Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘Thank you for bringing me back, Peter,’ he said. ‘If I’d stayed there any longer, I’d have fallen asleep out of boredom.’

  ‘Paul told me he’d sent you there,’ said Peter, ‘but it served no purpose. To all intents and purposes, we may forget that Nason ever existed. Your sharp eyes are needed elsewhere, Jem.’

  Huckvale grinned hopefully. ‘You have other work for me?’

  ‘I will have in due course. Meanwhile, go back to helping Gully.’

  ‘Anything is better than what I have been doing. Where’s Paul?’

  ‘He’s doing exactly what he did before,’ said Peter, ‘and that’s trying to find those men by trawling through Irish communities. Since they’re being led by Dermot Fallon, it’s more than likely that they’ll find refuge with some of his countrymen so Paul will have an opportunity to try out his Irish accent again.’

  ‘It worked,’ said Huckvale. ‘That’s how he tracked Fallon down the first time. You had to rely on evidence given by Nason to get you to that tenement behind Orchard Street but Paul sniffed his way there first.’

  ‘He has a knack of doing things like that, Jem. While he’s taking one route, I’ll be exploring others because I think we’re dealing with a shrewd man in Dermot Fallon. He might actually avoid Irish communities now,’ argued Peter, ‘because he fears that those are the very places that the Runners will start to look. I fancy that he’ll take the two Americans somewhere else altogether.’

  ‘How will you find them, Peter?’

  ‘As ever, it will be by a combination of luck and instinct.’

  ‘What about the search for that missing woman? Has that been forgotten?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Peter. ‘While you were away, I made some progress on that front. At least I now have some understanding of why she was abducted.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  Peter was frugal with the details. Having assured David Beyton that he would act with discretion, he kept the man’s name and position out of the account he gave to Huckvale. He merely told him that Anne Horner was being held by people who were demanding a ransom for her release.

  Huckvale was amazed. ‘But the woman is only a cleaner.’

  ‘She fulfils a vital function, Jem.’

  ‘I thought ransoms were only demanded for people of importance.’

  ‘Mrs Horner is clearly of great importance to someone.’

  ‘Will the money be paid?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ said Peter, enigmatically.

  The sound of gunfire from above made Huckvale look upwards.

  ‘Gully is giving instruction to someone,’ he said. ‘He’s going to be angry with me because I didn’t have time to whiten the target.’

  ‘Tell him that Paul sent you off on an errand.’

  ‘I will. Oh, I meant to tell you that, on my way back here, I came past Paul’s house and that man outside has gone.’

  Peter laughed. ‘I must have frightened him when I crept up behind him. He thought I was Paul and I didn’t disillusion him.’

  ‘That’s two of us who’ve been taken off a tedious duty. You have to give the fellow some credit, though,’ said Huckvale. ‘When you get pushed into the Thames for watching someone’s house, you’ve got a good reason to stay well away from it.’

  Chevy Ruddock was delighted by the message to report to The Peacock. Any break in routine was welcome and he hoped he’d be assigned to other duties. When he got to the inn, however, he was kept waiting a long time because Micah Yeomans was deep in conversation with Alfred Hale and clearly didn’t wish to be disturbed. Ruddock hovered in their vicinity. When he was finally noticed, he came in for a rebuke.

  ‘I expected you earlier,’ complained Yeomans.

  ‘I’ve been here all of twenty minutes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘You and Mr Hale seemed to be busy.’

  ‘You should have made your presence felt, man.’

  ‘What do you have to report?’ asked Hale.

  ‘Very little,’ replied Ruddock. ‘I spent hours watching the house in the certain knowledge that Paul Skillen was inside it then he turned up behind me.’

  ‘How do you know it was him?’

  ‘Who else could it have been, Mr Hale?’

  ‘It might have been his brother, Peter.’

  ‘But he gave me the impression that he was Paul Skillen.’

