The remaining Ashendons had descended on the ample breakfast like the biblical locusts, but that was usual. The lids to the silver dishes had been discarded and the contents scraped out, only congealing pork fat and the odd grain of rice remaining. The servants set the table and sideboard with a plethora of coffeepots, teapots and deep dishes of scrambled eggs, bacon, pork chops and the like, then left them to it. Retreated to a safe place, as he’d heard the housemaid say to the cook.
Although the Ashendons had perfect table manners when out and about, breakfast tended to be a more vital meal, with every man for himself. Not to mention the female element. He had a lot of competition, and being the oldest and nominal head of the family didn’t count for much when the ravening hordes descended.
Ash buttered his toast and got to his feet with the piece of bread in his mouth. Put it down and it would be gone, as much from friendly rivalry and teasing as from hunger. Grabbing his coat from the peg by the door in the hall, he shrugged into it and swept up the battered leather folder containing the day’s cases. Fielding liked to crack on and get as many done as possible.
Ash had scanned them over breakfast. None looked interesting enough to pursue. The usual tally of larceny, burglary and breaking the peace met his jaded eyes, together with a highwayman. The public would no doubt throng the gallery for that case, but the man had been caught on the job, so to speak, and there didn’t seem to be any nuance involved. He’d go to the gallows with bravado and fine clothes, give the crowds a show and then die. Nobody would remember his name above a se’ennight.
Munching on his hard-won toast, Ash grabbed his hat and left the house to the friendly cacophony of a vigorous argument that sprang up in his wake. He had no idea what it was about, but if he’d turned back, they’d have dragged him into their discussion. Better he continue, or he’d be late.
Their house had a set of steps, which did go a way toward cushioning the family from the frantic bustle of London, but once on the street, he was in the middle of the largest, most vibrant city on earth. Ash loved it. Every day when he walked out of the house, he felt the city around him like a living thing. People hurried past on their own business, with the sound of street sellers and musicians ringing through the air. He breathed deep, the scent of smoke, horse dung and life filtering through his senses. He was home.
Ash strode along his side of the square, passing the grandeur of Newcastle House, home of the prime minister’s brother. His grace happened to be leaving his house, stepping into his carriage. He exchanged a nod with Ash. Quite something, being on nodding terms with one of the most powerful men in the country.
He took a gossip sheet from a shouting child and tossed him twopence for his trouble. The child snatched the coins from the air.
Gossip was part of Ash’s trade, one way he learned about cases that went on to occupy his time. That, and the information he received from the courts.
Bow Street was less than a half mile from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a mere ten-minute walk, if he took his time, which he did. Strolling down the broad thoroughfare of Great Queen Street, crossing Drury Lane and going down to Bow Street gave him a chance to reflect and plan, or just to watch life going on all around him.
He passed the coffee houses associated with the great and good and not so great and good, walked past shops selling everything the world had to offer, dodged past ladies in skirts so wide they could not walk two abreast, and neater City women casting disdainful glances in their direction. London had many tribes, and the wealthy City merchants despised the occupants of Mayfair in a mutual balance that worked well until they were threatened from the outside.
The less salubrious elements, fresh out of the gutters in the lawless rookeries were scattered about, not all as obvious as the urchins darting from one to another, begging for pennies before, and cutting purses behind.
Outside the Magistrate’s Court, the crowd seemed even more agitated than usual, as if a sensational case was about to be brought. What had happened since the boy had brought him his list earlier that morning? Something had, that was for sure.
Ash had to work his way through a press of people to get inside. Even here, pickpockets were about, but when a small hand reached for his coat pocket, he slapped it away without looking.
Inside, the official by the door touched his fingers to his forehead and let him pass, but stopped him when he would have entered the court. “Mr. Fielding wants a word, Sir Edmund.”
Ash nodded and changed direction. Fielding’s office was the other way.
There were two Fieldings at Bow Street, but the current magistrate was Mr. Henry Fielding, a man of many talents and many careers. His current profession had proved his most successful so far, and he had instituted reforms that affected the law at the deepest level. For one thing, he had, if not eliminated corruption in his district, reduced it to a vanishing point. His brother John proved an able partner in this enterprise, and the press was reveling in the blind beak and his author brother.
Fielding, a square-jawed and firm-shouldered man in his fifties, sat behind his scarred desk surrounded by law texts, papers and worn leather folders like the one he carried. He glanced at the gossip sheet in Ash’s hand. “Have you looked at that thing yet?”
Ash shrugged. “The usual society gossip.”
Fielding shoved a sheet of paper across the desk. “Read this one. It came out an hour after the
