Each year after that first meeting in 1796 Timothy McCampbell-Furnival invited James and Richard to dine with him and Simon Rattray-Furnival at the great business house by the Thames. From the beginning it was evident that Simon was likely to make a success of the position which had been thrust upon him with such little warning. Just as Richard was in rapport with his grandfather, so Simon was in rapport with his father’s cousin. His mind was as quick and sharp as Johnny’s had been but he appeared to be completely free both from Johnny’s sadistic streak and Johnny’s bitter prejudices. Most people took to him. He did not presume upon his new position or his employer and very quickly gained the good graces of the other relatives and chiefs of departments. Given two rooms at Great Furnival Square in an apartment of the main house, he was always at hand should Timothy need him, yet had plenty of time to study the history of the group. Timothy made no formal attempt to train him, so he trained himself until, even after one year, he knew more about the intricacies of the House of Furnival than all but the most senior of its leading members and staff.
The first anniversary luncheon was, to James, a joy. He had never seen Timothy more free of troubles, or been so sure of a young man as he was of Simon. If he had any regret it was only that old Simon Rattray had not lived to see that day.
Richard, now a frequent visitor to The House by the River, came to collect his grandfather, driving the same open carriage, although Mary protested because it was spitting rain. Satisfying, or at least mollifying, her by taking an extra cloak, they started off, Richard, who had arrived earlier than expected, explaining that they were first to meet Simon at Morgan’s Coffee House. Arriving at Morgan’s, James saw Simon already sitting at the booth which had the carving of the Fieldings. Simon was obviously delighted not only to see them but with himself, and Richard appeared to be in a very good mood. Was that because they had planned this encounter? James wondered.
He asked no questions but could not repress his own high spirits, until after ten minutes or so Richard said, ‘If I did not know you better, sir, I would think you had put brandy in your coffee!’
‘My spirits always come from within,’ James retorted.
The younger men laughed, and Richard raised both hands from his coffee mug, saying, ‘Time to tell him, Simon, or he will be in so gay a mood he will not be able to understand.’
‘Tell me? Tell me what?’ demanded James. ‘If you two have come to make a fool of me—’
‘Neither of us would attempt the impossible, sir,’ Simon Rattray-Furnival responded gallantly. ‘On the contrary, I hope to be able to make a prophet out of you.’ He paused long enough to allow James to speak, but when the old man simply waited, he went on: ‘You once intimated to Mr. Benedict Sly that you needed to find a way to establish a police force which would not bring upon you the opposition of the City of London. Mr. Sly confided in Richard about this and Richard confided in me, on my promise to find out if there was a way of achieving such a purpose without being disloyal to the House of Furnival.’
James felt his heart begin to thump painfully, for this young man would not treat the matter lightly, and most certainly Richard would not. He felt his throat very tight as he responded, ‘And what success have you, Simon?’
‘Considerable, sir, I do believe.’
Now James’s blood began to drum in his ears and he thought that concern leaped into the eyes of the others as they faced him across the table. He made no attempt to speak. Simon’s voice seemed to come from a long distance off, yet every syllable was precise and clear.
‘It has been increasingly evident, not only to the House of Furnival but to every merchant who uses the River Thames, that every merchant vessel which comes from the estuary to London, every coaling vessel which comes from the northeast coast, and every passenger ship wherever it is from suffers from the depredations of the mudlarks. It is reliably estimated that at least ten thousand of these river thieves prey upon the river’s traffic. Nothing is safe. Naked boys climb aboard in dead of night, thieves work amongst honest dock labourers, warehousemen are under constant threat from cut-throats. Of an estimated thousand watermen, one quarter is regarded as dishonest, living on the edge of poverty as they do. There is greater terror on the river than there ever was on the highway between the City and Westminster. And the City suffers most, sir, either in direct loss, by meeting insurance claims, or by having prices on the Exchange affected after a particularly daring robbery. I repeat, Mr. Marshall, the City suffers where it hurts most. In its pocket.’
