Steps to the Gallows Read online

  Steps to the Gallows

  EDWARD MARSTON

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  About the Author

  By Edward Marston

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  1816

  Gully Ackford had forgotten how small, in girth and height, his friend was. When Leonidas Paige walked into the shooting gallery that morning, therefore, Ackford reacted with a delight tempered by disbelief. Could this short, stooping, grey-haired old man really be the same person who’d taught him all he knew about fighting when they were comrades in the 17th Regiment of Foot during the ill-fated War of American Independence? Paige hardly looked strong enough to lift a Brown Bess musket, let alone fire one with the lethal accuracy for which he was renowned. In his dark, sober attire and battered hat, the newcomer looked much more like an impecunious clergyman than a soldier. The only things that remained to identify him were the broad grin and the defiant glint in his eye.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Gully,’ said Paige with a laugh. ‘It is me.’

  ‘Then you’re very welcome, Leo,’ said the other, embracing him warmly before standing back to appraise him. ‘Yes, I’m sure it’s you now. I know that voice well. What on earth has brought you here? No man alive is less in need of instruction in shooting, fencing and boxing. You taught me all three disciplines.’

  ‘I did so for a good reason. I wanted to keep you alive and, by the same token, rely on you to keep me alive. And that’s what we did at Yorktown. We saved each other. The pity of it was that we couldn’t save America as well.’ Paige looked his friend up and down. ‘You’ve weathered well. You’re in your prime.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Leo, but I have kept myself fit. It’s a necessary part of my stock-in-trade. What brings you here?’

  ‘I’m tempted to say that it was for the joy of seeing you again but the truth is that I had no idea this gallery was owned by my old comrade. What I came for was help, Gully. I was told that I might hire a bodyguard here.’

  ‘And so you might. Protection is part of the service we offer.’

  ‘Does that mean I’d have you dancing attendance on me?’

  ‘No, I’m needed here to run the gallery,’ said Ackford, shaking his head, ‘but fear not. I’ll provide you with someone as alert and well trained as myself.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Take a seat and tell me the nature of the problem.’

  They were in the room used as an office and place of storage. Large and cluttered, it was essentially functional. A collection of pistols was on display in a glass-fronted cabinet. An array of swords was stacked against another wall. A thick ledger lay on the table. The bookcase was packed with a selection of well-thumbed volumes about shooting, swordsmanship, archery and the noble art of self-defence. Paige didn’t even notice the spartan lack of comfort. He sat down opposite his friend and took a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t want you to think I can’t look after myself,’ he said, defensively. ‘I go armed and possess all my old skills with gun or dagger.’

  ‘So why do you require a bodyguard?’

  ‘It’s because Nature inadvertently forgot to provide me with eyes in the back of my head and I’m in need of them. I’m being stalked, Gully, and I want to know who’s taken on the role of my uninvited shadow. A bodyguard can help me catch the rogue who’s been trailing me.’

  ‘Do you have no idea who the fellow is?’

  ‘I’ve made too many enemies. It could be any one of a hundred.’

  Ackford was puzzled. ‘How did you manage to upset so many people?’

  ‘I can see that you’ve never read Paige’s Chronicle.’

  ‘I never have time to read any newspapers, Leo,’ said his friend with an apologetic shrug. ‘But, now I think of it, you were always scribbling away when we were in the army together. And you did have ambitions to make a living with your pen one day.’

  ‘That day eventually came, Gully, and the Chronicle was the result. It gained an immediate notoriety and that was its downfall.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I exposed the follies of our so-called masters and I did so in scathing terms. When they are the victims of it, the great and the good regard satire as anathema. Every edition I published brought forth fresh howls of rage,’ said Paige, chuckling merrily. ‘Each one also produced a flurry of threats and abuse. When they couldn’t frighten me into silence, our leading politicians found a way to put me, and those like me, out of business. Last year they passed the iniquitous Stamp Act.’

  ‘I’ve heard tell of that.’

