Shadow of the Hangman Page 3

  ‘Then you shall, sir,’ promised Ackford. ‘All that we need is an address and a key to the property. As soon as you quit the house, my men will act as sentries.’

  Hobday thanked him profusely. After handing over a latchkey and giving him the relevant details, he left the gallery with a smile of satisfaction.

  Ackford immediately summoned Jem Huckvale.

  ‘Follow the gentleman who just left,’ he ordered.

  ‘Where is he going?’

  ‘He claims to have a house in Upper Brook Street.’

  ‘Do you have doubts about that, Mr Ackford?’

  ‘It’s always wise to make certain that a client is telling the truth.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘He says that it’s Everett Hobday – find out if it really is.’

  ‘I will.’

  Turning on his heel, Jem Huckvale ran swiftly out into the street.

  Viscount Sidmouth found the news so disturbing that he leapt up from his chair.

  ‘Horner has disappeared?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Grocott. ‘The alarm was raised by her sister, a Mrs Esther Ricks. It seems that they were due to meet yesterday evening but Horner did not turn up. Her sister went straight to her house and was told by the landlady that she had not come back the previous night.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sidmouth, resuming his seat, ‘that explains another day of rooms that were not cleaned and wastepaper baskets that were not emptied. It’s all very mysterious. I cannot believe that Horner would desert her post without giving us prior warning. She’s renowned for her dependability.’

  ‘Might she have been taken ill, do you suppose?’

  ‘That’s idle speculation. The salient fact is that she is simply not here.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Well, it’s taught us one thing.’

  ‘What’s that, my lord?’

  ‘One never realises how necessary a necessary woman is until she vanishes.’

  ‘I agree. I’m starting to feel bereft already.’

  Sidmouth became businesslike. ‘In the short term,’ he said, ‘Horner must be replaced. I will put that task in your capable hands.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘There are eighteen of us employed in this building. Apart from ourselves and the permanent undersecretary, there’s your fellow undersecretary, a chief clerk, four senior clerks and eight junior clerks. We all have our separate functions but I venture to suggest that our female colleague, Horner, is just as important as any of us.’

  ‘I’d endorse that.’

  ‘In having her to look after us, we’ve been thoroughly spoilt.’

  ‘Where might she have gone?’

  ‘It’s a puzzle that must be solved without hesitation. I’ll send word to the one man who will be able to track her down’

  ‘And who might that be, my lord?’

  ‘His name is Peter Skillen and I made great use of him as a spy behind enemy lines in France. Fortunately, he was fluent in the language, unlike some of the men I foolishly engaged. They paid with their lives. Now that the war is finally over – and Napoleon has been exiled – Skillen is working as a detective with his brother.’

  ‘He sounds like the ideal man.’

  ‘Your job is to find me the ideal woman, Grocott. I like the smell of polish when I come in here first thing in the morning. It’s been sadly lacking.’

  ‘Wherever you turn in this building, Horner’s absence is evident.’

  Grocott was about to leave when the Home Secretary called him back. Sidmouth snatched up a letter from his desk and brandished it in the air.

  ‘As for that other matter we discussed,’ he said, ‘I’ve received a letter from Captain Shortland, the governor of Dartmoor.’

  ‘What’s its import?’

  ‘Quite naturally, he’s keen to speak up in his own defence.’

  ‘Does he say how the riot began?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Sidmouth. ‘The governor knows the person behind it. He’s a troublemaker by the name of Thomas O’Gara, or so it appears. The fellow not only whipped the other prisoners into a frenzy of protest, he used the ensuing chaos as a means of escaping Dartmoor. Shortland discovered that O’Gara had been hiding with a group of black prisoners, one of whom fled with him. They’re still hunting the pair.’

  ‘Can the whole episode be blamed on a single culprit?’

  ‘No, and that’s not what Shortland is doing. He freely admits that other factors need to be taken into account. Passions have been running high behind those walls for a considerable time.’

