Steps to the Gallows E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Bow Street Rivals
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 476

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

A scurrilous newspaper has built up a large following by publishing details of political and sexual scandals. It is remarkably well-informed and has therefore created a whole host of enemies. When the editor is killed and the printing press smashed to bits, the Invisible Detectives are hired by the man who financed the production of the paper. He wants the killer brought to justice and the scandal sheet revived. Peter and Paul Skillen find themselves in great danger as they unearth an enormous amount of scandal and corruption before the villains are brought to book.

Leseprobe

Steps to the Gallows

EDWARD MARSTON

Contents

Title PageCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

1816

Gully Ackford had forgotten how small, in girth and height, his friend was. When Leonidas Paige walked into the shooting gallery that morning, therefore, Ackford reacted with a delight tempered by disbelief. Could this short, stooping, grey-haired old man really be the same person who’d taught him all he knew about fighting when they were comrades in the 17th Regiment of Foot during the ill-fated War of American Independence? Paige hardly looked strong enough to lift a Brown Bess musket, let alone fire one with the lethal accuracy for which he was renowned. In his dark, sober attire and battered hat, the newcomer looked much more like an impecunious clergyman than a soldier. The only things that remained to identify him were the broad grin and the defiant glint in his eye.

‘Don’t look so shocked, Gully,’ said Paige with a laugh. ‘It is me.’

‘Then you’re very welcome, Leo,’ said the other, embracing him warmly before standing back to appraise him. ‘Yes, I’m sure it’s you now. I know that voice well. What on earth has brought you here? No man alive is less in need of instruction in shooting, fencing and boxing. You taught me all three disciplines.’

‘I did so for a good reason. I wanted to keep you alive and, by the same token, rely on you to keep me alive. And that’s what we did at Yorktown. We saved each other. The pity of it was that we couldn’t save America as well.’ Paige looked his friend up and down. ‘You’ve weathered well. You’re in your prime.’

‘I don’t know about that, Leo, but I have kept myself fit. It’s a necessary part of my stock-in-trade. What brings you here?’

‘I’m tempted to say that it was for the joy of seeing you again but the truth is that I had no idea this gallery was owned by my old comrade. What I came for was help, Gully. I was told that I might hire a bodyguard here.’

‘And so you might. Protection is part of the service we offer.’

‘Does that mean I’d have you dancing attendance on me?’

‘No, I’m needed here to run the gallery,’ said Ackford, shaking his head, ‘but fear not. I’ll provide you with someone as alert and well trained as myself.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Take a seat and tell me the nature of the problem.’

They were in the room used as an office and place of storage. Large and cluttered, it was essentially functional. A collection of pistols was on display in a glass-fronted cabinet. An array of swords was stacked against another wall. A thick ledger lay on the table. The bookcase was packed with a selection of well-thumbed volumes about shooting, swordsmanship, archery and the noble art of self-defence. Paige didn’t even notice the spartan lack of comfort. He sat down opposite his friend and took a deep breath.

‘I don’t want you to think I can’t look after myself,’ he said, defensively. ‘I go armed and possess all my old skills with gun or dagger.’

‘So why do you require a bodyguard?’

‘It’s because Nature inadvertently forgot to provide me with eyes in the back of my head and I’m in need of them. I’m being stalked, Gully, and I want to know who’s taken on the role of my uninvited shadow. A bodyguard can help me catch the rogue who’s been trailing me.’

‘Do you have no idea who the fellow is?’

‘I’ve made too many enemies. It could be any one of a hundred.’

Ackford was puzzled. ‘How did you manage to upset so many people?’

‘I can see that you’ve never read Paige’s Chronicle.’

‘I never have time to read any newspapers, Leo,’ said his friend with an apologetic shrug. ‘But, now I think of it, you were always scribbling away when we were in the army together. And you did have ambitions to make a living with your pen one day.’

‘That day eventually came, Gully, and the Chronicle was the result. It gained an immediate notoriety and that was its downfall.’

‘Oh?’

