‘Have you heard from Hannah?’ asked Peter.
‘I had one letter and it took an age to reach me.’
‘How is she faring?’
‘She loves Paris. I just hope that she misses me as much as I miss her.’
‘Can you doubt that?’
‘I just wish she wasn’t so far away and surrounded by foreigners.’
‘Now that it’s possible to visit Paris again,’ said Peter, ‘there are lots of English people there. She’ll not lack for people who speak the same language. I’d love to go to the city myself.’
‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘you’d actually have time to see its sights now. When you worked as a spy during the war, your trips there were fraught with danger. Charlotte was beside herself while you were away.’
‘I’m just grateful that she didn’t know what I had to endure.’
‘She knew that many British agents were captured and killed.’
‘I was one of the lucky ones, Paul.’
The door opened and Gully Ackford came in, whisking off his hat. There was an exchange of greetings, then Ackford told them about his visit to Jem Huckvale. When he described how the reluctant patient reacted to the appearance of the maidservant, all three of them shared a laugh.
‘I did what you asked of me,’ said Ackford, turning to Peter. ‘I remembered as much as I could of the conversation I had with Leo. He was full of surprises.’
‘Tell us about them, Gully.’
After clearing his throat, Ackford launched into a long, albeit repetitive, account of Paige’s earlier visit. The brothers listened attentively, taking it in turns to ask for clarification of some points in the narrative. When their friend had finished, they felt that the investigation had been given impetus and direction.
‘We need to get hold of old copies of Paige’s Chronicle,’ said Paul. ‘They’ll provide us with a list of possible suspects. Those who were denounced in print are unlikely to have dirtied their own hands but one of them might well have hired thugs to do the deed.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Peter. ‘What happened to Jem proves that we’re dealing with villains who are proficient in their trade. But where do we get these newspapers, Gully? If your friend had his own collection, they’ll have gone up in smoke.’
‘We must start in Holborn,’ said Ackford. ‘That’s where a shop sells the prints that Leo told me about. One glance in the window, I daresay, will give us even more potential suspects.’
‘Who owns the shop?’
‘Leo said that her name was Mrs Mandrake and he spoke very well of her. The premises are in Middle Row.’
‘I’ll get over there at once,’ said Peter. ‘Thank you, Gully. What you’ve told us has been very enlightening. You might care to read what happened when Paul went to your friend’s lodging. Like you, my brother has been dredging his memory.’
After bidding them farewell, Peter left the room at speed. Paul, meanwhile, passed his notes to Ackford who read them with mingled interest and sadness.
‘What an appalling way to take leave of the world,’ he said, forlornly.
‘It was not by choice,’ Paul pointed out. ‘He lodged in a pleasant enough house but it was much smaller than I’d expected. If he could afford to publish a newspaper and earned money from his satires, I assumed he’d be a man of means.’
Ackford chuckled. ‘Then you didn’t know Leo Paige,’ he said. ‘Money ran through his hands like water. He had many virtues but he had one glaring weakness.’
‘What was that?’
‘Gambling.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘It was like a disease with Leo.’
‘You don’t need to explain, Gully. I’ve suffered from the affliction myself.’
It was Paul’s abiding vice. When he had money in his purse – and was at a loose end for company – he’d often gone off to one of his favourite gambling hells, despite the fact that he usually had a run of bad luck there.
‘It’s one of the many gifts Hannah bestowed upon me,’ said Paul. ‘She cured me of that particular malady.’
‘You’ve been healthier and happier as a result.’
‘Tell me a little more about this Mrs Mandrake.’
‘All I know is that she’s owned that print shop for ten years or more.’
‘How did your friend describe her?’
‘He couldn’t praise her enough,’ said Ackford. ‘She was his guardian angel. Leo described her as the most remarkable woman in London.’
