The Masters of Bow Street (18 page)

Quietly he went on: ‘I hope I can rely on you to do the sensible thing also, ma’am. I will send you a receipt from the bank for your confidential letter.’

He bowed stiffly and went out.

At the foot of the stairs he saw two of the men who had been ready to attack him and noticed, for the first time, that what looked like part of the dark oak panelling on one side was a narrow doorway, now ajar; that was how the other two men had arrived without arousing Godden’s suspicions. He ignored them as he walked to the carriage and returned the greeting of his men.

‘Godden, I am going to take some coffee at Galloway’s,’ Furnival said. ‘I shall write a note in there for you to take to a Mr. Tappen at Furnival Tower House. He will give you a receipt for it and you will bring it straight back to me.’ He climbed into the carriage as he went on to the others: ‘I doubt I shall need you now, but watch in case we are followed to Galloway’s.’

Galloway’s Coffee House was in Fleet Street not far from the bridge over the Fleet River, an old building partly built of red brick, which was beginning to powder and flake, and partly of wooden boards. It was within reach of the new crop of newspapers which had come upon London, some replacing the daily sheets and the worst relying on a daily sale of at least a thousand copies. So this place was a centre for newspapermen, gossips eager to pass on news, and men who were anxious to pick up information about overseas ships and conditions in foreign places; early news of a war or a ship’s loss could be turned to good account in the stock exchanges as well as in other coffee houses frequented by bankers and leading investors and men from the big commercial enterprises. The better coffee houses kept The Gentleman’s Magazine, The London Magazine and The Spectator as well as the daily or twice weekly newspapers. By far the most popular was The Craftsman, dedicated to the downfall of Robert Walpole.

Furnival opened the door of Galloway’s to a heavy smell of tobacco smoke, which made a pale blue-grey mist, softening the sight of thirty or forty men sitting in groups at the little wooden tables, drinking coffee from tall mugs or smoking coarse tobacco. Three men sneezed, one after the other, with such violence that one feared for the safety of the snuffboxes in their hands, for one fallen box of snuff could cause more coughing, spluttering and sneezing than a canister of ground white pepper. Some of the customers wore long wigs, so old-fashioned was their dress, but many had the shorter perukes, which fashion was now demanding, and one man actually wore full-length trousers fastened by straps under his boots, far ahead of fashion. Among the host of three-cornered hats were some with round brims and even some with high crowns.

At Furnival’s entry there was a stir of interest and a lull in the conversation, making one man’s voice sound very loud about the quiet.

‘I tell ‘ee, Will, the Jews were behind the South Sea Bubble, twenty years ago or not. Whenever there’s money trouble look for the Jews. I’m against them having civil rights; if we’re not careful they’ll be operating all of London’s business and—’

The speaker, one of the bewigged men, broke off when he realised that quiet had fallen upon the house. He, too, saw Furnival and his mouth stayed open. Tobias Clay, who was said to be the anonymous editor of The Fleet, was just in front of Furnival, together with the editors of The London Journal and The Craftsman. Two younger men, writers for The Daily Advertiser, were in a far corner. ‘Are you against the Jews having citizens’ rights, John Furnival?’ Clay asked.

‘I am in favour of all citizens having their rights,’ Furnival answered, ‘including safety in bed from robbers and safety on the highway from highwaymen and safety in the streets from footpads. Aye, and safety in London from plague and safety in magistrates’ courts from jail fever.’ When he paused there was a general laugh, a few calls of agreement. He sat down and added, ‘I’d rather be a clever Jew than a foolish Gentile, and I’d rather be a dull-witted Jew than a Jew hater.’

The man still bitter about the South Sea Bubble flushed beneath his side whiskers but did not take up the issue. A waiter came to Furnival with a pot of coffee and a clay pipe, marked with his name, and he looked through The Daily Courant and The Spectator.

Now and again Clay asked a question but Furnival did not look up until the man said, ‘Now that Jackson’s dead, do you think crime will become less of a problem, Mr. Furnival?’

‘No, I do not.’

‘So you think he was only one of many leaders of gangs?’

‘Tobias Clay,’ Furnival said, laying aside The Courant and ejecting little puffs of smoke as he spoke, ‘if you, a renowned scribe attached to the press, whose ear is said to be closer to the ground than any other ear in Fleet Street, can doubt such a fact, then call your rag anything you like but not a newspaper.’

