Rage of the Assassin Read online

  ‘We don’t want to get him into trouble,’ said Hooper.

  ‘You’ll have to settle for his tacit support.’

  ‘What does that mean, Mr Skillen?’

  ‘He can’t speak out in public but is on your side in private.’

  They were in the tiny living room of Hooper’s house. The brush-maker’s wife and mother-in-law had been banished while the visitor was there. Early that morning, Hooper had taken them both to church where they’d prayed for the soul of Sir Roger Mellanby. For most of the city, Sunday had been a day of rest, but Hooper had spent hours of it in discussion with other members of the local Hampden Club. He was sad to lose Peter.

  ‘We’ll miss you, Mr Skillen,’ he said.

  ‘The feeling is mutual.’

  ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t offer you better hospitality.’

  ‘You made me feel welcome,’ said Peter, ‘and that’s the most important thing. I enjoyed my night at the Black Horse – until some of the rowdier customers started to sing. The landlord said that Saturday night is always noisy.’

  ‘It’s got quieter of late. Lots of lads are out of work and have no money to spend on drink. Unless the government does something about places like this, it can only get worse.’ He forced a smile. ‘Thank you for speaking at our meeting. You did very well.’

  ‘I’m told that you did even better after I’d gone. You’re a good orator.’

  ‘I just try to copy Sir Roger,’ said the other, modestly. ‘Now he were a real speaker and no mistake. All I can do is hold an audience. Sir Roger could inspire them. It were a treat to watch him.’

  ‘Did he realise that he’d been spied on from the room above?’

  ‘He thought it were very likely. It’s what happened in Manchester with them Blanketeers. Agents were sent from London to keep a close eye on them. That’s where the order would have come for them to be attacked by dragoons.’

  ‘That would have been the local magistrates’ doing, surely?’

  ‘They were instructed by the government.’

  ‘Do you have any proof of that?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Sir Roger did.’

  ‘So who actually dispatched agents to keep people under surveillance?’

  ‘The Home Secretary.’

  Peter was astounded. ‘Viscount Sidmouth?’

  ‘That’s what Sir Roger believed.’

  ‘Then I wish I’d met him because I’d have been able to tell him that it was highly unlikely. I happen to know the Home Secretary quite well because I was employed by him during the war to gather intelligence in France. I found him a decent and humane man,’ said Peter, ‘and he’s been very helpful to me.’

  Hooper shrugged. ‘I can only say what I was told.’

  ‘Then you’ve been misled, I’m afraid. Any political meetings broken up and any marches prevented were victims of the local magistracy. They are the people to blame, Mr Hooper. I give you my word that the Home Secretary wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.’

  Though Peter spoke with passion, Hooper was unconvinced.

  ‘Maybe it’s time you did go back to London, sir,’ he said.

  Harry Scattergood differed from the rest of the thieves who infested London. The majority of them stole in order to feed and clothe their families. Crime was a matter of survival. There were others whose exploits were more lucrative and who spent their ill-gotten gains on luxuries they couldn’t otherwise have afforded. Very few of them actually saved what they’d earned by the fruit of their brains and the quickness of their hands. The concept of insurance was foreign to them. Their lives were based on a philosophy of steal and spend.

  What set Scattergood apart from the herd was that he kept much of what he’d stolen and took care to hide it in a variety of places. Whenever he needed money, he could drop in on one of what he liked to call his private banks. Evading capture was his forte. He kept out of reach of the Runners by having a number of bolt-holes, each one equipped with several modes of exit in case he’d been tracked there. One of them had been a brothel where the talents of a beautiful young woman were reserved for his exclusive usage. It was with Welsh Mary that he was now lying naked on a bed. They were in the well-appointed lodging he’d bought when he decided to transform himself into a gentleman.

