Shadow of the Hangman (6 page)

‘I’ll tell Paul that Bickerton is back in London. He has an old score to settle with him. He’ll have to work alone, however. Peter will be hunting for that missing woman from the Home Office.’

‘That’s a curious business, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll be interested to find out what happened to her.’

Before he could speak, Ackford heard the tinkle of the front door bell. He excused himself and went off to see who had rung it. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see a handsome young woman standing there alone. Apart from female servants,
the only people who came to the gallery were men so there was a novelty in her request.

‘Is it true that you give instruction in archery?’ she asked.

Peter Skillen had expected to wait but, when he called at the Home Office, he was shown straight into Sidmouth’s office. The latter had clearly been awaiting some news about the investigation. Peter explained that he’d questioned both Esther Ricks and Joan Claydon but had learnt nothing that could point to the whereabouts of the missing servant. What he was careful not to divulge was the fact that Anne Horner had a substantial amount of money hidden beneath her bed. Since there might be a perfectly innocent reason why she’d acquired so much cash, he didn’t wish to plant a seed of doubt in Sidmouth’s mind about the woman. Neither did he want the Home Secretary asking the question that Peter had already asked himself. If the necessary woman had such ample funds, why did she feel the need to continue the laborious and demeaning work of cleaning offices?

‘You may think it strange that we are so concerned about her,’ said Sidmouth. ‘Here we are, occupying a position that entitles us to answer petitions and addresses to the Prince Regent, and allows us to advise him on the exercise of royal prerogative, yet we are excessively worried about a minor employee.’

‘I think that it shows genuine compassion on your part, my lord.’

‘I’m impelled by a sense of duty towards her.’

‘From what I’ve learnt about the woman,’ said Peter, ‘she seems quite admirable. Though she has suffered a number of blows in her life, Mrs Horner has been undaunted. She has fashioned a life for herself that makes few, if any, demands on others. Her landlady told me how kind, helpful and unselfish her lodger is.’

‘The same qualities have been noted here, Mr Skillen. Not that
I’ve seen very much of her,’ Sidmouth went on, ‘because our paths almost never cross. We toil by day while she cleans up the mess here by night. There have, however, been occasions when I and my permanent secretary have worked late into the evening and left the premises as Horner was just arriving.’

‘I take it that you’ve found a substitute.’

‘I’m relieved to say that we have. Thanks to one of my undersecretaries, we now have a more than adequate replacement in the shape of Levitt. Though she has made an auspicious start, however, what we really desire is the return of her predecessor.’

‘The search will be given my full attention,’ said Peter.

He’d always had great respect for Sidmouth. Conscious as he was that the man was derided in some quarters for his perceived inadequacies, Peter had always found him decent, honest and considerate. In the dealings they’d had together over the years, he’d admired the Home Secretary’s efficiency, doggedness and readiness to support those who worked for him. Sidmouth’s years as Prime Minister at the start of the century may have been undistinguished but it could be argued that any politician would have been handicapped when operating in the long shadow of William Pitt the Younger. War had exposed Sidmouth’s limitations and, though he’d negotiated peace with France, it did not last. Coping with the threat of invasion by Napoleon had put him under intolerable pressure and he’d felt a sense of relief when Pitt replaced him. Having met some of the other leading politicians, Peter Skillen had a marked preference for the Home Secretary, a man of integrity with solid achievements behind him accorded less praise than they deserved.

Sidmouth was like a distraught father enquiring about a missing daughter.

‘Is there any hope that you’ll find her?’

‘Oh, I won’t simply rely on hope, my lord. I’ll most definitely track her down.’

‘To survive so many dangers both here and in France,’ observed the Home Secretary, ‘you’ve had to rely on your sharp instincts. What do they tell you about Horner? Is she alive or dead?’

‘She is alive, my lord.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t know – I just
feel
it.’

‘That’s good enough for me,’ said the other, sitting back in his chair. ‘I’m grateful for your reassurance, Mr Skillen. In view of the many hazardous assignments you’ve undertaken at my behest, you must think it rather
infra dig
to be employed on what must appear to you to be a trivial matter.’

‘Not at all,’ said Peter, firmly. ‘I view the woman’s disappearance with the consternation shown by you. I’ve gathered enough information about her to decide that she’s a worthy individual in every way and I look forward to making her acquaintance.’

‘Thank you so much for coming. Your visit has brought much comfort.’ He got up to show his visitor out. ‘It may sound absurd but I was beginning to think that Horner had – from motives known only to her – simply run away from us.’

Peter thought about the cache under the bed at the woman’s lodging.

‘On that score at least,’ he said, ‘I can speak with irrefutable certainty. There is no evidence to suggest flight. Whatever else she may have done, Mrs Horner has not run away from you.’

