Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Nason, recoiling from O’Gara’s foul breath. ‘You have it – on my honour.’

  ‘Then this is what we want you to write for us.’

  With frequent interpolations from Dagg, O’Gara went on to give a long, rambling account of what had happened at Dartmoor and what reparation he felt was necessary. Fallon threw in the occasional comment. Nason made a series of jottings. When the narrative came to an end, he shook his head in dismay.

  ‘What you say may be true,’ he said, ‘but it would take me all day to write it out exactly as it was told to me. Your story is far too long and diffuse. It needs to be much shorter and in two parts.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked O’Gara.

  ‘Well, the first section must be a description of what actually happened during this so-called mutiny. You were witnesses. That will carry weight. As for the second section,’ Nason continued, ‘it must list your demands in order, the first being the immediate release of all American prisoners.’

  ‘And a pardon for me and Tom,’ said Dagg.

  ‘That will be included. Can you both sign your names?’

  ‘Yes,’ said O’Gara, ‘but I want some words underneath the signatures. It must read “Thomas O’Gara and Moses Dagg, Two of the Damned.” Is that clear?’

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ replied Nason, ‘that’s what you’ll get.’

  ‘We’d better.’

  ‘And when it’s done,’ said Fallon, ‘it can be sent to the Prime Minister.’

  ‘No, it can’t,’ advised Nason. ‘He’ll only pass it on to the Home Office.’

  Dagg was suspicious. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve worked with lawyers all my life and had to contact departments of government on their behalf many times. The Admiralty has responsibility for prisons but a case like this would be referred to the Home Secretary. To save time, this plea should go directly to him.’

  ‘I told you Mr Nason knew what he was doing,’ said Fallon, appreciatively.

  ‘Where exactly is this Home Office?’ asked O’Gara.

  ‘Mr Nason will tell you.’

  ‘I’ll deliver the document in person,’ said Nason, ‘some time during the night. I don’t want to be arrested for acting as your accomplice. I’ll just slip it through the letterbox and you can await developments.’

  ‘We want to see what you’re sending first,’ said O’Gara.

  ‘Give me a few hours and I’ll have it ready for you and Mr Dagg to look over. It will be well ordered and legible. The thing that I can’t promise, however, is that you’ll get the desired result.’

  ‘We must do!’ argued O’Gara. ‘We risked our lives to escape.’

  ‘Tom is right,’ said Dagg, angrily. ‘Our friends are still locked up. We want them let out of that hellhole right away.’

  ‘Make that clear in the document, Mr Nason.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fallon, ‘you’ve heard their story. They’ve been treated like wild beasts. Order the Home Secretary to do what’s right.’

  ‘He won’t take orders from two prisoners,’ reasoned Nason.

  ‘Then he’s going to be in trouble, isn’t he, Tom?’

  ‘He is,’ said O’Gara. ‘I don’t care how high and mighty he is. If this Home Secretary doesn’t release all prisoners and hang Captain Shortland by his scrawny neck, Moses and I will go after him. What’s his name?’

  ‘It’s Sidmouth,’ said Nason, guardedly, ‘Viscount Sidmouth. But you can’t threaten him. That would prejudice your claims altogether.’

  ‘He’ll do what we tell him to do.’

  ‘And the same goes for you, Mr Nason,’ said Dagg, jabbing a finger.

  ‘Write it all out,’ said O’Gara, ‘and we’ll come back to read it through. He’s got to know we’re in earnest. All we’re asking for is fair treatment. If we can’t get that from this man, then he needs to know his life is in grave danger.’

  Peter Skillen was obliged to wait for some time before being shown into the Home Secretary’s office because the latter had been holding a meeting there. When it came to an end, Sidmouth sent his colleagues away and invited his visitor in. He could see from Peter’s demeanour that he had not brought good tidings.

  ‘You’re the bearer of bad news, I fancy,’ he said.

  ‘I fear that I am, my lord.’

  ‘Are our worst fears realised?’

