Shadow of the Hangman (11 page)

One thing was certain. Nobody would come to rescue her. If she wanted to get out of her prison cell, she would have to take matters into her own hands.

It was time to plan her escape.

Donal Kearney was still throbbing with anger. When he’d been badly beaten in the fight with Moses Dagg, he’d lost some of his old
authority. Instead of being able to swagger around the tenement, he now tended to skulk. Neighbours, who’d hitherto been afraid of him, actually dared to mock him, albeit from a safe distance. Kearney blamed Dermot Fallon for letting the two strangers stay with him. As long as Dagg and O’Gara were there, the chimney sweep was in danger. He had to find a means of getting rid of them. Since he was not on speaking terms with Fallon or his wife, Kearney had to move stealthily.

‘What did he say?’

‘Thar you was knocked out by the black ’un.’

‘What did he say about those two men?’

‘Thar the black ’un was stronger than you.’

‘That’s not what I asked you to find out.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, you fool.’

‘Oh … I’m sorry.’

‘I wanted to know why they’re there.’

The boy let out a howl of pain as his father smacked him hard across the face, leaving a black palm print on his cheek. Niall Kearney was the youngest of the brood, a skinny, wide-eyed urchin of five years or so. He’d been ordered by his father to play with one of the Fallon children in the hope that he’d learn something about the two men who’d moved in with them. Grabbing his son by his shoulders, Kearney shook him until the boy cried out for mercy.

‘Tell me
everything
he said,’ he growled.

‘I told you.’

‘There must be more.’

‘I arsked ’im ’bout the nigger,’ said the boy, snivelling, ‘and ’e said he saw ’im fight you and knock you to the ground.’

‘But why is he
there
?’

‘Wouldn’t tell me.’

‘He must have said something.’

‘Yeah but … I forgot what it was.’

In an attempt to jog his memory, Kearney slapped him again. His son wailed.

‘Do I have to knock it out of you?’ asked the father, looming over him.

‘No, no,’ begged his son. ‘I remember now.’

‘Go on.’

‘I arsked ’im why they was there and ’e told me ’e couldn’t say.’

‘Why not?’

‘Farver warned ’im to keep ’is gob shut. But …’

‘Well? Spit it out, lad.’

‘Listened at the door one night and …’eard them talk.’

‘What did they say?’

‘It was … somethink about prison.’

Kearney’s eyes ignited. ‘They’ve
escaped
?’

‘Told all I knows.’

‘Good boy!’ said his father, hugging him. ‘Well done!’

Accustomed only to routine violence from his father, Niall Kearney didn’t know how to react to this unparalleled display of affection. He flinched, as if in readiness for the next blow, then laughed wildly when it didn’t actually come.

In the course of his work as a detective, Peter Skillen had become acquainted with a large number of lawyers. Most were conscientious men who abided by the strict rules of their profession and served their clients as best they could at all times. Trust was their watchword. Some, however, were less honourable, often tempted to fleece those who fell unguardedly into their hands instead of representing them
in a proper manner. A significant few – and Peter knew them by reputation – were arrant, unprincipled rogues who would stop at nothing to win a case, discredit any opposition they met and make a tidy profit. He didn’t waste energy on speaking to anyone in this last category. Peter spent the whole morning going from office to office of lawyers who would give him time without trying to charge him for it and who would provide him with honest answers. Yet after a couple of hours of tramping the streets, he’d learnt nothing that got him any closer to the mystery scrivener.

It was when he called at the offices of Rendcombe and Spiller that he had more luck. Martin Rendcombe was an apparently benign old man with a weak handshake and bloodshot eyes but, having once engaged him to act on his behalf, Peter knew how steely and effective he could be once involved in a case. Steeped in the arcane practices of the law, the man was a walking anthology of precedents and procedural niceties. After he’d invited his visitor to sit down in the book-lined office, Rendcombe peered at him over his spectacles.

‘It is
Peter
Skillen, isn’t it?’ he checked.

‘Yes, it is,’ replied the other.

‘I did act for your brother, Paul, on one occasion. It was very confusing.’

‘I don’t see why, Mr Rendcombe. It’s easy to tell us apart.
I’m
the handsome brother and Paul is not.’ The lawyer smiled good-naturedly. ‘Your time is precious so I’ll take up as little of it as I may.’

