Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘Do I have your word?’

  ‘You may have it in writing, if you so wish.’

  The man subjected him to a long, searching stare then chewed his lip before speaking. He told his story in the third person as if it had happened to someone else altogether. Peter heard of a man of good education and unflagging industry who’d worked his way up to a respectable position as a result of his service to the state. He’d married, been a devoted spouse and helped to raise two children. His wife was then struck down with a wasting disease and he nursed her lovingly until the point when he could no longer cope on his own so he’d brought a woman into the house to provide care.

  Peter guessed rightly that this paragon would have a weakness. And so it proved. The man was under such unbearable pressure that he needed some support and he found it in drink. At home and at work, he began to rely on a regular nip of brandy. While it gave him the strength to carry on, it also befuddled him slightly. When he’d had too much to drink on one occasion, temptation had crossed his path.

  The man pressed on, confessing his sin yet absolving himself at the same time. What he’d done was, in his opinion, at once appalling yet forgivable, a betrayal that should arouse condemnation while at the same time being an act of redemption.

  It did not take Peter long to put a name to one of the central characters in the story. He finally understood why there’d been so much money under her bed.

  Anne Horner was now so consumed by guilt that she barely thought about anything else. Instead of seeing herself as a victim, she came round to the view that she was serving a sentence that had been rightly imposed on her. It was a form of penance. She no longer complained or dreamt of escape. Even though it had diminished in quality and quantity, she accepted the food with gratitude. Her gaolers noted the difference in her. When she brought in a meal that day, the woman was curious.

  ‘Something has happened, hasn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it has. I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘And what have you decided?’

  ‘I know why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’

  ‘This is my punishment, isn’t it? Someone put me in here deliberately.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman, ‘we did but it was not to punish you. Our intention is to punish someone else.’

  Anne was bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All will become clear one day.’

  ‘Who are you and why does that man never speak to me?’

  ‘That’s the way it has to be.’

  ‘Why pick on me?’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ said the woman, smiling. ‘You’re an asset.’

  Peter Skillen listened to the long narrative attentively, even though he’d worked out the denouement well before it was reached. In his story, the visitor stressed that nothing improper had actually taken place between the man and the woman. Temptation had flickered but been resisted. What had grown up was a deep and loving friendship that in no way threatened the man’s marriage or the solemn vows by which it was protected. Throughout his tale, the visitor made much of the concept of respectability. He did everything in his power to convince his listener that he had in no way deviated from it.

  ‘Perhaps we could abandon this charade,’ said Peter, pointedly. ‘We both know that you’re a clerk at the Home Office. I remember passing you on the stairs one day. The unnamed woman in your story is Mrs Horner and she’s enduring great suffering because of you. All that you have to contend with is a ransom demand. Her problems are far more serious.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t realise that, Mr Skillen?’

  ‘You claim that nothing untoward occurred between the two of you.’

  ‘On my honour, it didn’t.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to worry about. Tell your wife what you’ve told me and the problem disappears. If they are in no position to cause you embarrassment, the kidnappers will lose their bargaining position.’

  ‘But Anne – Mrs Horner, that is – might be hurt as a result.’

  ‘That’s a separate matter. I first want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you’d have no qualms about repeating what you told me to your wife.’ The man’s eyelids fluttered like butterflies. Peter was blunt. ‘I think that you’re being less than truthful, sir, and on that basis I must turn down your request.’

  ‘No, no, I beg you to help me.’

  ‘I am already hired to find Mrs Horner. She deserves my help.’

  ‘So do I,’ cried the man. ‘Look, I apologise if I’ve been overly mysterious. My work means everything to me, you must appreciate that. If I were dismissed, untold misery would alight on me and my family.’

  ‘What is your damn name?’ demanded Peter. ‘There’s no point in hiding it from me now. I can easily find it out by enquiries at the Home Office.’

  The man nodded in defeat. ‘It’s Beyton.’

  ‘Then please stop trying to arouse pity in me, Mr Beyton. You may as well know that I value Mrs Horner’s safety at a far higher price than I do your domestic harmony. If she’d not been led astray by you, she wouldn’t now be in such danger.’

  ‘I didn’t exactly lead her astray, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘Let’s not quibble about phrases, shall we? Suffice to say that something of significance took place between you and this is the outcome. Mrs Horner is being held somewhere and you’ve had a ransom demand. May I see it, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Beyton, pulling a letter from his pocket and handing it over. ‘As you can see, if the money is not paid, Mrs Horner may be harmed.’

  ‘And your wife will learn some unpalatable truths about her loving husband,’ said Peter, sharply.

  He read the ransom demand. It was short but explicit, asking for a certain amount of money and threatening repercussions if it were not paid. Beyton had been given a short time in which to collect the ransom. Details of when it was to be handed over would be sent to him before too long.

  Peter handed the letter back. ‘This is very troubling.’

  ‘Yes,’ groaned Beyton, ‘and the worst thing is that it’s entirely my fault.’

