Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘My husband’s made up his mind. He’ll never change it.’

  ‘He might if you tell him the truth. Explain to him that it was someone else who was behind that raid. I was miles away and I can prove it.’

  ‘Go away, please. It’s dangerous for you to be seen here.’

  ‘Don’t you turn your back on me as well.’

  Mary was resolute. ‘It’s what you deserve, Mr Kearney.’

  ‘Oh, it is, is it?’ he asked, letting his anger take over. ‘Very well, if you won’t help me then I won’t help you.’

  She was disturbed. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You’ll soon see.’

  Determined to get his own back on the Fallon family, he lumbered towards the staircase, intent on telling Micah Yeomans where they could find Fallon’s wife and force her to disclose the whereabouts of O’Gara, Dagg and her husband. He didn’t realise that Mary Fallon didn’t actually know where the men were hiding. In his rage, he simply wanted Fallon, the man most likely to kill him, to be arrested and locked up. Kearney and his family could then flee the tenement and live elsewhere.

  After lurching down the steps, he realised that he couldn’t even leave the building. Two of the young men who’d beaten him earlier were lounging either side of the doorway. They stiffened as he approached.

  ‘Go back to your hutch, Kearney!’ snarled one of them.

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ said the other.

  ‘Our orders are to keep you here until Dermot Fallon comes for you. Now take yourself off or we’ll kick the daylights out of you again.’

  It was no use. All that Kearney could do was to creep upstairs again.

  Charlotte Skillen liked to think that she made a useful contribution both to the running of the gallery and to the disparate assignments that came their way. She was therefore thrilled when her husband wanted her more directly involved. Instead of being cooped up in an office, she would be working beside him for once. When they were getting ready to go out that evening, he outlined his plans, though he didn’t disclose Beyton’s name or his reason for wanting the necessary woman liberated.

  ‘The exchange will take place tomorrow in Hyde Park,’ he explained. ‘It will be in the middle of the afternoon.’

  ‘But there’ll be crowds about, Peter.’

  ‘That’s why they’ve deliberately chosen that time and place. The more people who are about, the better it is. They’ll act as a kind of screen. With so many bodies there, it will be more difficult to see what’s going on.’

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled, my love,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch from one direction and you’ll do so from the other.’

  ‘Does the gentleman have the money?’

  ‘He assures me that he’ll pick it up from the bank in the morning.’

  ‘What have you told him?’

  ‘I’ve said that he must follow my instructions to the letter. I don’t want him looking over his shoulder to see where I am. That will ruin everything.’

  ‘It’s a lot of money to hand over,’ she said. ‘He must care for Mrs Horner a great deal if he’s prepared to part with that amount.’ She nudged him. ‘Would you pay a large ransom if I was being held somewhere?’

  ‘I’d pay every penny I owned, Charlotte, but I’d also make sure that I got it back very quickly once you were safe. Your price is above rubies. As for this gentleman,’ he went on, ‘this will be a supreme test of his nerve.’

  ‘I thought you told him that he’d get the money back.’

  ‘He will,’ said Peter, ‘if you and I are as alert as we should be.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Charlotte looked at herself in the mirror then turned to him for approval.

  ‘You look as gorgeous as ever, my love.’

  ‘Thank you, a night at the theatre is a rare luxury for us.’

  ‘Work must always come first.’

  ‘We’re entitled to some pleasure, Peter.’

  ‘What’s the play called?’

  ‘Venice Preserv’d. The talk is that Hannah Granville is nothing short of magnificent.’

  ‘Is it a comedy or a tragedy?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe she’d act in a comedy. Her gift is for tragedy.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ he moaned. ‘We have enough of that in our daily lives. When I go to the theatre, I expect to enjoy a good laugh.’

  ‘Well, don’t you dare laugh in Venice Preserv’d.’

  Reaching for his hat, he put it on then offered his arm to his wife. They left the house and walked together along the pavement. His mind veered back to the clerk.

