Gallows Thief

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Brown, is it?’ Lord Alexander asked.

  ‘William Brown, my lord, yes. Keeper of Newgate, my lord.’

  ‘Lord Christopher Carne,’ Lord Alexander introduced his friend with a rather vague wave of the hand. ‘His stepmother’s murderer is being hanged today.’

  The Keeper bowed again, this time to Lord Christopher. ‘I do trust your lordship finds the experience both a revenge and a comfort, and will you now permit me to name the Ordinary of Newgate?’ He led them to where a stout man in an old-fashioned wig, a cassock, surplice and Geneva bands was waiting with a smile on his plump face. ‘The Reverend Doctor Horace Cotton,’ the Keeper said.

  ‘Your lordship is most welcome,’ Cotton bowed to Lord Alexander. ‘I believe your lordship is, like me, in holy orders?’

  ‘I am,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘and this is my particular friend, Lord Christopher Carne, who also hopes to take orders one day.’

  ‘Ah!’ Cotton clasped his hands prayerfully and momentarily raised his eyes to the rafters. ‘I deem it a blessing,’ he said, ‘when our nobility, the true leaders of our society, are seen to be Christians. It is a shining example for the common ruck, don’t you agree? And you, my lord,’ he turned to Lord Christopher, ‘I understand that this morning you will see justice done for the grave insult committed against your family?’

  ‘I hope to,’ Lord Christopher said.

  ‘Oh, really, Kit!’ Lord Alexander expostulated. ‘The revenge your family seeks will be provided in eternity by the fires of hell …’

  ‘Praise Him!’ the Ordinary interjected.

  ‘And it is neither seemly nor civilised of us to hurry men to that condign fate,’ Lord Alexander finished.

  The Keeper looked astonished. ‘You would surely not abolish the punishment of hanging, my lord?’

  ‘Hang a man,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘and you deny him the chance of repentance. You deny him the chance of being pricked, day and night, by his conscience. It should be sufficient, I would have thought, to simply transport all felons to Australia. I am reliably informed it is a living hell.’

  ‘They will suffer from their consciences in the real hell,’ Cotton put in.

  ‘So they will, sir,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘so they will, but I would rather a man came to repentance in this world, for he surely has no chance of salvation in the next. By execution we deny men their chance of God’s grace.’

  ‘It’s a novel argument,’ Cotton allowed, though dubiously.

  Lord Christopher had been listening to this conversation with a harried look and now blurted out an intervention. ‘Are you,’ he stared at the Ordinary, ‘related to Henry Cotton?’

  The conversation died momentarily, killed by Lord Christopher’s sudden change of tack. ‘To whom, my lord?’ the Ordinary enquired.

  ‘Henry Cotton,’ Lord Christopher said. He seemed to be in the grip of some very powerful emotion, as if he found being inside Newgate Prison almost unbearable. He was pale, there was sweat on his brow, and his hands were trembling. ‘He was G-Greek reader at Christ Church,’ he explained, ‘and is now the sub-librarian at the Bodleian.’

  The Ordinary took a step away from Lord Christopher, who looked as if he was about to be ill. ‘I had thought, my lord,’ the Ordinary said, ‘to be connected instead with the Viscount Combermere. Distantly.’

  ‘Henry Cotton is a g-good fellow,’ Lord Christopher said, ‘a very good fellow. A sound scholar.’

  ‘He’s a pedant,’ Lord Alexander growled. ‘Related to Combermere, are you, Sir Stapleton Cotton as was? He almost lost his right arm at the battle of Salamanca and what a tragic loss that would have been.’

  ‘Oh indeed,’ the Ordinary agreed piously.

  ‘You are not usually tender about soldiers,’ Lord Christopher observed to his friend.

  ‘Combermere can be a very astute batsman,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘especially against twisting balls. Do you play cricket, Cotton?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘It’s good for the wind,’ Lord Alexander declared mysteriously, then turned to offer a lordly inspection of the Association Room, staring up at the ceiling beams, rapping one of the tables, then peering at the cooking pots and cauldrons stacked by the embers of the fire. ‘I see our felons live in some comfort,’ he remarked, then frowned at his friend. ‘Are you quite well, Kit?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed, yes,’ Lord Christopher said hastily, but he looked anything but well. There were beads of sweat on his brow and his skin was paler than usual. He took off his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. ‘It is just that the apprehension of seeing a man launched into eternity is conducive to reflection,’ he explained, ‘very conducive. It is not an experience to be taken lightly.’

