Steps to the Gallows (7 page)

‘Where is this tale leading, Alfred?’ asked Yeomans, impatiently.

‘Hear me out. Poyesdon spoke to the two Cyprians afterwards. They’d each endured rough company. Each man had said the same. It was a day of celebration for them. They’d performed a service for someone and been handsomely rewarded. Instead of patronising the riverside brothels,’ said Hales, ‘they could at last afford the finest bawdy house in Covent Garden.’

‘What possible use is this tittle-tattle?’

‘One of them let slip
why
he was in such high spirits. He said that he was on fire because he’d enjoyed the rare thrill of actually killing someone.’

‘Men always make the most stupid boasts between the sheets.’

‘He frightened her, Micah, and the woman he’d bought for the night is not easily scared. She took him at his word. He left her covered in bites and bruises. She told Doll Fortune she’d never share a bed with him again at any price.’

Yeomans was suddenly interested. ‘This fellow is coming back?’

‘He vowed that he’d return one day this week. His friend did the same.’

‘How trustworthy is this Poyesdon?’

‘I think we can rely on what he told us.’

‘Then we have the place watched until these two sailors roll up again.’ He rounded on Ruddock. ‘That’s work for you.’

‘I can’t stand outside a brothel all night,’ complained the other. ‘I’m a married man. What will my wife say?’

‘She’ll think you were stupid to tell her in the first place – and so do we.’

‘Micah and I are both married,’ said Hale, ‘and we’ve done more than our share of standing guard outside houses of ill repute.’

‘Then you’re much more experienced,’ urged Ruddock.

‘It’s your turn now, lad. It will be an education for you.’

‘Will I be on my own?’

‘Dirk Poyesdon will be there to point the rogues out.’

Ruddock was anxious. ‘What can I do against two killers?’

Yeomans laughed crudely. ‘I can see that you’ve never been inside a place like that, Ruddock. When they’ve drunk their fill and taken their pleasure, this pair will barely have the strength to stagger off to their lodging. You don’t need to apprehend them at all. You simply follow them and bring us word of their whereabouts. We’ll storm the place in numbers and haul them off in chains.’

‘This is a big chance for you, Chevy,’ said Hale, patting him
on the back. ‘Serve us well and you’ll get a feather in your cap. As for your wife, tell her that you’re being paid to stand guard over someone’s valuables. There’s a degree of truth in that. The ladies that Doll employs are like the Crown Jewels to her.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ cried Diane Mandrake, clapping her hands. ‘It’s remarkable. You are like two peas in a pod.’

When he arrived at the gallery, Peter Skillen stood beside his brother and she was unable to tell them apart until she scrutinised them more carefully. There was a contented quality about Peter that spoke of a happily married man. Paul, on the other hand, seemed more lonely and unsettled. With no more ado, she handed the package to Peter and waved away his protests. When he opened it, he saw that he was holding the print that featured Sir Humphrey Coote. Peter burst out laughing and showed it to his brother and to Ackford, pointing out the figure of the Runner in the background. Both men shook with mirth.

‘You obviously recognised Micah Yeomans?’ said Peter.

‘I did so instantly,’ said Ackford.

‘And so did I,’ added Paul. ‘I can see why he wanted to buy this print from the shop. It portrays him as the bloated fool he is.’

‘I couldn’t wait to get him out of my shop,’ said Diane. ‘He thinks that Leo Paige was the artist and I didn’t disillusion him. Why should I? Let him think that Virgo is lying on a slab at the morgue.’

‘Your reminder is timely, Mrs Mandrake,’ said Ackford. ‘I must find a moment to pay my respects to my old friend.’ A bell rang outside. ‘That will be Mr Cordery ready to test my mettle in the boxing ring again.’

After excusing himself, he went out of the office and left her to marvel again at the brothers. Peter offered to pay for the drawing
but she refused to take any money. The fact that he and the others had sworn to hunt down Paige’s killer was reward enough to her.

‘Thank you so much for this,’ said Peter. ‘This will be treasured. Thanks, also, for those copies of
Paige’s Chronicle
. It afforded us endless amusement.’

‘More to the point,’ said Paul, ‘they gave us names to ponder.’

‘I have the list here.’ Peter produced a sheet of paper from inside his coat and showed it Diane. ‘You’ll know these august gentlemen because they’ve all been portrayed in your prints.’ She looked at the five suspects. ‘Well? Which of these men is most likely to engage an assassin?’

‘All five of them, I’d say,’ she replied. ‘Wait, I’d draw the line at Lord Elphinstone. I know that he’s a grasping landlord but he’s also a man of delicate sensibilities. He’d never be party to a murder.’

