The Masters of Bow Street

by John Creasey

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ James said gratefully.

  ‘They’re thieves before they can walk,’ the man growled. ‘You be careful with your master’s goods, boy.’

  ‘Be sure I shall use my best endeavours, sir.’

  Wherever he went during the next two hours he was haunted by that skeletal face, the hungry eyes, and the venom in the voice of the man who had prevented him from being robbed. Passing a grocer’s shop in Holborn there was a roar of ‘Stop thief!’ and the boy, the same one, came racing out of the shop, the owner or his man rushing after him, but stopping as the rain struck him like a wall of cold water. The little thief got away, hugging a loaf.

  The big man shook his fist and roared: ‘If I catch him he’ll hang as sure as my name’s Jack Roberts!’

  And the child could no doubt be hanged; or might at least be transported.

  James Marshall went on and delivered his goods and walked back a different way from the road he had come. Whenever he could use a different route, or enter a lane or a yard he had never seen before, he would do so even if it meant running part way back to make up for lost time. He had four journeys to make, and whatever time it was when they were done, he could go home.

  Tonight, it was half-past eight. There was still enough strength in his wiry legs to enable him to run through the rain towards his home, and as he was about to turn into the narrow lane, he stopped, despite the rain, and splashed into a puddle where the cobbles had worn thin. For along the street was a rare sight here: a coachman, sitting in his cape and cockaded hat on the high seat of a coach-and-pair. The man stared at him blankly, and James turned into the lane, wondering who had come to see Mr. Leonard, the owner of the house. Once inside, he could hear the rain pelting on the wooden roof and sides, and a stream of water was coming from the landing where a window was broken.

  He opened the door of the larger of the two rooms, and again he stopped, utterly still, more astonished this time than he had been at the sight of the coach-and-pair. For he heard the unmistakable voice of John Furnival.

  His astonishment was such that James missed some of the words even though he recognised the voice instantly, but gradually the words themselves became distinguishable and even their import, although for a while he was not really sure that he understood.

  ‘Think about it, Ruth. I’ll not try to rush you. But you’ll be a foolish woman if you refuse. You need more than you can earn honestly to bring up three children well, and if you see them going hungry you won’t mind how you get the food to feed them with, never mind send them to school. If you marry again, your man might be good to them but—’ Furnival broke off and then growled as if to himself, ‘I’ll not try to persuade you, either.’

  James heard his mother say, ‘No one could have been more kind, sir.’

  The boy moved swiftly away from the door as footsteps sounded, heavier than any he had heard in the room before, and he reached a dark corner where the rain splashed on him as the door opened and John Furnival appeared. Had he looked at the corner or even at the window he could not have failed to see James; instead, he turned his back so that he could gaze into the room, and there was a gentler tone in his voice as he went on: ‘And you owe yourself some comfort. Never forget yourself, Ruth. It is a rule of life.’

  He turned to the stairs, his back towards the boy, and went down slowly but lightly.

  The door did not close.

  James’s mother appeared, looking towards the man who had been to visit her, not moving even when he had disappeared. Immediately the rattle of the carriage wheels sounded, and Ruth Marshall turned on her heel and ran swiftly back inside the room. When, five minutes or so afterward, the boy ventured in, she was standing at the tiny window and staring out.

  Diffidently James said, ‘Mother, all my clothes are wet.’

  She pirouetted from the window, obviously taken by surprise, then rushed to him, beginning to scold him for getting so sodden before heeding his protest that he could not cease his deliveries just because it was raining. She stood him in front of the low fire and stripped and rubbed him vigorously with a rough towel, saying as she finished, ‘Now wrap a blanket from my bed about you and get your supper. Don’t wake the others, they can’t have been asleep for long.’ She did not mention John Furnival’s visit.’

  He did not tell her what he had heard and seen.

  ‘What did he propose?’ Tom Harris asked Ruth late that night. The rain had stopped and the stars were shining. The room struck cold. Harris had called on the way to Bow Street to make a report on his day’s mission, as he often did, to find out if there was anything she needed. She had never been more glad to see him. They talked in undertones in front of what was left of the fire because James was asleep in his corner and there was no other space for them to sit. She had poured out the story of Furnival’s visit, both fearful and excited, and now here was Tom, the most stolid and the most unexcitable man she knew, asking in his flat voice: ‘What did he propose?’

  ‘He offered me the position of general provider of food for him, at the court and in his home,’ replied Ruth. ‘He declared I would live with James and the girls in a cottage he owns at the back of the building and his offices.’ Had the candlelight been stronger or had this taken place in daylight the red flush staining her cheeks would have shown scarlet, but she went on without hesitation and scarcely a tremor in her voice. ‘And he promised to send James to school until he is fourteen - a school for boys close to Saint Paul’s. I have heard of the school, Tom. ‘Tis a highly respected one.’

  ‘None finer,’ agreed Tom Harris equably. ‘And then he will pay you enough to keep your children at home?’

  ‘He will provide all food and fuel and also pay me one guinea a week.’

