Shadow of the Hangman (9 page)

‘No, Moses,’ said O’Gara, ‘they’re too scared.’

‘It was a fair fight. You all saw that.’ There was a murmur of agreement. ‘It’s over now. You can disappear.’

The crowd slowly dispersed. Two men helped the chimney sweep to his feet and dragged him away. The fugitives traded a laugh.

‘I enjoyed that,’ said Dagg, flexing his hands.

‘It was stupid of him to call you a nigger,’ observed O’Gara with amusement. ‘Did you see the colour of that idiot? He was ten shades blacker than
you
.’

Alfred Hale was still asleep when the message was delivered to his home. Dressing quickly, he set off and met up with Micah Yeomans at The Peacock Inn, the public house that was their unofficial headquarters. By way of a greeting, Hale yawned in the other man’s face.

‘I can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day, Micah,’ he protested.

‘Use members of the foot patrol to take over.’

‘That’s what I have done. We keep an eye on him in turns.’

‘Do you have anything useful to report?’

‘Only that I’m half-dead because I stayed up most of the first night I watched him. I saw Skillen being taken home in a carriage from a gambling hell in Jermyn Street. He was too drunk to stand up.’

‘You look as if
you’re
about to fall over as well, Alfred.’

‘I stood outside his house for most of yesterday and he never came out.’

‘Well, I’ve got something more important for you to do now.’

Hale shuddered. ‘Don’t tell me that you want me to keep an eye on
Peter
Skillen instead. I couldn’t bear that.’

‘We’ve been engaged as bodyguards.’

He explained to the other Runner that he’d been summoned to the Home Office and asked to provide protection whenever Sidmouth needed to travel between one place and another because of a death threat that had been received. When he heard the full details, Hale was puzzled.

‘Why is he afraid of a couple of escaped prisoners?’

‘Does it matter? We’ll be well paid. That’s all I care about.’

‘They won’t get anywhere near him.’

‘That’s up to us.’

‘It’s an empty threat, Micah, like the ones we get every day
from the foul-mouthed scum we arrest. I’ve been threatened with everything from beheading to being set on fire. That pickpocket we caught at the theatre last week,’ Hale reminded him, ‘swore that he’d tie heavy rocks to our feet and throw us alive into the Thames. It’s all nonsense. Tell the Home Secretary the truth. He’s not in any real danger.’

‘He thinks that he is, Alfred. We’re there to soothe his mind.’

‘That can be done by other means.’

‘I know.’

‘If he’s so worried about these fugitives, we’ll simply track them down and throw them back into prison.’

‘And we need to do it as soon as possible.’

‘Why?’

‘We have competition,’ said Yeomans, sourly.

Hale was insulted. ‘He’s approached the Skillen brothers?’

‘He intends to do so.
We
have to cope with the boredom of taking the Home Secretary to and fro while
they
have the excitement of a manhunt.’

‘It’s wrong.
We
should have been given that assignment, Micah.’

‘Let’s prove it. If we can arrest these men first, we’ll show the Home Secretary that he should always turn to us when there’s a difficult task to allot. Unlike the Skillens,’ he went on, ‘we have a whole army of informers we can call on. One of the fugitives is a black man and both are Americans. They’ll be noticed. Spread the word, Alfred. Involve our people in the search. One of them
must
be able to point us in the direction of these two brash, benighted, would-be assassins.’

Peter Skillen arrived at the Home Office in order to report his findings with regard to the disappearance of Anne Horner. That
investigation, he discovered, had been supplanted by a new development and the first thing he was asked to do was to read the disturbing letter that had been delivered under cover of darkness. What struck him was the coherence of the description of the massacre at Dartmoor, supported, as it was, by other instances of the governor’s cruelty towards the prisoners. The demands were harsh but not, in Peter’s opinion, altogether unreasonable. Though the document was compelling, its thrust was fatally undermined by the crude threat to murder the Home Secretary if the demands were rejected.

While Sidmouth had watched him carefully as he read the letter, he could not judge from Peter’s expression how he’d reacted. As soon as the missive was handed back to him, he pressed his visitor.

‘What did you think?’ he asked.

‘The case is well-argued, my lord.’

‘I hope that you do not believe the case for my assassination is well argued, Mr Skillen. Anyone reading that vile threat against me would think that
I
was the governor of Dartmoor and that I’d been engaged systematically in the most reprehensible mistreatment of the American prisoners there. It’s unjust.’

