Steps to the Gallows

by Edward Marston

‘Where will you be all this time?’

  ‘Mr Hale and I will be at the Peacock.’

  ‘Surely, it will be closed by then?’

  Yeomans grinned. ‘It’s always open for us.’

  Before he rode back to his own house, Paul Skillen changed back into his normal attire. He was pleased that Virgo had been in touch with them and intrigued by Charlotte’s suggestion that the cartoonist might, in fact, be female. Short and explicit, the letter had been written by a graceful hand that might support the notion. It was difficult for women to make their way into certain professions and some resorted to male names in order to do so. Had a lady chosen the ambiguous name of Virgo in order to disguise her gender? Paul was anxious to find out.

  Having stabled his horse, he was admitted by Timothy Crabbe, his wiry, old, manservant. Paul handed him his hat, gloves and riding crop and went into the drawing room. Holding it near the candle, he read the letter once more.

  Crabbe appeared at his shoulder. ‘You had a visitor earlier on, sir.’

  ‘Who was that, pray?’

  ‘He gave his name as Gregory Lomas.’

  ‘Did he have a message for me?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Yes, sir, and it was an urgent one. Mr Lomas was breathless when he got here and distressed that you were not at home.’

  ‘What did he have to report?’

  ‘A man turned up at the house earlier to speak to Mr Paige, unaware that the gentleman had departed this life. When he was told the grim news, the caller pushed Mr Lomas aside, rushed upstairs to Mr Paige’s room and searched in an oak chest. He was furious when he saw that it was empty.’

  ‘Did Mr Lomas know the intruder?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir – he’s been to the house before.’

  ‘Then he must be the tall man with the aspect of a soldier.’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Skillen. Unfortunately, he has never given his name to the landlord and nor did Mr Paige.’

  ‘This is interesting news,’ said Paul. ‘I must remember to thank Mr Lomas for passing it on. Am I the only recipient of it?’

  ‘I believe so, sir. Mr Lomas said that he came to you at once.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘He trusted you, Mr Skillen.’

  Paul was touched. He’d felt very sorry for Lomas and his wife. They were decent people with contented lives that had been shattered by the events in an upstairs room at their house. It had left them in a state of heightened anxiety.

  ‘The Runners must also have been there.’

  ‘Mr Lomas didn’t take to them at all, sir.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ replied Crabbe, ‘but he explained why he relied on you. He said that you seemed to be on his side. Mr Lomas didn’t get that feeling from the Bow Street Runners.’

  The rain had stopped but cramp was attacking both of Chevy Ruddock’s legs. He tried stamping his feet but the pain only grew worse. The one way to relieve it was to walk up and down the street. As he strolled along, he began to rehearse the excuse he’d have to give his wife, Agnes, for being out all night without warning her. If he told her that he was stalking two men involved in murder and arson, she would fear for his safety and beg him to return to his former occupation as a cooper. Making barrels was hard work but at least he didn’t have to court an early death in the process.

  Every so often, he stopped to look across at Doll Fortune’s. Visitors continued to arrive throughout the night, replacing those who’d departed once their needs and fantasies had been satisfied. Since he couldn’t understand what impelled men to desert their wives in order to consort with prostitutes, Ruddock oozed disapproval. It was well past midnight when two more clients arrived. What distinguished them was that they came on foot and were so inebriated that they had to hold each other up as they staggered along the pavement. Though he was on the opposite side of the road, Ruddock heard their coarse language clearly as they walked past. Young, sturdy, roughly dressed and uncouth, they stood out from the wealthy patrons who arrived in style.

  Having made one mistake, Ruddock didn’t wish to make a second. He therefore suppressed his hopes at first and simply kept watch. The two men went up to the house and were accosted by the doorman. He gestured that they should leave but they refused and a scuffle broke out. Since they were unsteady on their feet, they were unable to overpower the doorman. Howling abuse at him, they gave up and retreated. It was them. Ruddock was certain of it now. As Yeomans had predicted, they were turned away and bristling with anger. When they rolled past him again, expletives poured out of their mouths in a torrent. Luckily for him, they were too drunk and too preoccupied to notice that Ruddock was following them. Keeping well back, he trailed them through a labyrinth of streets, urged on by the conviction that he was doing something of great importance. It would not only lead to the arrest of a killer, it would earn him enough kudos to be considered for promotion. If that happened, his wife would be intensely proud of him.

