Rage of the Assassin

by Edward Marston

  PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON

  ‘A master storyteller’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’

  Time Out

  ‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’

  Historical Novels Review

  ‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’

  The Guardian

  Rage of the Assassin

  Edward Marston

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY EDWARD MARSTON

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  1817

  When he set out that evening, Paul Skillen had no warning of the tragedy that lay ahead. He assumed that he’d simply be performing his usual task of escorting Hannah Granville safely through an overexcited mob of admirers. It was one of the penalties that fame had inflicted upon her. Hannah was playing the part of Lady Macbeth in the production of Shakespeare’s play at the Covent Garden Theatre. Night after night, a huge audience watched in wonder. Dazzled by her beauty, roused by her passion, shocked by her murderous ambition yet saddened by her descent into madness, they were completely at her mercy. Paul knew that it would be the same again that evening. When she appeared at the curtain call, a thunderous ovation would greet her.

  As he arrived at the theatre, a crowd was already gathering outside the stage door and jostling for position. Though Macbeth was followed by a comical afterpiece, none of the rakes and fops assembled there was interested in staying to watch it. Their priority was to get close enough to the finest actress in London to gloat, ogle, scrutinise and, if at all possible, to touch their goddess. Hannah had learnt to ignore the regular litany of propositions that would come from all sides. When she left the building, she would be holding Paul’s arm, relying on his virile appearance to keep the fervent admirers at bay.

  On this occasion, however, it was different. Before he could make his way to the stage door and go on to Hannah’s dressing room, Paul heard a familiar voice ring out above the hubbub.

  ‘Stand aside, please!’

  It was Micah Yeomans, the Bow Street Runner, supported as usual by Alfred Hale. The two Runners had an important assignment that evening.

  ‘Make way for His Majesty!’ bellowed Yeomans, using authoritative elbows to create a path for his companion.

  Paul was alarmed. Hannah was well able to keep other would-be suitors at arm’s length, but she could not dispatch the Prince Regent quite so easily. Flabby, dissipated and waddling along as fast as his gout would permit, he exuded an air of supreme entitlement. He was going to be first.

  For once, however, royal prerogative was not respected. Someone yelled aloud as if in great pain, everyone turned in the direction of the sound, then a shot was fired behind them. Uproar ensued. The waiting pack scrambled for safety, cursing as they bumped into each other and bewailing the loss of their vantage points. The Prince Regent was hustled through the stage door by the two Runners. And Paul was left standing beside the lifeless body of a man whose dreams of meeting Lady Macbeth had died instantly with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When she heard the sharp knock on her door, Hannah fully expected that Paul had come for her. Accordingly, she nodded to her dresser and Jenny Pye went across the room to turn the key in the lock. Opening the door, she stepped back to allow Paul to enter. But he was not there. Both she and Hannah were shocked to see instead the solid frame of Micah Yeomans filling the space. He whisked off his hat.

  ‘Pardon this intrusion, Miss Granville,’ he said, ‘but there is someone who is very anxious to make your acquaintance.’

  He stood aside to allow the Prince Regent to hobble into the dressing room with a beaming smile on his powdered face. A ludicrous chestnut wig sat on his head. Hannah was taken aback. She had never been quite that close to royalty before and, though she found her visitor verging on the grotesque, part of her was obscurely flattered by his attention. Before she could step out of reach, he grabbed her hand, lifted it to his lips and planted a wet kiss on it.

  ‘I am in thrall to your magnificence, dear lady,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a compliment I shall treasure, Your Royal Highness,’ she replied.

  ‘It will be the first of many, I do assure you.’

  ‘I am deeply honoured.’

  Though she spoke firmly and retained her poise, Hannah was ill at ease. The look in the Prince Regent’s eyes was all too easy to interpret. It was the acquisitive glint of a lecher. He was not merely there to congratulate her on an incomparable performance. He was eyeing a prospective prize. Trembling inwardly, she kept asking herself the same question over and over again.

  Where on earth was Paul?

  In fact, he was kneeling beside the corpse. Having established that the man was indeed dead, Paul was searching his pockets as he looked for something that might indicate his identity. Clearly, he was wealthy, middle-aged and had an eye for fashion. Paul could see that the man had to pay substantial tailor’s bills. The rings on each hand were highly expensive and there were other signs of indulgence. Even in death, he had a touch of nobility about him, offset, as it was, by the blood-covered scalp. Feeling inside the coat, Paul’s hand closed around a purse. At the moment he brought it out, he realised that he had company.

  Yeomans was standing over him in triumph.

  ‘So that’s what you’ve descended to, is it?’ he sneered. ‘You kill him first, then you rob the poor devil.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘You’re under arrest.’

  ‘On what charge?’ asked Paul, getting to his feet. ‘I was here, as you well know, for a legitimate purpose. Before I could reach Miss Granville to escort her from the theatre, you came blundering along and ordered everyone to get out of the way. The next moment, someone tried to assassinate the Prince Regent and killed this gentleman by mistake. If you’re hired to protect royalty, Micah,’ he went on, ‘you ought to do it more efficiently.’

