‘Do you have no work today, husband?’ she demanded.
‘I’ve a client coming in an hour.’
‘That means you earned nothing at all this morning.’
‘There’s money owing to me, my dear,’ he lied. ‘And I have prospects.’
‘That’s more than I have,’ she said with a vehemence born of deep resentment. ‘I used to have a husband who cared for me enough to work hard at a respectable profession. All he does now is to copy out things for people too stupid to do it themselves and write letters for lovesick butchers.’
‘Things will improve.’
‘Why you left the position you already had, I’ll never know. You had some standing there. The only thing you do here is to get under my feet.’
Keeping the truth about his dismissal from her had been difficult but he’d managed it somehow, inventing a rigmarole about the firm for which he worked deciding to reduce the number of its clerks. Nason lived in fear that one day his wife would learn the appalling truth that her husband had, as a result of his folly, been summarily thrown out of a job he did well and condemned to lead a harsher existence. The few refinements he and his family had enjoyed were now things of the past.
In her daily litany of complaints, Posy never let him forget the fact.
‘When did I last have a new dress?’ she asked, truculently.
‘You already have a serviceable wardrobe, my dear.’
‘What’s fine about fading colours and ill-fitting apparel?’
‘You look well in whatever you wear,’ he said, trying to pay her a compliment.
‘No woman is at her best in rags.’
‘If your dresses are worn, repair them.’
‘I’ve been repairing them these past six months but you’ve been too busy to notice. You’ve let me down, husband.’
‘I’ll atone for it in some way.’
‘Well, you won’t do it by keeping such strange company as you do,’ she said, contemptuously. ‘That coarse, pig-faced butcher was bad enough with his demand for letters to entrap a widow but the three men who came here the other day were even worse. They looked like the lowest villains. We shouldn’t have such dreadful people in our home. Do you have to do business with a black man?’
‘I’ll work for anyone who’ll pay me, Posy.’
‘Have you really sunk so low?’
The question was like a stab through the heart and he lacked the strength to conjure up an answer. Nason had lost his self-respect and it rankled. Head on his chest and eyes closed, he waited until his wife’s rant finally abated. When she stormed off to the kitchen, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief and find solace by reading the newspaper he’d borrowed from a neighbour. It took his mind temporarily off the collapse of his fortunes. After working his way nostalgically through the details of the sort of court cases in which he was once tangentially involved, he came to an item that made him quiver with interest. A reward was offered for information leading to the arrest of two American prisoners of war who’d escaped from Dartmoor and who were known to be in London. They were named as Thomas O’Gara and Moses Dagg. A brief description was given of each man.
To someone in Nason’s position, the reward was a real temptation. It was large enough to pay off his debts and still leave him with an appreciable amount of money. He would even be able to worm his way back into his wife’s favour by buying her the new dress she sought. There was, however, an irremovable problem and a man with his legal expertise saw it at once. In causing the arrest of O’Gara and Dagg, he’d also be putting a noose around his own neck because they were sure to disclose the fact that he’d been responsible for writing their account of the massacre at Dartmoor and for advising them how best to frame their demands. His hand had held the pen that threatened the life of the Home Secretary. Though he deprecated everything the two Americans did, Nason would be seen as a conspirator.
Having momentarily considered reporting them, he now saw that it was more important to save them from the law than deliver them up to it. If they were arrested, his name was bound to be mentioned. Two minutes with the fugitives would be enough to determine that neither was able to write legibly, reason soundly or compose a well-structured narrative. During their interrogation, someone would demand to know which scrivener they’d employed. Having no loyalty towards him, they would never dream of protecting him. He recalled what his wife had said about letting such low company into their home. O’Gara and Dagg should have been sent on their way but that would have offended Dermot Fallon and he was loath to do that. Against his will, Nason had been forced to comply with their wishes.
They needed to be warned. None of the three men was likely to read any newspaper. Until Nason had pointed it out to them, O’Gara and Dagg had not heard that a joint commission had been set up to inquire into events at Dartmoor. They would be equally ignorant of the fact that a reward had now been offered for their capture. In drawing it to their attention, Nason believed that he’d earn their thanks and, possibly, payment of sorts. He hoped that he’d also persuade them to go to ground so that they’d elude the manhunt that would be set in motion. His safety depended on theirs. He needed to make urgent contact with them.
A difficulty confronted him. He had no idea where they lived.
Instead of going home to face the strictures of his wife, Chevy Ruddock elected to report first to his superiors. He therefore squelched his way to The Peacock and found Yeomans and Hale quaffing a tankard of ale apiece. If he’d hoped for even a scintilla of sympathy, he was disappointed. The two Runners took one look at him and hooted with laughter. Their amusement was tempered by anger when they learnt that Paul Skillen had been responsible for Ruddock’s dip in the River Thames.
‘Did you actually see him push you?’ asked Yeomans.
‘No,’ replied Ruddock, ‘but I certainly felt his hands.’
‘How do you know it was Skillen?’
‘Who else could it have been?’
‘That’s for you to find out, Chevy. If he was ahead of you when you reached the river, how could he possibly get behind you?’