‘Forty or more words where one would suffice,’ retorted Clay smilingly, obviously taking no umbrage.

‘I’ll answer with one word when one will serve.’

‘Then answer this: What does the brightest luminary on the magisterial benches of London, Westminster and the counties of Middlesex, Surrey and Essex think will reduce crime?’

Furnival took the pipe from his pursed lips; no smoke came between them. He was aware that everyone was listening, that many were standing at the walls simply to see him. They leaned against the advertisements for soap, cure-all pills and physics, snuff, combs, pomades and other commodities in great variety. One man sniffed snuff wheezily, sneezed loudly once and smothered another.

‘I will give you two answers,’ Furnival said slowly. ‘In the long term you need social justice to replace the iniquity of many of our present laws, the corruption in Parliament and among justices of the peace as well as all constables and their substitutes. Only a nincompoop would expect enough changes in less than fifty or sixty years although we shall move towards them. Our method of dealing with crime is the very breeding ground of crime and so of criminals. In the short term, in order to reduce the consequences of crimes which are born out of society, we need a strong force of trained men in London, controlling the two cities and the Thames and the land between. And after that we want the same kind of force of peace officers in every city, large and small, working together. Then we would have less crime. But to make a good beginning on either would take at least ten years.’

When he stopped, the silence seemed strange and disturbing. It was broken by the bewigged man who had been damning the Jews.

‘Utterly unthinkable. Madness. We are a free people.’ We will provide our own security, but a professional force - it nauseates me. Positively nauseates me.’ He glared defiantly at Furnival, who had known exactly what to expect.

Another man called out, ‘You’d have us like the damned Frenchies, would you? A police army, that’s what you’d have.’

‘Monstrous,’ another man declared. ‘Utterly monstrous.’

‘What empty-headed asses you are,’ declared a young man from a corner; though big and florid of face, positive of voice, he was blind. ‘Furnival’s right. We’ll never begin to be free of crime while we leave crime detection and keeping the peace to corrupt bumblers.’

‘Damme, Gentian,’ the anti-Jew cried, ‘you’re as bad as he is! We want no police army in Britain, I tell you. The present system works. A few years ago I had two hundred gold pieces and as much in value in gold plate stolen. Within a month most was returned.’

‘And how much did you have to pay Frederick Jackson to get it back?’ asked Furnival coldly.

‘No matter! If he hadn’t interceded, I’d have had none of it.’

‘For as long as the majority think like you do,’ the blind Gentian declared, ‘there will be no efficient way of fighting crime, and so more crime in London exists than there is stink in the River Fleet.’

Furnival moved his chair back, stood up and crossed to the sitting man, and as he did so the door opened and Godden came in. Furnival signalled to him and went on to Gentian’s table.

The blind man, editor of a small newspaper, raised his head and said, ‘Mr. Furnival. Very gracious of you.’

‘Very discerning of you,’ Furnival replied.

‘My friends went so rigid, only one man in this room could affect them so. Yes, sir, I do believe completely in what you said, but damme if I can find enough others to agree with me to make up the fingers on one hand. You’ve one ally, though. Henry Fielding, the playwright, now at the bar.’

‘May we all three meet and discuss the matter?’ suggested Furnival.

‘My pleasure, sir. I am yours to command. But not, alas, for a few weeks,’ Gentian said in his curiously attractive voice. ‘Henry Fielding has to go to Paris to plead a case for an Englishman in some difficulty. I have no doubt that he will encounter a variety of Parisian crime.’

‘There’ll be as much as in London, in spite of those dammed police soldiers,’ a man sitting at the next table put in.

‘Half the crime and a quarter of the hanging,’ Furnival replied. ‘I have seen recent figures from Paris.’

‘And far more manners, my dear sir,’ Gentian replied, ‘Far more manners. Mr. Furnival, sir, to our next meeting.’

Furnival went out, to find the street more crowded although it was not yet five o’clock, very early for the heaviest traffic to begin. The only satisfaction, apart from relaxation, had come from the man Gentian and the information that Henry Fielding, playwright turning barrister, agreed with him. It was six o’clock when he reached Bow Street.

