The Masters of Bow Street (53 page)

‘If they will do this, they can forget that I ever existed!’ James cried.

‘You understand that there will be strict limitations on what we are prepared to do,’ Lord North said to James the following week, ‘but the government feels that your knowledge of Bow Street and its - ah - unofficial methods in the past is so extensive that you can be of great assistance.’

‘You are most kind,’ James replied.

‘The government is not unmindful of your endeavours even if at times it has regarded you as being - ahem - considerably ahead of your time. There is one other matter. It is the desire of the Sheriffs of London to put an end to public hanging and the subsequent rejoicing thereafter. Knowing of your deep convictions on the subject. . .’

This was a task James could work on with good heart.

Then he found in Sheridan, the playwright, an enthusiast for a new and co-ordinated force, heard him propose in the House of Commons that in the case of civil riot the Army should be available to intervene without the order of a civil magistrate.

‘I am opposed to any alteration of our system of peacekeeping,’ the Solicitor General said in reply. ‘The Gordon Riots were a single instance of a defect in a civil power which in all probability will never occur again.’

And the proposal was overwhelmingly defeated.

On the morning of July I, 1783, more than two years later, James woke to sunshine streaming in at the window and to the noises of the children in the garden. Turning on his side, he saw Mary moving quietly across the room so as not to disturb him, and he called out. She came towards him, smiling, startlingly like the Mary he had seen that night when he had called on the Reverend Sebastian Smith.

She sat on the side of the bed, her hands in his, laughter lurking in her eyes as she said, ‘This is not a day for you to be late, Mr. Marshall.’

‘What is there to make me hurry?’ he demanded.

‘I do not believe that you have forgotten. This is the day of the last Tyburn Fair. Shame on you that you would dally on such a solemn occasion. I have been reading an article by our friend Benedict,’ she went on. ‘He is wryly amused by the great reform sponsored by the Sheriffs of London, Sir Barnard Turner and Thomas Skinner. What genius they have to put an end to the hangings in Tyburn and to have them instead outside the gates of Newgate Palace! And such solemn occasions hangings shall be, with the gallows to be draped in black and only a man of God to stand beside the condemned men and the hangman. Also, there is to be a drop, the floor-giving way beneath them so that death is quick.’ She tightened her grip on James’s hands and asked, ‘Do you think it will be an improvement, Jamey?’

After a pause he answered, ‘I think it will be a step forward, not a step back. I had not forgotten the day, my love.’

‘Did you desire to drown the memory in me, Mr. Marshall?’

‘I think I wanted to be here with you when the accursed cart is moving,’ he said, ‘but—’ He broke off, half frowning as he looked at her.

‘Nay,’ she said. ‘For whenever we were together in bed we’d have the gallows for company. If you are not at Tyburn to watch the last hanging you will regret it, husband. You would be drawn there, whatever I say.’ She drew herself free and stood up, asking gently, ‘Would you have me with you, James?’

‘No,’ he said most positively. ‘You are right and I should be there - but I should be alone.’

He stood on the spot where he had come as a boy to watch Frederick Jackson hang.

He saw the hordes of people, many half drunk, the fashionable men and women in the stands, the price of which had doubled for this last great occasion. He saw those selling the ‘Last Words and Confessions’ of many who could neither read nor write. He saw the orange and apple sellers, the sellers of pies and pasties, of sweetmeats and gin and lavender. He saw the cutpurses and the pickpockets; and he saw the six men hanged.

He did not see young Frederick Jackson, grandson of the first Frederick, who was present with his father.

He did not see Simon.

He did not see Timothy.

He watched the swinging bodies and the creaking carts carrying them to the new Butchers’ Hall and to new hospitals where surgeons needed bodies on which to experiment and so learn to save lives. After he had turned away and walked for what seemed a very long time, he saw the house at Bow Street with strangers on duty both inside and out. The men of Bow Street no longer lived only on a share of blood money or of reward money; their livelihood now depended, at least in part, on their acceptance by the government.

In his mind’s eye he saw the mob coming to tear the courthouse apart and burn it to the ground.

