Fugitive From the Grave

by Edward Marston

  ‘Why are you keeping that opal necklace? It’s worth more than anything we have. I say we should play cards for it.’

  ‘If anyone has designs on that piece of jewellery, he’s more than welcome to fight a duel with me. Mark my words, it’s the only way he’ll get it. Well,’ he challenged, looking at the others in turn, ‘is either of you man enough to try?’

  The surly one who’d spoken up cursed under his breath and turned away. Though he felt cheated, he valued his life too much to take on their acknowledged leader. With sword or pistol, he was invincible.

  ‘Right,’ said the tall man, admiring himself in the mirror and flicking some dust off the shoulder of his frock coat, ‘that’s all for the time being. Spend your money sensibly. Don’t draw attention to yourselves by being too free with your booty. We don’t want people asking questions about how you acquired it.’

  ‘When do we meet again?’

  ‘It will be when I send for you. Let the hullabaloo from today’s little venture die down. When word of our ambush gets around, coaches will start to travel with more guards aboard. We’ll wait until they become more lax again.’

  ‘How do we find you?’

  ‘You don’t,’ said their leader, turning to face them. ‘I find you. Now, get out.’

  After looking covetously at the opal necklace, the surly man nodded to his companion, and they gathered up their haul before leaving the room. The leader picked up the one item that he’d kept for himself. It was the valise belonging to Hannah Granville. Made of the finest leather, it was a handsome piece of luggage. He noted that her initials had been delicately sewn into the valise. After rubbing his hands together in anticipation, he opened it up and peered inside.

  ‘Now, Miss Granville,’ he said, with quiet excitement, ‘it looks as if I have something you wear very close to that delectable body of yours.’ Taking out a long, thin, fur-edged petticoat, he stroked it gently. ‘What more can any man ask than the pleasure of running it slowly through his fingers?’

  Peter Skillen didn’t have to go into the hotel on Albemarle Street because she and her footman were waiting for him outside. He got out of the curricle he’d been driving and held the door open for her to get in. Her footman took the rear rumble seat. Peter climbed back on to the vehicle and flicked his whip to set the two horses in motion. Clemency had to raise her voice to hold a conversation with him.

  ‘I’ve been on tenterhooks all night,’ she confided. ‘I’ve been tormenting myself with what we’re about to discover.’

  ‘Let me counsel you against expecting too much.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All that Jem was able to find was where your father was laid to rest. There may be little that the vicar can tell us in addition to that. The person we really need to speak to is the one who turned up at the funeral.’

  ‘It must be someone who knew my father,’ she said. ‘It’s vital that we find this man.’

  Peter turned his head briefly towards her. ‘How do we know that it’s a man?’

  ‘It has to be, surely?’

  ‘It could equally well be a woman, Mrs van Emden.’

  Clemency’s face puckered with anxiety.

  On receipt of Hannah’s fraught letter, all that Paul had wanted to do was gallop through the night to the inn where she was staying. But he had more concern for his horse than that. They’d be travelling a long distance to their destination, so he had to pace the animal and allow it periods of rest when it could quench the thirst it was bound to build up. In spite of this, they made good time and, thankfully, encountered no danger on the road. It was daylight when the coaching inn finally came into sight. Paul used his crop to get a final spurt out of his mount.

  When he reached the cobbled yard of the inn, however, he met with a setback. The ostler who ran out to hold the bridle of his horse told him that the coach he was after had departed well over twenty minutes earlier. If he wanted to catch up to Hannah, therefore, he realised that he had to chase after her. Since she’d already be miles ahead of him, it was too much to ask of his tired horse to gallop in pursuit. Paul decided to hire a horse from the stable and leave his own there to have a well-earned rest. He could return to collect it at a later date. The ostler was glad to do as he was bidden, removing the saddle and harness from one animal to another with remarkable speed. After pressing some coins into the man’s hand, Paul used his heels to spur his new mount into action.