  ‘No,’ replied Peter, ‘Mrs Horner is not dead – at least, that’s what I believe.’

  ‘Have you made any progress in the investigation?’

  ‘I think that I have.’

  Peter explained how he’d taken the route home used by the woman and how someone had tried to rob him. Sidmouth was highly alarmed. To lose Anne Horner was an inconvenience to him. The loss of the reliable Peter Skillen, however, would be a calamity. Over the years he’d undertaken assignments that few other men would even have dared to contemplate.

  ‘I do urge you to exercise care,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Horner has taken the same journey on many occasions and always emerged unscathed – until now, that is.’

  ‘I’m sorry I interrupted you. Finish your report.’

  Peter went on to recount what he’d been told by Reuben Grigg and suggested that they should accept that the cleaner had been kidnapped. Sidmouth was sceptical.

  ‘Why on earth should anyone wish to abduct her?’

  ‘I have no answer to that, my lord.’

  ‘Neither do I and I’m inclined to think that the woman who screamed out that night was not Horner at all.’

  ‘That may well be true,’ conceded Peter, ‘but we do know that she would have been in that lane – and at that time – on the night in question. Grigg is a predator. He watches very carefully before he strikes. When I described Mrs Horner to him, he admitted that he’d seen her by day many a time but always left her alone because she was not a tempting target. What he waits for is someone with a purse worth taking.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘That’s why his eye alighted on me.’

  ‘The rogue got what he deserved.’

  ‘I squeezed every ounce of information out of him that I could. Few women walk alone down that lane after dark. It is, however, a place where certain ladies transact business. Yet it’s unlikely that it was a prostitute who called out for help that particular night. According to Grigg, they’ll fight like wildcats and cry blue murder. This plea was quickly extinguished.’

  ‘I pray to God that it didn’t come from Horner.’

  ‘It’s a probability we have to face, my lord.’

  Sidmouth was profoundly distressed. He took several minutes to absorb what he’d been told. Though he tried to persuade himself otherwise, he slowly came to see that Peter’s conclusion was a valid one.

  ‘What happens now, Mr Skillen?’

  ‘I continue the search.’

  ‘Where will you start?’

  ‘In the very place where I stumbled on our first important clue,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll go back to that lane at night and walk down it at roughly the same time that Mrs Horner did. There may be inhabitants there other than Grigg. It’s a place where one wouldn’t be at all surprised to find someone sleeping in a gateway. I’ll search for possible witnesses who may have heard what Grigg heard on that fatal night or, hopefully, have even glimpsed something.’

  ‘Go armed and take your brother,’ counselled Sidmouth.

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve removed the one real danger from that lane.’

  Sidmouth shook his head. ‘I remain perplexed. If we ask who would gain any advantage by kidnapping a woman like Horner, we’re bereft of suspects. Nobody would demand a ransom for a cleaner earning a relative pittance. In short, there’s no value in this crime.’

  ‘Yes, there is, my lord.’

  ‘It eludes me.’

  ‘A motive is unclear but one must surely exist. Someone will somehow profit from this bizarre situation. That’s the assumption on which they’re working anyway. Meanwhile, of course, you have
a competent replacement here.’

  ‘Levitt is keeping this whole building spick and span.’

  ‘Then her appointment was obviously prudent.’

  ‘Forget the cleaner we now have, Mr Skillen,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘My overriding concern is for the one who preceded her. Where is she? What have they done to her? Will she ever be released alive?’

  ‘I may learn more when I visit that lane tonight.’

  ‘For your own sake, don’t go alone.’

  ‘I can manage very well without anybody else. Two of us would frighten people away. Someone on his own is sure to be approached.’

