Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘I had hoped that the Skillen brothers would have found her by now.’

  ‘They will – you may bank on it. They will.’

  ‘I thought you’d diverted their energies to the search for the two American fugitives.’

  ‘Yes, I did, but Horner will not be abandoned. Peter Skillen, in particular, will not let that matter rest. He’s a resolute man which is why I employ him so much.’

  ‘In this instance, my lord,’ said Grocott, ‘you may have over-employed him.’

  ‘I don’t believe that it’s possible to do that.’

  The undersecretary drew up a chair beside that of the Home Secretary and worked through the remaining correspondence with him. It was largely of a routine nature and there were no other reports of violence in the shires. Both men were all too aware of the problems caused by the ending of the long war with France. Discharged soldiers had found no employment waiting for them and had become fractious. Clubs of working men and of dissident members of the middle class had been formed to foment trouble. Agitators had popped up in the major cities and there were even voices in parliament calling for radical reform. To a dyed-in-the-wool reactionary like Sidmouth, it was all very disturbing. Grocott, too, was troubled, well aware of what was bubbling away beneath the apparently placid surface of English life.

  A tap on the door interrupted them. A clerk entered with the news that they had a visitor who insisted on seeing them urgently on an important manner. When he heard that the visitor was Micah Yeomans, the Home Secretary asked for him to be admitted at once. The Bow Street Runner was soon standing before him with a smile as broad as the Thames on his face. Greetings were exchanged.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, my lord,’ said Yeomans.

  ‘You are not given to overstatement, Mr Yeomans. When you talk of urgency, something of significance has invariably happened.’

  ‘It has certainly done so in this case.’

  ‘May we know what it is?’ asked Grocott.

  ‘First, let me ask a question. Have Peter and Paul Skillen managed to complete their most recent assignment?’

  ‘Why do you wish to know that?’

  ‘All will become clear in a moment.’

  ‘Then the answer is that the twin brothers have yet to meet with success.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Yeomans, grinning complacently.

  ‘Why do you find that so amusing?’ wondered Sidmouth. ‘Their investigation is related to my safety. Is a threat to my life something which has a comical appeal to you, Mr Yeomans?’

  ‘No, no,’ insisted the Runner, adjusting his features into an expression of deep solemnity. ‘Your safety is of paramount concern to me and my men.’

  ‘Peter and Paul Skillen subscribe to that feeling as well.’

  ‘We felt that they needed some help, my lord.’

  ‘Did they ask for it?’

  ‘No, but we have provided it gratis.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Yeomans,’ said Grocott with light sarcasm. ‘It’s a pity that you didn’t offer the same assistance to them when they arrested Ned Greet. You’d been after the rogue for several months. He’d never have been caught, if the Skillen brothers had not stepped in.’

  Yeomans was needled. ‘That’s a matter of opinion, Mr Grocott.’

  ‘I’ve just given you mine.’

  ‘It accords with my own view,’ added Sidmouth, ‘but we digress. At the risk of seeming to jog your elbow, I must ask why exactly you are here.’

  ‘We’ve found them, sir,’ said Yeomans, thrusting out his chest.

  ‘You’ve found whom?’

  ‘We’ve located the American fugitives.’

  ‘That’s very heartening,’ said Sidmouth. ‘Have they been apprehended?’

  ‘Not as yet but they soon will be. It’s taking time to round up enough men. The place where O’Gara and Dagg are being hidden is a haunt for Irishmen. They can be obstreperous, my lord. We need to go in force.’

  ‘I approve of that.’

  ‘I just wanted to be able to put your mind at rest.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done so, Mr Yeomans. I thank you.’

  ‘I add my thanks,’ said Grocott, ‘though it might have been more sensible to arrest these villains before you boasted about it to the Home Secretary. We don’t doubt your ability to catch them and we congratulate you on finding out where they’ve been concealed all this time. How did you contrive that?’

