Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  Grigg’s eyelids narrowed. ‘Is there money in it, if I did?’

  Orchard Street ran between Portman Place and Oxford Street. Built in the early years of King George III’s reign, it boasted impressive facades and sought-after town houses. Concealed behind it, however, were properties where only the destitute lived; cramped, malodorous, disease-ridden rookeries, teeming with ragged people engaged in a constant struggle simply to stay alive. Quarrelling, fighting, criminality and drunkenness were common in these slums. It was in one of these overcrowded dwellings that Tom O’Gara’s cousin and family lived. At first glance, the two squalid rooms they occupied seemed little better to O’Gara than the cells at Dartmoor prison but his opinion soon changed. His cousin, Dermot Fallon, was delighted to see him again and introduced him and Moses Dagg to his pretty wife, Mary, and to the confusing litter of children that the couple had managed to produce, all of whom were short, ill-kempt, half-starved and high-spirited. The newcomers found it impossible to put them in chronological order because the children all looked exactly the same age. What they shared was their father’s buck-toothed grin and his combative attitude towards their neighbours.

  Though they’d arrived in the middle of the night, the sailors were given a cordial welcome and offered a part of the floor, which actually had a carpet of sorts on which to sleep. It was not until the next day that they were able to talk at length with their host. Since the ear-splitting din all around them made speech difficult, Fallon took his visitors off to a tavern where they could have a measure of privacy.

  ‘London is the richest city in the world,’ he said, expansively, ‘yet they’ve got me and my family living like pigs. There’s no justice in it, is there?’

  ‘I’m glad you mentioned justice,’ said O’Gara.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s what brought us here, Dermot.’

  ‘And there was I thinking you’d crossed the sea simply to see your cousin,’ teased the other. ‘We can’t offer you much, Tom. We can give you and Moses a place to lay your heads and might even manage a bite of food from time to time. Whatever we have, we’ll share. One thing we can’t get for you, though, is justice. The law is made to punish people like us.’

  ‘We know all about punishment,’ said Dagg, morosely. ‘Tell him, Tom.’

  ‘We’ve escaped from prison,’ admitted O’Gara.

  Fallon gaped. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘It’s only part of the truth, Dermot.’

  ‘Well, I want to hear the whole lot, so I do.’

  O’Gara took a deep breath. ‘It’s difficult to know where to begin.’

  ‘Start with Captain Shortland,’ suggested Dagg.

  ‘Was he your skipper?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘No, he was the black-hearted governor of Dartmoor.’

  ‘He’s the reason we’re here,’ said O’Gara.

  He launched into a long and repetitive account of events since their capture. Aided and sometimes contradicted by Dagg, he talked about the foul conditions, meagre rations and inhuman punishments they’d suffered behind the high prison walls, reserving his most scathing comments for the way that the governor had ordered his men to fire on the prisoners. Fallon shared their indignation and agreed that they had to reveal the full truth to the Prime Minister.

  ‘There’s a problem,’ said O’Gara. ‘I can only scribble and Moses can barely write his name. If we draw up a list of our demands, nobody will even bother to read them. Our report has to look neat enough to attract attention.’

  ‘Can you write proper, Dermot?’ asked Dagg.

  ‘No,’ replied the other. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs and Mary’s had even less education than me. What you need,’ he went on, turning to his cousin, ‘is a scrivener, someone who’ll write out everything in a fine hand.’

  O’Gara was worried. ‘That would cost money, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I know someone who might do it cheap.’

  ‘Can we trust him, though? If he learns that we’re on the run, he’ll be tempted to turn us in and claim the reward.’

  ‘I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,’ said Fallon, tapping his chest. ‘If he breathes a word about the pair of you, I’ll poke his eyes out and cut off his balls, so I will.’ He chortled. ‘That should help to keep his gob shut.’