  ‘We were efficient,’ declared Yeomans. ‘While Alfred Hale and I were guarding him, the Prince Regent was never in danger.’

  ‘Then why did someone fire a pistol at him?’

  ‘Don’t try to talk your way out of this, Skillen. You were the man with the weapon and the fellow at your feet was the intended target.’

  ‘Then where is the pistol now?’ asked Paul, arms at full length. ‘Search me as thoroughly as you wish. You’ll find no weapon. And please bear something in mind. When I’m not solving crimes that the Runners fail to solve, I work at the shooting gallery. With a pistol in my hand, I never miss, yet that’s what the assassin did. In the disturbance caused by your arrival, it’s my belief that he took his chance. We were first distracted by a shout from a confederate, causing every head to
turn away. Aiming for His Royal Highness, the assassin instead shot the man standing closest to him. Look,’ he said, pointing, ‘you can see the wound in the back of his head. It should have been in the Prince Regent’s skull.’

  ‘Nobody would dare to shoot at His Royal Highness when they saw me at his side.’

  ‘It isn’t the first time an attempt has been made on his life. At the start of the year, someone hurled a rock that shattered the window of his coach.’

  ‘This is the unfortunate target,’ insisted Yeomans, looking down at the dead body. ‘There’s no doubting that.’ Turning to Paul, he curled a lip. ‘But I can see that I was perhaps too hasty in laying his murder at your door.’

  ‘I accept your apology, Micah.’

  ‘It was not an apology, just a statement of fact.’ He extended a palm. ‘I’ll take charge now. Give me that purse. It belongs with his other effects.’

  ‘At least let me find out who he is.’

  ‘That’s our responsibility, Skillen. You’ve no jurisdiction here.’

  ‘I’m an interested party.’

  ‘Hand over that money. We’ll take care of it.’ Seeing Paul’s reluctance, he snapped his fingers. ‘Be quick about it, man!’

  ‘He’s wearing a wedding ring, so the money belongs to his wife. Make sure that the purse reaches her without a penny missing.’

  Yeomans swelled up with righteous indignation. ‘I’ve sworn to uphold the law,’ he said, beating his chest. ‘My integrity is beyond question. Due process will be followed, I guarantee. My first task will be to find out who he is.’

  ‘Then you’ll need this,’ said Paul, stooping to pick up a hat from the ground. ‘That bloodstained hole is where the ball passed through as it burrowed into his brain.’

  ‘Why the devil should I need his hat?’

  ‘It will tell you where to start your search. Unless I’m mistaken, this hat was made at Bayley’s in Jermyn Street. It bears all their hallmarks. They’ll know who bought it.’ He thrust it into the Runner’s hands. ‘Do your job properly for once.’

  Before Yeomans could protest, Paul let himself into the theatre and went in search of Hannah. He had a strong feeling that he’d be needed.

  It was ironic. In the course of her career, Hannah had been a princess, a queen and even an empress on many occasions. She had a natural aptitude for such roles. Faced with genuine royalty, however, she found herself almost speechless. As he gazed covetously at her body, the Prince Regent did something that took her completely by surprise. Extracting a snuff box from his pocket, he held it in his left hand, opened it with the other, then took out a sizeable pinch before introducing it to his nose and inhaling it with all the force he could muster. Hannah winced at the disgusting noise. Putting the box away, her visitor plucked a handkerchief from his sleeve to dust away the residue. He was about to take a step closer to Hannah when he was diverted by the sound of an argument outside the door. Next moment, it was flung open and Paul entered with Alfred Hale vainly trying to hold him back.

  ‘Forgive this untimely interruption, Your Majesty,’ said Paul, ‘but you are in grave danger. The assassin is still at liberty and may strike again. Hale will conduct you to a place of safety until the villain is caught. I, meanwhile, will leave the theatre by another exit with Miss Granville. There’s no time for delay.’

  Offering his arm to Hannah, he took her quickly out of the room with Jenny Pye trotting in their wake. From the way that she clung to him, Paul could tell that Hannah was both grateful and relieved. He’d arrived just in time.

  ‘What’s this about an assassin?’ she asked, worriedly.

  ‘He tried to shoot the Prince Regent.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was standing only feet away.’

  ‘Were you in danger?’ she gasped.

  ‘No, I was not.’

  ‘Are you sure of that, Paul?’

  ‘I’m not important enough to be killed.’

  ‘You’re the most important man in the world to me.’

  ‘When we’re alone together,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’ll give you every opportunity to tell me why.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Work began early at the shooting gallery. Since they lived on the premises, Gully Ackford and Jem Huckvale were available to patrons who wished to have a lesson before they went to work or who simply preferred an appointment not long after dawn. Instruction in shooting, archery, boxing and fencing were all on offer. Now in his forties, Ackford, a retired soldier, was still an expert in all four disciplines and he was a gifted teacher. It was years since he’d taken the diminutive Huckvale under his wing, giving him only menial tasks at first. By dint of hard work, Huckvale had learnt quickly and was now able to take on pupils of his own. Still in his twenties, he was so quick and nimble in a boxing ring that opponents were often unable to land a blow on him.

