Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘That is an optical illusion, dear brother.’

  ‘I recognise the cloven hooves of Jermyn Street when I see them stamped all over your face. How much did you lose?’

  ‘Let’s not discuss that,’ said Paul, sinking into a chair. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I suspect that I’m in a far better condition than you.’

  ‘What of my revered sister-in-law?’

  ‘Charlotte sends her love,’ said Peter, ‘but I’m not here solely as my wife’s emissary. There’s been an interesting development.’

  Paul showed interest for the first time. ‘You know where the fugitives are?’

  ‘Not yet, I fear. The development relates to the disappearance of Mrs Horner. I now know the motive that lies behind it.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m hoping to find out before too long.’

  Speaking slowly so that his brother could follow what was being said, Peter told him about the ransom demand. He revealed neither the name nor the status of David Beyton and made no mention of his relationship to the missing woman. The pertinent fact was that money was going to be handed over and Peter was determined to be there to retrieve it and to arrest the kidnapper. Though he appeared to be still in a daze, Paul had obviously listened with care.

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Peter.’

  ‘I’ve told you all that you need to know.’

  ‘It’s absurd,’ said Paul. ‘Who would pay money for the release of a servant?’

  ‘This person would.’

  ‘Then he must be a close relative or a dear friend. Or is it conceivable that he might actually be her lover?’

  ‘He is not her lover,’ said Peter, unwilling to dignify what had happened between Beyton and Anne Horner as an act of love. ‘For some reason, he feels a deep obligation to her.’

  ‘But you’re not going to disclose what that obligation is.’

  ‘I’d be breaking a confidence, Paul.’

  ‘Then I’ll harass you no more. Do you wish me to be involved?’

  ‘No,’ said Peter. ‘One of us must continue the search for O’Gara and Dagg. You are best placed to do that. You can mingle with the Irish far more easily than I could ever manage. If I need assistance, I’ll call on Jem.’

  ‘Do you have any clues as to who sent that ransom note?’

  ‘I’m not well versed in calligraphy but I have the feeling that it was written by a woman. I say that because it was oddly reminiscent of Charlotte’s handwriting.’

  Paul guffawed. ‘Since when has Charlotte been penning ransom demands?’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I wish I hadn’t done that,’ he moaned. ‘My skull is splitting apart.’

  Peter was unsympathetic. ‘If you’re going to spend so much time among the Irish,’ he warned, ‘you’d better learn to hold your drink. And if you must play cards for money, at least stay sober while you do so. That way you’d be more aware of your losses and quit before they became too punitive.’

  ‘Forget about my financial problems. Let’s turn to Mr Anonymous. A tidy sum is being demanded by way of ransom. Can he afford it?’

  ‘He’ll have to afford it somehow, Paul.’

  During an afternoon lull, David Beyton asked for a little time off to visit his bank. He’d already managed to send details of the second letter to Peter Skillen but he had to raise the money himself. On the walk to the bank, he debated how that might best be done. As well as his salary as a senior clerk, Beyton had a comfortable private income. Thrifty to the point of being parsimonious, he’d built up substantial savings at the bank. The only time he’d drawn on those savings was when he’d had a crisis of conscience over his treatment of Anne Horner. The money was in no way payment for services rendered. That would have insulted her. Beyton had been at pains to explain that it was a means of assuaging his guilt and providing enough money for her to retire from her job at the Home Office. To his chagrin, she’d insisted on staying there, as an immovable reminder to him of what he’d done to her when in his cups. Every time she saw him, she offered the money back but he steadfastly refused it and it remained with her.

  Beyton could not understand her mentality. According to Peter Skillen, she kept the money under her bed instead of using it to pay for better lodging and giving up work altogether. His relationship with the necessary woman, he now realised, had been doomed. They’d been watched and that thought was unnerving in itself. Someone had become aware of what was going on between them. Even though Beyton had tried his best to be secretive, a pair of eyes had somehow seen what was happening. The clerk had blatantly lied to Peter Skillen, telling him that sexual intercourse had only occurred once or twice. He’d justified the deceit by arguing to himself that there had only been two occasions inside the Home Office. Other meetings had taken place in what he’d believed to be discreet hotels. Evidently, they were followed to one of them and the purpose of their visit there discovered.

