Rage of the Assassin Page 3

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This could be a long and difficult case.’

  Hooper frowned. ‘That means it could be very expensive.’

  ‘Have no fear on that score,’ said Peter. ‘If Yeomans and his men track down the assassin, it won’t cost you anything. If, on the other hand, my brother and I solve the crime, we’d stand to gain what could well be a large amount of reward money. The bill we’d present to you will be a very small one.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Hooper, eyes moistening. ‘That takes a great weight off my mind. I was afraid that you’d turn me down.’

  ‘We’d never turn down an opportunity to humiliate the Runners. It adds spice to our work. Yet we mustn’t underestimate them. If I know Micah Yeomans, he’ll already be devising a plan to hamper our investigation.’

  The Peacock Inn was far more than simply a welcoming hostelry that served excellent ale and delicious pies. It was also the base from which the Bow Street Runners routinely operated. Yeomans had an office at his disposal but he preferred to work in the Peacock where the landlord was a good friend, the atmosphere was friendly and the barmaids were excessively pretty. Other patrons never dared to sit at the table in the corner. It was reserved exclusively for the Runners. At that moment, Yeomans was in his usual chair, munching his way through the remains of his meal. He was a big, hulking, middle-aged man with an unsightly face that struck fear into the hearts of the criminal fraternity. Seated beside him was Alfred Hale, shorter, a trifle younger and of slighter build. He needed a long sip of ale before he had the courage to criticise his superior.

  ‘You may have made a mistake, Micah,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘I never make mistakes,’ growled the other.

  ‘I’m talking about that man, Hooper. You were too quick to send him on his way. He could have been useful to us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He knew Sir Roger Mellanby.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He might have given us information about him.’

  ‘The only information we need to know is that he was shot dead outside the stage door of the Theatre Royal. We were actually there. Hooper wasn’t.’

  ‘Yet he came to London with Sir Roger.’

  ‘They may have travelled in the same coach but not as companions. The man was a brush-maker, for heaven’s sake. Can you imagine an aristocrat like Sir Roger befriending a nonentity like that? Of course not,’ said Yeomans with disdain. ‘While the Radical Dandy was inside the coach, Hooper would have been on top of it, clinging on for dear life.’

  ‘I still think we might have learnt something from him.’

  ‘Yes – we learnt that he had bad breath, sweated like a pancake and could hardly get any words out of his mouth. Oh, one other thing – there was a button missing off his waistcoat.’

  ‘There was no need to treat him so roughly, Micah.’

  ‘He was in my way.’

  ‘You were cruel.’

  ‘I was realistic,’ said Yeomans. ‘Why waste precious time on a fool like Hooper when there are so many important people to speak to? Now that I’ve finished my pie, we can go off to meet one of them – Captain Golightly. You saw that letter we found on Mellanby. The captain was a real friend of his. We’ll get far more information out of him than we will from that bumbling brush-maker.’

  ‘What about Paul Skillen?’

  ‘I’ve taken care of him.’

  ‘He was there last night,’ Hale reminded him. ‘That means he’ll want to solve the murder before we do.’

  ‘He won’t get a chance, Alfred. I’ve warned him that the Prince Regent is very angry with him. Before His Majesty could get close to her, Skillen grabbed Miss Granville and took her out of reach.’

  ‘I know. They brushed past me as they fled.’

  ‘I told Skillen that he’s expressly forbidden to poke his nose into this investigation. Since that order has the power of the Crown behind it,’ said Yeomans, grandly, ‘Paul Skillen will have to obey it.’

  After the shock of hearing that a man he admired had been shot dead, Seth Hooper had been in despair. Curt rejection by the Runners had added to his distress. When he’d been directed to the shooting gallery, he didn’t know if anyone would take on the case or, if they did, whether there was any possibility of success. To the brush-maker’s relief, Peter Skillen had been kind and sympathetic. During the time they spent together, Hooper slowly came out of his dejection. He even dared to entertain hope. As the two men were chatting, they heard the main door being unlocked. Peter excused himself and went out into the hall. Hooper, meanwhile, looked around the room with interest. He was impressed by the array of swords, pistols and archery equipment stored there. Everything was neatly displayed and obviously kept in good condition.

  When the door opened again, he saw whom he believed to be Peter coming back into the room. There was something rather odd about him. It took Hooper a few seconds to realise that he was wearing rather more flamboyant attire now.

  He was startled. ‘However did you find time to change?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Minutes ago, you were wearing something quite different.’

  ‘That was my brother, Peter,’ explained the other. ‘I’m Paul Skillen. Peter obviously forgot to tell you that we’re identical twins.’

  ‘It’s … uncanny,’ said Hooper, staring in amazement.

  ‘You’ll grow accustomed to it.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Peter has just explained and yes, it’s true that I was at the theatre last night. In fact, I was quite close to Sir Roger when he was shot dead. In the general panic, the killer and his accomplice got away.’

  Hooper blinked. ‘There were two of them?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. I’ll tell you exactly what happened, if you wish.’

  ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘First, I must assure you that we will do all that’s possible to find out who was responsible for Sir Roger’s death. This was no random attack. Someone hired that assassin. I want to find out why.’