But there it still stood, the home of true justice, a house of hope for those who, if they were innocent, need fear no longer. A monument to miracles of achievement and an even greater monument to failure. It was utter madness that the growing metropolis, now spread far beyond the cities of London and Westminster, should be without a civil peace force. He must not cease to fight. He must harry whatever government at every opportunity, presenting the Ministers always with cold facts, the viciousness of corruption, the fact that justice could be bought and sold. . .

A chill wind blew from Westminster, making him shiver.

1784–1829

‘I regret the need for so constantly harassing you sir,’ James Marshall said to William Pitt. ‘I have no doubt you will be weary of me. Yet I persist because the need is as great now - indeed, far greater - as it has ever been. With the press of population and the increasing number of soldiers back from Europe and America, many now without work, as well as increasing trade and prosperity, the present system of parish watch and constable is nigh on collapse. I dare remind you that at the time of the Gordon Riots four years ago—’

‘Yes, I recall the subject,’ the Prime Minister interrupted with heavy sarcasm. ‘Nor am I unmindful of your persuasiveness or your pertinacity. I have discussed the matter further with Sir Archibald MacDonald, since it is within the province of the Solicitor General. He is to take advice from the magistrates at Bow Street and, of course, his own department, and on that advice prepare a bill which shall be submitted to the House of Commons as soon as practicable. I have no doubt that Sir Archibald will both need and welcome your guidance, and I trust the issue will be favourable. Good day to you, sir.’

As if he had conveyed a message by some unseen means, a tap came at the door of Pitt’s office in Westminster, and he rose from his padded chair, tall, strangely supercilious in manner. A secretary came hurrying in, wig askew, and James Marshall could do no more than bow and stammer his thanks.

‘I - I am overwhelmed, sir. The - the - the nation will be grateful.’

Pitt did not seem to hear him, and the moment James had finished the word ‘grateful’ the secretary began to speak. James, escorted by a youthful flunky in uniform, went out of this part of the Palace to the lobbies with which he was more familiar and where a few Members stood about talking as they waited for interviews with Ministers or for committees.

At that moment James was in no condition to talk to anyone; all he could think of was getting into the open air, by himself, and repeating the incredible tidings . . . ‘prepare a bill which shall be submitted to the House of Commons as soon as practicable’.

A bill - a peacemakers’, or a police, bill - prepared on the advice of the Bow Street magistrates! Drawn up by the Solicitor General! As the fullness of the truth burst upon him he wanted to shout ‘A bill. There is to be a police bill!’ at the top of his voice. His excitement showed in his eyes and on his face, and several Members stopped to point at him, while one called out: ‘Hast come into a fortune, Jamey?’ Once again it was on the tip of his tongue to cry ‘There is to be a police bill, glory be to God!’ when a man appeared at his side, the dishevelled secretary who had entered the Prime Minister’s room as James was leaving. The man’s wig was set even more on one side and his breathlessness was greater.

‘Mr. Marshall, an urgent matter,’ he whispered hoarsely, close to James’s ear.

James looked at him uncomprehendingly, beginning to realise that he must regain his composure.

‘Mr. Marshall, I come to you with an urgent message,’ the secretary declared earnestly. ‘Mr. Pitt asks that you keep this matter in strict confidence until such time as the details have been decided and the form of the bill assured.’

‘In - strict confidence?’

‘In absolute confidence, sir, lest its opponents be able to plan the bill’s defeat even before it is presented.’

‘I understand,’ James assured him, relieved that the message had caught up with him in time.

‘Have I your assurance, sir?’

‘My absolute assurance,’ James replied, and suddenly he smothered a laugh, for this man, who had obviously been sent rushing after him because the Prime Minister had been too preoccupied to enjoin him to silence, would never dream that two minutes later he would have come upon James Marshall, M.P., doing a jig. As it was, James went out of the chamber and into Whitehall walking on air.

The huddle of buildings which crowded upon Westminster Palace had lost its dilapidated appearance, and even the ale houses close by the main entrance, where too many Members repaired not only for refreshment but to dally with wenches beneath the crooked upstairs ceilings, were places of beauty. He was tempted to go into Minus, his favourite coffee house in the area, but other Members were sure to be there, mostly in heated discussion, and seeing his preoccupation would begin to harry him with questions. For the first time he regretted the need for silence.