Peter explained the purpose of his visit and how important it was for him to track down the man who’d written the document submitted to the Home Secretary. Shocked to hear of the death threat, Rendcombe was quick to remove any suspicion from his own staff.

‘Our clerks are, without exception, men of the highest probity,’ he said. ‘They would never be party to anything of this kind.’

‘I’m sure that they wouldn’t, Mr Rendcombe.’

‘Do you have this obnoxious letter with you?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Peter, ‘I do not. The Home Secretary insisted on sending it to the joint commission looking into events at Dartmoor. Besides, I’m not sure that you could have told anything from the calligraphy beyond the fact that it was the work of an educated hand. Every lawyer to whom I’ve already spoken has said the same thing – nobody in their employ would dare to become embroiled with two escaped prisoners. Had such an approach been made to their clerks, the two fugitives would have been reported immediately.’

‘Quite so, Mr Skillen.’

‘And it may be that the man I’m after has never worked for a lawyer.’

‘Clerks exist in many other professions.’

‘What guided me to you and your legal colleagues was the way in which the document was framed. It was written by someone well versed in setting out an argument. The two Americans, O’Gara and Dagg, supplied the facts but they could never have presented them to such impressive effect.’

‘Then it’s plainly not the work of a bank clerk.’

‘I’m convinced that the fellow makes his living from the law,’ said Peter, ‘or, at least, he’s done so in the past. Either he’s retired or been dismissed and forced to scratch around for money elsewhere.’

‘Ah,’ said Rendcombe, ‘that opens up possibilities.’

‘You can help me?’

‘I didn’t say that, Mr Skillen. I make no promises.’

Getting up from his chair, he crossed to a large oak cupboard.
Rendcombe pulled out a bunch of keys, selected one and inserted it into the lock. When the door opened, Peter saw piles of documents and correspondence neatly stacked on the shelves. The lawyer’s hand went unerringly to a thin pile of papers. He took them out, came back to his desk and leafed through each sheet.

‘My esteemed partner, Mr Spiller, doesn’t believe in harbouring such things but I am an unredeemed hoarder. I operate on the principle that even the most minor item that passes before my eyes might one day prove to be of value.’ He held up the papers. ‘These are letters from people seeking employment here. In two cases, we were able to take the gentlemen on and they’ve given good service. In the other three cases, however, there was no question of even interviewing the people in question.’

‘Why is that, Mr Rendcombe?’

‘We’d already been forewarned by the lawyers who’d engaged them in the past. When someone is dismissed for reprehensible conduct, one doesn’t want them going elsewhere and continuing to pollute the profession.’

‘What offences did these three individuals commit?’

‘They are not specified,’ said Rendcombe. ‘Apart from anything else, no lawyer wishes to admit details of any criminal activity that took place under his aegis in case it makes him look foolish. All that he will do is to affirm that such-and-such a person is unfit for employment. That’s all we need to know.’

‘Who are the three men you rejected?’

‘One can be eliminated from your enquiries at once, Mr Skillen, because he is presently in prison for debt. The man who told me that – with some satisfaction, I may say – was his former employer.’

‘What of the other two?’ asked Peter, sensing that he’d made some progress.

‘Both were clerks and both were hounded out of their jobs.’

‘Yet they were not prosecuted.’

‘Instant dismissal was felt to be punishment enough – that and the guarantee that they’d never again be permitted to soil the good name of the legal profession.’

‘May I know who these two men are?’

‘You can do more than that, dear fellow,’ said Rendcombe, passing the letters to him. ‘You can read their correspondence.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Provided that you return it, of course, so that it can take its rightful place among my cherished records. Lawyers are archivists of personal disasters. You are about to be introduced to two of them.’

Seven Dials was a misnomer. It comprised seven streets that went out like spokes of a wheel from a majestic Doric column. At the hub of a wheel was a clock with seven faces but it had been removed over forty years earlier in the erroneous belief that a large sum of money had been concealed in its base. While the seven streets remained, therefore, the dials were nowhere to be seen. Conceived as a fashionable residential area cheek by jowl with Soho and Covent Garden, it had instead become a labyrinth of streets, lanes, courts and alleys that were the haunt of petty thieves, the poorer sort of street vendors and itinerant street musicians. Shops were dark and uninviting. Stray animals loitered. Poverty and danger went hand in hand in Seven Dials. Few strangers went there alone. Fewer still made the mistake of venturing there on their own at night.