‘That reduces the number to four, then.’

‘One moment,’ said Paul, ‘there’s something that neither of you know as yet. It may well make you look at those names somewhat differently.’

He told them about Ackford’s conversation with the fishmonger and how the man had been shown the record book that morning. Thanks to Charlotte’s deft skills, Quint had been able to pick out one of the men waiting outside the gallery while Paige was inside. They now had both a name and a description of him.

‘That’s a wonderful discovery,’ said Diane with delight. ‘All that we have to do is to link this man, Fearon, with one of the people on this list.’

‘That won’t be easy,’ warned Paul. ‘There are over a million people in this city. Trying to find one man among a population like that could take a long time. And don’t forget,’ he continued, ‘that we need to look for Fearon’s accomplice as well, and we have no idea who he is.’

‘What can I do, Mr Skillen?’

‘There’s not much that I can suggest, to be honest.’

‘But I want to be
used
.’

‘Then there’s something that would be helpful,’ said Peter. ‘You’ve told me a great deal about Mr Paige, I know, but there are probably small details that have been overlooked so far. The more we learn about his life and habits, the better we’ll be able to understand why he was the target of an assassin. His landlord told Paul that only three people ever visited the house,’ he remembered. ‘There was an older woman, a younger one and a tall, straight-backed man with the look of a soldier.’

‘I can identify two of them, Peter. The old lady was the widow of a friend of Leo’s. Whenever she needed money, he gave her a little. He was kind-hearted to a fault. As for the younger woman,’ she said, striking pose, ‘you are looking at her. I may not be in the full flush of youth but, apparently, I seemed so beside the widow.’

‘That leaves the soldier,’ said Paul. ‘Who is he?’

‘The likelihood is that he’s an old comrade of Paige’s,’ said Peter. ‘Did he ever mention this friend to you, Mrs Mandrake?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘All I can tell you is that Leo only let three of us know where he was living. I’ve accounted for two of us. The third is a mystery.’

Tall, gaunt and upright, the man had a long, urgent stride that belied his age. When he came to a corner, he took the precaution of stopping to look in every direction. Reassured that nobody was watching him, he marched on briskly until he came to the house. There was a disturbing amount of debris on the ground and, when he looked up, he saw that the pane of glass was missing from the bedchamber at the front of the house. He used the knocker to rouse the occupants. Gregory Lomas opened the
door. Recognising the visitor, he gave a gesture of despair.

‘Is he at home?’ asked the man.

‘No, sir, and he’s never likely to be here again.’

‘Why not – has he moved his lodging?’

‘He no longer has need of one, sir.’

‘Stop talking in riddles, man.’

‘Mr Paige is dead,’ explained the landlord, ‘and not of natural causes, alas. He was murdered here only yesterday and his room was set alight.’

The newcomer was shocked. ‘Who killed him?’

‘Some villain strangled him to death.’

‘But he was going to employ a bodyguard. He swore that he would.’

‘There was nobody protecting him yesterday, sir.’

‘And you say that there was a fire?’

‘It was a bad one,’ replied the other. ‘If it hadn’t been for my neighbours, the whole place could have burnt to the ground.’ Shoving him aside, the man rushed into the house and up the staircase. ‘You can’t do that, sir. Come back!’

Lomas went after him but he was far too slow to stop him reaching the room and flinging open the door. The visitor stood there in horror. Fire had blackened everything and ash lay everywhere. The place was uninhabitable. When the landlord came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, the man shrugged him off and rushed across to an old oak chest in the corner. Flinging open the lid, he looked in and saw that it was empty. He spun round to challenge Lomas.

‘How did you let this happen?’

‘We were not at home, sir.’

‘What about the servants?’

‘They’d gone to the market. Mr Paige was alone in here.’

‘There was something in this chest,’ said the man, pointing at it. ‘Did you take it out?’ Lomas shook his head. ‘I want the truth, man. If you try to deceive me in any way, I’ll beat you black and blue.’

‘Don’t hurt me, sir,’ said Lomas, shrinking back. ‘As God’s my witness, I never touched anything of Mr Paige’s. He wanted privacy and that’s what we gave him. I’ve no idea what he kept in that chest because I never once looked in it. Who knows?’ he went on, gibbering. ‘Perhaps the villain who killed him took whatever was hidden in there. What was it?’

‘Never you mind,’ snapped the other. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘They took it away, sir. It was in a terrible state.’

‘Has anyone been here to investigate the crime?’

