Steps to the Gallows (26 page)

‘Are you well versed in glazing?’

‘No, I’m not …’

‘Have you ever organised a window display?’

‘That, too, would be a novel undertaking.’

‘Then you are no use to me, I fear. I need a window to be repaired and my stock to be exhibited in it. People need to see that it’s a case of business as usual.’

‘Which cartoons arouse most interest?’ asked Hale.

‘Our best sales come from the
Parliament of Foibles
.’

‘I
told
you that should be our starting point, Micah.’

‘A politician instigating a murder?’ said Yeomans, dubiously. ‘No, it’s far too unlikely.’

‘You are wondrously ignorant of the ways of the world, sir,’ said Diane, crisply. ‘Politicians commit murder every time they draft legislation. They kill off our liberties, they smother us with taxes
and they bore us to death with their empty rhetoric. That’s why I can always sell Virgo’s caricatures,’ she went on. ‘They prick self-important politicians until they explode like so many balloons.’

‘May we take a close look at your stock, please?’

‘No, Mr Yeomans – not unless you intend to buy some of it, that is.’

‘I couldn’t be caught in possession of anything satirical,’ he said, piously. ‘It would reflect badly on someone in my position.’

‘And yet you once
tried
to purchase a caricature from me.’

‘Did you, Micah?’ asked Hale. ‘You never told me that.’

‘It was actually featured Mr Yeomans.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember that one.’ He suffered a dig in the ribs this time. ‘But I didn’t recognise Mr Yeomans,’ he lied. ‘It was nothing at all like him. He’d never be seen herding harlots outside a brothel.’

‘Mrs Mandrake,’ said Yeomans, almost pleading, ‘it’s in your interests to help us. The man we want is the one who ordered the destruction of your property and, by extension, the death of your good self. Until he has been caught and convicted, you will never enjoy complete safety. All that we ask is a brief glance at your stock.’ He looked at the glaziers. ‘It would be folly to pay for new windows if someone is bent on burning your shop down. I would hate to lose you or your premises. Help us, dear lady, I implore you.’

Diane was moved by the sincerity of his plea and by his simple logic. There was still a notional danger to her. The Runners might be a hindrance but there was no harm in letting them look through her prints.

‘Very well,’ she decided. ‘You may look your fill – and then depart.’

Their preparations took time. They had to secure passports, pack their luggage, saddle their horses, give instructions to their respective servants and take their leave of everyone at the shooting gallery. Peter was sad to leave his wife in order to go to France again but it was unavoidable. Having identified the man behind murder, arson and attempted homicide, he wanted to be the person to arrest him. Paul was hoping to reserve that luxury for himself. As they cantered along the Dover Road, he stated his case.

‘Sir Humphrey is
mine
, Peter,’ he claimed. ‘I was the one who put up with his antics at the cricket match and who was forced to listen to his revolting suggestions with regard to Hannah.’

‘Yet I was the one who tore off his mask.’

‘You only see him as a despicable criminal.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I view him as a threat to the woman I love.’

‘Someone as beautiful and self-possessed as Hannah is expert at keeping undesirable suitors at arm’s length.’

‘Sir Humphrey is no ordinary suitor,’ argued Paul. ‘What he can’t get by persuasion, he’ll take by other means. I heard him boasting about it.’

‘I still think that I should be the one to call him to account.’

‘You don’t even need to come to Paris.’

‘Oh, yes, I do,’ said Peter, laughing. ‘You have many talents, Paul, but you lack a real command of the French language and that’s going to be a necessity. You need an interpreter and a guide to the city of Paris. I’m the ideal choice in both roles.’

Paul was grudging. ‘I accept that. Your time spent abroad as an agent gave you insights that I lack. But I still claim the right of arresting Sir Humphrey,’ he said.

‘It’s a question of which one of us gets to him first.’

‘So be it – we’ll make a competition out of it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Peter. ‘When I catch him, you admit that I’m the better man.’

‘There’ll be nothing to admit,’ said Paul, laughing. ‘I have more incentive to track him and more skill to corner him. I
know
the sort of man he is. That will give me an immediate advantage.’

‘Try saying that in French,’ suggested his brother. ‘By the time you’ve managed to do that, I’ll have Sir Humphrey well and truly under arrest.’