  Burying his head in his hands, he began to sob quietly. Peter felt no sympathy for him. What he saw was a snivelling clerk who had taken advantage of a servant then insisted that nothing inappropriate had taken place. There was a yawning social gap between them. Peter refused to believe that Anne Horner had either the skill or the inclination to seduce him. The initiative must have come from him and – whether out of pity for the man or from fear that she might lose her job if she refused – she had complied. In trying to introduce elements of romance into his account of the relationship, Beyton had gone too far for Peter. The cleaner had been set on simply because she was there. Frustrated by an arid domestic life and inebriated with brandy, Beyton had lusted after a woman. The clerk finally admitted it.

  ‘I had a power over her,’ he murmured, ‘and I used it. But it was only once or twice,’ he went on, gesticulating with both hands. ‘I was so driven by desperation that I couldn’t help myself. Mrs Horner didn’t dare to resist but she didn’t welcome my advances either. It was shameful, I know. When it was all over, I was disgusted. I forced myself on the poor woman.’

  ‘Then you paid her to keep her mouth shut afterwards.’

  ‘No, no, she refused to take a penny.’

  ‘Then how did the money get into her hands?’

  Beyton was staggered. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I was allowed to search Mrs Horner’s lodging. It was under her bed.’

  ‘I posted the money to her,’ he explained. ‘She tried to give it back to me a couple of times but I rejected it. I thought I owed it to her, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘You owe her a lot more than that,’ said Peter, flatly.

  Beyton was distraught. ‘What must I do?’ he asked. ‘How can I get out of this deep pit I have dug for myself?’

  ‘The first thing you must do is to stop feeling sorr
y for yourself, Mr Beyton. That will advantage nobody.’

  ‘I agree, I agree.’

  ‘You must regain some composure, sir. If you behave like this at the Home Office, you will soon give yourself away. You have many perceptive colleagues, Mr Grocott among them. Let him see you in this state and you are doomed.’

  ‘You are right. I must exercise care.’

  ‘Discharge your duties in the normal way.’

  ‘What about the ransom?’

  ‘You must pay it.’

  ‘But my savings will disappear completely, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘Borrow money. You’re the kind of man who will have wealthy friends.’

  ‘I’d never afford to pay a loan back,’ protested Beyton.

  ‘You won’t have to pay it back,’ said Peter, confidently, ‘because you won’t lose it in the first place. When the exchange is made, I’ll be there to make sure that the kidnapper is caught. The money will be safe, Mrs Horner will be released and you, Mr Beyton, can go home to an ailing wife who will never know how false her husband really is.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘How does that sound, sir?’

  Beyton cringed before him.

  Moses Dagg was not impressed by the venue for the boxing match. It was a disused warehouse by the river with narrow gaps in the walls and even bigger ones in the roof. Sunlight and draughts came in from all directions. Dust hung in the air like a cloud. The ring in which Dagg was to fight was no more than a square of sawdust with four boards around it to hold back the crowd. When he kicked the sawdust in disgust, a bone surfaced with feathers attached to it.

  ‘There was a cock fight here last night,’ explained Fallon. ‘The sawdust soaks up the blood.’

  Dagg inhaled. ‘It stinks in here.’

  ‘It’s no worse than some of the ships we’ve sailed in,’ said O’Gara, cheerily. ‘And it’s a lot better than our cells at Dartmoor.’ He turned to his cousin. ‘Tell us a bit more about the other man.’

  ‘Donkey Johnson is the champion here,’ said Fallon. ‘He’s never been beaten. In fact, I can’t ever remember seeing him knocked down. But then, he’s never had any real competition. He does now. Having watched the way that Moses licked Donal Kearney, he’ll have no trouble winning against Donkey.’

  ‘I want to fight a man,’ said Dagg, ‘not a frigging donkey.’

  ‘If I had a punch like yours, I’d take on a whole herd of donkeys.’

  ‘What about the stake money?’ asked O’Gara.

  ‘Forget about that.’

  ‘It’s a lot of cash to put up, Dermot.’

  ‘I raised it somehow,’ said Fallon, evasively. ‘Everyone will get their money back with interest when Moses wins the fight.’

  ‘We’ll need money to bet on him as well.’

  ‘Leave that to me, Tom. I know men of quality.’

  ‘Then they wouldn’t come here,’ said Dagg, wrinkling his nose. ‘This is a place for drunken riffraff and the lowest scum of the city.’

  ‘Their money is just as good as anything you’d get from the gentry.’

  ‘I still don’t like it here.’

  ‘What I’d really like to see,’ said O’Gara, grinning, ‘is another fight between Moses and Kearney.’

  ‘Donal Kearney is mine,’ declared Fallon. ‘When I have the chance, I’m going to do the whole tenement a favour and rip his ugly head off.’

  ‘Does anyone else know that he was the informer?’

  ‘The word will have got round by now, Tom. Kearney will be treated like a leper. I just hope they leave him alone until I can get my hands on him.’

  He showed them around the warehouse and told them about some of the entertainment he’d seen there. It often ended in the death of an animal or in the serious injuries of a human being. The crowd would be drawn there by blood-lust. It was up to Dagg to supply their needs. The three men were just about to leave when someone appeared in the doorway to block their exit. He was a huge, hideous man in his thirties with a bald head, which was tattoed with battle scars. One of his eyes was higher than the other. Both of them gleamed with pleasure.