‘Yes,’ said Lomas, ‘the Runners came yesterday. Before them, a stranger was here, asking all sorts of questions about Mr Paige. He never gave me his name but the Runners seemed to know who he was.’

‘Go on.’

‘They called him Peter Skillen.’

After a last look at the oak chest, the man brushed Lomas aside, clattered down the stairs, left the house and strode purposefully away. As he joined the main street, he was soon swallowed up in the crowd.

Drawn back to the print shop by some ineluctable force, Yeomans walked up and down Middle Row like a nervous suitor. Every time he passed it, he kept looking through Mrs Mandrake’s bay window in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of her. But she never appeared. He was still debating whether to go into the shop or to walk away altogether when Benjamin Tite emerged into the street.

‘Did you want something, Mr Yeomans?’ he asked.

‘No, no, I was on my way back to Bow Street.’

‘If you came to see Mrs Mandrake, you’ll be disappointed. She’s not here.’

‘Oh,’ said Yeomans, head sinking to his chest. It jerked back up again. ‘Then perhaps I could speak to
Mr
Mandrake.’

‘There’s no such person any longer,’ said Tite, sadly.

The Runner’s hopes stirred. The woman he’d come to admire so fervently had no husband. Palpably, she was free and unencumbered. His long perambulation in Holborn had been more than justified. Yeomans smiled for the first time that day.

Accustomed to living solely with men, Jem Huckvale was disconcerted to be left alone in the house with nobody for company but women. The fact that they were all concerned for his health made it even more uncomfortable. Meg Rooke was the real problem. His affection for her was stronger than ever but it was replaced by diffidence and hesitation whenever she was actually close to him. What irked him most, of course, was that he was trapped in bed when there was a murder to solve and when the person who’d attacked him was still on the loose. Instead of staying as a guest at the home of Peter and Charlotte Skillen, he wanted to be involved in the hunt for the culprits. Such was his eagerness to join the others that he elected to ignore the dull ache in his head and manoeuvred himself slowly out of bed. Unsteady on his feet at first, he soon regained his balance and crossed to the chair over which his clothing had been draped. Huckvale was just about to dress himself when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs. Panic-stricken in case Meg caught him with bare feet exposed, he tried to clamber into bed again.

Instead of the usual timid knock, however, there was a resounding thud before the door swung open. Gully Ackford
stepped into the room in time to see his friend pulling the bedclothes protectively up to his chest.

‘You’re in no danger from me, Jem,’ he said, amused. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m bored to death.’

‘What – with a comely girl like Meg at your command?’

‘I want to be with you and the others.’

‘There’s time enough for that.’

‘What’s happened, Gully?’

‘A great deal – some of it is bad and some of it good.’ He perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Let me tell you the worst news first. I’ve just come back from viewing Leo’s body. If I hadn’t been told it was him, I’d never have recognised my old friend. Fire ravages the human body in cruel ways.’

‘When is the inquest?’

‘It will be very soon and very short. There are no witnesses to offer evidence. The verdict is thus obvious. Leo was killed by person or persons unknown. Except,’ he added with a smile, ‘one of them, we believe,
is
known now.’

Huckvale was excited. ‘You’ve put a name to him?’

‘Strictly, speaking, it was Charlotte who did that. Her record book helped to unmask the rogue. It was someone we once arrested for starting an affray and causing damage to the Hope and Anchor.’

He went on to tell the full story of their discovery. It only served to make Huckvale even more eager to return to the gallery and take part in the investigation. Convinced that Abel Fearon must have been his attacker, he was desperate for a second encounter with the man. On the next occasion, however, he vowed to wreak his revenge on the former sailor. Thrilled by most of what he heard, he was jolted by the news that they had a self-appointed assistant.

‘This is no work for a woman, Gully,’ he said.

‘Mrs Mandrake insists.’

‘What can she possibly do?’

‘To begin with, she can fire a gun. I let her have use of our targets and she hit them every time without any difficulty. Her real value, however, is that she knew Leo very well and is able to tell us a lot about him. When she heard that he was being stalked, it was Mrs Mandrake who badgered him into finding a bodyguard.’

‘Do you mean that this lady sent him to us?’

‘She didn’t exactly recommend the gallery because she’d never heard of it. When he made enquiries, Leo learnt of our reputation and that’s what brought him back into my life.’ Ackford heaved a sigh. ‘It was an all too brief reunion.’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ said Huckvale, throwing back the sheets.

‘Hey, you must stay in bed, Jem.’

‘Not while there’s work to do.
That’s
the best remedy for me.’

