Steps to the Gallows

by Edward Marston

  ‘You’re insane to stay here, Mrs Mandrake.’

  ‘People said that when I first opened the shop.’

  ‘Move in with us for a time.’

  ‘That’s a kind offer but I must decline it. On the other hand, I will accept the accommodation for my stock. That worried me even more than the prospect of losing my own life. My prints are my pride and joy. I don’t want them destroyed by fire. Is there any way that I can prevail upon you to store them for me?’

  ‘I’ll do so with pleasure,’ he said.

  ‘And there are some trinkets I’d like you to look after as well.’

  ‘We’ll take whatever you wish and be glad to do so.’

  ‘Thank you, Peter.’ She peered closely at him. ‘It is Peter, isn’t it? Or are you Paul masquerading as your brother?’

  He laughed. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘Paul is masquerading as someone today but it’s not as me. He’s turned tradesman and gone to Thomas Lord’s cricket ground again. Paul told us that he’s hoping his disguise brings rewards.’

  He found it surprisingly easy to get close to Sir Humphrey Coote and his entourage. When they went into the marquee to buy drinks and place bets, Paul was able to get within a couple of yards of them. Most of their comments were about the match and, whenever there was a roar of approval from outside, they ran to the exit to see what had caused it. Mindful of the way he’d upset his friend the other day, Reddish made no remarks about caricatures of Sir Humphrey. He went out of his way to keep his friend in good humour. Hoping to hear something of interest, Paul instead listened to a conversation that filled him with rage.

  ‘Did you have your rendezvous last night?’ asked Reddish with a smirk.

  ‘I did, Gilbert,’ replied Sir Humphrey. ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’

  ‘She was a willing filly, then?’

  ‘They always are. Some of us were born with irresistible charm.’

  ‘You’re not always irresistible.’

  ‘Yes, I am. The fair sex fall before me like rosebuds strewn in my path.’

  ‘What about that actress who rebuffed you?’

  ‘She was merely postponing the time when we have divine congress. I like that in a woman,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It heightens the pleasure.’

  ‘You’ll get no pleasure from Miss Hannah Granville,’ warned Reddish. ‘I’m told that she already has a beau.’

  ‘Then he’ll have to be replaced by a more worthy suitor.’

  Sir Humphrey struck a pose and made his friends shake with mirth. Paul fought hard to control his fury. The fact that Hannah’s name was being mentioned in a derogatory way by a seasoned lecher made him want to strike out. To regain his composure, he walked away and finished the tankard of beer he was holding. The four men then drifted out of the marquee. Paul hurried after them and was in time to catch a reference to one of the other suspects.

  ‘Why did you lend your coach to Penhallurick?’ asked Reddish.

  ‘I owed him a favour.’

  ‘He’s wealthy enough to buy his own coach, Sir Humphrey.’

  ‘Guy would prefer to borrow mine. He’s done it before, actually. He told me that it was in order to impress someone.’

  It was mid-afternoon. Fearon had to wait so long that he wondered if he’d got the time wrong. It was the same spot as before but nobody came for him. As he slouched against a wall, he was quite unaware that Higlett was watching slyly from a hiding place in a porch. The man had kept him waiting the last time they met but the delay was much longer now. A thought stabbed at him. What if their paymaster never showed up? Having got what he’d ordered – the destruction of the print shop – he’d have no more use for Fearon and Higlett. Instead of paying them, he could simply melt away. They had no idea who he was, where he lived and why he hated certain people enough to have them killed. Preoccupied with the notion that he’d been tricked, Fearon didn’t hear the clatter of hooves and rasping sound of wheels on the cobbles. When he looked up and saw the coach, he was caught unawares.

  The door was opened from inside. He ran across to the vehicle and got in.

  ‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said, politely.

  ‘Close the door.’

  Fearon obeyed. ‘We did what you wanted, sir.’

  ‘I only have your word for it.’

