O’Gara was worried. ‘That would cost money, wouldn’t it?’
‘I know someone who might do it cheap.’
‘Can we trust him, though? If he learns that we’re on the run, he’ll be tempted to turn us in and claim the reward.’
‘I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,’ said Fallon, tapping his
chest. ‘If he breathes a word about the pair of you, I’ll poke his eyes out and cut off his balls, so I will.’ He chortled. ‘
That
should help to keep his gob shut.’
When he returned the keys to the owner of the house, Micah Yeomans assured him that the property had been kept under surveillance day and night and that nobody had gained entry to it. He received full payment from Everett Hobday then exchanged farewells with him before stepping out into Upper Brook Street. As soon as the Runner set off home, Alfred Hale fell in beside him.
‘What did he say, Micah?’
‘He congratulated us on doing our usual thorough job.’
‘It wasn’t thorough enough,’ said Hale. ‘We were made to look fools.’
‘There was no need for Hobday to know that. In any case, Simon Medlow was the real fool. I’d a mind to leave him dangling there. It would have been no more than he deserved.’
‘You said he was the finest confidence trickster alive.’
‘I was wrong.’
‘The Skillen brothers saw through him at once.’
‘That was Ackford’s doing, I fancy. Anyway,’ said Yeomans, irritably, ‘let’s hear no more of our last encounter with them. We have to plan the next one.’
‘Will you use Medlow a second time?’
‘I’m not stupid, Alfred.’
‘He might be keen to get his own back.’
‘Medlow is no match for them and I’ve no wish to see him trussed up naked for the second time. His prick looked like a diseased turnip. The sight turned my stomach.’
Lost in contemplation, they strolled on for some while. Both
were well known in criminal quarters and more than one person slunk away when he saw the Runners coming. Yeomans enjoyed the power he had to frighten people. It was a mark of his status. It also separated him from Peter and Paul Skillen. They might have their random successes but it was Yeomans and his men who represented law and order on the streets of London.
Not daring to nudge his companion out of his reverie, Hale kept pace with his long stride and waited for him to break the silence.
‘I have it,’ said Yeomans at length.
‘I’m listening, Micah.’
‘It’s an idea to get back at those vile brothers.’
‘The last one failed miserably.’
‘We’ll be more careful this time. We have to find their weak spot.’
‘They don’t have one,’ complained Hale.
‘Everyone has an Achilles heel and so must they. Yes,’ said Yeomans, as he thought it through, ‘we should have done this before. Find a man’s weakness and we can exploit it. That’s your task, Alfred.’
‘What must I do?’
‘Follow one of them. Learn everything you possibly can about him.’
‘Which one must I go after?’
‘It would be pointless to trail Peter Skillen. He’s a man with no apparent vices. At the end of each day, the only thing he wishes to do is to go home to that beautiful wife of his. In his place, I’d do the same.’
‘What about Paul?’
‘He’s your man. He’s an inveterate gambler and has an eye for the ladies.’
‘I wouldn’t hold that against him.’
‘No more would I.’
‘Why should I watch him?’
‘Paul is more likely to make a mistake and do something we can use to our advantage. Follow him, Alfred,’ urged Yeomans. ‘Cling to him like a limpet. Sooner or later, he’ll give us the ammunition we need.’
The talk with Charlotte had been at once uncomfortable yet heartening. While taking care not to reveal Hannah’s name, Paul had revealed the depths of his feeling for the actress. Speared on the horns of a dilemma, he could not even begin to contrive his escape. Because she knew nothing about the character of his
inamorata
, Charlotte had been careful not to give him specific advice. She had merely suggested that he should allow time to pass before he saw her again, giving the lady in question time for her ire to cool. Every close relationship, Charlotte reminded him, involved concessions on both sides and he had to be prepared to give a certain amount of ground. Paul was glad that he’d confided in her. Simply talking it through with his sister-in-law had had a calming effect on him and he was grateful for that. Once he left the shooting gallery, however, he began to doubt the value of a period apart from Hannah Granville. For both their sakes, he needed to be with her and, importantly, be seen with her in order to keep his rivals at bay.
Early that evening, he set off for the theatre with a large basket of flowers, hoping that the gift would soften her heart towards him. It was well before the time of the performance and she’d given him privileged access to her before. When he presented himself at the theatre, however, his way was blocked by the tall, angular figure of the stage doorkeeper.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve orders to turn everyone away.’
‘Miss Granville and I are close friends.’