  ‘Fourpence a copy was levied on my Chronicle. When I charged twopence, I had plenty of readers. Most of them baulked at paying three times that amount.’

  ‘Did you abandon the project?’

  ‘I tried to ignore the Act and publish at the old price. That cost me twelve months in prison and a hefty fine. My newspaper had gone but my pen was still itching to write. I therefore harnessed it to a new endeavour, producing a series of sly character assassinations to accompany satirical drawings.’

  He was about to describe his work when the door opened and the tall, handsome figure of Peter Skillen glided into the room. Seeing that Ackford had company, he immediately went into retreat.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, Gully – and yours, dear sir.’

  Ackford indicated his visitor. ‘This is an old friend of mine, Peter.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to share your reminiscences in peace.’

  Peter made a graceful exit and Paige was able to pick up his narrative. He talked of the cartoons being a frontal assault on power, privilege, pomposity and corruption in high places. As he listened to the names of those who’d been satirised, Ackford could understand why Paige had made so many enemies. He was fearless. Regardless of their position, he’d attacked everyone he’d deemed guilty of vice, hypocrisy or gross malpractice. Even the Archbishop of Canterbury had not been immune from censure.

  ‘You can see why I need someone to watch my back,’ he concluded.

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve not already had a dagger between your shoulder blades.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time – unless I have a protector.’

  ‘I have the very man for you,’ said Ackford. ‘He’s quick-witted, sharp-eyed and as reliable a bodyguard as you could wish. His name is Jem Huckvale and he’ll not let you down. If someone is following you, Jem will soon find him out. He’s done this kind of work before.’

  ‘Then he sounds like the ideal person.’

  ‘Jem is giving a fencing lesson at the moment. As soon as he’s finished, I’ll introduce you to him and he’s yours to command.’

  ‘Thank you, Gully.’

  ‘Fortune guided your footsteps well when they brought you to my gallery.’

  ‘I feel blessed. We must find a time to talk about the old days.’

  ‘Nothing would please me more, Leo.’

  ‘It will give me a chance to remind you of the money you still owe me.’

  Ackford grinned. ‘As I recall it, you are indebted to me.’

  ‘I dispute that.’

  ‘I won that card game, Leo. There were witnesses.’r />
  Paige flicked a hand. ‘Come, come, let’s not quibble over details.’

  ‘Then let’s have no more talk of me owing money to you. And be warned. My services come at a price.’

  ‘There’s nobody in the world to whom I’d entrust my life more willingly than you. Name your terms and I’ll meet them.’

  ‘It’s a bargain.’

  They sealed it with a firm handshake.

  The door opened and Paul Skillen walked familiarly into the room. Paige gaped in wonder. In every way, Paul looked identical to the person who’d interrupted them earlier. The only difference was that he was dressed with markedly more flamboyance. Paige could not understand how he could have changed his apparel with such speed. Aware that he was intruding, Paul signalled an apology with both palms and backed swiftly out of the room. The visitor was on his feet at once.

  ‘Why on earth did Peter need a change of clothing?’ he asked.

  ‘Peter is still dressed as you first saw him, Leo.’

  ‘Then there is something curiously awry with my old eyes. I dare swear that I just saw the same man in different attire.’

  ‘But he was not the same man,’ explained Ackford. ‘The person you just saw was Paul Skillen, brother of Peter Skillen who interrupted us earlier. Your confusion is understandable. After all these years, I still have difficulty telling them apart.’

  ‘They are brothers?’

  ‘Like two halves of an apple, cleft in twain.’

  ‘By all, that’s wonderful!’ said Paige, slapping his thigh.

  And he went off into peals of laughter that filled the room and penetrated to every part of the gallery. It was the deep, rich, uninhibited laughter of a man in a state of unashamed ecstasy and it went on for minutes.

  Gully Ackford was mystified.