‘I’ve been puzzling over that myself.’
‘You got what you deserved,’ said Hale, uncaringly. ‘I told you when you first joined the foot patrol that you needed eyes in the back of your head. That advice should always be borne in mind when you’re dealing with the Skillen brothers.’
‘Can we arrest him for assault?’
‘No,’ said Yeomans, ‘we have no proof that he even touched you. Were there any witnesses?’ Ruddock shook his head and sprayed both of them with the water in the folds of his hat. ‘You felt hands on your back but, in truth, you’ve no idea to whom they belonged. We can’t prosecute a phantom, Chevy.’
‘Someone should be made to pay.’
‘I’ll do that,’ volunteered Hale, opening his purse. ‘You deserve a tankard of ale for the fun you’ve given us by turning up like that.’
He walked off to the bar and left Ruddock alone with Micah Yeomans.
‘Paul Skillen tricked me,’ said the younger man, sadly.
‘You obviously gave yourself away.’
‘But I didn’t, I swear. He couldn’t possibly have seen me hiding there. How could he when he didn’t stir from the house the whole day? It was only when that little friend of his from the shooting gallery called that he ventured out.’
‘Jem Huckvale went to see him?’
‘Yes – he was in the house for less than five minutes.’
‘Then we can put a name to your attacker. It was Huckvale.’
‘But he went off in the opposite direction, Mr Yeomans.’
‘No, lad, he only appeared to do so. I daresay he agreed to a rendezvous at the river and was on hand to shove you in. Don’t worry,’ he went on, putting a consoling hand on the sodden sleeve of Ruddock’s coat, ‘far better men than you have been hoodwinked by Paul Skillen. If he didn’t see you there, Huckvale certainly did. They worked together to get rid if you, Chevy.
When you’ve supped your ale, go home and put on dry clothes.’
‘My wife will be very upset,’ confided Ruddock. ‘Agnes was so proud of me when I became a member of the foot patrol. What will she think when I tell her that I was outwitted so easily and turned into a laughing stock?’
‘Even you are not that foolish.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Why tell her about your failure when you have a chance to boast of your success?’ Ruddock was bewildered. ‘Granted, you ended up in the river but it was not because some unseen hands pushed you in. You showed great bravery in wrestling with a pickpocket on the bank and the pair of you tumbled into the water.’
‘Did we?’
‘Use your imagination, lad. Turn a bad story into one that shows you in a good light. You never know,’ said Yeomans with a chuckle. ‘When she hears what a hero she married, your wife might help you off with those wet clothes.’
Hale returned with a tankard, which he handed to Ruddock. All three of them took a long swig of ale. An unpleasant experience might yet be turned into something that won praise. Ruddock smiled at the thought. Having been critical of her husband for staying out all night in the driving rain, she would mellow when she heard that he’d fought valiantly with a dangerous criminal, overpowered him in the Thames then dragged him off to gaol.
‘Women are too easily unsettled,’ said Yeomans, philosophically. ‘My wife is a good example. She worried incessantly when I first became a Runner and had a few setbacks. So I converted them into triumphs and she was content. Tell your wife only what you want her to believe.’
‘It’s what I always do,’ confessed Hale.
‘Then I’ll do the same,’ decided Ruddock.
‘Meanwhile, there’s something you haven’t told us.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Where is Paul Skillen now?’
Face blank and eyelids fluttering, Ruddock gave a despairing shrug.
Charlotte Skillen so rarely saw the two brothers together that she relished the treat. Seated in the room at the rear of the gallery, she listened as her husband described what had happened when he visited the Home Office. Paul was intrigued by the new development. A natural rebel, he felt sympathy for the fugitives, imprisoned beyond the time when they should have been released and showing great enterprise in escaping from Dartmoor and seeking to expose the truth behind the so-called mutiny. What he could not condone, of course, was the death threat hanging over the Home Secretary. While not as close to him as his brother, he admired Sidmouth for a number of reasons. The Home Secretary might be too dry and conservative for Paul’s liking but he had virtues that deserved respect. Since the man’s safety depended on the arrest of O’Gara and Dagg, they had to be caught soon.
‘Peter thinks that we should look for the scrivener who drew up the document for them,’ said Charlotte. ‘They’re not educated men. They had help.’
‘They’re also being sheltered by someone,’ Paul concluded. ‘This is a foreign country to them. It’s unlikely that they’ve ever been to a city the size of London. Anyone coming here for the first time would be completely lost, yet they’ve somehow found someone to look after them and find a scrivener.’
‘I agree,’ said Peter. ‘I warrant that Thomas O’Gara is the key figure here.’
‘Why is that?’ asked his wife.
‘He’s Irish. O’Gara is one of the hundreds of thousands who fled their native country because it offered them no prospects and went to America. Many of them came here as well, of course. Irish families are large and tend to be fiercely loyal to each other. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that O’Gara has family connections here whereas it’s unlikely that Dagg has relatives in London.’
‘Peter is right,’ said Paul. ‘We need to look at Irish communities.’
‘There are so many of them, alas.’
‘We’ll look for a branch of the O’Gara family.’