  ‘It’s true, sir. The print shop was burnt to the ground.’

  ‘I’ll need to see it with my own eyes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare lie to you, sir.’

  ‘Be quiet until we get there.’

  The man used a stick to hit the roof of the coach twice by way of a signal. There was a snap of reins, a curt command and the vehicle drew away.

  The dramatic events of the night had given Yeomans the courage to face the chief magistrate again. His heroics, he felt, would exonerate him in the man’s eyes. Keeping watch in Covent Garden had not delivered what he’d promised but night duty in Holborn had been far more profitable. He managed to catch Kirkwood during a recess that afternoon and walked into his office with a broad smile. The magistrate studied him.

  ‘What’s happened to your eyebrows?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll come to that, sir.’

  ‘It changes your appearance completely.’

  ‘My wife told me that.’

  ‘I can’t decide if it’s for the better or not. What do you want?’

  ‘First,’ said Yeomans, ‘I must tender an apology.’

  ‘Be quick about it, man. I’ve sentences to pass.’

  ‘We were disappointed during our surveillance of Covent Garden.’

  ‘I was told to expect arrests.’

  ‘Let me finish, please …’

  ‘Then get a move on.’

  Yeomans explained what had happened in Holborn, carefully doctoring his narrative to give himself more prominence. It was he who’d been on duty outside the print shop, he claimed, and he who’d first become aware of the fire, saving lives as a result. When he moved on to a description of the fire itself, his role became even more central. The blaze in his version was several times bigger and the number of those helping to douse it had been reduced to a mere handful. He made it sound as if he’d extinguished the inferno more or less single-handed.

  ‘That’s how my eyebrows came to grief,’ he concluded.

  Kirkwood was anxious. ‘And the lady was uninjured?’

  ‘Thanks to my warning, she was unharmed.’

  ‘Unharmed in body, perhaps, but her mind must be sorely troubled.’

  ‘I didn’t leave until I’d calmed her down, sir.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said the other, hand to his head. ‘This is an unlooked-for turn of events. What does it portend, Yeomans?’

  ‘Mrs Mandrake’s life is in danger,’ said the Runner, ‘yet she won’t leave.’

  ‘The lady must be made to leave.’

  Yeomans grimaced. ‘That’s a labour even Hercules would not take on.’

  ‘What would you advise?’

  ‘The street must be patrolled again at night, sir. She’s up against an enemy who’ll persist until he achieves his aim. Because I was on hand to intervene, the attempt on her life failed.’ His vestigial eyebrows twitched. ‘I regret to say that there’ll be another one.’

  Abel Fearon was starting to enjoy himself. He’d never been driven through the streets of London in a coach before. When he’d been convicted, he’d travelled to Newgate in chains in a rattling cart, sneered and yelled at by pedestrians. They looked at his mode of transport with awe now. It was a satisfying feeling. The man sitting opposite said nothing. He simply averted his gaze. The coach eventually reached Holborn and turned into Middle Row. Fearon sat up with an anticipatory smile on his face. He was about to receive approval and, he was certain, a large amount of money.

  Then the impossible happened. When they passed the print shop, it was still there. Instead of the ruin he’d expected, he saw that, but for the broken window, it was undamaged. To compound his misery, Diane Mandrake was standing on the
pavement, talking to Tite. Fearon was petrified. His companion made no comment. After gazing at the shop and its owner for a few seconds, he let the coach roll on until it turned into a quiet, tree-lined avenue. He used his stick to signal to the coachman. The vehicle came to a halt.

  ‘We lit the fire, sir,’ insisted Fearon. ‘I swear it. When we ran away, it was blazing like hell itself. Nobody could have come out alive from that.’

  ‘You failed me again,’ said the man, coldly. ‘I abhor failure.’

  ‘But we did everything you asked of us.’

  ‘The print shop is still there. The woman still lives. Explain.’

  ‘I can’t, sir. I really can’t.’

  ‘You’re becoming a liability, Fearon.’

