‘I’d never disobey orders.’
‘You threw away a golden opportunity to stay on Paul Skillen’s tail.’
‘That’s water under the bridge, Alfred,’ said Yeomans, dismissively. ‘And while we’re on the subject of water, I’m transferring you to a different area. From now on, you’ll patrol the Thames.’ Ruddock blanched. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d prefer somewhere else.’
‘You just said that you’d never disobey an order.’
‘I know,’ said Ruddock, ‘but the river holds bitter memories for me. As you know, I was pushed into it the other day and I can’t swim.’
‘You lived to tell the tale,’ said Hale, briskly.
‘There’ll be two of you,’ explained Yeomans. ‘We’ve been having a lot of complaints about the rowdiness at an old warehouse where the sweepings of London gather to drink themselves into a stupor. They sometimes have a boxing match there and, when that happens, the place turns into Bedlam.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ asked Ruddock in alarm.
‘Impose law and order.’
‘What – all on my own?’
‘You’ll have a man with you,’ said Yeomans. ‘I just told you that.’
‘Two of us can’t control a howling mob, sir.’
‘Use your common sense, man.’
‘Yes,’ said Hale, ‘and console yourself with this thought. Patrolling that area will be a lot more interesting than standing outside Paul Skillen’s house and getting shoved into the river!’
Though he fought hard against the impulse, Paul Skillen was drawn back to the theatre once again, as if by an unseen magnet. Shedding the disguise he’d worn among the Irish, he dressed in his finery before going out. He was soon part of a noisy crowd that streamed into the theatre with high expectations. Paul wondered if their hopes were going to be fulfilled or shattered by Hannah Granville’s performance that evening. All around him, he heard extravagant praise of her talents.
‘She’s a genius,’ said one man, ‘a second Sarah Siddons.’
‘Nobody can rival
her
,’ countered his wife.
‘Miss Granville can,’ interjected someone nearby. ‘I’ve seen her and she is peerless. Mrs Siddons couldn’t hold a candle to her.’
‘I remain to be persuaded,’ said the woman, resolutely.
‘My wife is a lady of discernment,’ explained her husband.
‘Then she is about to discern a true marvel, sir,’ said the other man. Before moving away, he touched the brim of his hat. ‘I bid you both good evening.’
Paul tried to shut out the sound of the continuous eulogies because they only served to remind him of what he’d thrown away. Hannah was indeed unique, as much as a person as an actress. Her individuality was remarkable. He knew things about her that none
of those around him could even imagine. They were, for the most part, endearing things that made him smile as he recalled them. Less pleasant aspects of her character and behaviour remained dormant in his mind.
When Paul took his seat in the stalls, the elderly man beside him gave a nudge.
‘Have you seen this play before, sir?’
‘No,’ replied Paul, ‘I have not. This is my first time.’
‘Then you are about to view the eighth Wonder of the World.’
‘I take it that you are no stranger to
Venice Preserv’d
.’
The man chortled. ‘I am a true veteran,’ he said, giving another nudge. ‘This will be my fifth visit. You’ll soon see why.’
Like Paul, the man was on his own. If he’d seen the play on the first occasion in the company of his wife, he’d made sure that she didn’t return with him. Paul sensed that the woman fondly imagined that he was at his club or dining with friends. Indirectly, Hannah Granville had generated a lot of deception in some families as husbands rediscovered the lure of bachelorhood.
When the play began, the hubbub slowly died away. Belvidera began to cast her spell. Hannah’s performance was markedly better. Paul was ready to concede that. While it fell short of the heights he’d seen her attain, it was more than enough to dazzle and move the audience. Resounding applause greeted the end of the play and she seemed able to enjoy it this time. Having put more effort into her performance, she reclined on the ovation, as if it were a collection of soft feather pillows. When it was all over, Paul collected another nudge from his neighbour.
‘What did you think?’ asked the man.
‘It was a memorable performance,’ said Paul.
‘It certainly stirred memories for me!’
