Rage of the Assassin Read online

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Hale became sceptical. ‘You’re not the first to do that,’ he went on, sizing the visitor up. ‘We’ve had fraudsters galore, each one turning up with a different pack of lies.’

  ‘Don’t insult me, sir.’

  ‘I’m just warning you.’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Scattergood with disdain, ‘I need to speak to Mr Yeomans himself rather than to an underling. I suspect that he’ll be a keener judge of character. What is your name, may I ask?’

  ‘Alfred Hale.’

  ‘When is Mr Yeomans likely to be here?’

  ‘If you can tarry for an hour or so, he’ll return.’

  ‘I have business to attend to, Mr Hale. When he does arrive, you may tell him that Giles Clearwater called to see him with information that might possibly lead to the arrest of Sir Roger Mellanby’s killer. It is not, I do assure you, a pack of lies. I can lay claim to an advantage that none of your fraudsters can match.’

  ‘And what is it, Mr Clearwater?’

  ‘I was there at the time.’

  Hales gaped. ‘You were outside the stage door?’

  ‘I was indeed,’ said Scattergood, grandly. ‘I was part of a crowd that saw the Prince Regent arrive with two bodyguards.’ He stared hard at Hale. ‘One of them, in fact, looked rather like you.’

  ‘It was me. Mr Yeomans and I were on royal duty.’

  ‘Shortly after you arrived, I heard someone cry out in agony. Then a fatal shot was fired. It was far too close for comfort. Like everyone else there, I took to my heels – but not before I’d seen the man holding the pistol.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I prefer to talk to Mr Yeomans. There’s far too much disbelief swirling in your eyes. I’ll return when I can count on a fairer hearing. Good day, Mr Hale.’

  ‘Wait …’

  ‘I’ll report you to your superior in due course.’

  Before he could be stopped, Scattergood flounced out of the inn and left Hale with the uneasy feeling that he’d just made an embarrassing mistake.

  After a visit to his bank, the assassin returned to his lodging so that he could count out the money he’d just withdrawn. He was seething with rage. The actor he’d employed had set a high price on his silence and his demand simply had to be met. When he’d finished counting, he reached for a pen and wrote a curt note to the man.

  The deadly transaction had been set in motion.

  It was the second time that Paul Skillen had heard the name. According to Kitty Denley, the man Sir Roger Mellanby viewed as a major threat to his life was called the Doctor. Paul knew at once that it was Henry Addington, Viscount Sidmouth, the incumbent Home Secretary. Captain Golightly had also mentioned him. It had startled Paul at first because – even though he’d never met Sidmouth – he’d always thought well of him. There was a family connection. During the Napoleonic Wars, his brother, Peter, had worked as one of Sidmouth’s agents in France and spoke often of the Home Secretary’s intelligence, commitment and quiet efficiency. Could a man with such integrity really be implicated in the murder of a Member of Parliament? Paul was unconvinced.

  ‘Are you sure that that was the name he mentioned, Mrs Denley?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Skillen. I was shocked at first.’

  ‘So was I,’ admitted Paul. ‘Political life may be full of intrigue and vaulting ambition but even the most impassioned individuals would stop short of plotting someone’s death. While there may be occasional duels between political enemies, I know of no examples of outright murder.’

  ‘Sir Roger felt that he was in jeopardy.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he travel with a bodyguard?’

  ‘He poured scorn on the notion,’ said Kitty, ‘and, with a sword in his hand, was well able to defend himself. My husband discovered that.’

  ‘Were any other enemies named by Sir Roger?’

  ‘No,’ replied Kitty, ‘only the Doctor.’

  ‘He was called that because his father was a notable physician. It’s hardly an appropriate nickname, is it? Doctors are supposed to save lives. They follow in the footsteps of Hippocrates and seek to cure. Primum non nocere is a phrase I learnt at school – “First, do no harm”. If the Home Secretary is involved, then he’s in direct contravention of medical ethics.’