Virgil Paige was glad to be back in King’s Bench Prison. Though his would-be assassins had been caught and his freedom of movement restored, he was still too cautious to venture outside. Having settled back into his room, he used Snapper to run errands for food or anything else he needed. Paige was reclining on his mattress when he heard the footsteps coming up the uncarpeted stairs and realised that two people were approaching. He got to his feet at once. There was a tap on the door. Snapper’s head appeared.

‘Ya gor a vis’ter,’ he announced.

‘Who is it?’

The door swung open and Diane Mandrake sailed into the room.

‘Hello, Virgil,’ she said, beaming. ‘I thought that it was high time we met.’

The decisive Battle of Waterloo had brought France to its knees. The country was weakened, rudderless, demoralised and bereft of the dreams of glory that had inspired it to overthrow its monarchy and adopt a policy of military expansion. When the British army marched to Paris in the immediate aftermath of hostilities, they camped in the Bois de Boulogne. Once a beautiful and extensive garden, it became a wild, overgrown, pathless wood that resembled nothing so much as a swamp in places. The Prussians, who bivouacked nearby, added outright vandalism to neglect, cutting down the finest trees indiscriminately then burning groves to the ground. The city itself bore the scars of a long war and the crushing burden of defeat.

Within a year, profound changes had taken place. Though unwelcome to many, the restoration of the Bourbon dynasty helped to rebuild and reinvigorate the nation’s capital. It began to recapture its reputation as the centre of European fashion and gaiety. Theatres flourished, restaurants abounded and visitors flocked in from other countries. Money, the essential lifeblood, was flowing freely once again.

What had greeted Hannah Granville on her arrival there was a scene of sophisticated pleasure. Paris was once more pulsating with
life. Like all major cities, it had its slums and its dark underbelly but its palaces, its civic buildings, its plethora of churches, its famous river and its long, wide, accommodating avenues were a sight to behold. Not having been there since she was a child, Hannah had been entranced. There was an unexpected delight. Her old governess, now in her eighties, was still alive. Though she could barely walk, Marie Boisseau had written to her former pupil to welcome her to the city and to offer her services should Hannah have any difficulty with the language. Well taught from a young age by a true Parisian, the actress felt more than able to portray Lady Macbeth in a French translation. What she did ask from her quondam governess was the pleasure of calling on her from time to time so that – liberated from the strain of rehearsals – she could reminisce about her childhood in a calmer atmosphere.

Old friends were the best kind in Hannah’s opinion. It was one of the main reasons that she’d retained Jenny Pye as her dresser over the years. A short, plump woman in her forties with a fierce loyalty and a capacity for adapting quickly to any situation, Jenny was much more than the person who helped her to change in and out of her costumes. She was a friend, helpmeet, hairdresser, counsellor and, on occasion, even acted as a kind of bodyguard. What Hannah liked about her was her defiant Englishness. Though they were in the French capital, Jenny had categorically refused to learn a single word of the language.

‘The house is full yet again, Miss Granville,’ she said.

‘That’s very gratifying.’

‘It’s a tribute to your talent. Paris is at your feet.’

‘Yes,’ said Hannah, ‘it’s strange, isn’t it? I portray a villainous woman who urges her husband to kill a king and the audiences applaud me for it. There must be a deeply engrained hatred of royalty in the French public. On the other hand,’ she went on,
thoughtfully, ‘Macbeth wants to kill Duncan in order to replace him, so Scotland won’t actually get rid of a king. They’ll simply have a new one on the throne.’

‘You know how to enslave an audience,’ said Jenny, combing Hannah’s hair. ‘It’s the same with whatever part you play.’

‘Lady Macbeth is a monster.’

‘Yes, but you make her a lovable monster.’

They were in the dressing room two hours before the performance. Hannah was a tall, slim, lithe young woman with a natural grace and an arresting beauty. She liked to get to the theatre early so that she had plenty of time to rehearse her major speeches before going onstage to deliver them. Audiences had been kind to her and critics had been, for the most part, extremely complimentary but her stay in Paris was not entirely without its problems.

‘Will he be in the audience again tonight?’ she asked.

‘He’ll follow you wherever you go, Miss Granville.’

‘You make him sound like a dog, not a gentleman of distinction.’

‘A gentleman wouldn’t badger you the way that he does.’