  That was not something he would ever divulge to his bank manager, a God-fearing family man who would need another explanation for the sudden withdrawal of funds. By the time he’d reached the bank, Beyton had worked out his excuse.

  ‘I wish to take my beloved wife abroad,’ he said, uxoriously.

  ‘Is she able to travel?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Holland. Her physician recommends it. Because the sea air is so good for her, we go to the coast whenever possible but a complete change of scene might act as a tonic for her. Now that hostilities have at last ceased, of course, France is a possibility but my mind veers towards Switzerland.’

  ‘I’ve heard good reports of the country, Mr Beyton.’

  ‘I want nothing but the best for my wife.’

  Ebenezer Holland was a rotund man in his fifties with the appearance and manner of a prince of the church. Beyton had often envisaged him with a mitre on his head and a cope around his shoulders. He’d even persuaded himself that there was the faintest aroma of frankincense in the manager’s office.

  ‘Why do you need the money at such short notice?’ asked Holland.

  ‘I’ve promised to hand it over to the man who will organise our travels for us. It’s in the nature of a large deposit, you see. Other clients of his have allowed him to make expensive arrangements then changed their mind about going on holiday and left him out of pocket. I believe in fair dealing,’ Beyton went on. ‘It’s a principle of which I’m sure you’ll approve.’

  ‘I do so wholeheartedly.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘In dealings with me, you’ve acted with the utmost integrity.’

  But the manager was not yet ready to give his episcopal blessing and release the money. He probed away gently for several minutes and Beyton had to embroider his story about some non-existent foreign travel. While his client was talking, Holland consulted a ledger.

  ‘You and Mrs Beyton have been exemplary clients of mine,’ he said. ‘In other words, you’ve both remained solvent and made no undue demands on the bank. The largest deposit, I see, is still in the name of your wife. It has been with us for several years and accrued an appreciable amount of interest.’

  ‘I would never touch my wife’s money,’ said Beyton, piously.

  ‘Marriage to the dear lady puts it within your reach.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant, Mr Holland.’

  ‘If you say so,’ returned the other. ‘As to the money, I will have it ready for collection tomorrow morning.’

  Beyton was disappointed. ‘I’d hoped to take it away with me.’

  ‘Another night will make no difference, surely.’

  ‘You are right,’ said the clerk, pretending to be was happy with the arrangement. ‘I’ll call here tomorrow.’

  ‘How is life in the higher echelons of government?’

  ‘It has its drawbacks, Mr Holland.’

  ‘Public service must bring rewards of the heart.’

  Beyton smiled but he was squirming inside.

  Even in daylight, the ramshackle wa
rehouse had an aura of danger about it. Since he’d been told to be wary of it, Chevy Ruddock made a point of locating it when he went on patrol. Surrounded by litter, it stood beside the river like a ghost of its former self. Ruddock eyed it with suspicion.

  ‘That’s the place, Bill,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that, Chevy. I’ve been here before.’

  ‘Have you seen any trouble?’

  ‘I’ve seen nothing else. Whenever there’s a dog fight, a cock fight or something else on there, the place is in uproar and we can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘Mr Yeomans told me to impose law and order.’

  ‘Then he’s talking out of his you-know-what.’

  William Filbert gave a throaty laugh. He was a tubby man in his fifties with ruddy cheeks and a drooping moustache. Having been a member of the foot patrol for many years, he’d learnt how to cope with difficult situations.

  ‘The trick is to wait,’ he explained. ‘If you see two villains knocking lumps out of each other, never try to arrest them because, if you do, as sure as the sun rises, they’ll both turn on you. No, Chevy, you wait quietly until one has battered the other senseless and is puffing like a grampus himself, then you move in. Let a man tire himself out before you arrest him.’