‘A lot of gentlemen claim that honour.’
‘It’s true, man,’ insisted Paul, ‘and you know it. You’ve seen us both together and admitted me to her dressing room before. Now let me past at once.’
‘I’d lose my job, if I did so.’
‘All I wish to do is to give her these flowers.’
‘Her express wish is that I’m to accept no gifts on her behalf.’
‘That may be true for others but surely not for me. Miss Granville and I have an understanding. Now move aside and let me through.’
The stage doorkeeper held his ground. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t do that, sir.’
Paul felt a rush of anger and had to fight against the impulse to brush the man aside. He couldn’t believe that Hannah would bar his entry to her dressing room. Was she acting out of spite or simply reinforcing her ultimatum? If he wanted her enough, she seemed to be saying, he had to change or he would not even be allowed near her. Paul felt sympathy for the stage doorkeeper. The man was only obeying instructions and should not be blamed for that. Taking a step backward, Paul looked down sadly at the flowers.
‘Are you married?’ he asked.
‘I have been for twenty years or more, sir,’ said the other, contentedly.
‘Then take these flowers home to your wife and tell her you love her.’
After thrusting the basket into the man’s hands, Paul spun on his heel and strode out of the building with his mind in turmoil.
‘Where was this, Peter?’
‘It was in a lane that Mrs Horner would have had to walk down
on her way back to her lodging. It could have been designed for an ambush.’
‘And who was this man you caught?’
‘His name was Reuben Grigg, a ruffian who preyed on those passing by.’
‘He chose the wrong victim when he picked on you,’ said Charlotte.
‘I was rather insulted that he saw me as a vulnerable target. From his point of view, I suppose,’ decided Peter, ‘I must have looked as if I had money about me. Also, I was evidently a stranger. He assumed I’d be off guard.’
‘You are
never
off guard.’
He brushed her lips with a kiss. ‘I was when I first set eyes on you, my love.’
‘Less flattery and more story, please.’
‘Grigg was an awkward fellow. He refused to cooperate at first.’
‘What did you do?’
He smiled. ‘I had to persuade him.’
They were in their house comparing notes about the day they’d each spent. Peter felt that he’d at last made headway in his search for the missing cleaner. Reuben Grigg had been a denizen of the dark corners of the lane where they’d met. Most of the people who walked down it were too poor to have anything of value on them and too aware of the dangers to be taken unawares. Grigg had first told Peter what he felt the latter wanted to hear so he had to be discouraged from telling lies. The man’s own cudgel proved the ideal asset. By means of judicious blows, Peter had soon knocked the truth out of him.
‘He remembered a woman who walked down that lane at night regularly,’ he said, ‘though he’d never accosted her. It may or not have
been Anne Horner but one has to ask how many unaccompanied women would venture into such a place. On the night when we
know
she last left the Home Office, she would have taken that route home at her usual time.’
‘What did this man, Grigg, actually see?’
‘It’s not so much what he saw as what he heard, Charlotte. There was a scuffle further down the lane, it seems, and he heard a woman scream for help. Her cries were soon muffled.’
‘Why didn’t he go to her assistance?’
‘Grigg would be more likely to join in the assault than help her.’
‘Wasn’t he even curious?’
‘He thought it was a lady of the night caterwauling because she hadn’t been paid for her services. That’s not unusual, it appears. All that Grigg was interested in was a likely victim for that cudgel of his.’ Peter grinned. ‘Now he knows what it’s like to feel its sting.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s in custody, pending an appearance in court. As a result of my evidence, he’ll get no mercy. The irony is that, in trying to rob me, he may unwittingly have helped to unearth another crime.’
‘Do you really think the woman who screamed was Anne Horner?’
‘It’s more than possible, Charlotte. On the particular night, she would have been somewhere in that lane at that time. It was the ideal place to overpower her.’
‘Why would anyone wish to do that?’
‘I can only guess at their motives.’
‘So where do you think she is now, Peter?’
He was decisive. ‘I believe she’s being held somewhere against her will.’
The dank cellar was at the rear of the house so her pleas would be unheard by any passers-by. In any case, the woman had warned her that, if she tried to call for help, she would be bound and gagged. A truckle bed occupied a corner and a stinking wooden bucket stood beside it. She had no idea why she was being held or who her gaolers were. When he brought her food, the man never spoke a word. The grating that provided ventilation let in enough light for her to see the bare stone walls covered in mildew and the undulating floor. The stench was unbearable. A small candle gave her the only illumination at night.
