxes as there were watchmen, so that each parish area should have one watchman patrolling and one at a box. But there are neither the required number of boxes nor the required number of watchmen. Only the old and frail and useless will do such work - or pretend to - for five shillings a week. This is a mockery of protection as the trading justices are a mockery of justice.’
He drew a deep breath, and expected another interruption, but no one spoke and he sensed a tension which now touched them all. He was quite sure that to many of the women the figures he quoted came as a shock, which was why he had wanted them here.
At last he went on with great deliberation.
‘There is only one way: a strong peace force, as I would call it, paid not by individuals who can afford to protect themselves and devil take the others, nor by parishes, which avoid paying every penny they can, but by the government.’ He went a step closer to the edge of the little platform and raised his hands waist high, the first gesture he had made. ‘If the House of Furnival, with all its influence in Parliament, with the King and with wealthy merchants and the guilds, will commit itself to fighting for such a professional force, I will resign from Bow Street and devote myself to all the affairs of the Furnival enterprises.
‘I ask for no money, no charitable foundations, no work for other good causes, but simply for this.
‘For if we prosper out of the sickness and the poverty, the hunger and the desperation of the mass of the people, the time will come when there will be a terrible reckoning.’
When Furnival stopped, the silence was even more profound; none among the City group stirred; everyone was watching him as if expecting more. Yet without repeating himself there was nothing more to say. His mouth was dry and he was sweating at the forehead and the neck although he did not know whether anyone else was aware of that. He expected Hooper or one of his group to speak but it was Robert Yeoman, sitting behind them but not one of them, who rose to his feet, and standing against a well of books, he looked more elegant than among the crowd. He placed a pinch of snuff on the back of his hand, sniffed up each nostril in turn, and then said, ‘Most eloquent, John; never heard such eloquence. You belong at Westminster or in the Bishop’s Palace. Such sentiments do you credit, great credit. At the beginning you told me that you are what you are because you believe in people. ‘Tis not for me to argue with you about how many people are in the mob or whether they could improve themselves by hard work or endeavour. That can be a matter of opinion and no doubt always will be. But it is for me to tell you, John, that anyone who tried to persuade Walpole to create such a peace force would be wasting his time. Walpole will have none of it, nor will the King. Cromwell tried it and left scars enough. A peace force is an army used against the people, John; these people you say you wish to help and protect. An army, I say, in England, to be used against the people day in and day out, not simply at times of riot and disturbance or to keep order on hanging days. You forget one thing, John. You forget that before their possessions, before the sanctity of their homes, aye, and even before their families, Englishmen love freedom. The worst of them, the lowest of them, the murderers and thieves who will hang at Tyburn or Tower Hill, would call for freedom with his dying breath. And you would have their streets patrolled by armed men. You would ravage the sanctity of their homes by sending soldiers to search and pry. Who could believe that a man’s wife and daughters would ever be safe if troops patrolled—’
‘May I inquire,’ interrupted Furnival coldly, ‘whether you are speaking for the King, for Walpole, for the people, or for yourself?’
‘As God is my witness, for all four!’
‘May I say a few words?’ Plump-faced Martin Montmorency stood up, and Yeoman immediately gave way to him, as no doubt he would on a day when the House of Commons was behaving courteously.
Furnival felt quite sure what had been planned: that each man should speak in turn, opposing whatever they felt he would propose, if they were of a mind, showing the rest of the family that opposition was not from one but from several men with different interests and different causes for loyalty to the House of Furnival. It was as if witness after witness were standing up to give evidence on behalf of a rogue they knew to be guilty, hoping to impress by weight of numbers even if they could not do so by fact.
Montmorency had a plummy voice, a countryman’s voice upon which a London or Westminster accent had been imposed, but he spoke to the point. ‘I have to agree with John about the shameful conditions among some classes and parts of London. I have to agree with him that much needs doing. But I strongly oppose the concept of a peace force as un-English - un-British, I will say. I concede that it might be practicable for those of us who employ private guards - I can only say might; it is a situation which should be explored - to find a way to work together so that in wards and parishes we might spread our canopy of security over the less fortunate. I will myself recommend such an investigation. But a peace force paid by the government - no, sir, never. Over my dead body—’
‘And well it might be,’ Furnival said roughly.
‘You exaggerate, John, and I am sure I may use a colourful figure of speech!’
‘If I may interpose—’ This time it was Jeremy Siddle who stood up, several places away. Gracefully, Montmorency lowered himself snugly into a chair, and had Furnival needed confirmation of the ‘opposition plot’ he had it now. ‘There are aspects of the situation in our fair city which you overlook, John. There is much that is good here, if also much that needs doing. One thing, as my colleague Robert Yeoman said, is to teach the people the benefits of honest toil. Another is to improve living conditions. You talk of the sewers, of the living conditions of the House of Furnival, as if they were bad because they do not improve the condition of others as fast as you would like them to. But they are an example to others and an example to the government. Here is a way in which we could, and I truly believe should, try to improve our beloved London. We can work ceaselessly in Parliament and in the City of London until great public works, not only of new sewers - we are not rats, John - but of new highways and improved roads, and a water supply purified and brought closer to the houses of the people so that they do not need to carry it so far, are undertaken.
