‘It obviously inspired a lot of people.’
‘I know. I’m one of them.’
‘Look at it from the point of view of the government,’ said Paul. ‘If they felt that he was becoming too effective as a rabble-rouser, who would give the order to have him dealt with?’
‘It would be Sidmouth – the Home Secretary.’
It was well after midnight when they finally arrived in Nottingham. As the four passengers took it in turns to alight from the coach, they were stiff, aching in every bone and grateful that the journey was finally over. They waited for their luggage to be passed down from the roof of the vehicle. Peter had planned to stay at the coaching inn where they’d just arrived but he didn’t wish to refuse Hooper’s invitation. The more time he spent with the man, he reasoned, the more he could glean about the character and political life of Sir Roger Mellanby. Again, the brush-maker would talk much more freely in his own home than he could in front of strangers in the confines of a mail coach.
The house was no more than a few hundred yards away and, as they trudged through the streets, Peter took a first look at Nottingham in silhouette. Children bawled in crowded bedrooms. Cats stalked in the shadows and dogs barked incessantly. Accustomed to the abiding stench of the capital, Peter found the air less of an assault on his nostrils. In the last census, the population had been recorded as just over thirty-four thousand, making it huge in comparison with the surrounding villages but small when measured against London’s million and more citizens.
‘Have you always lived here?’ asked Peter.
Hooper nodded. ‘I were born in a cottage down by the river.’
‘Do you like Nottingham?’
‘I love it, Mr Skillen. But I’d love it even more if we had better wages, enough food in our bellies and the right to vote. We’re cruelly exploited, that’s the truth of it. Sir Roger were trying to make our lives better.’
‘He’ll be sorely missed.’
‘When people know what happened to him, there’ll be a lot of tears shed. We’ve nobody to take his place.’
‘What’s the first thing you need to do?’
‘I have to spread the word as soon as possible,’ said Hooper. ‘After I’ve told Win, my wife, that you’ll be staying the night, I must go out again to start knocking on doors. I’m sorry about that, Mr Skillen.’
‘Don’t apologise. In your position, I’d do exactly the same.’
‘Will you excuse me?’
‘You don’t need my permission,’ said Peter. ‘If I may, I’ll keep you company. I’ll be interested to meet all your friends and – since I’m involved in hunting down Sir Roger’s assassin – they might be glad to meet me.’
‘Oh, they will. You can bank on it.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘You’ll be welcomed as a friend,’ said Hooper, voice filled with emotion. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, Mr Skillen. When I came to that shooting gallery, I were in despair. You and your brother lifted me out of it. I know we can put our faith in you.’
‘We’re not miracle-workers, Mr Hooper. Be aware of that. What we can bring to this investigation, however, is a capacity for hard work and an unflagging tenacity. We simply never give up. Also,’ Peter assured him, ‘we’ve had experience of chasing and catching villains. My brother is staying in London because that, in all likelihood, is where the assassin resides. For my part, I’m eager to find his paymaster who may, I fancy, live much closer to where we are standing right now.’
Harry Scattergood knew the importance of careful preparation. Born into a life of crime, he had quickly learnt the tricks of the trade from his parents. When they died, he’d branched out on his own. Most of his early success came from opportunism, spotting a chance of stealing something, seizing it instantly and haring off in the certain knowledge that nobody was fast enough to catch him. As time passed, he learnt to plan his crimes with care, choosing more profitable targets and leaving nothing to chance. His latest scheme was an enticing one.
Looking the part was essential. He’d seen the patrons flooding into the Covent Garden Theatre on many occasions. In order to mingle with them, he needed the finest garments from his wardrobe. He chose a short, square-cut white vest with small lapels and a single-breasted waistcoat. Buttoned at the side, his pantaloons were tight and reached the middle of his calves. He wore tasselled Hessians on his feet. At his neck was a black stock. His blue coat had broad swallowtails and was cut away squarely at the waist with large buttons of crystal silver. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he was impressed at how elegant a figure he cut. The disguise would allow him to mix easily with the most stylish of dandies. Some items in his apparel didn’t fit him perfectly, but then, the person from whom he’d stolen them had slightly different dimensions so Scattergood was prepared to forgive him.
