Fugitive From the Grave

by Edward Marston

  Yeomans snorted. ‘You have a habit of coming up with truly nonsensical ideas, Alfred,’ he said, scornfully, ‘but that one is far and away the most ridiculous. They’d never take orders from us.’

  ‘They might if they knew how much they could earn.’

  ‘They already make a small fortune in reward money.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hale, ‘but they could still be tempted by all the extra cash we make over and above our wages. Private commissions have lined our pockets for years.’

  ‘I’m not letting that pair have a sniff of those,’ said Yeomans, possessively. ‘They’re rewards for our status. Besides, there’s something you haven’t considered, and that’s Mr Kirkwood. If those twins were allowed to become Runners and were seen by the chief magistrate as being more effective than us, we’d be demoted and they’d hold the whip hand over us. Is that what you want?’

  Hale sagged. ‘No, Micah,’ he said. ‘I never thought of that.’ When he saw someone entering the room, he rallied. ‘Here’s Chevy Ruddock with a smile on his face. I think he has good news for us.’

  Ruddock marched across to them as if expecting applause.

  ‘Well,’ said Yeomans. ‘Have there been any sightings of Harry?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Ruddock, ‘but I’ve learnt something that will please you. Three highwaymen robbed a coach on the road to Bristol yesterday.’

  ‘Why should we take the slightest interest in that? It’s well outside our territory.’

  ‘I have a friend who works at the Flying Horse.’

  ‘Spare us details of your private life.’

  ‘But this is relevant, I promise you. Davey, my friend, told me that one of the passengers in that coach was Miss Hannah Granville, the famous actress. He saw her arriving at the inn yesterday with a certain person. Do you catch my drift, sir?’

  ‘I do,’ said Hale, grinning. ‘That certain person was Paul Skillen. If Miss Granville is in any kind of trouble, he’d fly to her side at once. This is good news, Micah. He could be away from London for days.’

  ‘His brother is still here,’ complained Yeomans.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Ruddock, ‘but he wasn’t at the gallery yesterday when we called for details of where Harry Scattergood was caught. Don’t you remember what Gully Ackford told us? He said that Peter Skillen had his hands full, looking for a missing person. In other words, neither of the twins will be able to get in our way.’

  ‘This is good news,’ conceded Yeomans. ‘You deserve a tankard of ale for bringing it.’ Ruddock beamed. ‘Buy one for Alfred and me while you’re at it.’ The younger man grimaced. ‘In the search for Harry Scattergood,’ Yeomans went on, ‘we have a clear field. So let’s drink up, then go and find that devious little bastard.’

  Deciding that it was wise to quit London for a while, Harry Scattergood was in St Albans, riding slowly around the town and looking for likely targets. When he found the district where the more prosperous citizens lived, his face lit up. The houses would present no obstacle to him. All that he had to do was familiarise himself with the town so that he could move about it easily after dark. He’d come to the right place. It was positively brimming with rich pickings. The only thing it lacked was the stimulating presence of Welsh Mary in his bed.

  On the way to the undertaker, Peter suggested that, since she’d been so shaken by what they’d found, it might be better if Clemency remained in the carriage.

  ‘It’s no place for a woman,’ he argued.

  ‘I’m the daughter of a man I loved very deeply,’ she said, ‘and I want to know everything we can find out about what happened to him.’

  ‘You might hear some rather unsavoury details.’

  ‘I’m not as fragile as I may appear, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘Then I withdraw my suggestion,’ said Peter, courteously. ‘We’ll visit this fellow together.’

  Islington was known for the quality of its milk and the purity of its water. Much of the land was given over to dairy farming, but what attracted visitors most to the village – apart from its tea gardens and its glorious parks – was its spa. It was ironic that George Parry had perished near a place whose water had medicinal properties that might even have revived him.

