The Masters of Bow Street (7 page)

Then he remembered his father,
alive.

He bit into the coarse sheet which covered him and forced back the stinging tears. He must not cry, he would not cry, a
man
never cried.

About the time that James Marshall reached his home, Red Foster and his pretty wife passed the pike at Tyburn, his horse prancing between the shafts of a fancy gig hired for this night’s work. It was very cold, and dark except for the clear light of the stars and lights at houses and taverns on either side of the highway and on other carriages. In the distance, lights showed at the windows of great houses and from farmhouses or from barns where cows were calving and in need of help. Now and again they passed little groups of people, tipsy-drunk, walking back to their country homes after the day at Tyburn Fair. Outbursts of laughter, oaths, shrieks of protest, came from the road which was usually deathly quiet except on the nights of death.

Foster was in his late twenties, a man from a good family which had disowned him for his gambling; but he took that ostracism easily, for he had won his Lilian at the gaming table and she was worth all the’ money he had ever lost. She held his arm as they went towards the Owl, an alehouse two miles from Tyburn Pike, where it was known that the notorious Dick Miller spent much of his time.

‘Red,’ Lilian said, ‘I think I’m very frightened.’

‘Fie! With me to protect you? And Harris and his men close by?’

‘But I haven’t seen them,’ she protested. ‘I haven’t caught a glimpse of them, and - and you know what Miller is like.’

‘Exaggeration, ma’am. Old wives’ tales which should never be believed by young wives. I—’

‘Red!’ she gasped. ‘Look!’

And there, not far ahead and directly in their path, was a man on horseback, coming towards them. He had chosen his spot well, for a ditch with banks too steep for horse and gig was on one side, while on the other side was a high stack of hay. From both hay and ditch there came a stench which made all who passed this way wish to hurry.

Red, perforce, slowed down.

Ahead, the solitary figure on horseback came on, and from behind there was a movement and a noise loud enough to make Lilian look over her shoulder in alarm. Silhouetted against the light of a big house was another horseman.

‘It’s one of Tom Harris’ men,’ Red muttered. ‘I swear it.’

There was no way of being sure.

There was only the darkness, so full of menace, and the riders both in front and behind, the snort of a horse, the creak of leather and the chink of bridles, for the wheels of this gig ran smoothly and made little sound. Red Foster’s wife was beginning to take in long breaths as deeper fear possessed her; knowing the risk of what they were doing, knowing Miller’s reputation, made the sense of danger far greater than if she had not known that she, at least as much as her husband, was a decoy.

Suddenly the rider in front spurred his mount and called: ‘Stand there! Stand and deliver.’ He came straight on into the path of the carriage and Red pulled at the reins and the horse slowed down. The man who had called out waited only for the carriage to stop before he moved to the side. ‘Get down, the pair of you,’ he ordered. He looked huge and menacing in the light from the carriage lamps. His pistol was levelled at Red Foster but his gaze was on Red’s wife, who was little more than a girl. Foster draped the reins over the rail and climbed down.

‘Take all I have,’ he begged, ‘but do not alarm my wife more, I beg of you.’

‘And how much have you got?’ demanded Miller, and he roared with laughter. ‘Precious little if I know anything about young gallants who bring their wives out of London without an escort. Or are you lying? Is she your wife?’

‘I swear it! I—’ Foster cast a desperate glance behind him. The man who had followed the carriage was dismounting and Foster now needed no telling that he was Miller’s man; there was no sign of Tom Harris or any who worked with him. He handed Lilian down and Miller rode close, covering them with his pistol and still looking at her. ‘I’ll give you everything I have! I was lucky at the tables tonight, I’ve ten gold pieces and—’

‘Deliver to my friend all you have,’ Miller ordered, and as he spoke the other came up, a slimmer man who looked as if a boy’s face might be hidden by the mask he wore. ‘Stand over him,’ Miller ordered his assistant, and slid from his horse, making a mock bow and a sweeping motion with his right arm. ‘Ma’am, it is my earnest desire to make your closer acquaintance,’ he declared. ‘It is a long time since I have seen a prettier wench.’ He made a swift movement and plucked her off the ground and into his arms. She cried out and kicked and beat at his face and shoulders but he did no more than laugh at her.