When he’d heard people talking about the luck of the Irish, Tom O’Gara had always laughed bitterly. He’d never experienced it himself. Raised in the poorest part of Dublin, he’d seen nothing
but misery and deprivation around him. Like so many of his countrymen in desperate circumstances, O’Gara’s father had taken his family to America in the hope of a better life for them. Instead of solving their problems, however, emigration had simply shifted them to another country. They were still poor, short of food and devoid of prospects. In a bid to lighten the load on his parents, O’Gara had run away at the age of fourteen to join the navy. There, too, he found the luck of the Irish in abysmally short supply.

Yet he’d now been forced to think that perhaps there was such a thing. Out of what could have been a fatal collision at sea had come something resembling good luck. Hurled into the water, he and Dagg had yelled out so loud for help that ropes had been thrown overboard for them. Dripping wet and still partially dazed, they were hauled up on deck to find that they were on a cargo ship sailing to London. It would get them there far quicker and safer than the small boat they’d stolen in Devon. Rum had revived them and food was pressed on them. They were among friends.

It was night when they finally docked in London and they left the vessel with a chorus of farewells from their temporary shipmates. While O’Gara was excited to be in the nation’s capital, Dagg saw only the potential dangers.

‘We’ve got no money, no food and no weapons to protect us.’

‘I told you – my cousin will look after us.’

‘How do we find him?’

‘He lives behind Orchard Street somewhere. All we have to do is to get there and start knocking on doors.’

‘It’s well after midnight,’ noted Dagg. ‘Will your cousin be up at this hour?’

Tom O’Gara burst out laughing.

‘Dermot is Irish,’ he said. ‘He’s always up.’

Paul Skillen was in a quandary. He had to choose between the woman he loved and the life on which he thrived. There was no possibility of compromise. He was being forced to surrender something very dear to him. It was disturbing. During a series of dalliances with beautiful young women, he’d never before been scolded for taking part in daring escapades. Indeed, the others had always praised his courage and been thrilled to hear of his adventures. His intrepidity was a source of attraction for them. Hannah Granville was different. While she had, at first, been drawn by the aura of danger that surrounded him, she was disturbed by the risks he was prepared to take. The more involved she’d become with Paul, the more concerned she was for his safety. Unsettled by the injuries he’d received during the pursuit of Ned Greet, she was even more upset to learn of his antics on the rooftops of Upper Brook Street.

When he reflected upon the situation, he drew consolation from the fact that Hannah cared so deeply about him. With the exception of his sister-in-law, Charlotte, he’d never met any woman who’d left him so deliciously inebriated with love. In the talented
actress, he’d at last found someone else with whom he felt he could spend the rest of his days. To lose her would be in the nature of a catastrophe, yet so would the loss of his work as a detective. Apart from anything else, the assignments he undertook gave him the income needed to court someone like Hannah. It was difficult to see how he could earn the same amount of money elsewhere. There was a more immediate concern: Paul was only one of countless suitors to Hannah Granville. When he was no longer her chosen companion, someone else would soon replace him. That thought gnawed away at him obsessively.

Much as he loved his brother, he’d never been able to discuss his private life with him. Indeed, when Peter was the successful rival for Charlotte’s hand, there’d been a measure of uneasiness between the brothers that had never entirely dissipated. The one person to whom he could not turn for advice, therefore, was Peter. As a result, Paul was obliged to look elsewhere, so he went to the shooting gallery.

‘Good morning, Charlotte,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Paul,’ she answered. ‘If you’ve come for your usual fencing lesson with Gully, you’ll have to bide your time. He’s teaching the rudiments of archery to a new customer.’

‘The fencing can wait.’

‘While you’re here, I’ve something to show you.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s the description of Simon Medlow,’ she said, opening the record book at the appropriate page. ‘Peter thinks it’s accurate but I’d like your comments as well.’

He read the entry. ‘That’s very good.’

‘I’ll be glad when I can write, “arrested and convicted” beside his name. He’s evaded the law for too long. And talking of evasion,’ she added, ‘did you know that Will Bickerton has been seen back in
London?’ Paul gave a shrug of indifference. ‘When he dodged you last time, you swore that you’d catch him one day.’

‘And I will,’ he said, impatiently, ‘but I’ve more important things on my mind at the moment than a swindler like Bickerton.’

They were in the room at the rear of the shooting gallery. The thud of arrows into the target could be heard along with the distant grunts from pugilists trying to knock each other into oblivion. Since both Gully Ackford and Jem Huckvale were busy elsewhere in the building, Paul and Charlotte were unlikely to be interrupted. Rehearsing what he was going to say, he took the chair beside her.

‘May I ask you a question?’ he began.

