Steps to the Gallows (27 page)

‘We’ve always been too busy. London has first claim on my attention and it’s the capital city of crime. That’s not a complaint, by the way. I’m proud of the work we do and grateful that it brings in handsome rewards.’

‘How much will we get for the capture of Sir Humphrey Coote?’

‘Don’t count our chickens, Paul …’

‘There’s no way he can escape us.’

‘I can think of lots of ways. To start with, he may have powerful friends in France who’ll help him to resist extradition. Then again, he may have a small army on whom he can call. There are only the two of us.’

‘We’ll take him back to England somehow.’

‘I will, anyway,’ said Peter. ‘You might wish to linger in France
to improve your knowledge of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.’

Paul was derogatory. ‘Not if the whole thing is in French.’

‘You’ll get a stirring drama and an education rolled into one. And don’t look down on our erstwhile enemies. France has a culture that can rival any in the civilised world. Granted, they may not have a Shakespeare but they’ve produced notable playwrights, authors, artists and composers galore.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Peter.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Are you looking forward to going back there after all this time?’

‘Very much – it will be a change to walk through the streets of Paris without having to dodge patrols. The countryside around the city is beautiful, as you’ll see for yourself.’

‘I won’t be looking. All I’m interested in is seeing Hannah and arresting the man who plotted the murder of Mr Paige and his brother. He needs to be dragged back to England for an appointment with the hangman.’

‘They use the guillotine in France. It’s far quicker.’

‘Hanging is better. It draws out the suffering, and those men – Fearon and Higlett – deserve to suffer. So does Sir Humphrey.’

‘There’s no need to be so vindictive, Paul. I pity anyone who mounts the gallows in front of a howling mob. It’s a cruel way to die. As for France,’ continued Peter, ‘I predict that you’ll change your opinion of it when you’ve supped its splendours. You might even consider living there one day.’

‘That will
never
happen.’

‘How can you be so adamant?’

‘The French have one fatal defect, Peter – they don’t play cricket.’

It was very late when he finally climbed into bed but Micah Yeomans felt that his labours had been productive. Thanks to the names he’d
gleaned from looking at caricatures in the print shop, he’d worked his way towards an important discovery. Meanwhile, he could luxuriate in dreams of Diane Mandrake. Early next morning, he went to court in order to deliver his report to the chief magistrate. Before he did so, he had to listen to some reports himself.

‘I was accosted at my club by Gerard Brunt,’ said Kirkwood, ‘and he didn’t mince his words. He complained that you called on him and more or less accused him of hiring men to kill Leonidas Paige.’

‘That’s not quite true, sir—’

‘I also had the same protest from Mr Harvester, who blamed me for sending two thugs – his actual description of you and Hale – to harass him in his own home. And there was a third outrage,’ he went on, waving a letter. ‘According to this, not content with enraging both Brunt and Harvester, you descended on Dr Penhallurick and challenged him to admit that he was part of a murder plot.’ He smacked the letter down on to the desk. ‘What, in the name of all that’s holy, have you been doing?’

‘Hale and I were making enquiries, sir.’

‘It sounds as if you were deliberately trying to stain the reputation of the Bow Street Runners. Three persons of substantial influence have had cause to complain at your disrespectful treatment of them. Never –
never
, I say – make such allegations unless you have incontrovertible evidence to back them up.’

‘In the end,’ argued Yeomans, ‘our persistence yielded a dividend.’

‘Why – who else did you upset?’

‘The last person we called on was Sir Humphrey Coote.’

‘Dear God!’ cried the other. ‘I’ll have
him
on my back now.’

‘He’s gone to France.’

‘Did you frighten him that much?’

‘Please listen, sir. You’ll then understand.’

Yeomans explained that he and Hale had called in turn at the homes of three suspects they’d singled out. Each man was clearly innocent of any charge but the fourth was not. The circumstances of his departure suggested flight from arrest. Yeomans had bullied the truth out of the butler. His master had gone abroad.

‘It was Dr Penhallurick who confirmed it,’ said Yeomans. ‘He was furious that Sir Humphrey had asked a favour of the marshal of the King’s Bench while using the doctor’s name. His flight is a confession of guilt. In short, when Sir Humphrey is arrested, the whole investigation is over.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘There is, however, one problem,’ he admitted, sheepishly.