‘I beg you, do not take my wife!’ Foster flung himself down on his knees.

Miller placed his right foot against Foster’s chest and pushed him backwards, and at that moment one of Lilian’s nails scratched his cheek beneath the right eye. She could smell his gin-soaked breath, the odour of his clothes and body, and terror possessed her.

‘So you want it rough, my pretty,’ he growled. ‘Then rough you shall have it, with your fine husband looking on!’

He tossed her at the foot of the great stack of hay and, while Foster grappled desperately to free himself from the vicelike grip of Miller’s assistant, unbuckled his belt and let down his breeches. Lilian, staring up at the menacing figure, knowing that in a moment she would feel his hands, would have her clothes torn apart, would be another victim of Dick Miller, was so terrified that thought of Tom Harris went out of her mind.

Miller came down on one knee by her side and she felt his hand at the neck of her dress.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘God help me! God help me!’

‘As much use to call to Him as to your husband,’ Miller growled.

‘Perhaps someone else heard her, Dick,’ a man called from the top of the stack of hay.

Suddenly the place was alive with men who sprang down behind Miller and on either side. It was as if they had come out of the night air.

‘Leave your breeches down,’ Tom Harris ordered, rough laughter in his voice. ‘The lady’s husband may like five minutes to lambaste you before I take you in.’

Red Foster was already running. He ignored Miller and flung himself down by his wife’s side, while Miller stood helpless and his assistant was seized and manacled. When a man pulled his mask from his face he showed for what he was: a lad of seventeen or eighteen. The girl was sobbing, Foster trying to reassure her. Miller began to hoist his breeches after Harris and another of the thief-takers had taken his pair of pistols and his dagger.

‘Let me go,’ begged Miller. ‘Let me go and I’ll put a name on a dozen thieves, each worth as much as I. Five hundred pounds’ worth, well nigh. Take what I have and let me go!’

Tom Harris clapped the heavy manacles on him, and rejoined: ‘The only place you’re going is Bow Street, and after Mr. Furnival has questioned you, to Newgate to wait trial. Do you know what I would do with the likes of you, Miller? I’d hang you from the nearest tree and swing on your genitals until you died. Get on your horse!’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Get on
my
horse, Miller; it’s mine in forfeit now.’

Soon, all of them were riding back to London, the carriage last except for one of Furnival’s men who had come with Tom Harris. Lilian was quiet now, her head resting on her husband’s shoulder, while Red Foster talked with an undertone of excitement in his voice.

‘There’ll be forty pounds each for the prisoners, m’dear, and the horses will be worth half as much again. We won’t know how much money Miller has on him but Furnival is an honest man; whatever there is we’ll get our share and I can be out of debt.’ For a moment he was silent, and then he went on: ‘I’ve been in terror of going back to Newgate, Lil. God bless you for keeping me free.’

She did not answer. She was crying.

John Furnival was sitting in the back room downstairs when Moffat came in a little before midnight. Lisa Braidley had been gone for nearly two hours, and Furnival had been reading, his legs up on a stool with a feather cushion on it, a blanket wrapped around him and a voluminous jacket over his shoulders. The embers- glowed both red and gold on the half-full glass of French brandy by his side, and a book was open and supported by another pillow on his thighs. When the mood took him he would go to the bed in the alcove, perhaps to sleep at once, perhaps to ponder.

He heard Moffat but did not look around.

‘I have news you would like to know, sir,’ announced Moffat.

‘Then why keep me waiting?’

‘Dick Miller was taken tonight, with a youth believed to be his son. Both are lodged in the cells here, the better to be questioned tomorrow.’

‘So the trick worked,’ Furnival said with satisfaction. ‘How many witnesses do we have?’

‘Five, sir.’

‘Not even the most besotted jury could argue with that,’ declared Furnival. ‘One rogue the fewer to haunt the highways:’ He picked up his glass and added testily, ‘Come where I can see you, man!’ When Moffat appeared by his side, so grey, so tired, Furnival looked at him intently for a moment and then said, ‘I would want to talk to you but sleep will be better for us both. Tell me one thing, Silas.’