‘He doesn’t exactly badger me, Jenny. He just wishes to worship from afar and turn this place into a perfumed garden for me.’ She indicated the baskets of flowers that surrounded her. ‘I don’t feel threatened by him in any way. Unlike so many of the others, he’s very benign. However, while admiration is always pleasing, a superfluity of it can get very tiresome.’

‘You could easily get him forbidden entry to the theatre.’

‘That would be cruel.’

‘It would save you the trouble of worrying about him.’

‘I don’t really worry,’ said Hannah. ‘I’m just very much aware of his presence, that’s all. In his letter, he told me that he sees himself as my guardian angel.’

Jenny rolled her eyes but held her peace. In her opinion, amorous Frenchmen were all the same. They needed to be watched carefully and kept firmly at bay.

‘We won’t be here much longer, Miss Granville.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’

‘You’ll soon be playing Lady Macbeth in London,’ said Jenny, adding a last deft touch with the comb. ‘And it won’t be in this heathen language.’

Hannah laughed. ‘The magic of France has clearly failed to work on you.’

‘I want to be back in my own country.’

‘And so do I, Jenny – though it’s not only for the pleasure of portraying Lady Macbeth in the words that Shakespeare actually wrote for her. I have a much greater need to return to London.’ She sat back with a sigh. ‘Somebody very dear and wonderful is awaiting me.’

They picked up his trail at once. When they stopped at the inn to change horses, they learnt that a coach had called there earlier in the day and that its occupant had been so eager to get to Dover that he didn’t even alight for refreshment. Peter and Paul Skillen rode on with fresh mounts. Having seen it when it arrived at the cricket match, Paul was able to describe Sir Humphrey’s coach in detail. Every time they broke their journey, they found someone who had noticed the vehicle and who could give them an idea of the precise time when it had been there.

‘He’s hours ahead of us, Peter,’ complained his brother.

‘He may well be at sea by now.’

‘I was hoping to catch him before he embarked.’

‘There’s no chance of doing that. Besides,’ said Peter with a grin, ‘do you really want to miss the opportunity of going to Paris?’

‘No, I don’t. Whatever happens, I must see Hannah.’

‘His butler told me that Sir Humphrey had friends in the city. He’ll seek sanctuary there so it may be difficult to find him.’

‘We don’t
need
to find him, Peter.’

‘Why not?’

‘Hannah will do that for us,’ explained Paul. ‘When Sir Humphrey reaches the city, he’ll think that he’s perfectly safe. It won’t cross his evil mind that we’re on his heels. He’ll want to revel in the joys of Paris and – amongst other things – that means going to the theatre. Which play do you think he’ll choose first?’

‘It will be the one in which Miss Hannah Granville is appearing.’

‘That’s right. Unbeknownst to her, Lady Macbeth is our bait. It’s only a matter of time before Sir Humphrey arrives to gloat over her. That’s when we strike.’

Virgil Paige had been astonished when his unexpected visitor had popped up and he was not altogether pleased at first. He felt that his privacy had been invaded. Diane Mandrake’s warmth and amiability soon dispelled his reservations and he began to enjoy her company. Since he was now able to go outside the King’s Bench again, they adjourned to a tavern and got to know each other better over some refreshment.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘In all the years I knew Leo, he never once mentioned that he had a brother.’

‘That was on my instruction. I liked to be anonymous.’

‘Why?’

‘After a lifetime of service in the army, I sought peace and isolation.’

Her eyes twinkled. ‘You don’t look like a man with monkish inclinations.’

‘I’m not,’ he agreed with a chuckle. ‘I’ve always found the devil
a more appealing deity. Drawing cartoons as Virgo gave me the chance to take on the role of a demon and cause mischief.’

‘There was a lot of demon in Leo as well.’

‘We worked well together. When it came to politicians, my brother and I thought and felt alike. Those who abuse their power should be exposed and flayed in public. The
Parliament of Foibles
was Leo’s creation.’

‘It was a brilliant concept that cost him his life.’

‘I came close to paying the same price, Mrs Mandrake.’

Sipping her drink, she sat back to scrutinise him. Physically, he looked very different to his brother but his voice and demeanour were the same. He also shared his brother’s passion and she liked him for that.

‘Do you really want to spend your life in a debtor’s prison?’ she asked.

‘It has its compensations.’

‘I didn’t notice any of them.’

‘Oh, they are there, believe me.’

‘Will you be able to continue your work there?’

‘There’s no point,’ he said, sadly. ‘Apart from anything else, my materials were stolen. I’m unable to draw or engrave. Virgo no longer exists.’

