Shadow of the Hangman (29 page)
Peter dragged O’Gara up by the scruff of his neck and handed him over to Yeomans and Hale. Intending to help his brother, he saw that Paul already had an able assistant. Ruddock had grabbed Fallon from behind and pinioned his arms. Both Irishmen had been caught. Attention now shifted to the horse and cart. Enraged by what he’d seen, Moses Dagg set out to rescue his friends. He flicked the reins and reinforced the command with a loud yell. The animal began cantering across the grass. When Dagg reached the little
group, he hauled on the reins and the cartwheels threw up a series of divots as they ground to a halt.
Dagg reached inside his coat for his pistol but he was too slow. Paul had already leapt up onto the cart and seized him by the wrist so that the weapon pointed upwards. There was a ferocious struggle with O’Gara and Fallon urging on their man. Unaware of its implications, a small crowd gathered to watch the fight but it was soon over. The pistol went off, discharging its bullet harmlessly into the air, and the horse bolted. With the two men still grappling madly, the cart went careering across the grass and scattered everybody in its way. The horse was galloping towards some trees. When it got close, it suddenly veered off to the left, overturning the cart in the process and throwing its two occupants to the ground.
Releasing his hold on the other man, Paul did several impromptu somersaults before coming to a halt on the grass. He leapt up at once to continue the fight then saw that it was already over. Hurled from the cart, Dagg had fallen awkwardly and now lay motionless.
Viscount Sidmouth was so pleased with the turn of events that he walked up and down his office with barely subdued glee.
‘All three of them were caught,’ he said. ‘O’Gara and Fallon are in custody and, since he broke his neck in the fall, Dagg will no longer be of concern us. The Skillen brothers have removed a terrible weight from my shoulders.’
‘The Runners did their part,’ Grocott reminded him. ‘A word of praise to Yeomans and Hale will not come amiss, my lord.’
‘Indeed, it won’t.’
‘And while one problem has been solved, another still remains.’
‘I’m very cognisant of that.’
‘It has caused me much soul searching,’ said Grocott. ‘I was
unwittingly embroiled in the plot and am stricken with remorse.’
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ advised the other.
‘But I must, my lord. I should have realised that it was too great a coincidence. We lose one servant and another one drops into our hands straight away. Had I not been so unguarded at my club, a great deal of anguish would have been spared. As it is, I’ve finally remembered who put the name of Levitt in my ears.’
‘You thought it might have been Sir Roger Hollington.’
‘I checked with him,’ said Grocott, ‘and he denied it. The person he nominated was Joss Crowther, barely an acquaintance of mine. I’ve no means of furthering that acquaintance because he has withdrawn to an estate he owns in Normandy. In short, I’m ashamed to confess, he was a co-conspirator.’
‘There are French spies everywhere, Grocott. That’s why I employ so many agents of my own to counter their activities. Peter Skillen is the best of them.’
‘Let’s hope that he can frustrate the designs of these people.’
‘I’m sure that he’s working on a way to do just that.’ Sidmouth took his seat behind the desk. ‘Meanwhile, of course, we have the good news that Horner is to return to her duties. After recent events, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d wanted to shake the dust of the Home Office from her feet for ever.’
‘I’m told that she was determined to resume work.’
‘She wants to put the horrors of the past behind her.’
He picked up some papers from the desk and looked through them. That was usually the signal for the undersecretary to leave so Grocott moved to the door.
‘One moment,’ said Sidmouth, raising his head, ‘there’s something I meant to ask you. Have you seen Beyton today?’
‘Why do you ask, my lord?’
‘I passed him on the stairs earlier on and he was completely cowed. He hardly noticed that I was there. Is he ailing in some way?’
‘I really don’t know, my lord. Now that you mention it, however, Beyton has been rather taciturn of late. When I told him that he was in line for a promotion, he was delighted. He should be revelling in the news.’
David Beyton was the first to arrive at the Home Office the next morning. Letting himself in, he went straight to the room that he shared with the other senior clerks. A shock awaited him. The desks of his three colleagues had been cleared of any papers and polished to a high sheen by Anne Horner. She’d not tidied away anything on Beyton’s desk. Instead, she’d put a wastepaper basket on it. When he looked inside, it contained the pile of banknotes he’d once given her by way of a belated apology. In the wake of his domestic turmoil, it was a wounding blow. Removing the object from the desk, Beyton sat down, took out a sheet of paper and began to write a letter of resignation.
‘The situation has changed,’ said Diamond.
‘I don’t think so,’ argued Jane.
‘You read the report in the newspaper. In the light of what happened with those fugitives from prison, security arrangements have been reviewed. That means far more guards will be around the main platform and the seating will be changed. We’ll have no idea in advance where our target will be.’
‘I agree with Vincent,’ said Ruth. ‘We must adapt our plan.’
‘But we’d lose the very essence of it,’ asserted Jane.
‘That can’t be helped.’
‘The whole point of the exercise was that it would take place in public in front of a vast audience. It was to be a visible
demonstration that France is not without its true patriots. We’d be sending a message that would echo around Europe.’
‘We will still do that, Jane.’
‘But not in the most effective way.’
‘The matter is settled,’ declared Diamond. ‘We follow the new plan. Apart from anything else, it makes it far easier to ensure the safety of all of us. In a huge crowd in Hyde Park, we’d have had no real control. With the new plan, we do.’
