Rage of the Assassin

by Edward Marston

  ‘I’m a man of means,’ said Scattergood with an expansive wave of the hand. ‘I’m happy to fund my search for the killer. When he is in custody, I’ll take a share of the reward money but only so that I can dispose of it to a worthy charity.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you, Mr Clearwater.’

  ‘I’ll take up no more of your time, sir. I have a villain to find.’

  Getting to his feet, Scattergood took his leave and went briskly out of the office. Kirkwood was relieved that a sign of progress had finally appeared in a case that had so far completely perplexed the Bow Street Runners. He sent someone to track down Yeomans and Hale. Less than twenty minutes later, the two of them were standing before him. Sensing the chief magistrate’s mood, they quailed.

  ‘Tell me what your investigation into the murder of Sir Roger Mellanby has so far revealed,’ said Kirkwood. ‘What solid evidence have you gathered?’

  ‘We’ve been working all hours, sir,’ said Yeomans.

  ‘At this very moment,’ added Hale, ‘we have men combing London.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time before we catch him, sir.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Kirkwood, icily, ‘you have nothing of import to tell me.’

  ‘That’s not true. Hale and I have made what we feel is a big stride forward.’

  ‘Yes,’ his partner chimed in. ‘We made contact with a gentleman by the name of Giles Clearwater who was actually there at the moment when Sir Roger was shot dead. Mr Clearwater saw the killer flee.’

  Kirkwood’s eye kindled. ‘And will this gentleman lead you to him?’

  ‘Yes, sir – we have a firm promise.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time, sir,’ said Yeomans. ‘At first sight, I judged the fellow to be another fraudster, but he soon convinced me that he was telling the truth.’

  ‘Then where is he now?’ asked the chief magistrate.

  ‘We are expecting him any moment, sir.’

  ‘Then you expect him in vain, Yeomans. He was so unimpressed by the way that you and Hale treated him yesterday that he came directly to me instead. I have heard the full story that you were too stupid to draw out of him.’

  ‘But we listened patiently to him,’ said Yeomans. ‘By questioning him closely, we heard all that he had to say.’

  ‘His account differs from yours and I’m bound to say that it’s far more convincing. As a result, I have heard the salient details that you should have got from him. When a witness brings in such significant information, your duty is to gather it. Instead, you and Hale let Mr Clearwater slip through your fingers,’ said Kirkwood with withering scorn. ‘In other words, you were far too busy thinking about the ale and pies at the Peacock to do what you’re paid to do.’

  Yeomans and Hale exchanged a despairing glance.

  Harry Scattergood, meanwhile, was celebrating the apparent success of his plan between the thighs of a compliant woman with a lilting Welsh accent.

  Peter Skillen was glad that he’d attended the church service. It had been a moving occasion and given him the opportunity for a lengthy private conversation with David Mellanby. The death of his father meant that there would be a shift in power within the family that wouldn’t advantage the youngest member in any way. All that Peter could offer him was his sympathy. Notwithstanding his clash with Barrington Oxley, he couldn’t believe for a moment that the lawyer was in any way linked to the murder. Apart from anything else, Oxley had nothing to gain. By clinging to Sir Roger’s coat tails, he’d been given a fleeting eminence that he’d never have achieved elsewhere. He’d masterminded elections, been taken to London on a regular basis and become an auxiliary member of the family. He would now return to being no more than a humble lawyer in Nottingham. Even if Edmund Mellanby replaced his father in Parliament, Oxley’s glory days were over. His grip on the family was effectively broken.

  Since he’d found no evidence in the area of a plot to silence the Radical Dandy, Peter decided that he’d leave Nottingham that evening, travelling overnight so that the journey could be faster over largely unoccupied roads. What he’d learnt on his trip was valuable but the search for the full facts of the assassination had now to be moved back to London.

  It was some time since Paul had been into the Golden Crown but he was nevertheless given a cheery greeting by the landlord. The place was quite full and his arrival caused some interest. Those who’d never seen him before were on their guard at once, fearing that he was an actor likely to be given parts in preference to them. All that Paul got from them were hard stares and cold sneers. Those aware of his identity as the companion of Hannah Granville were green with envy because he had a role that every man coveted. As he looked around, he saw a dignified old man with a white beard seated familiarly at a table in the corner as if he owned the tavern. Since he’d bought drinks for Simeon Howlett before, Paul knew exactly what his preference was.

  ‘Dear boy!’ said Howlett as the glass was placed in front of him. ‘This is a true act of kindness. Please do sit down.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Paul, doing as he was bidden. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am still lying fallow, alas. Though I have more talent than anyone here, I am constantly undervalued and cruelly overlooked. I tell you, Mr Skillen, there is no justice in the theatre unless it comes from the mouth of Portia in The Merchant of Venice.’

  Howlett’s eyes twinkled. Having seen him onstage, Paul knew what a brilliant actor he’d been in his day but age had played havoc with his memory and he was largely unemployable. The table in the corner was now a platform where he was able to recreate the performances of earlier years for anyone kind enough to listen. Patrons of the tavern all knew and respected Simeon Howlett but few of them ever took a seat beside him. It was the reason he was so grateful to Paul.

