The Masters of Bow Street (68 page)

There was nothing as far as Richard could see which he could do to help; his knowledge of the City was extensive, his influence negligible. He wondered what Colquhoun would think as he asked, ‘So you would like to see two autonomous police forces within the metropolis, under two separate commissions?’

‘Yes, with nine-tenths of the metropolis still policed by parish constables and a few men attached to Bow Street, and at least three-quarters of the people with the same kind of protection - if one can call it protection. Not only Westminster and Middlesex but areas of Surrey and Essex are now or will soon be part of London proper; the metropolis stretches nearly as far as Paddington, Brompton and Chelsea in the west, and Camden Town, Islington and Hackney in the north, Poplar and Bow in the east, and Southwark, Lambeth, Rotherhithe and Bermondsey, Camberwell and Battersea south of the river.’ Simon opened a leather folder as he spoke, turning it around for Richard to see. ‘In case your memory needs refreshing, here is the map showing the farthest extent of all major building projects.’

‘I need little reminding,’ Richard said, as he studied the map. ‘There is hardly a part of this I do not visit regularly as
“Mr. Londoner”
.’ He still could not understand what it was that Simon wanted of him.

‘Only a man who knows the whole metropolis and is well known and respected by most law-abiding citizens can do what I want you to do. The parliamentary seat of Minshall, your grandfather’s seat for so long, will fall vacant shortly. I want you to contest that seat. I will see that you get all the financial help you need, and that it is a fair and free election. And once you are a Member of the House of Commons, as I know you will be, I want you to fight as you have never fought before for a police force in the rest of the metropolis.
Not
the City. Not the river. But all the rest. Because once that is achieved, some kind of amalgamation will be inevitable, and until that day comes, the three forces can work together so that in all but name they are one single police force.’

Richard gazed at his friend, dumbfounded.

‘Put “Mr. Londoner” second in your thoughts,’ Simon went on. ‘Do what you have always said you will not do. Become the conscience of the people in the House of Commons. Work with Colquhoun, Bentham and Harriot, with everyone who will help to force the hand of the government. You can do this where I cannot hope to succeed. Jealousy between the City and Westminster is a form of madness but madness cannot be cured by reason. Anything I say will unite the Commons - except the City members and their lobby - against the idea, but an independent voice will weaken them. So there you have it, Richard! That is what I want you to do.’

The issue was with Richard, sleeping as well as waking.

Most of his emotional reaction was against the proposal: he did not wish to be tied to the House of Commons, to be forever at the heart of controversy which could lead to such bitter disappointment as his grandfather and Colquhoun had known. Yet all his intellectual reaction was in favour. He agreed with Simon’s reasoning, knew that few men were so farsighted, was utterly convinced that he would forever have Simon’s support.

He would win Minshall, of course. Even on his own, without Simon’s powerful backing, he believed that he would be able to do that. But his life would never again be wholly his own.

He talked to no one about Simon’s proposal he had no one close enough to confide in, and for the first time in his thirty-two years he became acutely aware of the need of companionship, of someone with whom to discuss personal problems.

His parents were now retired, living near the coast in Cornwall, and he saw little of them, exchanging letters occasionally and sending gifts from time to time. The house at Chelsea, despite his room there, had never been the same since James’s death, and he had grown out of touch with his brothers and sisters. Yet on the day of Timothy’s funeral - which was attended by the Prime Minister, an emissary of the King and a flock of Members of both Houses of Parliament, as well as most of the leading merchants and bankers of the City - Richard went to Chelsea.

It was half-past six when he arrived.

He heard the babble of infants in one room, a quarrel among elder children in another, and from a third the voice of his Aunt Dorothy complaining bitterly about servants to a woman whom he did not know, so he went upstairs without announcing his arrival, and, on a moment’s impulse, turned into his grandfather’s old bedroom. Some of James Marshall’s books were still on their shelves, and Richard paused beside them. There was light enough for him to see the titles, the worn spines, the dog-eared pages. Least read appeared to be Shakespeare, Milton and Goldsmith, but Henry Fielding was well thumbed, with Daniel Defoe a good second. Bentham was well thumbed, too, and Voltaire, although Richard did not quite know why. Hume, of course, and Samuel Johnson, Smollett and. . .

