CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Peter Skillen had always been saddened by the wide disparity between inmates in the city’s debtors’ prisons. The majority of those incarcerated were doomed to lives of misery, packed into filthy, stinking cells that were breeding grounds for disease and forced to rub shoulders with seasoned criminals. Peter had heard of cases where prisoners had parted with clothing and shoes in exchange for sustenance. In stark contrast, there were those in the King’s Bench with money enough to purchase healthier and more comfortable accommodation. They dressed well, moved freely around the place, ate heartily and might even bring a cook into the prison to prepare their food. Virgil Paige had occupied a position between the two extremes, able to pay for a limited number of privileges but still having to provide his own bedding and endure the many shortcomings of the prison community. By inclination, he sided with the real paupers, like Snapper and his family, who suffered severe deprivation.
Having been inside the King’s Bench during the arrest of the two men, Peter had seen the yawning gap between poverty and plenty with his own eyes. He’d been amazed by the number of elegant bucks promenading in the courtyard while ragged children hunted for scraps of food or huddled in corners. It was something he took up with Geoffrey Lanning, the marshal.
‘Do you have no pity for the scarecrows in your keep, sir?’ he asked.
‘I am merely enforcing the law.’
‘Yet you do so from outside the prison.’
‘I have a care for the air I breathe, Mr Skillen. Some of the scarecrows you refer to are no more than disease-ridden, lice-ridden wretches.’
‘Can you not cure their diseases and get rid of their lice?’
‘Had I the money to do so,’ said Lanning, impassively, ‘I could hire a team of doctors for that purpose. Since you show such an interest in their welfare, sir, perhaps you’d like to make a donation to that end.’
Peter said nothing because he believed that any money he donated would get no further than the marshal. He was sitting in the commodious office in the well-appointed apartments occupied by the man, a thin, sleek individual in his fifties with a powdered wig and immaculate attire. The marshal’s face was carved from granite.
‘State your business, sir,’ said Lanning. ‘I am a busy man.’
‘I am here with regard to Mr Virgil Paige,’ said Peter. ‘Two men were hired to kill him and were admitted to this prison by means of a letter signed by you.’
The marshal flicked the charge contemptuously away. ‘I deny the allegation.’
‘Somebody obtained that document from you, Mr Lanning.’
‘I have no memory whatsoever of that.’
‘You deny obliging a gentleman who called on you here yesterday?’
‘My job is to run this prison efficiently,’ said the other, coldly. ‘It is not to oblige anyone by writing a letter on his or her behalf.’
‘Then perhaps you can explain this,’ challenged Peter, extracting the missive from his pocket and handing it over. ‘Your gatekeeper was kind enough to give it to me. That is your signature, is it not? Or is it a clever forgery?’
The marshal glanced at the paper then put it hastily aside. While his features remained immobile, his eyes smouldered with anger.
‘Why have you come here, Mr Skillen?’
‘I want the name of the man who called on you to have Mr Paige’s freedom rudely curtailed. Or is your memory unequal to that task as well?’
‘Sarcasm ill becomes you.’
‘What is your answer?’
Lanning rose to his feet. ‘My answer is that I’d like you to leave immediately. You have no right to be here and no warrant to make distasteful insinuations. Good day to you, Mr Skillen.’
‘Before I leave,’ said Peter, remaining in his seat, ‘I have another letter to show you. This one comes from Viscount Sidmouth. Rightly anticipating a lack of cooperation from you, I took the precaution of visiting him before I came here. When I explained the situation to him, he was kind enough to offer his assistance.’ He took a second letter from his pocket and passed it to Lanning. ‘That signature, I can assure you, is not a forgery.’
The marshal unfolded the letter and read its contents. To his dismay, it was highly complimentary about his visitor. He looked up.
‘How did you come to have the ear of the Home Secretary?’
‘I had the privilege of rendering him service during and after the war, sir.’
‘He considers you to be a hero.’
Peter smiled modestly. ‘I make no such claim,’ he said. His voice hardened. ‘I simply wish to know the name of the man who asked a favour of you.’
‘That’s out of the question.’
‘Why?’
Lanning shook his head. ‘I couldn’t possibly break a confidence.’
‘You’d be helping in a murder investigation.’
‘That makes no difference, Mr Skillen. A promise is a promise.’
‘Not when it’s made to a man who ordered an assassination.’
‘I gave him my word.’
‘And what did he give you in return?’
‘How dare you!’ yelled the other, stamping his foot.
‘He’s a rich man. He could well afford a hefty bribe.’
Lanning was about to explode when his eye fell on the Home Secretary’s letter. It enjoined to him to give whatever information Peter Skillen requested. Mastering his fury, he adopted a dignified pose.
‘I accept bribes from nobody, sir.’
‘Then what emolument did you receive?’
‘I received overwhelming evidence that one of the prisoners in my charge had repeatedly flouted his freedom. I would be slack in my discipline if I’d allowed that to continue. That’s why the fellow was denied the right to leave the premises.’
‘And who provided this so-called evidence?’ asked Peter. There was a long pause. He brought his ultimate sanction into play. ‘Would you rather tell me or wait until the Home Secretary drags the name out of you by threat of dismissal?’
