Fugitive From the Grave

by Edward Marston

  ‘There are two possible ways,’ replied the other. ‘First, we must locate the church where he was buried. To that end, I’ve loaned Jem my horse and sent him off to make enquiries.’

  ‘But there are scores of churches in London,’ warned Ackford. ‘It will take him days.’

  ‘I tried to save him the trouble by going to Lambeth House, hoping that they might have a register of all deaths in the capital, but I got short shrift there. They don’t allow random strangers to inspect their records.’

  Ackford laughed. ‘Is that what you are – a random stranger?’

  ‘I’ve been called worse, Gully.’

  ‘You said that there were two possible ways.’

  ‘The second one is to turn to the medical profession. Someone must have signed the death certificate. Mr Parry couldn’t afford the services of a physician but, even as a pauper, he’d have been examined by someone qualified to pronounce on the cause of his death.’

  ‘Knocking on the doors of every physician or doctor in this city would take an age, and there are many of them who simply never divulge confidential details about their patients.’

  ‘I know. The churches remain our best option.’

  ‘Jem will be exhausted when he gets back.’

  ‘Not if he brings good news, Gully. It will lift his spirits.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t find the right churchyard?’

  ‘It’s a result that I won’t even entertain,’ said Peter, ‘because I have complete faith in Jem. He’s always been lucky. Somehow or other, he’ll find it.’

  Facing the chief magistrate was an ordeal at the best of times. Though he was a short, slight, insignificant man in appearance, Eldon Kirkwood took on size, power and dignity whenever he sat in court. Summoned to his office, Yeomans and Hale got the impression that he was twice his actual weight. He had bad news to impart.

  ‘Harry Scattergood has gone,’ he announced.

  ‘Has he been remanded to Newgate?’ asked Yeomans.

  ‘No – he’s escaped.’

  Hale goggled. ‘But that’s impossible, sir.’

  ‘The empty cell would seem to contradict that claim.’

  ‘He can’t have got away,’ said Yeomans, still reeling from the news. ‘I ordered Ruddock to sit outside his cell to watch every move that the prisoner made.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t watch him escaping,’ said Kirkwood. ‘He arrived far too late. Scattergood was long gone.’

  ‘How did he get out?’

  ‘I’m counting on you to tell me that.’

  ‘Did he overpower someone?’

  ‘He didn’t need to, Yeomans. One minute, he was here; the next, he was gone. Nobody saw a thing. Now, unless he sprouted wings and simply flew out of here, there has to be a logical explanation. I want the two of you to examine his cell and come up with the answer.’

  ‘He must have had a means of opening doors,’ said Hale.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Yeomans. ‘He was thoroughly searched before he was locked up. They’d have done everything but strip him naked.’

  ‘Harry was a cunning devil. He always dodged us.’

  ‘There’s no need to bring that up,’ said the other, glaring at him. ‘The main thing is that we weren’t to blame for his escape. In fact, I took steps to prevent it by sending Chevy Ruddock here. If anyone is culpable, it has to be him. Yes, Ruddock has to bear responsibility.’

  Kirkwood silenced him with a raised palm. ‘I’m not apportioning blame to any of the three of you,’ he said. ‘I sent for you so that you can tell me how a man in handcuffs can discard them, unlock the cell door and stroll out of here without anyone catching sight of him.’

  ‘We’ll soon establish what actually happened, sir.’

  ‘Once you’ve done that, I have another task for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want you to find Scattergood again. Bring him back here, bound hand and foot, and laden with the heaviest chains you can find. He’s mocking us,’ he went on, sourly. ‘Wherever he might be, that incorrigible rogue is enjoying a laugh at our expense.’

  At that moment in time, Harry Scattergood was, in fact, pumping away vigorously between the blue-veined thighs of Welsh Mary. At the height of his pleasure, he let out a long, loud yell of triumph then rocked with mirth before flopping down on the obliging young woman beneath him.

  ‘I told you that I’d be back,’ he said, breathlessly.