Now fully recovered, James murmured softly, ‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’ His voice gained strength and he leaned forward. ‘No doubt you have heard of Mr. Patrick Colquhoun, my boy, one of the Middlesex justices and a man for whom I have the greatest respect. Mr. Colquhoun went into great detail on this matter of a river police in his treatise published last year.’
“The proposals have been closely studied and the prospects have been examined,’ Simon replied. ‘It is not possible to police the river with ordinary patrols, only with experts, and these would have to be well paid so as to avoid risk of corruption. I have little doubt that the merchants who most use the Port of London would contribute handsomely towards a Marine Police Force, as Mr. Colquhoun describes it, under one commander - under single control, that is. I do not believe a voice of substance would be raised against it. And since the bonded warehouses are within the region and the customs houses suffer great losses by smuggling, which such a force could restrict, I am of the opinion that the force would soon be taken over by the authorities. A river police force, sir - and one which could hardly fail to be successful since it would have everyone’s support - would be a perfect example for the land areas to follow.’
‘Simon, you may well be right,’ said James quietly. ‘Have you discussed this with Timothy?’
‘I have taken soundings, if I may use the phrase, and believe he would give full support to the forming of such a force. Moreover, Mr. Colquhoun’s proposals set out an excellent plan which no doubt he would consider in even greater detail, knowing of the prospects of success. But I would like you to propose that Mr. Colquhoun be consulted. Mr. Timothy is mindful of his promise to you on the day when you first brought us together.’
Into the brief silence that followed, Richard said almost apologetically, ‘This is why we wanted to see you before meeting Mr. Timothy for luncheon.’
‘That was most considerate of you,’ James replied, his heart beginning to thump again. He was looking into Simon’s eyes - into Johnny’s eyes - but did not know what he wanted to say to this young man. It was so much more than ‘Thank you’. It was as if in some miraculous way Simon had wiped out the stains left behind by Johnny, as if he were the man everyone had prayed Johnny would become.
Perhaps because of the intensity of the older man’s gaze, Simon looked away.
There was much to surprise the others in the sudden change which came over his expression. It was as if Simon had seen some vision which drove thought of everything else from his mind, even what he had just said with such controlled vehemence to James Marshall. Richard’s glance followed Simon’s - and immediately something like the same metamorphosis came upon him.
James became aware of several voices speaking a name at the same time, some lighthearted, some undoubtedly touched deeply by respect. ‘Miss Hermina.’ ‘Miss Hermina.’ ‘This way, Miss Hermina.’ ‘Such and honour to have you here, Miss Hermina.’ Other sounds followed, footsteps, shuffling, rustling. It was exasperating that this should have happened at such a juncture, although in one way it saved James from attempting to put his feelings into words. He wished to concentrate his thoughts on the burden of Simon’s declaration, on the possibilities which dazzled him in much the same way that these young men were dazzled by the rare sight of a woman in a coffee house.
Being across the table from James on the side facing the door, they could see along the centre aisle and he could not. But suddenly two women and a man appeared in his line of vision, backing away from - no doubt - this Miss Hermina. The name was familiar but James could not think why.
The man was the manager of the coffee house.
The two women, James believed, were his assistants.
Simon Rattray-Furnival, until that moment dumb struck, swallowed hard, then forced himself to look away from the new arrival. He smiled faintly and said, ‘Your pardon, sir. I interrupted you.’
Richard, on the other hand, appeared transfixed; James had never seen or imagined that he could be so affected. It was as if he were hearing the voices of the Sirens. What a striking-looking young man he was! Slowly, he closed his mouth, and at the same moment the bowing and curtsying trio passed and ‘Miss Hermina’ appeared.
James saw her glance towards the two young men opposite him.