  ‘I’m so grateful, Mr Skillen – to you and your brother.’

  ‘It won’t be easy. Be warned about that. To start with, we’ll have constant trouble from the Runners. They can be very possessive.’

  ‘I found that out.’

  ‘Also, we have a more fearsome enemy to worry about.’

  ‘Oh – who is that?’

  ‘The Prince Regent. He’s given specific orders that I’m not to be involved in an investigation into the murder.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘Call it revenge,’ said Paul with a wry smile. ‘I frustrated his ambitions with regard to a certain young lady, and I fancy that I’ll have to do it again before too long. With regard to the murder, not even a member of the royal family is going to stop me trying to solve it. For the Runners,’ he went on, ‘it’s just a routine assignment; for me, however, it’s much more than that. I see it as a kind of mission.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Captain Hector Golightly was a tall, sturdy, straight-backed individual with greying hair and moustache. A born soldier, he made sure that his house in Mayfair was run with military precision. Walls were adorned with paintings of famous battles in which British soldiers had been victorious. Golightly had served with distinction in two of the encounters on display. He was working in his study when told that he had visitors. Annoyed at the interruption, he nevertheless agreed to see them. A minute later, Micah Yeomans and Alfred Hale were conducted into the room. They found him standing in front of the fireplace with an air of unchallengeable authority. When Yeomans introduced himself and his companion, Golightly stiffened.

  ‘Why the devil are Bow Street Runners bothering me?’ he demanded. ‘I’m one of the most law-abiding men in London.’

  ‘We’ve not come to arrest you, Captain,’ said Hale.

  ‘No,’ added Yeomans, ‘we’re the bearers of bad news, I fear. It’s my sad duty to inform
you that Sir Roger Mellanby died last night.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Golightly, stamping a foot. ‘He was in rude health when I last saw him. The fellow has another thirty years in him.’

  ‘He did not die by natural means, Captain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sir Roger was shot dead.’

  ‘Never!’ exclaimed Golightly. ‘I refuse to believe it.’

  ‘We were there at the time,’ said Hale. ‘We were acting as bodyguards to the Prince Regent while he watched a play at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. After the performance, His Majesty expressed a wish to go to the stage door.’

  ‘And that’s where the murder took place,’ said Yeomans. ‘As we joined the crowd there, a pistol was fired and everyone ran away in panic, leaving the body of the man we now know as Sir Roger Mellanby dead on the ground.’

  Golightly slowly adjusted to the grim news. His body was slack, his face ashen and his manner abruptly changed. All the authority seemed to have been drained out of him. In the course of a long career in the army, he’d seen many men perish on the battlefield. Yet none of the deaths he’d witnessed had left him with the searing pain he now felt.

  ‘Has an arrest been made?’ he asked at length.

  ‘I fear not,’ replied Yeomans. ‘It was dark and the killer got away in the commotion. We had to wait until this morning to find out who the victim was. The friend who identified him told us the name of the hotel where Sir Roger had stayed. During our search there of his luggage, we found a letter sent by you and inviting him to dine here this evening.’

  ‘It’s true. We’d planned to attend a meeting together this afternoon. Once that was done, he’d have joined me and some like-minded friends here. He’s dead?’ he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘This cannot be. We were like brothers. I valued his company above that of almost everyone else.’

  ‘You won’t enjoy it any more,’ murmured Hale.

  ‘The villain must be caught,’ insisted Golightly, recovering his composure. ‘Whatever it takes, he must be hunted down with all celerity. Hanging is too good for him. If it were left to me, I’d have his rotten carcass torn apart by two horses, and his head displayed on a spike outside the Tower.’

  ‘We must follow legal procedure, Captain,’ said Yeomans.

  ‘What steps have been taken?’

  ‘My men are out searching for the killer at this very moment.’

  ‘Are you confident of success?’

  ‘We have an army of informers we can call on. They have ears all over London. Sooner or later, we’ll get the name we want.’

  ‘A large reward will help to smoke him out,’ said Hale.

  ‘I’ll be happy to provide the money,’ volunteered Golightly.

  ‘Surely that should be left to Sir Roger’s family?’

  ‘Speed is of the essence here, man. I’ll brook no delay.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Yeomans. ‘Waiting for the family to respond might take two or three days. Prompt action is needed.’

  ‘I want reward notices printed immediately and put up today. As for the amount on offer, I want you to give me a figure you think fit – then double it. In the hunt for this monster,’ declared Golightly, ‘no expense must be spared.’

  Paul Skillen was also acutely aware of the importance of acting quickly. With the help of his sister-in-law, he’d extracted the relevant information needed. As Seth Hooper answered all the questions fired at him, Charlotte had written down the answers until a small biography of Sir Roger Mellanby emerged. Inevitably, there were gaps. While he was able to describe his hero’s political achievements in detail, the brush-maker was less forthcoming about his family life. Though he was proud to be called a friend of the murder victim, he had never once been invited into the man’s home. When she and Peter were left alone, it was something on which Charlotte commented.

  ‘Mr Hooper never even got as far as the servants’ entrance.’

