‘What else did you learn, Ruddock?’ asked Hale.
‘Very little,’ admitted the other. ‘I had the feeling that some of them were holding things back.’
‘You should have leant hard on them, lad.’
‘I tried to, sir, but it was no use.’ He brightened. ‘They all asked me the same thing, however. Every one of them told me to pass on their regards to Mr Yeomans and Mr Hale. They hold you in high esteem.’
‘And so they should,’ said Yeomans, darkly, ‘but we want more than their regards. We want names and addresses. We want the evidence to set us on the trail of a killer. One of them must have seen or heard something.’
‘I’ll try again tomorrow,’ volunteered Ruddock.
‘Alfred will go with you.’
‘Will I?’ asked Hale, offended to be given the lowly task of rounding up their informers. ‘What will you be doing, Micah?’
‘I intend to go to that print shop.’
‘That was my suggestion. Why don’t I come with you?’
‘You’ll be too busy working with Ruddock.’
‘It will be an honour to be at your side, Mr Hale,’ said Ruddock, beaming. ‘I learn so much when I’m with someone of your standing.’ He looked at Yeomans. ‘What’s this about a print shop, sir?’
‘It needn’t concern you,’ replied Yeomans.
‘Does it have any bearing on the murder?’
‘Indirectly, it may have.’
‘Then it must be the shop where Mr Paige sold his prints.’
Instead of impressing him, the glimmer of intelligence shown by Ruddock only annoyed Yeomans. Downing his drink with a loud gulp, he handed the empty tankard meaningfully to the younger man and Hale followed suit. With a smile of resignation, Ruddock went off to buy another pint for each of them.
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ advised Hale. ‘He’s eager to help.’
‘Then why did he come back empty-handed?’
‘You heard him, Micah. People were holding something back. That means they’re hanging on to information in the hope that they can squeeze more money out of us. I’ll shake the truth out of them, be assured of it. As for that print shop,’ he went on, ‘are you certain that you wouldn’t prefer me to go instead of you?’
‘Why, in hell’s name, should you do that?’
‘I’m only trying to save you the embarrassment.’
‘What embarrassment?’
‘I had the feeling that one of the prints in that window upset you.’
‘They all upset me,’ roared Yeomans, ‘because they’re an affront to decent people. What appals me most is that the shop is owned by a woman. It’s shameful that she should brazenly sell those prints in the knowledge that they’ll spread their poison far and wide. It’s iniquitous.’
‘What do we know of Mrs Mandrake?’
‘I know all I need to know. She’s no better than a whoremonger.’
‘I’d be interested to meet her.’
‘Leave that task to me,’ said Yeomans. ‘I have a way with women.’
‘Are you going to arrest her or simply put the fear of God into her?’
‘I’m going to make her tell me everything there is to tell about Paige. She’s been his accomplice all this while. Mrs Mandrake should be able to give me vital intelligence.’
They chatted for a few minutes then broke off as Ruddock arrived with a full tankard of ale in each hand. As he set them down on the table, he got no thanks.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘How do we beat off our rivals?’
‘What are you mumbling about?’ asked Hale.
‘Peter and Paul Skillen have caught wind of this murder. What’s to stop them solving the crime before we do?’
‘We have an army of informers who usually catch the first whiff of any serious crime,’ said Yeomans. ‘That means we’ll have access to evidence that the Skillen brothers will never even see.’
‘Yet they always seem to have success,’ argued Ruddock. ‘How do they manage that?’
‘It’s Peter Skillen’s doing,’ said Hale, glumly. ‘He has the most amazing luck.’ A thought struck him. ‘Or maybe it’s Paul Skillen who’s blessed with good fortune. After all, he was lucky enough to ensnare that beautiful actress whose name was always in the newspapers. Only a man with the luck of the devil could manage to do that. Then again,’ he added, ‘Paul rarely had much success at the card table so maybe it was Peter Skillen, after all, who brings in the good luck.’