  ‘We have our methods,’ said Yeomans with a cryptic smile.

  ‘Since you need plenty of support,’ said Sidmouth, ‘I take it that you’ll be calling on the Skillen brothers to lend a hand.’

  Micah Yeomans swelled up with righteous indignation.

  ‘We don’t need them, my lord,’ he asserted. ‘They had their chance and they failed to take it. While the Skillens are still searching in vain, we will catch the fugitives and put them behind bars.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On the walk back home, Jubal Nason hoped that the fugitives would heed his warning and flee the tenement instantly. If they were caught, his chances of survival were slim. O’Gara and Dagg might not name him but Dermot Fallon certainly would. He had a spiteful streak and he would want to drag Nason down with them. It was the former clerk’s own fault. That’s what made it so sickening. He was the unwitting architect of his own downfall. It grieved him that he’d been so gullible. When Nason was attacked in Oxford Street, by what he thought was a mad dog, Fallon’s appearance had not been fortuitous. It was carefully timed. In driving the dog away, he’d ingratiated himself with Nason who, apart from thanking him profusely, had actually pressed some money into his hand. The Irishman had seen him as the unwary pedestrian that he was and pounced on him, a memory that now scalded his brain. Nason chastised himself for being so easily taken in by a clever trickster and for making himself vulnerable to a second approach by Fallon.

  No comfort awaited him at home. He would have to invent a story to tell his flint-hearted wife, who was bound to ask what fee he’d earned while he was away. If he told her the truth about the situation in which he’d become embroiled, he’d get no sympathy. Posy Nason was far more likely to admonish him in the most hostile terms and maintain a ceaseless rant about his grave shortcomings as a husband and provider. When he turned into his street, therefore, his pace immediately slackened to a trudge. Reluctant to return home, he was tempted to walk past the house and enjoy another hour or so of freedom from the domestic desolation that lay within its walls. In the event, his courage failed him. Drawn ineluctably back to the house, he began to rehearse his excuses.

  When he let himself in, his wife came bustling down the stairs with her statutory frown replaced by the kind of benign smile he’d not seen on her face since their wedding day. Nason backed away in confusion.

  ‘A gentleman has called to see you, Jubal.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s come to engage your services.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He’s ready to pay well.’

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘He’s been waiting far too long,’ she said, pushing him towards the stairs. ‘Go on up there and do business with him.’

  Nason mounted the steps with trepidation. Gentlemen were not in the habit of seeking his expertise. He dealt mostly with the lower orders, ignorant people who wanted him to write letters on their behalf or advise them about minor points of law. Educated clients were rare.

  ‘How do you do?’ he said, entering the room.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Nason,’ said the visitor, rising from the chair. ‘My name is Peter Skillen and I believe that you can help me.’

  There was no handshake. Nason was too nervous to offer one and Peter kept his hands clasped behind his back. After they’d weighed each other up, Peter sat down again. Nason shuffled his feet.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Skillen?’

  ‘I need information about some of
your clients.’

  ‘Then you’ve come to the wrong place,’ said Nason, stuffily. ‘I regret to say that I’m unable to help you. Good day to you, sir.’

  ‘This is an exceptional case.’

  ‘To my mind, there is no such thing. I will not break a bond.’

  ‘Then you must prepare to end your days on the scaffold, Mr Nason,’ said Peter, coldly. ‘When you get there, you can renew your acquaintance with Thomas O’Gara and Moses Dagg.’

  Nason was stunned. Eyes glassy and legs unsteady, he collapsed onto the stool in the corner of the room. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow and his breathing became laboured. Having tried to save his skin by warning the fugitives to hide elsewhere, he’d come back home only to face arrest. His upper lip began to twitch ungovernably.

  ‘Who are you?’ he croaked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Peter. ‘I could be friend or foe.’

  ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘I saw the document that you drafted, Mr Nason.’