‘And we need not one but two, even three, new bridges across the Thames. It is a disastrous situation when -London is the only bridge on which to cross, crowding the river dangerously with small row-boats and with ferryboats, a great danger to shipping. There is more, much more. London has become the greatest port in the world, as well as in all Britain: more than three-quarters of our trade with the Empire and with nations overseas goes through the Port of London, but it is now so crowded that there is too little space to load and unload in a reasonable time. We need twice as much dock space as we have.
‘No, John Furnival. We do not want to restrict the rights of the people.
‘The House of Furnival has more vital work to do: to use its influence in Parliament to get great projects into being and to help to finance such undertakings as will give more employment while making our magnificent city the greatest in the world.’
Siddle bowed in all directions and sat down to a loud and prolonged burst of applause which was certainly spontaneous. Furnival, who had taken in everything Siddle had said, and even admired its cleverness and the indisputable truth of much of it, was at first angry, then quite calm. There was no hope at all for support for his proposals and it would be useless to try to find it; wise only to accept defeat without worsening the situation between himself and the rest of the family. Was Anne pleading again? Was Cleo deliberately avoiding his eyes and Sarah only pretending that her nose tickled?
He did not know what made him glance up but for the first time he saw four or five of the younger members, nieces and nephews, sitting in the gallery above the doorway. He smiled at them as he rose to an uneasy silence and his smile seemed to ease the tension.
‘Not in my lifetime, not in the lifetime of all these unimaginative old fogies down here - I mean really old people, like your uncles, Timothy!’ This brought a chuckle from many and delighted the youths and made Sarah, mother of Timothy, stop worrying her nose with a tiny lace handkerchief. ‘But in your time, the life of all of you in the gallery, there will be a peace force here in the metropolis of London. It will not be an army, it may not even be armed, but’ - John looked down from the gallery and to the assembly, now happy because obviously there was going to be no storm of temper, no bitter recriminations - ‘between now and the day when it comes, much unnecessary harm will have befallen London and the whole of England because we have no organised peace-keeping force to see that the law is carried out.’
He paused, then gave a great bellow of a laugh before going on: ‘Nothing is going to force me into the House of Furnival, either, but if you don’t do all those fine things Jerry Siddle has promised in your names, I’ll haunt you with ghosts of the thousands who will die and the tens of thousands who will be driven to crime because of your failure.’
And he sat down. He did not know what caused them but the pressures at his chest and beneath his jaw came upon him suddenly, and for a few minutes he could only sit there un-moving. Mercifully, no one approached until the pain began to ease.
‘We would still like you back,’ William said when the men were alone in the dining room after dinner, the great room a blue-grey haze of tobacco smoke, as port, sack and cognac were being passed around. ‘We really want the same thing, John.’
‘There can be no doubt of that,’ said Francis. ‘Come back, John.’
‘No,’ replied Furnival quietly. ‘We should forever be in conflict over priorities and I would be forever convinced that I should be working for one thing and one thing only. Profit. I can’t get help from you, but there must be others who think as I do.’
‘I can tell you one such.’ Robert Yeoman, close enough to overhear, joined them.
‘And who is he?’ asked Furnival, surprised.
‘Henry Fielding,’ answered Yeoman. ‘Yes, the playwright who lost his Little Theatre in the Haymarket for his lampooning of our distinguished Minister of State and members of his Cabinet. There is little doubt that the closing down of all theatres except those licensed by the Lord Chamberlain was really to crush him.’
‘Surely with success,’ remarked Furnival, remembering what Gentian had said in the coffee house. ‘Didn’t Fielding dismiss his company and give up without a fight?’
‘He’s no coward,’ Yeoman declared, ‘but you can’t defeat King and Parliament. He has studied for the bar. He may make a good lawyer, and he certainly has no time for trading justices—’
‘I saw his Debauchees and his Justice Squeezum,’ Furnival interrupted. ‘I will keep an eye open for him.’
‘You may find him at your court, John! As for your present notion, I doubt if any Member of Parliament will support you. But as London grows larger and the problem of population grows greater, then one day something may have to be done about it. You’re ahead of your time, that’s the truth of it.’
Furnival gave a throaty laugh.
‘And I’m two hundred years behind the need,’ he retorted. ‘At all events, thank you for the information about Fielding. I’ll be grateful for any other names of people who may take a sympathetic view.’
‘That we can prepare,’ William promised. ‘And we will.’
Rising from the table, they went out into the garden and relieved themselves in a long covered shed which had a porcelain barrier to prevent them from splashing their shoes and stockings with a mixture of mud and urine; the waste was washed into the sewer from here by men tossing buckets of water at one end. They strolled about the grounds for a while afterwards to drive the smell of smoke out of their clothes and hair, and were sprayed by footmen with eau de cologne so that when they went back to the salon to join the ladies there was hardly a whiff of tobacco and little of the male sweat some men always carried. Furnival was anxious to leave, now; but to have gone before dinner would have been churlish, and both William and Yeoman had shown that at least he had moved them to gestures if nothing more. The need he saw was so glaringly obvious that he could not believe that intelligent men would hold out indefinitely. They must eventually realise that unless the city was safe for all, the time would come when it would not be safe for them without a strong guard.