  During the journey to Islington, she was unable to sit still. Clemency kept shifting her position and looking out of the curricle impatiently to see where they were. Peter felt sorry for her. She was clearly still blaming herself for her father’s untimely death.

  ‘There must be a vicarage nearby,’ he told her.

  ‘I have to see the grave first,’ she insisted. ‘I want to pay my respects.’

  ‘Jem described the location to me. We must look for a yew tree growing near the wall of the churchyard.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see it.’

  ‘It won’t be long now, Mrs van Emden.’

  She put a hand to her breast. ‘My search will be over at last.’

  Peter was not as sanguine. Finding where her father was buried, he believed, might only be the start of a search rather than its conclusion. There would be so much more still left to find out. He didn’t want to upset his companion by reminding her of that. It would be cruel to introduce reality at such a delicate moment.

  When the curricle eventually rolled to a halt, they were beside the churchyard. After alighting himself, Peter helped her to get out. His gaze soon picked out the yew tree.

  ‘It’s over there,’ he said, indicating the tree.

  Lifting the hem of her dress, she entered the churchyard and tripped along on her toes. Clemency was impelled by a mingled curiosity and sense of foreboding. As they got close to the spot, she broke into a run and went around the yew tree. Coming to a halt, she let out a scream of horror. Peter ran to her side and saw with dismay what had frightened her into crying out. The grave had been opened and the earth scattered wildly in every direction. While the coffin was still there, its former occupant most certainly was not. The lid had been levered off and cast aside. George Parry had gone. The empty coffin was a grim epitaph. Clemency’s father was the victim of grave robbers. Unable to cope with the enormity of the shock, she wobbled slightly and emitted a low moan before swooning. Reacting quickly, Peter was only just able to catch her before she tumbled into the open grave.

  Although he was weary from his marathon ride, Paul Skillen didn’t give himself a moment’s rest. He galloped on along the road with a blind determination to overhaul the stagecoach on which Hannah Granville was travelling. He could well imagine the fear and anguish she must have suffered and chided himself yet again for not accompanying her to Bath. The sun came out, brightening the countryside all around him, but he hardly noticed the sudden intensity in the various colours. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his mind driving him on, his aching body rising to the challenge. When he crested a hill, he finally had a glimpse of the coach, rumbling on with a cloud of dust in its wake.

  Paul used his crop on the horse’s rump to increase his already fast pace. Convinced that he’d certainly catch them up now, he came up against an unforeseen hazard. Some of those seated on the roof of the stagecoach were looking directly at him. When they saw the desperation with which he was riding, they mistakenly took him for a highwayman and yelled a warning to the driver. The coach picked up even more speed. Paul nevertheless closed on it and was able to pick out the figure of Roderick Cosgrove on the roof. Worried that the bodyguard might try to shoot him, he snatched off his hat and waved it in the air. To Paul’s relief, Cosgrove recognised him and told the driver they were not in danger. The stagecoach slowly lost its forward impetus and, when they came to a flat piece of land, it veered off the road and slowed to a halt. Heads came out of the vehicle to see what had caused the unscheduled stop.

  One of them belong
ed to Hannah. When she saw Paul approaching, she heaved a sigh of relief and flung open the door. He reached the coach, reined in his horse, then leapt from the saddle to help her out.

  ‘You got my letter, after all,’ she said.

  ‘I came as soon as I read it.’

  ‘You’re running with perspiration and covered in dust.’

  ‘That’s immaterial, my love. How are you? That’s what I want to know. Were you hurt? Threatened? Mistreated in any way?’

  ‘All is well now that you’re here,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I want to know everything.’

  ‘And so you shall.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who the highwaymen were?’

  ‘We can’t hold up the coach like this, Paul. I’m not the only passenger and we’ve lost enough time, as it is.’

  ‘Then I’ll delay you no longer.’

  ‘Ride on with us to Bath and I promise you’ll hear the full story.’

  After kissing her hand, he helped her back into the vehicle.