Head lowered, the marshal sank back into his seat with an air of defeat. He could see that his visitor would not be thwarted. Yet if he surrendered the name, he might have to face retribution from the man who’d demanded that Virgil Paige be penned without explanation inside the prison. Lanning did not see the sizeable amount of money that he’d been given as a bribe at all. In his view, it was simply a payment for services rendered, so his conscience was untroubled.
‘Since you can’t remember the name,’ said Peter, tired of waiting, ‘then let me supply it for you. I put it to you that your visitor was Mr Gerard Brunt.’
Lanning was surprised. ‘Mr Brunt – the Member of Parliament?’
‘Am I right?’
‘Most certainly not.’
‘Then who was it?’
‘His name was Dr Penhallurick.’
After his brawl with the two men in the prison, Paul Skillen had collected a number of scratches and bruises. Yet he felt no pain whatsoever. The successful arrest of Fearon and Higlett was a soothing balm to his wounds. Charlotte couldn’t believe that he was not aching and smarting all over.
‘You have a nasty graze over your eye,’ she said with sympathy.
‘It will heal.’
‘Would you like me to bathe that lump on your temple?’
‘No, thank you. It will go down of its own accord.’
‘You should have waited until Peter came to help.’
‘Fearon and Higlett denied me that option,’ said Paul, smiling, ‘and I was happy to take on the two of them. I’ve not had such a bracing fight for some while. I’m just glad that I was wearing Mr Paige’s clothes at the time and not my own. They have a lot of bloodstains on them.’
‘Mr Paige didn’t mind in the least,’ said Charlotte. ‘He’s so relieved by what you and Peter achieved today. As for your apparel, he didn’t enjoy wearing it at all.’
‘It served its purpose.’
‘He thought it looked a
trifle garish.’
‘It’s the height of fashion,’ insisted Paul with a hint of vanity. ‘I couldn’t wait to put it back on again.’
They were alone in the office at the gallery. After the excitement of capturing the two men, Paul was able to relax and let his mind wander away from the murder investigation. Charlotte saw the dreamy look in his eyes and the sad smile on his lips.
‘You’re thinking about Hannah, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘How did you guess?’
‘I know you too well.’
‘You’re right as usual. Now that I’m no longer so preoccupied, I’m going through the wording of her last letter.’
‘I still think you’re mistaken about that, Paul.’
‘Well, I don’t. Something is definitely amiss.’
‘Yes – she’s parted from the man she loves. That’s what’s amiss. It can be very painful. I suffered agonies every time Peter went to France during the war. I was never sure if he’d come back alive. Bear in mind that you don’t have that problem to contend with. Hannah is well and her commitments in Paris finish before long.’
‘There’s something else, Charlotte, something undisclosed.’
‘Then why didn’t she tell you about it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just … very unsettling.’
‘She’s due back in England by the end of the month.’
‘I’m not sure that I can wait that long.’
‘But there is still unfinished business here,’ she said. ‘Those two men may be in custody but their paymaster is still at liberty.’
‘True.’
‘He must be brought to justice.’
‘Peter can do that perfectly well without me.’
‘What if he needs help?’
‘Gully or Jem can provide it.’
‘They have too much work to do here, Paul. Don’t desert your brother.’
‘I’ll explain the situation to him. Peter will understand.’
‘Don’t bank on that.’
‘Hannah needs me,’ he stressed. ‘I must go to Paris.’
Tracking down Penhallurick took some time. Peter had to be patient. Having discovered the doctor’s address, he went to the house at once, only to be told that its owner was visiting a patient before going on to his consulting rooms in Piccadilly. Since there was no sign of him at the latter venue, Peter waited near the door so that he could intercept him on arrival. When a carriage eventually rolled to a halt nearby, he watched a man alight and decided that he had to be Guy Penallurick because he looked so much like the figure in the various cartoons.
Stepping forward, Peter stood in the man’s path and tipped his hat.
‘Good day to you, Dr Penhallurick.’
‘Good day to you, sir,’ replied the other.
‘I’d value a word with you.’
‘That’s not possible, I fear, because I have a patient waiting for me.’
‘Allow me to correct you,’ said Peter, smoothly. ‘My information is that your patient is not due until this afternoon. By that time, you may not be in a position to see him unless he wishes to join you at the magistrate’s court.’
Penhallurick started. ‘What the devil do you mean, sir?’
Peter indicated the door. ‘You might care to have this discussion inside rather than out here in the street.’
‘Well, I don’t – say what you have to say and be off.’
‘My name is Peter Skillen and I am searching for the person who hired men to kill Leonidas Paige.’
‘Don’t ask me to mourn for Paige,’ said Penhallurick, bitterly. ‘The man did untold damage to the reputations of blameless individuals.’
‘Would you include yourself in that category?’
‘Indeed, I would.’
‘Conniving at murder is therefore a blameless activity, is it?’
‘I don’t have to listen to this nonsense,’ said Penhallurick, trying to walk past but Peter obstructed him. ‘Get out of my way, man.’
‘Mr Lanning has named you, sir.’
‘Who on earth is Mr Lanning?’
