The Masters of Bow Street (71 page)

Over this fabulous empire within the Empire, Simon ruled.

After Simon would come his two sons, Marriott and John. Did he fear for them? Richard wondered. Was he haunted by the dread that they might succumb, as Hermina had succumbed, to the awful curse of madness?

Whatever he thought or felt, Simon concealed it well, and after dinner that night, while he sipped and sniffed a cognac, he said with apparent earnestness, ‘First get your police force, Richard. Then make the public accept it.’

He was virtually echoing Robert Peel’s words!

Quietly and with great thoroughness the bill was prepared. During the following months Richard himself interviewed more than a hundred constables, magistrates, Bow Street Runners, Bow Street patrolmen, City guards and river police to assess the needs as comprehensively as he could and to make sure there were no weak links. All of his colleagues laboured with equal zeal. Undoubtedly the greatest fears of those in opposition were that a police force would become a kind of civilian armed force used to repress the people; also that its members would act as spies and would encourage informers.

‘Above all we must convince the people that neither is true,’ Richard insisted.

‘You mean the police should carry no arms?’ Peel asked.

‘That is vital, sir. If they are armed beyond a staff or cudgel it could be fatal to our prospects. And they must strictly avoid the use of spies and informers, even among thieves.’

‘Then show me how it can be done,’ Peel urged again. ‘Have you yet to name this bill, Mr. Marshall?’

‘It is provisionally entitled Bill for Improving the Police In and Near the Metropolis, sir.’

Peel, once again Home Secretary in a new Cabinet, pursed his lips, appeared to talk to himself, then said aloud, ‘Bill for Improving the Police In and Near the Metropolis. Hmmm. It has a nice respectable ring about it and appears to threaten nothing new. Politicians are most wary of innovations! It shall be considered. When may I expect to see a draft of this - ah - Bill for Improving the Police In and Near the Metropolis? “Of London” can be taken as read.’

‘In six to eight weeks, sir.’

‘Then there should be time for me to study it and for the Attorney General to savage it and for presentation to the House early in the new year of 1829,’ Peel declared.

The draft was all but ready, and copies were being made by clerks who were also scholars and attorneys, when a message was brought to Richard in the House of Commons saying simply:

Hermina grievously ill. Can you come to see her?

Simon

‘She has been subject to increasing rages and periods of violence,’ Simon told him, ‘and has been taking larger and larger doses of laudanum to obtain rest. It is years since we were husband and wife in the true sense. Last night, alone in her room, she took a substantial overdose. The doctors despair of her recovery.’

‘But I thought Susan was always with her to make sure she did nothing harmful.’

‘Usually she is,’ answered Simon, and his tired, darkly shadowed eyes were unwavering as he watched Richard. ‘But a woman must have some respite and a man with an insane wife some comfort. Susan was with me last night. She is a great solace. In fact, I do not know how I would have sustained myself in the past several years but for her.’

In that moment Richard understood why Susan had never been in a mood to talk with him seriously about their relationship. Simon, not he, was her chosen. And that was the moment when Richard wondered, in shock touched with horror, whether Hermina had taken the overdose or whether it had been given to her.

Hermina died before night fell, two doctors in attendance, each ready to swear that death had been caused by excessive internal bleeding, and none had any doubt save those who had reason to suspect the truth. Few knew that Simon had taken Susan to his bed, and that from then on he placed her in charge of his household, preparing for the day when they could marry without arousing comment. Richard went less often to see them, the ugly suspicion never wholly driven from his mind. In any event, he was devoting every hour of his days and many of his nights to preparing the bill. At last it was ready, and in the company of Lord John Russell, he handed the precious document to Peel.