Having lost all track of time, she was in a state of utter bewilderment. All that she could do was to pray again and again for delivery. As she lay on the bed, she thought she heard a noise outside the cellar. She hauled herself to her feet and scurried across to the heavy oak door.
‘Is anyone
there?
’ she cried.
Jubal Nason was a sharp-featured man in his fifties with an ill-fitting grey wig, a pronounced squint and a sallow complexion. His back was hunched, his hands skeletal and his manner surly. Compared to his three visitors, he was smartly dressed but his dark suit had faded and the cuffs of his coat were threadbare. Since he’d been dismissed from his job as a lawyer’s clerk, he’d fallen on hard times and iron had entered his soul. Nason was not pleased when Dermot Fallon came to his house with two strangers in tow. He looked at Moses Dagg with especial disdain.
‘We’ve a task for you,’ explained Fallon. ‘It’s an important one.’
‘Go elsewhere,’ said the other. ‘I’m too busy.’
‘You’re never too busy to help an old friend.’
There was a dry laugh. ‘I’d never call you a friend, Mr Fallon.’
‘You were happy enough to shake my hand when I chanced along and saved you from being torn to pieces by that mad dog.’ He turned to Tom O’Gara. ‘There’s gratitude for you! I went to his rescue and he turns his back on me.’
‘That’s unfair, Dermot,’ said his cousin, hotly.
‘It’s worse than unfair. If I’d known he’d behave like this, I’d not
only have let the animal eat him alive, I’d have cheered him on.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ said Dagg, scowling. ‘He doesn’t look worth saving.’
Confronted by three menacing visitors, Nason decided that it was not in his interests to annoy them. He manufactured a smile of appeasement. Fallon had indeed saved him from attack by a dog. What he didn’t know was that the Irishman owned the animal and had trained him to threaten people. Nason was simply the latest victim tricked into believing that Fallon had just happened to pass at a critical moment.
‘I need a favour,’ said Fallon, making it sound more like a command than a request. He indicated his companions in turn. ‘This is my cousin, Tom O’Gara and that is Moses Dagg. They’ve come all the way from America to meet you.’
Nason was surly. ‘What can I do for you all?’
‘You can mind your manners for a start.’
‘I’m not sure we can trust him, Dermot,’ said O’Gara. ‘He looks sly.’
‘I agree with Tom,’ said Dagg. ‘He could double-cross us.’
‘Mr Nason knows what would happen to him if he did that,’ said Fallon, shooting the man a warning glance. ‘I’d be back here with a whole pack of wild dogs. But don’t be fooled by appearances. I know he looks like a cock-eyed back-stabber but he’s a good scrivener and we need his help.’ He bared ugly teeth in a grin. ‘And he’ll be glad to offer it, won’t you, Mr Nason?’
The scrivener’s eyes went from one to the other. All three were big, strong and had an edge of desperation about them. Provoking them would be a mistake. At the same time, he was determined not to offer his services for nothing.’
‘I’ll need payment,’ he said.
‘You’ll get it,’ Fallon promised.
‘Pen, ink and paper don’t come free. My time is even more expensive.’
‘We’ll judge what it’s worth afterwards.’
‘First,’ said O’Gara, stepping forward so that his face was inches from that of the scrivener, ‘we need your solemn vow that you’ll never breathe a word of what we tell you to any living soul. Do we have it?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Nason, recoiling from O’Gara’s foul breath. ‘You have it – on my honour.’
‘Then this is what we want you to write for us.’
With frequent interpolations from Dagg, O’Gara went on to give a long, rambling account of what had happened at Dartmoor and what reparation he felt was necessary. Fallon threw in the occasional comment. Nason made a series of jottings. When the narrative came to an end, he shook his head in dismay.
‘What you say may be true,’ he said, ‘but it would take me all day to write it out exactly as it was told to me. Your story is far too long and diffuse. It needs to be much shorter and in two parts.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked O’Gara.
‘Well, the first section must be a description of what actually happened during this so-called mutiny. You were witnesses. That will carry weight. As for the second section,’ Nason continued, ‘it must list your demands in order, the first being the immediate release of all American prisoners.’
‘And a pardon for me and Tom,’ said Dagg.
‘That will be included. Can you both sign your names?’
‘Yes,’ said O’Gara, ‘but I want some words underneath the signatures. It must read “Thomas O’Gara and Moses Dagg, Two of the Damned.” Is that clear?’