  A problem then occurred. The two men split up. Though they seemed barely able to stand, they came to a fork and parted company. Ruddock had no idea which of them to follow. When he walked tentatively down one street, he heard the telltale trickle of urination. It persuaded him to go off in the other direction instead. He had to lengthen his stride to catch up with the other man. It was too dark for him to see his quarry so he simply listened for the sound of dragging feet. After a few minutes, to his dismay, the noise stopped altogether. Had the man collapsed or stepped into a house? Ruddock was baffled. He walked on until he came to a lane on the right. Something told him that he’d find the man down there, possibly in a heap on the ground. He edged his way down the lane until he came eventually to a blank wall and realised that he was in a cul-de-sac.

  He did hear the noise of feet now and there were two pairs of them. Out of the gloom came two swaying figures, getting close enough for him to smell the ale on their breath. Ruddock was the quarry now.

  ‘Why were you following us?’ demanded one of them.

  One of the qualities that Benjamin Tite admired in his employer was that she had indefatigable energy. If she was engaged in a project, Diane Mandrake was ready to work from dawn until long after dusk. With light blazing from the candelabra, she was seated at a table littered with correspondence, searching through it methodically. Tite came into the room wearing a dressing gown and a nightcap.

  ‘You need your sleep,’ he said.

  ‘Leave me be, Ben.’

  ‘Can’t you do whatever you’re doing in the morning?’

  ‘It is morning,’ she replied, ‘and I don’t care if I never get to bed. This takes precedence. Over the years, I’ve had scores of letters from Leo Paige. Somewhere amongst them, there must be a hint as to the identity of Virgo.’

  ‘If there is, you’d have spotted it at the time.’

  ‘Not necessarily – even I am prone to make mistakes.’

  ‘You’re making one at the moment.’

  ‘Go back to bed, Ben.’

  ‘I’ll have to,’ he said before stifling a yawn. About to turn away, he remembered something. ‘An odd thing happened while you were away.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Mr Yeomans turned up again.’

  ‘Did that dreadful man pester you with questions?’

  ‘He didn’t even come in the shop.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘He simply walked up and down the street and glanced in this direction every time he passed. In the end, I went out and asked him what he wanted. He asked if you were here and I told him you were not.’

  ‘How did he react to that?’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ said Tite, fighting off another yawn, ‘he reacted very strangely. He asked if Mr Mandrake was here and, on receipt of the news that there was no Mr Mandrake, he seemed unusually pleased.’

  ‘Pleased?’ she repeated, ‘That big, black-eyed, beetle-browed oaf of a Runner is pleased that I have no husband? This intelligence has made m
e feel quite sick. If he ever comes near the shop again and asks after me, tell him that I am not here even though I may well be. Pleased, is he? Then here’s something to curdle his pleasure. You may add that I am indisposed because I have gone to my seamstress to try on a bridal dress for my forthcoming wedding.’

  ‘That should spike his guns,’ said Tite, chortling.

  ‘I’ll do more than that if he comes sniffing after me, Ben,’ she vowed. ‘Here we are, trying to catch the man who murdered dear Leo, and all that Yeomans can do is to eye me up like a bull in a field with a prize cow. He’s an abomination. I’d no more marry him than I’d couple with a giant hedgehog.’

  Left alone in an ill-lit room, Yeomans and Hale sipped their beer and speculated on the possibility that they were wasting their time. It might well be that the two men who’d scandalised Doll Fortune’s house would not return again that night. They might seek their pleasures elsewhere. There was also the possibility that, if they did appear, Ruddock would be found unequal to the task of trailing them to their lodging and bringing back details of its location.

  ‘You ask too much of the lad, Micah,’ said Hale. ‘There’s a real downpour out there now. He’ll be soaked to the skin.’

  ‘He has to take responsibility.’

  ‘I’d have given him company at his vigil.’