‘It’s not a question of luck,’ growled Yeomans. ‘Solving crimes is a question of skill and experience and we have more of both than the Skillens. That’s why we are charged with solving this murder. They are mere interlopers. Forget about them, Ruddock. In a case like this, we know how to identify the right people and ask the right questions. Peter and Paul Skillen, meanwhile, will be running around in circles. When we’ve put the killer behind bars, they’ll still be groping in the dark.’
It was a paradox. Jem Huckvale had prayed that he’d one day be able to spend time alone with Meg Rooke yet, now that it had actually happened, he was tongue-tied and unable to enjoy her company. She, by contrast, showed no embarrassment at all, treating him like any other guest and doing her best to put him at his ease. The most agonising moment for Huckvale was when she lifted the bed sheets to peer under the bed in order to find if the chamber pot had been used. Seeing that it was empty, she gave him a smile and left the room. Huckvale’s cheeks were on fire. Proximity to someone he cared for had strict limits for him. Much as he adored the servant, he was not prepared to share the secrets of his bodily functions with her. He resolved instead to pay an occasional visit to the privy in the yard, no matter how painful the journey there and back. The suffering involved would pale beside what he’d already endured in terms of shame.
When there was a knock on the door, he braced himself against Meg’s return but, in fact, it was Charlotte who sailed into the room.
‘How are you, Jem?’ she asked, crossing to the bed.
‘I think that I’m on the mend now.’
‘You certainly have more colour than when you first arrived. Is Meg looking after you properly?’
‘Oh, yes, she’s in and out all the time.’
‘She said that you ate most of the meal we sent up. Had you been able, we’d have invited you to join us in the dining room.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Skillen.’
‘But you need to stay up here and rest.’
‘I thought I heard the front door opening a while ago.’
‘Paul was just leaving,’ she explained. ‘He was going back to the gallery to see if Gully had anything to report.’
‘Why – what has he been doing?’
‘He’s been trying to turn the tables on your attacker, Jem. We know that he must have kept watch for a bodyguard to come out. According to Gully, he’d have been out there for some time because Mr Paige had a long story to tell. The chances are, therefore, that someone noticed the man lying in wait for you.’
‘But there were two men – the one who followed Mr Paige and the one who tried to knock my brains out.’
‘Then someone may have noticed both of them,’ she said, hopefully. ‘If they loitered together, they’d be more likely to arouse curiosity.’
Huckvale was pleased. ‘We have good friends who live or work near the gallery,’ he said. ‘If anyone behaved suspiciously, they’d be seen. Thank you so much for telling me. It’s really lifted my spirits.’
He made the mistake of sitting up quickly in bed, only to set off the pounding of a sledgehammer inside his head. Holding him gently by the shoulders, Charlotte eased him against the pillows. She could see the anguish and frustration in his eyes.
‘I know you want to be involved, Jem,’ she said, ‘but you’re simply not well enough.’
‘But I may be well enough to get up tomorrow.’
‘I won’t hear of it. You must listen to medical advice. Peter, Paul and Gully will find the killer s
omehow. All you have to do is to enjoy a life of leisure.’ Huckvale grimaced. ‘Yes, I know it’s against your nature to lie there and do nothing but Meg is only a tinkle on that bell away from you.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘She’ll help you to stave off boredom.’
Though it was late evening, the streets were full of people and horse-drawn traffic. As he walked along, Paul Skillen heard the familiar tumult and inhaled the familiar stink of London. Neither had existed when Hannah Granville had been there. Her presence in the city seemed to banish both its abiding clamour and its cloying stench. Now that she was on the other side of the Channel, he was made brutally aware once more of the capital’s shortcomings. With a supreme effort, he put Hannah out of his mind and thought about the task in hand. He was soon entering the shooting gallery.
‘Did you have any luck, Gully?’ he asked.
