A Date with the Executioner

by Edward Marston

  Having read the correspondence in its entirety, Laetitia got up abruptly and took all but the final letter across to the little fireplace. Tossing them into the grate, she set them alight and watched the thwarted ambitions of Mark Bowerman going up in smoke. When she returned to the ottoman, she picked up his last communication to her and read it with a smile of satisfaction.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hester Mallory arrived at the bank just before it was closing. The chief clerk tried to turn her away, suggesting that she might return on the following day, but the manager then caught sight of her. Leonard Impey had always had an eye for a pretty woman and he was momentarily startled. Hester was far more than pretty. Still in her early thirties, she had a beauty and sophistication that would turn heads anywhere. Acting as her chaperone was a young, pallid manservant. Dismissing his clerk, the manager introduced himself and shepherded the visitors into his room. When he closed the door behind them, he felt a thrill at the fact that they were in private together. Her companion was invisible. Hester’s attire, bearing, graceful movement and soft voice made her thoroughly enchanting.

  Offered a seat, Hester lowered herself into a chair. Impey hovered around her. He was a plump man in his fifties with a flabby face and overlarge lips. Gazing at her over the top of his spectacles, it was all he could do to stop himself dribbling with pleasure.

  ‘How may I be of service to you, Miss …?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Mallory,’ she replied. ‘Mrs Hester Mallory.’

  ‘Welcome to our humble bank.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Impey. It was recommended to me as the most trusted institution of its kind in the whole of London.’

  ‘That’s praise indeed, Mrs Mallory. May I know who spoke of us in such fulsome terms?’

  ‘I can do more than that,’ she said, opening her bag. ‘I have a letter of introduction from him. I’m sure that you remember Mr Jacob Picton?’

  ‘How could I forget such a distinguished gentleman? We were fortunate to do business with him for many years. How is Mr Picton?’

  ‘Read what he says and all will be explained.’

  Taking out the letter, she handed it over to him. Impey retreated to his desk and sat down to peruse the missive. Picton had invested heavily in property in the capital and, when more houses came on to the market, he’d borrowed money from the bank to purchase them. His record of success was almost unrivalled. Rental income alone allowed him to live in luxury in Mayfair. It was only when his health began to fail that he sold off much of his property empire and moved to a country estate in Hampshire.

  ‘Mr Picton speaks well of you,’ said Impey, reading the letter and recognising his old friend’s distinctive calligraphy. ‘You and your husband are neighbours of his, I see. Is Mr Mallory travelling with you?’

  ‘No, Mr Impey, my husband rarely stirs from the country, but I felt that it was time I stayed here for a while to rub off the rust a little, so to speak. I do have another purpose for the visit, as it happens.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘My husband will soon be celebrating his fiftieth birthday and I am going to give him a gift that he has sought ever since we met.’

  ‘What might that be?’

  ‘Why, it’s a portrait of his dear wife, of course.’

  He tittered. ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘It’s long overdue.’

  ‘And is Mr Mallory aware of your plan?’

  ‘That would spoil the surprise,’ she said, laughing gaily. ‘I’ve been in secret correspondence with an artist who has a reputation for portraiture. According to Mr Picton, he’s without compare. Unfortunately,’ she added, with a wry smile, ‘artists of that kind tend to come at a high price.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he charged you a single penny,’ he said, gallantly, ‘for he’ll realise what a privilege it will be to have you as a client.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Mr Impey!’

  ‘He’ll have the pleasure of looking at you for long periods.’

  ‘I hope they’re not too long, sir. I am very restive.’

  Impey stood up to lean across the desk and return the letter. She gave him a smile of thanks before popping it into her bag. Having felt jaded after a long day’s work, he was refreshed. He was also anxious to help a potential client.

  ‘What exactly has brought you to us, Mrs Mallory?’

  ‘I merely wanted to introduce myself,’ she explained, ‘and to establish trust between us. You need to know something of me before any transaction can take place and I, in turn, wanted to find out if Mr Picton’s high opinion of this bank was justified.’

  ‘That’s a wise precaution.’

  ‘It’s one that I always take.’

  ‘If you have any questions about the way that we operate, I’ll be happy to answer them. I think you’ll find that we’ve maintained the high standards noted by Mr Picton. Do please give him my regards when you’re next in touch with him.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do so.’

  Hester studied him carefully as if trying to weigh him up. Feeling a trifle uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Impey resumed his seat. When her appraisal was over, she gave him a reassuring smile.

  ‘I can see that you’re a man with financial acumen,’ she said, approvingly.

  ‘It’s an essential quality for a bank manager.’

  ‘You are far too experienced to take a new client at face value.’

  ‘That’s quite right.’

  ‘Then let me ask you this, Mr Impey …’

  Yeomans and Hale could still hear the chief magistrate’s invective ringing in their ears. What they’d conceived of as a clever ruse to keep the Skillen brothers at bay had rebounded against them. Their prisoner had been released and they’d been roundly chastised. As they approached the house where Laetitia Somerville lived, they felt hurt and badly misunderstood.