He felt a quick response of the heart - yes, he, James Marshall, now in his sixty-eighth year! For this young woman was most vividly alive. Her vivacity, an enormous capacity for life, showed in her eyes, in the way her lips were set, in the flare of interest she showed in Simon and Richard. The next moment she was past, a vision in powder blue with a wide-brimmed bonnet, the simplicity of her clothes a tribute to her taste and her dressmaker. Her dark hair made the blueness of her eyes even more startling.
She was gone.
‘I repeat, your pardon, sir,’ said Simon. ‘Such shameful behaviour. Eh, Richard?’
‘Eh? Oh. Shameful indeed! I - Damme, no,’ declared Richard, laughter sparking in his eyes. ‘There is nothing shameful about being mesmerised by beauty, is there, grandfather?’
‘If I know your grandfather he will retort that our sudden distraction gave him time to think, and thus he will make a virtue of our ill manners. But in truth, she is a most beautiful woman.’ As Simon spoke a waitress passed and he put out a hand and touched her arm. ‘Tell me, pray, who is Miss Hermina?’
‘Miss Hermina, sir? She is - well, she is Miss Hermina.’
‘So I have come to understand.’ Simon smiled into the child’s pretty face. ‘But Miss Hermina who?’
Before she could answer, James Marshall burst out, ‘Hermina Morgan!’
‘That’s right, sir! The daughter of Mr. Ebenezer Morgan, the Mr. Morgan.’
James slumped against the back of the booth, overcome by a wealth of memories. Why, this must be old Ebenezer Morgan’s granddaughter. Ebenezer Morgan & Sons . . . a small, hot, stuffy shop . . . a yoke across his shoulders, laden with parcels. . .
A voice penetrated his reverie. ‘Are you well, grandfather? Are you all right?’ It was Richard, now holding his arm.
Across the table Simon, too, seemed full of concern. What contrasts came out of the mists fading in his mind. Richard’s face, lean and narrow and sharp, an eagle’s face, capped with hair black as a raven’s wing and with grey eyes of compelling honesty; Simon’s round and blunt, yet boldly handsome, a lion’s face, with a lion’s tawny hair and John Furnival’s honey-coloured eyes.
‘You see, I was more affected by the sight of such beauty than either of you,’ James found himself saying. ‘Upon my soul, I don’t know what has come upon young men these days. To be so matter of fact!’ The others relaxed and Richard took his hand away. ‘So, Simon, you believe that the City would support Mr. Colquhoun’s scheme for the formation of a river police, in the beginning financed and controlled by the merchants in association instead of each merchant attempting to protect his own property with his own guards. And you conclude that the situation on the river is such that it would be only a matter of time before control, which means management, and finance, which means taxation, would fall into the hands of the government?’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ Simon rejoined.
‘Then indeed I would like to raise this matter with Timothy. If you can tear yourselves away from thoughts of Miss Hermina.’
Hermina Morgan was talking to waiting friends and the bell-like clarity of her voice travelled clearly.
‘I have been to see Mrs. Hewson. She has some beautiful evening gowns from Paris, but I was greatly taken by one from Vienna, in green velvet; if you can believe if, embroidered with gold thread. . .’
Timothy did not seem to be a day older than when James had seen him at the first of these meetings. He was bronzed, handsome and distinguished, and had no spare flesh. The lines in his face, though sharp and clear, made him look weathered but not ageing. There was greater decisiveness in his manner, and he listened closely, giving his whole attention.
When James had finished, he said without hesitation, ‘Such a force on the river would have my support. What say you, Simon?’
‘It was Simon who put it in my mind,’ James said quietly.
‘No, I did not mean to take the credit—’ For once Simon appeared to be almost embarrassed.
‘Nor to have me know that you were in league with my old enemy,’ Timothy said dryly. He leaned back in his chair so that had he been a heavier man the back legs must surely have given way. ‘I think we have a new Machiavelli among us, James. Simon, will you obtain a set of Mr. Colquhoun’s proposals, for my earliest consideration?’
‘I will indeed, sir.’