‘Power brings responsibility,’ said Peter. ‘These men have identified you as the ultimate authority in this matter and aimed their venom at you.’

‘The verdict relating to what happened at Dartmoor lies not in my hands,’ said Sidmouth. ‘We must await the pronouncements of a joint commission. I have no influence over it, yet I’m the one whose life is in danger.’

‘What precautions have you taken?’

‘I’ve engaged some Runners to act as bodyguards.’

‘That should calm your nerves, my lord.’

‘Micah Yeomans is an experienced man.’

‘Yes,’ said Peter, taking care not to show his rooted dislike of the Runner. ‘You’ll be in good hands.’

‘I trust
your
hands more than anyone else’s, Mr Skillen. That’s why I’ve reserved the primary duty for you. I want these two men – Thomas O’Gara and Moses Dagg – apprehended and put immediately under lock and key so that they no longer pose a danger to me. Yeomans and his men have their uses but, in a matter like this, I turn to you and your brother.’

‘That’s very gratifying, my lord.’

‘Do you think that you
can
find these devils?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘How will you go about it?’

‘Well,’ said Peter, thoughtfully, ‘it’s clear to me that the men who put their names to that document did not actually write it. Look at their signatures. One is shaky and the other is an uneducated scrawl. The American navy no doubt has its virtues but it’s not known for improving the literacy of its deckhands, and that’s what these sailors were.’

‘What are you telling me, Mr Skillen?’

‘There’s a third person involved and our search starts with him.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Sidmouth with concern.

‘He’s the man who wrote that letter. The paper is crisp and the calligraphy neat. That’s the hand of a clerk or scrivener. My feeling is that he helped them to channel their understandable anger and their jumbled thoughts into an articulate whole. If they managed to escape from Dartmoor,’ said Peter, ‘then they are brave and able men but neither is accustomed to holding a pen. The person they employed is the crucial figure here. My brother and I will concentrate our attention on him.’

‘Do you mean that I have to fear attack at the hands of
three
men?’

‘No, my lord – the scrivener means you no harm. He was paid to write and not to be party to any assassination.’

‘That letter
makes
him a party.’

‘In legal terms, I suppose that it does.’

‘He’s an accessory before the fact.’

‘That doesn’t mean he agrees with their declared intentions.’

‘Then why didn’t he have the grace to warn me?’ asked Sidmouth. ‘When he became aware of a conspiracy to kill a member of the government, any public-spirited man would raise the alarm at once. This fellow is colluding with them.’

‘I dispute that, my lord.’

‘On what grounds, pray?’

‘These are desperate men. They will have bought his silence by intimidation. If he reveals their whereabouts, his life will be forfeit. Under those circumstances, even the most public spirited of citizens would hesitate.’

Pausing to consider what he’d been told, Sidmouth crossed to the window, looked out of it for a few moments then withdrew sharply, as if suddenly aware that, in presenting himself as a target, he could be shot dead through the glass. He went back to his desk and sat behind it.

‘Forgive me if I appear unduly anxious,’ he said.

‘I sympathise with you, my lord. None of us will ever forget what happened to our last Prime Minister. His eminence was no protection against an assassin.’

‘Spencer Perceval was a man for whom I had the highest admiration. He may have been short in stature but he would have gone on to be a political giant in due course. Sadly, he was deprived
of the plaudits he would surely have received for bringing the ship of state safely into harbour after the French and the American wars.’ A smile flitted across his face. ‘It’s curious, isn’t it? When I was Prime Minister, the whole of the French nation wished for my death and I had a number of political enemies on this side of the Channel who would have cheered at my funeral. Yet, oddly enough, I never felt the imminent danger that’s been prompted by a letter from two escaped prisoners.’

‘Forget about them, my lord,’ said Peter. ‘If they are still in London, my brother and I will find them. On the subject of searches,’ he added, ‘I really came here to tell you what I’ve learnt with regard to Mrs Horner.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Sidmouth, apologetically. ‘I’ve been so concerned for my own safety that I quite forgot the poor woman. That’s unforgivable. What have you discovered?’

Peter told him about his nocturnal walk along the route home taken by Anne Horner and how he’d found someone who was nearby on the night when the necessary woman was abducted. He didn’t name or describe the prostitute who’d given him the information. Peter merely said that it came from a reliable source because Lily’s mother had been in the lane on the night in question.