‘I exposed the follies of our so-called masters and I did so in scathing terms. When they are the victims of it, the great and the good regard satire as anathema. Every edition I published brought forth fresh howls of rage,’ said Paige, chuckling merrily. ‘Each one also produced a flurry of threats and abuse. When they couldn’t frighten me into silence, our leading politicians found a way to put me, and those like me, out of business. Last year they passed the iniquitous Stamp Act.’

‘I’ve heard tell of that.’

‘Fourpence a copy was levied on my Chronicle. When I charged twopence, I had plenty of readers. Most of them baulked at paying three times that amount.’

‘Did you abandon the project?’

‘I tried to ignore the Act and publish at the old price. That cost me twelve months in prison and a hefty fine. My newspaper had gone but my pen was still itching to write. I therefore harnessed it to a new endeavour, producing a series of sly character assassinations to accompany satirical drawings.’

He was about to describe his work when the door opened and the tall, handsome figure of Peter Skillen glided into the room. Seeing that Ackford had company, he immediately went into retreat.

‘I do beg your pardon, Gully – and yours, dear sir.’

Ackford indicated his visitor. ‘This is an old friend of mine, Peter.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to share your reminiscences in peace.’

Peter made a graceful exit and Paige was able to pick up his narrative. He talked of the cartoons being a frontal assault on power, privilege, pomposity and corruption in high places. As he listened to the names of those who’d been satirised, Ackford could understand why Paige had made so many enemies. He was fearless. Regardless of their position, he’d attacked everyone he’d deemed guilty of vice, hypocrisy or gross malpractice. Even the Archbishop of Canterbury had not been immune from censure.

‘You can see why I need someone to watch my back,’ he concluded.

‘I’m surprised you’ve not already had a dagger between your shoulder blades.’

‘It’s only a matter of time – unless I have a protector.’

‘I have the very man for you,’ said Ackford. ‘He’s quick-witted, sharp-eyed and as reliable a bodyguard as you could wish. His name is Jem Huckvale and he’ll not let you down. If someone is following you, Jem will soon find him out. He’s done this kind of work before.’

‘Then he sounds like the ideal person.’

‘Jem is giving a fencing lesson at the moment. As soon as he’s finished, I’ll introduce you to him and he’s yours to command.’

‘Thank you, Gully.’

‘Fortune guided your footsteps well when they brought you to my gallery.’

‘I feel blessed. We must find a time to talk about the old days.’

‘Nothing would please me more, Leo.’

‘It will give me a chance to remind you of the money you still owe me.’

Ackford grinned. ‘As I recall it, you are indebted to me.’

‘I dispute that.’

‘I won that card game, Leo. There were witnesses.’

Paige flicked a hand. ‘Come, come, let’s not quibble over details.’

‘Then let’s have no more talk of me owing money to you. And be warned. My services come at a price.’

‘There’s nobody in the world to whom I’d entrust my life more willingly than you. Name your terms and I’ll meet them.’

‘It’s a bargain.’

They sealed it with a firm handshake.

The door opened and Paul Skillen walked familiarly into the room. Paige gaped in wonder. In every way, Paul looked identical to the person who’d interrupted them earlier. The only difference was that he was dressed with markedly more flamboyance. Paige could not understand how he could have changed his apparel with such speed. Aware that he was intruding, Paul signalled an apology with both palms and backed swiftly out of the room. The visitor was on his feet at once.

‘Why on earth did Peter need a change of clothing?’ he asked.

‘Peter is still dressed as you first saw him, Leo.’

‘Then there is something curiously awry with my old eyes. I dare swear that I just saw the same man in different attire.’

‘But he was not the same man,’ explained Ackford. ‘The person you just saw was Paul Skillen, brother of Peter Skillen who interrupted us earlier. Your confusion is understandable. After all these years, I still have difficulty telling them apart.’

‘They are brothers?’

‘Like two halves of an apple, cleft in twain.’

‘By all, that’s wonderful!’ said Paige, slapping his thigh.

And he went off into peals of laughter that filled the room and penetrated to every part of the gallery. It was the deep, rich, uninhibited laughter of a man in a state of unashamed ecstasy and it went on for minutes.

Gully Ackford was mystified.