  ‘I never thought of that.’

  Although she’d been conducting an affair with one man while married to another, Kitty Denley had a strange innocence about her. Paul could see how someone like Mellanby had been attracted to such a woman. It was not only her beauty that had captivated him. He’d also been drawn by her patent honesty and her desire to lead a very private life. Since some of it would be shared with him, he’d found her irresistible. For her part, she’d been in love for the first time and waited patiently for his occasional visits to brighten her otherwise lonely existence.

  Putting her head at an angle, she stared at him with interest.

  ‘You’re a brave man, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘I’m simply one who believes in justice.’

  ‘Sir Roger often said that.’

  ‘Then he and I have a bond.’

  ‘I’m truly worried for your safety.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve been in danger before. You might say that it’s my natural habitat. Have no fears on my account.’

  ‘If you were there when it happened, it must have been frightening.’

  ‘It took me by surprise, perhaps, but I felt no alarm. I was simply left with this urge to catch the men responsible and haul them into a court of law.’

  ‘You could never do that to the Home Secretary.’

  ‘We don’t know that he was definitely a party to the murder.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So let’s not condemn him without first getting clear evidence.’

  ‘How could you possibly do that?’ she asked, hopelessly. ‘You’d never be allowed to get anywhere near the Doctor.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Paul with a smile, ‘but I do know someone who does have privileged access to him. In fact, I know him extremely well.’

  Even though he’d shared a coach with him for what seemed like endless hours, Peter Skillen had learnt very little of use from Seth Hooper. The man was too cowed by the situation to say more than a few words. It was only at one of the stops along the way that the brush-maker briefly found his voice. David Mellanby was very different. When they travelled towards Nottingham in the curricle, he was an absolute fountain of information. It spurted out of him in an endless stream. Peter learnt things about the relationships in the family that explained why Mellanby’s three children saw so little of each other. It was a source of great bitterness to David that neither of his siblings had ever attended his church to hear him preach. With her first child due in a matter of months, his sister, Judith, had not even approached him with regard to the baptism. That would take place elsewhere.

  ‘What about your father?’ asked Peter. ‘Did he come to your church?’

  ‘Oh, yes – but only out of necessity.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was a case of noblesse oblige. Father had to be seen. There are a number of people in my congregation who voted for him. They expected him to exchange pleasantries with them on a Sunday.’

  ‘Was he not a religious man?’

  ‘Only fitfully, I fear.’

  ‘Your brother seems to take after him.’

  ‘Edmund is far worse, believe me.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  It was almost the last thing that Peter had the opportunity of saying because his companion launched into what was an extended sermon. As the youngest in the family, David had been the whipping boy almost from birth and there was an element of something akin to joy in his martyrdom. He simultaneously resented and wallowed in it. When he’d taken holy orders, he’d hoped that it would bring him closer to the rest of the family, but it had done just the reverse. Only his mother approved of his choice of profession. His brother te
ased him mercilessly and his sister more or less ignored him. Each lived in worlds from which David was deliberately excluded.

  When they reached Nottingham, Peter asked him if he could be driven to the Black Horse, the public house where Seth Hooper and his friends held their meetings. David duly brought the horse to a halt outside the premises.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Peter. ‘Being offered a lift was a godsend but your honesty about your family was the real bonus. Without Mr Oxley looking over your shoulder, you were able to speak much more freely.’

  ‘I felt such a relief at being able to do so, Mr Skillen. I love my family, of course, but I’ve never been well treated by them. I’d imagined that father’s death would draw us closer together. That was yet another false hope. And don’t pay any attention to Edmund’s criticism of you,’ he continued. ‘It’s all too characteristic of him. You are performing a great service for us. I’ll pray for your success.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  After shaking hands with him, Peter alighted from the curricle then waved him off. He waited until the vehicle had turned a corner before going into the public house. But for the landlord, the place was almost empty. The man was wiping the bar counter with a cloth. When he saw the visitor enter, he stopped.