  ‘I should think not indeed,’ Lord Alexander said, then turned an imperious eye on the other breakfast guests who seemed to be looking forward to the morning’s events with an unholy glee. Three of them, standing close to the door, laughed at a jest and Lord Alexander scowled at them. ‘Poor Corday,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you pity the man, my lord?’ the Reverend Cotton asked.

  ‘It seems likely he is innocent,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘but it seems proof of that innocence has not been found.’

  ‘If he was innocent, my lord,’ the Ordinary observed with a patronising smile, ‘then I am confident that the Lord God would have revealed that to us.’

  ‘You’re saying you have never hanged an innocent man or woman?’ Lord Alexander demanded.

  ‘God would not allow it,’ the Reverend Cotton averred.

  ‘Then God had better get his boots on this morning,’ Lord Alexander said, then turned as a barred door at the other end of the room opened with a sudden and harsh squeal. For a heartbeat no one appeared in the doorway and it seemed as though all the guests held their breath, but then, to an audible gasp, a short and burly man carrying a stout leather bag stumped into sight. The man was red-faced and dressed in brown gaiters, black breeches and a black coat that was buttoned too tightly over his protuberant belly. He respectfully pulled off a shabby brown hat when he saw the waiting gentry, but he offered no greeting and no one in the Association Room acknowledged his arrival.

  ‘That’s the man Botting,’ the Ordinary whispered.

  ‘Ponderous sort of name for a hangman,’ Lord Alexander observed in a tactlessly loud voice. ‘Ketch, now, that’s a proper hangman’s name. But Botting? Sounds like a disease of cattle.’

  Botting shot a hostile glance at the tall, red-haired Lord Alexander who was quite unmoved by the animosity, though Lord Christopher recoiled a step, perhaps in horror at the hangman’s beef-like face that was disfigured by warts, wens and scars and subject to involuntary grimaces every few seconds. Botting gave the other guests a sardonic look, then heaved a bench aside so he could drop his leather bag onto a table. He unbuckled the bag and, conscious of being watched, brought out four coils of thin white cord. He placed the coils on the table and then took from the bag two heavy ropes, each with a noose at one end and a spliced eye at the other. He placed the two ropes on the table, added two white cotton bags, then stepped smartly back a pace. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said to the Keeper.

  ‘Oh, Botting!’ The Keeper’s surprised tone suggested he had only just noticed the hangman’s presence. ‘And a very good morning to you, too.’

  ‘And a nice one it is, sir,’ Botting said. ‘Hardly a cloud up aloft, hardly one. Still just the two clients today, sir?’

  ‘Just the two, Botting.’

  ‘There’s a fair crowd for them,’ Botting said, ‘not over large, but fair enough.’

  ‘Good, good,’ the Keeper said vaguely.

  ‘Botting!’ Lord Alexander intervened, pacing forward with his crippled foot clumping heavily on the scarred floorboards. ‘Tell me, Botting, is it true that you hang members of the aristocracy with a silken rope?’ Botting looked astonished at being addressed by one of the Keeper’s guests, and even more by such an extraordinary figure as the R
everend Lord Alexander Pleydell with his shock of red hair, hawklike nose and gangly figure. ‘Well?’ Lord Alexander demanded peremptorily. ‘Is it so? I have heard it is, but on matters concerning hanging then you, surely, are the fons et origo of reliable information. Would you not concur?’

  ‘A silken rope, sir?’ Botting asked weakly.

  ‘My lord,’ the Ordinary corrected him.

  ‘My lord! Ha!’ Botting said, recovering his equanimity and amused at the thought that perhaps Lord Alexander was contemplating being executed. ‘I hates to disappoint you, my lord,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t know where to lay hands on a silken rope. Not a silken one. Now this,’ Botting caressed one of the nooses on the table, ‘is the best Bridport hemp, my lord, fine as you could discover anywhere, and I can always lay hands on quality Bridport hemp. But silk? That’s a horse of a different colour, my lord, and I wouldn’t even know where to look. No, my lord. If ever I has the high privilege of hanging a nobleman I’ll be doing it with Bridport hemp, same as I would for anyone else.’

