Fugitive From the Grave Page 3

  ‘What about Welsh Mary?’

  ‘She’s not likely to rescue him, is she?’ He quaffed his pint and brooded for a while. ‘All the same,’ he admitted at length, ‘he disturbs me. It’s one thing to fail to catch him. To let him slip through our fingers when we actually have him in custody would be unforgivable.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘What I’d like to do is strangle him with my bare hands. It’s no more than he deserves. Since I can’t do that, unfortunately, we need to take extra precautions.’

  ‘Do you want him in leg irons?’

  ‘I want him watched day and night, Alfred.’

  Hale was alarmed. ‘Do you mean that we have to stand guard over Harry for twenty-four hours?’

  ‘No, you fool. This is work for an underling – someone who is ideal for slow, simple, boring, undemanding work.’ He sipped more ale. ‘I know just the man for the job.’

  Hale chuckled. ‘So do I,’ he said. ‘Chevy Ruddock.’

  After tapping gently on the door, Peter let himself into the room where his wife had just finished her conversation with Clemency van Emden. Charlotte introduced her husband to the two visitors then summarised the situation so concisely and accurately that she took the other woman’s breath away.

  ‘What a memory you have, Mrs Skillen!’ said Clemency.

  ‘It’s only one of my wife’s many attributes,’ said Peter, fondly. ‘Charlotte has a vital role in the service we offer.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see that, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘In essence, then, the situation is this: in your search for details of your father’s death and burial, you’ve come up against what appears to be a conspiracy of silence. Old friends deny any knowledge of what actually happened and, since he was forced to sell the house, there are no servants you can question. The one person on whom you think you can rely,’ said Peter, ‘is this gentleman from Norwich.’

  ‘Mr Darwood was my father’s best friend.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he send you his condolences on your loss?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Clemency, ‘but the obvious explanation is that he was unaware that Father had died. I wrote to him from Amsterdam, asking if he could possibly meet me here in London. I gave him the name of the hotel where I intended to stay.’

  ‘And did Mr Darwood reply to your letter?’

  ‘I’m afraid that he didn’t, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘There was no message waiting for you at your hotel?’

  ‘No. It was very disappointing.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ said Charlotte. ‘You told me that you’d always been on good terms with Mr Darwood. If he and your father were so close, you’d have thought he’d be anxious to help you.’

  ‘Since he clearly is not,’ said Peter, ‘I may have to go to Norwich to ask him why.’

  Clemency gaped at him. ‘You’d do that for me?’ she asked in disbelief. ‘You’d go all that way?’

  ‘Oh, I’d go much further than that, Mrs van Emden. The truth is that your situation intrigues me. While he was alive, your father was a man of means and prodigious talent. Now that he’s dead, it’s as if he never even existed. Why is everyone so keen to bury and forget all about him?’

  ‘That question has been troubling.’

  ‘Who could have sent that anonymous letter, telling you that Mr Parry had passed away?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘Do you still have it, by any chance?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ she said, opening her reticule to take out the missive. ‘It caused me a lot of pain when I first read it, but I felt that I should bring it with me, nevertheless.’

  ‘I’m glad that you did,’ said Peter, taking it from her. ‘This is the only piece of evidence we have that your father is deceased.’

  Unfolding the paper, he read the terse message written in capitals.

  YOUR FATHER IS DEAD AND BURIED

  ‘There’s no sign of grief or sympathy,’ said Charlotte, looking at it over his shoulder. ‘It’s so blunt as to be … cruel.’

  ‘When I first read it,’ admitted Clemency, ‘I almost fainted. Not a word comes from England for years then – out of the blue – I get this thunderbolt. It was a dreadful shock.’

  ‘I can well imagine it, Mrs van Emden.’

  ‘My husband thought at first that it might be a hoax, but I knew in my heart that it wasn’t. What I saw in the message was a definite sense of reproach. It’s as if someone is telling me that this was the result of me defying my father.’ She turned to Peter, who’d been studying the six words carefully. ‘What do you think, Mr Skillen?’

