Rage of the Assassin

by Edward Marston

  ‘Have you looked at them?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said her dresser.

  ‘Please do so now.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘It’s what I wish you to do, Jenny.’

  ‘I’d be upset if I found something that might have a bad effect on your performance tonight.’

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ snapped Hannah. Regretting her tone, she embraced the woman at once. ‘Forgive me, Jenny. I’m so troubled.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I shouldn’t ask you to do something I ought to do myself.’

  ‘I’m glad to help.’

  ‘I feel guilty. It’s unfair of me.’

  Picking up the cards and letters, she glanced through them, recognising the handwriting of many well-wishers. Hannah was tentative to the point of timidity. Jenny looked on hopefully. When she’d been through all of the missives, Hannah was overwhelmed by a sense of relief. She then glanced at the pile of gifts.

  ‘I did take the liberty of looking at those,’ said Jenny, quickly, ‘and there’s nothing that will upset you.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘I studied them very carefully. If he had meant to send a gift, I believe that the Prince Regent would have ordered something suitably lavish. Nothing in the pile fits that description. You are quite safe,’ said Jenny. ‘I guarantee that His Royal Highness will not be in the audience.’

  Hannah felt a heavy weight being lifted from her shoulders. She could breathe easily once more. At the same time, however, she was piqued. Having aroused the interest of the Prince Regent, she was annoyed that she’d been dismissed so quickly from his mind. It was an insult. On balance, however, she was glad at the turn of events. Having entered the theatre with foreboding, she now had the most wonderful sense of freedom. It made her resolve to give the performance of a lifetime.

  Hannah wanted to get rid of Lady Macbeth for good.

  Having spoken to five strangers in his search for the truth, Paul Skillen returned to the shooting gallery so that he could talk to someone he actually knew. His sister-in-law was delighted to see him and anxious to hear what he’d learnt. Close as they were, he could never have had such a conversation with Hannah. She had no interest at all in political affairs. Charlotte, however, was different. She not only kept abreast of the latest developments, she was able to hold her own in any discussion of them. Paul knew that he could rely on her to listen patiently. He told her about the potential suspects to whom he’d spoken.

  ‘The first,’ he recalled, ‘was a man named Oswald Ferriday, a pompous toad who more or less refused to speak to me. He tried to hide his delight at Sir Roger’s death but the smirk on his face gave him away. Ferriday is a Cabinet minister, so he was party to the discussions about the imposition of the Corn Laws.’

  ‘They’re still causing untold misery,’ said Charlotte. ‘Mr Hooper told me that Sir Roger fought against them tooth and nail. One of his dearest wishes was to have them repealed.’

  ‘Ferriday called them an absolute necessity and sneered at those who opposed the legislation in Parliament. Needless to say, Ferriday is a wealthy landowner. He’s never going to starve and doesn’t care two hoots about those who certainly will.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that he might somehow be involved in what happened to Sir Roger Mellanby?’

  ‘I’d put nothing past him, Charlotte.’

  ‘Who else did you approach?’

  ‘It was another politician, Sir Marcus Brough. Like Ferriday, he was also a Tory but a much more reasonable one. He was prepared to talk more openly about what had happened and even had the grace to say that he was sorry to hear of Sir Roger’s death.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘That’s unusual for you, Paul.’

  ‘I suppose that it is. Everything Sir Marcus said had the semblance of truth yet, in retrospect, his words sound rather hollow. Ferriday, on the other hand, was a blatant liar. I shudder to think that he has a say in the government of this nation.’

  ‘What’s the next step?’

  ‘I need to find out far more about both men.’

  ‘How can you do that?’

  ‘I have an ally – a Captain Golightly. He offered to do some digging for me.’

  ‘I’m glad that you have at least one person on your side.’

  ‘He was a good friend to Sir Roger and is as keen as we are to track down those responsible for his death.’

  ‘Is he a politician?’

