Steps to the Gallows (2 page)

‘I’m an infantryman, lad. I always walk if I can.’

He shook hands with Ackford by way of farewell then left the gallery. Watching through the window, Huckvale saw the direction in which he’d gone and waited. Within a few seconds, a man stepped out of a doorway and went after Paige. It was the signal for Huckvale to leave as well. Once in the street, he threaded his way expertly through the crowd and kept one eye on his target, biding his time until he could find a quiet spot where the man could be intercepted. Huckvale knew little about him beyond the fact that he was obviously lithe and practised in his trade. Moving with furtive ease, the man stayed well behind Paige. Had the latter turned round suddenly, he’d have seen nobody on his tail because his shadow simply melted out of sight.

Huckvale kept him under surveillance for the best part of ten
minutes then his view was obscured by a coach that rumbled across his path. When the vehicle disappeared, so had the person Huckvale was following. To his chagrin, he realised that he’d been tricked. Huckvale broke into a run until he reached a junction from which three roads branched off. Which one had the man taken? Paige had given him the address where he lodged so Huckvale knew which route was leading him to his home. Yet he had a strange feeling that the man was no longer on Paige’s heels. For some reason, the narrowest of the three roads was the one that beckoned. Acting on instinct, therefore, Huckvale trotted along it in the hope of catching him up but he did not get far. As he passed an alleyway, he was suddenly grabbed from behind, dragged into the alleyway and clubbed to the ground with the butt of a pistol. Instead of being able to offer protection, Huckvale was in dire need of help himself.

For the first time in weeks, Leonidas Paige was able to walk through the streets of London with complete assurance. There was no need to keep one hand on his dagger or to look over his shoulder every so often. His back was now being protected and he could concentrate his thoughts on his work. He’d already singled out his next victim in the
Parliament of Foibles
and he chuckled as he envisaged the expression on the man’s face when he eventually saw the print. Paige would be creating a new and dangerous enemy but he was prepared to take that risk. Exposing a cruel and corrupt Member of Parliament was, in his opinion, a public duty. Thanks to Jem Huckvale, he no longer had to worry about his safety. Paige was free to let his mind wander as it devised some doggerel about his latest victim.

Buoyed up by a false confidence, he continued on his way with a spring in his step. Eventually, he turned down a winding street
and walked the thirty yards or so to his lodging. Using a key to let himself into the house, he went up the rickety staircase and into his room. On the table under the window were his writing materials and he couldn’t wait to put them to use. The moment he sat down, however, he discovered that he had company. Someone put a rope around his neck and pulled it tight. The garrotte was so sudden and unexpected that it was seconds before Paige realised what was happening. Twisting and turning, he tried to pull the rope away from his throat but could not budge it. Intense pressure was being applied and the pain was agonising. He tried to call out for help but his voice was strangled into silence. When he reached for his dagger, he hardly had enough strength left to pull it from its sheath and all the time the rope was biting deep into his neck and constricting his windpipe.

He squirmed impotently in his chair until he lost consciousness and offered no more resistance as the life was comprehensively squeezed out of him. When he was finally released, Paige lay slumped face down on the table. His killer was not finished yet. On a chest in the corner were several editions of the now defunct
Paige’s Chronicle
. They were quickly piled around the dead man’s head and set alight. By the time the killer slipped out of the property, all the papers were ablaze.

‘Murdered!’ exclaimed Huckvale. ‘Mr Paige was
murdered
?’

‘He was garrotted,’ said Peter Skillen.

‘But I was hired to protect him. I let him down badly.’

‘You had your own attacker to contend with, Jem.’

‘Gully will never forgive me,’ wailed Huckvale. ‘Mr Paige was a dear friend of his and I failed to guard him properly. I must go back to the gallery at once and apologise to Gully.’