Being smartly dressed in public was an article of faith with Paul Skillen and he’d sometimes been accused of being a dandy. On his walk into Seven Dials, however, there was no call for his expensive blue coat with its high collar, broad lapels and cutaway tails. Nor
was there a place for his frilled shirt, striped vest and breeches. From his wardrobe, he instead chose a selection of ragged garments that turned him into a costermonger. By rubbing dirt into his hands and cheeks, he completed the disguise. Paul even summoned up a passable version of an Irish accent.

He knew that a lot of Irish families inhabited the tenements there and it was not long before he heard the sound of Dublin voices raised to full pitch.

‘Y’are a filthy ’ussy, Lena Madigan!’ yelled one woman.

‘Wh’re you callin’ filthy, you old cow?’ retorted the other, a mountainous creature with wobbling breasts and a red face. ‘Sure, every man in Seven Dials ’as seen everythin’ you ’ave to offer and you don’t even ’ave the sense to charge for the priv’lege.’

‘Y’are a slut, a dirty, stinkin’, slovenly trollop who was born with ’er legs apart. Yes,’ added the first woman, waving a fist, ‘and thar swivel-eyed sister of yours is no better. The pair of you give the Irish a bad name, so you do.’

The argument quickly degenerated into a fierce fight that Paul had no wish to watch. As the women began to grapple with each other and a crowd formed to urge them on, he walked quickly past them and turned a corner, finding himself in a narrow court inhabited by screaming children, random filth and unwholesome vapours. A one-armed man of uncertain age was selling fruit from his barrow. Paul mingled with the knot of customers who were fingering the apples in search of some that were edible. When he heard the brogue of a young man beside him, he tried to sound casual.

‘D’you live hereabouts, my friend?’ he asked.

‘Why, so I do.’

‘Then p’raps you can help me.’

‘That depends.’

Tall, hollow-cheeked and hirsute, the man eyed him suspiciously.

‘Who’re you?’

‘My name is Paul Kilbride and I’m looking for someone.’

‘You sound like a Wicklow man.’

‘You’ve a good ear, my friend.’

‘I’ve a good nose, too,’ said the other with contempt, ‘and I can always smell a Wicklow man.’

‘What about an American?’

‘What about him?’

‘That’s the fella I’m looking for, so it is,’ explained Paul. ‘He’d be around my age. When I heard he’d come to London, I just had to seek him out. I remembered him telling me once that he’d family in Seven Dials so this is where he’d make for.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘It’s Tom O’Gara.’

‘And when would he have come to the city?’

‘Oh, it would be within the last week.’

The man snapped his fingers. ‘Then I might be able to help you,’ he said. ‘There’s a newcomer called O’Gara who turned up out of nowhere the other day. As to his being American, I couldn’t say for I’ve not spoken to him.’

‘He’d be travelling with someone else, a black man.’

‘Then it
has
to be him. I’ve seen them both together. O’Gara and his friend are staying in the back room on the first floor. If you don’t believe me, go and see.’

The man turned away and began picking up the fruit to test its ripeness. Unsure whether he was being helped or misled, Paul glanced at the grimy tenement. If the missing sailors
were
inside, they’d not be the only criminals using the Seven Dials as their
refuge. He walked to the front door and waited as a mangy dog came hurtling out and shot past him. Paul then climbed the steps to the first floor, shoes echoing on the wooden steps. The walls were bare and glistening with damp. The stench was ghastly. When he reached the room at the rear, he knocked hard on a door that was covered in stains and had the name of O’Gara carved inexpertly into the timber.

Paul waited for a full minute. There was the sound of commotion from inside then the door swung open and a massive, bearded man in his fifties stood there with his hands on his hips. He gave Paul a truculent welcome.

‘Who the devil are you?’ he snarled.

‘I’m looking for Tom O’Gara.’

‘That’s what he claims,’ said a voice behind Paul, ‘but I think he’s lying.’