Shadow of the Hangman Read online

‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘And don’t you dare tell anyone,’ added Yeomans.

  Ruddock nodded and sipped his drink. When the barmaid tripped past them, none of them even spared her surging bosom a glance. They were too preoccupied with the failure of the night’s enterprise. A Stygian gloom descended on the trio. Only when they’d emptied their tankards did Ruddock dare to offer consolation.

  ‘It could have been worse,’ he said, innocently. ‘Peter and Paul Skillen could have been waiting outside the warehouse to arrest all three of them as they came out.’

  Yeomans hit him first.

  David Beyton’s first visit to the bank had been uncomfortable enough and he’d felt as if he were walking on eggshells in bare feet. The second conversation with Ebenezer Holland was even more excruciating because – unbeknown to his wife – he was about to raid her account and needed a convincing excuse to do so. Having rehearsed his story until he felt he was word-perfect, he put on a mask of compassion and spoke in a voice laden with sympathy. The bank manager listened impassively.

  ‘It’s very irregular, Mr Beyton,’ he observed.

  ‘Necessity is a hard taskmaster, Mr Holland.’

  ‘It was only yesterday that you drew heavily on your own savings. Within twenty-four hours, you’re back here to inform me that your travel plans have been abandoned and that you need funds for building work on the property.’

  ‘It was on medical advice,’ said Beyton, solemnly. ‘My wife’s condition has deteriorated so much that the doctor felt it inadvisable for her to go abroad. The effort would be too much for her and, he pointed out, medical facilities in other countries fall short of what we’ve come to expect here. Imagine how I’d feel if she contracted some terrible disease and we had no recourse to treatment.’

  ‘There was no mention of the possible danger when you last came here,’ said Holland, sharply. ‘Mrs Beyton’s health must obviously stay at the forefront of your mind but it was certainly not there yesterday.’

  ‘I confess that I was being too hasty then.’

  ‘You are even hastier today, sir. Before I can sanction the withdrawal of such a large sum, I need to be persuaded that it is absolutely essential.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ said Beyton. ‘Even though we have a nurse in the house, carrying my wife up and down the stairs every day is proving to be an onerous undertaking. What we need is an additional set of apartments built onto the back of the house with a bathroom attached. We will also knock down an old stable block and build a large rockery in its place so that my wife can look out on the beauty of nature and – in warmer weather – sit on the terrace outside.’ There was a stony silence. ‘It’s Mrs Beyton’s dearest wish,’ he went on, risking a smile that somehow degenerated into a glare. ‘And while she’s still with us, I am always responsive to her desires.’

  The bank manager pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and regarded him with mingled surprise and suspicion. Beyton had been his client for many years and never caused him the slightest trouble. He’d been consistently solvent and invariably cautious when making any decisions affecting his finances. Yet he was now taking what Holland believed was immoderate action.

  ‘Being responsive to the desires of one’s marital partner,’ he said, measuring his words carefully, ‘is a sensible path for any husband to follow but there are limits. Two days ago, it was Mrs Beyton’s wish to go to Switzerland. This morning, it seems, her inclination is to have extensive work done on the property. These sound less like real desires than caprices that arise on the spur of the moment. What will Mrs Beyton be requiring finance for tomorrow – a whaling expedition, perhaps?’

  Beyton was stung. ‘Your sarcasm is misplaced, Mr Holland.’

  ‘Then I apologise wholeheartedly,’ said the other, coldly. ‘I just want to know if this is your last demand or simply the latest one.’

  ‘Clients are permitted to change their minds, you know.’

  ‘I agree, sir, and they do so all the time. But I’ve never had anyone perform the kind of financial manoeuvre that you and your wife have just done.’

  ‘When may I collect the money?’

  ‘If you want my advice, sir …’

  ‘Then I’ll ask for it,’ said Beyton, interrupting him. ‘At the moment, it’s of no consequence. The decision has been made by my wife and is endorsed by me. We wish to withdraw the specified amount as soon as is possible.’ Seeing that the manager had qualms, Beyton rose to his feet. ‘Damnation!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whose money is it?’