‘If I can, sir, I most surely will.’

‘Oh, you can, for I want only your opinion. Does it seem to you that for every rogue we hang at Tyburn or at Newgate or at any gallows, two grow in his place?’

Moffat spread his hands towards the fire, not only for warmth but for time to think. His master did not urge him, just sat up bundled in his warmth and comfort while Moffat looked as if his flesh were too thin to hold any warmth at all.

At last he answered, ‘Yes, sir, it does. But it also seems to me that if the one wasn’t hanged there would be three instead of two’.

‘You’re a great comfort, Silas,’ Furnival said. ‘King Solomon could have been no wiser. Now off to bed with you.’

Soon after his man had gone, John Furnival stirred himself and went to the necessary room behind the alcove. In one corner a brazier glowed, and there was an overpowering perfume of flowers, which always reminded Furnival of the flowers the judges carried to overpower the stench which came from prisoners ‘fresh’ from Newgate or one of the other stinking holes.

It was a good night for John Furnival, sleeping with the window open, for he could afford the window tax and preferred both light and air.

Out beyond Soho the city ranged, and already streets were appearing between there and Tottenham Court and Marylebone, beyond Clerkenwell and Hoxton to the north and Bethnal Green and Mile End to the east. Old houses might collapse, like thunder, even new ones fall, but the growth in numbers continued. The fields and the farms were beginning to yield to the great houses, while to the west, Hyde Park’s fences were under siege to builders voracious in their hunger for land, egged on by great landowners who served both King and Parliament and ignored the laws which had been passed to try to prevent London from growing too large and so beyond control. Even Knightsbridge, even the south bank of the Thames was being developed far beyond the Borough of Southwark. And there was much talk of more bridges, one at Westminster and one at Charing Cross, to speed the stagecoaches and the riders.

Nothing, it seemed, could stop London from extending its boundaries beyond the limits set by King and government. These laws were circumvented in two ways: by the wealthy who, believing in the future of London as the heart of Britain, bought great tracts of land, bribing officials for permits to build; and by small merchants and houseowners who, too frightened to break the law, built onto existing houses.

The jealousies and animosities between the City of London itself and Westminster grew worse, not better. Within the City walls was the greatest concentration of families and businessmen, including the guilds of all crafts and most professions. Beyond the walls and the seven gates was the two-mile highway which led to Westminster. Once nothing but a road between open farmland running down to the Thames on the south, this was now built up to the north with inns, alehouses and brothels, and the great terror of the Strand was the highwaymen who lurked there after dark, making the journey deadly dangerous unless one travelled with a group or a strong escort.

Within the City, divided into wards and parishes, there was some pretext of law and safety, but most responsible citizens were too careful to trust the watchmen patrols and so paid for their own peace officers. The profession of thief-taker, so abominated by John Furnival, arose because anyone could charge a man with a crime punishable by death, and anyone could bear false witness, often to his advantage, since he received a reward for his service to the community. And he could be even better rewarded, for if he arrested a man and had him committed, then he received a certificate which exempted him from any otherwise compulsory service in his parish, from jury duty and many such tasks. ‘A thief-taker is a thief-maker,’ Charles Hitchins had said more than twenty years earlier, and that was as true as ever.

Rich landowners built the nuclei of small towns in and beyond the villages, where there were no restrictive laws. As these spread they drew closer to the permitted limits of London and so the day came when the gaps closed and they were virtually part of the city. These building projects slowly changed the face of London, and while some took over green fields by which the city breathed, others tore down rat-infested slums and did much good.

From the forbidding walls of the City of London, at that time a free port for the goods of all nations of the earth, the Strand led to the City of Westminster, which was without walls and proud of its position.

Both places crawled with beggars; with the destitute, the sick, the frightened; and with criminals who lurked by night and sometimes were bold enough to strike for a rich prize by day.

The Strand became more infested with highwaymen every week.

The Thames, the other great means of communication between the two cities, was infested with thieves and footpads and ‘mudlarks’ and was crowded with shipping from across the world as well as from the coasts of Britain and of Europe.