  ‘I’m a friend of Seth Hooper’s,’ said Peter.

  ‘We all know who you are, sir, and you’re welcome.’

  ‘I’m coming to the meeting this evening.’

  ‘Then you’ll hear Seth speak. He’s to tell us what happened in London. Seth’s a grand lad. He has a way with words.’

  Peter hoped that his presence wouldn’t inhibit Hooper. There’d been no sign of his eloquence so far. Crossing to the bar counter, he weighed up the landlord. The man was in his fifties, short, bearded, running to fat and with a face that was resolutely set in an expression of disapproval. Yet there was cordiality in his voice and, without being asked, he offered Peter a tankard of beer.

  ‘Oh – thank you very much.’

  ‘You’ll not be allowed to buy a drink here, Mr Skillen. It’s free to you.’

  ‘We might have to argue about that.’

  The landlord was blunt. ‘You’ll lose, believe me.’

  ‘Are all the meetings held here?’ asked Peter, looking around.

  ‘Each and every one – we’re of the same mind at the Black Horse.’

  ‘Unity is important.’

  ‘That was one of Sir Roger’s sayings. We’ll miss him.’

  ‘How often are the meetings held?’

  ‘Oh, it’s once a week at least.’

  ‘Who’s the main speaker when Sir Roger isn’t here?’

  ‘That would be Seth. He talks our language.’

  ‘And who is allowed to attend the meetings?’

  ‘Only those who truly believe in our avowed policy,’ said the other. ‘Strangers are turned away. We want no eavesdroppers.’

  ‘So you’ve never had someone outside Nottingham coming by chance?’

  ‘It only happened once, Mr Skillen – at the last meeting, as it happens. We were taken by surprise, to be honest. He’d never been in the Black Horse before, but we could hardly turn him away. Sir Roger wouldn’t have let us.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was his son, Edmund.’

  Alfred Hale had been cursing himself. After a string of fraudulent claims regarding the murder, a more credible witness had appeared. Yet Hale had failed to question him properly or to keep him there until Yeomans had returned. Giles Clearwater, he believed, had not simply come in pursuit of the reward money. Judging by his appearance and his lordly manner, he was already a wealthy man. Financial gain was not his motivation. He wanted the assassin caught and convicted.

  By the time that Yeomans arrived, Hale was shamefaced. It didn’t take him long to make his confession. Yeomans was furious.

  ‘You let him go?’

  ‘He had business in hand, Micah.’

  ‘And so do we, you numbskull. In case you’ve forgotten, we are in pursuit of a killer. I’ve just spent an hour with the chief magistrate getting the rough edge of his tongue, flayed because of our lack of progress. And what do you do when we finally have someone who was actually there at the time of the murder?’

  ‘I have apologised,’ said Hale, meekly.

  ‘You should be down on your knees in penitence.’

  ‘Anyone can make a mistake, Micah.’

  ‘I would never have blundered the way that you did. Even a dolt like Chevy Ruddock would have had the sense to take a statement from him.’

  ‘Mr Clearwater did say that he’d come back.’

  ‘He’d better do so,’ said Yeomans, eyes ablaze. ‘When he does, be sure to keep your trap shut.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘There are times when I despair of you, Alfred, and this is one of them. I’m bound to ask if you’re getting too old for this job.’

  ‘But I’m years younger than you.’

  ‘My judgement is not in question. I still have all my faculties.’

  ‘And so do I. My mind is crystal clear.’

  ‘Then why did you make such a serious mistake? Why didn’t you question this man more thoroughly to establish his honesty? You know my rule. Trust nobody until you have cast-iron proof that they are who they say they are. Mr Clearwater sounds promising, I grant you, but he hasn’t been interrogated by a master of the art like me.’ Yeomans tapped his chest and bared his teeth. ‘I’ll get the truth out of him, I warrant you.’

