Nason knew that their pleas would be studiously ignored. Even though their account of the massacre at the prison had cogency, it was bedevilled by the death threat they insisted on issuing. Their word would count for little against that of the governor and his men. The fact remained that they were fugitives and there’d be a reward for their capture, especially as it would remove a potential danger to the life of the Home Secretary. Nason could feel temptation rising up inside him. Only the fear of repercussions from Dermot Fallon had held him back from informing on the two Americans.
When they’d finished poring over the document, they signed their names at the bottom of the last page. Both men had the unquenchable zeal of fanatics.
‘This is one of two things,’ boasted O’Gara. ‘It’s either a key to let all our friends out of that stinking prison or it’s the Home Secretary’s death warrant.’
‘He must do what we tell him,’ said Dagg, grimly.
‘We know the truth of what happened. We saw it with our own eyes.’
‘Captain Shortland will only tell lies.’
Nason folded the document. ‘I’ll deliver this tonight,’ he promised.
‘No,’ said O’Gara, ‘I’ll put it through the letterbox.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘That’s not the point, Mr Nason. I want you to show us where this Home Secretary can be found. We may need to go back there one day to kill him.’
Ruth Levitt was quick and methodical. When she’d cleaned one room, she took the candelabrum through to the next one. After setting it down, she worked by its light to go through a set routine. She was halfway through polishing a sideboard when she heard the click of the letterbox. Taking the candelabrum, she lit her way to the front door and noticed the letter on the carpet. When she picked it up, she saw that it was addressed to the Home Secretary so she went along to his office and put it on his desk to await his arrival.
As she returned to her chores, it never occurred to her that the missive she’d just picked up would cause so much grief and apprehension.
CHAPTER TEN
Having spoken to the night watchman at the Home Office, Peter Skillen had a clear idea of the time when Anne Horner usually left the premises. She was, it transpired, a creature of habit, cleaning the different rooms in a set order and invariably finishing with the one belonging to Viscount Sidmouth. After exchanging a few pleasantries with the night watchman, she went back to her lodging by means of her customary route. To make sure that she never took an alternative way home, Peter also talked to her landlady, Joan Claydon, who confirmed that the cleaner always came back down the long, tree-lined lane where Peter had earlier encountered trouble, and that she arrived back at the house around the same time each morning. A light sleeper, Joan usually woke up when her lodger returned.
Anne Horner had been watched. The person or persons who’d abducted her had chosen the ideal spot on her nocturnal journey home. Peter arrived at the lane that night at approximately the time when Anne would have walked down it. Unlike her, he took precautions. He had a dagger in his belt and a Manton pistol, his favourite, concealed under his coat. He also carried a lantern that could be used as an auxiliary weapon. As it happened, it was called into use soon after he’d entered the lane. A foul-smelling old man suddenly lurched drunkenly out of the shadows at him, only to be knocked back on his heels by a glancing blow from the lantern. Dazed and in pain, he fell against a wall then bounced off it. As the man bent forward to expel a stream of vomit, Peter stepped out of reach then walked away.
He did not expect any real danger. In arresting Reuben Grigg, he’d already rid the lane of its greatest threat. Criminals like him were territorial. Once they’d taken over a particular area, they were rarely challenged. Anyone tempted to operate in the lane would first have had to engage in a fight to the death. No doubt they’d decide that it was safer to respect the territory marked out by Griggs and stay well clear of it. Until his disappearance became common knowledge, nobody would try to replace him.
The lantern served its purpose. Enabling him to look in every nook and cranny, it also guided his footsteps past the accumulated refuse and human waste that littered the way. The light caught the attention of someone who withdrew into an alley and waited for him to reach it. Sensing trouble ahead, Peter slipped a hand inside his coat to hold the butt of his pistol. In the event, no weapon was needed. The person who slipped out of the alley to accost him was a young woman.
‘Have you lost your way, sir?’ she asked.
‘No, I haven’t,’ he replied, holding the lantern up so that he could see her.