A Date with the Executioner

by Edward Marston

  ‘That’s clearly not the situation here,’ said Yeomans, nudging him into silence. ‘If he had no enemies, we must search for a motive other than simple hatred. One look at you, Miss Somerville, and a motive suggests itself at once. Someone coveted you so much that he could not bear the thought of a rival.’

  ‘Mr Bowerman had no rival,’ she declared. ‘I discouraged all other attentions offered to me. There is no jealous lover.’

  ‘What about Captain Hamer?’

  ‘He belonged to my past.’

  ‘You might say that. He believed otherwise.’

  ‘I left him in no doubt about my feelings,’ she said with a touch of irritation. ‘Of one thing you may be absolutely certain, Mr Yeomans. It is quite impossible for me even to consider a closer union with Captain Hamer.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Paul Skillen had always scorned danger. Whatever circumstances arose, he never considered risk. He preferred to plunge straight in and get the best out of an experience. It was the same when he went on a journey. Travel outside London exposed everyone to untold hazards and – on the basis that there was safety in numbers – most people chose to ride by coach or be in convoy with others. True to character, Paul went alone even though the journey to Eltham took him through open countryside at several points. Were he to encounter trouble, he was relying on his skill with sword and pistol to carry him through. As he set off, the steady, unvarying canter of his horse gave him a feeling of invincibility.

  On his way to the country residence of Sir Geoffrey Melrose, he was able to enjoy the changing landscape around him and let his mind play with the possibilities surrounding the murder. Were they in search of one man or a gang? Who was capable of forging a message from Laetitia Somerville so cleverly that it achieved its object? Having pored over her letters for hours like the devoted suitor he was, Mark Bowerman would have known every detail of her calligraphy. Yet he’d somehow been deceived. Paul was convinced that the letter was the work of a woman, someone who was familiar with Laetitia’s hand. The forger, he concluded, either had to be someone in her circle or someone who had been close to her but was now estranged. He needed to speak to Laetitia again.

  What had the killer gained from the murder? That’s what puzzled him. Significantly, no money was stolen from the victim and Paul could still not see what had been gained by his death. In the course of their time together, he’d got to know Bowerman well. The man was honest, well educated, invariably pleasant and, by nature, remarkably inoffensive. Nothing about him invited dislike, let alone hatred. It was ironic that, having taken part in a duel where he could easily have been shot dead in the chest, he was instead stabbed in the back during what he believed to be a rendezvous with the woman he intended to marry. Why had that particular house been chosen and who selected the garden as the murder scene?

  One possible explanation surfaced: Bowerman had not been the prime target at all. The killer was really intent on hurting Laetitia Somerville and the best way to do that was to snuff out her hopes of marriage. Her new suitor was seen as dispensable. He had to die in order that she would suffer or, in time, be available for the killer himself. It might be that Bowerman had no enemies but she certainly did. Laetitia had told him that beauty could be a curse at times. Many men must have sought her hand or lusted after her body. Was one of them ready to commit murder in order to remove an obstacle?

  Having stopped at a village inn to take refreshment and rest his mount, Paul climbed into the saddle again. It was not long before he returned to his meditation. Preoccupied as he might be, however, he was still alert to danger. When he came over a hill and saw a copse ahead of him, he noticed a beggar sitting beside the road with his back against a tree. Though the man seemed to be alone, Paul sensed that he might have an accomplice or two. Vigilance was paramount. As he got closer, therefore, he studied the man and looked at the branches of the tree beneath which he sat. There was a moment when the beggar adjusted his position and glanced upwards. Paul was quick to interpret the situation. They – at least two of them – were waiting for a lone and unwary traveller. Giving no indication that he suspected a trap, he kept his horse going at the same pace.