  ‘I think this person had a reason to conceal his or her identity.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like a woman’s hand, Peter,’ said his wife.

  ‘It does and it doesn’t. The gender is indeterminate. That was the intention. What it tells me is that this letter was sent by someone well known to Mrs van Emden, someone whose calligraphy would have been recognised by her.’ He turned to Clemency. ‘May I keep this, please?’

  ‘Yes, by all means,’ she replied.

  ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. You haven’t even had time to decide if you wish us to act for you. We’re more than willing to do so, but you may have reservations about us. Don’t worry about the financial commitment,’ he went on, smiling, ‘because we ask for no money in advance. Until we provide you with everything you seek, you won’t have to pay a single penny.’

  ‘You surely need some kind of deposit?’

  ‘We prefer to be paid by results, Mrs van Emden.’

  ‘That’s always been our policy,’ said Charlotte. ‘And it isn’t only a question of money. We have the additional satisfaction of seeing one or more criminals paying for their crime.’

  Clemency blanched. ‘Is that what we have here – a crime?’

  ‘It’s too soon to say.’

  ‘But it’s a possibility that’s getting to feel more and more likely,’ said Peter, thoughtfully. ‘Someone wanted you to suffer,’ he added, holding up the letter. ‘This was designed to hurt. By withholding any details, the person who sent this knew that it would cause real distress. That’s wicked, in my view.’

  ‘What’s your decision, Mrs van Emden?’ asked Charlotte. ‘Do you wish to hire our services or go elsewhere?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clemency with passion, ‘I’m begging you to help me. You’ve been so kind and understanding that I couldn’t conceive of finding anyone better able to solve the mystery. It’s strange, isn’t it? Jem Huckvale told me that, in meeting him, my steps had been guided by fate.’ She smiled wearily. ‘All of a sudden, I’m starting to believe him.’

  It took them some time to run Chevy Ruddock to earth. The younger man was on patrol with William Filbert, a stout, red-cheeked man in his fifties with a drooping moustache that always looked as if it was about to fall off his face altogether. When they’d first worked together, Filbert was the senior man in years and experience, but Ruddock had learnt quickly. He’d become a resourceful member of the foot patrol and, more often than not, Filbert now deferred to his judgement. The two of them had paused on a corner so that the older man could light his pipe, a difficult operation because of his trembling hands and rheumy eyes. When the tobacco was finally ignited, they moved off again, only to find two sturdy figures blocking their way.

  ‘We’ve found you at last,’ declared Yeomans.

  ‘Good day to you both,’ said Filbert, touching his hat.

  ‘Be quiet, Bill. We’re not interested in you. We’re here for Ruddock.’

  ‘You might as well be on your way,’ advised Hale. ‘You’ll be on your own for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Filbert, shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth. ‘Is Chevy in trouble?’

  ‘No, we’ve got a special assignment for him. He’ll tell you all about it next time you’re on duty together.’

  ‘Goodbye, Bill,’ said Yeomans, firmly
. ‘Keep your eyes peeled.’

  After releasing a loud cackle, Filbert ambled off on his way.

  ‘What’s he laughing about?’ asked Hale.

  ‘He can’t keep his eyes peeled,’ explained Ruddock. ‘As soon as the light starts to fade, Bill is as blind as a bat. Luckily, his other senses more than make up for his poor eyesight.’

  ‘Forget about Bill Filbert,’ said Yeomans, dismissively. ‘We’ve come to talk about Harry Scattergood.’

  ‘Has he been up before Mr Kirkwood yet?’

  ‘No, he’s being kept as the last case of the day so that the chief magistrate has time to go through the full catalogue of his crimes.’

  ‘There must be dozens of them.’

  ‘And the rest,’ said Hale. ‘I’d be amazed if there are not more than a hundred. Harry was a real master of his craft.’