  He was at the appointed place well before time. It was in Covent Garden, close to a tavern frequented by unemployed actors like him. That was where he’d been approached by a man who offered him money in return for what had sounded like a simple service. He’d accepted the offer immediately. Then, as now, he’d been the epitome of elegance, hiding his poverty behind a fashionable carapace. With a large amount of money in the offing, his situation was about to improve. He could afford to pay a visit to his tailor again. A striking appearance was part of his stock-in-trade. It impressed managers of the city’s theatres. Having money to spend, he might yet be able to resurrect his career.

  When he’d received the man’s letter, he’d been at once excited and fearful, exhilarated by the promise of a large fee yet worried that he might be tricked. Someone who could shoot a man in cold blood could never be wholly trusted. To settle his nerves, therefore, he’d popped into the tavern for a drink or two. He was now beside the alleyway, waiting to claim his prize. The actor even dared to believe that there could be further booty. After he’d spent his way through the first payment, he could blackmail the assassin again. But that enterprise lay in the future. His mind was focussed on what was about to happen now.

  Expecting to see the man approach, he was startled to hear his voice behind him. The assassin emerged from the shadow of the alleyway.

  ‘I’m glad that you obeyed orders,’ he said.

  ‘You forget something,’ retaliated the actor. ‘I’m the one issuing orders.’

  ‘This is a final payment, mark you. I don’t want you coming back to me in the future with more demands.’

  ‘It would never cross my mind.’

  ‘Do you swear that?’

  ‘Willingly,’ said the actor, raising a hand.

  ‘So be it. I have the agreed amount with me.’ He produced it from inside his coat to prove that he was keeping his end of the bargain. ‘I’m not going to hand it over in public. There are too many prying eyes. Step into the shadows with me.’

  Desperate to get his hands on the money, the actor followed him into the alleyway. He was almost trembling with excitement. The assassin handed over the banknotes with a wry smile.

  ‘You’ll never be paid so handsomely for such a fleeting performance.’

  ‘Is it all here?’ asked the other.

  ‘Count it to make sure.’

  The actor couldn’t wait to do so, turning away slightly to get the best of what little light was available. It was a grave mistake. Pr
eoccupied with his money, he didn’t see the dagger that was swiftly drawn by his companion. With one hand over the actor’s mouth, the assassin sank the blade deep into his victim’s heart, holding him tight until the convulsing body lost all trace of life. After lowering him gently to the ground, the killer retrieved his money then melted into the shadows.

  The rage of the assassin had been assuaged.

  CHAPTER TEN

  While being driven to the theatre, Hannah Granville was at the mercy of mixed emotions. She was on her way to what would be the final performance of an acclaimed production. Transforming herself into Lady Macbeth once more, she’d be able to savour the adoration of a packed audience. It was her lifeblood. Hannah would feel yet again that thrilling surge of power. Set against that pleasure was the nagging fear that something would go drastically wrong. Only two days earlier the area outside the stage door where she was worshipped by her admirers had been the scene of a murder. Paul Skillen, the man she loved, might easily have been killed. Had she left the building earlier, Hannah herself might have been the victim. That thought was still dizzying. No amount of applause could expunge it from her mind.

  And there was another source of apprehension. No less a person than the Prince Regent had been entranced by her performance. He’d come into her dressing room and ogled her with disturbing frankness. Hannah had been rocked. How could she prevent his being allowed into the theatre once more? Even Paul could not keep the future king at arm’s length indefinitely. Where would His Royal Majesty’s interest in her lead? The possibilities were unnerving.

  Arriving at the theatre, she was met by two attendants who escorted her into the building. They conducted her to the dressing room and one of them tapped on the door. It was unlocked by Jenny Pye who gave Hannah a warm smile as she beckoned her inside. Though she’d been involved in final performances many times before, the actress was nevertheless astonished by what she saw. The room had been filled with so many baskets of flowers that it resembled a garden. Almost every surface was covered. On the remaining space was a pile of gifts, stacked high. When her gaze fell on the collection of cards and letters beside it, Hannah quivered.