He could then declare the contract over and done with.
Chevy Ruddock arrived at the Golden Crown with the messenger. Both had been caught in the rain. When he took off his hat to shake it, he set a small shower into the air. While the messenger went off to his parents, Ruddock looked around and was upset to see that Howlett’s usual chair was empty and that there was no sign of the old actor anywhere else in the room. His alarm was temporary. A door opened on the far side of the room and Howlett came shuffling in with a bag slung over one shoulder. Seeing his visitor, he gave him a wave.
‘Call of nature, my dear fellow,’ he explained. ‘Comfort restored.’
Howlett went to his table and Ruddock sat opposite him. The actor stared at him as if he’d never seen him before. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. Ruddock took out the letter he’d received and waved it in front of him.
‘You sent for me, Mr Howlett.’
‘Ah, yes, I believe I did.’
‘You said that you’d remembered that name at last.’
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘Did you know the man?’
Howlett chortled. ‘That was beyond even my fabled capacities.’
‘Then how did you recall his name?’
‘Are you a theatregoer, Mr Ruddock?’
‘I don’t have the time or the money for entertainment of any kind.’
‘That’s a pity. It would enrich your mind.’
‘Feeding my family comes first,’ said Ruddock, ‘and it always will. Now, who is this man? I’m desperate to find out.’
‘Then the waiting is over,’ said Howlett, taking the bag off his shoulder and plunging a hand into it. ‘I am not simply a supreme actor. I am an unacknowledged historian of the profession. For long decades, I have religiously collected material about it and here is one example.’ He took out a playbill and handed it over. ‘What do you see?’
Ruddock needed a moment to work out what he was looking at, then his eyes glowed with pleasure. His search was over.
Peter Skillen called on his brother so that they could discuss what each other had found out. Paul was interested to hear his opinion of Sir Marcus Brough and told him what Ferriday had said about his glib colleague. For his part, Peter was amazed that a member of the Cabinet had given so much time to someone he’d earlier treated with disdain. It was telling.
‘He’s worried, Paul,’ he said. ‘He’s afraid of what you might find and so he’s pretending to cooperate with you in order to divert attention from himself.’
‘He ended up doing the opposite. The only reason he agreed to speak to me again was that Sir Marcus persuaded him to do so. Although,’ added Paul after a moment’s consideration, ‘it may be that Sir Marcus was not acting of his own volition.’
‘Somebody else instructed him?’
‘Yes, Peter, and we can both guess who it might have been.’
‘The Home Secretary?’ His face clouded with doubt. ‘Can this conspiracy really go all the way up to that level?’
‘You’ve already found out that he had spies watching Sir Roger.’
‘It’s a strong possibility, alas.’
‘Their reports may have been directly responsible for his death.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Paul.’
Before he could offer his own opinion, Peter was stopped by the sound of the doorbell being rung with some urgency. The brothers listened while one of the servants answered the door. They heard a man’s voice. The servant came immediately to the drawing room and knocked before entering.
‘There’s a Captain Golightly who is very anxious to speak to you, sir,’ said the maidservant.
‘Then show him in at once,’ said Paul, getting up and turning to Peter. ‘Only something important could have brought Golightly here.’
‘After what you’ve told me about him, I’ll be interested to meet him.’
Peter also rose to his feet so that the two brothers were side by side when Golightly entered. The newcomer recoiled slightly. The resemblance was so striking that he had no idea to whom he should speak. Paul introduced his brother, then suggested that they all take a seat. Once they’d settled, Golightly took over.
‘I’ve not long come from my club,’ he told them.
‘I wish that we had time for such a luxury, Captain, but our work seems to keep us far too busy.’
‘Being involved in it has been a revelation to me, Mr Skillen. However, let me pass on my news. I met an old friend of a mine at the club. Stephen Quine was our regimental doctor and an excellent one at that. Don’t worry,’ he went on, ‘I’m not going to bore you with military memoirs. Dr Quine now makes a living dissecting the bodies of murder victims.’
‘Was he involved in Sir Roger’s post-mortem?’ asked Peter.
‘Indeed, he was. More recently, he dealt with the case of a man who was shot dead in St James’s Park and, almost as soon as that had been done, he was summoned to look at a murder victim being examined by a colleague.’
‘I don’t quite see what relevance this has,’ said Peter.
‘Bear with me and you will. The second case I mentioned refers to a man shot dead later today in a house in Marylebone.’
‘So?’
‘Including Sir Roger, we have three men shot through the skull.’
‘Go on.’
‘Dr Quine believes that, in each case, the same pistol was involved.’
‘That’s a very big assumption to make,’ said Peter, sceptically.
‘Surgeons never make assumptions, Mr Skillen,’ said Golightly. ‘They deal in hard facts. I find the evidence compelling. The bullet that was taken from Sir Roger’s brain was of an unusual shape and so was the one taken from the victim in St James’s Park. Since they were identical, the bullets must almost certainly have come from the same mould. But there’s another clinching detail.’
‘What is it?’ asked Paul.
‘Each bullet had a letter “D” scratched into it.’