‘I hope so,’ replied the other. ‘It was a costly business.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, as you know, it was market day. The traders were outside in the street. When their work was done, some of them went straight to the White Hart to slake their thirst. That’s where I found Quint.’
‘Is he that fishmonger?’
‘You’d be left in no doubt about that, Paul. Get within a yard of him and the smell is enough to make your toes curl. However, he keeps his wits about him and was far more use than any of the others.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘When I’d bought his ale,’ said Ackford, ‘he remembered two men lurking outside the gallery around the time when Leo Paige was in here. They pretended to look at items in the market but their real interest was in this place.’
‘And did Quint remember what these men looked like?’
‘Yes, he did – but only after I’d jogged his memory with a second pint. Once he’d taken a first mouthful of that, he described both of them. One was a young man dressed like a costermonger and wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his face. He sounds very much like the person that Jem followed.’
‘What about the other, Gully?’
‘Quint had a better look at him. He was somewhat older and had the air of the sailor about him. The fishmonger spends all his time among sailors so I’d rely on his judgement. The man had a flat face, a broken nose and a rough beard. He was wearing an old coat, dark breeches and a battered hat.’
‘At least, we know something about the two rogues.’
‘We may know enough to put a name to one of them,’ claimed Ackford. ‘When you came in, I was just about to go through Charlotte’s record book.’
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ said Paul with rising interest. ‘When she first suggested keeping it, I wasn’t at all sure of the value of that book, but Charlotte’s rogues’ gallery has proved its worth time and again.’
The record book contained a description of every criminal with whom they came into contact. In some cases – where Charlotte had seen them in court – she’d even been able to draw a sketch of them. Her portraits of some villains adorned the book. When they were hunting for particular characters, Gully and the Skillen brothers frequently made use of the record book. As well as a physical description of someone, it often contained a list of his favourite haunts and criminal associates. Had the man served a prison sentence, it was duly noted. While the book was predominantly a male preserve, there were some female malefactors as well.
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Ackford, sitting to the table and opening the book.
Paul watched over his shoulder. ‘We must have dozens of sailors in there. When they come ashore after a long voyage, they always get drunk and search for women or start an affray.’
‘I know. One crew wrecked the Hope and Anchor in Thames Street. The landlord turned to us for help. We rounded up the ringleaders next day and hauled them before a magistrate.’
‘Charlotte made a sketch of them somewhere.’
Ackford turned over a page and ran his eye down the list of names. Charlotte might be no artist but she had enough talent to catch the salient features of a person.
‘Ah,’ said Ackford, jabbing a finger down, ‘here’s our first broken nose.’
‘You’ll find plenty of those among sailors, Gully. Who is this fellow?’
‘It doesn’t matter. We can discount him straight away. He died years ago. We even know where his funeral was held.’ He looked up. ‘That raises the question of Leo’s funeral.’
‘Someone has already volunteered to pay for that, Gully. It’s the lady who runs the print shop where Mr Paige sold his wares. She told Peter that she would meet all the expenses.’
‘That’s uncommonly kind of her.’
‘Evidently, she was very fond of him.’
Ackford grinned. ‘A lot of women were, Paul. In his younger days, Leo had great charm and, like any soldier, he took his pleasure where he found it. If he’d ever written his life story, most readers, I fancy, would have been scandalised.’
‘From what Peter said about her, the lady who sold his prints is far more likely to cause a scandal than to be upset by one. He described her as a woman of the world,’ said Paul. ‘Well, you can make up your own mind about her. Mrs Mandrake has put herself forward as our assistant.’
Ackford was startled. ‘Our assistant, did you say? Would she willingly place herself in jeopardy?’
‘Nothing would deter her, by all accounts.’
‘I don’t like the notion. I have grave doubts about relying on a woman.’