  ‘You have to admire the man’s skill in dodging us.’

  ‘I don’t admire any criminal,’ said Yeomans. ‘In my view, they should all be strung up as a warning to others. Thieves like Harry have contaminated this city for too long. They’re like a plague of rats. Our job is to trap and kill the vermin.’

  ‘In Harry’s case, the Skillen brothers did the trapping.’ Ruddock gasped as he was punched in the stomach by Yeomans. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I promise not to mention them again.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘What’s this assignment you have for me?’

  ‘I want you to keep an eye on Scattergood.’

  ‘But they already have a gaoler in Bow Street.’

  ‘He’s simply there to lock and unlock the cells,’ said Hale. ‘He’s more of an usher than anything else, taking prisoners into court.’

  ‘What we want,’ said Yeomans, ‘is someone sitting on a chair outside Harry’s cell and watching him like a hawk. You’ll be responsible for taking him into court and, when he’s convicted, for seeing him safely locked up again.’

  ‘Am I allowed to talk to him?’ asked Ruddock.

  ‘No, and you mustn’t listen to him either. He’ll try every trick in the book to bamboozle you. Take no chances. Keep your mouth shut and your ears blocked.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If you need to communicate with him,’ said Hale, ‘just fart.’

  ‘We’ve chosen you,’ Yeomans stressed, ‘because we wanted someone alert and reliable. Your task is not as simple as it may look. Whatever happens, Harry Scattergood must not escape.’

  As the day wore on, there was a lot of coming and going at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. Secure in his cell, Scattergood rarely had more than a few minutes alone. New prisoners were arriving, while those already there were being hauled out in turn to appear in court. The little thief had to wait a long time before there was a definite lull in activity. On his arrival there, he’d been thoroughly searched and all the tools of his trade had been removed from his pockets. What nobody had done, however, was to search his shoes properly. They’d made him remove them in case he had anything hidden inside but, when nothing was found, he was allowed to put them on again. Salvation was still possible.

  He moved swiftly. Pulling off one shoe, he twisted the heel sharply so that it swung outwards to reveal a hollow into which a number of skeleton keys had been jammed. He selected one that unfolded to four times its original length, inserting it in the handcuffs one at a time. In less than a few seconds, he heard a satisfying click and the first wrist was free. The second quickly followed. He now turned his attention to the lock on the cell door, probing gently for over a minute until he got it in the right position. Once again there was a positive click. Putting the key back in its hiding place, he twisted the heel into the position, put the shoe on again, then opened the cell door with a flourish.

  As he thought of the joy that awaited him, he grinned broadly.

  ‘Get ready for me, Welsh Mary,’ he whispered. ‘I’m coming.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When Hannah Granville was driven to the Flying Horse, Paul rode alongside her so that he could savour her company for a short while before she quit London. Though he still had concerns about her decision to wear the opal necklace – albeit it was covered by a pelisse – he didn’t challenge her again. The last thing either of them needed before they parted was an argument. He therefore elected to humour her. On reaching the inn, Paul dismounted, then helped Hannah out of the cab. A groom came to take care of her luggage, allowing the couple to go into the hostelry. The first person they saw was Jenny Pye, the short, roly-poly, middle-aged woman who’d been Hannah’s dresser for many years and, in that time, had become a trusted friend. Getting up from her seat, she waddled across to the newcomers and was embraced warmly by Hannah. About to set off on what was a new adventure for them, the two women began to converse excitedly.

  Paul, meanwhile, was looking around the room. While he was delighted that Hannah had female company for her journey, he was more interested in the security of her travel. The actress had only agreed to join the company in Bath if the theatre manager could provide a bodyguard to get her there safely. Paul soon picked out the man. He was in his thirties, tall, craggy, roughly attired and reassuringly muscular. Realising that he was being assessed, the bodyguard got up to walk across to him.

  ‘Are you looking for me, sir?’

  ‘You’ve been sent from Bath, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m Roderick Cosgrove. My orders are to protect Miss Granville on the journey there.’

