Steps to the Gallows (6 page)

‘Evidently, she was very fond of him.’

Ackford grinned. ‘A lot of women were, Paul. In his younger days, Leo had great charm and, like any soldier, he took his pleasure where he found it. If he’d ever written his life story, most readers, I fancy, would have been scandalised.’

‘From what Peter said about her, the lady who sold his prints is far more likely to cause a scandal than to be upset by one. He described her as a woman of the world,’ said Paul. ‘Well, you can
make up your own mind about her. Mrs Mandrake has put herself forward as our assistant.’

Ackford was startled. ‘Our
assistant
, did you say? Would she willingly place herself in jeopardy?’

‘Nothing would deter her, by all accounts.’

‘I don’t like the notion. I have grave doubts about relying on a woman.’

‘Yet you’re doing so at this very moment,’ Paul pointed out. ‘When you picked up that record book, you were relying on Charlotte. Without it, we’d have gone from case to case without building up an archive. In listing all the villains who’ve crossed our paths, Charlotte has given us a useful weapon. Let’s use it to the full. As for Mrs Mandrake,’ he continued, ‘we can leave her to her own devices.’

Diane Mandrake had just finished adjusting her hair in a mirror when she heard the rapping on the door. Since it was well before opening time, she was irritated by the disturbance. Cocking an ear from which a diamond earring dangled, she listened to the sound of the door being unlocked and to a muffled conversation. The voice of Benjamin Tite eventually came up the stairs.

‘You have a visitor, Mrs Mandrake,’ he called.

‘Who is it?’

‘His name is Mr Yeomans and he’s a Bow Street Runner.’

‘Has he brought a warrant with him?’

‘He merely wishes to ask you some questions.’

‘Show him into the back room and stay with him. I don’t want a Runner poking about among my treasures.’

Diane deliberately kept her visitor waiting before she deigned to descend the stairs. She entered the room in a regal manner. Tite introduced Yeomans then, in response to a nod from his employer,
he scuttled off into the shop. She peered at the Runner.

‘I’ve seen you before somewhere,’ she said.

Yeomans was firm. ‘I think not.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I’d never forget meeting a lady of distinction such as you,’ he said with a doomed attempt at gallantry. When she ignored the compliment, he surged on. ‘I’ve come to talk about Mr Paige. You’ll be aware of his death, I daresay.’

‘I am indeed, sir,’ she replied, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. ‘It was a profound shock and I may never recover from it.’

‘I want you to help me find the killer.’

‘How can I do that, Mr Yeomans?’

‘Just answer my questions and all will become clear.’

She studied him. ‘I
do
think I’ve seen your face before, you know.’

‘It must have been someone else, Mrs Mandrake.’

Having arrived with the intention of grilling her, Yeomans was taken aback by her striking appearance and by the bewitching odour of her perfume. He’d raided many brothels in his time and arrested many a procuress. Although he’d used the word of her, Diane Mandrake could never be described as a whoremonger. Clearly, she was a gracious woman with a quality he found instantly alluring. Instead of berating her for selling satirical prints, he found himself apologetic and deferential.

For her part, she’d taken an instant dislike to him. Peter Skillen had been kind, considerate and gentlemanly. Yeomans could not compare with him. While she was prepared to help Peter in every way, therefore, she saw no reason to give any practical assistance to a Runner. She had clashed with too many representatives of law and order in the past to have any respect for them. With her
visitor, therefore, she decided that her best plan was to act more like a grieving widow.

‘How well did you know Mr Paige?’ asked Yeomans.

‘I knew him very well, sir, and loved him dearly.’

‘You must have realised that his prints would upset certain people.’

‘They upset some and delighted others. I was one of the latter.’

‘The
Parliament of Foibles
caused untold dismay in certain quarters. To a man, politicians condemned the series for its cruelty.’

‘Nobody likes to have their faults pointed out, Mr Yeomans.’

The handkerchief came into play again and she pretended to weep into it. When she’d dabbed at her eyes, she indicated that he should continue. He began his tentative interrogation. Yeomans asked many of the questions that Peter Skillen had first put to her. While she’d given straightforward replies to him, she was far more evasive with her visitor, either misleading him on purpose or simply pleading ignorance. Enthralled by her at the start, Yeomans became disconcerted that he was getting so little help. At the same time, however, he didn’t wish to upset someone who – to his eyes, at least – was so obviously in mourning. Having gathered all the information he felt he could, he glanced towards the shop.

