Steps to the Gallows Page 17

  ‘I hope you were not hurt in any way.’

  ‘As luck would have it, I was not even here.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’

  ‘My property was not only damaged, there was a second outrage.’

  ‘What was that, I pray?’

  ‘When the boarding was put up,’ she explained, ‘there was a poster nailed on it proclaiming that there would be business as usual. Nothing will deter me from offering my prints to the general public.’

  He looked at the window. ‘Where is the poster now?’

  ‘I found it in the gutter, Mr Yeomans. During the night, would you believe, some vile wretch sneaked past and tore it down. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think it very disturbing indeed.’

  ‘My assistant and my servants are quaking.’

  ‘You should be alarmed yourself, Mrs Mandrake,’ he advised. ‘Whoever broke your window expected you to suspend business. The fact that you intend to carry on regardless has evidently angered him. If your poster was torn down, it’s a dire warning. I beg you to close the premises for a while.’

  ‘That would suit you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all, dear lady, not at all.’

  ‘Come now, sir, cease this parade of false concern.’

  ‘But it’s not false,’ he declared. ‘Truly, I’m worried on your account.’

  ‘You’re only worried that we’ll remain open if every window in the property is smashed to smithereens. You despise what I do because you recognised yourself in one of my prints. Have the decency to admit it.’

  Yeomans measured his words carefully. ‘I did take exception to some of the prints in your window, Mrs Mandrake,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’ll own that. They showed a worrying disrespect for authority. A man in my position must necessarily look askance at that. As for your good self, however,’ he added, ‘I’m bound to admire your courage and sense of purpose. My worry is that those same qualities will lead you unwittingly into harm’s way.’

  Diane looked more closely at him. When he first appeared, she’d been tempted to turn on her heel and go back into the shop, but there was a note of sincerity in his voice that held her back. The anxiety he was displaying was palpably real. In a man like Yeomans, it seemed incongruous but it was nevertheless there. It did nothing to change her opinion of the man. She still found him despicable.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mr Yeomans?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was on my way to meet someone.’

  ‘So you came down this street by chance, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘It’s not the first time you came down here by happenstance, is it? Ben Tite tells me that you’ve been skulking about before. For what purpose, may I ask?’

  ‘It was out of consideration for your safety, Mrs Mandrake.’

  ‘I’d prefer you to have more consideration for my peace of mind,’ she said with emphasis. ‘That would involve going about your business by different means than this particular street and leaving me alone. Do I make myself plain?’

  ‘Don’t spurn my protection. I offer it in good faith.’

  ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  He raised his hat to her. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Mandrake.’

  Accepting her rebuke, he walked swiftly away. It was only when he reached the end of the street that he dared to turn around. Hoping for a final glimpse of her, however, he was disappointed. She had vanished from sight.

  The day got off to a troubling start for Paul Skillen. A letter from France finally arrived to rekindle his hopes that Hannah Granville would soon return. It was full of endearments that reminded him just how much he loved and missed her, and it gave a summary of her activities in Paris. Well received by theatregoers in the city, she had given a number of poetry recitals and, as a result, had steadily widened her circle of admirers. Hannah spoke of several English visitors to the French capital who’d come to support her. Paul read that she was now rehearsing for a production of Macbeth to be performed in French. Having seen her in Shakespearean roles at the Haymarket Theatre, he’d witnessed her greatest triumphs. Whether or not she could repeat that triumph abroad was, however, an open question. Hannah did have one advantage. Having been taught by a French governess, she’d achieved a fluency in the language that gave her the confidence to take on the difficult challenge. Paul was proud of her for that.