‘And now I would like to discourse with Mr. Marshall,’ Timothy went on. ‘Perhaps you two young men could occupy yourselves usefully for an hour. Simon, you may like to take Richard onto the Oriana where there is a most fabulous collection of Chinese jade and ivory as well as Indian jewellery displayed for customs inspection.’
He waved his hand as the younger men rose at once to leave. Once they were out of earshot he shook his head and spoke very slowly.
‘I am nearly sure that Simon is the most remarkable man ever associated with the House of Furnival. In the year that he has been here he has lightened my work beyond all reason, and he anticipates my needs with uncanny accuracy. I will wager that he has a set of proposals for this river police already at hand, and after a decent interval he will produce them as if the need had not occurred to him until I asked. In nearly every way he has become like a son to me.’
‘I am very glad indeed,’ James said.
‘And like a son he offers problems as well as much satisfaction,’ went on Timothy. ‘It is time he thought seriously of marriage but he shows no sign of that yet. The longer a man remains a bachelor the more likely he is to choose his own path and to become - I nearly said, a tyrant.’ As if he did not wish James to dwell on that word he went on hastily: ‘Is Richard affianced yet?’
‘He appears to be as celibate as a monk.’
‘You have greater faith in monks than I! James, this river force of policemen could fill a great need. Did Simon tell you that sober estimates show that we have ten thousand thieves on the river, ranging from starving boys to modern-day pirates? I think there is little doubt that they can be overcome only by a strong body of men under a single control. With such a force we may well clear the Thames of crime.’
‘With such a force you could clear the whole of London of crime,’ James retorted. They both laughed, in the richness of friendship, before James went on: ‘I would like to talk to Mr. Colquhoun so that he is aware of your support.’
‘Then talk to him, by all means,’ Timothy agreed.
Soon they strolled out onto the terrace and watched the never-ending movement on the Thames. A soft rain fell, pitting the calm surface of the water, as an adept oarsman, knowing the tides, passed his small craft swiftly beneath the bows of a customs vessel, which could have missed the boat by only two or three feet.
‘That is characteristic of Simon. He is utterly without fear,’ Timothy declared. ‘There are moments when I wonder whether he is utterly without feeling, also.’
‘I will tell you one thing,’ Simon said as he rowed so easily yet with such strength, ‘if the ships’ crews were paid better, not so many of them would take bribes or help dump cargo overboard for mudlarks to pick up. If you care to take a slip of paper from inside my jacket’ - he indicated where with a downward tilt of his chin - ‘you will see what I mean.’
Richard took the paper, which listed the seamen’s salaries from commander down to the lowest carpenter, and after reading it carefully he replaced it in Simon’s jacket, but did not comment until they were within easy reach of the Oriana. Then he said, ‘That is one of our most difficult problems - to create conditions which will remove the temptation to be dishonest. Some men will always be lawbreakers, but such conditions breed criminals out of decent folk.’
Soon he and Simon were clambering aboard the Oriana, a vessel of eight hundred tons which plied to and from the East Indies and the Far East, carrying a crew of more than one hundred. On the deck were a dozen men in Furnival livery, all with muskets, all ex-soldiers, well paid, and ready to risk their lives in defence of the treasures now being examined by a grey-haired inspector of customs and two assistants: ivory carvings of long-dead emperors and their consorts, jewelled swords and daggers, necklaces and rings. One necklace of diamonds and sapphires had surprising beauty, and Simon stooped down and picked it up, holding it in front of Richard.
‘Do you think that would sit well on Miss Hermina?’
‘I cannot think of any jewel which would not.’
‘Which is a tribute to your gallantry but not to your sensitivity to ladies and the jewels they should wear,’ replied Simon. ‘This would be wasted on some women just as pearls would be wasted on Hermina. Richard, there is to be a ball at Great Furnival Square to celebrate Mr. Timothy’s birthday. Will you come? I can safely promise you the widest selection of attractive young women in London, with comments, if you wish, on their delectability and the degree of persuasion they need for compliance in the bedchamber.’
