A Stroke of Bad Luck

by Diane Janes

  ‘I expect you know that there’s a petition too…’ her voice faltered unexpectedly and she didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘So I’m told.’

  She looked down at her hands, folded together in her lap, until she had regained mastery of her voice, and was able to look up again and meet his eyes, as she said, ‘I have signed it myself.’

  A flicker of some indefinable emotion crossed his face, but his voice was perfectly steady as he said, ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

  ‘I have also written to the Home Secretary.’

  ‘Aye. I believe there’s been a lot of letters written.’

  ‘Mr Brown… Ernest… please… If you would only tell the whole truth of what happened…’

  A silence hung in the air between them, thick as a woollen blanket. She looked straight into his eyes again and for the first time she fancied that she divined a doubt. He dropped his gaze to the table, an unintended murmur escaping from his lips.

  ‘What did you say? Ernest… Mr Brown, did you say that you can’t?’

  When he remained silent, Florence continued desperately, ‘Ernest, I believe you are protecting someone. I am sure you are not telling the whole truth about what happened.’

  When he lifted his eyes and faced her again, his features had taken on that strangely neutral, faintly insolent expression, which was both infuriating and yet made her feel a little light headed. ‘We’ve gone over all this before, Miss Morton,’ he said. ‘With due respect.’

  ‘I could help you,’ she said, desperation colouring her tone. ‘You forget that I was there, that morning when they were searching for Freddie’s body. So was my father. Dorothy was not afraid of you then, was she? She said nothing to any of them then about what terror she and Miss Houseman had suffered the night before – why not, Mr Brown, when the place was crawling with policemen and both of the families and… and all the farm workers too?’

  As the prisoner made to get to his feet, both warders instinctively rose from their seats.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, but you’re upsetting the prisoner,’ the warder who had escorted her in, now materialised at her side. ‘Begging your pardon, but he’s not here to be cross examined.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed swiftly. ‘No, of course not. My apologies, of course.’ She hesitated. ‘Forgive me, Mr Brown.’

  ‘No offence taken, Miss Morton.’

  She noticed that he spoke in the stiff, formal voice which he would always have used for the people who thought themselves his betters. Respectful, yet not entirely sincere. Turning to the warder who had accompanied him from the condemned cell, he said, ‘I think I’d like to get back to that game of whist now.’

  The warder nodded and as Brown stood up in readiness to leave he said, ‘Thank you again for troubling to come in – and thank you for signing the petition and sending the letter and all.’

  She stood up too and watched as he walked towards the door in the opposite wall. The door was opened by an unseen hand – someone watching and waiting on the other side of it – and as the warder who had accompanied the condemned man stood aside to let him pass, she realised that once the door had closed behind him, she would not ever see him again. The prison had already swallowed him up and now it would keep him here forever, even his bodily remains consigned to an unmarked burial plot, in the corner of a yard, somewhere unseen to public view.

  ‘Ernest!’

  He stopped and turned, framed in the doorway, his face already in the shadow of the corridor beyond.

  ‘You know my address – my father’s address – if you should decide to write to me.’

  He hesitated, then silently inclined his head, pausing it seemed for one last look at her, before he turned into the corridor and walked away without a word.

  Chapter Twenty

  Thursday 25 January 1934

  Martin’s Nest, Yorkshire

  Florence was sitting before the drawing room fire when she finally heard her father coming in at in the front door. He was much later than expected, but when he finally entered the room, after the inevitable delay while he divested himself of the winter outer layers, her swift appraisal took in nothing to suggest that the weight of his anxieties had led to a diversion into a local hostelry.

  ‘It took rather longer than expected,’ he said, wearily, in answer to her unasked question.

  ‘Poor Daddy,’ she said. ‘I will ring for Hilda to bring in the tea. Such a horrible day, too.’

  They both glanced towards the window panes, obscured by rivulets of wind driven rain.

  ‘I wish you had let me come with you,’ she said.

  ‘Nonsense. Court rooms are no place for a respectable woman; whatever would your mother have said? I had your uncle Henry with me. That was enough.’

  ‘And Dorothy? Was she there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you have any conversation with her?’

  ‘There was no need. She was with her father, as usual.’

  Florence said nothing. The presence of Dorothy’s father, or indeed any one of her other relatives, would have been no reason for not speaking with her back in happier times. Florence wondered what the press and public would have made of it, if they had noticed this complete lack of interaction between these two families, once united by marriage and now driven apart by death.