‘It was very dark,’ he explained, ‘but my informant does remember seeing a woman go past her. It must have been Mrs Horner because she was the same person who went down that lane regularly. My informant had seen her many times before.’

‘What happened?’

‘Two people suddenly emerged from a gateway and overpowered Mrs Horner. Her scream for help was soon muffled. They dragged her back down the lane and went right my past my informant.’

‘Did your informant have any idea whom they were?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Peter, ‘but I learnt a significant fact. One of the people who kidnapped your cleaner was a woman.’

When she heard someone coming down the steps of the cellar, she got up from the bed and waited for the door to be unlocked. Expecting the man to bring her a meal, she was ready to plead with him once again for her release. But it was not her usual gaoler who came with a tray of food. It was the woman who’d helped to abduct her.

‘Why are you keeping me here?’ she demanded.

‘That’s our business,’ replied the woman. ‘Behave yourself and no harm will come to you. In the fullness of time, you’ll be released.’

Paul Skillen had spotted him immediately. When he realised that he was under surveillance, he’d pretended to stay in the house all day so that Alfred Hale would be forced to stare at it in vain. In fact, Paul had slipped out by the rear entrance and made his escape through the garden gate. Hale – and the man who’d later replaced him on duty – had been standing guard fruitlessly. Paul, meanwhile, had had his usual fencing lesson with Gully Ackford and spent the whole day away from home. When he’d let himself back into the house that night, the watching Runner had been none the wiser. A new day had brought a new sentry. Micah Yeomans was clearly trying to inhibit his activities by keeping a close watch on him. It was not something Paul was prepared to tolerate.

For the time being, however, he had something of more importance to ponder. Hannah Granville remained the burning issue and he felt ashamed that his immediate response to her rejection of him was to lurch off to a gambling hell and drink himself into a state of utter helplessness. It was only on the following day that he’d learnt how he’d got safely home that night.

A friend had driven him there in his carriage and roused a servant to take his master in. Had Paul tried to make his own way home, he would have been easy prey for any footpad and every penny of the winnings he’d somehow accumulated at the card table would certainly have been stolen. As it was, he was now sobered in every sense and the money was intact.

On the second night away from Hannah, therefore, he’d shunned alcohol and stoutly resisted the lure of gambling. When he’d retired early to bed, he heard the rain beating on the window and savoured the thought that the hapless Runner on duty outside would be soaked to the skin. He’d awoken early and rolled over to embrace Hannah Granville, only to find that she was not there. Though their relationship had been short and a trifle tempestuous, it had quickly seemed like the norm to him. Now she was decisively absent. Reminded of her ultimatum, he spent the whole morning wondering how he could win her back and persuade her to accept him on his own terms. What he would not do, he vowed, was to court another slap in the face by trying to visit her in her dressing room before a performance.

On the other hand, the urge to see her again was so powerful that it couldn’t be resisted. He therefore decided to watch her onstage from an anonymous position in the circle. If he couldn’t feel the sensuous warmth of her body against his, he could at least applaud her extraordinary talents as an actress.

It was afternoon before Jem Huckvale came running towards the house. When he was let in, the first thing he did was to gabble a warning.

‘Someone is watching you, Paul.’

‘I know that.’

‘Why is he there?’

‘I suspect that he’s waiting for me to slip up in some way, so that he can report my misdemeanour to Micah Yeomans. The Runners would love to hobble me and my brother but we won’t give them the opportunity.’

‘I’ve a message from Peter.’

‘What is it?’

‘You’re to meet him at the gallery as soon as possible. He wants you to help him in a search.’

‘Do you have no more details than that, Jem?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Then I’ll come at once.’

‘What about that man outside?’

‘It’s time I made my feelings known to him,’ decided Paul. ‘I’ll need your help, Jem. Will you do me a favour?’

‘I’ll do it gladly.’

‘Good fellow!’ said Paul, squeezing him by his shoulders. ‘What a wonderful friend you are. You never let me down and you never need explanations. Now, what I want you to do is this …’

His name was Chevy Ruddock and he was a member of a foot patrol. Tall, gangly and with a face that boasted a veritable outcrop of warts, he was the youngest of them and thus the one most frequently put upon. Standing just around the corner, he believed that he was invisible from Paul Skillen’s house. All he had to do to watch it was to take a step forward. Having been thoroughly drenched in the downpour the previous night, Ruddock was relieved to be on duty in fine weather this time but the work was onerous. His legs were aching, his feet sore and his whole body weary. He fought off boredom by counting up to a hundred then repeating the procedure. It gave him something to do.