‘If you have no objection,’ Richard replied, ‘I would rather find that last out for myself.’
‘But you will come?’
‘I will come happily,’ Richard assured him, surveying his friend with amused interest. ‘I wonder what the odds are that you will have Hermina Morgan there, also.’
‘No man but a fool ever guessed what a woman might do,’ Simon rejoined. ‘But I shall reserve that necklace for her. What is it I once heard your grandfather say? Nothing beats trying but doing!’
On the morning following her visit to the coffee house, Hermina Morgan was looking at herself in her dressing-table mirror and applying a little of the face powder which Mr. Pitt,, in his wisdom, had recently taxed when her maid came bursting in with a bunch of dark-red roses so huge that she had to hold her head on one side in order to see her mistress.
‘Miss Hermina, you have a new admirer!’ she declared.
‘Indeed, Chloe, I did not think you had brought me roses as a gift,’ said Hermina. ‘And who is the gallant gentleman?’
‘He gives no name and leaves no card.’
‘Does he not?’ remarked Hermina. ‘Then put the roses in a corner where they will not hide those of less reticent admirers!’
On the next day, more red roses came, again without card or message, and on the third and fourth day, also, and at the end of the week Hermina was sufficiently intrigued to begin to wonder who was sending them. Then came a single rose fastened by a narrow silk ribbon to an expensive parchmentlike envelope on the back of which was a crest and beneath it the words, ‘No Man Shall Be Afraid’.
Slowly, and under the eagle eye of her maid, Hermina drew out the missive. It was a card bearing the same crest, and with a printed invitation.
Timothy McCampbell-Furnival hopes for
the pleasure of your company at
A BALL
to be held at Great Furnival Square in
Northwest London
On Friday, October 17, 1797
Your carriage will be welcome at
any time after 5 p.m.>
‘But he is an old man!’ cried Chloe in anguished protest. ‘He must be very old. I am disappointed for you, Miss Hermina.’.
‘An old man may have sons or grandsons,’ Hermina replied thoughtfully.
‘You mean that you will attend?’
‘I most certainly shall,’ replied Hermina Morgan. ‘And I shall go tomorrow to Mrs. Hewson. . .’
On the night of the ball the hall at Great Furnival Square was as magnificent as any palace. The huge chandelier spread a light, strengthened by a thousand candles in the wall fittings, which shimmered on colourful dresses and jewellery, much of which was beyond price, and it shone on the elegance of men whose colours were only a little less subdued and whose powdered wigs and faces gave them added romanticism. A string quartet played on each side of the gallery, whilst in the library, where once old John had made his great speech, was given over to those men who wished to smoke or take a spell on their own. The passage to the dining room was lined with flowers and flunkeys guided the guests into the room where a dozen tables groaned under the weight of such food as was seldom seen. At several tables chefs wearing tall white hats carved turkeys, hams, beef and sucking-pigs, pies of a dozen varieties were served piping hot, and there was no delicacy imaginable which could not be found.
In another part of London, Todhunter Mason was sitting in the cellar of the Black Swan, an alehouse near London Bridge, putting the finishing touches to his plans for the next few hours. A man of slight build and narrow features, with pinched-in nostrils, he dressed in sombre-coloured clothes made by a good tailor from Savile Row.
No one could doubt that a hundred times more jewellery would be exposed on feminine hands and heads and bosoms that night than on any ordinary night in any one place in London, and being at Great Furnival Square made the lure even more attractive, for Mason had heard of the House of Furnival’s support for a river police and was determined to make its formation impossible. Now a man in his early thirties, wealthy as a result of his share of half the robberies in London, exquisitely tailored, he ruled with a tight rein. His organising ability was both thorough and brilliant, and his spies and informers were everywhere. Through a servant at Great Furnival Square, he had been one of the first to know of the magnitude and splendour of this occasion, and he was fully prepared to raid when the ball was at its height.