Ackford stood up. ‘Are you sure you feel well enough?’

‘I feel as if I’m at death’s door, Gully, but that won’t stop me doing my share.’ Pulling off his nightshirt, he began to dress himself. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘We certainly need more help. I have people coming for instruction in the shooting gallery this evening. If you could handle them, it would set Peter free. He’s looking after the clients at the moment.’

‘What about Paul?’

‘He’s on the trail of Abel Fearon.’

‘Where will he start?’

‘In the obvious place,’ replied Ackford. ‘Fearon was a sailor at one time. There may be old shipmates of his who remember him. If Paul can track some of them down, he might pick up useful information about Fearon’s whereabouts.’

Paul Skillen took the necessary precautions. Ordinarily, he dressed well and – since he’d befriended Hannah Granville – had taken even more notice of current fashion. His tailored elegance would be quite out of place along the wharves and in the riverside taverns. He’d be viewed with suspicion and shunned as a result. Putting on nondescript attire, he also changed his voice so that his educated vowels gave way to a rougher mode of speech. With a hat obscuring much of his face, he adopted a bold strut and headed for the Thames. In putting on a costume to play a part, he was irresistibly reminded of Hannah Granville and felt her absence keenly. She’d often complimented him on his histrionic skills and told him that he could make a living on the stage if he put his mind to it. Paul, however, was a born thief-catcher who loved the thrill of the chase. In his mind, it was a worthier profession than any other.

The river was the city’s lifeline and thousands earned their living along its serpentine reaches. In the general pandemonium, languages from all over the world rang out. Wharves were teeming, cargo was loaded or unloaded, carts were trundled to and fro and crews prepared to set sail. Paul’s casual enquiries along the bank were fruitless. Nobody had heard of Abel Fearon and, consequently, had no idea of his whereabouts. When he ventured into the various taverns, he had no success either. He spoke to dozens of men, all to no avail. Undeterred, he pressed on until he eventually came to the Jolly Sailor. His first impression was that jollity was in very short supply among the seafarers there. Those sitting at tables or slouched against the bar seemed more interested in rehearsing their woes than in celebrating a leisure moment with their shipmates. Paul drifted across to a stocky, bearded man with a peg leg. An unlit pipe between his teeth, the sailor sat alone in a corner. He had a
solid, reliable air. In response to his greeting, Paul got no more than a nod.

‘I’m looking for a friend of mine,’ he began. ‘I always used to find him somewhere like this if he was ashore but there’s no sign of him this time. I’ve tried five or six taverns so far.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked the man, watchfully.

‘Fearon – Abel Fearon. Have you ever come across him?’

‘Yes.’

The man glanced down at his empty tankard and Paul took the hint. He ordered two pints of ale and took a long sip of his own drink before resuming the conversation. He hoped that he’d at last found someone who could help him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Abel’s not long out of prison,’ Paul said.

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Pity?’

‘It’s the best place for him.’

‘Why d’you say that?’

‘If he’s your friend, you should already know. I sailed with him once on the
Albatross
. Every time we put into port, Fearon got into a fight. When he’d ale inside him, he was like a mad dog.’

‘He’s not so bad when you get to know him,’ said Paul, tolerantly.

‘I don’t
want
to get to know him.’

‘Newgate may have calmed him down. When I went there this morning, they told me they’d let him out. I thought he’d head for one of his old haunts.’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ said the man, removing his pipe so that he could gulp down some ale. ‘If I see him coming, I’ll duck out of the way.’ He narrowed his lids to appraise Paul. ‘You’re no sailor, are you?’

‘No, I’m a friend from Abel’s younger days. We grew up together. When he went off to sea, I stayed working as a bricklayer. It’s an honest trade and it keeps you out of trouble.’

‘Why are you after that wild bastard?’

‘He wrote to me,’ said Paul. ‘At least, he got someone else to scribble a note. Abel never learnt his letters properly.’

‘He never learnt to control that foul temper either.’

‘I’m in London for a few days visiting family. But I’d like to get in touch with Abel as well.’ He looked around. ‘Are you always in here?’

‘I’m here or somewhere like it. Some taverns are like bear pits. I avoid those. I prefer a little peace while I enjoy a drink. As you can see,’ he went on, indicating his wooden leg. ‘My sailing days are over. I like to sit and talk about old times with beached vessels like me.’

‘You must pick up a lot of gossip, then.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my ears.’

‘Could you ask around if anyone’s seen Abel Fearon?’

‘I’d need talking into it,’ said the man, removing the pipe to spit on the floor.