  ‘You always did keep your promises, Harry.’

  ‘And I always ask for you, my darling.’

  She giggled. ‘I’m glad about that.’

  ‘You’re my favourite, Mary.’

  ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘It won’t be for a while,’ he told her. ‘I escaped from custody. Every Runner in London will be hot on my trail. I’ll have to disappear.’

  ‘You won’t forget me, will you?’

  ‘I could never do that.’ Leaping off the bed, he dressed with remarkable speed, then pulled on his shoes. ‘A word of warning,’ he said. ‘Two gentlemen, who look so alike you can’t tell them apart, might come here searching for me. Say nothing at all to them. Understand?’ She nodded obediently. ‘Good girl.’ He took a last, guzzling kiss. ‘Or – if you do open that delicious little mouth of yours – speak to them in Welsh. That will get rid of them.’

  Jem Huckvale had forgotten just how many churches there were in the city. Over thirty had been destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666, but most had been swiftly rebuilt and new ones had also sprung up. Within the first hour, he’d visited four St Michaels and six dedicated to other saints. Thinking of the twins, Ackford had told him of the parish church of St Peter and St Paul but, since it was in Dagenham, Huckvale hoped that he didn’t have to go that far afield. At each place he’d stopped, he’d spoken to vergers or to curates. In every case, they denied having heard of George Parry or having held his funeral at their respective churches. When he reached his thirteenth church, he learnt something that made him think he might never find Parry’s last resting place.

  The vicar was a white-haired old man who listened patiently to the enquiry, then raised a possibility that had never occurred to Huckvale.

  ‘How do you know Mr Parry is buried in consecrated ground?’

  ‘Where else would he be?’

  ‘There are all sorts of places. If they can’t afford even a cheap funeral, some families may be forced to bury their loved ones in any isolated patch of land they can find.’

  ‘But that’s against the law,’ protested Huckvale.

  ‘It’s also in violation of the Church’s prerogative. Are you certain that this gentleman had a legitimate funeral?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Doubts crept in. ‘At least, I think so.’

  ‘Then it would certainly have been at his parish church.’

  ‘They have no record of that happening.’

  Huckvale thought about the letter he’d been shown by Peter Skillen. Sent to Parry’s daughter, it had simply declared that her father was dead and buried. There was no mention of a funeral. If it had been an unnatural death, he reflected, then the person or persons responsible might have dug a grave in a place where people were unlikely ever to venture. In short, his peregrinations were a complete waste of time. Huckvale’s first impulse was to return to the gallery to say that they’d never find where the man was buried, but his innate stubbornness made him decide to go on.

  ‘You could be on a fool’s errand, young man,’ said the vicar.

  ‘It will be for a worthy cause, sir.’

  ‘I admire your tenacity.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Parry well?’

  ‘I didn’t know him at all,’ said Huckvale, sadly, ‘but I’ve met his daughter. She’s a charming lady and I’ll do everything in my power to help her. We’re convinced that he’s buried somewhere in London. However long it takes, I’m determined to find him.’

  In the wake of Hannah’s departure, Pau
l Skillen was already feeling bereft, but he couldn’t simply abandon his duties at the gallery and go after her. When he joined his brother and Gully Ackford there, they had no difficulty in diagnosing his condition.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ackford. ‘Hannah will return before long.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Peter, ‘and it’s not as if Bath is on the other side of the world.’

  ‘If it was a mere five miles away,’ confessed Paul, ‘I’d still pine.’

  ‘And so you should.’

  ‘We’ve news for you,’ said Ackford. ‘A gentleman I instructed this afternoon in the noble art of self-defence had just come back from Bow Street Magistrates’ Court where he’d been giving evidence against someone who’d unwisely tried to steal his purse. He told me that the place was all abuzz.’

  ‘Why was that, Gully?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Someone had just escaped.’

  ‘It was not—’

  ‘Oh, yes it was – Harry Scattergood has vanished into thin air.’