‘If that’s what you want,’ replied Nason, ‘that’s what you’ll get.’
‘We’d better.’
‘And when it’s done,’ said Fallon, ‘it can be sent to the Prime Minister.’
‘No, it can’t,’ advised Nason. ‘He’ll only pass it on to the Home Office.’
Dagg was suspicious. ‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve worked with lawyers all my life and had to contact departments of government on their behalf many times. The Admiralty has responsibility for prisons but a case like this would be referred to the Home Secretary. To save time, this plea should go directly to him.’
‘I told you Mr Nason knew what he was doing,’ said Fallon, appreciatively.
‘Where exactly is this Home Office?’ asked O’Gara.
‘Mr Nason will tell you.’
‘I’ll deliver the document in person,’ said Nason, ‘some time during the night. I don’t want to be arrested for acting as your accomplice. I’ll just slip it through the letterbox and you can await developments.’
‘We want to see what you’re sending first,’ said O’Gara.
‘Give me a few hours and I’ll have it ready for you and Mr Dagg to look over. It will be well ordered and legible. The thing that I can’t promise, however, is that you’ll get the desired result.’
‘We must do!’ argued O’Gara. ‘We risked our lives to escape.’
‘Tom is right,’ said Dagg, angrily. ‘Our friends are still locked up. We want them let out of that hellhole right away.’
‘Make that clear in the document, Mr Nason.’
‘Yes,’ said Fallon, ‘you’ve heard their story. They’ve been treated like wild beasts. Order the Home Secretary to do what’s right.’
‘He won’t take orders from two prisoners,’ reasoned Nason.
‘Then he’s going to be in trouble, isn’t he, Tom?’
‘He is,’ said O’Gara. ‘I don’t care how high and mighty he is. If this Home Secretary doesn’t release all prisoners and hang Captain Shortland by his scrawny neck, Moses and I will go after him. What’s his name?’
‘It’s Sidmouth,’ said Nason, guardedly, ‘Viscount Sidmouth. But you can’t threaten him. That would prejudice your claims altogether.’
‘He’ll do what we tell him to do.’
‘And the same goes for you, Mr Nason,’ said Dagg, jabbing a finger.
‘Write it all out,’ said O’Gara, ‘and we’ll come back to read it through. He’s got to know we’re in earnest. All we’re asking for is fair treatment. If we can’t get that from this man, then he needs to know his life is in grave danger.’
Peter Skillen was obliged to wait for some time before being shown into the Home Secretary’s office because the latter had been holding a meeting there. When it came to an end, Sidmouth sent his colleagues away and invited his visitor in. He could see from Peter’s demeanour that he had not brought good tidings.
‘You’re the bearer of bad news, I fancy,’ he said.
‘I fear that I am, my lord.’
‘Are our worst fears realised?’
‘No,’ replied Peter, ‘Mrs Horner is not dead – at least, that’s what I believe.’
‘Have you made any progress in the investigation?’
‘I think that I have.’
Peter explained how he’d taken the route home used by the woman and how someone had tried to rob him. Sidmouth was
highly alarmed. To lose Anne Horner was an inconvenience to him. The loss of the reliable Peter Skillen, however, would be a calamity. Over the years he’d undertaken assignments that few other men would even have dared to contemplate.
‘I do urge you to exercise care,’ he said.
‘Mrs Horner has taken the same journey on many occasions and always emerged unscathed – until now, that is.’
‘I’m sorry I interrupted you. Finish your report.’
Peter went on to recount what he’d been told by Reuben Grigg and suggested that they should accept that the cleaner had been kidnapped. Sidmouth was sceptical.
‘Why on earth should anyone wish to abduct her?’
‘I have no answer to that, my lord.’
‘Neither do I and I’m inclined to think that the woman who screamed out that night was not Horner at all.’
‘That may well be true,’ conceded Peter, ‘but we do know that she would have been in that lane – and at that time – on the night in question. Grigg is a predator. He watches very carefully before he strikes. When I described Mrs Horner to him, he admitted that he’d seen her by day many a time but always left her alone because she was not a tempting target. What he waits for is someone with a purse worth taking.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘That’s why his eye alighted on me.’
‘The rogue got what he deserved.’
‘I squeezed every ounce of information out of him that I could. Few women walk alone down that lane after dark. It is, however, a place where certain ladies transact business. Yet it’s unlikely that it was a prostitute who called out for help that particular night. According to Grigg, they’ll fight like wildcats and cry blue murder. This plea was quickly extinguished.’