  ‘Then I’ll wager that he was playing tricks on you,’ said Yeomans, irritably. ‘You’re being taken off that particular duty, Ruddock.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘It hasn’t exactly been a task at which you’ve shone, has it? The fact is that Paul Skillen somehow got to that tenement before we raided it. If you’d shadowed him properly, you could have followed him there then warned us.’

  ‘You told me that I was needed for the raid.’

  ‘Why didn’t you use your initiative?’ scolded Hale.

  ‘I’d never disobey orders.’

  ‘You threw away a golden opportunity to stay on Paul Skillen’s tail.’

  ‘That’s water under the bridge, Alfred,’ said Yeomans, dismissively. ‘And while we’re on the subject of water, I’m transferring you to a different area. From now on, you’ll patrol the Thames.’ Ruddock blanched. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d prefer somewhere else.’

  ‘You just said that you’d never disobey an order.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ruddock, ‘but the river holds bitter memories for me. As you know, I was pushed into it the other day and I can’t swim.’

  ‘You lived to tell the tale,’ said Hale, briskly.

  ‘There’ll be two of you,’ explained Yeomans. ‘We’ve been having a lot of complaints about the rowdiness at an old warehouse where the sweepings of London gather to drink themselves into a stupor. They sometimes have a boxing match there and, when that happens, the place turns into Bedlam.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ asked Ruddock in alarm.

  ‘Impose law and order.’

  ‘What – all on my own?’

  ‘You’ll have a man with you,’ said Yeomans. ‘I just told you that.’

  ‘Two of us can’t control a howling mob, sir.’

  ‘Use your common sense, man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hale, ‘and console yourself with this thought. Patrolling that area will be a lot more interesting than standing outside Paul Skillen’s house and getting shoved into the river!’

  Though he fought hard against the impulse, Paul Skillen was drawn back to the theatre once again, as if by an unseen magnet. Shedding the disguise he’d worn among the Irish, he dressed in his finery before going out. He was soon part of a noisy crowd that streamed into the theatre with high expectations. Paul wondered if their hopes were going to be fulfilled or shattered by Hannah Granville’s performance that evening. All around him, he heard extravagant praise of her talents.

  ‘She’s a genius,’ said one man, ‘a second Sarah Siddons.’

  ‘Nobody can rival her,’ countered his wife.

  ‘Miss Granville can,’ interjected someone nearby. ‘I’ve seen her and she is peerless. Mrs Siddons couldn’t hold a candle to her.’

  ‘I remain to be persuaded,’ said the woman, resolutely.

  ‘My wife is a lady of discernment,’ explained her husband.

  ‘Then she is about to discern a true marvel, sir,’ said the other man. Before moving away, he touched the brim of his hat. ‘I bid you both good evening.’

  Paul tried to shut out the sound of the continuous eulogies because they only served to remind him of what he’d thrown away. Hannah was indeed unique, as much as a person as an actress. Her individuality was remarkable. He knew things about her that none of those around him could even imagine. They were, for the most part, endearing things that made him smile as he recalled them. Less pleasant aspects of her character and behaviour remained dormant in his mind.

  Wh
en Paul took his seat in the stalls, the elderly man beside him gave a nudge.

  ‘Have you seen this play before, sir?’

  ‘No,’ replied Paul, ‘I have not. This is my first time.’

  ‘Then you are about to view the eighth Wonder of the World.’

  ‘I take it that you are no stranger to Venice Preserv’d.’

  The man chortled. ‘I am a true veteran,’ he said, giving another nudge. ‘This will be my fifth visit. You’ll soon see why.’

  Like Paul, the man was on his own. If he’d seen the play on the first occasion in the company of his wife, he’d made sure that she didn’t return with him. Paul sensed that the woman fondly imagined that he was at his club or dining with friends. Indirectly, Hannah Granville had generated a lot of deception in some families as husbands rediscovered the lure of bachelorhood.