  The beggar rose to his feet and stood in the road. He cupped his hands to plead for money. Slowing to a trot, Paul pretended that he was going to stop. He knew what was coming next. The beggar would grab the bridle and the man in the tree would drop down on Paul. In the event, they were out of luck. When the beggar tried to stop the horse, Paul kicked him so hard under the chin that he broke the man’s jaw. Before the accomplice could leap down from the tree, he was shot in the arm. Paul then used the butt of his pistol to knock down a third man who came running out of the copse. Kicking his mount into a canter, Paul went on his way, leaving the robbers to lick their wounds and rue their misfortune.

  ‘All I require is the name.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Skillen, but I’m unable to help you.’

  ‘Is it a state secret?’

  ‘All details of our property are confidential.’

  ‘That garden was the scene of a murder,’ said Peter, angrily. ‘Doesn’t that make a difference?’

  ‘No, sir, it doesn’t. We have our rules. I’d lose my position if I broke them.’

  ‘Can’t you see how important this information is?’

  ‘We must protect the anonymity of our clients.’

  Peter had to control the urge to strike the man. They were in the office of the agent responsible for letting the house but he refused to say who actually owned it. He was a tall, lean, sallow man in his forties with a face so nondescript that Peter would never remember a single feature of it when he left the building. The agent’s manner shifted annoyingly between condescension and unctuousness. Expecting cooperation, Peter was frustrated by the man’s attitude.

  ‘Supposing that you owned the property, sir,’ said the agent.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How would you like it if we released your name and address to anyone who walked in here and asked for it? Most of our clients use this agency because we have a reputation for keeping secrets. Wouldn’t you be offended if we betrayed you?’

  ‘The only thing that offends me is your attitude.’

  ‘I can’t help that, sir.’

  ‘If I obtained a warrant, you’d have to surrender the details.’

  ‘Do you have such a warrant?’

  ‘At the moment, I don’t.’

  ‘Then you have no legal right to inspect our files.’

  ‘I simply want one name.’

  ‘It makes no difference.’

  Peter looked around the room. It was neat, tidy and purely functional. Beside the large, long table were a series of locked cabinets. Inside one of them, he thought, was the information he needed. He looked at the window. It was small in size but a man could still squeeze in through it. There were two locks on the door and a grill that could be pulled down outside it. The agency was well protected.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’ asked the man, rubbing his palms together as if trying to warm them. ‘Are you interested in renting a property?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘as a matter of fact, I am.’

  ‘Which part of London do you favour?’

  ‘The one we’ve just been talking about.’

  ‘We have three available houses in that area.’

  ‘I already know the property I’d like to rent.’

  The agent opened a sheaf and took some pages out of it, laying them down on the table with a flourish. He let his finger trail across them.

  ‘Take your pick, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘I’ve already made my selection and it’s not one of these. I want the house where someone was murdered.’

  ‘I’ve told you before. You’re too late. New tenants are due to move in next week. They have a year’s lease.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said Peter, bitterly. ‘If I occupied the property, I might actually get to know who owns
it.’

  Known for her patience and tolerance, Charlotte Skillen was fast approaching the point where one or both would give way. Hannah Granville had come to the gallery straight from the abandoned rehearsal. As before, she listed all of the play’s faults and all of the playwright’s failings. In the exchange with Abel Mundy, she boasted, she had been the clear winner and been supported by the rest of the cast. There was no hint of sympathy for the doomed manager. Charlotte felt impelled to point that out.

  ‘One is bound to feel sorry for Mr Fleet,’ she said.

  ‘He is to blame for this whole imbroglio.’

  ‘The manager acted in what he conceived of as the best interests of his theatre, Hannah. That is why he chose you as his leading lady.’

  ‘I have no quarrel at all with that choice,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s his selection of the play that is the point at issue.’

  ‘You insisted on the right to have three choices against the one exercised by Mr Fleet.’

  ‘That was a fair exchange.’

