Shadow of the Hangman(38)

‘Keep away from my wife,’ he warned.

Dagg bristled. ‘Don’t give me orders.’

‘I saw the way you looked at her.’

‘I don’t know who your wife is and I don’t care.’

‘She hates niggers as much as I do.’

‘Watch your tongue,’ advised Tom O’Gara, standing beside his friend. ‘Moses won’t take insults from anybody.’

‘He’ll get more than insults from me. If he grins at my wife like a frigging monkey again, I’ll knock him from here to Africa.’

Dagg bunched his fists. ‘Who’re you calling a monkey?’ he demanded.

‘You’d better apologise while you can,’ said O’Gara to the man. ‘If you call him names, he gets upset.’

‘I’m the one who deserves an apology,’ declared the chimney sweep, ‘and so does Meg. This animal leered at her.’

The raised voices had brought a number of people out into the street and they formed a ring around the two fugitives. There was a sense of general resentment against the newcomers. When Dagg remained silent, the chimney sweep decided to inflict some punishment. In the belief that he could fell the man with one punch, he swung a fist with murderous intent. The blow was easily parried and so were all the succeeding attempts at hitting his opponent.

The crowd drew back as the men circled each other. O’Gara was certain of the outcome. Dagg was the veteran of dozens of tavern brawls in various ports. They’d helped him to develop teak-hard fists and an ability to throw an attacker off balance. It was exactly what he did with the chimney sweep. After dodging and weaving, he stood still to invite a punch then drew back sharply as it was delivered. All that the irate chimney sweep did was to explore fresh air. The next second, he was hit by a powerful hook that caught him on the side of the head and made him stagger. Dagg followed up with a series of solid punches to his body and head before knocking him unconscious with an uppercut that drew a gasp of fear from the crowd. While the chimney sweep slumped to the ground with blood gushing from his nose, Dagg turned to the others.

‘Would anyone else like to try their luck?’ he invited.

‘No, Moses,’ said O’Gara, ‘they’re too scared.’

‘It was a fair fight. You all saw that.’ There was a murmur of agreement. ‘It’s over now. You can disappear.’

The crowd slowly dispersed. Two men helped the chimney sweep to his feet and dragged him away. The fugitives traded a laugh.

‘I enjoyed that,’ said Dagg, flexing his hands.

‘It was stupid of him to call you a nigger,’ observed O’Gara with amusement. ‘Did you see the colour of that idiot? He was ten shades blacker than you.’



Alfred Hale was still asleep when the message was delivered to his home. Dressing quickly, he set off and met up with Micah Yeomans at The Peacock Inn, the public house that was their unofficial headquarters. By way of a greeting, Hale yawned in the other man’s face.

‘I can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day, Micah,’ he protested.

‘Use members of the foot patrol to take over.’

‘That’s what I have done. We keep an eye on him in turns.’

‘Do you have anything useful to report?’

‘Only that I’m half-dead because I stayed up most of the first night I watched him. I saw Skillen being taken home in a carriage from a gambling hell in Jermyn Street. He was too drunk to stand up.’

‘You look as if you’re about to fall over as well, Alfred.’

‘I stood outside his house for most of yesterday and he never came out.’

‘Well, I’ve got something more important for you to do now.’

Hale shuddered. ‘Don’t tell me that you want me to keep an eye on Peter Skillen instead. I couldn’t bear that.’

‘We’ve been engaged as bodyguards.’

He explained to the other Runner that he’d been summoned to the Home Office and asked to provide protection whenever Sidmouth needed to travel between one place and another because of a death threat that had been received. When he heard the full details, Hale was puzzled.

‘Why is he afraid of a couple of escaped prisoners?’

‘Does it matter? We’ll be well paid. That’s all I care about.’

‘They won’t get anywhere near him.’

‘That’s up to us.’

‘It’s an empty threat, Micah, like the ones we get every day from the foul-mouthed scum we arrest. I’ve been threatened with everything from beheading to being set on fire. That pickpocket we caught at the theatre last week,’ Hale reminded him, ‘swore that he’d tie heavy rocks to our feet and throw us alive into the Thames. It’s all nonsense. Tell the Home Secretary the truth. He’s not in any real danger.’