Two of his retainers were on duty outside, talking to an old watchman, but no carriages and no horses waited, from which fact he drew hope that no one was waiting or demanding a quick hearing. The court and the offices were quieter than usual, and he was at the door of the downstairs apartment when Moffat appeared from it, bowed and remarked, ‘I am glad no harm came of your visit, sir.’

‘Who knows - some good may, in the passage of time,’ Furnival said. ‘Make me some tea, and then let me be undisturbed until a quarter to eight.’

‘But dinner, sir—’

‘I will dine after the Reverend Sebastian Smith his been to see me,’ Furnival said and strode into his room.

Ruth Marshall was in front of the fireplace, toasting muffins. On a nearby table was a crock of butter, and there were few things he liked to eat more than muffins from which the butter oozed. A kettle sang and steam whispered from it as it hung from an iron hook by the side of the fire, and a teapot was warming with dark tea already inside.

Ruth looked up at him and made to rise but he said gruffly, ‘Stay there, stay there.’ He saw her cheeks flushed by the fire and her eyes glowing, and for the first time since she had come here she wore a dress cut so low that he could see the rich swell of her bosom.

He went into his alcove bedroom.

The bed was turned down as if it were night, his nightgown was draped over one side, soft slippers of knitted wool stood by the bed. He drew the curtain and went into the necessary room with its strong, almost overpowering perfume of roses, needed less here because some years ago he had had a plumber drill a hole and fit a leaden pipe which was sluiced down with at least three buckets of water a day. He put on the nightgown and a dressing gown and made a great noise pushing back the curtain.

Ruth was pouring the boiling water onto the tea, holding the teapot close and tipping the kettle up with a small piece of angle iron. She allowed the kettle to straighten slowly, stood up as easily as a child and placed the teapot on the table.

‘I think that is all you need, sir,’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, looking at her. ‘I don’t know, Ruth. Pull up a chair and get yourself a cup and just sit by me. I don’t wish to talk and I don’t wish to be alone.’

She did as she was bidden and sat on the far side of the fireplace, sometimes looking into it, sometimes at him, toasting more muffins, smiling when he spread even more butter over any empty little holes. He noticed how delicate and small her wrists and hands and ankles were.

He did not know how long they sat there.

He did not know the moment when he stood up and stretched his arms out towards her, and how she came to him, neither shy nor bold; how for a moment his touch upon her seemed to create stillness and coldness in her body but soon these faded.

He was very gentle with her. At first he sensed that she was a little afraid, but after a moment he felt her respond, and before long their lips met, their teeth touched, their bodies were joined together.

He knew how different women were in their responses, how some lay almost frigid beneath a man and others pretended a passion which lacked the rhythm a couple should have. He knew well the practised ease of a woman such as Lisa Braidley, with whom it was impossible to be sure whether passion was real or simulated; and he had lain with women he had never known before with whom there had been no question but of passion and, after a while, some strange, all possessing fire which blazed in both and exploded at the same fierce moments of climax. He had wondered, idly, how it would be with Ruth, aware that possession of any woman for the sake of lust, uncaring whether he saw her again, was no longer sufficient.

Now he knew near-perfection.

Afterward, afterward, he remembered how he had said to Lisa Braidley that he wished her breasts held milk so that he could draw sustenance; and soon he found his lips gently about Ruth’s nipples, drawing no sustenance yet drawing peace. The moment came when he fell asleep, his cheek against her breast.

When she felt it would not disturb him she eased herself away from him with great care, thankful that the huge bed did not creak. She stood for a few moments, naked, looking down at him and smiling. Soon she shrugged herself into her robe, drew it up and tied it at the neck, left the tea things on the table lest she should make enough noise to wake him, and went out. In the flickering light of candles in iron wall sockets Silas Moffat was reading a manuscript through the tiny lenses of gold-rimmed spectacles. He stood up immediately as she crossed to him, saying in a low-pitched voice, ‘I do believe that he will sleep.’

‘I hope it has not overtired him; I am troubled about his health. But pleasure followed by sleep can only be good for him,’ he added more happily. ‘I will go and see the Reverend Smith and try to find more of what he wants, and make an appointment for tomorrow, if it seems necessary.’ Ruth nodded and moved aside as he asked, an anxious note in his voice, ‘Must you go to your, cottage?’