‘I pray to God that it didn’t come from Horner.’
‘It’s a probability we have to face, my lord.’
Sidmouth was profoundly distressed. He took several minutes to absorb what he’d been told. Though he tried to persuade himself otherwise, he slowly came to see that Peter’s conclusion was a valid one.
‘What happens now, Mr Skillen?’
‘I continue the search.’
‘Where will you start?’
‘In the very place where I stumbled on our first important clue,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll go back to that lane at night and walk down it at roughly the same time that Mrs Horner did. There may be inhabitants there other than Grigg. It’s a place where one wouldn’t be at all surprised to find someone sleeping in a gateway. I’ll search for possible witnesses who may have heard what Grigg heard on that fatal night or, hopefully, have even glimpsed something.’
‘Go armed and take your brother,’ counselled Sidmouth.
‘Oh, I think I’ve removed the one real danger from that lane.’
Sidmouth shook his head. ‘I remain perplexed. If we ask who would gain any advantage by kidnapping a woman like Horner, we’re bereft of suspects. Nobody would demand a ransom for a cleaner earning a relative pittance. In short, there’s no value in this crime.’
‘Yes, there is, my lord.’
‘It eludes me.’
‘A motive is unclear but one must surely exist. Someone will somehow profit from this bizarre situation. That’s the assumption on which they’re working anyway. Meanwhile, of course, you have a competent replacement here.’
‘Levitt is keeping this whole building spick and span.’
‘Then her appointment was obviously prudent.’
‘Forget the cleaner we now have, Mr Skillen,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘My overriding concern is for the one who preceded her. Where is she? What have they done to her? Will she ever be released alive?’
‘I may learn more when I visit that lane tonight.’
‘For your own sake, don’t go alone.’
‘I can manage very well without anybody else. Two of us would frighten people away. Someone on his own is sure to be approached.’
It was well after noon when Paul Skillen eventually emerged from his stupor. How he’d got back home during the night was a mystery. All that he could remember was that he’d left the theatre in a towering rage, vowed that he’d never see Hannah Granville again then made for a gambling hell in Jermyn Street. It was a place where people who were shunned by respectable clubs could gather in order to drink their fill and risk their money on the roll of a dice or the turn of a card. Since he had so many acquaintances there, Paul was given a welcoming cheer when he appeared and several people asked him why he’d deserted them recently. It was a poignant reminder of the siren who was Hannah Granville. When he met her, Paul’s leisure time had been put entirely at her disposal and he’d turned his back on gambling completely. Only her rejection of him could have sent him back to Jermyn Street.
Opening an eye, he blinked repeatedly and tried to ignore the anvil that was being pounded rhythmically inside his head. When he felt his chest, he discovered that someone had removed his coat and considerately opened the neck of his shirt. His shoes had also been taken off. It took him several minutes to realise that a servant must have carried him upstairs and eased him onto his bed. Knowing that
he was safe and well, he felt the urge to drift back into a restorative slumber but a question prodded him like the prongs of a toasting fork. How much had he lost?
More often than not, he was lucky in love but unlucky when he turned to gambling and he’d often left Jermyn Street in debt, having been forced to borrow from others when his own funds ran out. To have drunk himself into such a state of paralysis, he must have been even more reckless than usual. The normal safeguards he applied when betting on something would no longer function. Instead of restricting himself to fairly modest amounts, he could easily have ventured huge bets on cards he was too blurred even to see. When they saw him so vulnerable, others wouldn’t hesitate to coax every penny out of his purse. Is that what had happened? Was he going to put his hand in his coat pocket and find that he’d gambled away his house? It had happened before to others. Was Paul the latest fool to do so?
Rolling off the bed, he landed on the floor with a thud and increased the rate of strike on the anvil. It was not just the pain that tormented him; it was the fact that his body seemed to be filled with solid iron. He crawled on his hands and knees to the chair over the back of which his coat had been placed. Paul had to gather up all his strength before he was able to reach into one of the pockets. Every slight movement caused a separate agony. His head weighed a ton, putting intense pressure on his neck. Yet he eventually got his hand on something. Pausing before pulling it out, he sent up a fervent prayer that he’d not lost his house. In that eventuality, he just wouldn’t know how to face Peter and Charlotte. Not for the first time, they’d be disgusted with him and so would Gully Ackford and Jem Huckvale.