  It was well after noon when Paul Skillen eventually emerged from his stupor. How he’d got back home during the night was a mystery. All that he could remember was that he’d left the theatre in a towering rage, vowed that he’d never see Hannah Granville again then made for a gambling hell in Jermyn Street. It was a place where people who were shunned by respectable clubs could gather in order to drink their fill and risk their money on the roll of a dice or the turn of a card. Since he had so many acquaintances there, Paul was given a welcoming cheer when he appeared and several people asked him why he’d deserted them recently. It was a poignant reminder of the siren who was Hannah Granville. When he met her, Paul’s leisure time had been put entirely at her disposal and he’d turned his back on gambling completely. Only her rejection of him could have sent him back to Jermyn Street.

  Opening an eye, he blinked repeatedly and tried to ignore the anvil that was being pounded rhythmically inside his head. When he felt his chest, he discovered that someone had removed his coat and considerately opened the neck of his shirt. His shoes had also been taken off. It took him several minutes to realise that a servant must have carried him upstairs and eased him onto his bed. Knowing that he was safe and well, he felt the urge to drift back into a restorative slumber but a question prodded him like the prongs of a toasting fork. How much had he lost?

  More often than not, he was lucky in love but unlucky when he turned to gambling and he’d often left Jermyn Street in debt, having been forced to borrow from others when his own funds ran out. To have drunk himself into such a state of paralysis, he must have been even more reckless than usual. The normal safeguards he applied when betting on something would no longer function. Instead of restricting himself to fairly modest amounts, he could easily have ventured huge bets on cards he was too blurred even to see. When they saw him so vulnerable, others wouldn’t hesitate to coax every penny out of his purse. Is that what had happened? Was he going to put his hand in his coat pocket and find that he’d gambled away his house? It had happened before to others. Was Paul the latest fool to do so?

  Rolling off the bed, he landed on the floor with a thud and increased the rate of strike on the anvil. It was not just the pain that tormented him; it was the fact that his body seemed to be filled with solid iron. He crawled on his hands and knees to the chair over the back of which his coat had been placed. Paul had to gather up all his strength before he was able to reach into one of the pockets. Every slight movement caused a separate agony. His head weighed a ton, putting intense pressure on his neck. Yet he eventually got his hand on something. Pausing before pulling it out, he sent up a fervent prayer that he’d not lost his house. In that eventuality, he just wouldn’t know how to face Peter and Charlotte. Not for the first time, they’d be disgusted with him and so would Gully Ackford and Jem Huckvale.

  Yet he had to know the truth. It took great courage to extract the contents of his pocket. Braced for the worst, however, he was instead blessed by a minor miracle. What he was holding was a fistful of banknotes, adding up to an amount that was far in excess of the money he’d had beforehand. The second pocket was equally full of unexpected plunder. The night in Jermyn Street had somehow been an unqualified success. Hannah might have spurned him but he had ample compensation for her loss. All of a sudden, he was rich. With a huge effort, he tossed the money into the air and fell asleep under a blizzard of fluttering banknotes.

  When she let herself into the shooting gallery, Charlotte was in time to see a woman descending the stairs. She realised that it must be Jane Holdstock, leaving the premises after another archery lesson.

  ‘Good day to you,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Jane, sizing her up at a glance. ‘I didn’t expect to find someone like you here.’

  ‘I might say the same about you, Mrs Holdstock. That is your name, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘This gallery is a male paradise. I am the exception to the rule. Ladies rarely come for instruction though one or two have learnt how to shoot a pistol here. Mr Ackford tells me that you’re an archer.’

  ‘I’m hardly that,’ said Jane, modestly, ‘and I’m not really here for my own benefit. I’ve a young nephew with a passion for stories about Robin Hood. He’s been begging his parents to buy him a bow and arrow. Since his father is never there to teach him how to use it, I volunteered to do so. First, of course, I had to become proficient myself.’

  ‘I hear that you’re a dedicated pupil.’

  ‘One likes to do things properly.’

  Charlotte warmed to her immediately and wanted to continue the conversation. Surrounded by men at the shooting gallery, she found it a refreshing change to meet another woman, especially one as pleasant and well spoken as Jane Holdstock. But the visitor didn’t linger. After a polite farewell, she took her leave and let herself out of the building. Standing at the open door, Charlotte was still looking after her when Gully Ackford came down the stairs.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, affably.