  ‘Calm down, sir,’ said the other, both hands aloft. ‘You are perfectly entitled to dispose of your capital as you wish. I accept that. But there’s really no need to hector me. Anybody would think that this was a matter of life and death.’

  It was all that Beyton could do to retain his self-control.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  One of the most enjoyable ways in which Hannah Granville could pass the day was to embark on a shopping expedition. She always spent more time examining items than actually buying them but that, too, could be pleasurable. Since she was now well known by sight to any theatregoers, she needed the protection of a man and had the company that morning of Felix Dalrymple. As they strolled down Piccadilly, past Fortnum and Mason, the grocers, and past John Hatchard, the celebrated bookshop, they looked a handsome pair. There was no need for Hannah to carry any money because her fame was enough to command instant credit and she’d already run up a large bill at a milliner’s in Conduit Street and a dressmaker’s in Bruton Street. To be able to say that they served such a fine actress was a persuasive advertisement for both shops. While she revelled in her morning promenade, she was conscious that her companion might not get the same satisfaction from the endless perusal of dresses, hats, and the multiple accessories that went with him. After spending the best part of half an hour choosing a new purse, she turned to Dalrymple.

  ‘Have I bored you enough, Felix?’

  ‘You could never bore me,’ he said, gallantly.

  ‘Perhaps you wish to do some shopping on your own account.’

  ‘There’s nothing of which I have immediate need, Hannah, so I am content to watch you bringing joy into the mundane lives of shopkeepers.’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t flatter myself that I do that.’

  ‘While you are inspecting their wares, I am watching those who serve you and they are invariably excited by your presence in their establishments. The longer you stay, the more thrilled they are.’

  ‘I like to dress well and making the right choices takes time.’

  ‘The result is always exquisite.’

  She squeezed his arm by way of thanks for his compliment. Strolling on, they came to a shop with bolts of fabric in the window. The bright colours and the subtle sheens caught Hannah’s eye.

  ‘Could you bear to indulge me yet again, Felix?’

  ‘I’ll do so willingly.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, complacently, ‘I relish my position as a figure of constant male envy. You turn heads wherever you go, Hannah, and, as a result, I reap a harvest of jealousy. Step inside the shop and it will happen yet again.’

  His prophecy was fulfilled the moment she entered the emporium. Ignoring their wives or female companions, every man in there gazed at her with undisguised interest before shooting an envious glance at Dalrymple. The manager abandoned the customer to whom he was talking and scuttled across to her, bowing as if in the presence of royalty and rubbing his hands together.

  ‘You are most welcome, Miss Granville,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘We’ve come only to look.’

  He stood out of her way. ‘Then please do so as long as you wish.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She began to examine the various fabrics on display, feeling their quality as she did so. Dalrymple waited patiently, offering a smile to the men still staring at them. A few people walked past and offered her compliments on he
r performance. Hannah thanked them graciously but took care never to engage in conversation with any of her admirers. As she moved further into the establishment, she was suddenly confronted by Charlotte Skillen, who let out a cry of delight.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Granville,’ she said, ‘what a happy encounter this is! I never thought I’d have such good fortune. Allow me to say what a wonderful performance you gave as Belvidera.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hannah, enjoying the praise

  ‘We thought you were truly magnificent.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so.’

  ‘In fact, my husband has not stopped talking about you.’

  Hannah was rocked. ‘Your husband?’

  Having looked at her properly for the first time, she recognised the woman she thought she’d seen with Paul Skillen. During his time with the actress, Paul had always insisted that he was a bachelor. She felt horribly betrayed. Instead of being involved in what she believed was an untrammelled love affair, Hannah had simply been a diversion for a married philanderer. The idea that she’d been a hapless victim of his charm made her erupt with anger.

  ‘Take me out of here, Felix,’ she snapped.

  Dalrymple was concerned. ‘You look unwell, Hannah. What’s amiss?’

