Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘Tell me everything he said,’ he growled.

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘There must be more.’

  ‘I arsked ’im ’bout the nigger,’ said the boy, snivelling, ‘and ’e said he saw ’im fight you and knock you to the ground.’

  ‘But why is he there?’

  ‘Wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘He must have said something.’

  ‘Yeah but … I forgot what it was.’

  In an attempt to jog his memory, Kearney slapped him again. His son wailed.

  ‘Do I have to knock it out of you?’ asked the father, looming over him.

  ‘No, no,’ begged his son. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I arsked ’im why they was there and ’e told me ’e couldn’t say.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Farver warned ’im to keep ’is gob shut. But …’

  ‘Well? Spit it out, lad.’

  ‘Listened at the door one night and …’eard them talk.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘It was … somethink about prison.’

  Kearney’s eyes ignited. ‘They’ve escaped?’

  ‘Told all I knows.’

  ‘Good boy!’ said his father, hugging him. ‘Well done!’

  Accustomed only to routine violence from his father, Niall Kearney didn’t know how to react to this unparalleled display of affection. He flinched, as if in readiness for the next blow, then laughed wildly when it didn’t actually come.

  In the course of his work as a detective, Peter Skillen had become acquainted with a large number of lawyers. Most were conscientious men who abided by the strict rules of their profession and served their clients as best they could at all times. Trust was their watchword. Some, however, were less honourable, often tempted to fleece those who fell unguardedly into their hands instead of representing them in a proper manner. A significant few – and Peter knew them by reputation – were arrant, unprincipled rogues who would stop at nothing to win a case, discredit any opposition they met and make a tidy profit. He didn’t waste energy on speaking to anyone in this last category. Peter spent the whole morning going from office to office of lawyers who would give him time without trying to charge him for it and who would provide him with honest answers. Yet after a couple of hours of tramping the streets, he’d learnt nothing that got him any closer to the mystery scrivener.

  It was when he called at the offices of Rendcombe and Spiller that he had more luck. Martin Rendcombe was an apparently benign old man with a weak handshake and bloodshot eyes but, having once engaged him to act on his behalf, Peter knew how steely and effective he could be once involved in a case. Steeped in the arcane practices of the law, the man was a walking anthology of precedents and procedural niceties. After he’d invited his visitor to sit down in the book-lined office, Rendcombe peered at him over his spectacles.

  ‘It is Peter Skillen, isn’t it?’ he checked.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied the other.

  ‘I did act for your brother, Paul, on one occasion. It was very confusing.’

  ‘I don’t see why, Mr Rendcombe. It’s easy to tell us apart. I’m the handsome brother and Paul is not.’ The lawyer smiled good-naturedly. ‘Your time is precious so I’ll take up as little of it as I may.’

  Peter explained the purpose of his visit and how important it was for him to track down the man who’d written the document submitted to the Home Secretary. Shocked to hear of the death threat, Rendcombe was quick to remove any suspicion from his own staff.

  ‘Our clerks are, without exception, men of the highest probity,’ he said. ‘They would never be party to anything of this kind.’

  ‘I’m sure that they wouldn’t, Mr Rendcombe.’

  ‘Do you have this obnoxious letter with you?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Peter, ‘I do not. The Home Secretary insisted on sending it to the joint commission looking into events at Dartmoor. Besides, I’m not sure that you could have told anything from the calligraphy beyond the fact that it was the work of an educated hand. Every lawyer to whom I’ve already spoken has said the same thing – nobody in their employ would dare to become embroiled with two escaped prisoners. Had such an approach been made to their clerks, the two fugitives would have been reported immediately.’

  ‘Quite so, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘And it may be that the man I’m after has never worked for a lawyer.’

  ‘Clerks exist in many other professions.’

  ‘What guided me to you and your legal colleagues was the way in which the document was framed. It was written by someone well versed in setting out an argument. The two Americans, O’Gara and Dagg, supplied the facts but they could never have presented them to such impressive effect.’

  ‘Then it’s plainly not the work of a bank clerk.’

  ‘I’m convinced that the fellow makes his living from the law,’ said Peter, ‘or, at least, he’s done so in the past. Either he’s retired or been dismissed and forced to scratch around for money elsewhere.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rendcombe, ‘that opens up possibilities.’

  ‘You can help me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Mr Skillen. I make no promises.’

  Getting up from his chair, he crossed to a large oak cupboard. Rendcombe pulled out a bunch of keys, selected one and inserted it into the lock. When the door opened, Peter saw piles of documents and correspondence neatly stacked on the shelves. The lawyer’s hand went unerringly to a thin pile of papers. He took them out, came back to his desk and leafed through each sheet.

  ‘My esteemed partner, Mr Spiller, doesn’t believe in harbouring such things but I am an unredeemed hoarder. I operate on the principle that even the most minor item that passes before my eyes might one day prove to be of value.’ He held up the papers. ‘These are letters from people seeking employment here. In two cases, we were able to take the gentlemen on and they’ve given good service. In the other three cases, however, there was no question of even interviewing the people in question.’

  ‘Why is that, Mr Rendcombe?’

