Shadow of the Hangman(18)

‘He’s a brave man to stay alone in the house with the two brothers.’

‘He’s perfectly safe,’ said Yeomans. ‘We know he’s there but they don’t.’

‘It’s just as well.’

There was a long wait ahead of them. While Yeomans refilled and lit his pipe, Hale slipped off into a corner to urinate against a wall. He then walked around the entire area and checked that the men they’d recruited from the foot patrol were in position. Many of them were restive, wondering how long they’d have to hang about in the dark. When he suggested that they took their complaints directly to Yeomans, however, they fell silent. Nobody had the courage to tackle him.

A couple of hours drifted past before the lights in the windows of Hobday’s house were snuffed out. The brothers had clearly retired to bed. It was only a matter of time before a candle would appear in the attic window to confirm that Peter and Paul Skillen were asleep. Yeomans and Hale moved in and those at either end of Upper Brook Street instinctively did the same. The net tightened inexorably.

The delay, however, was longer than they’d anticipated.

‘Why doesn’t Medlow give the signal?’ asked Yeomans, impatiently.

‘Perhaps he’s trying to sell them tickets to a banquet in Brighton Pavilion,’ said Hale, collecting a contemptuous glare that made him apologise at once. ‘I’m sorry, Micah.’

‘Shut up!’

‘It was only a joke.’

‘Can you hear me laughing?’

‘I’m just trying to kill time,’ bleated Hale.

He gasped in pain as he was elbowed in the ribs. Yeomans was watching the attic window without blinking an eyelid. When the light finally appeared, he led the charge towards the house. Using a key to open the door, he went furtively inside with Hale at his heels. A cluster of men guarded the exit. Yeomans lifted the shutter on his lantern and created a pool of light. It enabled him and his companion to search the whole of the ground floor. Confident that their quarry were slumbering upstairs, they ascended the steps as quietly as they could and went from bedroom to bedroom, opening each door wide in the hope of finding the two brothers.

But there wasn’t the slightest hint that they’d even been inside the property. Something had gone wrong and Yeomans was quick to apportion blame. He rounded on Hale and hissed a demand at him.

‘Are you sure they were here, Alfred?’

‘I’d swear it on the Good Book.’

‘Did you recognise the two of them?’

‘Yes, Micah – they were as large as life and no more than twenty yards away.’

‘That’s too far in the dark.’

‘I know their gait as well as my own. Peter is bolt upright when he marches along. Paul is more leisurely and has a shorter stride.’ He removed his hat to scratch his head. ‘Or maybe it’s the other way round.’

‘Be quiet.’

‘It was them, Micah. I’m certain of it.’

‘Hold your tongue, man,’ said Yeomans, grabbing him by the throat. ‘Just listen, will you?’

‘What am I supposed to hear?’ croaked Hale.

‘Listen!’

Cocking their heads, they strained their ears. The noise was faint but insistent. It was a regular knocking sound and they soon guessed that it came from above. Charging out of the bedroom, they rushed along a corridor to the staircase that led to the attic. With Hale in his wake, Yeomans thundered up it with the lantern held high. When he turned the knob, he pushed the door wide open and shuddered at the sight that greeted them. Simon Medlow had been stripped naked then bound and gagged before being strung up naked by his feet to a thick beam. By swinging to and fro, he’d been able to hit a table with his head and summon help.

‘Where in the world are they?’ yelled Yeomans, puce with rage.

‘They won’t get far, Micah,’ said Hale. ‘We’ve got the place surrounded.’

But another fifty men would not have been enough to catch Peter and Paul Skillen. Having escaped over the roofs of the adjacent houses, they’d already climbed down to the ground and were calmly making their way back to those awaiting them.





Fortune favoured the sailors. Though much smaller than the vessels to which they were accustomed, it was well built and scudded through the waves. A stiff breeze helped them to maintain good speed, so they were able to watch the shore move steadily past them. Moses Dagg was concerned.

‘You said we’d complain to the Prime Minister, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘We don’t even know his name.’

‘I do,’ said Tom O’Gara. ‘I asked one of the soldiers. It’s Lord Liverpool.’