  The laughter of Micah Yeomans was of a different order. It was loud and coarse. Standing beside him, Alfred Hale contributed a series of sniggers. The Bow Street Runners were outside a print shop in Holborn, feasting their eyes on the wares in the bow-fronted window. Now in his forties, Yeomans was a big, hulking man of almost unsurpassable ugliness. Shorter, younger and less muscular, Hale was almost invisible beside him. Returning from their duties at a bank, they’d been diverted by the sight of the caricatures in the shop window. Some were subtle and superbly drawn but they preferred the cruder prints with overt sexual overtones. The one that excited their sneers and snorts the most was a cartoon showing a grotesquely fat man, seated beside a table loaded with rich food and strong drink, yet unable to reach it because he had already overeaten and, as the glassy eyes showed, drunk far too much. The caption was A Voluptuary Enjoys a Light Repast. The obese figure was easily identifiable.

  ‘Where would the artists be without the Prince Regent to mock?’ asked Yeomans, smirking. ‘He features in quite a few of these prints.’

  ‘This is the best of them, Micah. Who is the artist?’

  ‘Virgo.’

  ‘That’s more than you can say of His Royal Highness,’ suggested Hale, nudging his companion.

  ‘He lost his virgo a long time ago – if he ever had it!’

  Yeomans guffawed then scanned the other prints in the window. He, too, had a preference for Virgo, an artist who specialised in biting satire of the upper classes, ridiculing them in words as well as cartoons. His prints were part of a series called the Parliament of Foibles and he’d pilloried politicians in both Houses quite mercilessly.

  ‘By rights,’ said Yeomans, becoming serious, ‘we ought not to be joining in the derision. We should be finding out who Virgo is and hauling him before the chief magistrate.’

  ‘The law does not ban drawings, Micah. That’s why so many print shops have opened up in London. Virgo and his kind thrive and I’m glad of it.’

  ‘You’d be less glad if you saw yourself in one of these prints.’

  ‘I’m not important enough to be caricatured,’ said Hale, ‘but you are.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Hale pointed a finger. ‘Look at the print in the corner. Unless I’m very much mistaken, the artist has put you in it.’

  ‘It’s nothing like me, you dolt,’ snarled Yeomans, glaring at the print in question. ‘That’s not me.’

  ‘I’d say it was a good portrait.’

  ‘Then you must be going blind, Alfred.’

  ‘No other Runner is as big and fearsome as you, Micah. The print has caught you to perfection.’ He grunted in pain as an elbow struck him hard in the chest. ‘Wait,’ he gasped, doubling up in pain, ‘I was wrong, I confess it. On reflection, I can see that there’s not the slightest resemblance to you. Besides, nobody would dare to mock Micah Yeomans.’

  But that was exactly what someone had done. The main target in the cartoon was Sir Humphrey Coote, a prominent Member of Parliament, celebrated for his great wealth and for his readiness to lavish it upon ladies of easy virtue. The print showed him dancing around a bedchamber with a naked female companion. Outside the door was a long queue of prostitutes, held back by officers led by the imposing figure of the most famous Bow Street Runner in the capital. Though he pretended to deny it, Yeomans knew that he was being lampooned. His face was unmistakable. He saw those luxuriant black eyebrows and that twisted nose in the mirror every time he shaved. The print made him seethe with fury.

  ‘That’s Sir Humphrey Coote,’ said Hale, studying the central figure. ‘I’d wager any amount on it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s him, to be sure.’

  ‘We caught him once in a brothel in Covent Garden.’

  ‘I remember it well. He was being pleasured by two birds of paradise.’

  ‘It’s an excellent likeness of him and that monstrous bulge in his breeches gives him away as the rake that he is.’ Hale squinted through the glass. ‘Who is the cunning artist?’

  Yeomans spat the name out with utter contempt.

  ‘Virgo!’