  ‘And quite right too, my good man.’ Lord Alexander beamed approval at the hangman’s levelling instincts. ‘Well done! Thank you.’

  ‘You will forgive me, my lord?’ The Keeper gestured that Lord Alexander should step away from the wide central aisle between the tables.

  ‘I’m in the way?’ Lord Alexander sounded surprised.

  ‘Only momentarily, my lord,’ the Keeper said, and just then Lord Alexander heard the clank of irons and the shuffle of feet. The other guests drew themselves up and made their faces solemn. Lord Christopher Carne took a step back, his face even paler than before, then turned to face the door that led from the Press Yard.

  A turnkey came in first. He knuckled his forehead to the Keeper, then stood beside a low slab of timber that squatted on the floor. The turnkey held a stout hammer and a metal punch and Lord Alexander wondered what their purpose was, but he did not like to ask, and then the guests closest to the door hauled off their hats because the Sheriff and Under-Sheriff were ushering the two prisoners into the Association Room.

  ‘Brandy, sir?’ One of the Keeper’s servants appeared beside Lord Christopher Carne.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lord Christopher could not take his eyes from the slender, pale young man who had come first through the door with legs weighed down by the heavy irons. ‘That,’ he said to the servant, ‘that is Corday?’

  ‘It is, my lord, yes.’

  Lord Christopher gulped down the brandy and reached for another.

  And the two bells, the prison tocsin and the bell of Saint Sepulchre’s, began to toll for those about to die.

  Sandman expected the door of the Great George Street house to be opened by a servant, but instead it was Sebastian Witherspoon, Viscount Sidmouth’s private secretary, who raised his eyebrows in astonishment. ‘An unseemly hour, Captain?’ Witherspoon observed, then frowned at Sandman’s dishevelled state and the ragged looks of his three companions. ‘I do trust you have not all come expecting breakfast?’ he said in a voice dripping with contempt.

  ‘This woman,’ Sandman did not bother with the niceties of a greeting, ‘can testify that Charles Corday is not the murderer of the Countess of Avebury.’

  Witherspoon dabbed at his lips with a napkin stained with egg yolk. He glanced at Meg, then shrugged as if to suggest that her testimony was worthless. ‘How very inconvenient,’ he murmured.

  ‘Viscount Sidmouth is here?’ Sandman demanded.

  ‘We are at work, Sandman,’ Witherspoon said severely. ‘His lordship, as you doubtless know, is a widower and since his sad loss he has sought consolation in hard work. He begins early and works late and does not brook disturbance.’

  ‘This is work,’ Sandman said.

  Witherspoon looked again at Meg and this time he seemed to notice her looks. ‘Must I remind you,’ he said, ‘that the boy has been found guilty and the law is due to take its course in one hour? I really cannot see what can be done at this late juncture.’

  Sandman stepped back from the door. ‘My compliments to Lord Sidmouth,’ he said, ‘and tell him we are going to seek an audience with the Queen.’ He had no idea whether the Queen would receive him, but he was quite sure Witherspoon and the Home Secretary did not want the animosity of the royal family, not when there were honours and pensions to be had from the crown. ‘Her Majesty, I believe,’ Sandman went on, ‘has taken an interest in this case and will doubtless be intrigued to hear of your cavalier attitude. Good day, Witherspoon.’

  ‘Captain!’ Witherspoon pulled the door wide open. ‘Captain! You had better come in.’

  They were shown into an empty parlour. The house, though it was in an expensive street close to the Houses of Parliament, had a makeshift air. It was not permanently lived in, but was plainly let on short leases to politicians like Lord Sidmouth who needed a temporary refuge. The only furniture in the parlour was a pair of stuffed armchairs, both with faded covers, and a heavy desk with a throne-like chair behind. A beautifully bound prayer book lay on the desk next to an untidy pile of regional newspapers which all had articles ringed in ink. Sandman, when they were left alone in the drab parlour, saw that the marked articles were accounts of riots. Folk up and down Britain were taking to the streets to protest against the price of corn or the introduction of machinery to the mills. ‘I sometimes think,’ Sandman said, ‘that the modern world is a very sad place.’

  ‘Has its consolations, Captain,’ Berrigan said carelessly, glancing at Sally.

  ‘Riots, rick burning,’ Sandman said. ‘It never used to be like this! The damned French let anarchy into the world.’