  ‘If he’s not convicted, we won’t get our reward.’

  ‘We’ll have to catch him all over again,’ said Peter, resignedly.

  ‘It’s easier to catch moonbeams in a jam jar,’ moaned Paul. ‘He led us a merry dance last time.’

  ‘The search will help to keep your mind off Hannah. I’m involved in a case of a missing body, so you’ll have to manage on your own for the time being. It won’t be long before the Runners are hammering on the door, demanding to know where we found Harry in the first place.’

  ‘I’m not giving any help to them,’ said Paul, fiercely. ‘They had their chance to catch him and they failed. I’ll track him down somehow.’

  ‘Before you do that, tell us about Hannah.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ackford, ‘I know that you were concerned for her safety during the journey. Have your fears been allayed?’

  ‘They have, indeed,’ said Paul, relaxing a little. ‘I met the bodyguard assigned to look after her. Cosgrove was in the army, so he clearly knows how to handle a pistol. Not that he’ll need to draw it from its holster, mind you. There have been no reports of highway robbery on that particular route for months,’ he went on. ‘I have no worries about Hannah on that score. She’s in good hands.’

  It was always going to be a testing journey. While efforts had been made to increase the comfort of the passengers by padding their seats, nothing could be done about the roads over which the stagecoach was destined to travel. Rutted, uneven and treacherous, they made the vehicle lurch and shudder at regular intervals. Time and again, Hannah was thrown against Jenny Pye, causing both women to apologise repeatedly to each other and making their male companions regret that they were not seated beside the actress. Cosgrove, meanwhile, was also enduring discomfort on the top of the vehicle. It was swaying to and fro and, when one of its wheels hit a large stone or a deep pothole, it sent tremors through his whole body. Since he was seated at the back of the stagecoach, Cosgrove was facing in the opposite direction to the way they were travelling. He could see nothing of what was ahead, only the road snaking away behind them.

  They were making good time until they came to a hill that rose steeply towards a wooded summit. Though the driver used his whip to get extra effort out of his horses, the stagecoach nevertheless slowed. It was when they got within reach of the top that the attack came. It was so swift, sudden and unexpected that they were all taken unawares. Three masked men cantered out of the trees. One of them stopped his mount in the path of the oncoming stagecoach with a pistol drawn. The driver immediately hauled on the reins with all his strength and produced a barrage of protest from the horses. Before the man beside the driver could reach for the weapon beneath his seat, he found himself staring at the pistol held by the second highwayman.

  As the stagecoach skidded to a halt and sent up a cloud of dust, the third member of the trio went to the back of the vehicle to stifle any resistance there. Cosgrove had been the first to recover. Pulling out his pistol, he discharged it at the third man with a loud bang, narrowly missing his target. In response, the highwayman fired from close range, forcing the bodyguard to drop his pistol with a cry of pain. It was the second of the highwaymen who was their leader. Tall, bolt upright and clad entirely in black, he barked out his orders, motioning with one of the two pistols he held. Everyone was to get out of the vehicle at once. Those who refused would live – or not live – to regret it.

  Terrified by the attack, the passengers got out of, or down from, the vehicle in a panic. Though he alone remained cool in the crisis, Cosgrove moved gingerly, nursing the wounded hand around which he now had a bloodstained handkerchief. The last person to alight was Hannah, who was shaking. Using his other hand to help her out of the coach, Cosgrove gave her a look of profound apology for his inability to protect her. He was then shoved roughly aside by the leader of the highwaymen who’d dismounted to take a closer look at their prisoners. His eyes went straight to Hannah.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said, with a disarming smile, ‘this is a pleasant surprise, Miss Granville.’ He reached forward to flick the scarf back from her neck to reveal the opal necklace. Laughing with delight, he swept off his hat and held it out to her. ‘I’ll relieve you of those baubles, if you don’t mind.’

  Hannah was outraged. ‘They are not baubles,’ she retorted.