  His early euphoria soon changed into disappointment, then apprehension. On the surface, the letter was all he could have desired but, when he read between the lines, he detected that something was wrong. Was the unhappiness he sensed simply occasioned by absence from her lover or was there another, darker reason? Were her reservations about tackling a Shakespeare play in French the real cause of her unease or was she hinting at problems with the rest of the cast? At all events, Paul was anxious. He read the letter a number of times in search for clues on which to build his theory but they were elusive. What exacerbated the situation was that it had taken ten days for the missive to reach him. Much could have happened in the interval. Was Hannah still struggling to master her role? Did she have to cope with envy and spite from French actresses who might feel they were more suited to play Lady Macbeth than an imported foreigner? Was there tension with the man playing her husband? Worst of all in Paul’s mind, had her striking beauty attracted the kind of urgent suitors who always besieged the stage door after one of her performances?

  His initial impulse was to take ship to France and rush to her assistance but he had other priorities. A murder investigation kept him in London and required all his attention. At a time when Hannah needed him – he could almost hear the cry for help in her letter – he had to spend the day at a cricket match. It was excruciating.

  Peter Skillen hadn’t realised how long and tortuous some of the speeches in the House of Commons really were. As he sat at a table with copies of recent Hansard journals in front of him, he read through many examples of Gerard Brunt’s rhetoric. Clearly, the man had had a good education. Greek and Latin phrases peppered his speeches and Roman emperors were mentioned on a regular basis. The overwhelming impression was of a Member of Parliament trying to curry favour with those in the senior ranks of his party. Brunt went out of his way to make ingratiating remarks about this or that Cabinet minister, congratulating them on some action taken or pending. Peter had never read anything so full of unashamed fawning.

  Yet the man’s legal skills were undeniable. He could mount a cogent argument on almost any subject and back it up with an effortless command of precedents. Faithfully recorded in Hansard, his interventions during the speeches of others were also notable. Peter was getting to know Brunt extremely well. The parliamentarian’s most recent speech had concerned an amendment to the law of libel. It was patently something close to his heart because he spoke about it with a fiery passion that was lacking in other debates. There was no room for tributes to political colleagues this time and no toadying. All his rhetoric was concentrated on a group of people he described as the caterpillars of the commonwealth, eating remorselessly away at the very foundations of English society.

  ‘I put it you, Mr Speaker, that the law of libel offers insufficient protection from defamation that can lead to the complete destruction of a person’s character and reputation. It is, to me, the most heinous of crimes. Were any of the Honourable Members here present to walk down the Strand and find themselves pelted repeatedly with cattle dung, they would be understandably angry and take immediate steps to avoid the malodorous assault. When exactly the same thing happens in a newspaper or in a caricature, however, it’s impossible to duck out of the way. We unfortunate victims have to stand there and put up with the verbal ordure that is gleefully hurled at us. We have to tolerate the indignity of being caricatured in prints that are the most grotesque examples of defamation. It is wrong, Mr Speaker. It is wrong, deplorable and uncivilised. The law of libel should give us stronger protection and more easily accessible retribution. Why should we be exposed to
hatred, ridicule and contempt by our enemies? How can we frame the law so that it has wider scope and sharper teeth? Cow dung smells, Mr Speaker. Its reek is abhorrent. It also sticks. I ask this House to support an amendment that will give us the power to strike back at those who seek to deride us as individuals and undermine us as a government.

  ‘Let me, if I may, Mr Speaker, move on to the instance of a pernicious series of caricatures entitled the Parliament of Foibles …’

  Peter set the journal aside. He’d read enough. Gerard Brunt had the controlled fury of a man who would resort to any means in order to retaliate against those who sought to mock him. All of a sudden, he’d become the chief suspect.

  When they’d reached their destination, they paused on the corner of the street.

  ‘You walk past the print shop and have a good look at it,’ said Fearon.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘It may just be that someone saw me galloping past on that horse and can recognise me. We don’t want that to happen. Besides, I’ve got other work to do.’

  ‘What is it, Abel?’

  ‘I need to look at the street that this one backs on to.’

  ‘The shop is here,’ said Higlett, ‘not in the next street.’

  ‘It’s got a garden at the rear. I want to see if we can get into it somehow. It will be far safer than going this way.’