  ‘You must be mistaken, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I think not. You have a very distinctive hand. Your wife was kind enough to show me other examples of it. When I studied the document sent to Viscount Sidmouth, I noted its idiosyncrasies. They are present in everything you write. I know that you must have delivered it to the Home Office yourself because O’Gara and Dagg are strangers to London and would have no idea where the building was. You, on the other hand, most definitely would.’ He smiled. ‘Am I right, sir?’

  ‘They made me do it, sir,’ wailed Nason. ‘I was forced into it.’

  ‘Why did O’Gara and Dagg turn to you?’

  ‘They didn’t, Mr Skillen. Dermot Fallon brought them here. He’s O’Gara’s cousin and as villainous a man as you could wish to meet.’

  ‘You’d better tell me the whole story.’

  Mastering his nerves, Nason tried to compose his thoughts. There was no hope of deceiving his visitor with a plausible tale. The man knew too much. Also, there was a steely authority in his gaze that made Nason uneasy. Only the full truth would suffice. He began slowly and gathered pace as he went along. Nothing was omitted. He explained why he’d been dismissed by the lawyer for whom he’d worked and how difficult it was to earn a regular income now that his reputation had been stained. He also described how he’d been gulled by Fallon when apparently at the mercy of a mad dog. That incident had led to the Irishman’s second appearance in his life.

  ‘I rue the day that I met that silver-tongued rogue,’ he said, vehemently.

  ‘I don’t blame you, Mr Nason.’

  ‘If he hadn’t singled me out as a victim, I wouldn’t have been involved in any way with escaped prisoners from Dartmoor. They were three desperate men, sir. I was too frightened to turn them down.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Peter. ‘What puzzles me is why – having done their bidding – you didn’t report them so that they could be arrested.’

  ‘I was threatened with repercussions.’

  ‘What manner did they take?’

  ‘Fallon said that, if I dared to betray them, his friends would hang me up naked to skin me alive and do vile things to my wife that I couldn’t, in the name of decency, repeat. It was no idle threat, Mr Skillen. I was terrified.’ He eyed Peter anxiously. ‘You know it all now, sir.’

  ‘Then the first thing I must do is to congratulate you.’

  Nason was astonished. ‘Congratulate me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘what you produced was an extraordinary document, far better than anything the fugitives could have managed by themselves. The narrative was crystal clear, the demands were supported by evidence and the whole thing was couched in your inimitable handwriting. Only one thing besmirched it and that was the threat against the life of the Home Secretary.’

  ‘I begged them to leave that out, sir, but they refused.’

  ‘O’Gara and Dagg were too naive. In trying to get recompense for what they allege is one appalling crime, they offered to commit another. We do not live in the Old Testament. A life for a life is not an acceptable dictum in a civilised society. And, of course, they chose the wrong target. Viscount Sidmouth is not the governor of Dartmoor, nor can he be held responsible for the things that happened there. You should have advised them as much.’

  ‘The Home Secretary is the symbol of law and order in this country,’ said Nason. ‘That was enough for them. Fallon was all for threatening the Prime Minister as well, but I put a stop to that.’

  ‘What of the allegations put by O’Gara and Dagg?’

  ‘I believed them wholeheartedly.’

  ‘That comes through in the document.’

  ‘I sympathised with their plight but – hand on heart – I can assure you that I do not condone what they plan to do if their demands are not met.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Concealing the whereabouts of escaped prisoners is a heinous crime.’

  ‘They were living with Fallon in a tenement behind Orchard Street but I’ve not long returned from there, having warned them that the newspaper was carrying a description of them and offering a reward for their capture. As a result,’ said Nason, ‘they may well have fled to another refuge. Where that might be, I have no idea.’

  ‘What drove you to warn them – concern for their safety or for your own?’

  ‘Unhappily, the one is fettered to the other.’