  When he returned the keys to the owner of the house, Micah Yeomans assured him that the property had been kept under surveillance day and night and that nobody had gained entry to it. He received full payment from Everett Hobday then exchanged farewells with him before stepping out into Upper Brook Street. As soon as the Runner set off home, Alfred Hale fell in beside him.

  ‘What did he say, Micah?’

  ‘He congratulated us on doing our usual thorough job.’

  ‘It wasn’t thorough enough,’ said Hale. ‘We were made to look fools.’

  ‘There was no need for Hobday to know that. In any case, Simon Medlow was the real fool. I’d a mind to leave him dangling there. It would have been no more than he deserved.’

  ‘You said he was the finest confidence trickster alive.’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘The Skillen brothers saw through him at once.’

  ‘That was Ackford’s doing, I fancy. Anyway,’ said Yeomans, irritably, ‘let’s hear no more of our last encounter with them. We have to plan the next one.’

  ‘Will you use Medlow a second time?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Alfred.’

  ‘He might be keen to get his own back.’

  ‘Medlow is no match for them and I’ve no wish to see him trussed up naked for the second time. His prick looked like a diseased turnip. The sight turned my stomach.’

  Lost in contemplation, they strolled on for some while. Both were well known in criminal quarters and more than one person slunk away when he saw the Runners coming. Yeomans enjoyed the power he had to frighten people. It was a mark of his status. It also separated him from Peter and Paul Skillen. They might have their random successes but it was Yeomans and his men who represented law and order on the streets of London.

  Not daring to nudge his companion out of his reverie, Hale kept pace with his long stride and waited for him to break the silence.

  ‘I have it,’ said Yeomans at length.

  ‘I’m listening, Micah.’

  ‘It’s an idea to get back at those vile brothers.’

  ‘The last one failed miserably.’

  ‘We’ll be more careful this time. We have to find their weak spot.’

  ‘They don’t have one,’ complained Hale.

  ‘Everyone has an Achilles heel and so must they. Yes,’ said Yeomans, as he thought it through, ‘we should have done this before. Find a man’s weakness and we can exploit it. That’s your task, Alfred.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Follow one of them. Learn everything you possibly can about him.’

  ‘Which one must I go after?’

  ‘It would be pointless to trail Peter Skillen. He’s a man with no apparent vices. At the end of each day, the only thing he wishes to do is to go home to that beautiful wife of his. In his place, I’d do the same.’

  ‘What about Paul?’

  ‘He’s your man. He’s an inveterate gambler and has an eye for the ladies.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hold that against him.’

  ‘No more would I.’

  ‘Why should I watch him?’

  ‘Paul is more likely to make a mistake and do something we can use to our advantage. Follow him, Alfred,’ urged Yeomans. ‘Cling to him like a limpet. Sooner or later, he’ll give us the ammunition we need.’

  The talk with Charlotte had been at once uncomfortable yet heartening. While taking care not to reveal Hannah’s name, Paul had revealed the depths of his feeling for the actress. Speared on the horns of a dilemma, he could not even begin to contrive his escape. Because she knew nothing about the character of his inamorata, Charlotte had been careful not to give him specific advice. She had mere
ly suggested that he should allow time to pass before he saw her again, giving the lady in question time for her ire to cool. Every close relationship, Charlotte reminded him, involved concessions on both sides and he had to be prepared to give a certain amount of ground. Paul was glad that he’d confided in her. Simply talking it through with his sister-in-law had had a calming effect on him and he was grateful for that. Once he left the shooting gallery, however, he began to doubt the value of a period apart from Hannah Granville. For both their sakes, he needed to be with her and, importantly, be seen with her in order to keep his rivals at bay.

  Early that evening, he set off for the theatre with a large basket of flowers, hoping that the gift would soften her heart towards him. It was well before the time of the performance and she’d given him privileged access to her before. When he presented himself at the theatre, however, his way was blocked by the tall, angular figure of the stage doorkeeper.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve orders to turn everyone away.’

  ‘Miss Granville and I are close friends.’

  ‘A lot of gentlemen claim that honour.’