  ‘But it will be in the dark. Nobody will see us.’

  ‘Mrs Mandrake might have someone guarding the building. I would.’

  ‘Then we deal with him before we follow our orders.’

  ‘Too dangerous,’ said Fearon. ‘The garden is the best answer, Sim. I’ll poke around until I can find a way into it.’

  ‘Where do we meet?’

  ‘Back at the tavern – don’t loiter.’

  Higlett was on the point of moving away when a thought made him frown.

  ‘Is this it, Abel?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is this the last thing we do for him? Is he going to pay us off and let us go our own sweet way? I’m getting tired of taking orders.’

  ‘Do as you’re told and don’t ask questions.’

  ‘I’m bound to wonder.’

  ‘All you need to think about is what we have to do tonight,’ said Fearon, voice laden with threat. ‘Now get on with it.’

  A cricket match at Thomas Lord’s ground was always going to attract a large number of spectators. When Paul Skillen arrived there that morning, thousands were converging on what was, in fact, the third venue selected by Lord. After three years at Lisson Grove, the enterprising property dealer had moved the ground, turf and all, to the site in St John’s Wood. It was the designated home of the Marylebone Cricket Club and, as such, was effectively the guardian of the laws of the game. Members of the aristocracy and the gentry flocked to a match that would last two days and was advertised as For Five Hundred Guineas a Side. Substantially more money than that would change hands because there would be some assiduous gambling throughout the game. It was an aspect of cricket that had always appealed to Paul but his penchant for gambling had been banked down since he met Hannah and he was resolved to resist temptation.

  His main worry was how to identify and get close to Sir Humphrey Coote. He’d seen many caricatures of the man but the latter’s features were distorted for the comic effect in them. All that he could do was to lurk near the entrance and hope that he singled out the right person. It would be difficult. There was an atmosphere of high excitement as the crowd pushed forward to pay the admission price of sixpence. What he did know was that Sir Humphrey would arrive by coach. He therefore studied each vehicle as it arrived and deposited its passengers. His mind, however, kept wandering. In his pocket was the letter from Hannah Granville and it seemed to be giving off intense heat. Instead of watching a cricket match, Paul wanted to be sailing to France to be at her side. He envisaged the moment of reunion time and again.

  Only a firm slap on the shoulder could bring him out of his reverie.

  ‘Well met, sir!’ said a hearty voice. ‘Is it Peter or Paul Skillen I see?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Reddish,’ said Paul, recognising him. ‘You’re speaking to Paul. It’s good to see you again, sir.’

  ‘That’s no small thanks to you.’

  ‘I simply gave you the instruction you sought, sir.’

  ‘Yes, and it saved my life. What you didn’t know at the time was that I came to the shooting gallery because I’d been challenged to a duel. Your advice gave me the courage to go through with it and an unerring accuracy with the duelling pistol that I’d never have achieved otherwise.’

  Paul remembered him well. Gilbert Reddish was a corpulent man in his forties with an unquenchable ebullience. His voice, mien and attire suggested considerable prosperity. He’d needed a lot of instruction before he was ready to fight a duel. Paul was glad to see that he’d survived it.

  ‘I shot him in the arm holding the pistol and that was that,’ explained Reddish with a triumphant guffaw. ‘He’ll know better than to take me on again.’ He slapped Paul on the shoulder again. ‘Are you on your own today?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Reddish.’

  ‘Then you must join our party. Watching cricket is a barren affair if you’re by yourself. Three of my very best friends will soon be here to drink, gamble and enjoy the festivities. You’ll make a fifth.’ He held up a handbill. ‘Have you seen the names in the respective teams?’

  ‘I have, indeed, sir,’ replied Paul. ‘Lord Frederick Beauclerk will lead one side and the other will have Squire Osbaldeston in its ranks. There are no better players in the whole kingdom.’