  Jem Huckvale was a slight individual with a boyish appearance. Nobody would have guessed that he was in his mid-twenties or that his diminutive frame contained so much power. Adept at fencing and shooting, he was equally skilled in the boxing ring and many customers had suffered because they’d underestimated his speed and strength. Gully Ackford treated him as the son he’d never had, entrusting all sorts of assignments to him. When he was given his latest orders, Huckvale was thrilled. He’d liked Leonidas Paige on sight and his admiration increased when he heard that the visitor had served in the same regiment as Ackford.

  ‘It was the 17th Foot,’ said Paige. ‘The Leicestershire Regiment.’

  ‘Gully has told me about his time in America.’

  ‘It was the making of him, Jem.’

  ‘It was certainly an education,’ said Ackford, wryly. ‘I went as a callow youth and came back as a battle-scarred soldier. But I’m holding you up, Leo. Your request has been met. When you leave here, your back will be well protected. Jem will soon unmask the villain who’s been following you.’

  ‘I want him unmasked and brought before me,’ said Paige, sternly. ‘He and I must have a little conversation.’

  Huckvale tapped himself on the chest. ‘Leave it to me, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s set off.’

  ‘Do you travel by horse or on foot, Mr Paige?’

  ‘I’m an infantryman, lad. I always walk if I can.’

  He shook hands with Ackford by way of farewell then left the gallery. Watching through the window, Huckvale saw the direction in which he’d gone and waited. Within a few seconds, a man stepped out of a doorway and went after Paige. It was the signal for Huckvale to leave as well. Once in the street, he threaded his way expertly through the crowd and kept one eye on his target, biding his time until he could find a quiet spot where the man could be intercepted. Huckvale knew little about him beyond the fact that he was obviously lithe and practised in his trade. Moving with furtive ease, the man stayed well behind Paige. Had the latter turned round suddenly, he’d have seen nobody on his tail because h
is shadow simply melted out of sight.

  Huckvale kept him under surveillance for the best part of ten minutes then his view was obscured by a coach that rumbled across his path. When the vehicle disappeared, so had the person Huckvale was following. To his chagrin, he realised that he’d been tricked. Huckvale broke into a run until he reached a junction from which three roads branched off. Which one had the man taken? Paige had given him the address where he lodged so Huckvale knew which route was leading him to his home. Yet he had a strange feeling that the man was no longer on Paige’s heels. For some reason, the narrowest of the three roads was the one that beckoned. Acting on instinct, therefore, Huckvale trotted along it in the hope of catching him up but he did not get far. As he passed an alleyway, he was suddenly grabbed from behind, dragged into the alleyway and clubbed to the ground with the butt of a pistol. Instead of being able to offer protection, Huckvale was in dire need of help himself.

  For the first time in weeks, Leonidas Paige was able to walk through the streets of London with complete assurance. There was no need to keep one hand on his dagger or to look over his shoulder every so often. His back was now being protected and he could concentrate his thoughts on his work. He’d already singled out his next victim in the Parliament of Foibles and he chuckled as he envisaged the expression on the man’s face when he eventually saw the print. Paige would be creating a new and dangerous enemy but he was prepared to take that risk. Exposing a cruel and corrupt Member of Parliament was, in his opinion, a public duty. Thanks to Jem Huckvale, he no longer had to worry about his safety. Paige was free to let his mind wander as it devised some doggerel about his latest victim.

  Buoyed up by a false confidence, he continued on his way with a spring in his step. Eventually, he turned down a winding street and walked the thirty yards or so to his lodging. Using a key to let himself into the house, he went up the rickety staircase and into his room. On the table under the window were his writing materials and he couldn’t wait to put them to use. The moment he sat down, however, he discovered that he had company. Someone put a rope around his neck and pulled it tight. The garrotte was so sudden and unexpected that it was seconds before Paige realised what was happening. Twisting and turning, he tried to pull the rope away from his throat but could not budge it. Intense pressure was being applied and the pain was agonising. He tried to call out for help but his voice was strangled into silence. When he reached for his dagger, he hardly had enough strength left to pull it from its sheath and all the time the rope was biting deep into his neck and constricting his windpipe.