  When the play began, the hubbub slowly died away. Belvidera began to cast her spell. Hannah’s performance was markedly better. Paul was ready to concede that. While it fell short of the heights he’d seen her attain, it was more than enough to dazzle and move the audience. Resounding applause greeted the end of the play and she seemed able to enjoy it this time. Having put more effort into her performance, she reclined on the ovation, as if it were a collection of soft feather pillows. When it was all over, Paul collected another nudge from his neighbour.

  ‘What did you think?’ asked the man.

  ‘It was a memorable performance,’ said Paul.

  ‘It certainly stirred memories for me!’

  The man chortled merrily all the way to the exit. Paul hung back, wrestling against the temptation to stand at the stage door again. Hannah had disappointed all of her admirers on the previous occasion by sneaking out of the front door and Paul toyed with the notion of standing on the opposite side of the road in case she reverted to that stratagem. In the end, he was at the mercy of another unseen magnet and it pulled him round to the stage door. Staying well back, so that he couldn’t overhear some of the coarser comments of the waiting suitors, Paul seemed to wait an age for her to appear, each minute charged with remorse and regret. When Hannah finally came, there was a spontaneous burst of applause and the men clustered around her before parting like the Red Sea. Hannah Granville sailed away from the theatre with a sense of triumph but it was not the actress who caught Paul’s eye. It was the handsome young man on whose arm she swept past him. He basked in the envy he was creating and raised his hat to them all in farewell. Paul was both wounded and shocked that it had taken such a short time to replace him. He felt giddy at what he saw as her betrayal. She was no longer his. The last shreds of hope had vanished.

  As so often when he was in a state of despair, Jermyn Street beckoned.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bernard Grocott was among the first to arrive at the Home Office that morning. He was so used to stepping into a room that was spectacularly tidy that he was beginning to take the new servant for granted. Though he was still deeply concerned about Anne Horner’s disappearance, he was more than satisfied with the woman who’d replaced her and, on balance, found Ruth Levitt preferable. Grocott hoped that she might turn out to be a permanent fixture. It was a hope that was shared by David Beyton, though for somewhat different reasons. To spare him embarrassment, he’d wanted Ruth’s predecessor to leave the Home Office altogether. It never crossed his mind that Anne Horner would be forcibly removed and that he would be to blame.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grocott,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Beyton.’

  ‘You asked me to report to you first thing.’

  ‘I did, indeed,’ said Grocott. ‘The Home Secretary is spending the morning with the Prime Minister and he’s asked me to review the security arrangements for the celebrations in Hyde Park. Mr Yeomans has already seen them and given them his blessing but one can never be too careful about such things.’

  ‘I agree, sir.’

  ‘What I need is a sounding board and you have always taken on that role with distinction. That’s why I sent for you.’

  ‘I’m very flattered.’

  In fact, Beyton was feeling rather flustered, struggling to maintain a calm exterior. Ordinarily, he would have felt grateful to be singled out from the other clerks in order to have privileged access to important information concerning the safety of the royal family and the senior members of government. It would be something he could tell his ailing wife to cheer her up. As it was, he was worried about being under Grocott’s scrutiny for some length of time. With so much pain and anguish churning inside him, Beyton was afraid that some of it might show in his face and manner.

  ‘Our major concern, of course,’ said the undersecretary, ‘is the weather.’

  ‘One can’t control that, sir.’

  ‘Alas, no, that feat is beyond even the Duke of Wellington, though you’d never get him to admit it.’

  Beyton rose to a smile. ‘His self-belief is legendary.’

  ‘Battles are never won by doubters.’

  ‘How true, sir!’

  ‘Let us begin, shall we?’

  Grocott shuffled the sheaf of papers on his desk. Page by page, he went through the projected arrangements for the celebrations of the victory at Waterloo. As well as the great and good of England, foreign dignitaries would also be present and their absolute safety had to be guaranteed. Beyton was only half-listening to the endless recital of names and the disposition of the soldiers. All that he was required to do was to give a series of affirmative nods and an occasional word of approval, yet Grocott seemed to feel that his colleague was being very helpful.

