Shadow of the Hangman Read online

  Why was she being held? Hour by hour, the question hammered into her brain like a peg into a hole. Anne had no illusions about her station in society. In social terms, she was a person of no consequence, a faceless member of the lower classes who was doomed to spend the rest of the life there. Yet there had been an unexpected glimpse of a different world. It was so unexpected that she still couldn’t believe that it had actually happened. Was her kidnapping in some way related to that? It was an idea that she’d fought off for days but it was now strengthening its hold. If it was true, then it was a very painful truth. Anne was no stray captive, after all. It could well be that what was happening to her was entirely her own fault. All of a sudden, she had a new companion – remorse.

  The sense of guilt was overwhelming. She had coped with it before by putting it at the back of her mind and by losing herself in her work. Anne had also been more regular in her attendance at church, popping in at odd times to kneel and to pray for forgiveness. How could they possibly know? How could this strange, silent man and his female companion be aware of something so intensely private? It was almost as if the pair of them had watched her relieving herself in the bucket. Nothing could be hidden from them. It was frightening. Feeling the need for fresh air, Anne tried to move across to the grating but she’d forgotten that she was chained and she yelped as the iron bit into her ankle. Wanting to cry, she wondered instead if she deserved the ordeal she was suffering. That made the pain even more searing.

  Chevy Ruddock was back on duty outside Paul Skillen’s house. On the previous day, he’d been one of the many men rounded up for the raid on the tenement behind Orchard Street. In prospect, it had been an exciting operation. Thanks to help from an informer, they would be capturing dangerous criminals who represented a threat to the Home Secretary. It was something about which he could boast to his wife. In retrospect, however, it had been an unmitigated disaster. Having returned home in wet clothing before, he’d been compelled to do so again because someone had emptied a chamber pot over him before pelting him with stones. Ruddock could not present himself as a hero this time. He had to admit that the raid had failed.

  Keeping someone like Paul Skillen under surveillance was akin to catching a wild boar. His movements were sudden and unpredictable. Ruddock had been tricked by him once and was determined that it would never happen again. He had, therefore, changed his vantage point so that he could remain concealed behind a tree. Completely invisible from the house, he was able to see the front door clearly and watch the comings and goings. There had been no sighting of Paul Skillen but Ruddock, relying on instinct, was certain that he was still inside the house. It occurred to him that he should have been allowed to stay there the previous day and thereby be in a position to follow the man to the area designated for the raid. He might have found out how Skillen had got there first. He would certainly have been able to alert Yeomans to the fact that one of the brothers was ahead of him and that would have made the raid pointless. If the fugitives had indeed been there, they’d have been arrested before the Runners got anywhere near the court.

  Surveillance was tiring. It was not long before he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other and wishing that he’d used the privy before leaving home. When the door of the house finally opened, Ruddock tensed but it was only a servant who came out. He was resigning himself to another stint of elongated boredom when something broke the monotony. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he turned to see Paul Skillen standing behind him with a smile.

  ‘I thought you were inside the house,’ he said, gaping.

  ‘You must have missed me leaving,’ said the other, pleasantly. ‘Next time I’m about to have a stroll, I’ll send a servant out with a message for you.’

  Ruddock’s confidence was rudely shattered once again.

  Bernard Grocott was still enjoying a considerable measure of appreciation from his colleagues for finding and employing Ruth Levitt. She’d been such an effective replacement for Anne Horner that many of them were starting to forget the woman who’d cleaned their offices so well for years. On his way to a meeting with Sidmouth, the undersecretary collected another plaudit.

  ‘When it comes to choosing the right person,’ said a clerk, ‘you have a gift.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grocott.

  ‘It’s a pity you can’t choose the cabinet.’

  They shared a mischievous cackle before Grocott knocked on the door in front of him. Bidden to enter, he walked in to find Sidmouth pacing the room.