  ‘We’d already been forewarned by the lawyers who’d engaged them in the past. When someone is dismissed for reprehensible conduct, one doesn’t want them going elsewhere and continuing to pollute the profession.’

  ‘What offences did these three individuals commit?’

  ‘They are not specified,’ said Rendcombe. ‘Apart from anything else, no lawyer wishes to admit details of any criminal activity that took place under his aegis in case it makes him look foolish. All that he will do is to affirm that such-and-such a person is unfit for employment. That’s all we need to know.’

  ‘Who are the three men you rejected?’

  ‘One can be eliminated from your enquiries at once, Mr Skillen, because he is presently in prison for debt. The man who told me that – with some satisfaction, I may say – was his former employer.’

  ‘What of the other two?’ asked Peter, sensing that he’d made some progress.

  ‘Both were clerks and both were hounded out of their jobs.’

  ‘Yet they were not prosecuted.’

  ‘Instant dismissal was felt to be punishment enough – that and the guarantee that they’d never again be permitted to soil the good name of the legal profession.’

  ‘May I know who these two men are?’

  ‘You can do more than that, dear fellow,’ said Rendcombe, passing the letters to him. ‘You can read their correspondence.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Provided that you return it, of course, so that it can take its rightful place among my cherished records. Lawyers are archivists of personal disasters. You are about to be introduced to two of them.’

  Seven Dials was a misnomer. It comprised seven streets that went out like spokes of a wheel from a majestic Doric column. At the hub of a wheel was a clock with seven faces but it had been removed over forty years earlier in the erroneous belief that a large sum of money had bee
n concealed in its base. While the seven streets remained, therefore, the dials were nowhere to be seen. Conceived as a fashionable residential area cheek by jowl with Soho and Covent Garden, it had instead become a labyrinth of streets, lanes, courts and alleys that were the haunt of petty thieves, the poorer sort of street vendors and itinerant street musicians. Shops were dark and uninviting. Stray animals loitered. Poverty and danger went hand in hand in Seven Dials. Few strangers went there alone. Fewer still made the mistake of venturing there on their own at night.

  Being smartly dressed in public was an article of faith with Paul Skillen and he’d sometimes been accused of being a dandy. On his walk into Seven Dials, however, there was no call for his expensive blue coat with its high collar, broad lapels and cutaway tails. Nor was there a place for his frilled shirt, striped vest and breeches. From his wardrobe, he instead chose a selection of ragged garments that turned him into a costermonger. By rubbing dirt into his hands and cheeks, he completed the disguise. Paul even summoned up a passable version of an Irish accent.

  He knew that a lot of Irish families inhabited the tenements there and it was not long before he heard the sound of Dublin voices raised to full pitch.

  ‘Y’are a filthy ’ussy, Lena Madigan!’ yelled one woman.

  ‘Wh’re you callin’ filthy, you old cow?’ retorted the other, a mountainous creature with wobbling breasts and a red face. ‘Sure, every man in Seven Dials ’as seen everythin’ you ’ave to offer and you don’t even ’ave the sense to charge for the priv’lege.’

  ‘Y’are a slut, a dirty, stinkin’, slovenly trollop who was born with ’er legs apart. Yes,’ added the first woman, waving a fist, ‘and thar swivel-eyed sister of yours is no better. The pair of you give the Irish a bad name, so you do.’

  The argument quickly degenerated into a fierce fight that Paul had no wish to watch. As the women began to grapple with each other and a crowd formed to urge them on, he walked quickly past them and turned a corner, finding himself in a narrow court inhabited by screaming children, random filth and unwholesome vapours. A one-armed man of uncertain age was selling fruit from his barrow. Paul mingled with the knot of customers who were fingering the apples in search of some that were edible. When he heard the brogue of a young man beside him, he tried to sound casual.

  ‘D’you live hereabouts, my friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, so I do.’

  ‘Then p’raps you can help me.’

  ‘That depends.’

  Tall, hollow-cheeked and hirsute, the man eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘My name is Paul Kilbride and I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘You sound like a Wicklow man.’

  ‘You’ve a good ear, my friend.’

  ‘I’ve a good nose, too,’ said the other with contempt, ‘and I can always smell a Wicklow man.’

  ‘What about an American?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘That’s the fella I’m looking for, so it is,’ explained Paul. ‘He’d be around my age. When I heard he’d come to London, I just had to seek him out. I remembered him telling me once that he’d family in Seven Dials so this is where he’d make for.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘It’s Tom O’Gara.’

  ‘And when would he have come to the city?’

  ‘Oh, it would be within the last week.’

  The man snapped his fingers. ‘Then I might be able to help you,’ he said. ‘There’s a newcomer called O’Gara who turned up out of nowhere the other day. As to his being American, I couldn’t say for I’ve not spoken to him.’

  ‘He’d be travelling with someone else, a black man.’

  ‘Then it has to be him. I’ve seen them both together. O’Gara and his friend are staying in the back room on the first floor. If you don’t believe me, go and see.’