Having seen Jem Huckvale visit the house, he’d at last got something positive to report to Alfred Hale. It made him more alert. Sensing that something was about to happen, he peered around the corner. The door of the house opened and Huckvale emerged, waving a farewell before trotting off down the street. A minute later, Paul Skillen came out of the house, put on his hat at a jaunty angle and marched off purposefully. Ruddock was on his tail at once, wishing that he didn’t walk so fast or wend his way through so many streets. Paul’s gaudy attire made him easy to follow, so there was no danger of being shaken off, but it was still an effort for the latter to keep up with him.

In the end, by means of Thames Street, they reached the river and Paul walked along it to a quiet stretch of the bank. When his quarry disappeared from sight for a while, Ruddock broke into a run to catch up with him. Before he reached the bank, however, he heard a loud splash as if a body had just plunged into the water. He could see no sign of Paul. Rushing to the edge, he stared intently into the river, as if fully expecting the man he’d been following to bob up to the surface. The next moment, someone shoved him hard from behind and he plunged forwards into the river, disappearing under the surface and swallowing half a pint of cold, evil-tasting, brackish water.

Before Ruddock had gathered his senses, Paul and Huckvale were two streets away, walking side by side towards the shooting gallery. The plan had worked. Paul had dropped a heavy coil of rope into the river then hidden behind an upturned rowing boat on wooden trestles. While Ruddock was distracted, Huckvale had run forwards to push him from behind before scampering gleefully away. It would be the second time in twenty-four hours that the man would have to explain to his wife why he’d come home dripping wet.

‘He won’t be following you for a little while,’ said Huckvale, laughing.

‘No, Jem, I fancy that we dampened his ardour.’

Jubal Nason was embittered. After a relatively blameless life as a lawyer’s clerk, he’d made the mistake of falsifying an account in his favour, albeit involving a very modest amount. Unfortunately, he’d been caught in the act. At one stroke, he’d lost his job, his reputation and his chances of being employed elsewhere at the same wage. Though he’d escaped prosecution because of his previous good conduct, he’d been shunned by the legal profession and forced to fall back on whatever work he could get as a clerk. Jobs were few and far between, often reducing him to the role of scrivener for some illiterate client. Over a period of weeks, for instance, he’d been compelled to write meandering love letters on behalf of a middle-aged butcher trying to woo a moneyed widow who – since she, too, was illiterate – had to have the touching
billets-doux
read out to her by an obliging female friend. Nason found it galling to further someone else’s romance when his had withered on the vine. The sudden decline in his income had sharpened his wife’s tongue and turned her into a block of granite at night.

It had all changed. Instead of working at a desk in an office where he had status, he now operated from his own small, drab, cheerless house where he had none. Instead of wearing a smart suit, he was reduced to putting on one that had seen substantially better days. Worst of all, he was at the mercy of the acid-tongued Posy Nason, a full-bodied termagant who was unable to accept her husband’s fall from grace and who dedicated her life to punishing him for it. When she came bustling into the room, he tensed instinctively.

‘Do you have no work today, husband?’ she demanded.

‘I’ve a client coming in an hour.’

‘That means you earned nothing at all this morning.’

‘There’s money owing to me, my dear,’ he lied. ‘And I have prospects.’

‘That’s more than
I
have,’ she said with a vehemence born of deep resentment. ‘I used to have a husband who cared for me enough to work hard at a respectable profession. All he does now is to copy out things for people too stupid to do it themselves and write letters for lovesick butchers.’

‘Things will improve.’

‘Why you left the position you already had, I’ll never know. You had some standing there. The only thing you do here is to get under my feet.’

Keeping the truth about his dismissal from her had been difficult but he’d managed it somehow, inventing a rigmarole about the firm for which he worked deciding to reduce the number of its clerks. Nason lived in fear that one day his wife would learn the appalling truth that her husband had, as a result of his folly, been summarily thrown out of a job he did well and condemned to lead a harsher existence. The few refinements he and his family had enjoyed were now things of the past.

In her daily litany of complaints, Posy never let him forget the fact.