‘Yet you’re doing so at this very moment,’ Paul pointed out. ‘When you picked up that record book, you were relying on Charlotte. Without it, we’d have gone from case to case without building up an archive. In listing all the villains who’ve crossed our paths, Charlotte has given us a useful weapon. Let’s use it to the full. As for Mrs Mandrake,’ he continued, ‘we can leave her to her own devices.’
Diane Mandrake had just finished adjusting her hair in a mirror when she heard the rapping on the door. Since it was well before opening time, she was irritated by the disturbance. Cocking an ear from which a diamond earring dangled, she listened to the sound of the door being unlocked and to a muffled conversation. The voice of Benjamin Tite eventually came up the stairs.
‘You have a visitor, Mrs Mandrake,’ he called.
‘Who is it?’
‘His name is Mr Yeomans and he’s a Bow Street Runner.’
‘Has he brought a warrant with him?’
‘He merely wishes to ask you some questions.’
‘Show him into the back room and stay with him. I don’t want a Runner poking about among my treasures.’
Diane deliberately kept her visitor waiting before she deigned to descend the stairs. She entered the room in a regal manner. Tite introduced Yeomans then, in response to a nod from his employer, he scuttled off into the shop. She peered at the Runner.
‘I’ve seen you before somewhere,’ she said.
Yeomans was firm. ‘I think not.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’d never forget meeting a lady of distinction such as you,’ he said with a doomed attempt at gallantry. When she ignored the compliment, he surged on. ‘I’ve come to talk about Mr Paige. You’ll be aware of his death, I daresay.’
‘I am indeed, sir,’ she replied, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. ‘It was a profound shock and I may never recover from it.’
‘I want you to help me find the killer.’
‘How can I do that, Mr Yeomans?’
‘Just answer my questions and all will become clear.’
She studied him. ‘I do think I’ve seen your face before, you know.’
‘It must have been someone else, Mrs Mandrake.’
Having arrived with the intention of grilling her, Yeomans was taken aback by her striking appearance and by the bewitching odour of her perfume. He’d raided many brothels in his time and arrested many a procuress. Although he’d used the word of her, Diane Mandrake could ne
ver be described as a whoremonger. Clearly, she was a gracious woman with a quality he found instantly alluring. Instead of berating her for selling satirical prints, he found himself apologetic and deferential.
For her part, she’d taken an instant dislike to him. Peter Skillen had been kind, considerate and gentlemanly. Yeomans could not compare with him. While she was prepared to help Peter in every way, therefore, she saw no reason to give any practical assistance to a Runner. She had clashed with too many representatives of law and order in the past to have any respect for them. With her visitor, therefore, she decided that her best plan was to act more like a grieving widow.
‘How well did you know Mr Paige?’ asked Yeomans.
‘I knew him very well, sir, and loved him dearly.’
‘You must have realised that his prints would upset certain people.’
‘They upset some and delighted others. I was one of the latter.’
‘The Parliament of Foibles caused untold dismay in certain quarters. To a man, politicians condemned the series for its cruelty.’
‘Nobody likes to have their faults pointed out, Mr Yeomans.’
The handkerchief came into play again and she pretended to weep into it. When she’d dabbed at her eyes, she indicated that he should continue. He began his tentative interrogation. Yeomans asked many of the questions that Peter Skillen had first put to her. While she’d given straightforward replies to him, she was far more evasive with her visitor, either misleading him on purpose or simply pleading ignorance. Enthralled by her at the start, Yeomans became disconcerted that he was getting so little help. At the same time, however, he didn’t wish to upset someone who – to his eyes, at least – was so obviously in mourning. Having gathered all the information he felt he could, he glanced towards the shop.
‘Turning to another matter,’ he said, casually, ‘I couldn’t help noticing one of the prints in your window when I happened to pass by yesterday. It was the work of Mr Paige, as it happens, and he’d drawn a good likeness of Sir Humphrey Coote.’
‘I remember the print well, Mr Yeomans.’
Steps to the Gallows Page 6