He was in the audience bewitched by the magic of Hannah Granville that evening. As if attesting her ownership of the role of Lady Macbeth, she played the part to the hilt. Scattergood was amongst those who clapped until their hands began to ache. Ignoring the comic afterpiece, he left the theatre and went round to the stage door with a crowd of panting admirers, listening to their conversations to pick up every nugget of information he could.
‘I was here last night,’ said one man, ‘when someone was shot dead.’
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed his companion.
‘It could have been me.’
‘What a frightening thought!’
‘I wouldn’t say that. If I could choose the manner of my death, what better way to quit this world than at the feet of Hannah Granville as she came out of that stage door? If that happened, I’d die in ecstasy.’
Most of what Scattergood heard was inconsequential chatter but there were others who been there on the previous night. Each had his story to tell and every detail was noted by him. Care had been taken to make a repetition of the outrage almost impossible. Extra lanterns had been hung so that the area was brightly lit and two armed men were stationed outside the stage door. More than one person who tried to bribe his way into the theatre was turned roughly away. The sound of loud protests behind him made Scattergood turn round in time to see a broad-shouldered man pushing his way through the crowd. Though he recognised the newcomer as one of the Skillen brothers, Scattergood couldn’t be sure which one it was. What he did know, however, was that during his long career, Peter and Paul Skillen were the only people who had ever managed to arrest him.
To the irritation of everyone there, Paul was allowed into the theatre at once and the door was closed after him. Five minutes later, he reappeared with Hannah on his arm and her dresser in tow. There was the usual concerted cry of delight followed by a groan of envy. Admirers pressed forward to get nearer to their idol but Scattergood’s interest was in her companion. He stood directly in front of Paul so that the latter had a good look at his face before brushing him aside and taking Hannah on to the waiting coach. Scattergood was delighted. If one of the Skillen brothers had failed to recognise him, he had no worries. He could put his plan into operation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Given the limited accommodation at Hooper’s house, Peter was struck by the man’s kindness in inviting him to spend the night there. He noticed the efforts made on his behalf. After changing the sheets, Hooper and his wife moved out of their bedroom and into the other one, even though it was already occupied by Winifred Hooper’s aged mother. While Peter slept in the relative comfort of a bed, his hosts were lying side by side on the floorboards in the adjacent room, listening to the old lady’s continuous wheezing. Winifred was a short, skinny, anxious woman with an exaggerated respect for those of a higher social class. Whenever she spoke to him, Peter could almost hear a curtsey in her voice.
That certainly hadn’t been the case with the men on whom Hooper had earlier called with his visitor from London. Having come together to seek reform, they were people who deferred to nobody, freeborn Englishmen secure in the belief that the
y had as much right as anyone else to take part in the process of electing the government that had such power over them and their families. Peter admired their gruff honesty, their determination and their courage in pursuing radical political reform. They were stunned by the news of the murder of Sir Roger Mellanby and embraced Peter readily when they learnt why he’d come to Nottingham. Many of them had theories about who had been responsible for the death of their talisman. Peter committed the suggested names to memory. While he was glad of their willingness to confide in him, he could feel the burden of expectation slowly but inexorably building. Welcomed as a saviour, he knew that he now had to justify the immense faith placed in him. It was a forbidding task.
Breakfast the next morning comprised a simple but nourishing meal and a string of apologies from Winifred about the shortcomings of their hospitality.
‘If an apology is due, Mrs Hooper,’ said Peter, ‘it should come from me for imposing upon you without warning. I have no complaints. I slept well, ate well and am indebted to you and your husband.’