‘What’s that?’

‘Peter Skillen got to Sir Humphrey’s house before we did.’

‘Did he winkle the same information out of the butler?’

‘It seems that he did, sir.’

‘Then he’ll undoubtedly have gone in pursuit of Sir Humphrey.’

‘That was the sad conclusion we reached.’

‘So why did you waste a whole night before telling me all this?’

‘I was here the second you appeared, sir.’

‘You should have banged on my door and roused me from my bed,’ said Kirkwood, hotly. ‘When there’s a chance of catching Sir Humphrey, you must seize it with both hands. Instead of leaving it to someone else, you should have been galloping through the night to Dover.’

Yeomans was shaken. ‘Well, yes … I suppose that I should have, sir.’

‘Didn’t you hear me, man? Go to France now by the swiftest means possible. And make sure you get to Sir Humphrey Coote first! Don’t just stand there with your mouth open – away with you!’

As soon as he’d set foot on French soil, he felt safe. Nobody would find him there. Sir Humphrey was therefore able to move at a more leisurely pace, taking the time to enjoy the scenic magnificence or making a detour for some other reason. He estimated that it would take him the best part of a day to reach Paris. Once there, he would be able to sample its multifarious delights. Chief among them, he reminded himself, was Miss Hannah Granville.

The flight from England had been necessary because he feared that a hue and cry would be set up. Now that he was out of danger, he could take a more considered look at the situation. Nobody could link his name to those of Fearon and Higlett and they’d been kept ignorant of it themselves. He’d passed himself off as Dr Penhallurick at the King’s Bench but the marshal need never know his true identity. Sir Humphrey had such a low opinion of the Runners that he refused to believe that they could identify him as being party to a murder and come in pursuit.

He therefore stopped seeing himself as a fugitive and began to behave as a foreign visitor. Paris was his ultimate destination and Hannah his destined prize.

When the two women arrived at the theatre that evening, he was waiting for them at the stage door. Jenny was all for hustling her into the building but Hannah felt obliged to stop and talk to the man. Since the conversation was in French, the dresser couldn’t understand a word of it but M. Pernelle, the actress’s self-appointed guardian, was so expressive with his gestures that Jenny picked up the essence of the exchange. Hannah first thanked him for coming to her rescue on the previous evening. Pernelle raised his cane upright against his chest as if presenting a sword and offering his service. He then gave a low bow, indicated the door and watched until they both went through it. After exchanging a greeting with
the stage doorkeeper, the women went through to their dressing room. Two more large baskets of flowers had arrived. Hannah sniffed at some of the blooms.

‘M. Pernelle sent these,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘It’s because he’s just a charming old gentleman.’

‘He looked to me as if he’d been a soldier at one time.’

‘Yes, he was, but it was many years ago.’

‘Why does he keep bothering you?’

Hannah smiled. ‘You obviously didn’t realise what he said. M. Pernelle was offering to protect me from people who
did
bother me. That’s what he did last night, Jenny. All he wants in return is my gratitude.’

The dresser was cynical. ‘What form is that gratitude supposed to take?’

‘Don’t be so suspicious. All men aren’t the same.’

‘All
Frenchmen
are.’

They’d lost track of him. Somewhere along the way, he’d gone off the main road. Peter and Paul had assumed that he’d travel post-haste in a fast, light carriage but Sir Humphrey seemed to have chosen another means of transport. When they’d arrived that night in Paris, it was far too late to search for him and the performance of Macbeth was long over. All that the brothers could do was to find accommodation and bide their time. After so long in the saddle, they found the beds in their tavern supremely comfortable. They talked by the light of a candle.

‘Where can I take Hannah?’ asked Paul.

‘You won’t have time to take her anywhere,’ replied his brother. ‘We’re here to arrest someone and he takes priority. Besides, Hannah will not be available of an evening. She’ll be onstage,
plotting to seize the Scottish crown for her husband.’

‘We’ll find a moment to dine together.’