The laughter of Micah Yeomans was of a different order. It was loud and coarse. Standing beside him, Alfred Hale contributed a series of sniggers. The Bow Street Runners were outside a print shop in Holborn, feasting their eyes on the wares in the bow-fronted window. Now in his forties, Yeomans was a big, hulking man of almost unsurpassable ugliness. Shorter, younger and less muscular, Hale was almost invisible beside him. Returning from their duties at a bank, they’d been diverted by the sight of the caricatures in the shop window. Some were subtle and superbly drawn but they preferred the cruder prints with overt sexual overtones. The one that excited their sneers and snorts the most was a cartoon showing a grotesquely fat man, seated beside a table loaded with rich food and strong drink, yet unable to reach it because he had already overeaten and, as the glassy eyes showed, drunk far too much. The caption was A Voluptuary Enjoys a Light Repast. The obese figure was easily identifiable.

‘Where would the artists be without the Prince Regent to mock?’ asked Yeomans, smirking. ‘He features in quite a few of these prints.’

‘This is the best of them, Micah. Who is the artist?’

‘Virgo.’

‘That’s more than you can say of His Royal Highness,’ suggested Hale, nudging his companion.

‘He lost his virgo a long time ago – if he ever had it!’

Yeomans guffawed then scanned the other prints in the window. He, too, had a preference for Virgo, an artist who specialised in biting satire of the upper classes, ridiculing them in words as well as cartoons. His prints were part of a series called the Parliament of Foibles and he’d pilloried politicians in both Houses quite mercilessly.

‘By rights,’ said Yeomans, becoming serious, ‘we ought not to be joining in the derision. We should be finding out who Virgo is and hauling him before the chief magistrate.’

‘The law does not ban drawings, Micah. That’s why so many print shops have opened up in London. Virgo and his kind thrive and I’m glad of it.’

‘You’d be less glad if you saw yourself in one of these prints.’

‘I’m not important enough to be caricatured,’ said Hale, ‘but you are.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Hale pointed a finger. ‘Look at the print in the corner. Unless I’m very much mistaken, the artist has put you in it.’

‘It’s nothing like me, you dolt,’ snarled Yeomans, glaring at the print in question. ‘That’s not me.’

‘I’d say it was a good portrait.’

‘Then you must be going blind, Alfred.’

‘No other Runner is as big and fearsome as you, Micah. The print has caught you to perfection.’ He grunted in pain as an elbow struck him hard in the chest. ‘Wait,’ he gasped, doubling up in pain, ‘I was wrong, I confess it. On reflection, I can see that there’s not the slightest resemblance to you. Besides, nobody would dare to mock Micah Yeomans.’

But that was exactly what someone had done. The main target in the cartoon was Sir Humphrey Coote, a prominent Member of Parliament, celebrated for his great wealth and for his readiness to lavish it upon ladies of easy virtue. The print showed him dancing around a bedchamber with a naked female companion. Outside the door was a long queue of prostitutes, held back by officers led by the imposing figure of the most famous Bow Street Runner in the capital. Though he pretended to deny it, Yeomans knew that he was being lampooned. His face was unmistakable. He saw those luxuriant black eyebrows and that twisted nose in the mirror every time he shaved. The print made him seethe with fury.

‘That’s Sir Humphrey Coote,’ said Hale, studying the central figure. ‘I’d wager any amount on it.’

‘Yes, that’s him, to be sure.’

‘We caught him once in a brothel in Covent Garden.’

‘I remember it well. He was being pleasured by two birds of paradise.’

‘It’s an excellent likeness of him and that monstrous bulge in his breeches gives him away as the rake that he is.’ Hale squinted through the glass. ‘Who is the cunning artist?’

Yeomans spat the name out with utter contempt.

‘Virgo!’

Jem Huckvale was a slight individual with a boyish appearance. Nobody would have guessed that he was in his mid-twenties or that his diminutive frame contained so much power. Adept at fencing and shooting, he was equally skilled in the boxing ring and many customers had suffered because they’d underestimated his speed and strength. Gully Ackford treated him as the son he’d never had, entrusting all sorts of assignments to him. When he was given his latest orders, Huckvale was thrilled. He’d liked Leonidas Paige on sight and his admiration increased when he heard that the visitor had served in the same regiment as Ackford.