  Sitting back in his chair, he studied the clerk for some time.

  ‘Is anything wrong, Beyton?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir.’

  ‘You have a faint air of distraction.’

  ‘My mind has been wholly concentrated on the task in hand,’ said Beyton. ‘It’s been an honour to assist you on such an important matter.’

  ‘I chose you with care,’ said Grocott. ‘Of all the senior clerks, you’re the most industrious and reliable. Every one of the others has his strengths, mind you, but you stand out. In fact,’ he went on, ‘I’m able to confide something that will show you how much I value the quality of your work.’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘My esteemed colleague, Mr Ryecart, has indicated that he wishes to retire from his post as undersecretary here. We will need to find a suitable substitute and I believe that we should look no further than your good self.’

  ‘Heavens!’ cried Beyton, overcome with surprise.

  ‘It’s no more than you deserve.’

  ‘I’m lost for words, sir.’

  ‘The post is not in my gift, of course, but I do have influence with the permanent secretary and I’ve persuaded him that you are the ideal choice. Between the two of us, we should be able to convince Viscount Sidmouth that you should be promoted.’ A warning finger went up. ‘This must remain a well-guarded secret,’ he warned. ‘As and when Mr Ryecart leaves, there’s bound to be fevered speculation among the other clerks. Take no part in it, Beyton.’ Grocott glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Good gracious!’ he said. ‘We’ve been here for hours. Thank you so much for your help.’ Rising to his feet, he extended a hand. ‘And while we’re still alone, allow me to offer you my congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Beyton, getting up for the handshake.

  At a time when he should have been delighted, however, the clerk felt only a sense of foreboding. If the undersecretary had known about Beyton’s clandestine dealings, he would have recommended dismissal rather than promotion. That might still be the clerk’s fate. When he left the room, he stood with his back to the door and thought about what had just happened. Out of four senior clerks, he had been chosen, even leapfrogging over the chief clerk. He was entitled to feel pleasure. As he went back to the room he shared with the other senior clerks, he even permitted himself a quiet smile. As soon as he sat down at his des
k, however, he was brought back to reality with a bump.

  Staring up at him was a letter in a hand he’d seen once before.

  Paul Skillen stripped off his shift and lowered himself into the hip bath of cold water that he’d asked a servant to prepare. Ignoring the chill and the discomfort, he told himself that they were the least that he deserved after a night of recklessness at his favourite gambling hell. He scooped up handfuls of water and let them drop over his head as a penance while he bemoaned his loss of willpower the previous evening. Hannah Granville was a woman with multiple attractions. It was inevitable that she should cope with the loss of one suitor by finding another one to dance attendance on her. When he thought about the new beau, Peter was forced to admit that he had charm, fine apparel and striking good looks. In addition, he had youth on his side. It rankled that Hannah had chosen someone who was five or six years younger. The memory made him wet his head a second time.

  Having woken up very late, he’d been too groggy even to contemplate breakfast. His mouth was dry, his head pounding and his stomach mutinous. All that the bath had done was to bring him fully awake and allow him to see the folly of his actions. Paul had not only drunk too much in the convivial atmosphere in Jermyn Street, he’d contrived to gamble away nearly all the money he’d won when he was last there. It was a tale of unrelieved loss. He’d lost Hannah, he’d lost face, he’d lost resistance to the siren call of the gambling hell, he’d lost all his self-control through excessive drink and he’d lost a sizeable amount of money. Worst of all, however, was the fact that his self-respect had once again withered.

  Wanting to suffer in privacy, he was dismayed when told that his brother had called to see him. Paul was minded to tell his servant to send Peter away with an excuse but he knew that he’d only call on urgent business. He therefore made an effort to repair some of the visible damage inflicted on him at the card table. When he finally staggered downstairs, he felt marginally better. Peter was characteristically frank.

  ‘You look perfectly dreadful, Paul.’