‘Turning to another matter,’ he said, casually, ‘I couldn’t help noticing one of the prints in your window when I happened to pass by yesterday. It was the work of Mr Paige, as it happens, and he’d drawn a good likeness of Sir Humphrey Coote.’

‘I remember the print well, Mr Yeomans.’

‘It’s no longer in the window, I see.’

‘No, that’s true. It’s not for sale.’

‘There were other copies, surely?’

‘They were all sold. It was one of Virgo’s most successful prints.’

Yeomans goggled. Having hoped to buy up her entire stock of the drawing that lampooned him, he had the discomfort of knowing that several people had already purchased copies and would be sniggering happily at both Coote and him. He was shaken to the core. Yet he could not bring himself to blame Diane Mandrake because she still held a strange fascination for him. She was merely a conduit between Paige and his admirers. One hope remained for him.

‘You say that the last print is not for sale, Mrs Mandrake.’

‘It will be given as a gift to someone.’

‘You’ll get no payment for it, then?’

‘I wish for none, sir.’

‘What if someone offered you double the price?’

‘My answer would be the same. I would not sell.’

‘Even you would part for it if I was prepared to give you
three
times its original value,’ said Yeomans, squirming inwardly at his financial recklessness. ‘Nobody who runs a business could refuse such a bargain.’

‘It smacks of desperation to me,’ she said, crisply. ‘Why are you impelled to spend so much on a single print?’

‘It … aroused my interest, that’s all.’

What he didn’t tell her was that, in buying it, he would at least take one print out of circulation. Had he been able to buy every copy, he felt, he could silence the crude jeers that would come his way. Another possibility nudged him.

‘Might the person who receives it from you be tempted to part with it on very favourable terms?’

She was shocked. ‘That’s a monstrous idea, Mr Yeomans.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Are you married, sir?’ He nodded dolefully. ‘Imagine how you would feel if you bestowed a gift on your wife and she sold it for
three times the cost? I can’t think that that would be conducive to marital harmony. Do you agree?’

‘I do,’ he confessed.

She fixed her gaze on him. ‘Ah, of course,’ she went on as realisation dawned. ‘I have it now.
That’s
where I must have seen you before. In that self-same print, Sir Humphrey Coote occupies the foreground but someone looking remarkably like you is in the background.’

‘I never noticed that,’ he lied.

‘Then why show such an interest in the print?’

He smiled weakly. ‘It … caught my imagination, that’s all.’

‘It did the same to someone else,’ she told him. ‘When he was here yesterday, he rhapsodised about the
Parliament of Foibles
. That’s why I’m presenting him with the last copy of that print. He loved it for its wit and ruthlessness.’

‘Those were not the qualities that I detected.’

‘Yet you are two of a kind, Mr Yeomans.’

‘In what way, may I ask?’

‘Like you, he came in search of information about Leo Paige.’

‘Really,’ he said, stiffening. ‘What would his name be?’

‘Peter Skillen.’

His mortification was complete.

On the previous evening, they’d gone to the White Hart in search of him but – though he’d left strong aromatic memories of his visit – the fishmonger was no longer there. Since they had no idea where he lived, they had to bide their time until the following morning. Gully Ackford had to stay at the gallery so Paul Skillen walked down to the river alone. The early morning catch was being unloaded and Simon Quint was haggling over prices with some fishermen. He was a short, bustling, round-shouldered man in his
fifties. Paul knew him by sight and had often eaten fish bought from him. With the record book under his arm, he approached the man.

‘I’d like a minute of your time,’ he began.

‘My time is money, sir,’ said Quint, eyeing him carefully. ‘I
know
you, I think. You work at the shooting gallery.’

‘That’s correct. Mr Ackford spoke to you last night, I’m told.’

‘He did, sir, and he was kind enough to buy my ale.’

‘You’ll have money to buy even more if you help me,’ said Paul, securing his attention instantly. ‘You described two men who were standing outside our gallery yesterday.’

‘I never forget a face,’ boasted the other.

‘Then let me show you a few sketches. When I do so, mark you, I want an honest answer. If you try to fob me off with a lie in order to get your reward, I’ll knock the daylights out of you and throw you in the river. One of the men you saw was involved in a vicious assault and a foul murder.’ He squeezed the man’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Quint yelped. ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Then say nothing until you’re absolutely sure.’

Paul opened the record book and flipped through the pages, stopping at one with three of Charlotte’s drawings on it. After staring at each one, Quint shook his head. Paul turned over the page and got the same result. He went patiently through some other examples of his sister-in-law’s art until he came to one showing a man with a misshapen nose in the middle of a flat face fringed with a ragged beard.