There was a small cluster of people gazing through the window when Peter arrived at the print shop. He could hear their laughs and titters. A few of them drifted away, leaving him space to take a look for himself at the caricatures on display. All were well drawn but those in the Parliament of Foibles series had a quiet savagery that set them apart. The text beneath the drawings was clever, amusing and incisive. Leonidas Paige clearly had a way with words. Peter’s eye fell on the print that featured Sir Humphrey Coote. Having been employed by the government during the war, and having spent much time in the company of the Home Secretary, Peter knew most of the leading politicians by sight. He recognised Coote at once and grinned at the satirical treatment he’d received. His grin became a laugh of delight when he saw the burly figure of Micah Yeomans in the cartoon. The Runner was belittled in a way that was bound to arouse his desire for revenge but Peter didn’t for a second consider him to be a murder suspect. Yeomans might not have seen the drawing and, even if he had, he would – instead of breaking the law – endeavour to use it to punish the artist severely.
Still smiling, Peter let himself into the shop and was met by a short, wiry, white-haired individual dressed in black from head to toe and rubbing his hands together as if washing them with invisible soap. Benjamin Tite appraised his visitor shrewdly then waved an arm to take in the whole shop.
‘Welcome to our humble emporium, sir,’ he said. ‘I can see that you’re a man of fashion with a discriminating eye. Feel free to examine our collection. You’re under no obligation to purchase anything, though I sense that something in our window has brought you in here.’ Hand on his chest, he bowed slightly. ‘I am Benjamin Tite and I’m at your service.’
‘One particular print did whet my appetite,’ confessed Peter, ‘but I came here for another reason. I need to speak to Mrs Mandrake on a matter of urgency.’
‘May I know what it is, sir?’
‘Mrs Mandrake must be the judge of that. In the first instance, I’ll only speak to her. Is the lady available?’
Irritated by the rebuff, Tite signified his disapproval with a loud sniff.
‘I’ll see if Mrs Mandrake is willing to receive you,’ he said. ‘May I know who is calling on her?’
‘My name is Peter Skillen.’
‘Have you come to buy or sell?’
‘I’ve come to tell Mrs Mandrake something of great importance,’ said Peter, sharply, ‘and I’ll thank you to stop delaying my conversation with her. Your employer, I do assure you, will be as displeased as I am.’
After mumbling an excuse, Tite withdrew into the back room and closed the door after him. When it opened again, the commanding figure of Diane Mandrake came into view, filling the doorway and giving off the odour of an expensive perfume. Wearing a striking, high-waisted blue dress, she was a big, handsome woman with a surging bosom. She wore a diamond necklace, a gold brooch in the shape of a horse and a gold bangle studded with gemstones. Rings adorned most fingers on each hand. It was impossible to guess her age with any accuracy. Hands on her hips, she looked Peter up and down.
‘You wish to speak with me, sir?’ she asked, warily.
‘Yes, Mrs Mandrake, but it must be in private.’
‘There’s a distressing whiff of the law about you, Mr Skillen. I hope that you’ve not come to initiate a prosecution against me.’
‘Far from it,’ said Peter, indicating the window display. ‘Even on a short acquaintance with them, your prints have given me immense pleasure. I would chee
rfully support your right to sell such excellent work’.
She relaxed at once. ‘Come with me, sir.’
As she stepped backwards and moved aside, Tite scurried back into the shop. Peter went through into the adjoining room. It was large, high-ceilinged and well proportioned. The furniture was tasteful and there was an abiding sense of comfort. A gilt-framed mirror stood over the marble fireplace. Almost every other inch of wall space was taken up by framed prints. After closing the door, she lowered herself into a chair and invited Peter to do likewise. He sat down opposite her.
‘Now, sir,’ she said, ‘why such a need for privacy?’
‘I’ve brought some news about Leonidas Paige.’
She smiled wearily. ‘What kind of a mess has Leo got himself into this time? Does he need me to pay off a debt or has he been arrested yet again?’
‘It’s more serious than that, Mrs Mandrake.’
‘He’s not ill, I trust?’
‘Mr Paige is beyond the help of any physician, alas.’
She rose to her feet in alarm. ‘Leo is dead?’