  ‘Was it very awful? I thought everyone said that completing the inquest was just a formality. Why did it take so long?’

  ‘It shouldn’t have taken any time at all. Unfortunately some of the jurors weren’t happy. Fellow speaking on their behalf said he didn’t see how they could bring in a verdict of murder against Brown, when they hadn’t heard the evidence.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Florence watched her father anxiously. Surely he had not been subjected to yet another recital of the terrible fire and the blackened body, with its fatal, tell-tale wound? Was there no one who understood what it did to a person, to have to hear it all, over and over again, knowing that the charred flesh had once represented a living, breathing son? Freddie’s framed photograph gazed back at her from the mantelpiece: relaxed and smiling, in the year before his marriage, his greyhounds Flash and Joe-bee, held firmly on their leashes, his wide, fashionable cap tipped at a jaunty angle.

  At that moment they were interrupted by a tap on the door, followed by the appearance of Hilda and Grace, carrying in the tea. The small table with its starched white cloth was brought before the fire, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and tongs, the plates bearing bread and butter, the cake stand with its scones and fruit cake, each in turn dispensed from the big wooden trays. Tea cups tinkling on their saucers, tea plates, napkins, an endless performance, all dragged out to the nth degree, Florence suspected, because the maids were hoping to overhear some titbit or other from Mr Morton’s attendance at the inquest; but of course, her father said not another word, until Hilda had made a final, determined assault upon the fire, with the poker, after which both young women had retired from the room and closed the door behind them.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The coroner told the men that they had only to bring in a verdict that was in agreement with the one reached at the assizes. Murder by Ernest Brown.’

  ‘And did that satisfy them?’

  ‘Apparently not. The jury retired to consider the matter and then came back shortly afterwards to say that they did not see how they could come to that verdict.’ Her father paused to accept the cup of tea she had poured for him and having set it down at the side of his chair, he helped himself to a piece of fruit cake, ignoring the bread and butter. ‘The coroner told them their duty for a second time and this fellow who I suspect was causing all the trouble spoke up again. He said that he did not see that they could be asked to bring in a verdict that they did not all agree with. The coroner asked him what he meant by that and there was some muttering between the men,
after which this fellow said that some of them were not satisfied that it had been proved that Brown had murdered Freddie.’

  Florence was unable to keep the eagerness out of her voice. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The coroner told them a third time that it was their duty to bring in a verdict in accordance with what had been agreed at the trial. He said they had no power to do anything else.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous! If that is so, then what is the point of holding an inquest at all?’

  ‘The law is the law, my dear.’

  ‘But those men were being asked to deliver a verdict that they did not agree with, as if it were their own.’

  Her father said nothing. She waited, but he merely followed the preliminary bite of his cake with another, larger mouthful.

  ‘Did they continue to refuse?’

  ‘No. They retired from the court a second time and when they came back in again, the man appointed foreman – not the fellow who’d been putting up all the objections – recited the verdict.’

  ‘But they were not happy?’

  Her father shook his head. What is happy? his expression seemed to say. Florence hesitated, all her doubts, her theories, the contents of the closely written sheets of argument, contained within her dressing table drawer, fluttered around in her mind. For a moment she was determined to say something, but then she recognised his intense weariness. He had lost his only son and come to doubt the paternity of his only grandchild. She understood that it was useless, even to attempt to enlist his aid, in the interests of a man who had cuckolded his darling Freddie.

  He broke the silence by announcing: ‘At least it’s all over.’ He picked up his cup and saucer, lifting the cup so as to bring the edge of the china cautiously to his lips, testing the temperature. ‘Needs a little more milk,’ he said, replacing the cup and using the same hand to reach for the little milk jug.

  Not quite all over, Florence thought. She looked across towards the photo in its polished silver frame, but instead of Freddie and his dogs, she saw the tall, dark haired man in prison garb, framed in the doorway as she had seen him last. The execution was set for the first day of February.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Thursday 25 January 1934

  Martin’s Nest, Yorkshire

  The light from the fringed bedside lamp was even duller than usual, Florence noticed. The bulb was probably on the wane. Of course they only used low wattage bulbs in the bedroom, because bedrooms were merely for getting undressed on the hearthrug before climbing into bed, huddled in a nightgown and bed socks, and waiting for the warmth of the hot water bottle and the weight of the bedclothes to take effect. Her late mother had never encouraged the idea of reading in bed, claiming that it was ruinous to the eyes, and refusing to subscribe to Florence’s theory that brighter lighting might have made all the difference. Though her mother had been dead for several years now, and Florence was nominally in charge of domestic arrangements, things had not really changed at Martin’s Nest.