  Peter sat back and studied him shrewdly. Nason was a despicable man in many ways: weak, untrustworthy and sly. Being alone with him in such a small space was an unpleasant experience. He reeked of failure. Yet he was plainly no conspirator. What he’d done for O’Gara and Dagg had been done under duress. That being the case, Peter wondered if the man really deserved to be broken on the wheels of justice.

  For his part, Nason was thinking of his wife. The gentleman she’d let so enthusiastically into the house might be about to take her husband out of it forever. He could imagine only too clearly how Posy would react when she learnt that a clerk who’d made his living out of the law could now face its ultimate sanction.

  Peter’s face was inscrutable. Nason knelt before him and grabbed his hands.

  ‘What’s to become of me, sir?’

  ‘I’m still grappling with another question,’ said Peter, thoughtfully. ‘Should I be your friend or your foe?’

  Anne Horner had worked out her plan. The woman was her means of escape. There was no point in even talking to the man. He ignored her completely but his accomplice had at least spoken to their prisoner. That showed a measure of sympathy. The man usually delivered the meals and the food was surprisingly good. On some evenings, she was even given the treat of a glass of wine, something she never had in the normal course of her life. The problem with the meals was that they were irregular. Gaps of varying lengths appeared between them. On one occasion she’d been left for seven hours without food. By way of compensation, they’d given her an additional meal late the same evening.

  The dungeon was not just holding her against her will. It was depressing her spirit. Anne had been forced to wear the same clothing every day and to make use of the bucket. She felt dirty, embarrassed and debased. Action simply had to be taken. It was the man who brought her breakfast and who emptied the slops in the bucket. A long interval then followed. When it came to an end, Anne heard daintier footsteps coming down the cellar steps. The woman was there at last. Opportunity beckoned.

  ‘Stand back from the door!’ ordered the woman.

  ‘That’s what I have done,’ said Anne.

  The bolt was drawn back and the door creaked open. Holding a tray, the woman made sure that Anne was standing against the far wall before she came in.

  ‘There may be some more wine this evening,’ she promised.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We’ve no reason to make this any more unpleasant than it has to be.’

  ‘Why are you keeping me here?’

/>   The woman clicked her tongue. ‘You know better than to ask that.’

  She put the tray down on the table. During the seconds when her back was turned, Anne shot across the cellar, dived through the door, slammed it shut and pushed home the bolt. Ignoring the cries of rage from the woman, she crept up the steps, gingerly opened the door at the top and peered out. There was nobody about. She went into the kitchen, opened the rear door and ran out into the garden. The sense of freedom was invigorating.

  Anne had decided exactly what she was going to say. Pulling her head back, she opened her mouth wide and tried to call for help. But the words simply would not come. Deprived of speech for so long, she struggled to find the words and to give them full volume. Instead of an ear-splitting yell, all that she could produce was a pathetic squeak and even that was soon muffled as a hand closed over her mouth and a man’s arm tightened around her neck.

  Struggling wildly to get free, Anne was dragged back downstairs.

  Charlotte Skillen was seated at the desk in the shooting gallery and leafing through the book in which appointments were listed. She looked up when Gully Ackford came into the room. Though he’d be sparring for the past half an hour, he was breathing easily and completely unruffled. There was nothing whatsoever to suggest he’d been engaged in physical activity.

  ‘Did you have a good lesson with Mr Stryder?’ she asked.

  ‘I had a lot of pleasure, I know that.’

  ‘Is there any improvement?’

  ‘None at all,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Benedict Stryder is the worst pupil I’ve ever had. When I teach him a new aspect to the noble art, I discover that he’s forgotten all the other ones. That’s a sad reflection on me, I suppose. I try my best but he defeats me. In the ring, however,’ he added, ‘I always defeat him. In thirty minutes, he didn’t land a telling punch.’

  ‘Suggest that he takes up shooting instead.’

  ‘He’s as blind as a bat, Charlotte.’

  ‘What about fencing, then, or even archery?’