The man chortled merrily all the way to the exit. Paul hung back, wrestling against the temptation to stand at the stage door again. Hannah had disappointed all of her admirers on the previous occasion by sneaking out of the front door and Paul toyed with the notion of standing on the opposite side of the road in case she reverted to that stratagem. In the end, he was at the mercy of another unseen magnet and it pulled him round to the stage door. Staying well back, so that he couldn’t overhear some of the coarser comments of the waiting suitors, Paul seemed to wait an age for her to appear, each minute charged with remorse and regret. When Hannah finally came, there was a spontaneous burst of applause and the men clustered around her before parting like the Red Sea. Hannah Granville sailed away from the theatre with a sense of triumph but it was not the actress who caught Paul’s eye. It was the handsome young man on whose arm she swept past him. He basked in the envy he was creating and raised his hat to them all in farewell. Paul was both wounded and shocked that it had taken such a short time to replace him. He felt giddy at what he saw as her betrayal. She was no longer his. The last shreds of hope had vanished.
As so often when he was in a state of despair, Jermyn Street beckoned.
Bernard Grocott was among the first to arrive at the Home Office that morning. He was so used to stepping into a room that was spectacularly tidy that he was beginning to take the new servant for granted. Though he was still deeply concerned about Anne Horner’s disappearance, he was more than satisfied with the woman who’d replaced her and, on balance, found Ruth Levitt preferable. Grocott hoped that she might turn out to be a permanent fixture. It was a hope that was shared by David Beyton, though for somewhat different reasons. To spare him embarrassment, he’d wanted Ruth’s predecessor to leave the Home Office altogether. It never crossed his mind that Anne Horner would be forcibly removed and that he would be to blame.
‘Good morning, Mr Grocott,’ he said.
‘Ah, there you are, Beyton.’
‘You asked me to report to you first thing.’
‘I did, indeed,’ said Grocott. ‘The Home Secretary is spending the morning with the Prime Minister and he’s asked me to review the security arrangements for the celebrations in Hyde Park. Mr Yeomans has already seen them and given them his blessing but one can never be too careful about such things.’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘What I need is a sounding board and you have always taken on that role with distinction. That’s why I sent for you.’
‘I’m very flattered.’
In fact, Beyton was feeling rather flustered, struggling to maintain a calm exterior. Ordinarily, he would have felt grateful to be singled out from the other clerks in order to have privileged access to important information concerning the safety of the royal family and the senior members of government. It would be something he could tell his ailing wife to cheer her up. As it was, he was worried about being under Grocott’s scrutiny for some length of time. With so much pain and anguish churning inside him, Beyton was afraid that some of it might show in his face and manner.
‘Our major concern, of course,’ said the undersecretary, ‘is the weather.’
‘One can’t control that, sir.’
‘Alas, no, that feat is beyond even the Duke of Wellington, though you’d never get him to admit it.’
Beyton rose to a smile. ‘His self-belief is legendary.’
‘Battles are never won by doubters.’
‘How true, sir!’
‘Let us begin, shall we?’
Grocott shuffled the sheaf of papers on his desk. Page by page, he went through the projected arrangements for the celebrations of the victory at Waterloo. As well as the great and good of England, foreign dignitaries would also be present and their absolute safety had to be guaranteed. Beyton was only half-listening to the endless recital of names and the disposition of the soldiers. All that he was required to do was to give a series of affirmative nods and an
occasional word of approval, yet Grocott seemed to feel that his colleague was being very helpful.
Sitting back in his chair, he studied the clerk for some time.
‘Is anything wrong, Beyton?’
‘Not that I know of, sir.’
‘You have a faint air of distraction.’
‘My mind has been wholly concentrated on the task in hand,’ said Beyton. ‘It’s been an honour to assist you on such an important matter.’
‘I chose you with care,’ said Grocott. ‘Of all the senior clerks, you’re the most industrious and reliable. Every one of the others has his strengths, mind you, but you stand out. In fact,’ he went on, ‘I’m able to confide something that will show you how much I value the quality of your work.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘My esteemed colleague, Mr Ryecart, has indicated that he wishes to retire from his post as undersecretary here. We will need to find a suitable substitute and I believe that we should look no further than your good self.’
‘Heavens!’ cried Beyton, overcome with surprise.
‘It’s no more than you deserve.’
‘I’m lost for words, sir.’