  The man turned away and began picking up the fruit to test its ripeness. Unsure whether he was being helped or misled, Paul glanced at the grimy tenement. If the missing sailors were inside, they’d not be the only criminals using the Seven Dials as their refuge. He walked to the front door and waited as a mangy dog came hurtling out and shot past him. Paul then climbed the steps to the first floor, shoes echoing on the wooden steps. The walls were bare and glistening with damp. The stench was ghastly. When he reached the room at the rear, he knocked hard on a door that was covered in stains and had the name of O’Gara carved inexpertly into the timber.

  Paul waited for a full minute. There was the sound of commotion from inside then the door swung open and a massive, bearded man in his fifties stood there with his hands on his hips. He gave Paul a truculent welcome.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ he snarled.

  ‘I’m looking for Tom O’Gara.’

  ‘That’s what he claims,’ said a voice behind Paul, ‘but I think he’s lying.’

  Paul turned round to see the man to whom he’d talked beside the barrow. Before he could move, he was grabbed from behind in a bear hug and held by the bearded man who exerted steady pressure with his strong arms.

  ‘What’s your friggin’ game?’ he demanded.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Paul was trapped. His only hope of escape lay in taking immediate action against both of them. Otherwise, he’d be held by the bearded man, robbed by his accomplice then assaulted by the pair of them. He therefore responded quickly, kicking the young man in the stomach and making him double up in pain. Struggling against his captor, he flung his head back sharply so that he broke the man’s nose and elicited a howl of fury. At the same time, he rammed both elbows into his ribs then brought his heel down with full force on his toe. The bearded man had so many sources of anguish that he didn’t know which one to attend to first. He released Paul and put a hand to the blood dribbling from his nose. The young man started to flail away but it was a fleeting tussle. Paul pushed him backwards down the stairs and he rolled to the bottom where he lay in agony. As he fled from the building, Paul made a point of stepping on the man’s chest.

  Before the two men could recover enough to pursue him and wreak their revenge, Paul trotted off through the narrow lanes and didn’t stop until he reached Covent Garden. The fruit was more enticing there and he felt much safer. Somehow he’d given himself away in Seven Dials and learnt a valuable lesson. He could at least cross the district off the list of places he intended to visit. Tom O’Gara and Moses Dagg were not there. Two such unusual visitors would not go unnoticed by the sharp-eyed young man he’d met beside the wheelbarrow. If they were there, Paul decided, the man would have sought money for offering his assistance. As it was, he’d chosen to take it by force with the aid of his bearded friend. The two men were criminals who worked hand in glove. It gave Paul great amusement to think that they were now comparing their injuries and bemoaning their bad luck.

  The Irishmen were soon displaced from his mind by Hannah Granville. He could imagine the look of horror on her face, if she’d seen him tussle with the two men. The fact that he’d escaped with comparative ease would not have reassured her. What would trouble her was that he’d gone into the volatile area of Seven Dials on his own, taking unnecessary risks as a matter of course. The moment it was all over, Paul had shrugged off the memory of the assault on him. Hannah would dwell on it at length. He racked his brains to find a way to win her back. One obvious way was to plead with her, promising to comply with her wishes while in fact having no intention of doing so. But that would mean their romance would be based on a resounding lie. Sooner or later it would become evident and she would consider the deception to be unforgivable.

  Instead of thinking about his own predicament, Paul was moved to consider hers. Hannah was patently troubled. It may have been as a result of their acrimonious parting or it might be that she was ailing in some way. What was depressingly clear to him during the performance the previous night was that she was merely walking through a part she’d hitherto played to the hilt. Was she pining for him or was
she ill? Had the former been the case, she’d surely have accepted the flowers as a token of his love so he ruled out that explanation. Hannah must be unwell. That was why she’d struggled onstage. Paul felt impelled to express his sympathy in some way. Yet even as he wondered how, he saw that there was a drawback. To be aware of her sickness, he’d have to admit that he’d been in the audience watching her and he drew back from that. He certainly didn’t wish her to know that he’d joined the others at the stage door and waited for a glimpse of her because it revealed his desperation.

  His other dalliances had always come to a natural end, leaving both partners with pleasant memories rather than injured feelings. Paul had never had to cope with an abrupt separation before, hence his confusion over how best to proceed. Hannah Granville was a woman so used to getting her own way that she expected instant obedience to her demands. Whenever someone tried to exert control over his life, Paul responded with defiance. He and Hannah had reached an impasse. His fierce pride was matched by her vanity, his need of independence by her need to control. On balance, therefore, he thought it best to do nothing. To approach Hannah directly would be seen as a sign of weakness and Paul wanted to maintain a position of strength. Fears about her health could be allayed by discreet enquiries. She need never know that he was asking about her.

  Meanwhile, he had plenty to keep him occupied. O’Gara and Dagg might not be hiding in Seven Dials but they were certainly somewhere in London and his job was to find them. Dismissing Hannah from his thoughts, Paul set off to renew his search elsewhere.

  ‘Nothing?’ cried Micah Yeomans in disbelief.

  ‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is everyone blind?’

  ‘They can’t help us, Micah.’

  ‘What’s the point of paying informers, if they can’t give us the information we need? How many have you spoken to, Alfred?’