  ‘That’s not always possible, Bill.’

  ‘It’s not possible here, I grant you,’ said Filbert. ‘That warehouse is like the seventh circle of hell some nights. When people spill out of there, there’ll be a dozen brawls at the same time. That’s when you use your common sense and walk past as quickly as you can. Impose law and order? Yeomans must be joking. It’d be nothing short of suicide.’

  ‘What about the rest of the river bank?’

  ‘You have to watch your back, Chevy. Water rats are everywhere and I mean the two-legged ones as tall as you and me. They come out at night to sniff and nibble.’

  Ruddock didn’t like what he was hearing. He’d been on patrol before in the sort of residential areas where there was comparatively little trouble. The Thames was very different. It was at once the city’s lifeline with the world and its cesspool. Inns and ordinaries lined its banks. Brothels and gaming houses offered entertainment and false promise. Vibrant by day, it was even more hazardous at night. The dilapidated warehouse was a symbol of the dark underbelly of the capital.

  As they strolled on side by side, they were met by what looked at first like a small child. A man’s deep voice came from its throat and they realised that they were talking to a dwarf in ragged attire and with a cap pulled down over his forehead.

  ‘Good day to ya, gintlemin,’ he said, obsequiously. ‘I’ve good news for ya.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ruddock.

  ‘Be rand ’ere termorra noight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a big fight on.’

  ‘There’s always fights along the river,’ said Filbert.

  ‘This one is spishul,’ said the dwarf. ‘Be at the ware’ause termorra.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Donkey Johns’n is goin’ to beat the Black Assassin.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Johnson before,’ said Filbert. ‘He beats everyone.’

  The dwarf extended a palm. ‘I’m tekkin’ bets that ’e’ll eat the man alive. Want to ’ave a wager, gints?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘It’d be easy money for ya.’

  ‘It’d be even easier money for you, you scoundrel,’ said Filbert, pushing him rudely aside. ‘If we were stupid enough to place a bet, we’d never see a penny of our winnings. Be off, before we arrest you for trying to defraud us.’

  ‘I’m as ’onest as the day is long,’ protested the dwarf. ‘I’ve been tekkin’ bets for years and I allus pays art. Come on, gints. I’ll give ya good odds.’

  ‘And I’ll give you a good kick up the arse if you keep bothering us. You’re a public nuisance. Crawl back into whichever hole in the ground you sneaked out of.’

  Filbert walked off with Ruddock at his side. Neither of them saw the repertoire of crude gestures being made behind their backs by the angry dwarf.

  ‘You were very harsh with him, Bill,’ observed Ruddock.

  ‘It’s the only language they understand.’

  ‘Who is this Donkey Johnson?’

  ‘He’s a bloodthirsty bruiser who’ll take on any man for money and knock his brains out to please the crowd. I’ve been past here before when Johnson is fighting. The noise from that warehouse is deafening.’

  ‘Is he going to win tomorrow’s fight, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Filbert. ‘I don’t know who this Black Assassin is but, when it’s all over, his friends will be collecting money for his funeral.’

  Moses Dagg had two valuable attributes as a boxer. He had a punch that could knock most men unconscious if it landed in the right place and he was extremely nimble. As they sparred in the sawdust-strewn area in the warehouse, Tom O’Gara was made all too aware of his friend’s skills. Dagg was so light on his feet that he was able to dodge any punches that O’Gara threw at him. In fact, the latter spent most of the time hitting fresh air. His frustration made him try even harder but Dagg was equal to anything that came at him, ducking and weaving and, when he had to take a blow, fending it off expertly with his forearms. When O’Gara was panting for breath, his friend brought an end to his opponent’s misery by delivering an uppercut that caught him on the chin. O’Gara sank to the floor as if he’d been poleaxed.

  ‘That was wonderful!’ said Fallon, clapping his hands.

  ‘I don’t think Tom would agree,’ said Dagg, stooping over his friend. ‘Give me a hand to get him up again.’