‘My tidings are even more distressing,’ he cautioned. ‘Since he spoke so fondly of you, I felt that you should hear them as soon as possible. Earlier today,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘Mr Paige was murdered.’
Diane Mandrake looked as if she’d been hit hard in the face by a mallet. Her cheeks reddened, her eyes bulged, her jaw dropped open and she emitted a gasp of sheer horror. Her legs turned to jelly and she swooned.
Leaping out of his chair, Peter was just in time to catch her.
CHAPTER FOUR
They were about to lock up the gallery when there was a thunderous knocking on the door. Gully Ackford opened it to find two glowering visitors outside. Micah Yeomans and Alfred Hale were standing there with stomachs pulled in and chests thrust out.
‘Have you come for instruction?’ teased Ackford.
‘They could certainly do with it,’ said Paul, sizing them up. ‘The least you should expect of Runners is that they can actually run. This pair can barely waddle. No wonder they catch so few villains.’
‘We’d like a word with you two,’ said Yeomans, ominously.
‘Then say your piece and be off with you.’
‘Don’t give us orders, Mr Skillen. You’ve no status in this city. We, on the other hand, certainly have and our territory is well marked. You and that interfering brother, Paul, must not dare to trespass on it.’
‘This is Paul,’ said Ackford with a chuckle. ‘Your eyesight is getting worse, Micah. Perhaps it’s time you considered retirement.’
Hale snapped his fingers. ‘I knew it was Paul.’ Yeomans glared at him. ‘I could have told you if you’d asked.’
‘I didn’t ask,’ snapped his companion, ‘so hold your tongue.’
‘But I guessed right for once.’
‘One of you – Paul or Peter, I know not which – went to the home of a Mr Paige without any writ to do so. Do you confess it?’
‘No,’ said Paul, tartly.
‘Then it must have been your brother.’
‘Nobody from here went without a writ,’ said Ackford, seriously. ‘Leo Paige was a good friend and regimental comrade of mine. He came to us in search of a bodyguard. The person who took on that duty was clubbed to the ground for his pains and might well have died as a result. That’s our writ, Micah,’ he emphasised. ‘We have a personal stake in this case. I want to catch the loathsome creature responsible for my friend’s death.’
‘And I want the man who battered Jem Huckvale,’ said Paul, vengefully. ‘If you contrive to arrest the culprits before us, we’ll be the first to congratulate you. But there’s little chance of that happening.’
‘When you and your brother get out of the way,’ said Yeomans, wagging a finger, ‘there’s every chance. We have a licence to pursue felons.’
‘Yes – and you do so with one eye on the reward money.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘We know you too well, Micah.’
‘And we’ve taken your measure,’ retorted Yeomans. ‘You are meddling fools who commit blunder after blunder. And you impede us – damn you!’
‘What you mean is that we always outshine you.’
‘Ask yourselves this,’ said Ackford, ‘if a man’s life is in danger – as Leo Paige’s undoubtedly was – why did he turn to us instead of seeking the protection of the Bow Street Runners?’
‘You explained that yourself,’ said Hale. ‘He sought out a friend.’
‘But he hadn’t even realised that I own this gallery.’
‘He came here,’ said Paul, ‘because we can offer a service that you do not.’
‘And what kind of service was it?’ asked Yeomans with a sneer. ‘The man you were supposed to protect was murdered and your floundering bodyguard was so inept that he got himself knocked unconscious. What sort of a bill are you going to send to the deceased? Don’t be surprised if he refuses to pay it.’
Exposing a row of ugly teeth, he brayed aloud.
Ackford had to rein in his temper and master the urge to throw a punch. Striking a Runner would inevitably lead to a fine, if not a spell in prison, and he didn’t want to give Yeomans the pleasure of arresting him. Besides, he had the restraining hand of Paul on his shoulder. There was a better way of getting back at their rivals and that was to solve the crimes ahead of them.
‘What have you learnt so far?’ demanded Yeomans.