  ‘Have you done this kind of work before?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m very experienced.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘I don’t foresee any trouble,’ said Cosgrove. ‘We travelled from Bath to London without incident. I trust that the return journey will be exactly the same.’

  ‘Take good care of Miss Granville.’

  ‘I will, sir. My years in the army prepared me well for this kind of employment. Nothing that could happen will in any way compare to some of the battles in which I fought. Besides,’ he said with quiet confidence, ‘I carry a pistol, and I’ll not be the only man aboard with a weapon. We can repel any attack, though one is highly unlikely to happen.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  Paul took him across the room and introduced him to the two women. They were pleased to meet Cosgrove and struck by his polite manner. When it was time to go, they followed the other passengers out to the stagecoach. The four horses were restive and their harness was jingling as they moved about, hooves clacking on the cobbles. After checking everyone’s name against a list, the driver allowed them to get inside the vehicle or, in Cosgrove’s case, to a seat on the top. Hannah was the first to enter the coach and chose a window seat facing the direction of travel. Paul spoke to her through the window.

  ‘Write to me the moment you arrive,’ he told her.

  ‘I’ll be far too jangled to hold a pen,’ she said, laughing. ‘By the time we get there, we’ll have explored every pothole on the way.’

  ‘I’ll need to know that you reached your destination safely.’

  ‘You will, I promise.’

  ‘I’m going to miss you sorely.’

  ‘You don’t have a monopoly on feelings of loneliness, Paul.’

  He grinned. ‘How can you feel lonely when hundreds of people will see you onstage every night?’

  ‘They mean nothing to me,’ she said, earnestly. ‘You are the only audience I want. When you’re with me, I’m happy. When you’re not, I suffer a terrible sense of loss.’

  ‘It is the same for me, my love.’

  After taking a last kiss, he bade her farewell. Bath was a popular destination, so the stagecoach was full. Hannah was already collecting admiring looks from the male passengers and envious glances from their wives. When everything was ready, the driver cracked his whip and the horses set off. Cosgrove waved to him and Paul lifted a hand in response. He watched the vehicle bouncing and rattling along the street until it was eventually out of sight. Knowing that he wouldn’t be seeing Hannah for so
me time, he turned away with a sigh.

  From now on, his bed would feel painfully empty at night.

  Gully Ackford was a big, rugged man of middle years. As the owner of the shooting gallery, he provided work as instructors for his friends and, more importantly, a base from which they could operate when their detective skills were in demand. When the gallery closed at the end of the afternoon, he was alone with Peter Skillen, listening to his account of their latest client. With her footman in tow, Clemency van Emden had gone to her hotel, Grillion’s in Albemarle Street. Moved by her plight, Peter was eager to assist her.

  ‘When I first heard her plea,’ he recalled, ‘I thought that it would be easy to find out where, when and how her father had died, but it’s proving to be a more complex case than I imagined.’

  ‘So it seems,’ said Ackford.

  ‘What I am certain of is that he’s buried somewhere in London.’

  ‘Why do you think that, Peter?’

  ‘George Parry was born here, married here, employed here and – if rumour is to be believed – ended up as a beggar here. According to his daughter, his only surviving relatives are up in the wilds of Yorkshire somewhere.’

  ‘How could he get there if he had no money?’

  ‘There was another reason he’d stay here. Mrs van Emden said that he was a very proud man. He’d be far too ashamed to admit that he was in such straitened circumstances. Mr Parry was the sort of person who’d suffer in silence, rather than throw himself on the mercy of relatives he hardly ever saw.’

  ‘What a sad way to end his days,’ said Ackford, running a hand through his hair. ‘He must have felt marooned, completely cut off from his family, friends and the people he’d once worked with. There seems to have been nobody to whom he could turn.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What state is his daughter in?’

  ‘She’s consumed with guilt, poor woman.’

  ‘How will you find out what happened to him, Peter?’