‘You’re always welcome here, Mr Skillen,’ said Hooper.
‘Thank you.’
‘If you’re ready, we’d best be off.’
‘Then let’s be on our way.’
Hooper had borrowed a horse and trap from a friend of his so that they could drive out to Mellanby Hall. It was only when he climbed up into the vehicle that Peter realised just how little he knew about the family he was setting off to visit. Hooper had spoken in glowing terms about his hero but said little about his wife and children. On the journey there, Peter gathered more information about Mellanby’s two sons, one of whom, Edmund, was married and lived some distance away from the family home. There was also a daughter who lived with her husband near Ravenshead.
‘What of Sir Roger’s wife?’ asked Peter.
‘Lady Mellanby is not in the best of health,’ explained Hooper, ‘so we may not even be able to speak to her. The news will have been a big blow to her. David, the younger son, will be there and so will Mr Oxley, I daresay.’
‘Who is Mr Oxley?’
‘He’s a lawyer and Sir Roger’s best friend. He was his agent during any election and looked after his affairs whenever Sir Roger was away for any length of time. Mr Oxley is almost like one of the family. When the news of … what happened in London reached Mellanby Hall yesterday, Mr Oxley would have been summoned immediately.’
‘What manner of man is he?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before the answer came.
‘Oh, he’s very … able.’
‘I hear a note of reservation in your voice,’ said Peter.
‘No, no,’ said Hooper, quickly, ‘I’ve no criticism to make of Mr Oxley. He’s loyal and hard-working. His job is – or was, anyway – to take the load off Sir Roger and he did that very well.’
He went on to list the man’s attributes, but Peter was not fooled. He sensed that Hooper didn’t like or trust Oxley. He wondered why.
Mellanby Hall was less than five miles from Nottingham. Set in a large estate, it played tricks on them, peeping out from behind bushes like a naughty child then disappearing briefly before coming fleetingly into view elsewhere. The endless glimpses were more than enough to whet Peter’s appetite. When the house finally rose up before them, he was struck by its size and solidity. Built two centuries earlier, it was rigidly symmetrical, its four corner towers flanking three recessed and gabled bays. Its facade of grey stone was rather forbidding. Peter could see that Hooper was approaching the place with some trepidation. The latter turned to him.
‘You’ll not forget your promise, Mr Skillen, will you?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Peter. ‘I’ll do the talking.’
‘Truth is … I’ve not ever been able to speak proper to Mr Oxley.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I don’t know.’
As soon as they pulled up on the forecourt, a manservant came out to hold the bridle while they got out of the trap. When the visitors walked towards the house, Hooper stayed half a pace behind Peter. The butler was waiting at the open door, face darkened by grief.
‘This is a house in mourning,’ he said, solemnly. ‘As a result, this is not a fit time to welcome stray visitors.’
‘We are not stray visitors,’ said Peter with polite firmness.
He was about to explain why they were there when he saw, over the butler’s shoulder, a tall, slim figure entering the hall at the far end and coming towards them. Peter guessed at once that it must be David Mellanby, the younger son. When he saw what the man was wearing, he realised that Hooper had failed to provide a telling detail about him. David Mellanby was a clergyman.
Micah Yeomans and Alfred Hale were back at their usual table in the Peacock Inn that morning. When one of their colleagues came in, they looked up with interest.
‘Well?’ asked Yeomans. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Yes and no,’ said the other.
‘Talk sense, man.’
‘Yes, I have a name. In fact, I have more than one. But, no, I don’t think that any of them is the name you want.’
‘Let us be the judge of that, Chevy,’ said Hale. ‘What have you discovered?’
Chevy Ruddock cleared his throat. He was a big, ungainly man in his twenties who took great pride in his work with the Runners. Tireless and ever-willing, he’d been rounding up some of the many paid informers on whom they relied to betray their criminal associates. Beads of sweat ran down Ruddock’s face. He’d clearly exerted himself.