He moved to lower shelves, packed with reports of parliamentary committees. Next to these, in leather binders not unlike the one he had seen on Simon’s desk, were issues of
The Daily Clarion
- selected issues, Richard knew, with annotations on matters which had been of special interest to James Marshal.

He pulled them out. At the front of one of the binders was a printed single sheet with the picture of a man’s face - a picture which had a familiarity he could not place. It was a striking-looking face, with boldness in both eyes and expression. Above the picture ran words, badly printed and smeared, as if the ink had not been allowed to dry before the paper had been distributed.

Last Speech and Dying Testament of the Notorious

and Beloved Outlaw and Highwayman

Who was Hanged at Tyburn Fields

on the Fifteenth Day of September 1739

Richard had never seen this actual document before but his grandfather had told him of it, had talked of Jackson and his mistress and of the fact that his own father - Richard’s greatgrandfather - had been murdered by the man pictured here. Where had he seen that face before? Richard turned to his pack, unstrapped it, and took out some copies of
The Daily Clarion
which he wanted to read at leisure. On the same page as that giving the story of Timothy’s murder was a picture of a man very like the picture of Frederick Jackson, and beneath
The Daily Clarion’s
picture was the caption:

Frederick Jackson, Bow Street Runner, who apprehended Thomas Garson. Garson is believed to be the man who struck the fatal blow which killed Timothy McCampbell-Furnival.

The same cast of face and the same name. This could hardly be coincidence. That first Jackson had been hanged for murder; and now his grandson - or more likely his greatgrandson - had apprehended a murderer and was actually a member of the Bow Street force, created out of the one that, so long ago, had hunted down his own forebear.

Aloud, Richard said, ‘But this was nearly seventy years ago! Nearly seventy years, and they are still fighting for a police force!’ That was the moment when he knew that he would have to stand for Minshall when the by-election came.

When he returned to ‘Mr. Londoner’ that night, he found a stranger walking up and down outside the shop. Youthful-looking and cleanly if poorly dressed, he touched his forehead as he approached Richard.

‘It is Mr. Richard Marshall, sir, begging your pardon?’

‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Well, sir, my father said if I ever wanted help from an honest man I could rely on Mr. James Marshall, and you being his son’ - Richard did not trouble to correct this - ‘I thought the same would be true of you, sir. My father is a brother of Mr. Daniel Ross, who used to have a coffee house in Wapping, and I am named Daniel after my uncle. My father keeps a public house near the docks at Wapping, sir - and they won’t renew his licence unless he pays them five hundred pounds.’

‘Who
won’t
?’

‘Well, sir, it’s complicated, because the magistrate takes the word of the constables and the police court men as to whether a licence is worthy. And what with the revenue men wanting a share, and the river police - they’re always fighting each other, sir, unless they can squeeze some poor innocent person dry - and the Court Runner wanting their share, the magistrate will be advised
not
to renew, sir. And’ - the young man gulped - ‘there is another prepared to pay a thousand pounds, sir, and you can be sure he’ll use the place for giving cover to thieves and hiding what they steal.’

‘When is the application to be heard?’ asked Richard.

‘Tomorrow morning, sir.’

‘That doesn’t leave much time,’ Richard said, frowning. ‘Do you know the men who want to share this blackmail profit?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. They’ll all be at the house tonight, pressing hard on my father.’

‘Tell me the name of the house and how to get there and I’ll be at the house by eleven o’clock,’ Richard promised.

‘Do you really think you can help, sir?’

‘I can try,’ Richard said.

When the lad had gone Richard went first to sup, then fetched a horse from stables behind the Strand and rode through the City and the East End. The public house, or inn, was on a corner and oil flares showed the name - the Ball and Chain. It was one of the very old oak-roofed and -beamed buildings. He tied his horse to a post and found inside that the place had the brightness and snugness of a well-kept hostelry. Beyond the bar three men were drinking ale in one corner and were talking to a middle-aged man behind the bar.