Three of the children were playing a Bach concerto on a harpsichord and violins, a piece which was the rage since it had come to England from Leipzig only a year before. They were much more proficient than Furnival would have expected. He heard this out and joined in the clapping, then sought out his sisters and sisters-in-law to bid his adieus. He could not find Anne, and was sorry, feeling that she understood what drove him more than any of the others. William went with him to the front door.
‘Will, tell me this,’ he said slowly. ‘Were the defenders prepared so well because they knew in advance that I was going to ask for their help in creating a peace force?’
‘They knew it would be something to do with law officers or Bow Street, and Siddle has Walpole’s ear. Walpole told him you had petitioned for peace officers to be employed by Bow Street and paid by the court, and the newspapers talked of your endeavour recently. So adding two and two together wasn’t difficult.’
‘No,’ agreed Furnival, in a voice edged with bitterness. ‘I was defeated before I began to speak.’
‘John,’ William said as they stood on the porch and looked into the square, which was bathed in a pink-and-mauve afterglow of quite rare beauty, ‘if we had agreed to help we would have got nowhere, and we would have damaged what influence we have. We have a lot, you know.’ If we put money into a bridge or new docks or a new water supply from the country, not out of the Thames, other money soon flows. On at least three occasions we have led the way and the directors of the Bank of England have followed. If we espouse the wrong cause we can do much harm to other causes which are equally worthy.’
‘I suppose so, I suppose so,’ Furnival said, a touch of despondency in his voice. ‘What no one seems to understand is that it won’t serve London if a bridge is put over the Thames at Westminster and thieves can escape more easily with their loot. It won’t help trade if you build more new docks and the dock workers and the dock owners vie with each other to cheat and steal. It won’t - but no matter, Will. I meant what I said to young Timothy!’
He shook his brother’s hand and strode down to his coach, already waiting, with a footman at the door and the young coachman in his seat, the two bays tossing their heads. As he put a foot on the step and gripped one side to haul himself in, he was aware of a woman sitting in a corner, and she uttered a low-pitched ‘Husssh.’ So he did not cry out or back down, and as he sat, his heart lifted as he recognised Anne.
‘Forgive me,’ Anne said, ‘but I wanted to talk to you without the others and there was no way at the house.’
Furnival sat by her side and took her gloved hand.
‘You make me feel like an eloping lover,’ he declared. ‘And damme if I don’t wish I were!’ He kissed her cheek, and there was enough light for him to see her flush of pleasure. ‘Do you want us to start?’ At her affirmative nod, he pressed the horn for the coachman to hear and immediately the horses began to move. ‘What is so secret, Anne?’
‘The others don’t want you to know this because they think it might excite you and make you talk about it. They don’t realise that not all Furnivals are fools!’ She covered his hand with hers, and he could see and was touched by the brightness of her eyes. ‘John, you have more sympathisers than you think. Walpole is adamant but he won’t always be First Minister, and the King, who doesn’t dislike the idea of an army of peace officers in the way Walpole does, might have more power over his next! I know it will take time and you are desperately impatient, but there are things you can do to quicken the pace. I shall prepare, with Will, a list of influential people to whom you should write, inviting their interest, and, if it suits you, you could send your missive together with a printed copy of your speech today, and what followed.’
‘There is no such copy!’ Furnival objected.
‘There will be if you will be so good as to read it and make the corrections you wish,’ Anne told him. ‘Behind you in the gallery was a Mr. Letchworth, who has developed a new form of quick writing in which he puts down the essential words of a sentence and links them with strange symbols I do not understand. He will prepare a complete rendering, he promises me, in three days.’ Before Furnival could interrupt and while the radiance was still on his face, she went on: ‘You made a wonderful case, and if you insert some more facts and figures it will be brilliantly convincing. The presentations of what the others said will show exactly what kind of opposition you are facing. Tell me this is a great help, John.’
‘I declare it to be more help than I have ever received from another human being,’ John Furnival said huskily. ‘And I include those who have died trying to do what I have told them and they believed to be right.’
He held her tightly, then sat back, gripping her hand. He could not really believe it but tears squeezed themselves beneath his eyelids; he could not remember the time when he had last cried.
‘Will you come in, Anne?’ asked Furnival as the carriage turned into Bow Street.
‘No, John, I must be back before I am missed. Come and see me, soon. Please.’
‘Anne, I would be greatly honoured if you would bring me this exposition in person,’ said Furnival. ‘And if it is good I would like to meet this Mr. Letchworth. He might be of great service in proving how often a man perjures himself in contradiction in my court.’ He backed out as the door was opened by Godden, kissed Anne’s hand and stood to watch her go.