  Mokey Hiscox, the undertaker, lived in a house almost a mile from the village. When they arrived there, they could hear the sound of hammering in the large, rickety shed set apart from the dwelling. Peter hoped that the mere sight of the place might deter Clemency from entering it but she was adamant. If there was anything new to hear about the funeral, she wanted to be present. As they walked closer to the shed, they heard another noise. It was the rhythmical clink of a chisel on stone. Peter banged on the door with his fist and waited. There was no response. He therefore grasped the knob and found that the door opened. After ushering Clemency inside, he went after her.

  Three people looked across at them. Hiscox, a stooping man with a fringe beard, had been working on a new coffin and put down his hammer. His wife, an emaciated creature, was the monumental mason in the family, chiselling a block of marble into the shape of an angel. She stopped to stare at the newcomers. But it was the third person who caught their attention. Seated cross-legged on a table was a moon-faced girl with a board across her knees on which was a piece of paper. Two things struck them at once. She seemed far too young to be the child of such elderly parents and she was suffering from some kind of disability. Her head seemed too large for the little body that was permanently twisted out of shape. She gave them a half-witted grin of welcome, then returned to her drawing.

  Hiscox came across to them and spoke with practised solemnity.

  ‘You ’ave my profound sympathy on your loss,’ he said. ‘I’m Mokey ’Iscox and this is my wife, Matilda, and that’s our daughter, Sally.’ He wiped the back of his hand under his nose. ‘When is the funeral due, may I ask?’

  ‘It’s already taken place,’ said Peter, indicating Clemency. ‘Mrs van Emden’s father, George Parry, was buried recently in St Mary’s Church, Islington.’

  ‘I remembers it well, sir.’

  ‘Unhappily, the grave has been opened and the body removed.’

  ‘Dear God!’ exclaimed the wife.

  ‘We’ve spoken to the vicar and heard all that he could tell us. Since you took charge of the body and attended the funeral, we’d like to know if you have anything to add.’

  ‘It was a sad business,’ recalled Hiscox. ‘I’ve never seen a corpse in so bad a state. We did what we could – Matilda sees to that kind of thing – but we couldn’t make him look anything but wasted away.’

  ‘What happened to his effects?’ asked Clemency.

  ‘Mr Parry didn’t ’ave none, Miss. When I picked him up from the vicarage, ’e was wearing an old nightgown as the vicar’d given ’im for the sake of decency. Your father’s clothes stank so much, they burnt ’em.’

  Peter could sense how upset Clemency was getting and wished he could get her out of there so that he could press Hiscox for more detail. It was, however, impossible. Letting her take over the questioning, Peter glanced across at the girl. She was looking at them intently before gazing down at the paper. Sally Hiscox lifted her head after a few moments, then looked away once more.

  ‘What my ’usband tells you is right,’ said Matilda, intervening. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but your father was no more than a bag of bones. We can prove it if you like.’

  ‘How can you possibly do that?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Sally can show you.’

  ‘She’s not like other children,’ said Hiscox, quietly, ‘but we love ’er no less for that. The one thing that Sal can do is draw. It’s ’er passion. Show ’em, Sal.’

  The girl gave them another toothy grin and held up the piece of paper on which she’d been drawing. Before they’d arrived, she’d been working on portraits of her parents. Two new faces had now been added. Peter and Clemency were startled to recognise each other. Their portraits were crude and inexact but, with relatively few lines, t
he girl had somehow caught their essence. They were looking at real talent, an unexpected counterpoint to the handicaps that fate had visited on her.

  While Peter was alarmed at the thought of the girl being allowed to view the dead bodies routinely brought in, he saw that it might just be of advantage to them. He glanced at Clemency and she nodded, ratifying the question she knew he was about to ask.

  ‘Does your daughter keep the drawings she makes?’

  ‘She’d never part with them, sir,’ replied Hiscox.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ added his wife. ‘Come with me, Sal. The lady and gentleman want to see some more of your work.’