  ‘He was never mean with money! Did he tell you what else he would expect from you besides taking care of his food?’ asked Harris bluntly.

  The flush had subsided and, in spite of the implication in the words, did not return. She eyed him steadily; all she could see was the outline of Harris’ solid body and head, and a glow on his eyes from the dying embers. He could see no more of her. They sat silent for so long that it was as if they were dozing, but at last Ruth answered.

  ‘Yes, Tom. I needed no telling but he told me frankly he would require me to warm his bed at times. I mean it when I say I needed no telling; Richard often told me about Mr. Furnival’s ways but said no wife of one of Mr. Furnival’s officers would be at risk with him.’

  Harris did not make the obvious retort: ‘Only their widows.’ He stirred, coughed, and unexpectedly put out a hand and touched hers where they were folded in her lap.

  ‘Think well before you decide, Ruth,’ he advised. ‘Long and well if you must. Be sure of one thing.’

  ‘What is that?’ she asked, aware of the rough skin of his palm and fingers.

  ‘What he promises, John Furnival will do. When he makes a bargain he will keep it, but’ - the already deep voice deepened still further and the pressure of his hand grew firmer - ‘he’ll expect the partner to the bargain to keep it, too. You’ll not be the only woman to warm him, Ruth, and if there is any jealousy in you, refuse him. He killed two wives because of his ways.’

  ‘Killed, Tom?’ She sounded shocked.

  ‘They were jealous of the other women and he paid their protests no heed. I’ll grant you, “killed” is too strong a word, but they were no match for him. He’s a great bull of a man.’ He took his hand away and shifted his chair back, indicating that he was about to take his leave.

  ‘Tom,’ Ruth stayed him, ‘what would you think if I accepted the proposition? Tell me truly.’

  ‘I’d think you might rue the day,’ answered Tom Harris, ‘and I would hope you would have strength enough to leave him, if ever you did. I would not disapprove, if that is what you are really asking me. I’ve seen the same situation work well with others, and John Furnival would not flaunt you. Everyone who knows him well would be aware of the relationship but no one else
would learn of it from him.’

  He rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘Tom,’ Ruth said, putting out a hand to delay him again, ‘will you do one thing for me?’

  ‘If I can, Ruth, you know that. What is it you want?’

  ‘I would like to know what the Reverend Smith would think. I have worshipped in his church for many years and our children have played together often. I would not like to have no blessing from him.’

  A change came upon Tom Harris, one which was evident even though she could see so little. He stood very erect and she could hear him breathing through his nostrils, as if his lips were set tightly, as they were likely to be when he disapproved or was angry. What had she said that could make him angry?

  The boy in the corner stirred in his sleep and turned over.

  ‘Ruth,’ said Tom Harris, ‘you don’t have to please me and you don’t have to please the Reverend Smith. You have to make a decision for yourself and for your children. If Smith is half the man I believe, he will acknowledge one thing: whatever you decide he will think it was because you thought it best. This is what Richard would have asked of you, also.’ He stopped, and now his breathing came through his mouth, harsher and more laboured, as if mention of his friend and her husband had broken the tight hold he had kept on his emotions. ‘Do what you think best, woman. I’ve told you that all the world need know is that you are housekeeper at John Furnival’s.’

  ‘But the Reverend Smith knows Mr. Furnival well,’ Ruth said in a meek voice. ‘He is a frequent visitor, interceding for his parishioners.’

  ‘I cannot make your decisions for you, Ruth, and you don’t really wish me to. Think on it hard. And it’s late now, I must bid you goodnight.’ He took her hands and, in a rare gesture for him, kissed her on the cheeks. Without another word he turned from the room and went heavily down the creaking stairs. She crossed to the window and watched as she had watched Furnival. One torch flickered in a tall bracket but there was light also at an open carriage, unattended, and light in a room opposite. That told her that the child of neighbours, across the yard, was so very sick that the doctor had been brought out to see him late as it was.

  The ailing son was the only child of two people in their forties; their all. They would make any sacrifice for him.

  She would make any sacrifice for her children.

  Tom Harris’ footsteps sounded on the hard stones and she could see him as he walked towards the narrow arched passageway, the only means of entering or leaving the yard. When he had gone and all was quiet, the sound of the horse champing on his bit seemed loud. She considered whether she should go to see if she could help her troubled neighbours, but the doctor came out, top-hatted and cloaked, with a man whom she recognised as a brother of the neighbour’s wife: so they were not without help. At last, she snuffed out the candle and went in darkness to the other, tiny room. She undressed, pulled a heavy woollen nightdress over her head, oblivious to its scratchiness on her fair skin, and climbed into bed.