  ‘I still think it was a clever idea of yours, Micah,’ said Hale.

  ‘It gave them a fright and taught them we’ll stand for no interference.’

  ‘Mr Kirkwood doesn’t appreciate us.’

  ‘We must force him to do so, Alfred.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘For a start,’ said Yeomans, ‘we must make the most of this visit. Leave me to do the talking to Miss Somerville. I have a way with distressed ladies. I know how to calm them. When we leave here, we must have a lot of new evidence to impress the chief magistrate. It’s the only way to win back his good opinion of us.’

  ‘But I don’t think he ever had a good opinion of us.’

  ‘He knows our true value.’

  Yeomans pointed at the bell and Hale stepped forward to ring it. When the door opened, a manservant looked at them enquiringly. Explaining who they were, Yeomans asked to see Miss Somerville.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir,’ said the man.

  ‘Is the lady not at home?’

  ‘Miss Somerville is here but she’s taken to her bed. She’s left orders that she wishes to see nobody – nobody at all. Good day to you.’

  Before they could stop him, the servant shut the door. Hale was despondent.

  ‘Everything is going wrong for us today.’

  Yeomans bit back an expletive. ‘We’ll be back,’ he vowed.

  Gully Ackford was delighted that Jem Huckvale had returned to the gallery and greeted him with a warm embrace. He treated Huckvale like a son and had schooled him in all the disciplines that were taught there. Though he looked small and almost puny, Huckvale was a difficult opponent in a boxing ring and several clients preferred to seek tuition from him. Ackford took his young friend away to offer solace after the fright of his arrest. Peter and Paul were left alone. Conscious that Hannah would be in the way, Charlotte had accompanied her back to the house. The brothers were therefore able to talk in private at last. After exchanging their respective news, they discussed their strategy.

  ‘One problem is solved,’ said Peter. ‘After today’s little episode, w
e needn’t fear another raid from the Runners. Gully can take down the barricades.’

  ‘He was relieved to hear that.’

  ‘What will you do next, Paul?’

  ‘I’d like to track down Sir Geoffrey Melrose. As the person who invited Mr Bowerman to a dinner party at which he met Miss Somerville, he’ll be able to tell us something valuable about both of them.’

  ‘How will you go about finding him?’

  ‘I have friends in high places,’ said Paul.

  Peter laughed. ‘The only reason you know them is that they frequent low places. Your years of wild abandon have finally come in useful, Paul.’

  ‘Half the nobility love to gamble. It may well be that Sir Geoffrey is among them. At all events, I’m certain that one of the acquaintances I made during my time at the gaming tables will be able to tell me how I can get in touch with him.’

  ‘Won’t he come forward of his own volition when he hears of Bowerman’s death?’

  ‘That depends on whether or not he lives in London, Peter. If he resides in the country, it may be some time before he finally hears the news. And it will not bring him to our doors. Sir Geoffrey is more likely to seek out the Runners.’

  ‘There is a simpler way to locate him.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Why not approach Miss Somerville? If he knew her well enough to invite her to a dinner party, Sir Geoffrey will be part of her circle. Ask her for his address.’

  ‘I thought of that but decided against the idea. There’s something about Miss Somerville I find slightly disquieting and the annoying thing is that I’ve no idea what it is. Besides, since she’s now in mourning, she may be distressed to hear that we are looking into her past, as it were.’

  ‘That’s a valid point.’

  ‘What will you be doing, Peter?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the house where the murder occurred,’ said his brother. ‘Why was Mr Bowerman lured there and how did the killer know that it would be unoccupied? More to the point, how did he get into the garden in the first place? The house must be rented by an agent. I’ll seek him out.’

  ‘I’ll be interested in your findings.’

  ‘What I’ll be interested in is what the War Office can tell me about Captain Hamer. We mustn’t forget him, Paul.’

  ‘He won’t let us, I promise you.’

  ‘You had your doubts about him and your judgement is always sound.’

  ‘Hamer worries me. At the very time when Mr Bowerman was about to propose marriage to Miss Somerville, he came back into her life. It was almost as if he responded to a cue.’

  ‘There’s another reason to distrust the man,’ said Peter, taking a letter from his pocket. ‘This arrived earlier. It was sent by the man I met at the mortuary.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The dagger that killed Mr Bowerman did belong to Hamer, after all.’

  Evening found the two of them at Rawdon Carr’s club in Pall Mall. While Carr was relaxed, however, Stephen Hamer was tense and preoccupied. His friend nudged him.

  ‘You haven’t touched that excellent glass of port.’

  ‘It must have been someone from my army days,’ said Hamer.

  ‘Are you still obsessed with that dagger?’

  ‘Who else would know that I possessed it?’

  ‘I did, your servants did and, I daresay, you showed your collection to the occasional visitors. Why look to the army for a culprit?’

  ‘I made enemies, Rawdon.’