‘Very well,’ said Jane, moodily, ‘I agree to the change, but it’s against my better judgement.’
He enfolded her in his arms. ‘You say that now but, when it’s all over, you’ll want to celebrate just as much as we do.
Vive la France
!’
‘
Vive la France
!’ said the women in unison.
Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, was a figure of towering importance. Victories achieved in India and Portugal had made him a national hero but his success at Waterloo, when outnumbered by the French, had sealed his reputation as a soldier of the highest order. Having fought off the many English politicians who wanted to dismember and, thereby, weaken France, he was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the forces occupying Paris but was brought back to London to be at the heart of the celebrations in Hyde Park. A grateful nation was ready to acclaim their saviour.
As a man, however, he had faults. He had a brimming
self-confidence
that allowed him to ignore the advice of others and pursue his own objectives. Impatient, restless, occasionally irresponsible, he was too ready to pour contempt on some of the men serving under him. Iron discipline had helped him to control a turbulent coalition army and it defined the man. He was straight-backed, imperious and striking in appearance with an aquiline nose that had earned him
the nickname of Old Hooky. It was his firm belief that the finger of God was upon him and he ascribed his success to the intervention of the Almighty. That did not prevent him from feeling a sense of entitlement and he luxuriated in the honours that were showered upon him. The celebrations that day were an act of homage to him and he intended to enjoy every moment of them. There would be speeches in his honour, martial music, military manoeuvres, lavish refreshments and, to cap it all, a grand firework display. It would be a memorable occasion in every way.
Massive crowds had already gathered at the venue but there was a sizeable number of well-wishers outside his house as well, waiting for a glimpse of him as he set off with his wife in the open carriage that awaited them. Wellington was the first to come into view, resplendent in his uniform and raising his hat in acknowledgement of the resounding cheers. Poised in the doorway, he turned his head in both directions so that all could see the beak-like nose.
Jane Holdstock saw him clearly. She was seated beside Ruth Levitt in a gig and she raised her whip in the air. It was a signal that brought Vincent Diamond cantering down the road on his horse with a pistol in his hand. When he got level with Wellington, he took aim and fired. From such a short distance away, he expected to score a direct hit but Wellington seemed to anticipate the shot and dived nimbly out of the way, rolling over on the ground before leaping straight up again. Diamond, meanwhile, had ridden on down the road, only to find that the gig bearing his accomplices had been stopped by a phalanx of armed soldiers and that the two women had been placed under arrest. Standing in front of the solid line was Peter Skillen, hands on hips and a challenging smile on his face. As Diamond’s horse reared up on its back heels, Peter moved forwards to grab the rider but he was kicked away. Turning his
mount in a semicircle, Diamond went back in the other direction but that exit was also now filled with soldiers.
Waiting in the centre of the road was the Duke of Wellington though he looked very different now. Coat and hat had been discarded and the famous nose had been halved in size. Diamond was bemused. He was looking at someone who bore an amazing resemblance to the man at the other end of the road. Paul Skillen took advantage of the rider’s momentary confusion, rushing forwards to seize the bridle then reaching up to pull Diamond from the saddle.
‘We fight on equal terms now,’ he said, getting in the first punch.
Diamond fought back with unexpected savagery, punching, kicking and trying to spit in Paul’s face. He’d been deceived into thinking that he could shoot the Duke of Wellington when the man who’d emerged from the house had simply been his double. That realisation instilled extra venom into his blows but most of them were taken on Paul’s arms and deflected. Years of practice in the boxing ring at the gallery had toughened him and taught him all the refinements of pugilism. He took the wind out of Diamond with a punch to the stomach then proceeded to deliver telling blows to his face and body. It was not long before he’d reduced his opponent to a shambling wreck. Gripping him by the collar, Paul hurled him into the arms of a waiting soldier.
‘Take him away before I kill him,’ he said.
The celebrations went on for hours and, as the Guest of Honour, the Duke of Wellington even took precedence over His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. Everything went smoothly and without interruption, enabling Viscount Sidmouth to sit back and receive warm congratulations from the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool. In every way, the event had been a signal of triumph.
Celebrations of another kind took place afterwards at the home of Peter and Charlotte Skillen. Paul was there and so were Gully Ackford and Jem Huckvale. Over a glass of wine, they talked about the way that the fugitives from Dartmoor had been thwarted and the agents from France had been arrested. Everyone was amazed at the accuracy of Paul’s impersonation of the Duke of Wellington.
‘Weren’t you afraid?’ asked Charlotte.
‘I was more afraid of the Duke than of his would-be assassin. It took an age to persuade him to let me act as his double. After all,’ said Paul, ‘everything depended on guesswork. We knew that someone was the target but who would it be?’
‘I thought that it would be the Prince Regent,’ said Ackford.
‘And I was certain that it would be the Prime Minister,’ admitted Huckvale.
‘No,’ said Peter, ‘it was the Duke who symbolised the defeat of France. He was always going to be the most likely victim. Thanks to my brother, the Duke escaped the attack.’ He turned to Paul. ‘It was the nose that did the trick. It was so convincing. How ever did you manage that?’
‘I have a dear friend, an actress,’ said Paul, fondly, ‘and she schooled me in the wonders of make-up. When she finishes playing Belvidera at the Theatre Royal, I intend to ask her for more instruction.’
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E
DWARD
M
ARSTON
was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over forty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and theatre, and is a former chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association.