  She did not go to sleep for a long time, yet she was up before James woke, to get him some hot mash of oatmeal and water and some cold loin of mutton and send him on his way. He looked so tired in the first light of dawn. But soon the other children were calling, one laughing, one crying, and by seven o’clock she must be done with everything needed for them and leave for the dressmaker’s shop in the Strand, where she would perhaps work for a few hours or, if the day was good, bring the cottons and linens and even silks back here to work on. The pale silks, the rich brocades, the poplins, the velvets - all of the best materials were sewed on the premises; Mr. and Mrs. Hewson, who owned the shop, had some of the finest clients in London, men and women of fashion, even some who were at King George II’s Court. Not a stitch, not a ribbon of the dresses for such honoured customers left the premises. All the cutting was done by Mr. Hewson himself, much of the designing by his wife, and on the two top floors of the premises the women and girls worked for as long as there was light.

  Ruth was out by seven, the children clattering after, her - Beth, aged six, and Henrietta, aged four. She admonished them to stay in the yard to play, checked that the three fire buckets which had to be outside each front door were filled with water, and swept her own patch of courtyard before doing a small corner patch for old Mrs. Blackett, who had a room in a building close to the passageway. She would keep the children from going out - when she was up, that was, and if she did not go nodding off to sleep. But soon other children would come and the yard would echo to their laughing and their shrieking, and to the women sweeping and filling buckets.

  Ruth went across the yard, picking her way over puddles and dung, and up to the rooms where the sick child was. The man whom she had seen the previous night came out of the main room, a finger at his lips.

  ‘I came only to inquire after Leslie,’ she whispered.

  ‘Glory be to God, the child’s still sleeping, and his mother and father, too,’ the brother-in-law answered. ‘The doctor who bled him prophesied the crisis would come during the night, and it both came and went.’ The man himself, veined and bulbous-eyed, looked tired out. ‘I will tell them you inquired, Mrs. Marshall; they will be very appreciative, that I’m sure.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am, nothing at all. The good Lord has sent them all they need and spared the life of their beloved son.’

  She went off, aware of dislike of the man and chiding herself for the feeling. He had been at hand in time of the family’s great need. What more could one ask? She went down the creaking stairs and picked her way to the alley and the street.

  Until Richard’s death she had stayed at home, or else had taken the children with her to the market or had helped to keep an eye on the children of the less fortunate mothers who had to go out to work.

  The night’s wind had dried the streets. Only here and there were patches of wet mud, and most of the dirt had already turned to dust, which was sent in clouds by horses and wheels. Here and there the big holes were still filled with rain water. A boy no older than Beth stood with his dung cart on the corner of Drury Lane and the Strand, and when horses spilled their droppings he would dart forward and gather as much as he could on a wooden shovel, toss it into the cart and rush back for more, desperate to get there before more carriages came and made the harvest more difficult. Ruth saw him dart in front of a coach-and-four and scrape as if his life depended on it, then dart out of the way of the heavy hooves’ and merciless wheels only just in time. Sedan chairs passed him within inches but these he ignored.

  The Strand was wider than most thoroughfares and, even so early, full of traffic, while many shops on the north side were open. The great houses on the south side built by Inigo Jones, such as Essex House and York and the Savoy palaces, were beginning to lose much of their magnificence, although terraces and artificial streams still ran from their higher gardens to the river and the small piers or landing stages. It was rumoured that some would soon be pulled down to allow more shops on the south side of the street, and smaller houses between the Strand and the river. Many of the owners had already moved west, never likely to return to these vast houses.

  Muddy water splashed as carriages and wagons went too fast through deep ruts; the walkers moved as far away from them as they could but few could avoid being spattered. Ruth was within ten yards of the lane where she would turn when a carriage-and-two went dashing by and mud splashed her from foot to waist. Two prostitutes standing against the open door of Charlie Wylie’s brothel, dresses tight at neck and obviously going shopping, roared with laughter.

  Ruth turned into the lane, then into the open door of Hewson’s, as a woman of much elegance was assisted into a bright-red sedan chair; the chairboys nearly scraped the chair against Ruth as she pressed against the wall. Mrs. Hewson, tall and high-cheeked, looked down her nose as Ruth bobbed.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t you know better than to come in here with that filth
on your clothes?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I was splashed just before I came in.’

  ‘Do you think I’m blind?’ Mrs. Hewson demanded. ‘I hope Madame Tover did not know you were coming here or she would be shocked. You can’t be allowed in the sewing room like that. Go to Mrs. Hay, and if there is any work to take home, she will give it to you.’

  There was only a little, some petticoats for the children of a merchant, but she would earn enough at least to keep the family for two days.

  Ruth took the bundle wrapped in coarse cloth and hoisted it beneath her arm, grateful for what she had but stirred nearly to anger by Mrs. Hewson’s manner. She went this time towards Whitehall because if she walked along St. Martin’s Lane she might find some scraps of beef and some bones. Hennessy’s, the butcher’s, had been raided by robbers two years ago and the old man and the two sons who owned the business had been badly injured and robbed of three hundred pounds. Within a few days Richard had caught the thieves; within three weeks both had been hanged. For a few months Richard had arrived home on Fridays with a joint of beef, or a leg of mutton, a gift from the grateful Hennessys. Now at least they would save scraps for her and, she believed, sometimes ‘scraps’ they made up for her. It was her turn to be grateful whether she liked to beg or not.