  ‘Am I interrupting you, my lord?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no, come on in, Grocott. I find that locomotion stimulates thought on occasion and I have rather a lot to think about just now. Chief among my present preoccupations is Captain Shortland.’

  ‘He seemed to depart from here in a huff.’

  ‘That was because he couldn’t persuade me to lend my weight to his cause at the joint commission. I told him that impartiality was vital. He came here expecting congratulations and left feeling slighted.’

  ‘He misjudged you badly.’

  ‘I, too, am capable of misjudgement,’ admitted Sidmouth. ‘When Yeomans told me that he had information that was bound to lead to the capture of O’Gara and Dagg, I took him at his word. Foolishly, I assured the captain that the prisoner, who, in his opinion, had engendered this so-called mutiny at Dartmoor, would soon be behind bars. I misjudged Yeomans.’

  ‘There are distinct limits to his competence.’

  ‘I realise that now.’

  ‘Nobody can deny his former triumphs, mind you, but they are tending to recede into the near-distant past.’

  ‘Protection is his forte. I always feel safe when he and Hale are beside me. With these prisoners still at large,’ said Sidmouth, ‘I need the Runners at hand whenever I travel. Then, of course, there are the celebrations to consider …’

  ‘These men will surely have been recaptured by then,’ said Grocott.

  ‘One hopes so. London, however, offers any fugitive a million or more hiding places. It will be like searching for a needle in a bottle of hay.’

  ‘That’s a feat beyond the Runners.’

  ‘It’s precisely why I’ve engaged the Skillen brothers. They are true conjurers. Yeomans and his men are diligent foot soldiers but they lack imagination. If you wish for someone with magic in their fingers, look no further than Peter and Paul Skillen.’

  ‘He thought I was you, Paul,’ said his brother, ‘and he all but fainted when I tapped him on the shoulder. It was almost as if Yeomans had failed to warn the poor oaf that there were two of us.’

  ‘What he hopes to gain by standing out there is beyond me,’ said Paul. ‘I led him a merry dance the other day, then Jem dipped him in the river for his pains.’

  ‘Leave him to his own devices. We have more important things to discuss than a lame-brained Runner.’

  They were seated opposite each other, enjoying a cup of coffee. Paul was unusually subdued but Peter was animated. After another sip, he jabbed a finger.

  ‘My mind keeps coming back to that money,’ he said.

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The banknotes I found under Anne Horner’s bed.’

  ‘If I’m in a woman’s boudoir,’ said Paul with a grin, ‘then the real treasure is in the bed itself. I’d never waste time looking underneath it. Flesh and blood is much more enticing than paper money.’

  ‘How did it get there?’ asked Peter, ignoring the digression.

  ‘Perhaps she stole it.’

  ‘There’s no question of that, Paul. The woman has a spotless reputation.’

  ‘Some people have secret lives.’

  ‘Mrs Horner is not one of them. She’s no thief so you can dismiss that explanation. Nor did she obtain the money by blackmail,’ Peter went on, ‘or by selling her favours. Both hypotheses are wildly out of character. It would be like you becoming Pope or me flying to the moon and back on a broomstick.’

  ‘Strangely enough,’ teased Paul, �
�I’ve always had leanings towards the Old Religion. And there’s something curiously appealing about the papacy. Being serious, however,’ he said, ‘I think you should forget Mrs Horner until these men are caught.’

  ‘They take priority – and rightly so – but I can’t just flush the woman from my mind. Her abduction is in some way linked to the Home Office and I want to find out how. She needs rescuing.’

  ‘Let’s turn to the fugitives first. I still feel that Nason might lead us to them. That’s why I sent Jem to that address you gave me. If the scrivener goes to see those men, Jem will follow him like a bloodhound.’

  ‘He’s wasting his time,’ said Peter, ‘just like that fellow watching you. Nason is too frightened to go anywhere near O’Gara and Dagg and they certainly wouldn’t tell him where they’re hiding. He’s served his purpose and they’ve cast him aside.’

