‘I thought of His Royal Highness.’

‘So?’

‘That monstrous bulk of his presented a much bigger target than Mellanby. From that short distance, a child with a popgun couldn’t have missed hitting the heir to the throne. In a matter of seconds,’ added Paul, ‘the assassin earned his money. He’d come well prepared. He knew exactly where to find his victim and could rely on his being off guard.’

‘Yes,’ said Yeomans, a sly grin on his face. ‘All that Mellanby was thinking about was how to get his hands on Miss Granville. That hope blinded him to everything else. Without meaning to, she helped the assassin by bewitching Mellanby. You might mention that to her.’

Paul had to control a sudden urge to hit him.

Peter felt sorry for Seth Hooper. The man clearly revered the murder victim and spoke of him in hushed tones. From time to time, tears welled up in his eyes. Peter waited patiently and listened intently. Mellanby and Hooper had arrived from Nottingham on the previous day. While the former had stayed at one of the most prestigious hotels in the capital, his companion had, of necessity, sought more modest accommodation. The two men were in London to attend a meeting of the Hampden Club, an association for those committed to a campaign for social and political reform. As a delegate from Nottingham, the brush-maker would be expected to make a speech, but it was the Radical Dandy whom the other members would really come to hear. He was their acknowledged spokesman. Mellanby would not only rouse them to fever pitch with blazing oratory, he would present their petition to the Prince Regent.

‘Sir Francis Burdett was asked first,’ explained Hooper, ‘but he refused. Sir Roger stepped forward at once. Nothing frightened him. He believed in our cause and did all he could to help us.’

‘He sounds like an extraordinary man,’ said Peter.

‘There were nobody quite like him.’

‘So it appears.’

‘He were a saint, Mr Skillen.’

Peter had doubts about that. Men who flocked to the stage door of a theatre in order to drool over a beautiful actress were rarely candidates for canonisation. The social and intellectual gap between the two friends was manifestly enormous. While Mellanby had been basking in a performance of a Shakespeare play, Hooper had been sitting in an attic room in a tavern, struggling to write his speech. Sadly, it would never be delivered now. The much-anticipated visit to London had been a disaster.

Hooper ended with a heartfelt plea for help.

‘I beg you to find the killer, Mr Skillen.’

‘An official investigation will already have been launched.’

‘I know,’ said the other. ‘I spoke to a Bow Street Runner named Mr Yeomans, but he turned me away with harsh words. Catching Sir Roger’s killer was his job, he told me, and I were to go back home to Nottingham and wait for news.’