‘It was the 17th Foot,’ said Paige. ‘The Leicestershire Regiment.’

‘Gully has told me about his time in America.’

‘It was the making of him, Jem.’

‘It was certainly an education,’ said Ackford, wryly. ‘I went as a callow youth and came back as a battle-scarred soldier. But I’m holding you up, Leo. Your request has been met. When you leave here, your back will be well protected. Jem will soon unmask the villain who’s been following you.’

‘I want him unmasked and brought before me,’ said Paige, sternly. ‘He and I must have a little conversation.’

Huckvale tapped himself on the chest. ‘Leave it to me, sir.’

‘Then let’s set off.’

‘Do you travel by horse or on foot, Mr Paige?’

‘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.

CHAPTER TWO

‘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.’

‘No, sir,’ admitted Yeomans.

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Hale.

‘Were neither of your aware of Paige’s Chronicle?’

‘So many newspapers are printed,’ said Yeomans, ‘that it’s impossible to keep track of all of them. They come and go all the time.’

‘This one existed long enough to cause considerable offence to some of the most distinguished men of the realm, myself among them. In essence,’ Kirkwood went on, plucking at his goatee beard, ‘the Chronicle was little more than a disgraceful example of indiscriminate mud-slinging at figures of authority.’

‘There’s far too much of that, sir.’

‘I hoped that the Stamp Act would terminate the vile publication but Paige continued to issue it without paying the duty. His boldness was expensive. His newspaper was closed down, a punitive fine was imposed and the wretch was thrown into prison. If it had been up to me, I’d have sent him there in perpetuity but the case, alas, didn’t come before me.’

‘Did you say that you were mentioned in the Chronicle?’ asked Hale.

‘I was more than mentioned, Hale.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was roundly traduced,’ said the other, curling his lip. ‘My name was changed, of course, but everyone who read the article would have realised that Eldon Kirkwood had been rechristened “Well-done Churchwood”.’ Yeomans spluttered. ‘I’m glad that you find it so amusing. Wait until you are the target of some malicious satirist, Yeomans. You feel as if you are being flayed in public.’

‘I’m astonished that anyone should dare to mock you, sir,’ said Yeomans, trying to win favour by being obsequious. ‘If anyone in public life is above reproach, it must be the Chief Magistrate.’

‘Paige thought otherwise.’

‘It could have been worse,’ ventured Hale.

‘Keep your idiotic opinion to yourself, man.’

‘But it could, sir. Being attacked in a newspaper must be very hurtful but imagine what it must be like to be sneered at in a caricature. Micah and I were passing a print shop only today. The cartoons on show poured scorn on everyone – even on the Prince Regent. The artists who draw them have no respect for anyone. There was the most vicious attack of Sir Humphrey Coote.’

‘Then it’s not impossible that Paige was party to it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The print, I believe, is part of a series under the collective nomenclature of the Parliament of Foibles. Rumour has it that the hand of Leonidas Paige is involved in its production. It’s one of the mysteries you need to solve. First, however,’ said Kirkwood, picking up the sheet of paper, ‘you must set an investigation in motion.’ He handed the paper to Yeomans. ‘Here is the address and what little we know of the crime. Report back to me when you’ve made your preliminary enquiries.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes, sir,’ echoed Hale.

The chief magistrate dismissed them with a lordly flick of his wrist. Once outside the room, Yeomans looked at the details he’d been given.

‘We can walk there easily.’

‘Wasn’t that a strange coincidence, Micah?’ said Hale. ‘The dead man might have been behind that caricature we saw of Sir Humphrey Coote – when he was alive, that is. Paige, I mean, not Sir Humphrey.’

‘Stop blabbering.’

‘But the cartoon was part of that series about Parliament.’

Yeomans was rueful. ‘I don’t need reminding of that, Alfred.’

While his colleague was thinking about the promiscuous politician, all that Yeomans could remember was his own appearance in the caricature. Everyone who saw it would laugh heartily at his expense. The Runner was vengeful. If Paige was indeed responsible for it, he deserved to die.