The youth passed Richard and said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘There they are, talking to my father.’

Richard crossed to the corner, ordered a tankard of ale, raised it and said, ‘Your health gentlemen. And to you landlord, another good year of trade.’ He drank deeply. ‘I have come to find out if you are being pressed to pay money for the recommendation of the constable to the magistrate tomorrow.’

The landlord gasped. ‘Pressed?
Pressed
, sir? Why, no—’ His words faded into nothing.

‘Good,’ approved Richard. ‘That saves me a lot of trouble. There is much blackmail for these licensed houses, and we are determined to stamp it out. Anyone caught demanding money will not only be instantly dismissed but will be arraigned on charges which I won’t mention here.’

‘And - and who may you be, sir?’

‘Oh, I am one of the lawyers who began the inquiries. I shall be in court tomorrow morning.’

‘But they might have attacked you, might have killed you, sir!’ said the youth the next day. ‘It was wonderful, but powerful risky, Mr. Marshall.’

‘You tell me a way of dealing with such people without risk,’ Richard said dryly.

He was driving back to the Strand when, near the church of St. Mary-le-Strand, he heard a great commotion, the clatter of rattles, masses of people running, and what he had first thought were coaches swinging around a corner towards Bow Street - three horse-drawn fire engines in a row. It was more than he could do to stay away from the crowd, and he turned his horse. A gentle wind brought the smell of fire and smoke and soon he could see flames stretching high into the sky. A silhouette against the red glow was from the mass of old, decaying buildings close to the theatre, but the fire had also reached the facade of the Royal Opera House itself. Firemen and police were pumping water and controlling the crowd; women were screaming. A great roar followed part of the roof’s falling in. It was fiercely hot now, and he was doing more harm than good by staying here. As he turned, a middle-aged woman peered up at him.

‘Do you know if Handel’s organ is safe? Oh, please God, it must be, it must be!’

‘All I know,’ said a man close by, ‘is that three firemen are dead of suffocation.’

‘I know it started after Mrs. Siddons left,’ a young man volunteered. ‘But the organ!’ the woman gasped.

The first edition of
The Daily Clarion
which Richard saw next day carried a headline and some facts.

HAVOC CAUSED BY FIRE AT ROYAL OPERA HOUSE,

COVENT GARDEN.

TWENTY-THREE FIREMEN PERISHED.

The famed Handel organ was reduced to nothing. Stage scenery, Mrs. Siddons’ wardrobe and all such were destroyed.

It is estimated that a large number of people have been rendered homeless although the exact number is not yet known.

It was hours before Richard fell asleep that night, and in the morning even word that Ross had been granted his licence did not cheer him. If he were in the House of Commons, he wondered, could he do anything to reduce the crime, the blackmail, the conditions which led to fires which destroyed great landmarks and killed brave men?

‘But I have no intention of retiring,’ declared the Member for Minshall a few days later. ‘I do not know what put such an idea into your head.’

‘It was put there by the offer of ten thousand pounds,’ replied a man who served Simon Rattray-Furnival. ‘Ten thousand pounds, of which five will be given to you the moment you have resigned your seat because of bad health, and another five when you land in Lisbon, Portugal, for a rest cure in the warm sunshine you can be sure of finding there.’

The Member for Minshall pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and then said in a wondering voice, ‘I could not understand why I had been feeling so short of breath. I am a sick man. There is nothing for it but a long rest in a warm climate.’

‘Pay him his money and get him out of the country,’ Simon ordered. ‘I have a candidate who will most certainly be the next Member for Minshall, and I cannot get him into the House of Commons quickly enough. Is there any news from Godley?’

‘No, sir,’ his secretary told him.

Godley of the Bow Street Runners still had not found the proof he needed to charge Mason, who, he said, was behind so much of London’s crime. Simon was not positive whether such a man existed or whether continual procrastination was Godley’s way of putting up the price for the investigation. Of one thing Simon was sure: he must bide his time, must not rely only on Godley for information. Frederick Jackson, the man who had actually cracked the gang which had murdered Timothy, might do better.