Quint stared at it for a long time then shook his head. As Paul was about to turn the page, the fishmonger stopped him and took a second protracted look at the latest sketch. Paul could sense him hovering.

‘Don’t give me a wild guess,’ he warned. ‘I want certainty. Is that the man you saw lurking at the market yesterday?’

‘Yes,’ said Quint after a pause. ‘It’s those eyes of his that give him away. They’re too far apart. There’s room for a third between that pair. He was
definitely
one of the men I saw yesterday.’

‘Thank you.’

Paul was elated. After pressing a few coins into the fishmonger’s hand, he walked back to the gallery with a spring in his step. They’d made progress.

They had a name.

Peter Skillen studied the five names on the list and wondered if the person they were after was not among them at all. The list was the fruit of the collective trawl that he, his wife and his brother had made through copies of
Paige’s Chronicle
. It had been a lengthy process because they kept breaking off to read out to each other passages that had made them laugh uncontrollably. The five people they’d isolated were those most regularly under attack in the newspaper and therefore the people most likely to want retribution. Peter had been the final arbiter since his knowledge of the political scene was comprehensive. He and Charlotte went through the list once more.

‘Sir Humphrey Coote must be the leading contender,’ he decided. ‘He was reviled in the
Chronicle
and in the
Parliament of Foibles
.’

‘Can he really be the rake that he’s portrayed?’

‘It’s common knowledge.’

‘Is there no Lady Coote to keep him under control?’

‘It’s difficult to subdue a goatish husband when you live in the depths of the Yorkshire countryside, my love, and Lady Coote rarely comes to London.’

‘His behaviour is outlandish.’

‘Sir Humphrey is a master of indiscretion, Charlotte. While most men try to hide their peccadilloes, he glories in them.’

‘Yet he takes offence when they’re voiced abroad in a newspaper.’

‘I suspect that the depiction of him hurt the most. He’s rather vain about his appearance but his physical shortcomings were exposed brilliantly by Virgo.’

Charlotte was puzzled. ‘Who
is
the man, Peter?’

‘Perhaps you are asking the wrong question, my love.’

‘Oh? Please explain.’

‘What if the artist is a
woman
?’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘I don’t think so. There
are
female artists. I married one, did I not?’

‘I could never draw anything as lewd as that,’ she said. ‘I lack both the skill and the desire.’ She heard the noise of movement above her head. ‘It sounds as if Meg has taken up Jem’s breakfast.’

‘Has he found the courage to speak to her yet?’

‘No, he just gazes at her in wonderment.’

‘I used to do the same to you, Charlotte.’

‘Do you mean that you’ve
stopped
?’ she scolded. ‘At what point in our marriage did my charm start to fade?’

‘It shines as bright as ever,’ he said, kissing her softly on the cheek. ‘Now that we have five prime suspects, we must discuss ways to tackle each one of them. You, meanwhile, can nurse Jem back to health.’

‘He’s already improved a little, Peter. I heard him get up in the night.’

‘Are you sure? He could hardly move yesterday.’

‘I couldn’t sleep for some reason. There was no mistaking the sound of his door opening or of footsteps dragging past our bedchamber. I’d half a mind to get up and see where he was going.’

‘Well, it wasn’t to Meg’s room,’ he said, jocularly, ‘because he has neither the strength nor the boldness. Besides, Meg shares a bed with Sarah and no man would dare to climb in beside
her
.’ He stepped back to avoid a dig in the ribs. ‘That was unkind. I take it back.’ He looked upwards. ‘So where
was
Jem going?’

‘Take the trouble to ask him before you leave.’

‘I will – and I’ll also tell him about the five names we’ve picked out. One of those grand gentlemen might well have ordered the murder of Mr Paige and, as a result, turned Jem into an incidental casualty. He’ll be cheered by our diligence.’

‘Have you told him about your visit to the print shop?’

‘I haven’t dared.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘I don’t think he’s ready for Mrs Mandrake yet,’ said Peter. ‘She’s a potent lady. Because he’s helpless in the company of the fairer sex, Jem has trouble coping with a pretty little servant like Meg. Frankly, someone like Mrs Mandrake would terrify him.’

‘What’s his name, Paul?’ asked Ackford.

‘Abel Fearon.’

‘How certain was the fishmonger?’

‘It took him time,’ recalled Paul, ‘but he was convinced in the end. Fearon was one of the sailors involved in that brawl at the Hope and Anchor. They caused so much damage that the inn was closed for repairs for almost a week.’

‘I remember it well.’