  ‘No, but he has a lot of acquaintances in Parliament. Golightly has already been a great help to me. It was he who put me on to Hugh Denley.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Denley is a man who unwisely challenged Sir Roger to a duel. It was an incident he didn’t wish to be reminded about because it left him with several scars and made his wife leave him.’

  Paul then told her about his meeting with Denley and, later on, with the man’s wife. Charlotte was upset to learn of Sir Roger’s relationship with Kitty Denley and immediately thought of Seth Hooper.

  ‘I hope that he never learns about this,’ she said. ‘Mr Hooper thought of Sir Roger as a paragon. It would come as a shattering blow to him.’

  ‘I’m not about to disillusion him, Charlotte.’

  ‘Did you think that Mr Denley was a plausible suspect?’

  ‘Yes, and I still do. I’ll keep his name very much in mind.’

  ‘You’ve made a promising start, Paul – as usual.’

  ‘We may have a long way to go yet,’ he warned.

  He smiled fondly at her and reflected on the difference between Charlotte and Hannah. Before she’d married Peter, he’d courted Charlotte assiduously and was disappointed when she’d chosen his brother instead. He soon came to accept that Peter had attributes that would make him an ideal husband for her, and that Charlotte was not perhaps the right woman for him. Hannah, however, clearly was. Living with her was a continuing adventure that comprised long periods of elation offset by her sudden outbursts and wild demands. He could never have discussed an investigation calmly and sensibly with her as he’d just done with Charlotte. Hearing about other people’s problems held no appeal for Hannah. She was too obsessed with her own immediate needs. It didn’t prevent him from loving her but there were times – and this was one of them – when a conversation with Charlotte was a positive tonic.

  ‘You have a gift for listening,’ he told her.

  ‘I like to know what’s going on, Paul.’

  ‘I always feel refreshed after talking to you.’

  ‘The feeling is mutual,’ she said, smiling. ‘By the way, have you seen the reward that’s being offered?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘It would be nice to have a share of that.’

  ‘Why settle for a share?’ he asked with a grin. ‘We want all of it.’

  Harry Scattergood had decided to make them wait. He didn’t wish them to think that he was desperate to get his hands on the money. In deceiving Alfred Hale, he’d passed the first test. The Runner knew what Scattergood looked like because he’d seen him locked up as a result of being caught by the Skillen brothers. Hale simply didn’t recognise him as the man he’d once seen behind bars. What had really convinced the Runner was Scattergood’s claim to have been outside the theatre when the murder occurred. Having been there the following night, he’d picked up the information that the Prince Regent had been guarded by two Runners and assumed, correctly, that they must have been Yeomans and Hale. That had put the seal on his credibility.

  Secure in his disguise, he returned to the Peacock Inn. Yeomans and Hale were there, waiting impatiently. Seeing him enter, Hale nudged his companion. Yeomans got to his feet and confronted Scattergood.

  ‘So, you are Mr Clearwater, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And you claim to have been at the theatre on the night in question?’

  ‘It’s not a cla
im,’ said Scattergood, indignantly. ‘It’s the plain, unvarnished truth. If you don’t believe me, I’ll speak to the chief magistrate instead.’

  Yeomans drew himself up. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘I assume that you’re Mr Yeomans. You and Mr Hale were acting as bodyguards to the Prince Regent that night. I remember the two of you clearing the rest of us out of the way.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Hale interjected.

  ‘When the shot was fired, you hurried him in through the stage door.’

  ‘You see, Micah?’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Yeomans.

  ‘Mr Clearwater really was there.’

  ‘Let me do the talking.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Who put you up to this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Scattergood, feigning innocence.

  ‘Was it Paul Skillen?’

  ‘I’m unfamiliar with that name.’

  ‘He really was outside the theatre.’

  ‘So were lots of other people, Mr Yeomans.’

  ‘He could have told you what happened.’