  ‘Don’t we get any reward?’

  ‘For what, damn you?’

  ‘We took a big risk for you last night, sir. It was hard work.’

  ‘And what has it achieved?’ The man snapped his fingers. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I still think we deserve some sort of payment.’

  The man thrust his hand inside his coat and pulled out a pistol, clicking back the trigger and holding it against his companion’s forehead. Convinced that he was about to be shot, Fearon began to plead and jabber.

  The man silenced him with a raised palm. His tone was menacing.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’ he asked.

  Paul Skillen didn’t stay for the afternoon session. It grieved him that he was walking away from a cricket match of superlative quality but he’d got all he had expected to glean from Sir Humphrey Coote and, when the man left the ground early, Paul followed suit. On the previous day, Julian Harvester had also been in attendance but he had not turned up this time. Paul had looked for him in all parts of the ground. He was bound to wonder why someone so obsessed by the game of cricket had sacrificed an opportunity to watch a match between teams made up of outstanding players.

  There was another reason why he forced himself to leave. Sir Humphrey’s mention of Hannah Granville still rankled. Deep down, he hoped that it was indeed Sir Humphrey who had hired Paige’s assassin because he relished the idea of being able to overpower and arrest him. The man had designs on Hannah Granville. That made him Paul’s enemy. If it turned out that he was innocent of any involvement in the crimes, there was another way to defend Hannah’s honour.

  Paul could challenge him to a duel.

  Driving it with more consideration for others than Diane ever showed, Peter used her curricle to transport the prints to the safety of his home. Meg Rooke came out to help him unload them. Once the job was done, he drove to the gallery to tell Charlotte and Ackford what had happened. They were astonished to hear that Yeomans had been her saviour.

  ‘It made me feel ashamed,’ said Peter. ‘I should have been on patrol in that street last night. It’s galling to think that Yeomans earned plaudits instead of us.’

  ‘Thank heaven he was there!’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been to one funeral. I don’t wish to go to another.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ackford.

  ‘I’m going to stay the night at the shop.’

  ‘Then you deserve a medal for bravery. I don’t think I could spend a night under the same roof as Mrs Mandrake. She’d have to be in charge.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ said Charlotte, robustly. ‘She’s been in charge of that shop for ten years now and it’s become very successful.’

  ‘I’ve never doubted it.’

  She turned to Peter. ‘What about the others in the shop?’

  ‘The servants were refusing to stay the night until I volunteered. Mr Tite seemed pleased with my offer as well and, eventually, it was accepted.’

  ‘Do you expect another attack?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Peter. ‘The person who’s set on destroying the shop will certainly try again. It symbolises something he detests. Yet he’s unlikely to strike again immediately. He’ll know that the place will be defended at night from now on. He’ll wait until he thinks the danger has gone away.’

  ‘What about Yeomans?’ said Ackford.

  ‘He’s a worthy rival for once. We must show him more respect.’

  ‘We can’t have him doing our job for us.’

  Peter grinned. ‘You sound just like him, Gully. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I must drive the curricle back to Holborn and reclaim my horse. I’ll be back directly.’

  Before he could move, however, there was a bang on the door. When he opened it, Peter was surprised to be looking at a diminutive figure in tattered clothing and a shabby hat. The boy’s smile exposed his rabbit-like teeth.

  ‘Glad I cort ya, Mr Skillen,’ he said. ‘Gorra message for ya, sir.’

  Paul was bewildered. ‘Who are you, lad?’

  ‘I’m Snapper, sir. Ya ’members Snapper.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before. Wait a minute,’ he added as light dawned, ‘I have heard that name before. My brother mentioned a Snapper.’

  ‘Ya mean ya ain’t Mr Skillen?’

  ‘I’m Peter Skillen. The person you met was Paul Skillen.’

  ‘They’re twins,’ explained Charlotte.

