Shadow of the Hangman(55)

‘The rumour is he died by his own hand,’ confided the neighbour.

‘Is there any likelihood of that?’ asked Peter.

‘Mr Tate was very upset when he lost his job.’

‘How did he live?’

‘He struggled, sir. He was too proud to borrow money so he did without. If you want my opinion, I think he starved himself to death. The last time I saw him he was skin and bone. It’s a shame, sir.’

The neighbour was clearly ready to hold forth on the decline in the fortunes of Adam Tate but they had no interest for Peter. If the man had died, by whatever means, a few days ago then he couldn’t have been the scrivener who drew up the document for the American prisoners. That had been dated after Tate’s death. Peter had to look elsewhere. As he set off in search of the second address, his erstwhile high spirits had shrunk into a distant hope. Realistically, he couldn’t expect to locate the person he was after so easily. It might well be that neither of the names he’d been given would be of any practical use. When he eventually found the house he wanted, he used the knocker without any real conviction. There was a long wait before the door was unbolted and thrown open by a podgy woman in a dowdy dress. Her resentful frown vanished when she saw a gentleman on her doorstep.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked, politely.

‘I’m looking for Mr Nason.’

‘That’s my husband, sir.’

‘Is he in at the moment?’

‘I’m afraid that he isn’t,’ replied Posy. ‘He’s out on business. Is there a message I can take for him? My husband is excellent at his job. Whatever it is that you want, I’m sure that he can oblige.’

Peter took his cue from her because it suited him to act as a prospective client. It would remove any suspicion from the woman’s mind and allow him to probe into the character of Jubal Nason and the nature of the services he provided.

‘Am I right in thinking that your husband works from home?’

‘Yes, he does, sir. We’ve a room he uses as an office.’

‘I believe that he once worked for a lawyer in Portland Place.’

She became defensive. ‘He left because of a misunderstanding.’

‘It couldn’t have been because of any deficiency in the quality of his work,’ said Peter, trying to put her at ease. ‘The person who recommended him to me was full of praise for him.’

‘Oh,’ she said, relaxing. ‘That’s good to hear.’

‘What I really need is for some documents to be copied.’

‘Then you’ve no cause to look any further, sir. My husband is an experienced scrivener. He’ll copy out whatever you wish.’

‘That’s reassuring.’

‘His charges are very reasonable.’

‘I’m always ready to pay well for work of quality,’ said Peter. ‘When do you expect Mr Nason to return?’

‘He told me that he’d be no more than an hour or so.’

‘Then I’ll call back.’

‘You don’t have to do that, sir,’ she said, afraid that he might take his custom elsewhere. ‘My husband will be very upset that he missed you. He may only be half an hour, even less. Why don’t you step inside and wait?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Nason.’

She stood aside so that he could walk into the house. A compound of noisome odours invaded his nostrils and made him cough. She conducted him upstairs to a small room converted into an office by her husband. It was a dark, poky and unwelcoming lair. Dog-eared law books leant against each other for support. The desk was a gravy-stained kitchen table littered with papers. There was a whiff of misery in the air. It was all a far cry from the order, comfort and cleanliness of Martin Rendcombe’s office. Both men might make their living from the law but Jubal Nason belonged to a decidedly lower of order of creation.

‘It’s not usually as untidy as this,’ said Posy, shuffling papers into a pile.

‘Fear not, Mrs Nason. My own study is even more chaotic.’ The lie seemed to settle her nerves and she stopped hovering. ‘Apart from copying documents, what else does your husband do?’

‘I can’t rightly say but, whatever it is, he does it well.’

Peter was hoping that she’d leave him alone so that he could sift through the papers to see if any of them linked Jubal Nason to the two fugitives but Posy was determined to stay between him and door, beaming inanely at Peter and barring his way so that her husband didn’t lose a client.

‘Do you happen to know where your husband went, Mrs Nason?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘but he left some time ago so he must be there by now.’