  ‘Take me out of here now.’

  Viscount Sidmouth was working his way through the morning’s correspondence when Bernard Grocott came to see him with some documents that required the Home Secretary’s signature. After dipping his quill in the inkwell, Sidmouth appended his name before handing the documents back.

  ‘It seems as if we may get a decision from the joint commission earlier than I expected,’ he said.

  ‘Have they considered all the evidence available?’

  ‘It appears so. They were anxious to deliver a prompt verdict so that the matter could be put aside and normal life could resume at Dartmoor.’

  ‘Life in any prison is far from normal,’ remarked Grocott. ‘Indeed, it’s the very departure from normality that causes so much distress among the prisoners. I’m not speaking up on their behalf,’ he added, hastily. ‘If they commit a crime, they deserve to lose their freedom. I’m just trying to understand how they must feel when wrenched away from everything they hold dear.’

  ‘What most of the prisoners in Dartmoor hold dear is this immature nation of theirs and, as we know to our cost, it engaged precipitately in a war against us. We are dealing with enemies, Grocott. The joint commission will recognise that.’

  ‘Yet the peace treaty has now been ratified, my lord.’

  ‘They remain prisoners of war until released.’

  ‘Or until they’re recaptured,’ said Grocott, thinking of the fugitives. ‘Has there been any news of the search for O’Gara and Dagg?’

  ‘Peter and Paul Skillen continue their work with the usual diligence.’

  ‘I’d value some positive results.’

  ‘Be fair to them,’ said Sidmouth. ‘They did track the men to their lair in that Irish community and got there ahead of Yeomans and his men.’

  ‘Yet the Americans remain at liberty, my lord, and it now seems that a verdict on the riot will be delivered before the celebrations in Hyde Park. If that is the case, and if O’Gara and Dagg become aware of it, you will become a marked man.’

  ‘I am well protected.’

  ‘These men are hotheads. They may resort to extreme measures.’

  ‘I’m satisfied with the arrangements made for my safety,’ said Sidmouth, easily, ‘and for that of others. As I often reflect, when I was steering the ship of state, I was a target for every member of the French nation yet I survived without a scratch.’

  ‘This is a different matter.’

  ‘I agree. During the war against Napoleon, millions of people wanted me dead. That number has now reduced to a mere two.’

  ‘They have an accomplice in Dermot Fallon.’

  Sidmouth was untroubled. ‘That simply raises the total to three.’

  ‘You’re unwise to ignore this threat, my lord.’

  ‘On the contrary, I take it very seriously. It’s the reason I asked for Yeomans and Hale to act as my bodyguards. They impart confidence and make me feel secure. As for Dermot Fallon,’ he continued, reaching for a letter, ‘I had some interesting news about the tenement in which he hid O’Gara and Dagg.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A man committed suicide there by jumping from an upstairs window. He was a chimney sweep by the name of Donal Kearney. Do you spy a connection?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Grocott, recalling the raid. ‘Yeomans and his men were given help by an informant living in that slum behind Orchard Street. Could this be the man?’

  ‘I’ll get Yeomans to confirm it.’

  ‘If he did betray the fugitives,’ said Grocott, ‘and if the other residents became aware of it, Kearney’s life would not have been worth living.’

  After another secret meeting with her husband, Mary Fallon returned to the tenement with some much-needed money and with a message for all the other residents. It was the express wish of Fallon that the persecution of the Kearney family should cease. In losing her husband, his wife and their children had suffered enough. They were no longer to be treated as despised outcasts. Mary spread the word and, though some people complained about the change of attitude, they all abided by Fallon’s decision. It was left to Mary to pass on the news to the widow.

  When she knocked on the door, there was no answer even though she knew that the Kearney family were inside, mourning their loss and hiding from their enemies. She banged the door with her fist and raised her voice.

  ‘Could I speak to you, please, Mrs Kearney?’ she asked. ‘It’s Mary Fallon. I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Go away,’ said Meg.