‘We’ve learnt that you’re an uncouth oaf unworthy of the office you hold,’ said Paul. ‘When I went to Mr Paige’s house, I spoke to the hapless owner and his wife. You were at liberty to do exactly the same thing.’
‘And so we did.’
‘Then you don’t need me to offer guidance.’
‘You may have gleaned something that we didn’t.’
‘That’s always the case, Micah.’
‘I won’t warn you again,’ declared Yeomans. ‘If you and your brother dare to get under our feet in this investigation, you’ll be in deep trouble. The last thing we need is to have the pair of you treading on our toes.’
Paul grinned. ‘How can we tread on your toes if we’re under your feet?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘We know only too well,’ said Ackford. ‘You’re afraid that we’ll expose your weaknesses by competing with you. We’ve done it time and again in the past. Brace yourselves for further humiliation.’
Yeomans simmered for a full minute. Unable to find a crushing rejoinder, he turned on his heel and strode away. Hale had to break into a trot to keep up with him. Paul could not resist a Parthian shot.
‘I lied to you, Micah,’ he called out, cupping his hands. ‘You were right first time. I am Peter Skillen.’
Diane Mandrake slowly recovered consciousness. When her eyelids finally stopped fluttering like a trapped butterfly, she realised that she was stretched out on the sofa with Peter Skillen standing solicitously over her. As she struggled to remember what had happened, he prompted her gently.
‘I had to pass on troubling news,’ he said. ‘You were overwhelmed by it.’
‘Of course – poor, dear Leo is dead. When did it happen?’
‘We can discuss that when you feel well enough.’
‘I’m fine now, Mr Skillen,’ she said, adjusting her position, ‘but wait a moment. If I fainted, why am I not still stretched out on the floor?’
‘Luckily, I was able to catch you.’
‘Thank heavens there was a pair of strong manly arms waiting!’
At any other time, Peter would have found the remark flirtatious and her eyes did ignite for a second. In the circumstances, he decided, she was too flustered by the loss of a friend and business associate to know what she was saying. Easing her back onto the sofa had taken some effort. Peter could still feel the weight of her body pressed up against him.
‘I owe you a debt, kind sir,’ she said.
‘I only did what anyone would have done.’
‘That’s patently not true. You’ve met little Ben Tite, who looks after the shop. Had he tried to catch me when I went down, he’d still be flat on his back beneath me, unable to move a muscle.’ She let out a ripe cackle then chided herself immediately. ‘I shouldn’t laugh. It’s a terrible thing to do in the wake of this calamity.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Leo was murdered? Where, when and how did it take place? I thought he was going to engage a bodyguard. I was the one who bullied him into doing so, Mr Skillen. He showed me some of the letters he received. They were vicious. Leo was threatened with torture, disfigurement and a miserable death.’
‘What about you, Mrs Mandrake?’
‘I don’t follow you, sir.’
‘His work is on sale in your shop. Did you not receive threats?’
‘Oh, I have them all the time,’ she said, airily, ‘and they usually come from people who’ve been featured in our prints. Prosecution is their weapon. They try to frighten me with the threat of it but, as you can see, I’m still here and my shop is still thriving.’ She leant forward. ‘But that’s enough about me. Stop hovering like that and sit down again. I want to hear about Leo.’
‘Some of the details are upsetting,’ he warned, resuming his seat.
‘I’m past the shock. I have the strength to hear them now.’
‘Then I must first tell you how I became involved with Mr Paige …’
Peter gave her a brief account of how Paige had come to the shooting gallery, discovered that it was run by his old friend, hired a bodyguard and set off with Jem Huckvale trailing behind him. Diane was saddened to hear how the bodyguard had been assaulted and she attached no blame to Huckvale. When she heard about the murder itself, there was a sharp intake of breath and she brought a hand to her neck.
‘Why did he have to be garrotted?’ she murmured.
‘It was a quick and simple way to overpower him,’ replied Peter. ‘He’d been a soldier, remember. Unless he’d been caught off guard, he’d have put up a good fight. The killer made sure that he had no chance to do so.’
Steps to the Gallows Page 4