‘There’s no need to be so formal – of course, you may.’

‘Do you ever worry about Peter?’

‘Worry?’ she echoed.

‘You know only too well what our work sometimes entails.’

‘I try not to brood on that aspect of it, Paul.’

‘Deep down, however, would you prefer it if Peter had a less hazardous occupation?’

‘I’d prefer it if neither of you put your lives at risk,’ she said with an affectionate smile, ‘but criminals will almost invariably resist arrest and violence is therefore unavoidable. I’ve been compelled to accept that.’

‘Have you never taxed Peter on the subject?’

‘I did so regularly when we were first married and he reacted by telling me very little about his activities. When he worked as an agent in France, of course, I was at my wits’ end. I didn’t know where Peter was, what he was doing or whether or not he’d been killed by the enemy.’

‘My brother is like me,’ he said. ‘We lead charmed lives. Peter’s
is rather more charmed than mine because he has
you
at his side but I’ve learnt to live with that setback, painful as it was at the time.’

Charlotte acknowledged the compliment with a nod. When she’d chosen one brother in favour of another, there’d been a passing moment of regret on her side. Paul was engaging and lively company. Given the fact that he was sought after by so many marriageable young ladies, she’d been flattered by his attentions. Nevertheless, while it would have been pleasurable to lapse into a romance with Paul, she could not see it lasting indefinitely when they were man and wife. Peter Skillen, by contrast, promised a lifelong devotion that his brother could not, in all honesty, offer.

‘Why are you asking me these questions?’

‘It’s something I’ve often pondered.’

‘Come now, Paul. I’ll not be fobbed off with a paltry excuse like that. There’s something more serious behind all this. Why not admit it?’

There was an awkward pause. ‘You are right,’ he said, shamefacedly.

‘Who is the lady?’

‘How do you know that there is one?’

‘It’s the only reason that could have brought you here.’

He bit his lip. ‘I realise that you’ll never approve of my private life.’

‘It’s not a question of approval or disapproval, Paul,’ she said, fondly. ‘I love you as my brother-in-law and respect your right to behave as you choose. You’ll never have to put up with me clicking my tongue or wagging my finger at you. I’ve come to accept that you were never destined for a life of monastic self-denial.’ He chuckled. ‘So I repeat my question – who
is
the lady?’

‘She must remain anonymous,’ he said, firmly, ‘but I will confess
to the astonishing effect that she’s had upon me.’ He cleared his throat before speaking. ‘In essence, Charlotte, the problem is this …’

Anne Horner’s social circle was severely restricted so it didn’t take long for Peter Skillen to speak to each member of it. There was unanimous praise for the cleaner as a good friend and a tireless worker. Even when her husband had been alive, she’d taken in laundry, looked after neighbours’ children in return for payment and mended clothing ceaselessly. She’d also been one of the volunteer cleaners at her parish church. Everybody was shocked to hear of her disappearance and urged Peter to find her. The trouble was that he’d garnered no fresh evidence as to her likely whereabouts. He therefore adopted a different approach. Anne’s stint at the Home Office ended in the small hours and was followed by a brisk walk back to her lodgings that, in his estimation, took the best part of twenty minutes. Putting himself in her position, Peter followed her footsteps so that he could see likely places where she might have been intercepted and abducted. Even at night, London was throbbing with life so it would have been no lonely trudge through the deserted streets, yet she’d made the journey for years without apparent incident. What had made her last known walk home so dangerous?

When he left the Home Office, he was in a wide thoroughfare lined with large houses. It was not long, however, before he turned down meaner streets that were narrow and winding. Dark-eyed men lounged in doorways or congregated noisily outside the occasional tavern. Children played deafening games and dogs scoured the gutters for scraps. Itinerant musicians of various kinds added to the general clamour. After less than ten minutes, Peter had counted
three likely places for an ambush. It was when he turned into a long lane, however, that he found the most suitable place. Overhung by trees that cast dark shadows throughout the day, it was intersected by a series of alleys, each one affording a good hiding place for robbers intending to pounce of unwary pedestrians.

Peter soon had clear proof of that. As he walked past an alley to his left, a burly man with a cudgel in his hand suddenly leapt out to accost him.

‘Your purse or your life, good sir!’ he snarled.

‘Take my purse,’ replied Peter, pretending to shrink back in fear. ‘I’ll give you my watch if you spare me.’