‘Come on,’ prompted Yeomans. ‘Who was the assassin?’
‘Two people gave me the same name,’ said Ruddock.
‘What was it?’
‘Ezra Gammon.’
Hale snorted. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Next time you see these two barefaced liars,’ said Yeomans, rancorously, ‘kick their arses from one end of Piccadilly to the other.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Ruddock.
‘Ezra Gammon is somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on his way to Australia. I know that because I had the pleasure of arresting him. You’ve obviously forgotten that the rogue was transported. Since he’s lying in chains below deck, how could he possibly shoot someone dead in Covent Garden?’
‘Ah,’ said Ruddock. ‘I had a feeling they were misleading me.’
‘Then you should have knocked their heads together.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Gammon aside, what other villains were suggested?’
Ruddock took a notebook from his pocket and opened it to the appropriate page. He read out four names in succession, each one producing derisive sneers from the others. Yeomans grabbed the notebook from him and tore out the page from which Ruddock had been reading. He thrust the notebook back into the younger man’s hands.
‘Those names are worthless,’ he snarled.
‘I did my best, Mr Yeomans.’
‘To extract useful information from them, you have to use pain. It’s the only way to get the truth out of the lying devils. Let me show you.’
Knocking Ruddock’s hat from his head, he grabbed him by the hair as if to tear it from his scalp. When his victim yelped in agony, Yeomans released him.
‘If you weren’t so tall, Chevy,’ said Hale, laughing coarsely, ‘he’d have lifted you up from the ground and swung you in the air. Learn from his example and use force. It’s the only way to make them respect us.’
‘Yes, Mr Hale.’
‘Do that and you’ll make a good Runner one day.’
‘That’s my ambition. I’ll work hard to achieve it.’
‘Then before you continue your search,’ said Yeomans, ‘remember this. We’re not just hunting the assassin. He had a confederate who was there to make us all look the wrong way so that none of us saw the shot being fired. Who was that confederate? If we can find him,’ he went on, ‘he’ll lead us to the man we really want. The pair of them can then hang side by side on the gallows like a
brace of plucked turkeys.’ After bending down to pick up the hat, he handed it to Ruddock. ‘Now get out there and start behaving like me.’
When he came out of his club in Albemarle Street, the man was in a buoyant mood. He’d spent a comfortable night there and enjoyed an excellent breakfast. His hat was set at a rakish angle and his cane tapped out a pleasing rhythm on the pavement as he walked along. It was a short-lived stroll. An elegant, sleek, smirking individual stepped out of a doorway to block his path.
‘I knew that you’d come sooner or later,’ he said.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ hissed the other.
‘I needed to see you.’
‘Our business transaction is over and done with. I told you I never wanted to see you again. You agreed to abide by that arrangement.’
‘Things have changed since then.’
‘You did as requested and were well paid.’
‘All I was told was that, at a given signal from you, I was to distract people by shouting aloud. You never mentioned that you were going to kill someone.’
‘It was no concern of yours.’
‘Oh, yes it was,’ said the other. ‘You made me an accessory to murder. That means my life is in as much danger as yours. What I did outside that stage door deserves far more than the paltry amount you gave me.’
‘You had what you were worth,’ insisted the other, grabbing him by the arm. ‘You’re a useless, drunken, unemployed actor whom no theatre manager would deign to touch, let alone engage. I not only gave you a role to play – if only for a second – I also rewarded you handsomely.’ He released his grip. ‘There’s an end to it. Do you understand? I never want to set eyes on you again.’
‘If you won’t pay me,’ said the actor, rubbing his arm gingerly, ‘then I’ll have to get the money from another source.’
‘What are you blabbering about?’
‘Clearly, you haven’t seen the reward notice. For information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person who killed Sir Roger Mellanby, a reward of seven hundred pounds and fifty will be paid.’
Rage of the Assassin Page 5