  Welsh Mary had also undergone a complete transformation. Instead of the tawdry apparel of a prostitute, she now wore fine clothes and expensive jewellery. He had schooled her in speech, manners and deportment. Whenever she left the building on his arm, she looked the gracious wife that she was intended to be. If they needed to speak to anyone, Scattergood did all the talking, eager to hide the musical Welsh cadences of his lover. In private, however, he loved to hear them.

  ‘How long are we going to stay here, Harry?’ she wondered.

  ‘We’ll soon be moving to somewhere more suitable, my love.’

  ‘But I like it here.’

  ‘You deserve something better.’

  She giggled. ‘I’ve got everything I want.’

  ‘I’ve explained to you before,’ he said, stroking her cheek absent-mindedly. ‘We can’t stay anywhere too long. It gets us noticed. People ask questions.’

  ‘I like to be talked about. It makes me feel important.’

  ‘You are important, Mary – to me.’

  She giggled again. He rolled over and kissed her full on the lips. Leaning on his elbows, he looked down at her with a fond smile.

  ‘Something very big is in the offing,’ he confided.

  ‘What are you going to steal this time?’

  ‘It’s not really a case of stealing, my love. I’m merely helping myself to some reward money for capturing a murderer.’

  She shivered involuntarily. ‘Don’t put yourself in any danger.’

  ‘He’s not a real murderer so there’s no danger.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘No,’ he said, pushing her hair back gently from her forehead. ‘The less you know, the less you’ll fret about my safety. All I will say is this. If everything goes as planned, I’ll have the biggest haul of my career.’

  ‘I love you, Harry,’ she said, staring into his eyes. ‘Shall I tell you why?’

  ‘Afterwards,’ he whispered.

  Then he mounted her with his customary zeal.

  The assassin had always liked St James’s Park. It was the oldest of London’s royal parks with a large acreage and a spectacular display of trees, flowers, shrubs, lawns and arbours. At that time on a Sunday afternoon, many people had flocked there to enjoy a stroll, trot on their horses or simply ride by in their open carriages to admire the view and be, in turn, admired. It was a place that held no danger for the assassin. Had there been a plan to betray him, he felt, he’d have been asked to meet after the city had been shrouded in darkness. As he watched the dandies and their ladies disporting themselves in the saddle or in their carriages, he promised that he would be doing the same when he reached Paris. Here he was just another pedestrian. When he got to France, he’d ride along the boulevards of the capital on a thoroughbred horse.

  At that moment, another horse claimed his attention. He first caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye, cantering towards him from behind, then slowing to a leisurely trot. When it went past, it was only a matter of yards away, close enough for him to recognise the rider and to notice the black silk bag that hung from the pommel of his saddle by its tassels. By patting it, the rider confirmed what the man had hoped. The bag contained the final payment for services rendered. The assassin was thrilled. Paris suddenly seemed a great deal closer.

  It was too public a place for the exchange, so the horseman cantered on to a stand of trees and disappeared from sight. He would be waiting near the fountain he’d designated. Heart pounding and stride lengthening, the assassin moved swiftly across the grass. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on his money. But his haste turned out to be a mistake because – when he’d almost reached the trees – his toe was caught in a clump of grass and he stum
bled badly. The lurch forward saved his life. Out of nowhere a shot was fired so close to his head that he heard it whistle past his ear and end up in the trunk of an elm. He was on the defensive at once, seeking cover and pulling out a pistol from inside his coat. There was no silk bag stuffed with money. He’d been lured into a trap.

  Having been hired to hunt someone, he was now the prey.

  Captain Golightly was very impressed by what he’d been told. He congratulated Paul on the way in which he’d gathered a vital piece of information and thanked him for calling at the house to explain how he’d done it.

  ‘Actors live in a world of gossip,’ said Paul, ‘and news travels like lightning. If anyone could find out the victim’s name, I knew it would be Simeon Howlett. He’s a veritable oasis of gossip.’

  ‘So this fellow earned a living in the theatre, did he?’