  ‘Two people are more likely to be seen, Alfred. One is always better. In any case, he’s not there to tackle these villains, merely to observe where they go. That involves no great skill or effort. Besides,’ said Yeomans, ‘he’s earned the right to the assignment. Ruddock is a good man. When he learns to handle his wife as cunningly as we handle ours, he’ll be a real asset to us. We simply have to cure him of being too honest with the woman.’

  ‘Chevy is still in thrall to her. I’ve seen the wife so I can understand why.’

  Yeomans went off into a reverie about Diane Mandrake, wondering how he could best approach his beloved and what gifts would endear him to her. A woman of striking beauty and patent appetite needed a man to bring real fulfilment. He was ready to put himself forward. His meditations were rudely interrupted by a knock on the door of the tavern. Holding a lantern, Hale got up and went to see who it was. When he opened the door, he was amazed to see Ruddock there, sodden, bent double and clearly exhausted. As he held the lantern close to the newcomer’s face, he saw that it was bruised and that there was a river of dried blood coming from his nose.

  ‘What happened, Chevy?’ he asked.

  ‘I got them, Mr Hale,’ said the other, triumphantly. ‘I got them both.’

  He stood back to reveal the bodies of the two men he’d dragged all the way from the lane. Though they’d tried to give him a beating, he’d proved far too strong for them. Weakened by drink, they spent most of the fight flailing impotently away. Ruddock had taken some punishment but had retaliated by knocking both of them senseless. Gulping for air, he recounted the whole episode. Torn between scepticism and disbelief, Yeomans came out to hear it. When the narrative tailed off, he grabbed the lantern from Hale and held it to the face of each of the captives in turn.

  Ruddock smiled bravely. ‘Did I do well, sir?’

  ‘You did very well, lad,’ complimented Hale.

  ‘When I saw the chance to arrest them, I took it.’

  ‘There’s only one problem,’ said Yeomans, kicking one of the prone figures and eliciting a deep moan. ‘You followed the wrong prey. They deserve arrest for being drunk and disorderly and that’s the condition in which they’re usually found. Do you see who we’ve got here, Alfred?’

  Hale took a close look. ‘It’s Cullen and Roach.’

  ‘You know them?’ asked Ruddock in astonishment.

  ‘We ought to, lad. We arrested them often enough.’

  ‘Jabez Roach is the worst one,’ said Yeomans, pointing to one of the bodies. ‘I once caught him pissing over the flowers in the chief magistrate’s garden. It wasn’t a wise thing to do. These rascals are petty criminals. While they steal anything they can, they don’t kill and ravage women. In other words,’ he concluded, ‘the men we want are still at liberty. Get back to Covent Garden and wait for the real villains to appear.’

  A shudder ran through Chevy Ruddock. He had to start all over again.

  ‘What shall I tell my wife when she sees I’ve been in a fight?’ he bleated.

  The Runners gave a mirthless laugh.

  Paul Skillen had always been an early riser but he was up soon after dawn that morning. The thought of meeting Paige’s partner was an enticing one. Whether male or female, the person who drew the brilliant caricatures in the Parliament of Foibles was self-evidently an artist of rare talent. Paul longed to meet Virgo. As well as solving a mystery, he would be keeping his mind off Hannah Granville and grieving because he’d not heard from her for well over a week. Doubts began to trouble him. No time for the meeting had been suggested in the letter nor had a specific location been given. Crowds flocked past King’s Bench Prison every day. Caught up in the bustle, Paul might stand in the wrong place and be completely missed by the person he was supposed to meet. Something else worried him. How would Virgo recognise him? As far as he knew, Paul had never met the artist.

  As he set off, therefore, his excitement was tempered by niggling anxieties. Why had Virgo chosen a Southwark prison as the venue? Would it not have been easier for the artist to present himself, or herself, at the gallery? Paige had apparently confided to his friend that he was going there in search of a bodyguard. What prevented Virgo from turning up on the doorstep? Was he only prepared to share his secret with one person? Once they’d met, would Paul be sworn to silence about Virgo’s identity? And why did he choose that pseudonym in the first place?

