Steps to the Gallows by Edward Marston

mention this friend to you, Mrs Mandrake?’
    ‘No,’ she replied. ‘All I can tell you is that Leo only let three of us know where he was living. I’ve accounted for two of us. The third is a mystery.’
     
    Tall, gaunt and upright, the man had a long, urgent stride that belied his age. When he came to a corner, he took the precaution of stopping to look in every direction. Reassured that nobody was watching him, he marched on briskly until he came to the house. There was a disturbing amount of debris on the ground and, when he looked up, he saw that the pane of glass was missing from the bedchamber at the front of the house. He used the knocker to rouse the occupants. Gregory Lomas opened thedoor. Recognising the visitor, he gave a gesture of despair.
    ‘Is he at home?’ asked the man.
    ‘No, sir, and he’s never likely to be here again.’
    ‘Why not – has he moved his lodging?’
    ‘He no longer has need of one, sir.’
    ‘Stop talking in riddles, man.’
    ‘Mr Paige is dead,’ explained the landlord, ‘and not of natural causes, alas. He was murdered here only yesterday and his room was set alight.’
    The newcomer was shocked. ‘Who killed him?’
    ‘Some villain strangled him to death.’
    ‘But he was going to employ a bodyguard. He swore that he would.’
    ‘There was nobody protecting him yesterday, sir.’
    ‘And you say that there was a fire?’
    ‘It was a bad one,’ replied the other. ‘If it hadn’t been for my neighbours, the whole place could have burnt to the ground.’ Shoving him aside, the man rushed into the house and up the staircase. ‘You can’t do that, sir. Come back!’
    Lomas went after him but he was far too slow to stop him reaching the room and flinging open the door. The visitor stood there in horror. Fire had blackened everything and ash lay everywhere. The place was uninhabitable. When the landlord came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, the man shrugged him off and rushed across to an old oak chest in the corner. Flinging open the lid, he looked in and saw that it was empty. He spun round to challenge Lomas.
    ‘How did you let this happen?’
    ‘We were not at home, sir.’
    ‘What about the servants?’
    ‘They’d gone to the market. Mr Paige was alone in here.’
    ‘There was something in this chest,’ said the man, pointing at it. ‘Did you take it out?’ Lomas shook his head. ‘I want the truth, man. If you try to deceive me in any way, I’ll beat you black and blue.’
    ‘Don’t hurt me, sir,’ said Lomas, shrinking back. ‘As God’s my witness, I never touched anything of Mr Paige’s. He wanted privacy and that’s what we gave him. I’ve no idea what he kept in that chest because I never once looked in it. Who knows?’ he went on, gibbering. ‘Perhaps the villain who killed him took whatever was hidden in there. What was it?’
    ‘Never you mind,’ snapped the other. ‘Where’s the body?’
    ‘They took it away, sir. It was in a terrible state.’
    ‘Has anyone been here to investigate the crime?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Lomas, ‘the Runners came yesterday. Before them, a stranger was here, asking all sorts of questions about Mr Paige. He never gave me his name but the Runners seemed to know who he was.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘They called him Peter Skillen.’
    After a last look at the oak chest, the man brushed Lomas aside, clattered down the stairs, left the house and strode purposefully away. As he joined the main street, he was soon swallowed up in the crowd.
     
    Drawn back to the print shop by some ineluctable force, Yeomans walked up and down Middle Row like a nervous suitor. Every time he passed it, he kept looking through Mrs Mandrake’s bay window in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of her. But she never appeared. He was still debating whether to go into the shop or to walk away altogether when Benjamin Tite emerged into the street.
    ‘Did you want something, Mr Yeomans?’ he asked.
    ‘No, no, I was on my