Thinking he’d put terror into his victim’s heart, the man relaxed and lowered his weapon. His other hand stretched out to receive the purse but it never reached him. Instead, he was struck on the jaw by the fearsome punch that Peter unleashed. It sent the robber staggering back against the wall. A relay of punches battered him to the ground. Grabbing the cudgel from him, Peter stood over the man.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

‘I meant no harm, sir,’ whimpered the other. When Peter raised the cudgel to strike, the robber cowered beneath him. ‘Don’t hit me, sir, I beg you. My name is Reuben Grigg and I’m a poor man. I’ve never done this before but my wife and children are starving and I was forced to—’

‘I want none of your lies!’ warned Peter, interrupting him. ‘You’re too ugly to be married and too selfish to give a thought for any other human being. You’ve done this many times and you’ve done it in this lane. Admit it.’ Peter clipped him with the cudgel to loosen his tongue. ‘Admit it, you rogue.’

Grigg rubbed his head ruefully. ‘I do, sir. This is my patch.’

‘Are you here night and day?’

‘I work mostly at night, sir. I can see in the dark.’

‘Then I need the use of your eyes. You are clearly an observant man.’

‘In my trade, you have to be.’

‘Were you lurking in this lane three or four nights ago?’

‘Why do you ask?’

Peter kicked him. ‘Answer my question.’

‘Yes, yes, I was – but I had no luck. The rain kept people away.’

‘Have you ever seen a woman walking this way after midnight?’

‘Only if she’s a lightskirt, here to sell her slit,’ said Grigg with a smirk.

‘This is a respectable woman of medium height and in her thirties. She’d have been walking home after cleaning some offices.’

‘Then she’d have been carrying nothing worth stealing. I’d let her go.’

‘Are you saying that you
did
see this woman?’

Grigg’s eyelids narrowed. ‘Is there money in it, if I did?’

Orchard Street ran between Portman Place and Oxford Street. Built in the early years of King George III’s reign, it boasted impressive facades and sought-after town houses. Concealed behind it, however, were properties where only the destitute lived; cramped, malodorous, disease-ridden rookeries, teeming with ragged people engaged in a constant struggle simply to stay alive. Quarrelling, fighting, criminality and drunkenness were common in these slums. It was in one of these overcrowded dwellings that Tom O’Gara’s cousin and family lived. At first glance, the two squalid rooms they occupied seemed little better to O’Gara than the cells at Dartmoor prison but his opinion soon changed. His cousin, Dermot Fallon,
was delighted to see him again and introduced him and Moses Dagg to his pretty wife, Mary, and to the confusing litter of children that the couple had managed to produce, all of whom were short, ill-kempt, half-starved and high-spirited. The newcomers found it impossible to put them in chronological order because the children all looked exactly the same age. What they shared was their father’s buck-toothed grin and his combative attitude towards their neighbours.

Though they’d arrived in the middle of the night, the sailors were given a cordial welcome and offered a part of the floor, which actually had a carpet of sorts on which to sleep. It was not until the next day that they were able to talk at length with their host. Since the ear-splitting din all around them made speech difficult, Fallon took his visitors off to a tavern where they could have a measure of privacy.

‘London is the richest city in the world,’ he said, expansively, ‘yet they’ve got me and my family living like pigs. There’s no justice in it, is there?’

‘I’m glad you mentioned justice,’ said O’Gara.

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s what brought us here, Dermot.’

‘And there was I thinking you’d crossed the sea simply to see your cousin,’ teased the other. ‘We can’t offer you much, Tom. We can give you and Moses a place to lay your heads and might even manage a bite of food from time to time. Whatever we have, we’ll share. One thing we can’t get for you, though, is justice. The law is made to punish people like us.’

‘We know all about punishment,’ said Dagg, morosely. ‘Tell him, Tom.’

‘We’ve escaped from prison,’ admitted O’Gara.

Fallon gaped. ‘Is that true?’

‘It’s only part of the truth, Dermot.’

‘Well, I want to hear the whole lot, so I do.’

O’Gara took a deep breath. ‘It’s difficult to know where to begin.’

‘Start with Captain Shortland,’ suggested Dagg.

‘Was he your skipper?’ asked Fallon.

‘No, he was the black-hearted governor of Dartmoor.’

‘He’s the reason we’re here,’ said O’Gara.

He launched into a long and repetitive account of events since their capture. Aided and sometimes contradicted by Dagg, he talked about the foul conditions, meagre rations and inhuman punishments they’d suffered behind the high prison walls, reserving his most scathing comments for the way that the governor had ordered his men to fire on the prisoners. Fallon shared their indignation and agreed that they had to reveal the full truth to the Prime Minister.

‘There’s a problem,’ said O’Gara. ‘I can only scribble and Moses can barely write his name. If we draw up a list of our demands, nobody will even bother to read them. Our report has to look neat enough to attract attention.’

‘Can you write proper, Dermot?’ asked Dagg.

‘No,’ replied the other. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs and Mary’s had even less education than me. What you need,’ he went on, turning to his cousin, ‘is a scrivener, someone who’ll write out everything in a fine hand.’