Now the task was done, and Richard suffered a reaction quite different from anything he had ever experienced before. It affected him physically; at times his whole body would go tense, at others it would quiver as if he had an attack of ague. Mentally, he was on edge, and did not trust himself for a while to discuss the police issue with anyone - or, for that matter, to discuss any serious issue. He was virtually sure of the cause of his condition, equally sure that he would not recover until he heard from Peel. He tried to prevent himself from looking back not only over the years he had spent on his task but on those decades spent by others. The date of John Furnival’s first detailed proposal to Walpole had been in 1725, one hundred and three years earlier, before his grandfather had been born! Was it possible that after the agony of waiting and struggling, the dream was to be realised? Was it conceivable that he, Richard Marshall, was to be the main instrument by which the actual police force was to be forged?

When Richard had such thoughts he suffered a heavy weight of depression which made him feel terribly alone. And because he did not wish others to know how he was feeling, he kept away from the coffee houses which had been his main source of companionship for so many years. He had a strange feeling of being ostracised, although he knew that this was absurd, since the cause lay within himself.

What had he done to deny himself the warmth and pleasures of marriage? Why had he condemned himself to this loneliness, in which he could share his fears and even his hopes with no one? The only man who would have fully understood his present mood was his grandfather, of course: his grandfather and, perhaps, Simon. But Simon had been thrust - or had thrust himself - into a world in which he and Richard had little in common, and seemed far removed from him.

Richard knew he must not lie to himself.

Since Hermina’s death, since Simon had told him of his relationship with Susan, it was his own feelings which had cooled. Susan had become a barrier between them at least as great as Simon’s wealth and possessions.

One thing Richard could do to occupy and satisfy himself was to look for articles suitable for ‘Mr. Londoner’; but although during that Christmas season he had a rare chance to concentrate on the business again it did not hold him as it should. There were now three adjoining shops with living quarters on the top floors of each. The salesrooms were on the ground floor and the one above, and in these there was hardly room to move among the shelves and display stands on which
objets d’art,
bric-a-brac, small paintings, porcelain, coins - all in great variety - were stored.

Christmas was always a busy time. The shops were thronged with customers from eight in the morning until ten and eleven o’clock at night, but the assistants were always courteous and patient. Those trained to watch for light-fingered ‘customers’ carried out even their most distasteful tasks with great tact. Two watchmen were on duty by day and four by night to throw out any ‘customers’ who clearly came to steal, although these were surprisingly few, and to watch the premises for fire. Now and again some precious piece of furniture was stolen from the store’s sheds, and doubtless stood in some poor creature’s hovel, a prized possession; but that was the worst of the losses at ‘
Mr. Londoner
’.

As Christmas drew nearer, Richard, in spite of his misgivings, began to look for the yearly invitation from Simon to spend part of the holiday at Great Furnival Square. Usually this came by special messenger, in the form of a handwritten note, but this year there was no messenger and no invitation. Two days before Christmas Richard, convinced that it would not come, was desolate. Simon would not forget such an occasion; it could only be a deliberate omission. Added to his anxiety and tension over the proposals he had handed to Peel, this brought him to a level of depression which made him near distraught.

On Christmas Eve he sent a cart laden with gifts for the family - including an amber-headed pin for Simon, who liked such trifles - and decided that he must make an effort to shake himself out of his mood. A fast ride in the country would do him good. He went to the stables, which were still behind the shop, and the ostler’s boy saddled his big bay. As he rode out, a few flakes of snow drifted down; but he wore a close-fitting hat and a long coat and was not troubled. He turned into St. Martin’s Lane, still amazed at the changes. Porridge Island was almost gone, only a few miserable wooden shacks being left, and the Royal Stables had vanished completely. John Nash, though said to be failing - hardly surprising since he was in his seventies - had been commanded by George IV to make this whole area a fitting square to celebrate Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar. How long such things took! For an even longer period there had been talk about building the Royal Academy to the north of the site; now it was referred to as the National Gallery, and work was started.

The clearing of slums gave a finer view of St. Martin’s in the Fields. He was less familiar with the streets leading north, and could hardly believe how the metropolis had grown! Through Bloomsbury, beyond Camden Town and Kentish Town, the houses spread on either side along the banks of the wide Regent’s Canal, one of the main arteries for transport of goods from east to west, and out towards the wooded countryside beyond Hampstead. The air was crisp but not too cold and there was little wind but that created by his own movement. He must soon turn back for he had been riding for two hours and the return would be slower because of the snow. Yet he contemplated this with reluctance. Here on horseback one could be alone, and at this moment he needed solitude.