  ‘That was his intention, Captain, but he failed abysmally. However good they are, most actors are out of work at various periods of their life. It’s unavoidable. In the case of Orsino Price, it was not merely an occasional setback. He seems to have been permanently unemployed.’

  ‘What effect would that have had on his character?’

  ‘It would have been very lowering. Imagine how a soldier would feel if he were never allowed to go into combat.’

  ‘I can think of some who’d have been delighted,’ said Golightly with a dry laugh, ‘but I take your point. When the profession he loved so much spurned him, iron must have entered this man’s soul.’

  ‘That would have made him vulnerable to other offers.’

  ‘You think he’d stoop to murder?’

  ‘No,’ said Paul, ‘I doubt that very much. The killer needed to be invisible. Price would never settle for that. Even in the middle of a crowd, he’d want to preen. There were dozens of others doing exactly the same thing outside the stage door.’

  ‘In that case, he must have been there simply to assist.’

  ‘We don’t know that. It may be that Orsino Price was nowhere near Covent Garden on that fateful night. If I was an unemployed actor, I’d never go within a mile of a theatre at a time when crowds were pouring into it to watch people deemed to be better actors than me. It would remind me that I was an abject failure.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Golightly. ‘We’re jumping to conclusions again.’

  ‘We’re concentrating on the killer when the person or persons we really need to find are those who devised the plot in the first place. I think that I should take a second look at Oswald Ferriday.’

  ‘What about Hugh Denley?’

  ‘Another word with him wouldn’t come amiss,’ said Paul, ‘and I ought to speak to his estranged wife once more. During our first conversation, a great deal was left unsaid.’

  ‘Mrs Denley got closer to Sir Roger than anyone else.’

  ‘She was still dazed at the news of his murder when I met her.’

  ‘Then a second visit might be productive.’

  ‘We can but hope.’

  ‘You seem to have a way of extracting sensitive information out of people.’

  ‘I just listen, that’s all.’

  ‘Ferriday, Denley and his wife … that leaves Sir Marcus Brough.’

  ‘The only thing I managed to extract out him was a lot of bluster.’

  ‘That could just be a smokescreen.’

  ‘Of all the people I talked to, Ferriday was the prickliest.’

  ‘Don’t let that deter you,’ said Golightly.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Thorns have to be grasped sometimes.’

  ‘I know,’ said Paul with a grin. ‘The trick is to wear thick gloves.’

  Peter Skillen got to the coaching inn hours ahead of the departure time. Having left Hooper with a promise that he’d work around the clock to find out who had instigated the murder of the Radical Dandy, he wanted time alone to consider the situation and to collate all the intelligence he’d so far gathered about the Mellanby family and the activities of the local Hampden Club. Peter was worried that he and the brush-maker had parted on a sour note. The two men had enjoyed a friendly relationship until the name of Viscount Sidmouth was mentioned. They were suddenly on different sides of the argument. Hooper was adamant that the Home Secretary was directly responsible for the persecution of the Blanketeers and the decision to monitor political dissent in Nottingham. While not saying it in so many words, Hooper had come to believe that Sidmouth was somehow implicated in the murder of Sir Roger Mellanby.

  The charge still hurt Peter like the sting of a wasp. He knew that Sidmouth had been party to the repressive legislation designed to clamp down on dissidents in a bid to stave off the danger of riots. Though Peter didn’t agree with the severity of the laws that were drafted, he accepted that public order had to be preserved. Hooper had been embittered by the fact that, even though the Hampden Clubs were careful to work within the law, they were still considered to be enemies of society. That was why someone had been sent to eavesdrop on meetings at the Black Horse, a fact that Peter could hardly contradict.

  Since he regarded the Home Secretary as a good friend, Peter had tried hard to absolve the man of being the monster he was portrayed in places like Manchester and Nottingham. His respect for Sidmouth was not only based on the work he did for him in France during the war. They had kept in touch ever since and Peter had been able to solve a puzzling crime at the Home Office itself, earning him the gratitude of Sidmouth. Could a politician whom he admired for his integrity really be the ogre Hooper had described? If that were the case, Peter realised, then he’d let friendship leave him blinkered. It was a salutary thought.