‘When did I last have a new dress?’ she asked, truculently.

‘You already have a serviceable wardrobe, my dear.’

‘What’s fine about fading colours and ill-fitting apparel?’

‘You look well in whatever you wear,’ he said, trying to pay her a compliment.

‘No woman is at her best in rags.’

‘If your dresses are worn, repair them.’

‘I’ve been repairing them these past six months but you’ve been too busy to notice. You’ve let me down, husband.’

‘I’ll atone for it in some way.’

‘Well, you won’t do it by keeping such strange company as you do,’ she said, contemptuously. ‘That coarse, pig-faced butcher was bad enough with his demand for letters to entrap a widow but the three men who came here the other day were even worse. They looked like the lowest villains. We shouldn’t have such dreadful people in our home. Do you
have
to do business with a black man?’

‘I’ll work for anyone who’ll pay me, Posy.’

‘Have you really sunk so low?’

The question was like a stab through the heart and he lacked the strength to conjure up an answer. Nason had lost his self-respect and it rankled. Head on his chest and eyes closed, he waited until his wife’s rant finally abated. When she stormed off to the kitchen, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief and find solace by reading the newspaper he’d borrowed from a neighbour. It took his mind temporarily off the collapse of his fortunes. After working his way nostalgically through the details of the sort of court cases in which he was once tangentially involved, he came to an item that made him quiver with interest. A reward was offered for information leading to the arrest of two American prisoners of war who’d escaped from Dartmoor and who were known to be in London. They were named as Thomas O’Gara and Moses Dagg. A brief description was given of each man.

To someone in Nason’s position, the reward was a real temptation. It was large enough to pay off his debts and still leave him with an appreciable amount of money. He would even be able to worm his way back into his wife’s favour by buying her the new dress she sought. There was, however, an irremovable problem and
a man with his legal expertise saw it at once. In causing the arrest of O’Gara and Dagg, he’d also be putting a noose around his own neck because they were sure to disclose the fact that he’d been responsible for writing their account of the massacre at Dartmoor and for advising them how best to frame their demands. His hand had held the pen that threatened the life of the Home Secretary. Though he deprecated everything the two Americans did, Nason would be seen as a conspirator.

Having momentarily considered reporting them, he now saw that it was more important to save them from the law than deliver them up to it. If they were arrested, his name was bound to be mentioned. Two minutes with the fugitives would be enough to determine that neither was able to write legibly, reason soundly or compose a well-structured narrative. During their interrogation, someone would demand to know which scrivener they’d employed. Having no loyalty towards him, they would never dream of protecting him. He recalled what his wife had said about letting such low company into their home. O’Gara and Dagg should have been sent on their way but that would have offended Dermot Fallon and he was loath to do that. Against his will, Nason had been forced to comply with their wishes.

They needed to be warned. None of the three men was likely to read any newspaper. Until Nason had pointed it out to them, O’Gara and Dagg had not heard that a joint commission had been set up to inquire into events at Dartmoor. They would be equally ignorant of the fact that a reward had now been offered for their capture. In drawing it to their attention, Nason believed that he’d earn their thanks and, possibly, payment of sorts. He hoped that he’d also persuade them to go to ground so that they’d elude the manhunt that would be set in motion. His safety depended on
theirs. He needed to make urgent contact with them.

A difficulty confronted him. He had no idea where they lived.

Instead of going home to face the strictures of his wife, Chevy Ruddock elected to report first to his superiors. He therefore squelched his way to The Peacock and found Yeomans and Hale quaffing a tankard of ale apiece. If he’d hoped for even a scintilla of sympathy, he was disappointed. The two Runners took one look at him and hooted with laughter. Their amusement was tempered by anger when they learnt that Paul Skillen had been responsible for Ruddock’s dip in the River Thames.

‘Did you actually
see
him push you?’ asked Yeomans.

‘No,’ replied Ruddock, ‘but I certainly felt his hands.’

‘How do you know it was Skillen?’

‘Who else could it have been?’

‘That’s for you to find out, Chevy. If he was
ahead
of you when you reached the river, how could he possibly get behind you?’

‘I’ve been puzzling over that myself.’

‘You got what you deserved,’ said Hale, uncaringly. ‘I told you when you first joined the foot patrol that you needed eyes in the back of your head. That advice should always be borne in mind when you’re dealing with the Skillen brothers.’