  ‘It may appear so to you,’ said Charlotte, softly, ‘but it looks different to the unbiased observer. That’s not to say I don’t support you in every way,’ she went on, ‘but many people would not. They’d argue that you gained far more than the manager. As for the dispute, their advice would be that you and Mr Mundy should look for an amicable compromise.’

  ‘Amicable!’ exclaimed Hannah. ‘You are asking me to be amicable towards that excrescence?’

  ‘You’ve often worked before with people you detest. You’ve told me about them many times.’

  ‘That was in my younger days when I was forced to do what I was told. I’ve outgrown that phase of my career. Fame gives me privileges. One of those is to appear in roles that allow me to dazzle an audience.’

  ‘Regardless of the play, you’ll always do that.’

  ‘Not if I am shackled to The Piccadilly Opera.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the start,’ suggested Charlotte. ‘When the manager first described the plot to you, what was it that aroused your interest? I know that you hate every word of the play now but that wasn’t the case beforehand. Something must have pleased you. What was it?’

  Hannah relented. Having poured out her woes to Charlotte once again, she felt that her friend had been forced to listen to the harangue long enough. It was time to be reasonable. Concessions had to be made.

  ‘The plot did have some value,’ she confessed. ‘Though it had elements both of The Beggar’s Opera and of The Duenna, it also had traces of originality. What it did not have was the genius of a Gay or a Sheridan to develop them. My role, as it was described to me, had a surface attraction. I was to be the only daughter of a wealthy man determined to marry me off to a repulsive old lecher with whom my father did business. What I yearned for instead as a husband was a handsome young artist with all the qualities a woman could desire but with little money and no real prospects of acquiring any.’

  ‘So you had to choose between obedience to your father and love?’

  ‘What would you have done, Charlotte?’

  ‘I’d have eloped with the handsome young artist.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I do in the play. In fact, it’s the best moment I have. Once we think we’re safe, we sing a duet that will bring tears to the eyes. Unfortunately, we’ve been betrayed. I am dragged back home and my lover is wrongfully imprisoned as a punishment. Luckily, he finds a friend in the prison chaplain, the only other decent man in the play. The chaplain has an important role. As for me, Esmeralda, how do I escape from a lewd old man and rescue my beloved from the cell he shares with the dregs of London life?’

  Hannah went on to describe the twists and turns of a plot that had a lot of comic scenes to add spice and humour to the play. Without realising it, she was actually talking with a degree of enthusiasm about it. In getting her to accept that The Piccadilly Opera had some appealing features, Charlotte had done what she intended. She’d calmed her friend down and made her assess her position anew.

  ‘That’s how I was hoodwinked,’ said Hannah.

  ‘A presentable plot is no trick. It’s true that some of it is plundered from better playwrights but you’ve often said that plagiarism is rife in the theatre.’

  ‘It’s true. Shakespeare stole his plots without blushing.’

  ‘Then Mr Mundy can’t be blamed for doing the same.’

  ‘Don’t couple his name with that of a master dramatist. Shakespeare could spin straw into gold. Mundy can only do that in reverse.’

  ‘What will happen next?’

  ‘That’s no longer my concern. I’ve washed my hands of the enterprise.’

  ‘How will Mr Mundy feel about that?’

  ‘He’ll be distraught, Charlotte.’ She struck a pose. ‘Without me, there’ll be no performance of his play.’

  Marion Mundy was a chubby, plain woman with an abundance of curly red hair and an unswerving loyalty to her husband. She’d shared his recurring setbacks in finding a market for his plays and consoled him as the letters of rejection – some of them harsh to the point of studied cruelty – quickly piled up. During moments when even his steely confidence began to bend, she was there to praise him and stiffen his resolve to pursue a life in the theatre. When at last he was given his opportunity, she sat proudly beside him at the first performance of his first play. It had its obvious faults but it managed to please an audience in York. The applause validated Abel Mundy. In his view, and that of his wife, he’d joined the theatrical elite.