  ‘Dare I ask about Miss Granville?’ he ventured.

  ‘She is in good spirits.’

  ‘Good spirits and deserved hands, I feel. Had I been younger, of course, I’d have had the delights that you enjoy. Time has robbed me of so many treasures.’

  ‘You still have your health and your sense of humour.’

  ‘I’d trade both in return for more teeth.’

  ‘And your reputation as an actor is still intact.’

  ‘What use is reputation if it doesn’t bring in any work? However,’ he went on, ‘I won’t burden you with my worries. What brings you here today?’

  ‘I’m hoping that you can help me, Mr Howlett.’

  ‘Not if it’s money you’re after. My funds are precariously low. I can give you a speech from the Bard,’ he said, brightening, ‘though I can only remember those with no more than eight or ten lines.’

  ‘I’m here to talk about a murder.’

  ‘Which play do you have in mind – Othello, King Lear, Hamlet? Each one has murders galore and the Roman plays are nothing but orgies of assassination.’

  ‘This murder occurred in the alleyway close by.’

  Howlett chortled. ‘Oh, many a lively time I had there in younger days with willing wenches who raised their skirts and bade me enter Elysium. That alleyway could tell some stories, I warrant you.’

  ‘A man was stabbed to death there yesterday,’ said Paul. ‘I’m told that he may well have been an actor.’

  ‘Then he must have committed suicide. It’s an exit from this abominable profession that I’ve oft considered. I’d stab myself to death like a demented Julius Caesar. Et tu, Simeon would be the last line I ever uttered.’

  ‘I’m being serious.’

  ‘So am I, dear boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘Wait,’ said the old man as Paul rose to go, ‘do sit down again. I remember now. There was blood everywhere, I’m told. His wonderful costume must have been ruined.’ Paul lowered himself down again. ‘I was shocked, Mr Skillen. We all were, even though we are well acquainted with hideous sights here in Covent Garden. To lose one of our own in such a fashion was blood-curdling.’
r />   ‘He was an actor, then?’

  ‘Who else would frequent this fleapit?’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘I can find it for you. Give me an hour or two, Mr Skillen.’

  ‘I need to know everything you can tell me about this man. It’s very important, Simeon. You won’t forget, will you?’

  ‘Memory is a strange thing. It responds to alcohol. If you buy me a second glass of Canary wine, I can guarantee that I’ll have found out what you want in the time specified. You have my word of honour.’

  Left alone for the rest of the day, Hannah Granville felt that the best way to forget the travails of playing Lady Macbeth was to concentrate on her next role. To that end, she studied the scenes from Measure for Measure in which she’d appear as the hapless Isabella, a role she’d always wished to play. She was so entranced by what she was reading that she was lost to the world. When the maid entered, therefore, Hannah was jolted.

  ‘I did knock, Miss Granville,’ the woman said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  ‘Really? I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

  ‘The young lady said that you told her to come for advice if ever she felt in need of it. Her name is Miss Glenn.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hannah, getting to her feet. ‘It’s Dorothea. Show her in at once.’

  After disappearing for a second, the maid ushered in the visitor. Dorothea Glenn was a short, slim, poised young woman with the kind of beauty that only came into its own when she was truly animated. Hannah spread her arms in welcome and the newcomer ran into them to receive a kiss on both cheeks. They sat beside each other on the sofa.

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, Miss Granville,’ said Dorothea.

  ‘Not at all – I’m delighted to see you.’

  ‘I’ve been studying the play,’ said Dorothea, glancing at the copy of it on the low table. ‘And I see that you’ve been doing the same.’

  ‘I’m just easing my way into it and doing my best to shake off all trace of Lady Macbeth. I fancy that Isabella will suit my temper more appropriately. But you don’t want to hear about me. You’re here to discuss Mariana of the Moated Grange. It’s only a small role but one in which you can make an impression.’

  ‘I do hope so.’

  ‘You have a wonderful chance to play on the audience’s sympathies.’

  ‘Mariana is a victim. She’s been shabbily treated.’

  Hannah sat back. ‘Tell me about your initial thoughts regarding the part.’

  ‘Well,’ said the other, ‘my feeling is this …’

  For a couple of minutes, Dorothea talked quietly and intelligently about her role, then she began to falter slightly. Hannah was immediately alerted. As a rule, her visitor was always brimming with excitement at the fact that a distinguished actress was taking an interest in her. There was no trace of it now. Her voice was strained, her body tense and her eyes dull. Hannah raised a palm to stop her.

  ‘You didn’t come here to talk about the play, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did, Miss Granville.’

  ‘There’s no need to lie to me, Dorothea. I’m your friend. I want to help.’

  ‘Thank you …’

  ‘Is it Mr Sylvester? I’ve noticed the way he looks at you. Give him his due. He was a fine Banquo but he’s well known for pestering female members of the cast.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with Mr Sylvester.’

  ‘Then what’s troubling you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Dorothea, jumping to her feet. ‘I must go. It’s dreadful of me to burden you with my worries. I do apologise.’