  Snapper was amazed. ‘Ya looks juss like ya brother,’ he said, staring at Peter. ‘I gorra twin sister bur Lizzie ain’t nothin’ like me to look at.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Where’s the other Mr Skillen?’

  ‘He’ll be back soon,’ said Ackford. ‘What’s the message, Snapper?’

  ‘Virgo wants to see ’im.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Yeah – ’e’s needed ergent.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was a tiring walk back to the tavern. On previous occasions, Fearon had been dropped off at the spot where he was picked up in the first place. This time, as a mark of disgrace, he was left a long way away from his destination. When he finally got there, he came into the room in a surly and uncommunicative mood.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Higlett.

  His friend ignored him and reached for a flagon of ale. After taking a long swig, he slumped into a chair and stared at the window. Seeing the state he was in, Higlett was hesitant.

  ‘What kept you so long?’ There was no answer. ‘You were gone for ages.’

  Fearon had another mouthful of ale. His mind was miles away. It was several minutes before he even noticed that somebody else was in the room with him. Higlett was watching him open-mouthed.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ snapped Fearon.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ve got things to think about.’

  Higlett smirked. ‘How much did we get?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He owes us money for burning down that shop.’

  ‘It’s still standing.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ said Higlett with passion. ‘There was a big bonfire when we left. How can you say that it’s still standing?’

  ‘We went there.’

  ‘Didn’t he take your word, Abel?’

  ‘He refused. We went to Holborn. The shop was still standing and, even worse, the woman who owns it was out in the street. She didn’t seem to be injured in any way at all.’

  Higlett was baffled. ‘How did she escape the fire?’

  ‘They must have put it out somehow.’

  ‘It was blazing when we left.’

  ‘That’s what I told him.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Fearon remained silent. ‘It was hard work getting over those fences. We could have been seen and caught. Didn’t he realise that? We want paying for the risks we took.’

  ‘I told him that as well.’

  ‘What was his reply?’

  Fearon went off into another trance. His friend quickly wearied of standing there and waiting for answers that never came. He shook his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘Tell me what he said.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, it matters to me,’ said Higlett, confronting him. ‘You
went off in that coach and you didn’t come back for ages. Why not? What happened? There must be something you can tell me.’

  Fearon was roused. ‘How do you know about the coach?’

  ‘It was … just a guess.’

  ‘You followed me, didn’t you? When I left here, you followed me.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ retorted the other, going on the attack. ‘I’m fed up with being the one left behind while you get to meet him and handle any reward. It’s not fair, Abel. What’s the point of being friends if you shut me out all the time?’

  Fearon leapt out of the chair and grabbed him by the throat.

  ‘Be quiet, you frigging idiot!’ he snarled.

  Higlett gasped. ‘You’re hurting me. I can’t breathe.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what he said to me. We let him down again. If we ever did that again, he promised – and he really meant it – that he’d have us strung up naked by our feet then skinned alive before being dipped into a vat of acid. Think about that, Sim. Think about someone slicing bits off your carcass and you’ll see why I came back in the state I did.’ He flung Higlett on to the mattress and stood over him. ‘But I warn you,’ he said, pulling out a dagger and brandishing it in the other man’s face, ‘if you dare to follow me again, I’ll kill you myself and save him the trouble.’

  Paul Skillen returned to the gallery to learn about the summons from the prison. He gave Ackford an attenuated account of events at the cricket ground, taking care to make no reference to Hannah Granville. That was a private matter.

  ‘So you didn’t see Mr Harvester this time?’ said Ackford.

  ‘He wasn’t there, Gully. I searched.’

  ‘Yet you told us that he loved watching cricket. What kept him away?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Paul, ‘but I can tell you what kept Dr Penhallurick away this time. He’s not really interested in the game. It sent him to sleep yesterday. He’d much rather ride around in a coach he borrowed from Sir Humphrey Coote.’

  ‘I thought the doctor was Harvester’s friend.’

  ‘He latches on to anyone with power and wealth.’