‘You’ll need more than a moment. French cuisine can’t be rushed. It must be eaten slowly and savoured. As for restaurants, the most celebrated when I was here was that of Beauvilliers in the rue de Richelieu. It’s like being in a gilded palace and the food is delicious. Another place of note is the Rocher de Cancale in the rue de Bandar. It’s run by M. Borel who used to be chef to no less a person than Napoleon.’

Paul was amazed. ‘Did you eat at these places when you were here?’

‘Heavens, no – I survived on meagre fare. If I’d dined at either of the places I mentioned, I’d have drawn attention to myself. My task was to stay largely invisible. As a result, I had to make sacrifices.’

There was a long pause. Paul rolled over in bed and Peter thought that he’d dropped off to sleep. A few minutes later, however, Paul spoke again.

‘Where do you think Sir Humphrey will be?’

‘The sort of friends he has would live in the more salubrious quarters.’

‘Do you think he knows we’re stalking him?’

‘I think he feared it when he took to his heels,’ said Peter. ‘He just wanted to get out of the country fast. Now that he’s here, the panic is over. He’ll regard himself as just another English sightseer.’

‘Yes,’ said Paul, bitterly, ‘and we know one of the sights he’s keen to see.’

‘Lady Macbeth.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Superb – there’s no other word for it.’

‘Yet she’s acting the part in French.’

‘She did so like a native Parisian. I couldn’t fault her.’

‘Where is she staying?’

‘Miss Granville is living at the home of the theatre manager.’

‘A hotel would be more suitable for my purpose.’

‘Half of the young bloods in the city have tried to entice her into one but she’s turned them all down. You have competition, Sir Humphrey.’

‘That’s never troubled me in the past.’

When he’d arrived after dark in the French capital, Sir Humphrey knew that he’d be given a cordial welcome by his old friend and drinking companion, Lancelot Usborne. True to form, Usborne was carousing with an attaché from the British Embassy when his visitor suddenly appeared on the doorstep. Sir Humphrey was whisked inside, given a warm embrace and introduced to the other man. All three of them drank deeply until they heard the chimes of midnight. When the attaché had withdrawn, Sir Humphrey was able to ask about the woman who’d occupied his mind from the moment he’d landed in Calais. Usborne, an obese, red-faced, middle-aged man whose spreading contours had hampered his career as a voluptuary, had seen Hannah Granville give a dazzling performance. With wine dribbling down his chin, he listed her many virtues as an actress.

‘Enough of her ability onstage,’ said Sir Humphrey, irritably. ‘How would she perform in the bedchamber?’

‘She’d be an absolute joy,’ said Usborne, smirking. ‘The problem you’ll have is getting her there in the first place.’

‘That problem is not insurmountable. Oh, the very thought of her excites me, Lancelot. I haven’t had a woman for days. I’m positively
bursting
with lust for Hannah Granville,’ he said with an obscene gesture. ‘I simply must have her.’

Gully Ackford had just unlocked the gallery when the first visitor of the day arrived. It was Virgil Paige and he looked subtly different. They went into the office and sat down. Ackford noticed that the other man had taken rather more care with his appearance than usual and was reminded of the time when he’d turned up in Paul Skillen’s clothing after his unauthorised exit from the prison. The reason for the close shave and the well-brushed hair soon became clear.

‘I had a long talk with Mrs Mandrake,’ volunteered Paige.

‘That’s an achievement in itself,’ said Ackford. ‘Whenever I tried to have a conversation with her, she did all the talking and I merely did the listening.’

‘I think she’s a remarkable lady.’

‘Oh, I’d agree on that.’

‘She did something that I’d never have believed possible. Diane, as I was invited to call her, shook me out of my torpor. When my brother died,’ said Paige, soulfully, ‘Virgo died with him. I had neither the urge nor the talent to go on without Leo. At least, that’s what I thought.’

‘Has Mrs Mandrake changed your mind?’

‘She’s very close to doing so. My brother was an inveterate scribbler. He was always noting down something disparaging about politicians, either in the form of articles or in verse. It was a compulsion. I’d assumed that he kept all his papers at his lodging but that wasn’t true at all.’

‘Where else did he keep them?’

‘Whole sheaves were left at the print shop when he moved out of there. Diane said that they were a treasure trove. When she moved her stock to Peter’s house for safety, my brother’s papers went with her.’