  After teaching someone the rudiments of pugilism that morning, Huckvale adjourned to the room that was both office and storeroom. Ackford was there, enjoying his breakfast.

  ‘Come and join me, lad. You must be famished.’

  ‘Thank you, Gully,’ said the other, taking a seat at the table. ‘After an hour with Mr Nevin, I need a rest.’

  Ackford laughed. ‘If you’re tired, he must be near exhaustion.’

  ‘He could hardly move at the end. Next time he comes here, Mr Nevin is going to pay me to stand still in the ring.’

  ‘That would be cheating. Avoiding a punch is as important as landing one.’

  ‘I keep telling him that.’ He looked up as he heard the outer door being unlocked. ‘That will be Peter, I expect.’

  ‘Don’t ever get into a boxing ring with him. Even I would think twice about doing that. And the same goes for Paul.’

  The door opened and Peter Skillen walked into the room.

  ‘My ears are burning,’ he said. ‘Is someone talking about me?’

  ‘I mentioned both you and your brother,’ admitted Ackford, ‘but only to praise your skills. Where is Paul, anyway? He should be here by now.’

  ‘He sent word that he’d be late today, Gully. There was trouble at the theatre last night. It appears that my brother came close to witnessing the assassination of the Prince Regent, if that’s what it really was. Paul is having doubts about it now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The letter he sent by hand didn’t go into details. All I know is this.’

  He told them about the incident outside the stage door and how his brother had been able to save Hannah from the attentions of an unwanted royal admirer.

  ‘Charlotte and I saw the first night of the production and, as usual, Hannah was sublime. Beauty like hers, however, always inflames a certain species of gentleman. In this case, mind you, I’d have thought that her devotees might be diminished in number.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Huckvale.

  ‘Lady Macbeth – the role taken by Hannah – is a monster. When the King of Scotland is a guest at their castle, she urges her husband to kill him in order to be crowned in his place. After the murder, Macbeth is afflicted by guilt and fear, but his wife is cold and callous, ordering him to steady his nerve and handling a pair of bloodstained daggers without batting an eyelid. Would such a woman have an appeal to either of you?’

  ‘She’d terrify me,’ confessed Huckvale.

  ‘I’d think twice about wanting to meet her in the flesh,’ said Ackford. ‘But, then, she’s not a real person, is she? Lady Macbeth is just a part in a play.’

  ‘Hannah made her seem so real,’ said Peter. ‘She was spine-chilling, yet dozens still rushed to the stage door for a glimpse of her.’

  ‘They were obviously disappointed last night.’

  ‘Yes, Gully. It was a case of life imitating art. A king was murdered inside the theatre and a Prince Regent was almost assassinated outside it. At least, that’s what my brother believed at first. I’ll be interested to know what really happened.’

  ‘When will he be coming
to the gallery?’

  ‘That depends on how long it takes him to calm Hannah down. When she’s really upset, it can be the work of a whole day. I don’t envy Paul. Restoring her equanimity is in the nature of a Herculean labour.’

  There had been little sleep for either of them. When they’d returned the previous night to the home they shared, Hannah had been too agitated even to think of retiring to bed. It was only when sheer fatigue finally claimed her that Paul was able to carry her upstairs. No sooner had he placed her gently on the bed than she awoke and voiced her anxieties all over again. It was a pattern followed throughout the night. They were now sitting at the breakfast table and taking it in turns to yawn.

  Hannah returned to the subject that had been vexing her all night.

  ‘That’s it,’ she announced. ‘I’ll never play Lady Macbeth again.’

  ‘But you signed a contract, my love.’

  ‘It was the biggest mistake of my career.’

  ‘That’s patent nonsense, Hannah. Your performance has been rightly hailed. London is at your feet. Audiences that applauded Mrs Siddons in the role no longer even remember her. You have made the role your own.’

  She tossed her head. ‘I do that with every part I play.’

  ‘Your performance is absolutely peerless.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it brought disaster in its wake. It’s my own fault. I didn’t heed the warnings. Everyone knows that the play is cursed. Last night, I found that out to my cost.’

  ‘Yet the night before, you told me that you were deliriously happy.’

  ‘I was deceived.’

  ‘Hannah …’

  ‘Don’t try to dissuade me, Paul. My mind is made up.’

  ‘Is it all because of one unfortunate incident?’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’ she asked with a hollow laugh. ‘The assassination of the Prince Regent merits a far stronger description than that. Suppose that you had been the target? I’d have been left in utter despair. Or suppose that the shot was fired when I emerged through the stage door. I might have been the victim. Have you considered that? Because of this hateful play, I could have been killed.’