He had drawn men from every part of London, armed them, and told them all to concentrate on Great Furnival Square. Promising to send up a flare bright enough to dazzle the coachmen, guards and Charlies waiting near the big house for the inevitable charity of food and ale, he estimated that within five minutes he and his men would have possession of the house and within fifteen minutes every woman would be stripped of her jewels. As he saw it, the greatest danger was that too many of his force would be excited by the beautiful women and there was likely to be wholesale rape, so he had to make sure the jewellery was collected by himself and other reliable and less impressionable men before the mob was let loose among the guests.
Sex did not greatly attract him.
Money and jewels fascinated him beyond all thought. They gave him a sense of power.
Seldom if ever could there have been such magnificence as there was that night. Seldom had a greater number of beautiful women gathered in one place. When the dances were at their height the ballroom looked like a glittering sea, each wave touched by a rainbow.
Just as the food and general arrangements were as nearly perfect as they could be, so were the comfort and pleasure of the guests. A dozen young Furnival men and women made sure that no one was alone for long, that introductions were made quickly and gracefully, that any embarrassing situations were avoided; and if a young man began to show himself the worse for drink someone was at hand to make sure he did not become offensive. Outside in the great square and in the streets leading to it were massed the coaches and carriages of the guests, and while the coachmen were eating and drinking in the places provided for them, Furnival guards, strengthened by older watchmen and four Bow Street Runners, took care that nothing was stolen.
Even for those who were used to such affairs, this was a triumph.
To Hermina Morgan, it was a breathless round of young and handsome men, any of whom might be her mysterious admirer. She had been introduced to Simon and had recognised him, and she had also been introduced to Richard. Of the two, Simon was infinitely the finer dancer and conversationalist; for a while Richard had been almost incoherent. But she was used to young men being tongue-tied in her presence and coaxed him to talk until one of the young men acting as an escort came to them, a thickset, strong-faced man with greying hair at his side.
‘Miss Morgan, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Patrick Colquhoun?’ he asked.
‘My pleasure is much the greater,’ Colquhoun said in an attractive Scottish accent.
Colquhoun, Richard thought in surprise; he had not dreamed that the magistrate would be here. Later he saw him talking to Timothy and had little doubt that they were discussing the river police. He knew that his grandfather had spent several hours with the justice, no doubt offering some advice on those things which might lead to hostility within the City of London.
Quite suddenly, he wanted to leave this place. It had been exciting, fascinating, unforgettable - but he did not really belong. Simon did, but not he. Simon was now on his own on the staircase, surveying the multitude. Suddenly he moved and a few moments later Richard saw him with Hermina Morgan; if one had to say who was the most beautiful woman present, virtually all would have named her. Richard went out, past two footmen who were constantly opening the door, past the mass of carriages and men, who were laughing and talking in subdued tones. Soon he had left Great Furnival Square behind him. As he reached a corner a tiny figure darted out from beneath a carriage, hands outstretched in supplication.
‘Please, sir, my stomach is empty. I need money for food. Please, kind sir.’
Richard put a hand to his fob pocket and drew out his purse - and the urchin snatched it, gripped it tightly and ran off. Richard sprang after him, two words at his lips: ‘Stop thief!’ But he bit them back. He heard the padding sound as the child’s bare feet sounded on the pavement, and then he saw the tiny figure against a lamp on the corner of a house - and saw him recoil.
A larger figure appeared in silhouette and the boy screeched, ‘That’s mine. That’s mine!’
On that instant there was a vivid flash which lit up the roofs and the windows. As it faded, an even larger figure appeared, plucked the urchin from the ground and, to Richard’s horror, flung him brutally to one side. Now other figures were moving and there was more light, not only from the houses but from a host of flares; not two or three but dozens of men were approaching. The flash must have been some kind of signal, thought Richard, but who would be abroad at this hour and in this place?
He turned on his heel, stilling a desire to run, and began to retrace his steps. Soon he was approaching Great Furnival Square and could see the lines of carriages. No flares shone behind him now, but he felt sure men were still on the move. At last he dared quicken his pace to a run, but as he did so a man appeared out of the shadows, huge and terrifying.
