The Masters of Bow Street by John Creasey Read Free Book Online Page B

It was the poor people’s holiday, and no one worked except those who must.
    ‘James,’ she said, ‘you must tell me where you have been.’
    It was still some time before he answered, but there was no defiance in him, so she let him be, not trying to hurry him. Suddenly he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, so hard that she could feel the shaking throughout her body. Now both of her hands covered his head with a light touch which she hoped, prayed, was reassuring. He did not cry loudly and there was no fear that he would wake the others.
    When at last he quieted and drew back, she asked, ‘Have you eaten this day, my son?’
    He shook his head, his voice too hoarse for words.
    ‘ Go and wash,’ she told him, ‘and then come to the table.’
    He moved away, watching her, but she did not linger. She was young to be his mother, not yet twenty-seven; her body had natural sprightliness and she moved without effort. He went to a corner where there was a wooden slab with a bowl standing in a hole cut into it, a tall jug, and some soap so coarse it scraped the skin. He used very little of the precious water, emptied the waste into a pail, and rinsed in only an inch or two in the bottom of the bowl. He dried himself on a patched linen towel and, feeling refreshed, went to the table. Two pewter bowls of soup steamed at either end. He sat down and his mother sat opposite, head bowed and palms placed together in prayer. Half a minute passed before she said, ‘Thank God from whom all blessings flow, all food and sustenance comes, all health and all courage.’
    ‘Amen,’ breathed James Marshall and, when he was sure that she had finished saying grace, he began to eat; only when he started did he realise how ravenous he was! But his mother did not offer him more soup; that was for tomorrow. He had a crust of bread and some cheese from a wooden trencher, for all their china had been sold, and washed these down with water; then he pushed the roughhewn wooden chair back, feeling much better.
    ‘Can you tell me now?’ his mother asked.
    ‘I can and will but I do not know if it will please you.’
    She looked at him for a long time and, unbidden, what little he knew of her history passed through his mind. She was the daughter of a dissenting minister who, somewhere in Berkshire, had gathered supporters and had built a small chapel until, persecuted by more orthodox Christians, he had become a wandering preacher, visiting inns and, on the fringe of London, alehouses and even brothels to carry his message. Richard Marshall had once saved him from a gang of ruffians in an alehouse and had taken him home. That was when she and Richard had first met.
    James realised, as what he knew of these things drifted through his mind, that his mother was about to speak so he did not try to find the words he needed. Slowly she went to where a basket stood on a narrow side table. She fumbled in the bottom of the basket and brought out a folded paper with black printing.
    He caught his breath as she unfolded it and held it out for him to see.
    ‘Is this where you have been?’ she asked.
    The face of Frederick Jackson, drawn true to life, stared out of the page, and across the top were the words:
     
    Confessions and Last Utterances on This Earth of the Famous Frederick Jackson - Hero
     
    James stopped reading halfway down the page of the injustice done to Frederick Jackson by his persecutor, John Furnival. There was so much more in the same malicious vein, no insult not heaped on the head of the man who had provided evidence at the trial of a man he had been trying to bring down for twenty years.
    The boy said, ‘They are lies - all lies!’
    ‘The only truth is that Mr. Furnival sent him to his death and he was hanged this afternoon.’
    ‘He was a murderer, a thief, a devil in human form.’
    ‘This is what Mr. Furnival is to some people,’ his mother replied.
    ‘You don’t believe that!’
    ‘No, I don’t believe it,’ Ruth