  Further introspection was brought to a halt by the noise of the door creaking on its hinges. Two men entered. One was carrying a heavy valise but it was the other who caused Peter to sit up in surprise. It was Barrington Oxley, about to set off on a journey. When the lawyer caught sight of Peter, he walked across to him.

  ‘Ah,’ he said with a smirk, ‘you’ve finally accepted what I told you. Coming here was a pointless exercise.’

  ‘I don’t agree, Mr Oxley. It’s been a journey of discovery.’

  ‘And what do you have to show for it?’

  ‘To begin with,’ said Peter, ‘I have a far greater understanding of the work that Sir Roger was doing. I’m sorry that it wasn’t endorsed by everyone in his family.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘It must have been a source of regret for him.’

  ‘He was not a man to be troubled by regret. When you are driven by a passion, you don’t let disappointment get in your way. Sir Roger always surged on regardless.’

  ‘I’d be interested to hear more about him, Mr Oxley. If you and I are to travel in the mail coach together, the time would pass more quickly if we had a civilised conversation for once.’

  ‘That won’t be possible, I fear.’

  ‘Why not – you are travelling to London, I presume?’

  ‘Indeed, I am, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘Are we simply going to glare at each other in silence?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that that would be quite impossible,’ said Oxley with a laugh. ‘By the time the mail coach departs, I will be well ahead of you on the road.’ He looked up as he heard the clatter of hooves and the noise of wheels on the cobbles outside. ‘It sounds as if my transport has just arrived.’ He clicked his fingers and the servant picked up the luggage again. ‘Goodbye, Mr Skillen. I doubt very much that we shall meet again. I’m going to London to arrange, amongst other things, for the return of Sir Roger’s body. You, meanwhile, I predict, will be chasing your own tail and getting nowhere.’

  Oxley gave him a farewell wave and went breezily out through the door with his luggage following him. Peter was on his feet at once, crossing to the window to peer out. A coach was waiting to take a new passenger aboard. When its door opened, Peter saw that Oxley wouldn’t be travelling alone. Beckoning him to climb into the vehicle was the new h
ead of the family – Edmund Mellanby.

  The assassin was pulsing with rage. He’d just had the narrowest of escapes from death. Instead of being paid for the murder he’d committed, he’d been destined to join his victim in the grave. Survival was now his priority. Since he couldn’t actually see anyone about to launch a second attack, he ran quickly away from the trees and mingled with the crowd. He was safe there. He’d taken risks to earn his reward yet, the moment it was dangled in front of him, it was replaced by a murderous bullet. It meant that he was expendable.

  His fury was tempered by caution. When he reached the gate, he hailed a cab and ordered the driver to whip the horse into a gallop. Instead of going straight back to his lodging, he took a circuitous route, asking the driver to stop at one point so that he could get out of the cab to make sure that nobody was following him. Clambering into the vehicle once more, he was driven off. Since the first attempt on his life had failed, he feared that a second might be made at his lodging. He therefore alighted from the cab a couple of streets away so that he could approach the address with care. One hand on his pistol, he walked past the building to see if anyone was keeping watch at the upstairs window, ready to open it. It remained shut. Only when he was convinced that nobody was lying in wait for him did he enter the house by the rear entrance and creep upstairs.

  Unlocking his door, he opened it on a scene of complete destruction. The furniture had been overturned, the bed linen had been ripped to pieces and every item in his wardrobe had been shredded. Worst of all was the fact that the carpet had been pulled up to reveal a gaping void. The loose floorboard under which he’d hidden the money he’d already been paid had been yanked out. The space below was empty. Denied his second payment, he’d also been relieved of his first one. They’d taken everything and would be back to claim his life. Fondling his pistol, the assassin reached his decision. He had to kill or be killed.