  ‘We all do that, sometimes without even knowing it.’

  ‘These enemies bear grudges. I wounded one of them badly in a duel and I seduced another one’s mistress. They’d both have cause to strike at me.’

  ‘Then why haven’t they done so before now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And how would they have been aware that Mr Bowerman even existed? You can discount your former comrades, Stephen. The person we’re after, I fancy, is closer to home. Have you had to get rid of any servants recently?’

  ‘I have, as a matter of fact. A man called Grainger had to be dismissed.’

  ‘What was his offence?’

  ‘He questioned a decision of mine. I had him out of the house in minutes.’

  ‘Then he’s a much more promising suspect.’

  ‘Grainger wouldn’t dare to steal anything from me.’

  ‘He dared to challenge your authority.’

  ‘That’s true …’

  ‘And since he lived under your roof,’ said Carr, ‘he’d know all about your collection of weapons and where to find the key to the room where it’s kept. As for information about Bowerman, he could easily have gained that by listening outside a door. We discussed the duel at length.’

  Hamer shook his head. ‘Grainger was dismissed over a week before we knew that there would be a duel. He couldn’t possibly have heard of Bowerman, still less planted a dagger in his back. No, it has to be someone else.’

  ‘You’ve been brooding on it ever since we examined the body.’

  ‘A shot between the eyes would have been a kinder death for him.’

  Carr smirked. ‘Since when have you discovered the concept of kindness?’

  ‘Someone is trying to implicate me in a murder, Rawdon. I resent it.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘I want to use that dagger of mine to slice off his balls and gouge out his—’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Carr, cutting in. ‘I don’t need to know the gory details. The first step is to identify the man and any confederates who may have been involved. I was hoping we might learn something useful by calling at Bowerman’s house earlier on but the visit was fruitless. All that the butler could tell us was where the murder took place.’

  ‘He told us something else as well.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes – Paul Skillen had been there.’

  ‘He’s an enterprising young man. We must be equally enterprising.’

  ‘You said that we ought to divert his attention.’

  ‘The matter is in hand. Shall I tell you what I’ve done?’

  Smiling complacently, Carr drained his glass in one satisfying gulp.

  There were two of them. It was well after midnight when they arrived. Each of them carried a sledgehammer. While one man attacked the front door of the shooting gallery, the other pounded away at the rear entrance to the premises. The locks soon burst apart. The men were not done yet. Each had brought a snarling dog on a thick leash. The animals were released into the gallery and went racing around the building, barking madly and searching for prey. There was pandemonium.

  Huckvale was awakened by the first hammer blow. The second violent thud made him leap out of bed and rush to open the window but he could see nothing down below in the darkness. Grabbing one of the swords he used for instruction, he came out on to the landing with the intention of descending the stairs to see what was causing the noise. The baying of the dogs and the sound of their paws on the wooden steps changed his mind instantly and he retreated to the safety of his bedroom, slamming the door behind him and bemused by what was happening.

  Ackford, by contrast, assessed the situation quickly. They were under attack. Roused from his slumber, he took down the loaded musket that hung on his wall and left his room purposefully. Though he could only see blurred outlines of the animals, he knew that they had to be destroyed before they could sink their jaws into him. He shot the first one dead then used the stock of the weapon to knock the other one unconscious. Sword in hand, Huckvale emerged from his room to see the two carcases on the floor.

  ‘Where did they come from?’ he asked.

  ‘Fetch a lantern. We’ll have to make some repairs.’

  ‘Someone must have knocked down the door.’

  ‘Arm yourself with a pistol. It may be needed.’

  When the lantern was alight, they went downstairs and examined the damage. Outside both broken doors was a dog leash. Once he
was certain there was no danger, Ackford put his musket aside.

  ‘Take the horse and ride to Peter’s house.’

  ‘He’ll be fast asleep, Gully.’

  ‘So were we until a few minutes ago. Peter needs to be told. He’s used to being woken up at all hours.’

  ‘What about Paul? Shall I rouse him as well?’

  ‘My guess is that he’s still awake. With a woman like Hannah beside me, I know that I would be. Paul can wait until morning. His brother is the one we need.’

  Paul and Hannah were, in fact, still wide awake and had not even retired to bed. They had spent hours discussing a plea from Lemuel Fleet when he’d called at the house for the second time. The manager had implored Hannah to attend a rehearsal the following day, assuring her that the playwright would not be present so they could talk openly about the defects in his play. He stressed that there were other people in the company and that their views ought to be taken into account.

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Hannah, reaching her decision.

  ‘I believe that you should.’

  ‘You don’t have to act in that dreadful play.’

  ‘If I was contracted to do so,’ said Paul, ‘then I’d honour that contract.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about honour,’ she cried.

  ‘You have a legal obligation, Hannah.’

  ‘Where in the contract does it oblige me to speak atrocious lines and sing appalling ditties? The Piccadilly Opera is beneath me. I was beguiled into agreeing to act in it. Mr Fleet misled me completely.’