  Lifting the girl off the table, she took her by the hand and led her slowly out. Peter and Clemency winced when they saw that she had a pronounced limp. How such a child could produce work of that quality was baffling. They thought it such a tragedy that her gift was limited to the production of portraits of her parents and drawings of corpses. And yet Sal was immensely proud of her achievements. When she returned with her mother, she had a large sheaf of drawings under her arm. Placing them on the table, she began to sort them out.

  ‘It was that man with the broken nose, Sal,’ said her father. ‘That’s what they want to see. Find ’im for us.’

  ‘My father had no broken nose,’ said Clemency.

  ‘Oh, yes, ’e did – and a missing ear as well.’

  Peter saw her shudder slightly and put out a steadying hand.

  ‘Perhaps we should go,’ he suggested. ‘Do you really want to see the macabre doodles of a young child?’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then this is Mr Parry,’ said Matilda, finding the appropriate portrait. ‘Show it to the lady, Sal.’

  Holding both sides of the paper, the girl held it aloft. Much more time had gone into the drawing than into the sketchy likenesses of Peter and Clemency. There was considerable detail. The body lay on its back in the coffin, eyes closed and arms crossed over its chest. The broken nose and missing ear were apparent, and there were other salient features.

  Clemency let out a cry that blended shock with disgust.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Peter.

  ‘That’s not my father!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s nothing at all like him, Mr Skillen,’ she said, firmly. ‘He was a handsome man when he was younger, whereas this fellow is ugly to the point of being repulsive.’ She put both hands up to her face. ‘I’ve had the most dreadful thought.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘If this drawing is anywhere close to a true likeness, then the man they buried was an impostor.’

  ‘That raises an interesting possibility, Mrs van Emden.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘Your father may still be alive.’

  While the city was no longer quite as fashionable as it had been forty years earlier, Bath still exerted an attraction for the rich, titled and leisured. At heart, it remained what it had always been – a place of frivolity, fashion, social nuances and posturing dandies. When they reached the White Hart, the city’s well-known coaching inn, Hannah was the first to alight, aided by Paul Skillen, who’d dismounted to run across to the vehicle. Neither Hannah nor Jenny Pye had the slightest interest in viewing the delights of Bath. Both of them simply wanted to go to the hotel in order to rest after the long and troublesome journey from London.

  Rooms had been reserved for them at an establishment within easy walking distance of the theatre. Hannah’s suite was the larger and more luxurious, Jenny’s being small and functional by comparison. The first thing that greeted the actress in her room was a basket of fresh flowers and an effusive note from the theatre manager, commiserating with her over the robbery and assuring her that concern for her safety would now be his priority. Paul had been restrained yet attentive while they had company. The moment they were alone together, however, he swept her up in his arms and kissed away some of her distress. They adjourned to the elegant two-seater sofa and sat entwined.

  ‘Tell me everything, my darling,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I insist on hearing every syllable of it.’

  Paul was not simply hoping that, in going over the details of her ordeal, she might somehow draw some of the poison out of it. He knew that he’d also be treated to a private performance from a sublime actress. Hannah held nothing back, embellishing her narrative with gestures, vocal tricks and a whole battery of facial expressions. While she’d been desperately worried about her own fate at the time, she spared a thought for the other passengers, including Cosgrove.

  ‘He was fortunate they didn’t shoot him on the spot,’ she said. ‘Had their leader not forbidden it, the others would have punished him for trying to fight back. As for what might have happened to us …’

  Her eyes rolled and she wrapped her arms around her body in a display of defence. Paul needed no elaboration. There were rumours of female travellers being subjected to rape, humiliation, even torture at the hands of highwaymen. Thanks to the leader of this particular gang, the women had been spared violation. In Paul’s eyes, that didn’t lessen the severity of their crime.

  ‘All three are destined for the noose,’ he said.

  ‘But we have no idea who they are, Paul.’