‘That’s far enough,’ the stranger growled, and a powerful hand descended on Richard’s shoulder. ‘Who are you and where are you off to?’
‘Men are - coming,’ Richard gasped. ‘I think there are a lot of them, some with flares. They—’
He was interrupted by a shrill cry, the cry of a night owl; and this was taken up in several places, as if owls had suddenly swooped down from the rooftops. The man with his hand on Richard’s shoulder turned and as he did so he released Richard and pushed him in the direction in which he had been going.
‘If you want to keep your head on your shoulders, run!’ he ordered.
Another man shouted, and almost at once more flares appeared in windows and doorways, spreading an eerie yellow glow and revealing dozens of men streaming out of the alleys and houses where they had been hiding. From not far off came the crack of a shot followed by a roar of voices.
Close by Richard was the wall of a garden. The chance of getting back to Great Furnival Square by the streets was negligible but he might be able to climb over the roofs.
He sprang towards the top of the wall, clawing to get a hold with his hands, missed once, tried again and caught the rough brick at the top. Gaining a firmer grip, he hauled himself up and edged his way along until he found himself on top of a house porch, able to see but not visible to any from street level. Dozens of men were clutched in hand-to-hand fighting, knives flashing, staves cracking against heads. Flares carried by some of the men were tossed towards waiting carriages and some caught fire. Horses began to rear and scream.
Richard realised exactly what was happening.
An enormous gang of thieves had come to raid Great Furnival Square, doubtless planning to break into the main house and the ballroom. But the raid must have been expected, and the waiting coachmen had obviously included constables and peace officers ready for the fray. There was little shouting but he could hear the heavy breathing of men as they fought, the thud of blows, the occasional gasp or groan. He had no doubt that the defenders were winning at this spot, but was that true everywhere? Were there places where the attackers had the upper hand?
Richard looked up to the window above him and saw an overhanging ledge which would be within hand’s reach if he stood on tiptoe. He stretched cautiously, grasped the ledge and began to haul himself upward. Two or three bricks were loose, giving him a fingerhold, and the idea of climbing up to the roof and clambering over other roofs until he reached a spot from where he could look down into the square became a practical possibility. Glancing downward, he saw that the fighting was still fierce. No one appeared to have the slightest idea that anyone was above. He stretched up to the next ledge and repeated what he had already done. It was easier than he had hoped, but by the time he stood on the second ledge he was gasping for breath.
No one noticed him. The shutters were fastened in the house, which seemed to be empty.
Richard stared up at the stars and saw two more overhanging ledges: the second would be the last! He began again. Dust from the bricks began to settle on his face, irritating his eyes, tickling his nose and making him want to cough, but he fought against it. The din from the street seemed to grow louder and three shots were fired in quick succession. A man cried out and there was a lull in the struggling until another screamed, ‘At them, boys! At them!’
Richard began to climb again.
It became easier to think, for now he could move more mechanically. There could be no doubt that the men near the square had been prepared for the raid; no one but he had been taken by surprise - he and that poor urchin who had been so roughly flung aside.
Richard shuddered at the recollection, tried to push it in the back of his mind, quickened his pace - and slipped. For a terrifying moment he thought he was going to fall. He grabbed at the last ledge but it was the one below, on which his foot caught, which saved him. For several minutes he stood spread-eagled against the wall, gasping, shivering at the nearness of disaster, but soon he felt better and started on his way up again, giving the task every ounce of effort and concentration.
At last his hands reached the guttering. He put his weight on this gingerly lest it should loosen, but it held until he was able to put one knee onto the roof. Now it did not matter what noise he made, and soon he was standing upright, still unobserved. Perhaps because he was higher than when he had looked down before, perhaps because he was more accustomed to the light, the scene in the street below was even more vivid. He could see knives flashing, small groups fighting with great ferocity, and here and there a couple locked in what looked like a death grip. The main body of the fighting was nearer the end of the street from which he had run; the defenders were pushing their attackers back.