  ‘There was no need. I was as much a witness as this Paul Skillen was. Question me as closely as you wish. I’ve no reason to deceive you. I’m simply trying to help you catch a killer.’

  ‘I think he means it,’ said Hale.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘Sorry, Micah.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Yeomans. ‘Let me test you. Imagine that this room is the area outside the Covent Garden Theatre. The door behind you is the stage door. Do you understand, Mr Clearwater?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Scattergood. ‘You want to ask me where I was standing.’ He moved into position. ‘I was roughly about here when you and Mr Hale arrived. I was one of a cluster of gentlemen trying to get a good view of Miss Granville.’

  ‘So where did the shot come from?’

  Scattergood pointed a finger. ‘It was in that corner.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Hale. ‘He had to be there to know that.’

  Yeomans was still doubtful. ‘I wonder …’

  ‘This is getting tedious,’ said Scattergood with disgust. ‘Since you clearly don’t believe me, I’ll give you time to ponder what I’ve told you. Wiser counsel may then prevail. I, meanwhile, will be going to the theatre once again to see the ravishing Miss Granville give her final performance as Lady Macbeth. I wouldn’t miss that for anything. Goodbye.’

  Leaving them open-mouthed, Scattergood went out with a flourish.

  Peter Skillen was so perturbed at having deprived Seth Hooper and his wife of their marriage bed that he decided to spend the second night at the Black Horse. He therefore retrieved his valise from their house and showered Winifred Hooper with thanks. Apart from easing his conscience, it also meant that he simply had to descend the stairs to attend the meeting that evening. Several of those who turned up had already met him. The remainder accepted him at once on Hooper’s recommendation. Peter was interested to see how much weight the brush-maker carried. When he was not quashed into silence by the Radical Dandy, he was a natural leader. Before the meeting, Peter had the opportunity to talk to some of the others in the group and it was an education for him. He soon realised that living in London had cut him off from important events taking part in the provinces. One name interested him.

  ‘What did you call them?’ he asked.

  ‘Blanketeers,’ replied a thickset man with a fringe beard and gruff voice.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Each man carried a blanket so’s he could sleep under it on t’road to London. It showed he were a textile worker. Some five thousand spinners and weavers were planning to leave Manchester in groups of ten so they couldn’t be accused of unlawful assembly. It was a peaceful march, Mr Skillen. They obeyed the law.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They were part of huge crowd as met in Manchester. Before they even left, they were set on by King’s Dragoon Guards. Leaders were arrested. Rest of ’em didn’t gi’e up easily. Hundreds set off bravely with a petition for the Prince Regent. They didn’t get far.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They were attacked by dragoons with them sabres. Some of their wounds were serious. These were decent, law-abidin’ men, Mr Skillen, yet they were treated as if they were deadly enemies.’

  ‘What did the petition say?’

  ‘It told His Majesty about the dreadful state of the textile industry in Lancashire and protested against doin’ away with that law.’

  ‘Habeas corpus?’ said Peter.

  ‘That’s the one, sir.’

  Others contributed with additional comments. A couple of the men had relatives in Manchester and knew how bad the rate of unemployment was there. They were quick to point out that Nottingham had similar problems. Peter was shocked at the degree of suffering endured. He began to appreciate the scale of their loss. To have their spokesman assassinated in London had been a hammer blow for them. Sir Roger Mellanby was irreplaceable. The only thing that would bring them succour was the arrest and execution of his killer.

  The main door of the Black Horse had been locked by the landlord before the meeting. They wanted no strangers there. Expecting simply to sit and listen, Peter was surprised when, after opening the meeting, Hooper suddenly called on him to say a few words about the search he’d undertaken for the assassin. Peter responded by assuring everyone that neither he nor his brother would rest until they’d caught the person responsible. While trying to sound optimistic, he warned them that it might be a lengthy process. As he looked around the faces, he realised that he was talking to a cross-section of the local working and middle classes, family men with other mouths to feed who’d exercised their right of petition to the Prince Regent in a bid to achieve urgent political reform.