  ‘What about the decision to open fire?’

  ‘The governor argues that it was unavoidable.’

  ‘How does he describe it?’

  ‘In the same way that it will probably be described after the official inquiry,’ said Sidmouth, solemnly. ‘Captain Shortland insists that it was a case of justifiable homicide.’

  When he left the shooting gallery, Hobday had climbed into the saddle of a bay mare and set off towards Leicester Square at a steady trot. Jem Huckvale was trailing him, close enough to keep him within sight but far enough behind to arouse no suspicion in the rider. Even when the horse was kicked into a canter, Huckvale kept pace with it, lengthening his stride and maintaining a good rhythm. Though the streets were filled with pedestrians, vendors, horse-drawn vehicles and other potential hazards, he was not hampered in any way. Huckvale glided around them all as if they were not there.

  The rider zigzagged his way towards Mayfair and eventually reached Upper Brook Street. Stopping at a house on the corner, he dismounted and led the animal to the stable at the rear. Huckvale lurked in a doorway and watched from a distance. At length, the man reappeared and was let into the house through the front door. Since there was nobody else in the street, Huckvale waited patiently. His vigil was finally rewarded. An elderly man emerged from a house several doors away. Huckvale ran across to him and raised his hat politely.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but I’m looking for Mr Hobday. I believe that he owns a house in Upper Brook Street. Do you happen to know which one it is?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ replied the man, pointing a finger. ‘Hobday lives in that house on the corner.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, sir.’

  While the man went off in the opposite direction, Huckvale walked towards the house on the corner. Upper Brook Street extended from Grosvenor Square to Park Lane and contained some fine residences. Only a wealthy man could buy property there. Patently, Hobday was one of them. His identity had been confirmed and he lived in the address he’d specified. The mission was over. Huckvale felt that he’d discharged his duty and could run back to the shooting gallery with reassuring news that their new client was genuine. Before he could move, however, he heard the warning voice of Gully Ackford in his ear. It was loud and peremptory, Check everything twice.

  It was an article of faith with his employer. Huckvale had to pay heed.

  ‘Check everything twice.’

  Ackford treated his assistant like a son but he could be ruthless when his orders were disobeyed. Huckvale had incurred his displeasure once before and it had been such a disagreeable experience that he had no wish to repeat it.

  With a philosophical shrug, therefore, he resumed his vigil.

  Peter Skillen was in the drawing room with his wife when the letter arrived. He recognised the seal at once and broke it to open to read the missive.

  ‘It’s from the Home Secretary.’

  ‘He’s not going to send you back to France again, is he?’ asked Charlotte in mild alarm. ‘He stole you away from me far too much when the war was on.’

  ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my love.’

  ‘Mine didn’t grow any fonder, Peter. It began to shrivel up with neglect.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with my activities in France.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

  ‘The Home Secretary wants me to find a woman for him.’

 
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Charlotte, bringing a hand to her mouth. ‘Does he expect you to become his pander? It’s a revolting suggestion. Apart from anything else, he’s a married man. What about his poor wife? This is a disgraceful commission, Peter. It’s demeaning.’ She stamped a foot for emphasis. ‘However powerful he may be, I forbid you to provide him with a mistress.’ Her husband laughed. ‘It’s not an occasion for levity.’

  ‘Viscount Sidmouth is not searching for a mistress,’ he said. ‘I know him well and I can vouch for the marital harmony he enjoys. No, the woman for whom I must search is the servant who cleans the Home Office. She has inexplicably disappeared.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I spoke too soon.’

  Even when her face was puckered into an apology, Charlotte Skillen remained a beautiful young woman. Slim, shapely and of medium height, she had fair hair artfully arranged in curls. The colour of her morning dress matched her delicate complexion. Her husband kissed her gently on the forehead.

  ‘It was my fault for phrasing the request in the way that I did.’

  ‘You should still refuse this assignment.’