  ‘It’s true, man,’ insisted Paul, ‘and you know it. You’ve seen us both together and admitted me to her dressing room before. Now let me past at once.’

  ‘I’d lose my job, if I did so.’

  ‘All I wish to do is to give her these flowers.’

  ‘Her express wish is that I’m to accept no gifts on her behalf.’

  ‘That may be true for others but surely not for me. Miss Granville and I have an understanding. Now move aside and let me through.’

  The stage doorkeeper held his ground. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t do that, sir.’

  Paul felt a rush of anger and had to fight against the impulse to brush the man aside. He couldn’t believe that Hannah would bar his entry to her dressing room. Was she acting out of spite or simply reinforcing her ultimatum? If he wanted her enough, she seemed to be saying, he had to change or he would not even be allowed near her. Paul felt sympathy for the stage doorkeeper. The man was only obeying instructions and should not be blamed for that. Taking a step backward, Paul looked down sadly at the flowers.

  ‘Are you married?’ he asked.

  ‘I have been for twenty years or more, sir,’ said the other, contentedly.

  ‘Then take these flowers home to your wife and tell her you love her.’

  After thrusting the basket into the man’s hands, Paul spun on his heel and strode out of the building with his mind in turmoil.

  ‘Where was this, Peter?’

  ‘It was in a lane that Mrs Horner would have had to walk down on her way back to her lodging. It could have been designed for an ambush.’

  ‘And who was this man you caught?’

  ‘His name was Reuben Grigg, a ruffian who preyed on those passing by.’

  ‘He chose the wrong victim when he picked on you,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I was rather insulted that he saw me as a vulnerable target. From his point of view, I suppose,’ decided Peter, ‘I must have looked as if I had money about me. Also, I was evidently a stranger. He assumed I’d be off guard.’

  ‘You are never off guard.’

  He brushed her lips with a kiss. ‘I was when I first set eyes on you, my love.’

  ‘Less flattery and more story, please.’

  ‘Grigg was an awkward fellow. He refused to cooperate at first.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  He smiled. ‘I had to persuade him.’

  They were in their house comparing notes about the day they’d each spent. Peter felt that he’d at last made headway in his search for the missing cleaner. Reuben Grigg had been a denizen of the dark corners of the lane where they’d met. Most of the people who walked down it were too poor to have anything of value on them and too aware of the dangers to be taken unawares. Grigg had first told Peter what he felt the latter wanted to hear so he had to be discouraged from telling lies. The man’s own cudgel proved the ideal asset. By means of judicious blows, Peter had soon knocked the truth out of him.

  ‘He remembered a woman who walked down that lane at night regularly,’ he said, ‘though he’d never accosted her. It may or not have been Anne Horner but one has to ask how many unaccompanied women would venture into such a place. On the night when we know she last left the Home Office, she would have taken that route home at her usual time.’

  ‘What did this man, Grigg, actually see?’

  ‘It’s not so much what he saw as what he heard, Charlotte. There was a scuffle further down the lane, it seems, and he heard a woman scream for help. Her cries were soon muffled.’

  ‘Why didn’t he go to her assistance?’

  ‘Grigg would be more likely to join in the assault than help her.’

  ‘Wasn’t he even curious?’

  ‘He thought it was a lady of the night caterwauling because she hadn’t been paid for her services. That’s not unusual, it appears. All that Grigg was interested in was a likely victim for that cudgel of his.’ Peter grinned. ‘Now he knows what it’s like to feel its sting.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s in custody, pending an appearance in court. As a result of my evidence, he’ll get no mercy. The irony is that, in trying to rob me, he may unwittingly have helped to unearth another crime.’

  ‘Do you really think the woman who screamed was Anne Horner?’

  ‘It’s more than possible, Charlotte. On the particular night, she would have been somewhere in that lane at that time. It was the ideal place to overpower her.’

  ‘Why would anyone wish to do that?’

  ‘I can only guess at their motives.’

  ‘So where do you think she is now, Peter?’