‘Was that the initial letter of the killer’s name?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Golightly, ‘but let’s move on to the third victim. Dr Quine had mentioned what he’d found to a colleague so you can understand why the man called him in. What he’d extracted from the brain of the third victim was a bullet of the same unusual shape and bearing the same signature. That’s irrefutable evidence in my mind that the assassin who took Sir Roger’s life went on to murder two more victims. I thought you’d find that interesting.’
‘It’s fascinating,’ said Peter.
‘And it raises the question of who those victims are,’ said Paul. ‘My guess is that they might be people involved in the plot. The assassin was ruthless. He works on the principle that the best way to ensure his own safety is to eliminate the only people aware of his guilt.’
‘Wait a moment, Paul. You’re forgetting Orsino Price. He was also an accomplice, yet he wasn’t shot through the skull. Someone stabbed him to death in an alleyway.’
‘In that instance, a dagger was as quick as a bullet and far less likely to attract attention. Hired killers are usually adept with a range of weapons.’
‘What’s your view, Captain Golightly?’ asked Peter.
‘I suspect that the same man is responsible for all four deaths.’
‘And they’ve come in fairly close succession.’
‘It’s almost as if the killer is out of control.’
‘Oh, I think he’s very much in control, Captain,’ said Paul. ‘He’s systematic and deadly. There’s only one thing we need to ask.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Who is his next target?’
Getting inside the house was more difficult than he’d hoped. His first problem came with four legs attached. A servant brought a dog into the garden to relieve itself and the intruder had to dive into the bushes to hide. The animal then scampered around the lawn, barking aloud. When it came towards him sniffing the grass, the assassin reached for his dagger so that he could parry it
away but it was a false alarm. It got within yards of him. The servant whistled and the dog trotted obediently back to him. Wet and cramped, the man in the bushes had had a narrow escape.
He could now tackle the second problem. After he’d established that the study was not at the rear of the house, he realised that he’d have to enter it at the front. Even though the weather kept most people away, a passer-by might notice someone trying to climb in through a window. It was a chance that had to be taken. He consoled himself with the fact that – safely back inside the house – the dog wouldn’t be able to attack him. He simply needed to work fast. Creeping to the front, he was able to pick out the study at once because it was the only room in which there was no light. He first looked up and down to make sure that nobody was about, then he took out his dagger again and attacked the window. A minute later, he was inside the house.
As he’d suspected, the door of the study was already locked. Groping his way in the darkness, he reinforced his security by jamming a chair under the knob. It made him feel confident enough to light an oil lamp so that he could take stock of his surroundings. Though it was relatively small, it was exquisitely designed. Oak bookshelves lined two walls and were packed with volumes in identical binding. Over the mantelpiece there was a portrait of a dignified old man in the uniform of a major. He bore a clear resemblance to the person the assassin had murdered in St James’s Park. The desk was close enough to the window to profit from any daylight. Predictably, it was locked.
Since he was sometimes required to enter a property illegally, he always carried a selection of skeleton keys with him. Taking them out, he got to work. It took almost ten painstaking minutes before he finally succeeded. He rifled quickly through the drawers but found nothing that really interested him. There was no money, no correspondence and no address book. The assassin was patient, knowing that desks of that kind often had hidden cavities in them. Searching for a spring, he explored each of the drawers in turn. At his third attempt, he heard a ping and a secret drawer suddenly appeared.
He had no time to count the wad of banknotes but estimated that he’d found several hundreds of pounds. It was the pile of correspondence that really interested him. Leafing through it, he came across a letter from Robert Vane, agreeing to be in St James’s Park as requested. But there was another name that he’d come for and he eventually found it. Written in a looping hand, it offered congratulations on the way that Sir Roger Mellanby had been killed, then ordered that the man responsible for his death should himself be murdered.
When he saw the signature on the letter, the assassin was baffled.
It was worthy of a celebration. Having demonstrated his skill at escape, Harry Scattergood took his friend to the nearest tavern and let Alan Kinnaird buy the drinks.
‘How did you do it, Harry?’ asked Kinnaird, raising his tankard.
‘It takes a lot of practice.’
‘And are you sure that I can learn everything necessary?’
‘Yes, I am. Then you’ll feel confident that you can walk out of anywhere they lock you up. Newgate is the most likely place.’
‘You went in one door and out through another.’
‘When I’ve wet my whistle, I’ll tell you exactly how I did it.’
‘And do you really think that we’ll get all that reward money?’
‘We won’t, Alan. It will belong to Giles Clearwater. He’s the one who’s going to get his hands on it.’
‘You promised to tell me why you chose that name.’
‘Yes,’ said Scattergood, ‘I did. Well, it was quite by accident, really. I was in a shop that sold maps, cartoons and old theatre posters …’
Yeomans glowered across the table at the Peacock.
‘Could you say that again?’ he asked.
‘He’s in The Provok’d Husband,’ said Ruddock, beaming.
‘And what, in the bowels of Christ, is that?’
‘It’s a famous play, Mr Yeomans. At least, the author thought it would be famous but it more or less died after its first performance. Mr Howlett explained that there’s a much better play, written well over a century ago. It was called The Provok’d Wife by Sir John Somebody and another playwright thought he could copy him. It’s in The Provok’d Husband that Giles Clearwater appears.’