  Berrigan smiled. ‘Things used to be better in the old days, eh? Nothing but cricket and cream?’

  ‘When we weren’t fighting the Frogs? Yes, it did seem like that.’

  ‘No, Captain,’ the Sergeant shook his head, ‘you just had money then. Everything’s easier when you’ve got cash.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Sally said fervently, then turned as the door opened and Witherspoon ushered in the Home Secretary.

  Viscount Sidmouth was wearing a patterned silk dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. He was newly shaven and his white skin had a sheen as though it had been stretched and polished. His eyes, as ever, were cold and disapproving. ‘It seems, Captain Sandman,’ he said acidly, ‘that you choose to inconvenience us?’

  ‘I choose nothing of the sort, my lord,’ Sandman said belligerently.

  Sidmouth frowned at the tone, then looked at Berrigan and the two women. The sound of crockery being cleared came from deeper in the house and made Sandman realise how hungry he was. ‘So,’ the Home Secretary said with distaste in his voice, ‘who do you bring me?’

  ‘My associates, Sergeant Berrigan and Miss Hood …’

  ‘Associates?’ Sidmouth was amused.

  ‘I must acknowledge their assistance, my lord, as no doubt Her Majesty will when she learns the outcome of our enquiries.’

  That not so subtle hint made the Home Secretary grimace. He looked at Meg and almost recoiled from the force of her small eyes and the sight of her mangled teeth and pocked skin. ‘And you, madam?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘Miss Margaret Hargood,’ Sandman introduced her, ‘who was a maid to the Countess of Avebury and was present in the Countess’s bedroom on the day of her murder. She personally escorted Charles Corday from the bedroom before the murder, she saw him out of the house and can testify he did not return. In short, my lord, she can witness that Corday is innocent.’ Sandman spoke with a deal of pride and satisfaction. He was tired, he was hungry, his ankle hurt and his boots and clothes showed the effects of walking from Kent to London, but by God he had discovered the truth.

  Sidmouth’s lips, already thin, compressed into a bloodless line as he looked at Meg. ‘Is it true, woman?’

  Meg drew herself up. She was not in the least awed by his lordship, but instead looked him up and down, then sniffed. ‘I don’t know nothing,’ she said.

  ‘I be
g your pardon?’ The Home Secretary blanched at the insolence in her voice.

  ‘He comes and kidnaps me!’ Meg shrieked, pointing at Sandman. ‘Which he got no bleeding right to do! Takes me away from my chooks. He can fake away off where he came from, and what do I care who killed her? Or who dies for her?’

  ‘Meg,’ Sandman tried to plead with her.

  ‘Get your bleeding paws off me!’

  ‘Dear God,’ Viscount Sidmouth said in a pained voice, and backed towards the door. ‘Witherspoon,’ he said, ‘we are wasting our time.’

  ‘Got ever such big wasps in Australia,’ Sally said, ‘begging your lordship’s pardon.’

  Even Viscount Sidmouth with his thin, barren lawyer’s mind was not oblivious of Sally’s charms. In the dark room she was like a ray of sunlight and he actually smiled at her, even though he did not understand her meaning. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said to her.

  ‘Ever such big wasps in Australia,’ Sally said, ‘and that’s where this mollisher’s going on account that she didn’t give her testimony at Charlie’s trial. She should have done, but she didn’t. Protecting her man, see? And you’re going to transport her, aren’t you, my lord?’ Sally reinforced this rhetorical question with a graceful curtsey.

  The Home Secretary frowned. ‘Transportation? It is for the courts, my dear, not me to decide on who should be …’ His voice suddenly tailed away for he was staring with astonishment at Meg, who was shivering with fear.

  ‘Very large wasps in Australia,’ Sandman said, ‘famously so.’

  ‘Aculeata Giganta,’ Witherspoon contributed rather impressively.

  ‘No!’ Meg cried.

  ‘Big ones,’ Sally said with extraordinary relish, ‘with stingers like hatpins.’

  ‘He didn’t do it!’ Meg said, ‘and I don’t want to go to Australia!’

  Sidmouth was looking at her much as the audience must have gazed on the pig-faced lady at the Lyceum. ‘Are you saying,’ he asked in a very cold voice, ‘that Charles Corday did not commit the murder?’