‘Come on, Alfred,’ he said, setting off. ‘We’ve a murder to solve.’

Hale fell in beside him. ‘I’m with you, Micah.’

‘Before we catch the killer and make him face justice, there’s something I must do to him first.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I mean to shake his hand in gratitude. He’s done me a great favour.’

CHAPTER THREE

Shuttling between guilt and self-pity, Jem Huckvale was close to tears. He blamed himself for Paige’s death and he shuddered when he looked into a future without a place at the gallery. What would he do and who would look after him? Where else could he find such friendship and fulfilment? He’d be an outcast, carrying his abject failure like an irremovable brand upon his forehead. He wallowed in anxiety until fatigue finally closed his eyes and made him doze off. Waking after a few minutes, he took time to realise where he was, then saw that Gully Ackford was looming over him. Huckvale put up both arms protectively and cowered before his erstwhile employer.

‘Don’t hit me,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve already punished myself enough.’

‘Why the devil should I hurt you?’ asked Ackford, mildly.

‘You must be disgusted with me.’

‘I’m nothing of the kind. I’m just glad that you’re still alive, Jem. If you were outwitted, you’ll incur no blame from me. We all make mistakes. Mine was to give you an assignment far more hazardous than I’d ever imagined.’ He sat on the bed and put a gentle hand on Huckvale’s arm. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I’m frightened, Gully.’

‘Why? You’re perfectly safe now.’

‘I’m frightened of you.’

Ackford’s smile was paternal. ‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘I applaud your bravery in taking on the task I set you. Only something very serious could have forced Leo Paige to come looking for a bodyguard. I picked you out at once. You’re quicker on your feet than Peter and far less ostentatious than Paul. Unlike either of them, you can merge into nothingness.’

‘What I merged into today was a dark alley. All at once, it got even darker.’

‘Peter has told me what the surgeon said. You were lucky to survive.’

‘I don’t feel lucky.’

‘When he had the chance to kill you, your assailant didn’t take it. Leo Paige was the destined target. You just happened to get in the way.’

‘Are we still friends, then?’ asked Huckvale, hopefully.

‘We always will be, Jem.’ He squeezed the other’s arm then looked around. ‘This is a palace compared to the room you have at the gallery. Make the most of it while you can. I’m told you even have a maid to fetch and carry.’

‘I hate putting Peter and his wife to any trouble.’

‘They’re only too glad to take you in. Charlotte tells me that you can stay as long as you wish. Now, then,’ said Ackford, standing up, ‘let’s go back to the attack. You followed that man for some time, I gather. What can you remember about him?’

Huckvale indicated his head. ‘He can strike a fearsome blow, Gully.’

‘How tall was he?’

‘I’d say he was about your height.’

‘What age would he be?’

‘From the sprightly way he carried himself, he had to be a young man.’

‘How was he dressed?’

‘Like a costermonger. He wore a large hat that covered his face. I could see nothing of it when he turned his head sideways.’

‘So there’s nothing that would help you pick him out again?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘That’s disappointing. A strong young man of my height is a description that could apply to thousands in this teeming city.’

‘I didn’t wish to get closer unless he caught sight of me.’

‘But he did so, anyway.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Huckvale, frowning. ‘How could he have seen me when he never once turned round? There’s another explanation, I fancy.’

‘He had an accomplice?’

‘That’s right. The first man set off in pursuit of Mr Paige while the other waited to see if anybody from the gallery would follow. When I did, he dogged my footsteps. It never even crossed my mind to look over my shoulder.’

‘How did the accomplice get ahead of you and hide in that alley?’

‘It wouldn’t have been difficult to run past me. A number of other people did, most of them children. My eyes were unwisely fixed on one person.’

‘You did what you were bidden, Jem. There’s nothing wrong in that.’

‘I’m so upset about Mr Paige.’

‘So am I,’ said Ackford, sadly. ‘That man was a hero at the battle of Yorktown. He fought like a demon. It makes me sick to think that he was murdered simply because he dared to lampoon someone. I used to believe that there was such a thing as free speech in this country. I learnt otherwise – and so did Leo Paige.’