  The Reverend Hubert Corke, vicar of the parish church of St Mary’s, was a tall, slender, hollow-cheeked man in his sixties with a natural dignity. Peter, Clemency and the footman were invited in. She was offered a glass of wine to revive her. They were in the drawing room of the vicarage, a large, comfortable, well-proportioned room with a crucifix over the mantelpiece and devotional paintings on the walls. Only when his female visitor seemed to have calmed down did the vicar speak.

  ‘We meet in unfortunate circumstances, Mrs van Emden,’ he said. ‘While I’m pleased to meet the daughter of George Parry, I regret the shock you must have had when you saw the grave.’

  She was aghast. ‘Who could have done such a thing? It’s inhuman.’

  ‘Unhappily,’ said Peter, ‘it’s all too common. There’s such a demand in the medical profession for cadavers for dissection that an army of grave robbers has sprung up.’

  ‘The worst of it is,’ added Corke, ‘that they are sometimes called resurrectionists, a word that lends their work an undeserved spiritual significance. It’s a grotesque appellation. In stealing bodies from their last resting place, they are committing acts that are simultaneously evil and blasphemous.’

  ‘Has this ever happened here before?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No – thank God.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us how Mr Parry came to be there in the first place – if, that is,’ he said, with a glance at Clemency, ‘Mrs van Emden feels able to hear the full details.’

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ she said, nodding.

  ‘It’s a strange tale,’ said the vicar, apologetically. ‘I must warn you about that in advance. In all my years in the church, I’ve never seen the like. What happened was this: almost a fortnight ago, a gentleman was riding through Islington when he caught sight of someone underneath a hedge. Thinking it was some desperate soul who’d slept in the field all night, he went to investigate. What he found,’ continued Corke, ‘was a man so close to death that he was unable to speak or move of his own accord. The gentleman came to the vicarage for help.’

  ‘Who was this kind person?’ asked Peter.

  ‘The name he gave was Alderson – Mr Sebastian Alderson. I sent for the doctor and we repaired to the place where the man still lay. He was, alas, beyond help. By the time we’d brought him back here, he was fading fast. He died in the night.’

  ‘What was the cause of death?’ asked Clemency.

  ‘The doctor said it was a mixture of malnutrition and a bad chest infection. He never stopped coughing. From the condition of his clothing, it was evident that he’d been sleeping rough for a long time. You couldn’t help but pity him.’

  ‘How did you know it was my father?’

  ‘We didn’t, Mrs van Emden. We had no idea what his family situation was. All that we had was his name.’

  ‘And how did you discover that?’

  ‘It was on a piece of paper in his pocket. In fact,’ said Corke, ‘it was virtually the only thing he had in his possession.’

  ‘Let me go back for a moment to Mr Alderson,’ said Peter. ‘What manner of man was he?’

  ‘He was a true Christian. Most people seeing someone cowering under a hedge would be too cautious even to approach him, still less to summon help. Mr Alderson was different. Having made the discovery, he took an interest in the deceased and – when we were unable to find out anything at all about him – he insisted on paying for the funeral.’

  ‘That was very generous. How old was Mr Alderson?’

  ‘He’d be in his forties, I suppose, Mr Skillen. He seems to be a man of independent wealth and the freedom to go where he wishes, yet he found time to take an interest in a poor, lonely, dying man.’

  ‘I must thank him,’ said Clemency, impressed by what she’d heard. ‘Where does Mr Alderson live?’

  ‘He has a house in High Barnet and was visiting friends in the city.’

  ‘Could you furnish me with his address?’

  ‘You can have it gladly.’

  ‘You told us,’ resumed Peter, ‘that you were unable to learn anything at all about Mr Parry.’

  ‘I sent out letters here, there and everywhere, Mr Skillen, but nobody was able to help. And we were up against time, you must remember. A once-healthy body can be kept for some time after death but one in such a sad condition is more difficult to preserve. When the doctor recommended burial,’ he went on, ‘I discussed the matter with my bishop and he agreed that we should follow the advice.’