  ‘I thought you trusted me.’

  ‘I do, Miss Granville. You’ve been so kind to me.’

  ‘Then please trespass on that kindness,’ said Hannah, rising to her feet. ‘Tell me what really brought you here today and don’t insult my intelligence by trying to fob me off with lies.’

  ‘Oh, I’d never do that.’

  ‘Then tell me the truth.’ There was a long pause. ‘It’s about a man, isn’t it?’

  Dorothea nodded. ‘Yes, it is …’

  ‘Well, if it’s not Mr Sylvester, it must be Mr Garland and that, I must confess, is a surprise to me. His preference in the past has always been for slender youths with fair hair and ready smiles. What has Mr Garland done to you?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Dorothea with an edge of desperation.

  ‘Then what is going on?’

  It was too much for the young actress. Lower lip trembling as she battled to control her emotions, she suddenly burst into tears and threw herself into Hannah’s arms.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was time to collect his earnings. When the assassin had been hired, he was paid a quarter of his fee beforehand with the rest to follow after a couple of days. Since he wasn’t permitted to know the identity of the person who provided the money, he had worked through an intermediary. The man had seemed trustworthy and promised that the balance of the money would be handed over at a specific time. All that the assassin had to do was to wait at the meeting place and the intermediary would walk past and slip a bag surreptitiously into his hand. It would contain enough money to fulfil an ambition of his to visit Paris for months on end. Now that the war was over, the French capital had a strange allure for him. Its main advantage was that it was a long way from the place where he’d shot Sir Roger Mellanby and was now being hunted for murder.

  When his full fee was paid, he would be rich, happy and able to sail away from London until it was safe for him to return there. He could then go in search of a fresh commission to put someone to death.

  Paul gave him ample time. It was almost two hours before he went back to the Golden Crown to speak to Simeon Howlett. Meanwhile, he hoped, the old actor would have found out the name of the man who’d been killed in the alleyway nearby. There was, however, a problem. As he entered the tavern, he saw that Howlett was no longer there. The landlord had no idea if and when the old man would return. Paul began to feel that he might have been cheated. Having tricked a second drink out of him, Howlett had simply walked out and gone to ground somewhere. Instinctively, Paul went off in search of him, storming out into the bustle of Covent Garden. He got no further than the corner before he was hailed by a booming voice that rose above the tumult. Paul turned to see Howlett hobbling towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry for the delay,’ said the actor. ‘It took longer than I estimated.’

  ‘I thought you’d let me down.’

  ‘Shame on you! I’d never let a friend down.’

  ‘Did you discover who the murder victim was?’

  ‘Yes, I did, and it was a name unknown to me.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Orsino Price.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Paul, shaking his head. ‘Since I spend so much time around the theatres here, I’m familiar with most of the actors. Orsino Price is new to me. How old would he be?’

  ‘He was still in his twenties, I was told.’

  ‘Did you get a description of him?’

  Howlett chortled. ‘What a silly question!’ he exclaimed. ‘The fellow was an actor. That immediately tells you that he dressed for effect and behaved at all times as if he’s in front of an audience. Add the fact that Price was young and you can safely assume that he was handsome into the bargain. Such a person would dedicate his life to searching for work in the theatre and pursuing the choicer members of the fair sex.’

  ‘What motive would someone have to kill him?’

  ‘Jealousy is the first that comes to mind. Perhaps he was stalking a married woman or one who was already committed to another man. Then again,’ Howlett went on, ‘he might have defied someone trying to rob him and paid the ultimate price for his bravado.’

  ‘That alleyway is in more or less constant use,’ said Paul. ‘The killer went there deliberately to murder him. That means he bided his time until there was nobody else about, then struck quic
kly before taking to his heels. Within seconds, he’d have disappeared into the crowd.’

  Howlett cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Could you repeat that, please? I can’t hear you properly in this pandemonium.’ He indicated the tavern. ‘Why don’t we step into the Golden Crown and carry on this discussion over a drink?’

  ‘I’m too busy, Simeon.’

  ‘Don’t I deserve any kind of reward?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Paul, taking some money from his purse and pressing it into the old man’s hand. ‘Enjoy a drink on me. And thank you for your help. What you’ve told me may turn out to be of great value. Goodbye.’

  Seth Hooper was disappointed to hear that Peter was planning to leave Nottingham late that evening. Having him there had been a source of comfort for Hooper and his fellow radicals. They felt that they had somebody on their side and, moreover, that he would be a link between them and the Mellanby family. Peter was sorry to have to shatter their expectations.

  ‘Things have changed dramatically, Mr Hooper,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that you can no longer rely on the cooperation of the family. Sir Roger’s elder son has no sympathy with your cause and neither does his daughter. Don’t look to either of them for support.’

  ‘What about the younger son?’

  ‘David Mellanby is a man of compassion who believes in the cause his father espoused. In essence, he approves of what you’re doing in his wake but is unable to take an active part in your activities. He has his hands full with the duties of his calling and, if he were seen to be involved in politics, he’s likely to get a stern reprimand from his archdeacon, if not from the Bishop of Nottingham.’