As he tried to get out of bed, however, he felt as if he’d been struck on the head once again, causing him to cry out in pain and fall back on the pillow. He was in a bedchamber at Peter’s house, having been carried there when he was discovered in the alleyway. Still groggy and covered in blood, Huckvale had been able to give those who’d come to his aid the address of his friend. Peter and his wife, Charlotte, had been shocked to see the state he was in. They’d summoned a surgeon who’d cleaned the scalp wound and inserted stitches. Huckvale’s skull was now encircled by heavy bandaging. As he tried to work out what must have happened, his brain was racing.

‘I was completely fooled,’ he admitted. ‘I thought I was following that man unseen when, all the time, he knew that I was behind him. The moment he had the chance, he vanished from
sight then lurked in ambush. He
guessed
, Peter. When he saw Mr Paige going into the gallery, he must have guessed that he went in search of a bodyguard.’

‘At his age,’ said Peter, ‘Mr Paige certainly wouldn’t come for instruction of any kind. He was there to seek our help.’

‘I’ll never be able to face Gully again.’

‘A moment ago, you wanted to run back to make your peace with him.’

‘I doubt if he’ll let me through the door, Peter.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ said Charlotte, softly, ‘and you know it. Gully will be very upset that you were injured so badly. A lesser man might have died from the wounds inflicted on you. You need a long rest.’

Huckvale was embarrassed. ‘I can’t impose on you.’

‘It’s no imposition, Jem.’

‘Charlotte is right,’ said Peter with a considerate smile. ‘We’re glad to look after you and I’m happy to lend you that nightshirt you’re wearing. In some sense, you’re one of the family, so let’s have no more protest. If there’s anything you need, ring that little bell on the bedside table and Meg will come running.’

At any other time, Huckvale might have blushed. Meg Rooke was one of the servants and he’d long ago conceived a fondness for the pretty young woman with the dimpled cheeks. Too shy to make his feelings known, he’d worshipped her in silence. The thought that she might now wait on him introduced a whole range of conflicting emotions. Huckvale’s mind momentarily wandered from the plight he was in. The pounding inside his skull seemed to ease slightly.

Peter and his wife exchanged an understanding smile. Their house had space and comfort that Huckvale could never enjoy elsewhere and they were pleased to be able to offer hospitality
during his short convalescence. Sensing his affection for Meg Rooke, they felt that she might play an important part in his recovery. In the large bed, Huckvale looked impossibly small and vulnerable. The sight of his pinched face and bandaged crown steeled Peter’s resolve to find the man who’d assaulted him.

Dismissing his own predicament, Huckvale thought only of Paige.

‘He was a soldier,’ he said, ‘able to defend himself.’

‘I fancy that he was caught unawares,’ said Peter.

‘And he was garrotted, you say?’

‘A final indignity awaited him, I fear. His room was set alight. Luckily, the neighbours rallied around and got the fire under control.’

‘Who could
do
such a dreadful thing?’ demanded Huckvale.

‘We mean to determine that, Jem.’

‘How did his killer get into the house? Was it not securely locked? Who else was there? Why did nobody come to the assistance of Mr Paige?’

‘Those are the very questions that Paul will be putting to the landlord. Even as we speak, he’s beginning his investigation. Put your faith in my brother. When Paul is involved in a murder case, he has an uncanny knack of solving the crime.’

Before he could even begin to question the couple, Paul Skillen had to calm them down. The landlord and his wife were astounded to return home and find their house on fire with a murder victim inside. Gregory Lomas was a middle-aged man with a kind face distorted by the tragedy and a voice reduced to a croak. His wife, Eleanor, remained on the verge of hysteria.

‘Was nobody else in the house?’ asked Paul.

‘No, sir,’ replied Lomas. ‘Our servants had gone shopping and
we were visiting relatives. Mr Paige was alone in the house.’

‘Apparently not, Mr Lomas – the killer was also in there.’

‘How on earth could he have got in? The front door was locked.’

‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘I took the trouble to examine it. Granted, it’s a stout enough lock but it could easily be picked by someone with skill in his fingers.’

‘Does that mean anyone can let himself into our home?’ asked the wife in alarm. ‘Do you hear that, Gregory? We could be murdered in our beds.’