Instead, he went towards Westminster Bridge and stood close to the Royal Steps, looking for a chair. He must sit quietly for a few moments, giving himself a chance to calm his excitement before he reached the offices of The Daily Clarion. For there was one man on whom he could rely: Benedict Sly could be trusted even with State Secrets, and indeed, on occasions, he had been.

James had to talk to someone.

‘I could not be more pleased and excited,’ Benedict declared, as they sat together in his Fleet Street office, which was both private and quiet. ‘I could not congratulate you more, Jamey. I hope they will consult you closely and not put too much faith in today’s Bow Street magistrates, who are not remotely of the same calibre as the Fieldings. How I wish the Fieldings were alive to know of this!’ He appeared to be overcome with satisfaction. ‘If there is any way at all that I can help be sure I will.’

From Fleet Street James went by hackney to Chelsea. Many buildings had been recently erected in the Strand and much activity was going on about Somerset House. The contrast between the magnificence of this palace and the huddle of hovels opposite it, hemming in the ancient church of St. Mary-le-Strand, was as unbelievable as it was incongruous.

Out by the gates of Hyde Park he had his hackney stop at an apple stall, buying some apples to munch instead of going into the nearby Hercules Pillars for a mug of ale and a pie. Here and there, beyond the park, many houses were being built, and the farms and farmland were severely reduced in area, but this was not James’s day for bemoaning the inroads of the city on the countryside.

He reached his Chelsea house in soft rain failing from skies which seemed to become heavier every moment. To his relief, none of his children or grandchildren appeared, and he found Mary sitting in his big chair, reading the newspapers which had been delivered since he had left for Westminster. Startled at his early return, she turned to look at him with an obvious anxiety which instantly faded at sight of the elation in his eyes. When she took his hands, he held hers with great firmness.

Before he spoke, she said, ‘You have talked with Mr. Pitt and he has seen the light at last! Is that what has brought you?’

‘He has not only seen the light, he has enjoined me to silence about it. Had he known how quickly my wife could read my mind he would have known that was a waste of time!’

‘Oh, Jamey, Jamey, I am so glad for you,’ she cried, and as if without conscious effort added, ‘and for London, for everyone. Oh, Jamey, if only the Fieldings could know!’

He pulled her to her feet, held her close, and kissed her . . . and quite suddenly they were stripped of their years and they were together in the flesh and in the spirit as closely and as perfectly as they had ever been.

When, afterward, they lay together in the four-poster which had been so much trouble to move from the house in the Strand, James felt a deep contentment which her very stillness told him that she shared. Suddenly he heard cries from below; some of the grandchildren had arrived.

‘Keep quiet and pretend you are not here,’ James urged Mary lazily.

‘They would think the world had come to an end,’ she protested.

Watching her dress, James pondered what she had said.

‘So their world would come to an end if you were not here to welcome your grandchildren?’ he mused.

More cries followed his words, and, distinctly, the call ‘Grandmamma!’ came from below.

‘You take me too seriously, Mr. Marshall,’ Mary laughed.

‘Not seriously enough,’ he replied. ‘If you weren’t here my world would be at an end, Mary.’

‘Oh, tush!’ she exclaimed, but there was pleasure in her eyes.

As the door opened the sound of voices calling ‘Grandmamma! Grandmamma!’ billowed out more loudly; when she closed it behind her, her responding call came clearly.

And to think he had nearly lost her, James recalled with strange tension. He had gone that night to her father’s house and had been so attracted that he had persuaded her to postpone taking the post of housekeeper to the Weygalls - and then he had turned away from her. It would have been so easy for her to have met and married someone else. He had nearly thrown his future away.

These musings still hovered in his mind when he heard a scream from below of such piercing shrillness that it set his heart pumping and made him spring to his feet. There was great commotion as he hurried to the stairs, servants rushing, womenfolk running, one mother whose voice he could not identify crying, ‘Stay absolutely still. Don’t move, child. Don’t move!’