  ‘This fellow is a lucky man,’ he said. ‘He can just walk into a bank and secure the ransom without undue difficulty. Most people would struggle to raise that amount. They’d either turn to their friends or fall into the hands of gullgropers.’

  ‘Paul did that once, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he ran up debts at the card table and couldn’t afford to clear them. I was able to give him a loan but it was insufficient so he went to a gullgroper. They do business with unlucky gamblers all the time. The interest rate was exorbitant. Fortunately,’ said Peter, ‘my brother had a good win soon afterwards so was able to pay off the loan. Since then, he’s been much more careful with money.’

  ‘Paul has too many expensive tastes.’

  ‘It makes him work all the harder.’

  ‘Why aren’t you calling on him for assistance tomorrow?’

  ‘A woman is less likely to arouse suspicion, Charlotte. If you’re walking in the park, the kidnappers are unlikely to give you a second look.’

  ‘How many of them are there?’

  ‘Oh, I think we’re only talking about two people,’ he said. ‘It will be the man and the woman who abducted the cleaner. They’ll know exactly what the gentleman looks like because they followed him at an earlier stage.’

  ‘What will happen afterwards, Peter?’

  ‘Afterwards?’

  ‘Yes, when it’s all over and Mrs Horner is released. Do you think she’ll go back to work at the Home Office? How will she react if she comes face to face with this gentleman who’s in a position to buy her freedom?’ she wondered. ‘She must be undergoing the most harrowing experience.’

  Anne Horner clung to the belief that she would one day get out of her cell and put the pain and the accumulated humiliation behind her. When she could move around the cellar, she’d had a degree of freedom but now, chained like a dog, she was unable to stray beyond its length. She was close enough to the grating to feel the air coming in but too far away to see out of it properly. How someone in her position could be described as an asset was beyond her. The deprivation she’d suffered day after day had dulled her brain. Hope and prayer were her only allies and she was beginning to lose faith in both of them. When they went, the descent into black despair was inevitable.

  There it was again – the unexplained thud. She leant in the direction of the grating to see if she could identify the sound at last. Thirty seconds later, she heard it again but she still couldn’t understand what the noise was. On the other hand, she could just pick out the sound of voices in the garden. A man and a woman were talking. The odd word and occasional phrase drifted into her ears but she had no idea what the conversation was about. What she heard clearly was their laughter.

  It was followed by another thud.

  ‘You never miss,’ he said, clapping his hands.

  ‘Mr Ackford taught me well,’ she explained. ‘Practice makes perfect.’

  ‘I’m glad that he didn’t know why you wanted lessons.’

  ‘He still thinks that I wanted to turn my nephew into Robin Hood.’

  ‘I’m a little old to be your nephew, Jane,’ he said with a smile, ‘and since you’re younger than me, you are a very peculiar aunt.’

  ‘How many aunts can hit a target with a bow and arrow?’

  ‘None can do it as well as you.’

  S
lipping an arm around her waist, he kissed her and she responded with passion. He was a tall, slim, dark-haired man in his early thirties who radiated a quiet charm. Jane Holdstock was besotted with him. It was for his benefit that she’d taken archery lessons at the shooting gallery. They shared the same objectives and, for his sake, she was prepared to do anything that he wished. When he pulled away from her, he took the bow from her hands and laid it on the ground beside the quiver of arrows.

  ‘That’s enough practice, I think,’ he said. ‘You are a real Robin Hood.’

  ‘I’d rather be a Maid Marian.’

  ‘Then you shall have your wish.’

  Taking her by the hand, he led her into the house and up the stairs. When they reached the landing, Jane remembered something.

  ‘What about Mrs Horner?’ she asked. ‘It’s time for her meal.’

  ‘Let her wait. We come first.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As usual, Hannah Granville arrived early at the theatre. She always gave herself plenty of time to get into her costume, apply her make-up and prepare herself fully for the performance by thinking herself into the role. As she powdered the actress that evening, the dresser paid her a fulsome compliment.