There was a polite tap on the door and it opened to admit Meg Rooke, who looked as bright and attractive as ever. When she bobbed to the two men, Huckvale sank back shyly under the sheets.

‘I’ve been sent to ask if there’s anything you need, sir,’ she said.

‘No, no,’ replied Huckvale, jolted by her excessive deference.

‘When you do, sir, you only have to ring that little bell.’

‘Thank you.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘I’m very sorry that you were injured, Mr Huckvale.’

‘Thank you.’

She took her leave and closed the door behind her. Ackford burst out laughing.

‘You’ve ended up in paradise, Jem.’

‘She called me “Mr Huckvale”. Nobody does that.’

‘It shows how much she respects you.’

‘Yet I’ve done nothing to earn it.’

‘How long do you expect to stay here, lad?’

‘Oh, it will be a few days at most.’

‘In your position,’ said the other with a sly wink, ‘I’d make it at least a few weeks. And that bell of yours wouldn’t stop ringing. The very thought of having Meg at my beck and call is dizzying. You could see how willing the girl is. Employ her to the hilt. My guess is that she’s going to be the best possible tonic for you.’

Though neither of them dared to go anywhere near the murder scene itself, Gregory and Eleanor Lomas had at last plucked up the courage to step inside their house. The Runners arrived and were told substantially the same story that Paul Skillen had heard from the couple earlier. With the landlord’s permission, they went up to examine the victim’s lodging. A scene of chaos confronted them. The fire had eaten its way hungrily through the newspapers, clothing and bed linen before starting on the timber. Thanks to help from neighbours, terrified that the flames would extend to their dwellings, an endless succession of wooden buckets of water had eventually managed to douse the blaze. The place was full of charred timbers, shallow pools of water and general debris. A stench of damp hovered. Gaps in the floorboards allowed continuous dripping into the room below. There was an air of devastation.

‘Garrotted then set alight,’ said Hale with gruff sympathy. ‘That’s no fit way for any human being to meet his Maker.’

‘Don’t ask me to feel sorry for the man,’ warned Yeomans.

‘He was murdered, Micah. Show some respect for the dead.’

‘I’d rather dance a jig on his grave.’

‘You didn’t even know Paige.’

‘I know his type, Alfred. He’s another of those nasty, hateful, conniving scribblers who use words to blacken the reputation of others and cartoons to turn them into scapegoats. I detest the whole breed of cunning back-stabbers.’

‘They’ve never troubled you, have they?’

It was a pointed question. They both knew that Yeomans had been derided in one of the caricatures they’d seen earlier. Hale was too scared to say it aloud and Yeomans refuse to concede that – along with a lecherous politician – he’d been the butt of a satirist’s joke. He stared so aggressively at the other Runner that Hale was forced to avert his gaze and step quickly backwards. His feet landed in the soggy remains of a blanket and he almost fell over.

Having seen all they needed to, they went back downstairs and questioned the landlord and his wife about their lodger’s source of income. Lomas had no idea how Paige had made his money. All that concerned him was that the rent was paid regularly and that they had an unusually quiet tenant.

‘We hardly knew he was up there, sirs,’ said Lomas. ‘Most of those we’ve taken in as lodgers have given us trouble of some kind or another but not Mr Paige. He’s a great loss to us.’

‘Who could want to kill him?’ asked the wife, wringing her hands.

‘It couldn’t have been for his money because I don’t think he had a great deal. We felt sorry for him, spending his old age in a single room among strangers.’

‘We’re not strangers, Gregory. We treated him like a friend.’

‘Yet he wouldn’t let us get close to him, Ellie.’

‘Why was that?’ asked Yeomans. ‘Did he have something to hide?’

Lomas hunched his shoulders. ‘Who can say?’

‘I’m sorry you had to come back and find your house in this state,’ said Hale.

‘The damage can be repaired but nobody can bring Mr Paige back to life.’

‘Good riddance to him!’ muttered Yeomans under his breath. He raised his voice. ‘We’ll need to speak to your neighbours,’ he went on. ‘They may have seen the killer coming or going. No man is invisible. He must have been spotted by someone.’