His brother grinned. ‘We’ll find dozens. It’s a common name.’
‘Then we’ll work through them one by one.’
‘I still think Peter’s suggestion is the better one,’ said Charlotte. ‘You need to track down the man who drafted that letter for them.’
‘He, too, might be Irish,’ argued Paul. ‘They’d be taking a risk if they employed a complete stranger. As soon as he realised who they were, he’d have been likely to report them.’
‘Unless he was coerced into helping them,’ she suggested.
‘That could be a factor, I agree.’
‘We have two lines of inquiry,’ summarised Peter. ‘I’ll search for the man who put their demands on paper. No reputable clerk would align himself with a pair of escaped prisoners, so I may be looking for someone who’s either disreputable or too poor to turn any work away. Paul, meanwhile, can search through the Irish communities here.’
‘Luckily, they will be communities,’ said his brother. ‘Irish immigrants stick together. I won’t have to look for an isolated family. O’Gara’s relatives – if indeed he has any – will be part of a much larger group.’
‘What can I do?’ asked Charlotte.
‘Watch and pray.’
‘I want to give practical assistance, Paul.’
‘Then you can come searching among the Irish with me.’
‘Gully needs Charlotte here to hold the fort,’ said Peter, pleasantly. ‘We can use Jem if need be but my wife stays put.’
She was irked. ‘I always miss the excitement.’
‘We can soon rectify that,’ teased Paul. ‘Next time Peter and I go gallivanting across the rooftops, we’ll take you with us. Will that appeal to you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, laughing, ‘it certainly would. I’d love to join the pair of you up there – as long you promise to catch me if I fall. But you haven’t heard about the other search that Peter had been conducting,’ she went on. ‘This business with the letter from the fugitives has rather eclipsed the disappearance of Mrs Horner.’
‘It hasn’t eclipsed it in my mind,’ said Peter.
‘What have you learnt?’ asked his brother.
Peter gave him an edited account of his investigation, ending with the assertion that the cleaner was still alive, although he was still unsure why she’d been taken in the first place. He speculated afresh on how Anne Horner had amassed so much money, yet discounted the possibility that the kidnappers knew of its existence.
‘Had they done so,’ he reasoned, ‘they’d have already made attempts to get their hands on it yet they haven’t done so. I called at her lodgings yesterday and her little treasure trove was untouched.’
‘What interests me,’ said Charlotte, thoughtfully, ‘is that a woman took part in the abduction.’
‘It’s an age-old device,’ Paul pointed out. ‘If she’d been approached by an aggressive man, she’d probably have taken to her heels. When a woman spoke to her, however, she wouldn’t have expected violence.’
‘So where is she?’
‘Waiting to be rescued by us, Charlotte,’ said Peter, getting up from his chair. ‘I need to speak to Gully. When I’ve done that, I’ll start looking for the man who penned that death threat – but I won’t forget Anne Horner altogether. I’m determined to plumb the mystery of her disappearance.’
Peter went out and left them alone. His brother waited until he heard him ascending the stairs before he turned to his sister-in-law.
‘Have you told him?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You spoke to me in confidence about your problem,’ said Charlotte. ‘Besides, Peter has more than enough on his plate at the moment. I’m afraid that he’d view a discussion of your private life as a distracting irrelevance.’
‘That’s not how I see it, Charlotte.’
‘No, I’m sure.’
‘It means a great deal to me.’
‘I don’t find it irrelevant, Paul. I can see what a profound effect it’s had on you. I was touched
that you felt able to confide in me.’
‘I had to talk to someone or my brain would have burst like a balloon.’
‘Is the situation still the same?’
‘No,’ he moaned, ‘it’s far worse. I took your advice, you see.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I gave you any.’
‘It was indirect counsel. When you talked about marriage to Peter, you stressed the importance of each partner giving the other some leeway. Compromise was of the essence. That prompted me to … reach out to her by way of a concession.’
Without disclosing the name or the profession of Hannah Granville, he told her that she’d forbidden him access to her and what the consequences had been. Charlotte was dismayed to hear that he’d spent the evening gambling, yet pleased that it had turned out to be such a profitable venture. She was gratified that her brother-in-law had repented and stayed away from the card table ever since.
‘Denial is good for the soul,’ she reminded him.
‘Then why do I feel so dejected?’
‘It’s because you love her.’
‘I do, I do,’ he said with fervour. ‘Life is an arid desert without her.’
‘Well,’ she chided, ‘that’s a fine thing to say to your sister-in-law. I may not be a lush oasis but I like to feel that I was able to offer you some sustenance.’
‘Oh, you did. Talking to you kept me sane. Lost love and madness are near allied. The one feeds off the other.’
‘You are too ready to accept defeat. What happened to your natural optimism?’
‘It’s sunk without trace,’ he said, gloomily.
‘What about the lady?’
‘She’ll none of me.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ said Charlotte. ‘Evidently, you’ve been very close. Pulling away from each other will be as painful for her as for you. There’s loss on both sides. How will she cope with it? Does she have a friend to whom she can turn for comfort?’
Shadow of the Hangman Page 12