‘The post is not in my gift, of course, but I do have influence with the permanent secretary and I’ve persuaded him that you are the ideal choice. Between the two of us, we should be able to convince Viscount Sidmouth that you should be promoted.’ A warning finger went up. ‘This must remain a well-guarded secret,’ he warned. ‘As and when Mr Ryecart leaves, there’s bound to be fevered speculation among the other clerks. Take no part in it, Beyton.’ Grocott glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Good gracious!’
he said. ‘We’ve been here for hours. Thank you so much for your help.’ Rising to his feet, he extended a hand. ‘And while we’re still alone, allow me to offer you my congratulations.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Beyton, getting up for the handshake.
At a time when he should have been delighted, however, the clerk felt only a sense of foreboding. If the undersecretary had known about Beyton’s clandestine dealings, he would have recommended dismissal rather than promotion. That might still be the clerk’s fate. When he left the room, he stood with his back to the door and thought about what had just happened. Out of four senior clerks, he had been chosen, even leapfrogging over the chief clerk. He was entitled to feel pleasure. As he went back to the room he shared with the other senior clerks, he even permitted himself a quiet smile. As soon as he sat down at his desk, however, he was brought back to reality with a bump.
Staring up at him was a letter in a hand he’d seen once before.
Paul Skillen stripped off his shift and lowered himself into the hip bath of cold water that he’d asked a servant to prepare. Ignoring the chill and the discomfort, he told himself that they were the least that he deserved after a night of recklessness at his favourite gambling hell. He scooped up handfuls of water and let them drop over his head as a penance while he bemoaned his loss of willpower the previous evening. Hannah Granville was a woman with multiple attractions. It was inevitable that she should cope with the loss of one suitor by finding another one to dance attendance on her. When he thought about the new beau, Peter was forced to admit that he had charm, fine apparel and striking good looks. In addition, he had youth on his side. It rankled that Hannah had chosen someone who was five or six years younger. The memory made him wet his head a second time.
Having woken up very late, he’d been too groggy even to contemplate breakfast. His mouth was dry, his head pounding and his stomach mutinous. All that the bath had done was to bring him fully awake and allow him to see the folly of his actions. Paul had not only drunk too much in the convivial atmosphere in Jermyn Street, he’d contrived to gamble away nearly all the money he’d won when he was last there. It was a tale of unrelieved loss. He’d lost Hannah, he’d lost face, he’d lost resistance to the siren call of the gambling hell, he’d lost all his self-control through excessive drink and he’d lost a sizeable amount of money. Worst of all, however, was the fact that his self-respect had once again withered.
Wanting to suffer in privacy, he was dismayed when told that his brother had called to see him. Paul was minded to tell his servant to send Peter away with an excuse but he knew that he’d only call on urgent business. He therefore made an effort to repair some of the visible damage inflicted on him at the card table. When he finally staggered downstairs, he felt marginally better. Peter was characteristically frank.
‘You look perfectly dreadful, Paul.’
‘That is an optical illusion, dear brother.’
‘I recognise the cloven hooves of Jermyn Street when I see them stamped all over your face. How much did you lose?’
‘Let’s not discuss that,’ said Paul, sinking into a chair. ‘How are you?’
‘I suspect that I’m in a far better condition than you.’
‘What of my revered sister-in-law?’
‘Charlotte sends her love,’ said Peter, ‘but I’m not here solely as my wife’s emissary. There’s been an interesting development.’
Paul showed interest for the first time. ‘You know where the fugitives are?’
‘Not yet, I fear. The development relates to the disappearance of Mrs Horner. I now know the motive that lies behind it.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I’m hoping to find out before too long.’
Speaking slowly so that his brother could follow what was being said, Peter told him about the ransom demand. He revealed neither the name nor the status of David Beyton and made no mention of his relationship to the missing woman. The pertinent fact was that money was going to be handed over and Peter was determined to be there to retrieve it and to arrest the kidnapper. Though he appeared to be still in a daze, Paul had obviously listened with care.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Peter.’
‘I’ve told you all that you need to know.’
‘It’s absurd,’ said Paul. ‘Who would pay money for the release of a servant?’
‘This person would.’
‘Then he must be a close relative or a dear friend. Or is it conceivable that he might actually be her lover?’
‘He is not her lover,’ said Peter, unwilling to dignify what had happened between Beyton and Anne Horner as an act of love. ‘For some reason, he feels a deep obligation to her.’
‘But you’re not going to disclose what that obligation is.’
‘I’d be breaking a confidence, Paul.’
‘Then I’ll harass you no more. Do you wish me to be involved?’