‘You’d get money to buy yourself some baccy,’ said Paul, ‘and there’d be enough to keep yourself in ale for a while as well. All I need to know is where I might find Abel.’

‘If he’s that keen to see you, why doesn’t he come looking for you?’

‘That’s what I want to ask him.’

‘He doesn’t sound much like a friend to me.’

‘I agree but … well, the truth is I owe him a favour. Could you find out if anyone’s seen him in the area?’

The man was reluctant. ‘Maybe I could.’

‘Take this,’ said Paul, pressing some coins into his hand.
‘There’ll be more to come. I’ll call in here tomorrow to see if you’ve had any luck. But be warned, old man,’ he added, fixing him with a stare. ‘I’ll not be tricked. I paid for the truth. If you try to palm me off with anything else, I’ll know it straight away.’

‘You’ll get what you asked.’

‘Find him – it means a lot to me.’

‘I won’t make any promises.’ He glanced at the money. ‘Bricklaying must be a good trade if you can spare this much.’ He slipped the coins into his pocket. ‘Who shall I say is after him?’

‘Don’t give him my name. I’d like to surprise him.’

Micah Yeomans was bubbling with optimism. It was not often that he called on the chief magistrate with such feeling of elation. He had good news to report for once and was entitled to expect congratulations. But he was not merely thinking of Eldon Kirkwood. The person he really wanted to impress was Diane Mandrake and the one way that he could do that was to catch the man who’d killed her friend. If he did so, he hoped, he might overcome her patent dislike of him. The news that she was a widow had pleased him. It also explained her air of independence. In solving a murder, Yeomans felt that he would be able to win her friendship and, in time, even to begin a sly courtship. It could not be rushed. Patience was needed.

Kirkwood was about to leave his office when his visitor arrived.

‘I hope that you’ve brought glad tidings, Yeomans,’ he said.

‘I believe that I have, sir.’

‘You’ve made an arrest?’

‘No,’ said the Runner, ‘but we may be soon in a position to do so.’

‘Then you’ve shown commendable speed.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Enlighten me, I pray.’

Yeomans was far too excited to be succinct. Making no mention of the work done by Hale and Ruddock, he gave a long-winded account of how he’d cornered one of his informers, heard the story about a doorman at a Covent Garden brothel and deduced that the killer was almost certainly one of the clients that night. All that they had to do, he said grandiloquently, was to bide their time until the villain and his accomplice returned.

‘And is that all?’ asked Kirkwood, stony-faced.

‘We have, in effect, solved the murder, sir.’

‘You’ve done nothing of the kind, you imbecile.’

‘Venables is a man whose word can be trusted.’

‘It’s not him that worries me. It’s this other fellow. How much reliance can you place on the testimony of a doorman at a bawdy house? We both know the kind of individuals who do such work – they’re big and strong but blessed with few other qualities. They draw pleasure from listening to the sordid tales of the misbegotten whores who inhabit the place.’

‘Doll Fortune’s house is a class above any other, sir.’

Kirkwood screwed up an eye. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Word travels. These men had money to spend and they wanted the best.’

‘If one of them was as rough and ready as you claim, I’m surprised that he was allowed through the door. As for this nonsense about committing a murder, I think it was an idle boast made by someone who wanted to shock the prostitute in whose lascivious arms he was lying at the time.’

‘The evidence is inescapable, sir,’ insisted Yeomans. ‘Killers do behave strangely in the wake of their crimes. We’ve seen it happen before. They’re in the grip of some frenzy. They seek excitement through drink and loose women. Such monsters have
no boundaries. They get carried away.
That’s
why the whore was terrified.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Have you verified the doorman’s story?’

‘I was intending to speak to Doll herself when I leave here,’ claimed Yeomans, inventing the lie in the hope of convincing Kirkwood that he’d been thorough. ‘I’ve no doubt that she will confirm the details.’

‘You speak as if you know this disgusting abbess.’

‘Our paths have crossed before, sir.’

‘Are you telling me you’ve been
inside
this disorderly house?’

‘I had to threaten her – Doll, that is – with arrest on one occasion. I’ll do the same again if she refuses to help.’

‘Why didn’t you do that before you came here?’

‘I was anxious to get the evidence to you as soon as possible.’

‘But it’s not evidence,’ said Kirkwood, waspishly. ‘It’s mere hearsay, concocted by a fanciful whore who wanted to get the attention of the doorman. Enough of these unsubstantiated tales – give me
facts
, man, hard, cold, irrefutable facts that will stand up in court and secure a conviction.’

‘I sense that we have the killer within our grasp,’ argued Yeomans.