  ‘Whatever they are, they belong to us now.’

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

  Putting a hand to the necklace, she stared at him in token defiance. It was a futile response. Clicking his tongue and raising a meaningful eyebrow, he pointed a pistol straight at her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Perseverance finally brought its reward. After hours in the saddle, Jem Huckvale finally had something to show for his efforts. Having been to what seemed like an unending series of churches, he went further afield, riding north and leaving the stench and pandemonium of the city for the fresh air of rural villages. When he reached Islington, he thought it pretty, unspoilt and blissfully tranquil. He drew another blank at St Paul’s Church, then pressed on into the village until he came to St Mary’s, an imposing structure built half a century or more earlier to replace the ancient church that had fallen into ruin. It looked too large, stately and symmetrical to be the burial place of a man who’d reportedly died in abject poverty. Huckvale nevertheless tethered his horse and went across to it.

  Light was fading fast now, and he realised that this might well be the last church he was able to visit before heading back to the gallery to admit that his search had been fruitless. He let himself into the gloomy nave and looked around. Nobody was there. Since every church was obliged to keep a record of births, marriages and deaths in the parish, he hoped that he might be able to look at the appropriate ledger. To his disappointment, the door to the vestry was locked, so his visit had apparently been in vain. Huckvale trudged back down the aisle, footsteps echoing eerily, and went out, intending to ride straight back to the gallery. A banging noise from behind the church then alerted him.

  When he walked to the rear of the building, he found a stocky figure bent double over an upturned wheelbarrow. The man looked up to reveal a face that was almost hidden by a bushy beard and by the long, straggly hair poking down from his filthy cap.

  ‘Evenin’ to you, sir,’ he said. ‘I were just mendin’ this afore it gets too dark. Can I ’elp you?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Huckvale. ‘I wanted to ask about recent burials here, but there’s nobody about.’

  ‘I’m ’ere, sir, and there’s no better man than me.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’m the gravedigger,’ said the other, wheezily. ‘Any grave dug in this churchyard in the last thirty years or more was dug by these two ’ands.’ He held out large, dirty, calloused palms. ‘I always dig well and dig deep.’

  ‘Have there been any funerals lately?’

  ‘Why do you ask, sir?’

  ‘I’m desperate to find where a certain man is buried.’ />
  ‘Name?’

  ‘George Parry.’

  ‘Look no further, sir,’ said the other, pointing a gnarled finger. ‘Mr Parry’s over there, near the wall.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Huckvale, hopes rising. ‘Will you show me?’

  ‘There’s not much to see, sir, just a mound of fresh earth.’

  He led the way between the headstones and the occasional piece of statuary to a plot close to the far wall. It was in the shade of a yew tree. All that Huckvale was interested in was the mound that covered the last remains of Mrs van Emden’s father.

  ‘It were a strange business,’ recalled the gravedigger.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Only one person were ’ere for the funeral.’

  After several hours, they were still shaken by what had happened. The robbery had reminded them just how perilous the open road could be. Three highwaymen had got away with all their valuables and, in the case of Hannah Granville, some of her luggage as well. The one consolation was that the women had escaped any kind of physical abuse. In the eyes of two of the highwaymen, Hannah had seen the burning desire to take full advantage of their plight, but they’d been overruled by their leader, a man who blended courtesy with criminality. At his command, they’d taken their booty and galloped off.

  Along with the other passengers, Hannah was now at a coaching inn where they’d decided to spend the night to recover. There was one bonus. Coaches going in the opposite direction stopped at the inn, enabling her to get a message about their predicament to Paul. Having lost all her money, she was unable to pay the driver to see her letter safely delivered but assured him that he – or any messenger he engaged – would be rewarded by the recipient of the letter.

  Hannah was having a light supper with Jenny Pye in the quietest corner of the taproom. It had been provided free of charge by a sympathetic landlord, shocked to hear of their predicament. Still deeply upset by the robbery, neither had much appetite. The older woman was curious about what was in the letter.