  ‘How did you get in touch with Mr Alderson?’

  ‘I wrote to the address he’d given me and told him of our decision. As you can imagine, the funeral was a rather dispiriting affair. George Parry was consigned to his grave with only a complete stranger to mourn him.’

  It was too much for Clemency. Overcome with grief, she pulled out a handkerchief and began to sob into it. While Peter put a consoling arm around her, the vicar left the room and returned with his wife, a practical old woman who took charge of Clemency, talking softly to her, then shepherding her slowly out of the room.

  ‘My wife has a gift for offering comfort,’ said the vicar.

  ‘The wonder of it is that Mrs van Emden has managed to hold in her emotions for so long. Though she did faint at the graveside, she somehow managed to rally.’

  ‘That was admirable. However, now that we’re alone, I can give you certain details that I thought it best to keep back.’

  He went on to tell Peter about the doctor’s examination of the dying man. His body was badly bruised and his face was covered in dried blood. He didn’t have a single penny to his name.

  ‘We felt that he’d been set on by blackguards of some kind,’ said the vicar. ‘It’s by the grace of God that he fell into the tender hands of Mr Alderson. I saw the corpse when it was being prepared for burial. I tell you, Mr Skillen, the fiends who dug him up will not get much for their pains. Professors of anatomy prefer to dissect bodies that were once in a far healthier state.’ He looked hopefully at his visitor. ‘Is there any chance of discovering to whom the cadaver was sold?’

  ‘If there is,’ affirmed Peter, ‘we’ll find it. Meanwhile, I must ask a favour of you. In addition to Mr Alderson’s address, there are two things I’d like. The first is the name of the undertaker hired for the funeral.’

  ‘What’s the second request?’

  ‘When you found Mr Parry’s name, did you keep the piece of paper on which it was written?’

  ‘Of course, I did,’ replied the vicar. ‘It’s in a drawer in my study. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll fetch it instantly.’

  Peter was left to mull over what he’d been told. Crossing to the window, he looked out at the churchyard and wondered how Clemency’s father had come to end up there. Had he not been rescued from under a hedge, he would certainly have rotted away and been vulnerable to predators. His injuries showed that he’d been badly beaten by someone, distressing information that Peter resolved to keep from the man’s daug
hter. One thing brought solace: at the very end of his life, Peter reflected, George Parry had been shown some sympathy and kindness.

  The vicar came back into the room with a sheet of paper.

  ‘This is what we found in his pocket,’ he said, handing it over.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘When I first saw it, I wondered if he was one of those unfortunates born deaf and dumb. We’ve had people like that calling here from time to time. They speak with their hands or hold up a card to explain what their deficiencies are. The deaf live in private worlds.’

  Peter was in a private world of his own at the moment. Five words were written on a piece of paper and they jumped out at him.

  MY NAME IS GEORGE PARRY

  He recognised the lettering at once. He’d seen it on an identical sheet of stationery. The hand that had written the terse message had also sent word of the man’s death and burial to his daughter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Who told them where to find him?’ asked Hale.

  ‘They always guard their sources carefully.’

  ‘Someone must have seen him in that tavern we visited yesterday.’

  ‘I’m not convinced he was ever there in the first place,’ said Yeomans, ruefully. ‘I fancy that Huckvale sent us off to Southwark out of mischief. I’d like to wring his neck.’

  ‘So what do we do next, Micah?’

  ‘We squeeze our informers until the blood seeps out. One of them must have some idea where Harry Scattergood goes to ground.’

  They were seated in the Peacock Inn, drinking a restorative pint after their latest failure and wondering how they could get the upper hand over the Skillen brothers.

  ‘We must eclipse them somehow,’ said Yeomans.

  ‘There’s one simple way to do that, Micah.’

  ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘Why battle against them when we can fight side by side? All we have to do is recruit them. Those brothers would make excellent Runners.’