In a break between lessons, Ackford had joined Paul in the office and was looking at the sketch of the man singled out by Quint. Since the fishmonger would be back with his cart on the next market day, his word could be trusted. If it was deliberately false, Paul simply had to cross the road to remonstrate with him in
public and Quint would not wish that to happen. Ackford looked at the notes Charlotte had made beneath the drawing. There was a brief description of the sailor and of his crime. Arrested by them as one of the ringleaders in the affray, Abel Fearon had been convicted and sent to prison with his shipmates. Ackford noted the length of his sentence.

‘By rights, he should still be languishing under lock and key,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that he escaped from Newgate.’

‘There are other means of getting out of prison, Gully.’

‘He’d hardly have enough money to buy his freedom.’

‘Someone with influence might have intervened.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Fearon might be useful to him,’ suggested Paul. ‘If you wanted to hire an assassin, Newgate would be a good place to start looking for one. Prisoners will do anything to get out of that hellhole. All that we have to do is to track Fearon down and discover whose creature he is.’

Ackford grinned. ‘If only it was as easy as that!’

‘I’ve just had another thought. Fearon may have seized the chance to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. He knew that we were responsible for his arrest and conviction and was aware that we operated from the gallery. When he stood outside, he must have been burning with resentment at what we’d done to him.’

‘I see what you mean, Paul. In that brutal attack on Jem, he was getting revenge on us. If you or I had acted as Leo’s bodyguard yesterday, we’d have been the victims instead. Fearon had a score to settle.’

‘
We
have one of those now, Gully.’

There was a sharp tap on the door and it opened wide for the ample figure of Diane Mandrake to step into the room. When she saw Paul, her face lit up at once.

‘There you are, Mr Skillen,’ she said, crossing over to him and thrusting a package into his hands. ‘I’ve brought you a gift.’

Paul blinked. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

‘Open the present and you will understand.’

‘You must be confusing me with someone else.’

She nudged him. ‘Stop teasing me, Mr Skillen. How could I ever forget someone as handsome and debonair as your good self? Were you not in my shop only yesterday?’ Both men laughed. ‘I’m not aware that I made a jest,’ she protested.

‘Let me explain,’ said Ackford. ‘You, I take it, are Mrs Mandrake?’

‘I am, indeed, but Peter here should have recognised me at once.’

‘Peter would assuredly do so but this is his twin brother, Paul.’

She was amazed. ‘There are
two
of you?’ she exclaimed, looking at Paul. ‘You are the image of him in every particular. That being the case,’ she continued, taking the package from him, ‘I’ll wait until I meet your brother.’

‘He’s probably on his way here even now, Mrs Mandrake,’ said Paul. He indicated his friend. ‘Let me introduce you to Gully Ackford, who owns the shooting gallery.’ She greeted Ackford warmly. ‘And I apologise for the lack of comfort here. This is not the sort of place you’d ever be likely to visit.’

‘On the contrary,’ she said, whipping the pistol out of her reticule, ‘it is the ideal establishment in which to practice. I am, as you see, prepared for trouble.’

As she pointed the weapon at each of them in turn, they stepped back warily.

‘Is it loaded?’ asked Paul.

‘Why else should I carry it?’ She put it away in the reticule. ‘I came to offer what help I can. Employ me as you think fit. I’ll not shrink from danger.’

Impressed by her vigour and determination, they nonetheless had doubts about her abilities in a murder investigation. Selling satirical prints was hardly the ideal preparation for a possible confrontation with a killer. If they were concerned for her safety, Paul and Ackford feared that they’d be distracted. Charlotte was an important member of the team, and her record book alone justified her place among them, but she never ventured into a hazardous situation. She worked quietly and effectively in the background and that was something Diane Mandrake was manifestly unready to contemplate. She intended to be at the heart of the action.

As the two men sighed inwardly, she proved that she did, after all, have something useful to contribute. Holding up the package, she cackled with joy.

‘The gift is a print that Peter admired in my window,’ she explained. ‘It’s a drawing that features Sir Humphrey Coote, a Member of Parliament with a roving eye. Imagine my surprise, then, when someone comes into my shop this morning, fires endless questions at me, then tries to buy this print off me for three times its price. I wouldn’t sell it for ten times its value,’ she insisted. ‘It has Peter Skillen’s name writ indelibly upon it.’

Paul was interested. ‘You say that someone came to question you?’

‘Did he ask about Leo Paige?’ said Ackford.

‘What did you tell him, Mrs Mandrake?’