  ‘On what grounds could I possibly do that?’

  ‘Some paltry excuse will do for the Home Secretary,’ she said, airily. ‘The real reason you must turn his appeal down is that it’s beneath you. It is, Peter,’ she added before he could protest. ‘You and Paul have just caught one of the worst criminals in the city. It was an achievement worthy of your talents. Viscount Sidmouth must have a host of minions at his beck and call. Let one of them chase after this missing cleaner.’

  ‘Her name is Anne Horner.’

  ‘I don’t care what she is called.’

  ‘Supposing that it had been Moll Rooke?’

  Charlotte was taken aback. ‘She’s one of our servants.’

  ‘How would you feel if Moll suddenly vanished into thin air? Would you stop me searching for her because it was too lowly a chore for me?’

  ‘No – of course not!’ she returned. ‘What an absurd question! Moll is a dear woman who has served us faithfully since we were married. I’d not only urge you to find her, I’d join the hunt myself.’

  ‘The Home Secretary obviously has equal regard for Mrs Horner. His letter talks of her loyalty and reliability. His fear is that something untoward has occurred. Not to put too fine a point on it, my love,’ he went on, ‘he cares for her safety and I find that admirable.’

  She lowered her head. ‘I am rightly chastised, Peter.’ She looked up at him with a smile of apology. ‘Do you forgive me?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Charlotte.’

  ‘You must answer this summons. Will you ask Paul to help you?’

  ‘No, my love,’ he said, ‘I fancy that I can handle this on my own. Besides, my brother will be too preoccupied. With money in his purse, he can’t wait to spend it.’

  The Theatre Royal in the Haymarket was packed to capacity that evening for a revival of Thomas Otway’s tragedy, Venice Preserv’d. It was given a spirited performance by an excellent cast but few of the men in the audience noticed the finer points of the verse drama or the striking set designs and costumes. Their attention was fixed on the sublime actress who played the part of Belvidera, the daughter of a Venetian senator, caught up in political machinations over which she has no control and who dies broken-hearted at the end of the play. In the leading role, Hannah Granville wrung every ounce of pathos out of it and reduced many of the female spectators to tears. The men were equally captivated but it was her melodic voice, her lithe body, her exquisite loveliness and, above all else, her extraordinary vivacity that aroused their interest

  The thunderous applause that greeted the curtain call went on for an age. Male spectators unaccompanied by wives or mistresses flocked to the stage door, ready to offer Hannah all kinds of blandishments. Because she kept them waiting, the expectation built until it almost reached bursting point. Then she appeared. Framed in the doorway, she distributed a broad smile among her admirers and lapped up their praise while pretending not to hear their competing propositions.

  A man’s voice suddenly rose above the hubbub.

  ‘Stand aside, gentlemen! Miss Granville wishes to depart.’

  The crowd swung round in surprise to see an elegant figure standing behind them with his hat raised in greeting. Feeling deprived and disappointed, the suitors moved reluctantly aside so that Hannah could sweep past them and receive a kiss from the newcomer. There was a collective gasp of envy.

  Paul Skillen enjoyed his moment to the full before giving a dismissive wave to the throng. Then he offered his arm to the actress and spirited her off into the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Why didn’t we head straight for Plymouth?’ complained Moses Dagg.

  ‘That would’ve been dangerous.’

  ‘It’s so much closer, Tom.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s also the first place they’d have gone. Soldiers on horseback can move much faster than we can on foot. They’ll have warned all the ports to be on the lookout for us. That’s why we had to find somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m fed up with hiding for most of the time.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have been born with a black face,’ said O’Gara, jocularly. ‘It makes you stand out, Moses, so it’s better if we move at night. Unlike me, you can’t dive black into a pool and come out white.’ He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘After all those months cooped up, that swim we had was wonderful.’

  Dagg nodded enthusiastically. ‘We haven’t had a treat like that for ages.’

  ‘It helped to wash off the prison stink.’