  He was decisive. ‘I believe she’s being held somewhere against her will.’

  The dank cellar was at the rear of the house so her pleas would be unheard by any passers-by. In any case, the woman had warned her that, if she tried to call for help, she would be bound and gagged. A truckle bed occupied a corner and a stinking wooden bucket stood beside it. She had no idea why she was being held or who her gaolers were. When he brought her food, the man never spoke a word. The grating that provided ventilation let in enough light for her to see the bare stone walls covered in mildew and the undulating floor. The stench was unbearable. A small candle gave her the only illumination at night.

  Having lost all track of time, she was in a state of utter bewilderment. All that she could do was to pray again and again for delivery. As she lay on the bed, she thought she heard a noise outside the cellar. She hauled herself to her feet and scurried across to the heavy oak door.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ she cried.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jubal Nason was a sharp-featured man in his fifties with an ill-fitting grey wig, a pronounced squint and a sallow complexion. His back was hunched, his hands skeletal and his manner surly. Compared to his three visitors, he was smartly dressed but his dark suit had faded and the cuffs of his coat were threadbare. Since he’d been dismissed from his job as a lawyer’s clerk, he’d fallen on hard times and iron had entered his soul. Nason was not pleased when Dermot Fallon came to his house with two strangers in tow. He looked at Moses Dagg with especial disdain.

  ‘We’ve a task for you,’ explained Fallon. ‘It’s an important one.’

  ‘Go elsewhere,’ said the other. ‘I’m too busy.’

  ‘You’re never too busy to help an old friend.’

  There was a dry laugh. ‘I’d never call you a friend, Mr Fallon.’

  ‘You were happy enough to shake my hand when I chanced along and saved you from being torn to pieces by that mad dog.’ He turned to Tom O’Gara. ‘There’s gratitude for you! I went to his rescue and he turns his back on me.’

  ‘That’s unfair, Dermot,’ said his cousin, hotly.

  ‘It’s worse than unfair. If I’d known he’d behave like this, I’d not only have let the animal eat him alive, I’d have chee
red him on.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ said Dagg, scowling. ‘He doesn’t look worth saving.’

  Confronted by three menacing visitors, Nason decided that it was not in his interests to annoy them. He manufactured a smile of appeasement. Fallon had indeed saved him from attack by a dog. What he didn’t know was that the Irishman owned the animal and had trained him to threaten people. Nason was simply the latest victim tricked into believing that Fallon had just happened to pass at a critical moment.

  ‘I need a favour,’ said Fallon, making it sound more like a command than a request. He indicated his companions in turn. ‘This is my cousin, Tom O’Gara and that is Moses Dagg. They’ve come all the way from America to meet you.’

  Nason was surly. ‘What can I do for you all?’

  ‘You can mind your manners for a start.’

  ‘I’m not sure we can trust him, Dermot,’ said O’Gara. ‘He looks sly.’

  ‘I agree with Tom,’ said Dagg. ‘He could double-cross us.’

  ‘Mr Nason knows what would happen to him if he did that,’ said Fallon, shooting the man a warning glance. ‘I’d be back here with a whole pack of wild dogs. But don’t be fooled by appearances. I know he looks like a cock-eyed back-stabber but he’s a good scrivener and we need his help.’ He bared ugly teeth in a grin. ‘And he’ll be glad to offer it, won’t you, Mr Nason?’

  The scrivener’s eyes went from one to the other. All three were big, strong and had an edge of desperation about them. Provoking them would be a mistake. At the same time, he was determined not to offer his services for nothing.’

  ‘I’ll need payment,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll get it,’ Fallon promised.

  ‘Pen, ink and paper don’t come free. My time is even more expensive.’

  ‘We’ll judge what it’s worth afterwards.’

  ‘First,’ said O’Gara, stepping forward so that his face was inches from that of the scrivener, ‘we need your solemn vow that you’ll never breathe a word of what we tell you to any living soul. Do we have it?’