  ‘That’s not true, Hannah. From what you’ve told me, it’s clear that the man in charge poses as a gentleman when he’s not robbing coaches. Where better to do that than here in Bath? There’s another telling feature about him. He’s a cultured man who is fond of the theatre. He identified you at a glance.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he turned up at one of your performances.’

  She started. ‘What a frightening thought!’

  ‘Be grateful that he is patently an admirer of yours. It may bring him within reach of me. As for those other rogues,’ said Paul, throbbing with anger, ‘I’ll get their names out of him if I have to tear the loathsome devil apart limb by limb with my bare hands.’

  It was late morning before Gully Ackford and Jem Huckvale could stop work for some rest and refreshment. When they joined Charlotte, they found that she had food and drink prepared for them.

  ‘There may be long days ahead for both of you,’ she warned. ‘Paul is probably in Bath by now and unlikely to stir from Hannah’s side until he’s certain that she’s in no danger.’

  ‘That’s not enough for him,’ said Ackford. ‘Your brother-in-law will not be happy until he’s tracked down the highwaymen who robbed her coach.’

  ‘How can he possibly do that?’ asked Huckvale.

  ‘He’ll find a way somehow, Jem.’

  ‘I’d love to be there to help him.’

  ‘You’re needed here,’ said Charlotte. ‘That’s what I meant when I talked about extra work falling upon you and Gully. There’ll be no help from Paul in the foreseeable future and Peter is preoccupied with the search for Mrs van Emden’s father.’

  ‘I found him in Islington – what was left of him, that is.’

  ‘She’ll want to know how he came to be there.’

  ‘I keep thinking about Mr van Emden,’ said Ackford. ‘Why isn’t he here with his wife?’

  ‘She explained that,’ said Charlotte. ‘He’s very busy.’

  ‘Rich men can always make time for things of importance and I’d have thought that his wife’s search was very important.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t like Mr Parry,’ suggested Huckvale.

  ‘That wasn’t the impression Mrs van Emden gave us,’ recalled Charlotte. ‘She told us that her husband was as anxious as she was to be reconciled with her father.’

  ‘Then he should offer her proper support.’

  ‘What do you mean, Jem?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘when I first met her, she was completely lost and the only person with her was Jacob, that young Dutchman who speaks very little English. I think her husband should
have sent her off with a maidservant and at least two able men who spoke our language fluently. I’m not married myself,’ he continued, ‘but if I was, I’d take more care of my wife than Mr van Emden has.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ said Charlotte.

  Ackford grinned. ‘You’re going to be an excellent husband, Jem.’

  He winked at Charlotte and she suppressed a smile. They both knew how fond Huckvale was of Meg Rooke, the pretty young servant who lived with her and Peter. Some sort of understanding had grown up between Huckvale and the girl. Whether or not it would blossom into marriage, it was too soon to tell.

  ‘Put it this way,’ said Huckvale, reinforcing his argument, ‘if Peter sent you off to Amsterdam, would your only companion be a man who didn’t speak a word of Dutch?’

  ‘Peter would come with me and, if we were likely to be there some time, I’d take Meg Rooke.’ She saw Huckvale blush slightly. ‘No, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Jem is right. Mr van Emden is definitely letting his wife down.’

  Clemency was stunned. She sat in the curricle and stared unseeingly ahead of her. Hopes of finding her father’s grave had been cruelly dashed. Instead of getting the answer she sought, she’d been left with even more questions. Peter Skillen made no attempt to speak to her, prepared to wait as long as was necessary for her to come out of her daze. Understanding how she must feel, he felt profoundly sorry.

  Eventually, her face turned to him.

  ‘What is going on, Mr Skillen?’ she asked, despairingly.

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Do you really think my father could still be alive?’

  ‘It’s one explanation, but there are probably others.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘it could be that the man in that grave really was named George Parry. It’s not an unusual name. What’s happened is that we were brought here by an unfortunate coincidence.’