  ‘Then we should arrest him.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘He helped them frame their demands, Peter. He’s an accomplice.’

  ‘Nason helped them against his will. He’s a miserable little man with nothing to recommend him but I don’t think he deserves to hang for his part in the business.’

  ‘Hand him over and we’d get a reward.’

  ‘Spare him and we’ll feel we showed generosity of spirit.’

  Paul laughed. ‘Since when do we let that get between us and our job as detectives?’

  ‘Nason is irrelevant now,’ said Peter. ‘He told me where to find them and that’s the last we’ll hear of him. Let the poor wretch slip back into obscurity.’

  ‘What do we do in the meanwhile?’

  ‘We keep looking for them and we count the days.’

  ‘Why should we do that?’

  ‘It’s not all that long before we have the celebrations to mark the victory at the Battle of Waterloo. Every politician of note will be there, Paul. If you had a grudge against the Home Secretary, what would you do?’

  Paul grinned. ‘I’d wait until he came out in the open and I’d kill him.’

  ‘That’s why we must count the days until the event takes place.’

  After his latest foray into the city, Dermot Fallon came back to the ship with two presents for them. The first was the news that a fight had been arranged later that week but that one of the contestants had been forced to withdraw because of illness. By using all his charm, Fallon had persuaded the stakeholder that Moses Dagg – rechristened the Black Assassin – would be the perfect substitute. Having found out all he could about the other boxer, Fallon was confident that the American would have no difficulty in beating him. Tom O’Gara was delighted with the news but Dagg still had reservations about appearing in public. It took a long time for them to persuade him that there would be no risk of being identified as a wanted man.

  ‘You said that you had two gifts for us, Dermot,’ recalled his cousin.

  ‘That’s right, Tom.’

  ‘What’s the other one?’

  ‘It’s here in my pocket,’ said Fallon, extracting a scrap of newspaper. ‘I tore this out when I saw it. It’s a gift from the gods.’

  ‘Show me,’ said O’Gara, taking it from him to read.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Dagg.

  ‘Let me finish it first.’

  ‘Is it about us?’

  ‘No,’ said O’Gara, waving the paper in the air, ‘it isn’t directly about us but it’s just what we need. The Battle of Waterloo is going to be celebrated in Hyde Park with huge crowds milling around. The Home Secretary is bound to be there. Can you guess what I’m thinking, Moses?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said Dagg, chuckling. ‘It’s our chance.’

  ‘Take it,’ urged Fallon.

  ‘We will.’

  O’Gara tapped the piece of paper. ‘Let’s make a note of this date because it could well be the day when he dies. If Viscount Sidmouth hasn’t answered our demands by then,’ he vowed, ‘we’ll assassinate him as we promised and show this whole damn country that we mean to get our way.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Like his brother, Peter Skillen was punctilious about keeping himself extremely fit and maintaining his proficiency with various weapons. Adept at fencing, he could always match Gully Ackford without ever quite being able to win a bout against him. When they finished their practice that afternoon, both were perspiring slightly but it was Peter who was breathing more heavily.

  ‘You always make me work so hard, Gully,’ he complained.

  ‘Attack is the best form of defence. You fought me off very well. When I last crossed swords with Paul, he was the one launching attack after attack. It was all I could do to cope with him.’

  ‘Paul likes to spice his swordsmanship with aggression.’

  ‘He was almost demented.’

  ‘I think I can see what’s coming,’ said Peter with an understanding smile. ‘You want an explanation of my brother’s fiery temper but I simply don’t have one. Charlotte is the person to ask.’

  ‘I approached her,’ said Ackford, ruefully, ‘and I was rightly slapped down for being so nosy. Charlotte doesn’t break confidences.’

  Peter beamed. ‘I’d entrust her with any secrets.’

  ‘I didn’t know that you had any. Paul, however, is a different kettle of fish. He’s a man of many secrets.’