Richard turned away and began to climb towards the chimneys. The sloping roof made it difficult; once again he nearly fell, and after this he dropped to his hands and knees, going up on all fours. Now he forgot the scene behind him and could think only of what he would see in Great Furnival Square.
He reached the chimneys and stood up in their cover but could see only a narrow segment of the square at the foot of the houses opposite. Sitting down, he edged himself forward, acutely aware of the danger of falling, until he could view the incredible scene below.
There must have been five hundred men in Great Furnival Square!
Two or three large groups were fighting and he saw Simon - Simon - leap into the fray with a sword. The double doors of the great house were wide open but the approach was empty, although a few stood, obviously on guard, close to the footpath. The fence about the garden in the middle had been crushed in a dozen places, flower beds and grass trampled into shambles. Bodies lay everywhere, while those who had been wounded were crawling towards open spaces as if looking desperately for ways of escape.
Men were hanging from the branches of three trees! At first Richard could not believe that this was so; then he saw three men grab another and hoist him high, saw four or five at the end of a rope heave as if this were a tug of war, saw the hoisted man swinging by the peck, kicking wildly but unable to save himself. The other end of the rope was then tied about a tree branch and the self-appointed executioners seized another victim.
Three men stood where that one had been plucked from, hands tied behind their backs, obviously in line for hanging. Richard wanted to scream No! but no sound came except that of heavy breathing. His chest was heaving, his whole body was clammy, and sweat dripped off his forehead into his eyes.
Through a blur, he saw a man sitting at a table brought from one of the houses and a group of manacled men on one side. One, standing in front of the table, was also manacled. The seated man clearly was acting as judge, the garden having been turned into a court for summary justice. From where he sat Richard saw his mouth open as he spoke, saw the victim drop onto his knees, saw him dragged away to stand with the others awaiting hanging.
The self-appointed judge was Sir Douglas Rackham; Richard was quite sure of that. Had there ever been clearer evidence of his lust for power?
The fighting was nearly done. More prisoners were taken to swell the size of the manacled group, and at least thirty were now awaiting ‘trial’ while ten or twelve were hanging and twice as many lay stretched out on the grass, some of them in the fine clothes of revellers at the ball.
Richard looked for Simon and saw him talking to another, bigger man. Who was it? Colquhoun, Patrick Colquhoun! Was such a man party to this travesty of justice, this horror piled on horror? Richard felt an icy coldness as Simon left the magistrate and went to the table, standing between Rackham and the latest manacled victim. What he said Richard could not hear but at once there was a roar of protest.
‘No!’
‘Hang them, hang them!’
So Simon was trying to stop this hangman’s holiday.
Two of the bellowing men from a dozen or so who were acting as guards rushed forward, one with cudgel upraised, and Richard felt a rush of fear: if that descended on Simon’s head it would most certainly kill him. Simon turned at the last minute, his sword flashed from its scabbard, and with astonishing ease he ran the man through. Others from the ball came running to his assistance, and the man who had been passing sentence of death with such swift pleasure rose from his seat and was hustled away.
All the fighting had stopped now, and Richard prayed that none of the Furnivals had been hurt. He was so far removed from the tumult below that he could hear distant sounds, then the striking of several clocks and, clear and shrill, a watchman who could not be unaware of the fighting calling out: ‘Eleven o’clock and all’s well.’
‘All’s well,’ Richard choked. ‘What use are the Charlies if they can call such nonsense?’
He began the hazardous climb down. Before doing anything else he must find that child.
Standing at the windows of the great house were the women guests and a number of older men. At one, by herself, was Hermina Morgan. She watched only Simon, and at the moment when he was about to be attacked she drew in her breath with a hiss that a sword might make being drawn swiftly from its scabbard. She saw Simon turn and run the man through and her eyes glistened with rare brightness.