  ‘Nobody is blaming you for what happened. It was your husband who was the informer. People’s anger died with him, Mrs Kearney. We mean you no harm.’

  ‘Leave us alone. Your husband helped to kill mine.’

  ‘Mr Kearney took his own life.’

  ‘He was driven to it by people like that vile man of yours.’

  ‘I can’t deny that,’ said Mary, sadly. ‘You need time to mourn and I’ll trouble you no longer. But you’re free to leave the tenement now. Nobody will harm you.’

  ‘They’ve already done that,’ said the other, bitterly.

  ‘I’m sorry that it came to that.’

  ‘You might be, Mrs Fallon, but that murderous husband of yours isn’t sorry.’

  ‘Dermot is the one who wants you and the children to be treated more kindly from now on.’ There was an ironic laugh from the other side of the door. ‘Yes, it may be no comfort now but in time you may become more grateful.’

  The door was flung open and Mary found herself facing a woman who was brimming with anger and haggard with grief. Fallon had told his wife to give her some money but it was the wrong gesture at what was patently the wrong time. All that Mary could do was to mouth an apology and walk away. She felt as if the woman’s blazing eyes were burning holes in her back.

  When he left the bank after his awkward interview with the bank manager, the first place that Beyton went to was Peter Skillen’s house. A manservant took him into the drawing room. Peter soon joined him and noticed his visitor’s hunted look. He offered him refreshment but it was declined.

  ‘What happened, Mr Beyton?’

  ‘I’ve just had the most embarrassing conversation in my entire life,’ said the other, shifting nervously in his seat. ‘Though I’d concocted a story for my bank manager, it was clearly not plausible enough. He came within an inch of mocking me, Mr Skillen. At a time like this, I need sympathetic understanding.’

  ‘Your bank manager can’t offer you sympathy, if he doesn’t really understand why you need it, sir. But have no qualms about the fictitious excuse you employed. Bank managers are accustomed to hearing unbelievable claims. They judge a client on his character and not on the tale he tells. You, I suspect, are
held in high regard.’

  ‘I was until this disaster struck me,’ moaned Beyton.

  ‘Did you secure the money?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but only after a long battle. Mr Holland was very suspicious of my motives. He’ll never look at me in quite the same way again.’

  ‘He might do so,’ said Peter, ‘if you put the money back into the account.’

  Beyton sighed. ‘There’s little chance of that happening.’

  ‘There’s every chance.’

  ‘They got away with the entire amount the first time.’

  ‘That was because of a miscalculation,’ admitted Peter, ‘but we learnt two important things. First, we discovered that we are dealing solely with a man and woman and, second, that the latter’s name is Mrs Jane Holdstock. I’m told that when she left the shooting gallery one day, she was met by a gentleman who may well be the accomplice who assisted her in Hyde Park.’

  ‘It’s a pity that nobody assisted me.’

  Peter was brusque. ‘If you’d rather find someone else to hold your hand in this enterprise,’ he declared, ‘then you are more than welcome to do so. It will, of course, oblige you to reveal details of your private life to a stranger who may not guard them as closely as I do. For my own part, Mr Beyton, I will continue my search for Mrs Horner independently of you and – one way or another – I will find her.’

  Beyton was taken aback by the outburst and alarmed at the thought of losing Peter’s guidance. He apologised for his sarcastic remark, explaining that it arose from desperation. Beyton promised to do exactly what Peter advised.

  ‘When can you collect the money?’

  ‘Not until tomorrow morning,’ said Beyton with disappointment. ‘I was hoping that I could withdraw the amount today.’

  ‘That would have been unwise, sir,’ warned Peter, ‘so you should be thankful to your bank manager for looking after the money overnight. It’s perfectly safe in the bank. Would you really like to have as large as a sum as that under your own roof?’

  Beyton pondered. ‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘Now that I think about it, I’d feel very uneasy. Knowing what the money was for, I’d hate it to be held in such close proximity to my wife. It would be a source of great discomfort to me. I’ll pick it up tomorrow instead.’