  They hauled him to his feet then lowered him into a chair. Fallon had a bucket of cold water standing by and he laughed as he poured it over the loser’s head. O’Gara slowly recovered.

  ‘What happened?’ he said, rubbing his chin.

  ‘Moses put you to sleep.’

  ‘It was like being kicked by a horse.’

  ‘Horses are stronger than donkeys,’ said Fallon, ‘as Johnson will find out tomorrow. He’ll have the surprise of his life.’

  ‘He looked slow to me,’ said Dagg.

  ‘Yes, Moses, he is. While you prance on your toes, Donkey Johnson lumbers. The trouble is that you’re not only fighting him. If he starts to struggle – and I’ve seen him in difficulties before – he forces his opponent up against the boards so that his friends can get in some sly punches from behind. Remember that. Don’t let him pin you to the boards.’

  ‘Point out who these friends are,’ said O’Gara, grimly, ‘and I’ll make sure they don’t interfere. I’m not having Moses attacked from behind. Anything else he should know, Dermot?’

  ‘Johnson spits and bites.’

  ‘I’ve met plenty who’ve done both,’ said Dagg, ‘so I’m used to it.’

  ‘And there’s no holds barred so he’ll try to wrestle you to the ground and use his feet on you. Watch out for his heavy boots.’

  ‘They’ll slow him down.’

  ‘Moses will dance rings round him,’ said O’Gara.

  ‘Johnson’ll come charging out at the bell,’ predicted Fallon, ‘and try to finish you off very quickly because he’ll soon be short of breath. Tire him out by moving him around then go in and finish him off.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Dagg.

  ‘One last thing – we go to the fight with weapons. If things get out of control, we’ll have trouble. I’ll bring daggers and shillelaghs for both of you.’

  ‘We couldn’t do this without you, Dermot.’

  ‘No,’ said Dagg, ‘we owe you thanks.’

  Fallon grinned. ‘I’m the one who should be thanking you. Moses. I’ll not only get a share of the prize money, there’ll be winnings to collect from the wagers I place. The pair of you will have more than enough money to pay for your passage back to America.’

  ‘We’re not going until we’ve finished our business here.’
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  ‘That’s right,’ said O’Gara, ‘our friends are still locked up in Dartmoor. We want justice for them and for us. And you should remember that you want justice as well, Dermot. You have to collect a huge debt from someone.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten Donal Kearney,’ Fallon promised him. ‘I’ve a couple of lads keeping an eye on him for me. I’m just letting him stew a little first.’

  Kearney had been so badly beaten that he was unable to work. Tended by his wife, he lay on the bed with his hands held against his cracked ribs. Having cleaned the blood from his face, his wife gently dabbed at his bruises with a wet cloth then mopped his brow. His two black eyes made him look as if he’d just cleaned a sooty chimney. He was more beleaguered than ever. His neighbours let him know what they felt about him by banging on the door as they went past or by shouting abuse at him. Out of concern for their safety, he’d forbidden his family to venture out. Kearney scrabbled around for a means of escape from his ordeal. Indelibly marked as a police informer, he could not move freely around the tenement any more. His one hope lay in getting someone on his side that might keep the others away from him.

  Groaning at the effort, he got up from his bed and rose to his feet. His wife begged him to stay with them but Kearney was purposeful. Letting himself out of the room, he collected some cruel jibes from children playing on the stairs. He tried to ignore their ridicule and went to some rooms along the corridor, slapping the door with the flat of his hand because his knuckles were too raw to use. When the door opened a few inches, the face of Mary Fallon came into view.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘I just want someone to listen.’

  ‘Dermot said that I wasn’t to speak to you.’

  ‘I want you to take a message to him, Mrs Fallon. It’s very urgent. Tell him that it wasn’t me who told the Runners that you were hiding fugitives here. I’d never lift a finger to help them. Everyone knows that. I despise the Runners. They’re like vermin to me.’

  She tried to close the door. ‘I have to go, Mr Kearney.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, putting a foot in the gap to keep the door open. ‘All I ask is that you give me a fair hearing.’