‘Will you catch him, Mr Yeomans?’

‘We’ll not sleep a wink until you do,’ added the wife.

‘It won’t take us long,’ boasted Yeomans. ‘We always catch up with the culprit in the end. It’s a matter of pride with us.’

‘It is,’ said Hale. ‘When a murder is committed, they always send for us.’

It was true. They had become a formidable team. Having made their names as efficient thief-takers, Yeomans and Hale had been assigned to the more difficult and dangerous work of hunting killers. As a result, they’d sent a number of people – male and female – to the scaffold. One of the reasons for their success was that they’d built up a wide network of informers in the criminal underworld. The Runners either kept them on small retainers or offered them immunity from arrest for the petty crimes in which they were routinely involved.

‘As soon as word spreads,’ said Yeomans, confidently, ‘information will start to trickle in. We have eyes and ears everywhere in the city.’

‘London is a cesspit of crime,’ said Lomas, resentfully. ‘There’s theft and violence everywhere you turn. Because of that, we take care to avoid trouble. What we never expected was that our own home would be invaded by disaster. Can you offer law-abiding citizens no protection at all?’

‘No,’ replied Hale, bluntly. ‘There are far too few of us. We can’t police a huge city with a mere handful of men. But we have our successes.’

‘The gaols are full of them,’ asserted Yeomans. ‘We’ll never catch every light-fingered rogue who steals for a living or every accursed footpad who knocks his victims senseless before robbing them. What we can do is to put enough of them behind bars to send out a stern warning to the others. And our reputations have made some villains think twice about committing murder because they know we will come after them.’

‘That didn’t stop it happening right here,’ moaned Lomas. ‘The killer didn’t care two hoots about the Bow Street Runners.’

‘He’ll die regretting that.’

‘You’ll have to catch him first.’

‘I guarantee it.’

Eleanor Lomas bit her lip. ‘I think we should sleep at our son’s house.’

‘Nobody is going to drive me out of here,’ said her husband, stoutly. ‘This is our home and we’ll stay.’

‘But water is still coming through the ceiling!’

‘The servants will clear up the mess, Ellie.’

‘There are just a few more things we’d like to know,’ said Yeomans.

Lomas became tetchy. ‘Do you have to pester us like this?’ he demanded. ‘Why do you keep asking questions we’ve already answered? The other man was even more thorough than you’ve been.’

Yeomans bridled. ‘What other man?’

‘We thought he was a Runner like you.’

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Well, no,’ said Lomas, ‘but he had the same air of authority.’

‘Describe him.’

‘He was tall, well dressed and ten years or more younger than either of you.’

‘And he was very handsome,’ his wife put in, wistfully. ‘Even in my distress, I noticed that. The gentleman was kind and reassuring. We trusted him.’

Yeomans turned to Hale. ‘It sounds like Peter Skillen.’

‘It could equally well be Paul Skillen,’ said the other, worriedly. ‘We don’t want him solving this crime instead of us, Micah. That’s happened before.’

‘Well, it won’t happen again.’

‘I hope not. We were made to look like buffoons.’

‘Whichever of those infernal brothers it is,’ said Yeomans through gritted teeth, ‘he is not going to interfere in our investigation. I’ll make sure that the Skillens understand that.’

When he’d discharged his duty as a fencing instructor at the gallery, Peter Skillen went back to the office to find his brother there. Seated at the table, Paul was making notes of his visit to Paige’s lodging. After a last flourish with the quill pen, he put it in the inkwell and sat back in his chair.

‘Everything I learnt at the murder scene is down here,’ he said.

‘It was Charlotte’s idea that we should keep written records while memories were still fresh in our minds.’

‘Charlotte is brimming with good ideas.’

‘That’s why she married me instead of you,’ teased Peter.

Paul smiled. ‘I’ve recovered from that setback a long time ago.’

‘Are there any clues as to the identity of the killer?’ asked his brother, picking up the paper and reading the elegant hand.

‘None whatsoever, I fear.’

‘Then we’ll have to rely on Gully. I asked him to rack his brains.’