  Paul had a great deal on which to reflect as he rode over the bridge towards the south bank and picked his way through the multitudes coming in the opposite direction. In earlier days, Southwark had been the centre of crime and dissipation, a place of refuge for outlaws and immigrants. Theatres and bear-baiting arenas had flourished there, bringing in crowds that were liberally sprinkled with prostitutes and pickpockets. The area was a little more civilised now but there was still a whiff of corruption in the air. It was a place where Paul remained alert and kept a hand on his dagger. He was glad to be travelling in bright sunlight.

  King’s Bench Prison had been demolished in the middle of the last century and rebuilt on a new site. Much of it was destroyed by fire during the Gordon Riots so more rebuilding had been needed. Its high perimeter stone walls were forbidding in their solidity. All sight of the cheerless accommodation inside was blocked out and, by the same token, prisoners were unable to enjoy any view of London during their incarceration. Paul rode to and fro past the main gate in the hope that he’d be seen and stopped but nobody stepped out of the throng to hail him. He therefore dismounted and led his horse slowly along the same route and back. Still there was no sign of Virgo. Paul decided that the meeting might not even take place that morning and steeled himself for a lengthy wait. The first hour sped by but the second one seemed to limp past. Patience waning and nerves frayed, he considered for the first time that he was the victim of a hoax. Someone posing as Virgo was having fun at his expense.

  He was about to leave when a small boy came running across to him. He wore tattered clothes and had straggly fair hair poking out from beneath his hat. Protruding front teeth gave him the appearance of a baby rabbit. His voice was high-pitched.

  ‘Ya from the gall’ry, sir?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Paul.

  ‘I’m to arsk ya nime.’

  ‘It’s Skillen – Paul Skillen.’

  ‘Why d’ya come?’

  ‘A letter was delivered to us. It said that I could meet someone here.’

  ‘I knows, sir,’ said the boy, grinning. ‘I brort it. When I puts it under ya door, I arsked a shopkipper nearby who works in the gall’ry. Your name was one he give me – Paul Skill’n.’

  ‘And what’s your name, la
d?’

  ‘Me, sir? I’m Samuel Snape but they calls me Snapper.’

  Paul was impressed by the boy. He had bright eyes and spoke with a confidence beyond his years. Having been told to confirm that someone from the gallery had turned up, he did so. Paul surmised that Virgo was afraid that an impostor might appear. Through the boy, he was checking up on the visitor. Paul found that reassuring.

  ‘Well, now, Snapper,’ he said, ‘is there anything else you want to know?’

  The boy eyed the horse. ‘Can I ’ave a ride, please?’

  ‘Why – where are we going?’

  ‘Iss nor far.’

  ‘You can have a ride if you tell me Virgo’s real name.’

  ‘Doan know it, sir.’

  ‘Where do I meet him?’

  ‘Inside there,’ said Snapper, jerking his thumb.

  Paul was taken aback. ‘He’s a prisoner?’

  ‘Yes, sir – so am I.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Peter Skillen accompanied his wife to the gallery before going off to make enquiries about the four suspects they’d identified from a study of Paige’s Chronicle. He was certain that Paige’s murder had been ordered either by a vengeful politician enraged by the unflattering portrait of him in the Parliament of Foibles, or by someone with connections to the government. That raised the question of where the journalist and his partner, Virgo, got their intelligence. Paige seemed to be remarkably well informed about the private lives of the people he satirised yet he had no practical experience of the political scene. He was only a former soldier with the gift of writing scabrous prose. When the Stamp Act had silenced his newspaper, he’d found another way to strike at some of the men who’d helped to put it on the statute book.

  Whoever had ordered Paige’s assassination would be unaware that he had a partner in the enterprise. Peter was bound to wonder what would happen if and when they did so. The likelihood was that Virgo would also become a target. When he actually met the artist that morning, therefore, Paul Skillen would do his best to ensure his continued safety. There was a whole raft of unanswered questions to consider, yet Peter nevertheless felt a degree of confidence. They’d discovered the name of one of the assassins and an old sailor had been employed to seek the man’s whereabouts. Notwithstanding her tendency to interfere, Diane Mandrake had given them priceless help when she handed over her copies of the Chronicle. The newspapers had not only provided huge entertainment, they’d given Peter and the others an insight into the quirky mind of Leonidas Paige and into the mission he’d apparently set himself.