‘He could do.’

‘No, Mrs Mandrake. Without Leo, I’m useless. He supplied the clever ideas and the wicked words. They’re beyond me.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘I’m a self-taught artist who knows his limitations.’

‘Will you let Virgo’s work perish when he has such a following?’

‘I have no choice.’

‘What’s happened to the demon you enjoyed being?’ she taunted.

‘He’s lost his inspiration.’

‘I’ve an idea how it can be revived.’

‘Not without Leo – he supplied the fuel over which we could roast the political ogres who exploit us. When I drew a cartoon, I loved the smell of burning flesh that drifted into my nostrils.’

‘You could inhale that aroma again, Mr Paige.’

‘I think not.’

‘Hear me out,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘I have an idea to put to you and it may just help to change your mind …’

They had not stayed long at the print shop. Allowed to look through the entire stock, the Runners quickly identified the main targets of Virgo’s mordant satire. By the time they left, they’d settled on the same quartet chosen by Peter and Paul Skillen.

‘It
has
to be one of them,’ decided Yeomans.

‘Yes,’ said Hale, ‘but which one is it, Micah?’

‘I fancy that it has to be Gerard Brunt.’

‘Julian Harvester seems the more likely man to me.’

‘Let’s visit each in turn. We’ll start with Mr Brunt.’

‘Do you know his address?’

‘I know how to find it.’

Hale fell in beside him and they set off at a demanding pace.

‘Is it true what Mrs Mandrake said?’ asked Hale. ‘Did you really try to buy one of the caricatures from her?’

‘Of course not,’ growled Yeomans. ‘Why would I possibly want one?’

‘She seemed very certain about it.’

‘Diane – Mrs Mandrake to you – was confusing me with someone else. Let’s think about Gerard Brunt, shall we? In some of those cartoons we saw, he was turned into a laughing stock. How did he react to that …?’

He was there as usual. Seated in the same box, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands as Hannah came out onstage to acknowledge the ovation. English voices joined with those of the French to acclaim her performance. The audience was even rowdier than the one she usually faced in London but the man who’d elected himself as her guardian angel didn’t join in the raucous shouting. Short, compact, spruce and well into his sixties, he cut a dignified figure. When Hannah turned to look at him, he gave her a paternal smile.

It was not the last she saw of him. Leaving a theatre often posed a problem for a leading lady, especially for one as gorgeous and blessed with histrionic talent as Hannah. There was usually a large cluster of men at the stage door, ready to press their suits by offering her all manner of blandishments. Since Paul Skillen had come into her life, the problem had been more or less eliminated because he was always there to shepherd her past the waiting mob. Having no such protection now, she had to rely on her dresser and left the theatre on Jenny’s arm. Ardent admirers pushed forward to get a look at her or even to brush against her body. They buzzed around her like so many bees and Hannah found it distressing. Aid, however, was at hand.

‘Silence, messieurs!’
yelled a voice.
‘Silence, s’il vous plaît!’

Quelled by the rasping authority in the command, the noise died instantly and the crowd parted to let Hannah and her dresser through. She was able to see her saviour and recognised him as the dapper Frenchman with an aristocratic bearing who’d attended every performance of the play. He was using his silver-topped cane to hold back her admirers so that the women could reach the carriage waiting for them.

‘Bravo, mademoiselle!’
he said, doffing his hat as she went past.

‘Merci,’
she replied.
‘Merci, mon ange.’

Arriving at last at Dover, they discovered just how far ahead of them their quarry was. Paul Skillen was disappointed.

‘His ship left hours ago,’ he said. ‘He’s probably halfway to France by now. That’s maddening.’

‘It’s an irritation,’ said Peter, ‘but no more than that. After a hectic rush to the coast and a voyage across the Channel, he’ll be fatigued. Sir Humphrey will have need of a rest. If we can sail soon, we’ll make up ground on him.’

‘The next packet won’t be ready for some time.’

‘Then we take our ease here.’

‘I won’t be able to relax until I see Hannah again.’

Standing on the quayside, they felt the wind freshening enough to pluck at their clothes and threaten to lift off their hats. The gallop to Dover had given the brothers little time for conversation. Peter was glad that they had time for reflection.

‘I’ve always wanted to take Charlotte to Paris,’ he said.

‘Why haven’t you done so?’