‘I told him nothing of any use to him,’ she said, ‘but, then, I’ve no time for Bow Street Runners. This one was especially objectionable. I discovered the perfect way to get rid of him,’ she added, gleefully. ‘I simply mentioned Peter’s name.’

The ale went down so quickly and smoothly that Yeomans did not even taste it. Slumped over a table at the Peacock Inn, he was
in a state of depression that bordered on despair. He had never met anyone like Diane Mandrake. Her effect on him had been extraordinary. Feelings that had lain dormant for many years had suddenly been rekindled. He had long since looked for any happiness in his marriage. The endless hours he spent on duty meant that he saw little of his wife and children. They were very much in the hinterland of his life. Out of the blue, he’d now met a woman who reminded him of long-forgotten pleasures and aroused a desire that caused a nagging unease. Since she sold satirical prints, Mrs Mandrake was, by definition, a person he should detest and harass. Yet he was moved to protect her. Even though she’d stuck a knife in his heart when she told him that the print he sought would go to Peter Skillen, he couldn’t condemn her. When he’d stepped into her shop, he’d been a conscientious Runner about to demand answers to important enquiries. At a stroke, she’d robbed him of his bristling self-confidence and made him unnervingly vulnerable. The irony of it all was that, in her brusque treatment of him, she’d made herself even more irresistible.

Confused, dispirited and tormented by a vision of Diane Mandrake, he could do nothing but sit there and suffer in silence. When he was joined by Hale and Ruddock, he was so locked into his reverie that he had to be forcibly shaken out of it.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted, brushing Hale’s hand off his shoulder. ‘Don’t you dare to touch me like that again, Alfred.’

‘You were miles away,’ said Hale.

‘Then you should have waited patiently.’

‘Did you learn anything at the print shop, sir?’ asked Ruddock, recoiling slightly when Yeomans turned a murderous glare upon him. ‘You thought that it would provide you with some important evidence.’

‘Shut your gob, Ruddock!’

‘Well … if you say so, sir.’

‘Speak only when you’re spoken to.’

‘Yes, Mr Yeomans.’

‘Chevy asked a reasonable question,’ said Hale, coming to the younger man’s rescue. ‘You told us you expected to get crucial intelligence from Mrs Mandrake.’

Mention of her name made Yeomans leap a few inches out of his chair as if he’d suddenly realised that it was covered in sprigs of holly. When he sat down again, he made an effort to master his emotions.

‘I gathered some useful information,’ he explained, ‘but I may have to return to the shop again at some point.’

‘It’s a pity we can’t close the place down altogether. Mrs Mandrake and her kind are nothing but excrescences.’

Yeomans bunched a fist. ‘Don’t you dare call her that, Alfred!’

‘I’ve heard you use the same word of dealers such as her.’

‘Mrs Mandrake is a lady. Treat her with respect.’

‘Only yesterday, you called her a whoremonger.’ Seeing the look in Yeomans’s eye, Hale held up apologetic palms. ‘I’ll never describe her as such again, I promise. You have met the woman – the lady, I should say – whereas we have not.’

‘If you have changed your mind about Mrs Mandrake,’ said Ruddock, ‘does that mean you think more kindly of the murder victim? Must we treat Mr Paige with respect as well?’

‘No,’ barked Yeomans, ‘we must not. I don’t give a trooper’s turd for Paige. I’m very glad that he was killed and I wish the same fate on those like him. But the murder must be solved and it falls to us to solve it.’

‘We’ve not been idle this morning,’ said Hale.

‘How many heads have you knocked together?’

‘More than I can remember, Micah. The first person we tackled
again was Mokey Venables. I was much harsher on him than Chevy.’

‘You boxed his ears,’ said Ruddock.

‘It helps to clear the brain. Mokey gave us names of people we’d never heard of before, obnoxious maggots who infest Bloomsbury and know its darkest corners. We paid several of them a visit. One of them was very helpful.’

‘His name is Dirk Poyesdon,’ said Ruddock.

Yeomans glowered. ‘I told you to shut your gob.’

‘Then I’ll let Mr Hale do the talking,’ whispered the other.

‘Who is this Poyesdon?’

‘He works as a doorman at Doll Fortune’s house,’ said Hale, ‘and he’s used to seeing a stream of gentlemen going in and out there every night. Doll’s ladies are not common trulls. They are expensive company.’

‘I’m well aware of that.’

‘Last night, two unlikely visitors rolled up, drunken sailors with an urge to dip their wicks into quality for a change. Poyesdon was minded to turn them away but the bribe they gave him was generous enough to get them through the door. Once inside,’ Hale went on, ‘they paid for the two most exclusive rooms in the house.’