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘One of us must continue the search for O’Gara and Dagg. You are best placed to do that. You can mingle with the Irish far more easily than I could ever manage. If I need assistance, I’ll call on Jem.’
‘Do you have any clues as to who sent that ransom note?’
‘I’m not well versed in calligraphy but I have the feeling that it
was written by a woman. I say that because it was oddly reminiscent of Charlotte’s handwriting.’
Paul guffawed. ‘Since when has Charlotte been penning ransom demands?’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I wish I hadn’t done that,’ he moaned. ‘My skull is splitting apart.’
Peter was unsympathetic. ‘If you’re going to spend so much time among the Irish,’ he warned, ‘you’d better learn to hold your drink. And if you must play cards for money, at least stay sober while you do so. That way you’d be more aware of your losses and quit before they became too punitive.’
‘Forget about
my
financial problems. Let’s turn to Mr Anonymous. A tidy sum is being demanded by way of ransom. Can he afford it?’
‘He’ll
have
to afford it somehow, Paul.’
During an afternoon lull, David Beyton asked for a little time off to visit his bank. He’d already managed to send details of the second letter to Peter Skillen but he had to raise the money himself. On the walk to the bank, he debated how that might best be done. As well as his salary as a senior clerk, Beyton had a comfortable private income. Thrifty to the point of being parsimonious, he’d built up substantial savings at the bank. The only time he’d drawn on those savings was when he’d had a crisis of conscience over his treatment of Anne Horner. The money was in no way payment for services rendered. That would have insulted her. Beyton had been at pains to explain that it was a means of assuaging his guilt and providing enough money for her to retire from her job at the Home Office. To his chagrin, she’d insisted on staying there, as an immovable reminder to him of what he’d done to her when in his cups. Every time she saw
him, she offered the money back but he steadfastly refused it and it remained with her.
Beyton could not understand her mentality. According to Peter Skillen, she kept the money under her bed instead of using it to pay for better lodging and giving up work altogether. His relationship with the necessary woman, he now realised, had been doomed. They’d been watched and that thought was unnerving in itself. Someone had become aware of what was going on between them. Even though Beyton had tried his best to be secretive, a pair of eyes had somehow seen what was happening. The clerk had blatantly lied to Peter Skillen, telling him that sexual intercourse had only occurred once or twice. He’d justified the deceit by arguing to himself that there had only been two occasions inside the Home Office. Other meetings had taken place in what he’d believed to be discreet hotels. Evidently, they were followed to one of them and the purpose of their visit there discovered.
That was not something he would ever divulge to his bank manager, a God-fearing family man who would need another explanation for the sudden withdrawal of funds. By the time he’d reached the bank, Beyton had worked out his excuse.
‘I wish to take my beloved wife abroad,’ he said, uxoriously.
‘Is she able to travel?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Holland. Her physician recommends it. Because the sea air is so good for her, we go to the coast whenever possible but a complete change of scene might act as a tonic for her. Now that hostilities have at last ceased, of course, France is a possibility but my mind veers towards Switzerland.’
‘I’ve heard good reports of the country, Mr Beyton.’
‘I want nothing but the best for my wife.’
Ebenezer Holland was a rotund man in his fifties with the
appearance and manner of a prince of the church. Beyton had often envisaged him with a mitre on his head and a cope around his shoulders. He’d even persuaded himself that there was the faintest aroma of frankincense in the manager’s office.
‘Why do you need the money at such short notice?’ asked Holland.
‘I’ve promised to hand it over to the man who will organise our travels for us. It’s in the nature of a large deposit, you see. Other clients of his have allowed him to make expensive arrangements then changed their mind about going on holiday and left him out of pocket. I believe in fair dealing,’ Beyton went on. ‘It’s a principle of which I’m sure you’ll approve.’
‘I do so wholeheartedly.’
‘Thank you.’
‘In dealings with me, you’ve acted with the utmost integrity.’
But the manager was not yet ready to give his episcopal blessing and release the money. He probed away gently for several minutes and Beyton had to embroider his story about some non-existent foreign travel. While his client was talking, Holland consulted a ledger.
‘You and Mrs Beyton have been exemplary clients of mine,’ he said. ‘In other words, you’ve both remained solvent and made no undue demands on the bank. The largest deposit, I see, is still in the name of your wife. It has been with us for several years and accrued an appreciable amount of interest.’