‘He’s the marshal of the King’s Bench Prison and you procured a favour from him yesterday.’
‘I did nothing of the kind, Mr Skillen.’
‘I have his word.’
‘Then you’ve been cruelly misled,’ said Penhallurick with mounting irritation. ‘I’ve never heard of a Mr Lanning and I certainly didn’t ask a favour of him. What exactly is going on?’
As Peter explained, the other man’s irritation became, by turns, curiosity, surprise, bafflement, realisation, then something bordering on frenzy. Eyes flashing, his arms gesticulated wildly.
‘I see what has happened here,’ he said, vengefully. ‘Someone has used my name in order to conceal his own. You told me that you were aware that I had the loan of a coach from a friend of mine. That much is true, Mr Skillen, though how you came by the intelligence is a mystery to me. I had arranged to take someone for a drive in the country and decided that my open carriage was unsuitable. A coach provides some insurance against inclement weather and guarantees privacy. Need I go on, sir?’
Peter shook his head and sighed with disappointment. Guy Penhallurick was not his man, after all. Patently, he’d borrowed the coach to further a dalliance with a lady who’d either be more impressed by a coach than a carriage or who preferred to remain unseen with her beau. Peter apologised for the mistake.
‘For my part,’ said Penhallurick, ‘I’m grateful that you brought this deception to my attention. I will take it up with the man who dared to steal my name.’
‘I have an idea who that might be.’
‘I can tell you for certain. It was unquestionably Sir Humphrey Coote.’
When the coach came to a halt at the inn, someone opened the door for him.
‘Would you care to step inside while the horses are changed, sir?’
‘I’ll stay here.’
‘Shall I bring some refreshment out to you?’
‘No,’ said Sir Humphrey, impatiently, ‘I simply want to be on my way as soon as possible. How far is it to Dover?’
Even though he had good news to impart, Jem Huckvale had not been looking forward to the meeting with Diane Mandrake. As a rule he was not fearful, but somehow she frightened him at a deep level. In the event, she was extremely pleasant to him and the visit yielded an unexpected bonus. Deciding that the glaziers no longer needed her, she announced that she would reclaim her stock from Peter’s house and asked Huckvale if he would ride ahead and warn the household. He was back in the saddle at once. The chance of a few moments with Meg Rooke was too enticing to miss. He set off at a good pace.
When he reached the house, it was Meg who answered the door.
‘Oh, Mr Huckvale!’ she cried. ‘What a lovely surprise!’
‘There’s no need to be so formal. You know my name.’
‘Yes, I do, Jem. And you know mine.’
‘I know it very well.’ They shared a laugh.
‘Why are you here? Not that you need a reason,’ she went on, quickly. ‘You’re always welcome. That’s to say, it’s always a pleasure to see you.’
‘I’m here on an errand,’ he explained. ‘First, however, you must know that Mr Skillen and his brother have arrested the killers and they are now in custody.’
‘That’s wonderful news.’
‘As danger has now passed, Mrs Mandrake is going to collect all the stock that was left here in case there was another fire at the print shop. I thought that you should be warned she’s on her way.’
‘That’s very kind of you!’
‘I can lend a hand loading it.’
‘We can do it together.’
They grinned at each other until they heard the sound of a horse and curricle approaching at speed. Diane had come to collect her possessions. They didn’t mind the interruption in the least. The bond had already been formed.
Sir Humphrey Coote’s town house was in a tree-lined avenue in
Mayfair. It was large without verging on the palatial and had a pleasing symmetry. Marble statuary stood either side on the portico. Since the nude females from antiquity were life-size, they were appropriate companions for the owner. Having tethered his horse, Peter rang the bell and waited for the front door to be opened by the butler.
‘May I help you, sir?’ asked the man, appraising him.
‘I’d like to speak with Sir Humphrey, please.’
‘The master is not at home.’
‘Can you tell me when he’s likely to return?’
‘I’m afraid that I can’t, sir. However, if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll make sure that he gets it.’
‘I need to see him in person,’ said Peter, forcefully.
‘That won’t be possible for some time.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Sir Humphrey has gone away for an indefinite period.’
‘Has he returned to his home in the country?’ The butler shook his head. ‘Then where has he gone?’
‘I’m not at liberty to tell you, sir.’
Tall, stout and aloof, the butler tried to close the door in his face. Peter was quick to put a foot in the way. He gave the man a challenging stare.
‘A choice confronts you,’ he said, icily. ‘I am involved in a murder enquiry that has the approval of the Home Secretary, so you can understand its importance. You can either tell me where your master is or, when you’ve been arrested – by force, if necessary – we can continue this discussion in front of a magistrate.’ He spread his arms interrogatively. ‘Which is it to be?’
Alfred Hale let him quaff half a pint of ale before daring to speak. They were at the Peacock Inn and Micah Yeomans was still trying to absorb the shock of being told that the Skillen brothers had made two significant arrests.
‘The worst of it is,’ he complained, ‘that Ruddock will get a letter of thanks from Kirkwood simply because he smelt smoke.’
‘He did so before anyone else,’ Hale reminded him.
Steps to the Gallows Page 27