  ‘I’ve just met Mrs Holdstock for the first time.’

  ‘She’s an interesting lady, isn’t she?’

  ‘I wish that I’d had an aunt who’d taught me exciting things like how to use a bow and arrow. When I was young,’ said Charlotte, ‘the only things my aunts taught me were how to sew a fine seam and recite nursery rhymes. Mrs Holdstock is going to turn her nephew into Robin Hood.’

  ‘I hope that the boy has her dedication. She learns very quickly.’

  ‘Does she have children of her own?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She’s very discreet about her private life. At a guess, I’d say that she’s not a mother herself. Perhaps that’s why she’s lavishing her affection on her nephew.’

  They went through into the room at the rear of the establishment. While Charlotte removed her hat, Ackford checked the book to see what his teaching commitments were for the rest of the day.

  ‘Two boxers and three fencers,’ he noted.

  ‘One of the swordsmen will be Paul. He never misses a lesson.’

  ‘Well, he’s missing one today, Charlotte. He’s sent word that he’s not well enough to engage in a lively bout.’

  She was worried. ‘Has he been injured in some way?’

  ‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘The servant said that his master felt sick. That’s not the word I’d have used,’ he added with a laugh. ‘We’ve all seen the way that Paul has been behaving. There’s a new woman in his life, Charlotte, and she seems to have made a real impact on him. That’s why he’s not here today. He’s pining.’

  She missed him. At the end of the performance on the previous evening, Hannah Granville had basked in the rapturous applause before sweeping off to her dressing room. Ordinarily, she’d have been buoyed up by the prospect of seeing Paul Skillen again. He would be waiting at the stage door to whisk her away from the melee of unwanted admirers. When she remembered how she treated him when they’d last met, and how she’d prevented him from visiting her in her dressing room, she’d realised that her lover would not be dancing attendance on her. Hannah had been compelled to leave the theatre alone, sneaking out through the usual gathering of suitors. Her bed that night seemed icily cold and uncomfortably empty.

  Throughout the day, she’d reflected on the joy that Paul had brought into her life and she blamed herself for be
ing so precipitate. With the vanity common to her profession, Hannah was not accustomed to putting herself in the position of others. Her attentions were centred wholly on herself. The rift with Paul, however, was causing her pain and regret. When she made an effort to view the situation from his perspective, she saw how cruel her ultimatum must have been to him. How would she have felt if Paul had insisted that the price of his love was her immediate retirement from the theatre? It would have been a shattering demand. Hannah was sobered. In ordering him to resign from his dangerous occupation, she was telling him to stop being the person he really was. It must have been a crushing blow to him.

  As she prepared to leave for the theatre that evening, she did so without the usual exhilaration. Her performance would undoubtedly win acclaim but Hannah did not look forward to it with any relish. When it was all over, the man she loved would not be waiting for her. The bed would be even colder and more uncomfortable that night. Leaving the house, she climbed into the open carriage sent to fetch her and settled back. Rolling off to another triumph, she felt a sense of abject failure. When she died of a broken heart onstage that evening, Hannah would do so with touching verisimilitude. She would not, however, be mourning her husband, Jaffeir, stabbed to death by his own hand. Her tears would be shed for Paul Skillen, stabbed by the verbal dagger that she’d wielded.

  Absorbed by rueful thoughts of him, she saw nothing of the streets through which they rattled. The stench of London for once didn’t reach her nostrils. The usual pandemonium went unheard. And then, without warning, she felt an invisible hand shake her out of her daydream. It was a timely awakening. When Hannah looked around, she saw Paul walking along the pavement no more than ten yards away. Wanting to cry out his name, she was somehow struck dumb. To attract his attention therefore, she stood up and waved both arms. He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before and went on his way. Hannah felt utterly rebuffed. It was over. In making unfair demands of him, she’d driven him away for ever. Flopping back into her seat, she plucked a handkerchief from her reticule and wept silently into it.