  Flattered by the attention from Reddish, he was also dismayed. If he was trapped with a group of people, he would not be free to hunt down the man he was after. Paul was about to offer an apology and say that he was unable to accept the kind invitation when Reddish stood on his toes to look over the heads of the crowd.

  ‘Here they are!’ he cried. ‘I’d recognise his coach anywhere.’

  ‘Mr Reddish …’

  ‘They’re splendid fellows, each and every one. You’ll get on famously with them, especially with Sir Humphrey. He’s very knowledgeable about the game.’

  Paul’s apology died on his lips. ‘Sir Humphrey …?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other, waving an arm to attract the three people alighting from the coach. ‘Sir Humphrey Coote. He’s always riotous company.’

  It was a quiet funeral. Held in the parish church, it was short but moving. Peter Skillen was there and so was Gully Ackford. Gregory Lomas had also come to see his former lodger laid to rest but, since neither of them had ever met the man, they didn’t recognise him. The coffin concealed the ugly injuries inflicted on Leonidas Paige by the murderous assault and by the subsequent fire. Flowers provided by Diane Mandrake were sent with her love and deep regret. Peter and Ackford had been able to identify Virgo the moment he appeared but it was only afterwards that they were able to speak to him. After tossing a handful of earth into the grave, Paige’s brother came over to them.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Skillen,’ he said, shaking Peter’s hand. ‘It was good of you to send me details of the funeral. I’d not have missed it for the world.’

  ‘Actually,’ Ackford pointed out, ‘this is not Paul Skillen but his twin brother, Peter. We’re pleased to meet you at last, sir. My name is Gully Ackford. Leo and I fought together in America.’

  ‘Then I owe Mr Skillen my apologies and I owe you profound thanks.’ He exchanged a handshake with them. ‘Paul told me that you and his brother were helping in the search for the killer. I just wish that I could do more myself but I’m too distracted by grief. As he got older, Leo and I grew so much closer.’

  ‘Working together does that,’ said Peter. ‘It’s the same with Paul and me.’

  ‘I’d assumed that he’d be here.’

  ‘He’s shadowing one of our suspects, Mr Paige.’

  ‘Then there’s no better excuse.’<
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  They chatted for a few minutes, then, after shaking hands in turn with the vicar, they walked away from the grave. Lomas had been loitering self-consciously on the fringe of the little group. After the earlier abrasive meeting with Paige’s brother, he took care to keep well away from him. Seeing his chance to speak to the person he mistook as Paul Skillen, he came over to him. Peter had to explain the situation.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ said Lomas. ‘I didn’t realise there were two of you.’

  ‘We are working together to solve the crime.’

  ‘Is there any chance of an arrest yet?’

  ‘We are getting ever closer to that point, sir.’

  ‘The killer should be made to pay for the damage to my house.’

  ‘I fear that the only compensation you’ll get is the pleasure of knowing that he’ll be tried for murder with his accomplice.’

  Lomas nodded towards Virgo. ‘Who’s that gentleman over there?’

  ‘A friend of the deceased,’ replied Peter, unwilling to disclose the man’s identity. ‘My brother told me that he called at your house.’

  ‘He did more than that, Mr Skillen. He forced his way in.’

  ‘This may not be the time to press for an apology, Mr Lomas. I’m sure that it would be forthcoming but our thoughts should be with Mr Paige at this moment.’

  ‘You are right, sir. Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘We will keep you informed of any developments.’

  ‘Your brother made the same promise,’ said Lomas, ‘but it’s not one I received from the Bow Street Runners. They gave me no such assurance.’

  ‘They have their methods and we have ours.’

  ‘I know which I prefer, Mr Skillen. You and your brother have shown a sympathy and consideration that I appreciate. As you can imagine, it’s been a very trying time for us. Mr Paige was a friend as well as a lodger. We feel his loss sorely. The other Mr Skillen consoled us,’ he went on, ‘whereas the Runners simply trampled over our feelings. We’ll be glad if we never set eyes on Mr Yeomans ever again.’