Yeomans bristled. ‘You’re dealing with a provoked Bow Street Runner at the moment,’ he warned, ‘so don’t you dare try my patience any further. We send you out to find a flesh and blood human being and you bring back a character from a play that’s never performed.’
‘Are you teasing us, Chevy?’ asked Hale.
‘I’m telling you what Mr Howlett told me.’
‘Then he must be teasing us.’
‘And you bought him another drink, I’ll warrant,’ said Yeomans, angrily.
‘He deserved thanks for helping us,’ argued Ruddock. ‘If it hadn’t been for his collection of theatrical memorabilia, we’d never have known who Clearwater was.’
‘We still don’t. We’re after a real man.’
‘Shame on you, Chevy,’ said Hale. ‘You’ve let us down badly this time.’
‘But I haven’t,’ said Ruddock. ‘Don’t you see what this means?’
‘Yes, you’ve taken leave of your senses.’
‘I thought you’d both be pleased.’
‘Pleased?’ echoed Yeomans. ‘You tell us that a man we’ve actually met and spoken to at length is a character in a play and expect us to be pleased? What kind of half-witted thinking is that?’
He paused to guzzle down a drink. Ruddock was hurt because he wasn’t getting the congratulations he’d expected. Instead, they were furious with him.
‘Get back out there and continue the search,’ said Yeomans.
‘But it’s pouring with rain.’
‘I don’t care if there’s six feet of snow on the ground. Disappear.’
‘At least, let me explain,’ pleaded Ruddock. ‘You owe me that chance.’
‘All we owe you is a punch on the nose.’
‘Don’t be too harsh, Micah,’ said Hale, showing sympathy for the younger man. ‘Chevy did his best. He just got confused, that’s all. Let him explain.’
Yeomans gave a low animal growl. Hale gestured to Ruddock. The latter cleared his throat and took a nervous step towards them.
‘My mind works different to yours,’ he began.
‘Oh, so you actually have a mind, do you?’ sneered Yeomans.
‘When I saw that name, I knew I’d made a discovery.’
‘Yes, you found a dull play that died after one performance.’
‘I found out something more important than that, Mr Yeomans. With the help of Mr Howlett, I learnt that the man you sent me to find is an impostor.’ The two Runners were taken aback. ‘Don’t you see? He must have stolen the name of Giles Clearwater from the play.’
Hale’s jaw had dropped. ‘How do you know?’
‘Well, it’s such an unusual name. How many Clearwaters do you know?’
‘None, Chevy.’
‘None at all,’ admitted Yeomans, eventually.
‘There you are, then,’ said Ruddock. ‘I could be right, after all. Mr Howlett was reminded of The Provok’d Husband by a man who walked into the Golden Crown. He’d actually seen the first performance – Mr Howlett, that is, not this stranger. It was the cut and colour of his clothing – this stranger’s, not Mr Howlett’s – that jogged his memory.’
‘You’re not making much sense, Chevy,’ said Hale.
‘Didn’t you tell me that the Giles Clearwater you met had the air of an actor?’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘And he was outside a theatre when Sir Roger was shot dead?’
‘That’s right.’
‘If he needed to use a false name, the chances are that he might filch one from a play. And where better to go to than to a play known by very few people?’
‘This is beginning to sound interesting,’ said Hale.
‘No, it isn’t
,’ said Yeomans with a wave of his arm. ‘There are two Giles Clearwaters – the real one and the one from the play. Indeed, there may well be more than two. There could be three, four or five.’
‘Then why has nobody ever heard of any of them?’ asked Ruddock.
‘That’s a fair point, Micah,’ said Hale.
‘No, it isn’t,’ retorted Yeomans. ‘We met Clearwater in person and – though I took against him on sight – he seemed to me to be exactly who he said he was. Even if he pulled the wool over our eyes, he’d never have got past the chief magistrate. That’s three of us with endless experience of dealing with confidence tricksters and Giles Clearwater is definitely not one of them.’
‘I second that,’ said Hale.
Ruddock was unrepentant. ‘I still think I’m right,’ he said under his breath.
After their visitor had left, Peter and Paul continued to talk about the coincidence that had come to light. There was an identical pattern to the way that three different people were murdered. The killer was ruthlessly methodical.
‘I’m so glad that Captain Golightly came to us,’ said Peter.
‘It’s not the first time he’s given me vital information,’ said Paul. ‘It was from Golightly that I got the names of Sir Roger’s worst enemies, and he also told me about the murder victim who turned out to be Orsino Price.’
‘Yes, he was the odd man out – killed by a dagger.’
‘Given the choice, I think I’d prefer a bullet in the head.’
‘You’re quite safe, Paul,’ said his brother. ‘With me guarding your back, nobody will get close enough to stab or shoot you.’
‘And you can always count on me, Peter. However, there’s one thing we mustn’t forget. The very fact that we’re searching for this man puts us in jeopardy. Whoever hired him won’t welcome our interest. If we get too close, he’ll want us killed.’
Rage of the Assassin Page 20