‘The door is always well bolted when we’re inside, my love.’

‘I’ll never feel safe inside that place again.’

They were part of a small crowd standing outside the house. The fire had been doused but some stray wisps of smoke still emerged from the room once occupied by Leonidas Paige. Though the corpse of their lodger had been removed, the landlord and his wife were still too nervous to step inside the building. Paul sought to still their mounting apprehension.

‘The intruder will not come back, Mrs Lomas,’ he assured her. ‘He gained entry into your house because he had a mission. Once that was completed, he’d have no reason to return.’

‘How did he know that the house was empty?’

‘In all probability, he kept watch on it.’

She gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Are you saying that somebody was out here, keeping an eye on us?’

Paul gave a nod. ‘Do you and your husband go out at regular times?’

‘Yes, we do, sir.’

‘And our servants do the shopping on the same market days,’ added Lomas.

‘Then your routine will have been duly noted. It’s also likely that today was not the first occasion when the killer went inside
the house. He’d want to find out which was Mr Paige’s room and look for a place of concealment inside it. This was no random attack, you see,’ explained Paul. ‘It was carefully planned.’

‘But Mr Paige was such a harmless old fellow. Why murder him?’

‘That will only become clear in time.’

‘We can never put a lodger in that room again,’ complained Lomas, bitterly. ‘Who wants to sleep in a place where such villainy occurred?’

‘I’ll not set foot in there,’ vowed his wife. ‘My nerves wouldn’t let me.’

‘The passage of time may soothe those nerves,’ said Paul, gently. ‘But let me ask you a few pertinent questions. Without knowing it, you may have information that will lead us to the killer.’ Husband and wife looked startled at the suggestion. ‘If the killer didn’t break into your house, he might first have got inside it by another means altogether.’

‘I don’t understand you, sir,’ said Lomas.

‘He may have been
invited
in. What if the man was a friend of your lodger – a false friend, as it turned out – and called on him here?’

‘Mr Paige had very few visitors, sir. He kept himself to himself.’

‘He must have had
some
friends.’

‘I’m sure that he did because he was such a pleasant gentleman. He must have met his friends elsewhere. No more than a handful came to the house.’

‘Can you recall their names?’

‘We were never introduced to them. As you can see,’ Lomas went on, glancing upwards, ‘Mr Paige had the front bedchamber. If he looked out of the window, he’d have seen any guests coming before we did. He always let them in.’

‘Are you able to describe any of them?’ asked Paul.

‘There was an old woman, sir, and another who was somewhat younger. The only man I remember was a tall, upright fellow with the look of a soldier about him. He’d a scar on one cheek and would’ve been around my age.’

‘They’ve a terrible shock coming,’ moaned the wife. ‘What are those friends of his going to say when they hear that he’s been murdered?’

Paul sighed. ‘I feel sorry for them.’

Gully Ackford was in a quandary. Desperate to find out how Jem Huckvale was faring, he was unable to leave the gallery because of his commitments there. It was a source of the utmost frustration. Ordinarily, he’d have responded to a crisis by saddling his horse and riding off, leaving one or both of the Skillen brothers to hold the fort. As it was, neither was available. One of Peter’s servants had brought a letter describing the respective fates of Leonidas Paige and of Jem Huckvale. The former was now beyond help but the latter needed the love and support of his friends. Instead of being able to offer it to him, Ackford was forced to spend an hour with an irritating pupil in the shooting gallery. When the lesson was over, he repaired to the office and was overjoyed to see Peter waiting for him. He grasped him by his shoulders.

‘How is he, Peter? What did the surgeon say? Is he in any danger?’

‘If you’ll stop trying to shake me to death,’ said Peter, tolerantly, ‘I’ll tell you.’ Ackford let go of him. ‘That’s better. Jem will be fine. His head has been cracked open and he’s still jangled but, in time, I’ve no doubt that he’ll make a full recovery.’

‘Thank heaven for that!’

‘His main problem concerns you.’

‘Why me?’ asked Ackford. ‘I yearn to offer my sympathy.’