  ‘Ladies seem to find that a source of attraction.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why I have little appeal to the gentler sex,’ said Ackford with a world-weary sigh. ‘I lack any whiff of secrecy. I’m an open book.’

  Peter patted him affectionately on the back. ‘It’s one that’s always profitable to read, Gully.’

  Charlotte came into the room with the news that a visitor was asking to speak to him as a matter of urgency. Her husband showed immediate interest.

  ‘Did he give his name?’

  ‘He refused to do so,’ she replied.

  ‘Did he say what it concerned?’

  ‘It is for your ears only, apparently.’

  ‘I think I smell secrecy in the air,’ said Ackford.

  ‘What manner of man is he?’ asked Peter.

  ‘He’s well spoken and well dressed. But he’s rather furtive. He was shocked when he saw me and realised that a woman was employed here. I thought for a moment that he was on the point of leaving.’

  ‘Then I’d better grab him before he goes,’ said Peter, slipping on his coat. ‘Thank you again, Gully.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ said Ackford.

  Leaving them together, Peter went downstairs and went into the room used as an office. The stranger was hovering beside the desk, and seemed unsure whether to stay or go. He was a tall, slim, fidgety man in his early forties with side whiskers covering both cheeks and heavy eyebrows beneath which a pair of darting eyes could be seen. Peter had the feeling that he’d seen the man before but he couldn’t remember where. He’d certainly never been introduced to him and was not about to learn his name now.

  ‘If you wish for instruction,’ said Peter, ‘the person to talk to is Mr Ackford. He owns and runs the gallery.’

  ‘I only wish to speak to you, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘May I know your name, sir?’

  ‘I first have to establish if you’re able to help me. Only then can I disclose more detail about myself.’

  ‘Why did you seek me out?’

  ‘You were highly recommended.’

  ‘Can I at least know the identity of the person who spoke up for me?’

  ‘It will become clear in due course,’ said the man, appraising him shrewdly. ‘If, that is, I decide to engage your services.’

  ‘I am already at full stretch, sir,’ said Peter, ‘and am unable to take on new assignments. If you’ve come in search of a detective, I am not the only one here. Mr Ackford taught me all I know and Jem Huckvale, his assistant, is equally astute in matters of detection. Either of them would render you good service. Then, of course, there is my brother, Paul.’

  The visitor wa
s categorical. ‘I am only interested in Peter Skillen.’

  ‘I am not available, I fear.’

  ‘When you hear what I have to say, you may change your mind.’

  Heavy footsteps went past in the corridor outside and startled the man. Peter led him across the room and indicated a chair. When they sat down, Peter spent a few minutes trying to calm him and stop him looking over his shoulder all the time. He looked at the man’s hands. They were clenched tight and his whole body was tense. Evidently, it had taken a supreme effort for him to come forward. Peter had to draw the answers out of him.

  ‘I can see that you are in some kind of trouble,’ he said.

  ‘It’s true,’ admitted the man.

  ‘And you’ll only give me the details if absolute discretion is guaranteed.’

  ‘I was told that was what you’d provide, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘Then your mystery informant did not mislead you.’ Peter waited for him to speak but the man was tongue-tied by shame and embarrassment. ‘Are in you any danger, sir?’

  The visitor’s head drooped. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Have you received a death threat?’

  ‘That’s what it amounts to,’ said the other with a flash of anger. ‘If I don’t comply, they’ll destroy me. I’ll lose my family, my friends and my position.’ He reached out to grab Peter’s wrist. ‘You must help me, Mr Skillen!’ He released his hold as if he’d just touched red-hot metal. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’ve no right to impose on you like this.’

  ‘You’ve every right,’ said Peter. ‘When I first came in here, I had an idea that I might have seen you before and I’ve now remembered where.’ The man was aghast. ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t reveal the fact that you sought my help to anybody. A lot has already been explained to me. I know, for instance, who recommended me.’

  ‘He must never know of this conversation,’ pleaded the man.

  ‘He will not do so from me.’