‘Wherever you turn in this building, Horner’s absence is evident.’
Grocott was about to leave when the Home Secretary called him back. Sidmouth snatched up a letter from his desk and brandished it in the air.
‘As for that other matter we discussed,’ he said, ‘I’ve received a letter from Captain Shortland, the governor of Dartmoor.’
‘What’s its import?’
‘Quite naturally, he’s keen to speak up in his own defence.’
‘Does he say how the riot began?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Sidmouth. ‘The governor knows the person behind it. He’s a troublemaker by the name of Thomas O’Gara, or so it appears. The fellow not only whipped the other prisoners into a frenzy of protest, he used the ensuing chaos as a means of escaping Dartmoor. Shortland discovered that O’Gara had been hiding with a group of black prisoners, one of whom fled with him. They’re still hunting the pair.’
‘Can the whole episode be blamed on a single culprit?’
‘No, and that’s not what Shortland is doing. He freely admits that other factors need to be taken into account. Passions have been running high behind those walls for a considerable time.’
‘What about the decision to open fire?’
‘The governor argues that it was unavoidable.’
‘How does he describe it?’
‘In the same way that it will probably be described after the official inquiry,’ said Sidmouth, solemnly. ‘Captain Shortland insists that it was a case of justifiable homicide.’
When he left the shooting gallery, Hobday had climbed into the saddle of a bay mare and set off towards Leicester Square at a steady trot. Jem Huckvale was trailing him, close enough to keep him within sight but far enough behind to arouse no suspicion in the rider. Even when the horse was kicked into a canter, Huckvale kept pace with it, lengthening his stride and maintaining a good rhythm. Though the streets were filled with pedestrians, vendors, horse-drawn vehicles and other potential hazards, he was not hampered in any way. Huckvale glided around them all as if they were not there.
The rider zigzagged his way towards Mayfair and eventually reached Upper Brook Street. Stopping at a house on the corner, he dismounted and led the animal to the stable at the rear. Huckvale lurked in a doorway and watched from a distance. At length, the man reappeared and was let into the house through the front door. Since there was nobody else in the street, Huckvale waited patiently. His vigil was finally rewarded. An elderly man emerged from a house several doors away. Huckvale ran across to him and raised his hat politely.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but I’m looking for Mr Hobday. I believe that he owns a house in Upper Brook Street. Do you happen to know which one it is?’
‘Why, yes,’ replied the man, pointing a finger. ‘Hobday lives in that house on the corner.’
‘Thank you for your help, sir.’
While the man went off in the opposite direction, Huckvale walked towards the house on the corner. Upper Brook Street extended from Grosvenor Square to Park Lane and contained some fine residences. Only a wealthy man could buy property there. Patently, Hobday was one of them. His identity had been confirmed and he lived in the address he’d specified. The mission was over. Huckvale felt that he’d discharged his duty and could run back to the shooting gallery with reassuring news that their new client was genuine. Before he could move, however, he heard the warning voice of Gully Ackford in his ear. It was loud and peremptory, Check everything twice.
It was an article of faith with his employer. Huckvale had to pay heed.
‘Check everything twice.’
Ackford treated his assistant like a son but he could be ruthless when his orders were disobeyed. Huckvale had incurred his displeasure once before and it had been such a disagreeable experience that he had no wish to repeat it.
With a philosophical shrug, therefore, he resumed his vigil.
Peter Skillen was in the drawing room with his wife when the letter arrived. He recognised the seal at once and broke it to open to read the missive.
‘It’s from the Home Secretary.’
‘He’s not going to send you back to France again, is he?’ asked Charlotte in mild alarm. ‘He stole you away from me far too much when the war was on.’
‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my love.’
‘Mine didn’t grow any fonder, Peter. It began to shrivel up with neglect.’
‘This is nothing to do with my activities in France.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’
‘The Home Secretary wants me to find a woman for him.’
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Charlotte, bringing a hand to her mouth. ‘Does he expect you to become his pander? It’s a revolting suggestion. Apart from anything else, he’s a married man. What about his poor wife? This is a disgraceful commission, Peter. It’s demeaning.’ She stamped a foot for emphasis. ‘However powerful he may be, I forbid you to provide him with a mistress.’ Her husband laughed. ‘It’s not an occasion for levity.’