Nestling in a valley between two low hills was an inn, blue wood smoke rising thick and almost straight from two tall chimneys jutting from the thatched roof. Two small carriages were outside, and three saddled horses, but as Richard drew up, a lad led the horses to cover behind the inn. He ducked beneath the low doorway and stepped into a warm room, with a log fire blazing at one end, brasses gleaming, copper pans glistening, and oak beams dark with polish. In one corner a group of men were sitting and drinking, talking about the coming season’s crops, about wenches, about their families. In another corner a middle-aged man and woman were eating pies and drinking coffee.

The place had not only brightness but cleanliness. The man behind the bar, short and thickset, had mutton-chop whiskers and a clean-shaven chin; his ruffled shirt was spotless; so was the polished bar and all the things upon it.

Pinned to one of the beams behind the bar was a copy of the
Police Gazette,
giving details of stolen goods and wanted men; some handbills, also issued from Bow Street, were pinned beside it.

‘Used to be the old
Hue and Cry
,’ declared the publican knowingly. ‘They do say copies go to over a hundred thousand inns and alehouses, the likes of this, and millions of people read them.’

Two million, Richard corrected silently, and reflected that not so long ago the old
Hue and Cry
had appeared only once every three weeks.

‘Do you ever see any suspects in here?’ he asked.

‘I have done, sir, to be sure. And I’ve always sent a word to London by the next stage. It’s a wonderful system, sir, wonderful. Well now, what will be your pleasure?’

‘I shall have a mug of your best light ale and a piece of the pie you most recommend.’

‘I dassen’t recommend owt, sir. If my wife heard me favour one against the other I’d never hear the last on’t! But if you’d care to know what I’d eat myself, I’d have the raised pork.’

He smiled broadly, and Richard found himself laughing.

‘Will you stand or sit, sir? Plenty of room for both today.’

‘I’ll stand,’ Richard decided.

The pork pie had a flavour he had long dreamed about but seldom tasted, the kind his grandmother had made. He ate with more gusto than for weeks past, had his dented pewter tankard refilled, and went to a window, stopping to see through the leaded panes. The middle-aged couple had already gone; the men in the corner were standing up, even more boisterous in departure. During the half hour he had been here the snow had fallen thickly and now everything was covered, fields, hedges, trees and buildings were alike beautiful. If he did not leave soon he would not reach London in any comfort; the snow could be six or seven inches deep by the time he reached the Strand.

‘Your pardon, sir,’ a girl said at his side.

He turned in surprise because he had not heard her approach. She was young, fifteen or sixteen perhaps, with a round face and eyes the brighter because of the reflection of the snow. A small bonnet rested at the back of a cluster of yellow curls. Her square-necked dress was cut low to reveal her bosom enticingly, and her eyes were china blue. She was holding a dish of tarts, deep lemon in colour, and once again Richard was reminded of his grandmother, who had cooked lemon curd tarts each week because ‘Jamey likes them so.’

‘But they are still not so good as those my mother would make,’ his grandfather would tease, and Mary would snatch them away from him.

‘Why thank you,’ Richard said, taking one. It was butter-soft, rich, delicious.

He took another and another, pressed her to have one, then became aware of something in her manner which he had not at first noticed, an earnestness which he did not understand until she put a hand on his and said in a near-pleading voice, ‘You will not be able to ride on in this snow, sir, will you?’

‘I had thought of staying,’ Richard replied.

‘Please, sir, do,’ she urged. ‘’Tis cold as charity outside and the snow will grow thicker, you mark the words of a country girl.’

Only half-thinking, he said, ‘But I’ve no night clothes, nothing with me.’

‘We’ll find all you need, sir,’ she replied, ‘and I’ll give you a promise to keep you warm in bed. It will be a wonderful way for you to celebrate Christmas Eve; you’ll remember it to your dying day.’