‘He’s expecting the sharp edge of your tongue, Gully. In fact, he’s terrified that his place here is in jeopardy and that he’ll lose both his home and occupation.’

‘Jem will always be welcome here.’

‘Then it’s important for you to tell him that in person. Coming from both of you, kind words will aid his recovery more than anything else.’

‘What do you mean by
both
of us?’

‘Jem’s eye has alighted on one of our servants.’

Ackford grinned. ‘Then it has to be Meg, the sweet young thing with the dimples, and I don’t blame him for a second. Has he declared himself?’

‘He’s far too timid for that, Gully. Now that Meg will be helping to look after him, the situation may change. However, you’ll want to see him yourself. What lessons are booked?’

‘Only one, Peter – it’s an hour improving someone’s swordsmanship.’

‘Then I’ll take on the instruction.’

‘I’ll be off immediately,’ said Ackford, grateful for the offer and heading towards the door. ‘Thank you, Peter.’

‘Tarry a while because I have to give
you
instruction as well. Mr Paige was your friend, Gully. On the ride to my house, I want you to dredge up
everything
that you can remember about him. In particular,’ added Peter, ‘I’ll need to know exactly what he told you when he came here. Piece the conversation together word for word, if you can. It may contain something that will ultimately lead us to the killer.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Be quick about it. We’ll not be alone in the hunt.’

‘I know. A reward notice will prompt others to join in the search.’

‘I’m not thinking about greedy individuals with the smell of money in their nostrils. I’m talking about the Runners.’

‘They’ll
have
to be involved, Peter.’

‘We’ll be up against Micah Yeomans and his men once again. That’s why we must use what little advantage we hold.’

‘I concur.’

‘Paige turned to you because he trusted you. That places an obligation on us. We failed him,’ said Peter, solemnly. ‘The only way to atone for that failure is to catch the brutal killer who dispatched him to his grave. And, above all else, we must do so before Yeomans and his crew.’

People who walked past Eldon Kirkwood in the street rarely gave him a second glance. He was a skinny, bearded man in his fifties with a dainty step and an aura of insignificance. Those who faced him in court, however, saw him in a very different light. In his wig and robe of office, the Chief Magistrate at Bow Street took on remarkable substance in every way. When he peered at offenders over the top of his spectacles, he could make even the most hardened criminals quake in their boots. His tongue had a caustic bite, his compassion was almost non-existent and his judgements invariably resulted in the maximum punishment for any convicted malefactors. A dominating figure in court, he was even more intimidating in the confines of his office. Yeomans and Hale, Principal Officers at Bow Street, had faced the most desperate villains in London without quailing but their legs always trembled slightly when they were summoned before Kirkwood.

‘You have work for us, sir?’ asked Yeomans, tentatively.

‘Of course I do,’ snapped the other. ‘I didn’t send for you so
that we could discuss the phases of the moon. Use what little intelligence the Lord gave you, man.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the same goes for you, Hale.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Hale, meekly.

Standing side by side in front of the desk, the Runners felt like two wayward pupils about to face the wrath of their headmaster. They could almost hear the swish of the cane. In all the times they’d been inside the room, they had never once been offered a seat. Kirkwood, by contrast, always occupied the high-backed, elaborately carved oak chair. Perched on three cushions, he looked far bigger and more menacing than ever. In front of him lay a series of papers. He snatched one up, gave it a cursory glance then tossed it back on the table.

‘A foul murder has been committed,’ he declared.

‘What are the details, sir?’ asked Yeomans.

‘If you will close that uneducated orifice known as your mouth, I will tell you. Before you became a Runner, I seem to recall, you were a blacksmith, were you not?’

Yeomans nodded in assent. ‘Then you – more than anyone else – will appreciate the virtue of that old adage about striking while the iron is hot.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In short, take immediate action. The facts are these. A gentleman residing in Bloomsbury was strangled to death then the property was set alight. The name of the murder victim was Leonidas Paige.’ He saw the blank expressions on their faces. ‘I see that neither of you recognises the name.’