  ‘The manager thought that you were superb last night, Miss Granville,’ she said, respectfully, ‘but, then, you always are.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Everyone is talking about you. They long to see you as Lady Macbeth.’

  ‘They will do so one day.’

  ‘It was the role in which Mrs Siddons excelled but I think you would shine even brighter. When do rehearsals begin?’

  ‘I have not yet signed the contract.’

  ‘But I thought that you were eager to take on the part.’

  ‘I need a long rest from the theatre,’ said Hannah, ‘so I’m not able to commit myself at this moment.’

  She raised a hand to indicate that she’d been powdered enough then she scrutinised herself in the mirror. Satisfied with her appearance, she gave a nod and the dresser removed the cloth put around her to protect her costume from the cosmetics. Hannah rose to her feet, walked up and down to make sure that the costume hung properly when she moved then she began to mouth speeches from the play. The dresser melted into invisibility. Nothing was allowed to interfere with the actress’s routine before performance.

  After a long while, Hannah became aware of the other woman’s presence.

  ‘What sort of house do we have?’

  ‘Every seat has been sold, Miss Granville.’

  ‘People have a great appetite for tragedy on the stage,’ mused Hannah, ‘whereas they hate it in their own lives.’

  ‘That’s true. But it’s the great tragic roles that allow an actress like you to soar. Audiences will remember a Belvidera or a Lady Macbeth long after they’ve forgotten a Viola or a Rosalind.’

  ‘Comedy is for those of lesser emotional scope.’

  ‘That is what Mr Dalrymple said,’ recalled the dresser.

  Hannah smiled. ‘I was quoting him, actually.’

  ‘He was transported by your performance last night, Miss Granville.’

  ‘So he told me.’

  ‘Will Mr Dalrymple be in the audience this evening?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hannah, ‘and he’ll be escorting me out of the theatre afterwards. I do so hate being besieged at the stage door.’

  ‘It’s the price of fame.’

  It was not long before the call came for Hannah to take up her position in the wings. She could hear the excited buzz of the audience and it lifted her spirits. When the curtain rose, the commotion gradually faded away and, from the opening line, the play began to exert its grip. By the time that Belvidera swept into view, the audience was entranced. A burst of applause marked the sight of the tragic heroine but it died away as she began to speak. Hannah’s voice was clear and melodious, a musical instrument with an almost unlimited range; it was complemented by her graceful movement and command of gesture. She dominated the stage effortlessly once again.

  Hannah waited until her eyes had adjusted to the glare of candlelight before she let her gaze wander over the audience. She scanned the stalls in the hope of seeing the friendly face she’d been told would be there but she was instead given a sharp jolt. Seated only a few rows away from where she stood was Paul Skillen. Beside him was the attractive woman Hannah had seen with him before. It was like a physical blow. In daring to attend the theatre with someone else, she felt that he was deliberately taunting her and she was so shaken at first that she forgot her lines and was forced to take a prompt. Recovering quickly, she lost herself in her role.

  Peter and Charlotte Skillen, meanwhile, looked on in sheer wonder.

  Micah Yeomans and Alfred Hale began their day by acting as bodyguards to Viscount Sidmouth as he travelled by carriage to the Home Office. Talk turned at once to the security arrangements for the forthcoming celebrations.

  ‘I’m glad that everything is now settled,’ said Sidmouth, ‘and that you are happy with what’s been proposed.’

  ‘If anything,’ opined Yeomans, ‘you will be too well-protected, my lord.’

  ‘That pleases me and it will please my wife even more.’

  ‘Nobody will be allowed to spoil what should be a memorable occasion.’

  ‘On the principle that a second opinion is always valuable,’ said Sidmouth, ‘I asked one of my undersecretaries to look at our preparations. He, in turn, discussed them with one of my senior clerks. Both were duly impressed.’

  ‘So were we, my lord,’ said Hale.

  ‘There is, however, one threat on the horizon.’