‘I’ve been doing the self-same thing, Peter.’ He got to his feet. ‘Why did the killer choose to strike today of all days?’ he wondered. ‘If it was so important to silence Mr Paige, it should have happened long before now, surely?’

‘I hate to say it, Paul, but we might be responsible for his death.’

‘That’s arrant nonsense. We never even knew the fellow.’

‘The salient point is that he knew us – or, at least, he was aware of the services we offer.’ Peter put the paper back on the table. ‘Everyone knows that this is no mere shooting gallery. People turn to us to protect them, hunt down stolen property, find missing members of the family or solve a hundred and one other problems they encounter. Our escapades last year were lauded in all the newspapers. The gallery became rightly famous and that fame brought Mr Paige here.’

‘I follow your reasoning now.’

‘It was Jem’s logic I just imparted. When he came here for help, Paige was followed. Jem feels that a second man was hiding nearby to see if Paige left with a bodyguard. As Jem came out – clearly trailing Paige’s stalker – the second man followed and seized his chance to knock Jem unconscious.’

‘It’s a sound theory,’ said Paul, ‘but it may turn out to be a misleading one.’

‘Oh, I agree. We must take nothing for granted.’

‘Jem, poor lad, is not easily tricked. Only a crafty rogue could lure him into a trap. On the other hand, I’m glad that we have another murder to solve. It will test us to the full. I need something like this to sink my teeth into, Peter.’

His brother could understand his sentiments. Paul was not driven solely by the desire to apprehend a killer. He wanted a distraction. Peter was happily married and had a stable existence whereas his brother’s private life had been wildly erratic. Over the years, there had been a series of dalliances, all of them conducted with great passion until they inevitably burnt themselves out. The previous year, however, Paul had at last found someone with whom he was ready to share his life, whatever compromises were involved. Hannah Granville was a brilliant actress who’d become the toast of London. Paul marvelled at her. However, she was in demand elsewhere and had to take her talents to Bath, Norwich, York and other cities where avid theatregoers were eager to see her. Paul accepted her need to travel and they kept in touch by letter.

That had become more difficult now. Such was her eminence, Hannah had attracted international attention and been invited to perform in Paris. Sad to see her go, Paul acknowledged that it was an important stage of her career. He waved her off with his best wishes then felt her loss immediately. Only by keeping himself occupied could he fend off the urge to mope. Because the murder investigation would need all of his concentration, he welcomed it.

‘Have you heard from Hannah?’ asked Peter.

‘I had one letter and it took an age to reach me.’

‘How is she faring?’

‘She loves Paris. I just hope that she misses me as much as I miss her.’

‘Can you doubt that?’

‘I just wish she wasn’t so far away and surrounded by foreigners.’

‘Now that it’s possible to visit Paris again,’ said Peter, ‘there are lots of English people there. She’ll not lack for people who speak the same language. I’d love to go to the city myself.’

‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘you’d actually have time to see its sights now. When you worked as a spy during the war, your trips there were fraught with danger. Charlotte was beside herself while you were away.’

‘I’m just grateful that she didn’t know what I had to endure.’

‘She knew that many British agents were captured and killed.’

‘I was one of the lucky ones, Paul.’

The door opened and Gully Ackford came in, whisking off his hat. There was an exchange of greetings, then Ackford told them about his visit to Jem Huckvale. When he described how the reluctant patient reacted to the appearance of the maidservant, all three of them shared a laugh.

‘I did what you asked of me,’ said Ackford, turning to Peter. ‘I remembered as much as I could of the conversation I had with Leo. He was full of surprises.’

‘Tell us about them, Gully.’

After clearing his throat, Ackford launched into a long, albeit repetitive, account of Paige’s earlier visit. The brothers listened attentively, taking it in turns to ask for clarification of some points in the narrative. When their friend had finished, they felt that the investigation had been given impetus and direction.

‘We need to get hold of old copies of Paige’s Chronicle,’ said Paul. ‘They’ll provide us with a list of possible suspects. Those who were denounced in print are unlikely to have dirtied their own hands but one of them might well have hired thugs to do the deed.’