  ‘So this is the Black Assassin, is it?’ he sneered.

  ‘Yes,’ retorted Fallon, going up to him. ‘You’re finally going to meet a man who can beat you, Donkey. Make your will before you step into the ring.’

  Donkey Johnson’s laugh was an extended bray and the big teeth that had given him his nickname were exposed for all to see. Dagg was shorter by several inches and looked small beside the man he was about to fight. Dermot Fallon had misled him. Even for someone of Dagg’s ability, beating a man of such size and obvious strength would be an immense challenge. Whoever won the fight, blood would be spilt freely in the sawdust.

  ‘I hate Americans,’ said Johnson, nastily.

  When the three of them walked past him, a mocking bray pursued them.

  Anne Horner was more confused than ever. For the first time since she’d been abducted, she’d had a conversation of sorts with the woman. It had been very puzzling. Though Anne had been described as an asset, she could not understand why. She had no intrinsic value as a person. In fact, the hours of recrimination had left her feeling completely worthless. What did they intend to do with her? Why were they treating her so badly? How long would she be held?

  New questions flooded into her mind. Having spent so much time with introspection, Anne turned her attention to other people. How would her sister be coping with the news of the abduction? What would her landlady do? When would the Home Office decide that she’d just vanished of her own accord and replace her, as if she’d never been there? What of her friends and acquaintances, people she saw in the normal course of a day? How soon would they forget to miss her? Was anyone actually looking for her? Was she important enough to merit a search?

  Anne was then assailed by another question, one that she’d fought off for days because it was so distasteful. How would he react? Since he worked at the Home Office, he’d have been among the first to notice her absence. What had he done about it? Would he really care? Or would he be glad that she’d disappeared out of his life? Could it be that he was in some way responsible for it? Had he wanted her out of the way? Was he paying for her imprisonment? He’d made it clear that it might be better if she gave up her job at the Home Office. The money he’d given her was intended to be ample recompense for the wages she’d forfeit over a lengthy period. But Anne had refused to be paid off and moved out for his benefit. Apart from what had happened between her and David Beyton, she liked every aspect of her work and was determined to continue doing it. Had he decided to remove her by other means?

  The question was unanswerable and, in any case, she was diverted by a sound she’d heard before without quite knowing what it was. She pricked her ears and got as close to the grating as the chain permitted. A minute later, she heard it again.

  It was the same dull thud.

  Once it had started, the persecution of Donal Kearney began to escalate. All sorts of things were left outside his door, including a blood-covered pig’s head. Neighbours refused to acknowledge him and even those to whom he was distantly related severed all links with him. In the middle of a seething mass of humanity, he and his family were outcasts. Because of his treachery, his wife and children suffered as well. It began with insults before moving on to blows. Kearney first of all tried to bully people into letting them alone but there were far too many enemies for intimidation to have any effect. As a last resort, he adopted a different approach, calling on people in the hope of convincing them that he was being unjustly maligned. Most of the time, he had doors slammed in his face but one old man, Hector Lynch, at least allowed him to state his case before coming to a decision.

  ‘I’m here to explain things, Hector.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, Hector,’ said Kearney, earnestly.

  ‘Then who was the rotten bugger?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could’ve been anybody. When the raid took place, I wa
s miles away, doing my job.’

  ‘That’s not what people are saying.’

  ‘Don’t listen to them.’

  ‘They blame you.’

  ‘I wasn’t the informer.’

  ‘We don’t like the sight of a Runner at the best of times,’ said the old man, ‘and we won’t stand for an invasion by the bastards. Someone told them that those two men were here and all the fingers are pointing at you.’

  ‘Dermot Fallon was a friend. I’d never rat on him.’

  ‘That’s two lies for a start. Dermot was never your friend and you’d rat on your own grandmother if you’d a mind to. We know you too well, Donal. If you can’t beat someone in a fair fight, you’ll get your revenge another way, however dirty it has to be. That’s what you did with the black man.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ shouted Kearney. ‘How can I persuade you of that?’

  ‘Ask them.’

  The chimney sweeper blinked. ‘Who?’

  ‘Ask the lads behind you.’

  Kearney swung round to see four brawny young men standing there with menacing expressions. One carried a cudgel but the other three relied on their fists. Before he could even start to reason with them, Kearney was under attack. Punches rained in from all directions and the cudgel delivered a series of hammer blows. Though he tried to fight back, Kearney was soon overpowered and beaten to the ground where he was kicked unmercifully until he was covered in blood and whimpering for mercy.

  The man with the cudgel lifted it to strike again.

  ‘No,’ said the old man, intervening. ‘That’s enough. The person he has to answer to is Dermot Fallon. Let him stay alive until then.’

  Jem Huckvale was delighted to be called back to the shooting gallery. Watching the house belonging to Jubal Nason had been tedious and unrewarding. The man had not emerged at any point and there’d been no visitors. All that Huckvale had to report was that he’d heard sounds of an argument from inside the house with the strident voice of a woman dominating the exchange.