  From that moment on, his progress was slow but steady. Each new play was met with unstinting praise from his wife and he drew great strength from that. As he achieved more success and his reputation spread, they knew that it was inevitable that his work would eventually move from the backwaters of the provinces to one of the great theatres of the capital, buildings where the finest playwrights and actors had left vivid memories still hanging in the air. Mundy longed to be mentioned in the same breath as the titans of his profession. Marion loved being mentioned as his wife.

  Returning from the rehearsal, he had a face like thunder. She was on her feet at once to wrap her arms around him and ease him down onto the sofa. Sitting beside him, she removed his hat and saw the perspiration on his brow.

  ‘You’ve been running, Abel,’ she said.

  ‘I could not get away from the accursed place quick enough.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s too painful to relate.’

  ‘Did it involve that hateful woman again?’

  ‘It always involves Miss Granville.’

  ‘Why will she not recognise your talent as a playwright?’

  ‘She is too busy admiring herself in a mirror.’

  ‘Did she dare to abuse you again?’

  ‘Yes, Marion,’ he replied, ‘and she did so in front of the whole company.’

  ‘That’s unforgivable. Miss Granville should be dismissed at once.’

  ‘I’ve urged that solution on the manager time and again.’

  ‘What’s his reply?’

  ‘He is bound hand and foot, contractually.’

  ‘It’s she who should be bound hand and foot,’ she said with sudden intensity, ‘and then thrown into the Thames with a ship’s anchor attached. Miss Granville should be shunned by respectable society,’ she continued. ‘It’s an established fact that she lives in sin with a man.’

  Mundy was about to point out that most of the actresses of his acquaintance shared a bed with a man who was not their husband. He’d met two of them who were the discarded mistresses of the Prince Regent and one who’d enjoyed a brief flirtation with no less a person than the Duke of Wellington. Moral standards were more fluid in theatrical circles. While he told his wife many things about his dealings with the acting profession, he concealed far more.

  ‘I won’t let you be treated like this, Abel,’ she declared.

  ‘What can you possibly do, my love?’

  Marion tightened her fists until
her knuckles turned white.

  ‘I don’t know as yet but … I promise that I’ll think of something.’

  Sir Geoffrey Melrose was a big, broad-shouldered man in his sixties with ruddy cheeks that dimpled when he laughed. If he was staying at his country residence, he loved to go for a ride first thing in the morning before galloping back to the house. Only the most inclement weather could prevent him from taking his favourite exercise. When he returned after a stimulating hour in the saddle, one servant came out to take care of his horse and another to receive his hat and his riding crop. The second man had news for his master.

  ‘You have a visitor, Sir Geoffrey,’ he said.

  ‘Splendid! Who is it?’

  ‘The gentleman’s name is Mr Paul Skillen.’

  ‘It’s not a name with which I’m familiar. What’s his business with me?’

  ‘He refused to divulge it, Sir Geoffrey.’

  ‘A touch of mystery, eh? I like that.’

  He walked into the hall, went along a corridor and swept into the drawing room with a smile of anticipation. Paul rose to his feet immediately and introduced himself. Sir Geoffrey was hospitable.

  ‘Sit down, dear fellow, do sit down. Have you been offered refreshment?’

  ‘No, Sir Geoffrey, I haven’t.’

  ‘Then you must let me repair the lapse immediately. If you’ve ridden here from the centre of London, you’ll need something to revive you.’

  ‘I require nothing, I do assure you.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll tell me what’s brought you to my door?’

  ‘I have sad tidings to pass on, I fear.’

  Sir Geoffrey’s dimples vanished. ‘Whom do they concern?’

  ‘It’s Mr Bowerman.’

  ‘Why, what’s old Mark been up to? He has no cause for sadness. The lucky devil is likely to marry one of the prettiest fillies you’ve ever seen. Had I been twenty years younger, I’d have been his jealous rival. Mark Bowerman must be bursting with joy. What’s all this about sad tidings?’