  ‘Mellanby obviously kept his private and public life rigidly apart,’ said Paul. ‘I’m certain that his wife knew nothing about his predilection for the theatre. By the same token, his London acquaintances were probably kept ignorant of the respectable existence he led in Nottingham when Parliament was in recess.’

  ‘Why did a man like that join the fight for electoral reform?’

  ‘He sincerely believed in it, Charlotte. There’s no other explanation. It won him a lot of friends, but it also earned him many enemies. Most of them, I daresay, were satisfied with simply pouring scorn on his views. Others may have felt that he was becoming too dangerous and had to be silenced.’

  ‘Where do we look for suspects – amongst politicians?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Paul. ‘We must cast our net far wider than Westminster.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His murder may have nothing to do with his role as a Member of Parliament. The person who ordered his death might be a jealous husband, perhaps a thwarted businessman, an unpaid creditor, a discarded friend or someone who has nursed a grudge against him that festered until it demanded expression.’

  ‘Where will you begin your search for him?’

  Paul smiled. ‘Why do you think it has to be a man?’

  ‘It was a natural assumption.’

  ‘Well, it’s not one that I’m making. As far as I’m concerned,’ he said, ‘it could equally well be a woman.’

  The difference was remarkable. Seth Hooper’s journey to London had been long, bruising and hazardous. Seated on top of a swaying stagecoach, he was exposed to rain, wind, the jostling of other passengers and the multiple shortcomings of roads that were no more than mud-caked tracks. On his return to Nottingham, by contrast, he was one of four passengers travelling inside a mail coach that was cleaner, more restful and much faster. Apart from the driver, there was also a guard outside, dressed in the Post Office livery of maroon and gold, and armed with two pistols and a blunderbuss. Hooper couldn’t believe that he deserved such comparative luxury. He was an interloper. Comfort made him feel uncomfortable.

  Peter Skillen, however, was completely at ease.

  ‘This was a wise choice,’ he said. ‘It’s over a hundred miles to Nottingham. This coach should get us there in less than sixteen hours.’

  ‘The stagecoach that brought me to London took a lot longer than that.’

  ‘The person to thank for this mode of transport is John Palmer.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Hooper.

  ‘He helped to design a vehicle like this. Palmer used to be involved with a theatre in Bath and was always complaining how long it took to move actors and scenery to and fro. To speed up journeys, Palmer hired post-chaises. When he suggested to the government that the Post Office should make use of smaller, lighter, swifter coaches, he was asked for a demonstration of a vehicle very much like this. It was a great success. As a result,’ said Peter, ‘it set the standard.’

  ‘I’ve never had such a fast ride, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘Sit back and enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m in no mood to enjoy anything,’ said Hooper, solemnly.

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  Almost immediately, one wheel of the coach went into a deep pothole and the passengers were thrown violently sideways. It was a timely reminder that, in return for more speed, they would have to get used to such sudden lurches on a treacherous road surface. Their journey, Peter mused, was a metaphor for the task they’d set themselves. In the course of their investigation, there would be an endless series of bumps, wobbles, jarring jolts and uncontrollable swaying. Yet he remained confident that – like the mail coach – they would eventually reach their destination.

  The Clarendon Hotel, one of the most fashionable in the capital, was a former town house in Bedford Place. Because of his association with it, Paul Skillen approached the building with mixed feelings. During the days when he’d been a frequent gambler, he had once lost hundreds of pounds in a card game at the hotel. Paying off the
debt had been a very painful exercise. The thought of it made him shudder. By way of consolation, an image of Hannah Granville came into his mind. She had brought stability into his life. She’d also rescued him from an existence that revolved around drink, debauchery and nights at the gaming table. Paul was a new man now.

  When he entered the lobby, he was reminded of a more pleasant memory of the Clarendon. Recognising him at once, the manager surged forward to shake him vigorously by the hand. He beamed at Paul.

  ‘Welcome back, Mr Skillen. You’ve neglected us for too long.’

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Treen. Your hotel looks as splendid as ever.’

  ‘We strive to maintain its sparkle. Most of our guests revel in our hospitality but, very occasionally, there are those who abuse it.’

  Paul knew what he meant. During an earlier visit, there had been a drunken fight in the lobby between two men who ignored all pleas to stop. In an effort to calm them down, Treen had shouted himself hoarse. It was only when Paul had stepped into the hotel that the unseemly brawl was stopped. Summing up the situation instantly, Paul had stepped in, used brute force to separate the combatants, then taken each of them by the scruff of the neck before throwing them out into the street. He’d earned a round of applause from relieved onlookers as well as the undying thanks of the manager. Treen was a short, slight, pale-faced man in his fifties whose hands fluttered expressively like a pair of giant butterflies.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?’ he asked.

  ‘I need to ask a favour of you, Mr Treen.’

  ‘It’s granted before it’s even put into words.’

  ‘It concerns a recent guest of yours – Sir Roger Mellanby.’ The manager’s face fell. ‘A sad case, I know. You have my sympathy.’

  ‘My sympathy goes to his family. It will come as a dreadful shock to them.’