  ‘Our patrols are still searching for the fugitives.’

  ‘We hope to have them in custody before long,’ said Yeomans. ‘You have no need to fear them, my lord. They threatened to kill you if their demands are not met, yet the joint committee will probably not have reached its verdict by the time we celebrate our victory at Waterloo.’

  ‘It may have done so,’ warned Sidmouth. ‘Evidence has been taken from all quarters. A swift conclusion may be reached and reported in the newspapers. And something else might incite them to violence.’

  ‘What’s that, my lord?’

  ‘The whole nation will be celebrating our victory over the French, obliterating the fact that we actually lost our war against America or, at least, that’s how it appeared after our disastrous defeat at the Battle of New Orleans. That fact will not be ignored by these patriotic sailors. I do hope the Skillen brothers catch them in time.’

  ‘We are more likely to do that,’ said Yeomans, staunchly.

  When they reached the Home Office, the two Runners walked him to the front door and waited until he was safely inside. They then went off on their usual rounds. It was mid-morning before Yeomans and Hale stopped off at The Peacock to rest their legs and have a refreshing tankard of ale. Someone was waiting for them.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Yeomans.

  ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘We’re thirsty. Buy us a drink.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hale, ‘we can’t think straight until we’ve had our first taste of ale. Make yourself useful for once.’

  Chevy Ruddock was abashed. Keen to divulge what he felt might be valuable intelligence, he was being compelled to part with some of his modest wages in order to satisfy the thirst of the senior Runners. He walked disconsolately to the bar. It was only after they’d quaffed their ale, that the others took any notice of him.

  ‘Why have you come bothering us here?’ asked Yeomans.

  ‘Bill Filbert and I were on patrol by the river,’ said Ruddock.

  ‘We know that.’

  ‘Someone told us about a fight in that old warehouse tonight.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s between someone called Donkey Johnson and another man.’

  ‘Boxing matches usually are between two people,’ said Hale, sarcastically. ‘Why should we be interested by this one?’
>
  ‘The other fighter is called the Black Assassin because he really is black.’

  ‘Lots of them are bare-knuckle fighters. I remember seeing one called the Black Pearl and there was a Black Demon as well. He gave the Game Chicken a real scare at a fight in Portsmouth. The Game Chicken was Hen Pearce. I bet on him once and he earned me a pretty penny.’

  ‘The man wanted us to place a wager,’ said Ruddock, ‘but Bill got rid of him. Later on, we met someone else who was taking bets. He told us a lot more about the two boxers.’

  ‘You’re starting to bore me, Ruddock,’ said Yeomans, yawning.

  ‘Donkey Johnson used to be a waterman. He got that strength by rowing people across the Thames. All the money will be on him.’

  ‘Fights mean trouble. I hate them.’

  ‘You haven’t let me tell you about the Black Assassin yet.’

  ‘What is there to tell us? He’s a nigger and that’s that.’

  ‘He’s an American, sir.’

  Yeomans was in the act of sipping his ale. The information made him splutter. Lowering the tankard, he looked across at Hale then both of them turned to Ruddock. They were listening at last.

  ‘It made me think, you see,’ said Ruddock. ‘This man didn’t know what his real name was but he’s never fought at the warehouse before so he must be a newcomer. If he’s a sailor, he’ll know how to use his fists. They’re always brawling. It could just be – I’m only guessing, mind – that the Black Assassin is the very man that we’ve been looking for.’

  ‘He could, indeed. Well done, Ruddock!’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Yeomans.’

  ‘You kept your wits about you for once,’ said Hale.

  ‘Bill Filbert thought I was dreaming,’ said Ruddock. ‘He reckoned that we should stay well away from that warehouse but not if he really is our man. I want to be there to find out the truth.’

  ‘We’ll come with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Yeomans, ‘we certainly will. If the Black Assassin really is Moses Dagg, his friend will be there as well. We can nab the pair of them and claim the reward. Apart from Filbert, who else have you told?’