  Making their escape from Devon proved more difficult than they’d imagined. Dartmoor had deliberately been built in a remote part of moorland. The soil and the climate were unsuitable for growing crops so no extensive agriculture had developed there. Ice cold in the winter, it was also enveloped in thick blankets of fog that bewildered anyone foolish enough to travel across the bare landscape. The fugitives had the advantage of warmer weather and clearer skies but so did the mounted patrols sent out after them. Much of their days had therefore been spent concealed in various hiding places. When their food ran out, they were careful to take very little from the occasional farm. Had they stolen large quantities, the theft would have been noticed and reported. Hunger would have given their location away to those engaged in the manhunt and O’Gara knew that, if recaptured, he could expect no quarter from Captain Shortland. A reunion with the governor had to be avoided at all costs.

  ‘When do we make our move, Tom?’ asked Dagg.

  ‘We’ll wait another hour or so until they’ll all have gone to bed.’

  ‘It’s dark enough now.’

  ‘I’m taking no chances.’

  ‘How long will it take us to get to London?’

  ‘That depends on the weather,’ said O’Gara. ‘We’ll hug the coast for safety.’

  ‘It’ll be good to be back at sea again.’

  ‘That’s where we belong, Moses.’

  ‘I’d hate to be locked up again. We were like caged animals.’

  ‘We’ll be safe in London. They’ll never find us there.’

  They were crouched behind a hedge at the margin of a field. Having worked their way south-west, they’d found a hamlet on the coast. It was little more than a straggle of whitewashed cottages along a pebbled beach. Fewer than thirty souls lived there. When the fugitives first saw it in daylight, the sight of a couple of small boats lifted their spirits. If they could steal one, they could at last shake off the constant pursuit. While they bided their time, they took note of the tides and the jagged rocks they’d need to negotiate once afloat. A long, frustrating day had eventually yielded itself up to darkening shadows. The hamlet had gradually lost colour and definition.

  Tom O’Gara was acting on instinct. When he felt that the time was ripe, he slapped his friend on the shoulder and they set off into the gloom. As they got closer to the shore, they found the aroma of the sea invigorating. A
bracing wind tugged at their clothing. When it was harnessed, it could speed them away from the county. They crept warily past the little houses, reassured that no light showed in any of the windows. Reaching the boats, they dragged one of them slowly and carefully towards the water, thrilled when they felt the sea lapping at their ankles. They heaved on until the vessel began to float.

  ‘We’ve done it, Moses,’ said O’Gara, joyfully.

  ‘They’ll never catch us now.’

  ‘Goodbye, Captain Shortland, you murderous bastard.’

  ‘All aboard, Tom.’

  With the boat now bobbing as each new wave rolled in, they climbed into it and felt the familiar sensation of the sea beneath them. They were just in time. Out of the darkness, a large, angry dog suddenly appeared, baring its teeth and barking furiously. Running into the water until the sand disappeared beneath its paws, it began to swim frantically towards them, as if intent on tearing them both apart. The animal gave them the impetus to hoist the sail at speed and catch the first full gust of wind. Before the dog could get within yards of it, the boat was being powered out to sea beyond its reach, as if pushed by a huge invisible hand. The last thing they heard were the plaintive howls of the dog and the outraged yells of the people who’d been roused by the barking and run out of their cottages to see what was happening. The shouting continued but the sailors ignored it. When the protests eventually faded away, they were replaced by the whistle of the wind, the flapping of the sail and the jib, the creak of the timber and the sound of the waves splashing against the hull.

  They sailed on towards London.

  Micah Yeomans handed over the money then raised his tankard in celebration.

  ‘We’ve got them,’ he said before taking a long swig of ale.

  ‘I’ll drink to that, Micah.’

  Simon Medlow lifted his own tankard to his lips. The two men were seated in a quiet corner of the inn. They were beaming with pleasure.

  ‘The trap has been baited,’ said Medlow.