  At the end of his speech, Peter was taken aback by a round of applause. He went off to sit at the very back of the room, allowing Hooper to step forward and take charge. Having been told that the brush-maker was a good speaker, he’d been looking forward to seeing him in action. Peter was disappointed. Hooper obviously had fire in his belly and the gestures of a born orator, but he was curiously halting. He stumbled over his words and had to repeat himself more than once. There was a general murmur of discontent. The men there were used to hearing Hooper in full flow. It didn’t take Peter long to realise that he was the problem. In front of his friends and neighbours, Hooper was completely at ease. The presence of a stranger – a well-dressed, highly educated man from London – made him nervous. Peter decided that the kindest thing he could do was to slip out of the room so that the speaker could regain his confidence.

  The Black Horse was an ancient inn with half-timbering, low ceilings and an abundance of spiders. It also had undulating floorboards with gaps between them. As he walked towards his room on the first floor, Peter could just make out the sound of Hooper’s voice. When he reached the end of the passageway, there was far more clarity. The speaker was fluent, assured and in command of his audience. Since the door opposite his own room was slightly ajar, Peter looked in and saw that it was empty, so he went in. He was now directly above the bar in which Hooper was speaking and could hear every word clearly.

  A distinctive aroma wafted into his nostrils. It was the lingering smell of tobacco. Only minutes before, someone had been smoking a pipe in the room. Tobacco ash had been left in the fireplace. Locking the door for the meeting had been a wise precaution but it was not enough. Whoever had been in the room had heard every word of what was said below. While he listened, the spy had enjoyed a pipe.

  Hannah Granville was always nervous when she stepped upon the stage. It was a common feeling amongst actors. There was the constant fear of forgetting lines, mistiming cues, accidentally tearing a costume, knocking over part of the scenery or tumbling ingloriously to the boards. Ridicule was only one mistake away. Hannah was trembling. Once she came into view, however, there was such a buzz of delight in the theatre that she lost all her anxiety and blossomed. She brough
t more attack, more malice and more commitment to the role than she’d ever done before. Three witches had already appeared onstage, but it was her sorcery that beguiled the audience. Other members of the cast were caught napping at first and had to adjust accordingly, striving to match her power and intensity. Led by the indomitable Lady Macbeth, they were determined to make it the most memorable night of the entire run.

  The whole cast came onstage for the curtain call but all eyes were on Hannah. She was the undisputed cynosure and luxuriated in the ovation. From that point on, she was in ecstasy. All her troubles had flown away and she floated on a sea of praise and wonderment. By the time she’d changed out of her costume, Paul had arrived to take her off to the party held to mark the end of a remarkable run. It was a joyous occasion. As the wine flowed and the compliments kept coming, she declared that Lady Macbeth was her favourite role. Paul was amused.

  ‘You said that the Scottish play was cursed.’

  ‘That was a mistake,’ she said. ‘It’s Shakespeare’s masterpiece.’

  ‘You vowed that you’d never take part in it ever again.’

  ‘The manager has already approached me about reviving my performance some time next year. I told him that I’d be happy to discuss the possibility with him.’

  ‘What about all those nightmares it gave you?’

  ‘They were never really serious, Paul. I exaggerated.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I won’t tease you about the way you complained earlier. I’m just so pleased to see you happy again, Hannah. The stigma attached to the play has somehow miraculously disappeared.’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s drink to that.’

  ‘Again and again,’ she agreed, laughing. ‘I feel as if I’m in heaven.’

  ‘I hope that you’re not feeling too angelic.’

  She laughed as she pushed him playfully away.

  Celebrations continued until well into the night. It was only when the majority of people had drifted away that they realised just how tired and inebriated they were. After bidding farewell to the remaining few, they slipped out of the room and headed for the exit. A cab was waiting to take them home. Paul helped her up into the vehicle then took his place beside her. They set off at a steady pace.