  It would have been harder to make out the words on the sheets she was holding, if she had not written them herself, but as it was, the risk of eye strain was minimised by her familiarity with the contents. The fire in the grate had already diminished to a reddish glow and the hands which emerged from her sensible flannel nightgown were becoming increasingly chilly. The rest of her was warm enough, however, for the covers were pulled well above her chest and her shoulders were swaddled in both a knitted bed-jacket and a shawl, rather as if she were some kind of elderly invalid, she thought.

  Though she almost knew them off by heart, she read through the points which she had underlined yet again.

  Who was the man that Dolly swam with at Wetherby? Who were her other lovers? Where were these men on the night of the fire?

  Dolly said that when Ann got back, they sat in the garden and then made jam, but Ann says that when she got back, she went straight inside and started the jam. Who is correct? Does it matter?

  Why didn’t Ernest return to the Malt Shovel that night?

  Why did no one see Ernest take the shotgun from the cupboard?

  Where was Freddie between quarter to nine and half past eleven?

  How could Ernest have shot Freddie at half past eleven, if the gun was already back in the cupboard?

  If Dolly saw Ernest putting the white handled knife back in the drawer, why was it found in a wheelbarrow in the yard the next morning?

  Dolly and Ann say that they heard nothing moving on the drive until Freddie freewheeled the Chrysler down it at half past eleven, but Ernest says that by then he had already freewheeled the Essex down to the garage – why didn’t they hear that? (NB. Someone must have moved the Essex at some point, because it was found burned out in the garage.)

  No man should be found guilty while there is a reasonable doubt, she thought, yet here there were doubts aplenty, and Ernest Brown had never the less been condemned to die. Had no one else observed all these strange discrepancies? Was there no one else who thought that they mattered? Surely it was not too late to do something, if she only knew what.

  It was useless writing to the newspapers, who were all set dead against Ernest Brown since the verdict, and anyway she knew that to publically associate herself with the campaign to save him would only attract more notoriety and she was not sure how much more of it her poor father could stand. When she had tentatively attempted to raise some of her doubts with him that night after supper, he had made it perfectly clear that he considered the matter closed and just wanted to be left in peace.

  She knew that the last word rested with the Home Secretary, because that was the person to whom the petition entreating mercy for Ernest Brown had been addressed, but she had written to the Home Secretary once already, and though almost a week had passed, she had yet to receive a reply. Then she remembered what Ernest had said about Mr Hyams. Perhaps even now the young solicitor from Huddersfield was putting together the file of evidence which would save his client’s neck.

  Well… perhaps not precisely now, since it was past eleven o’clock at night. She shuffled her sheets of paper together and placed them in a neat little pile on the bedside table, before extending her hand a little further until her outstretched fingers encountered the switch on the base of her bedside lamp, which she pressed down to extinguish the light. Now there was just the faint glow from the fireplace and the occasional sound of one coal shifting against another. She slid beneath the bedclothes and shut her eyes, but sleep eluded her, just as it had for far too many nights before.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Friday 26 January 1934

  The Home Office, Whitehall, London

  Charles Featherstone stood silently before the Sir John Gilmour’s desk, trying to ignore the pain from his chilblains, while the Home Secretary seemed to take an age to read and initial the papers before him, and then to take what seemed like another age to fussily re-order them on the treasury tag, fold the manila cover of the file back together, then pass it up to Featherstone in a movement to which they were both so accustomed that their two hands might have been part of a single machine.

  ‘Anything else, Featherstone?’

  ‘One more thing, Sir John. A letter in regard to the Brown case.’

  The Home Secretary emitted a sound which was somewhere between a snort and a sigh. Charles Featherstone was well aware of the amount of time which had already been taken up with matters pertaining to this particular prisoner. Only a couple of days ago there had been a stay of execution, thanks to the arrival of a letter from some meddlesome fellow in Huddersfield, claiming that Ernest Brown’s grandfather had ended his days in an asylum and suggesting that insanity ran in his family. Thanks to there having been some suggestion during the trial, that the man had behaved in a thoroughly irrational manner on the night of the murder, it had been deemed necessary to bring in a psychiatrist to examine Brown, in
addition to which, the doctor who had treated his family ever since he was a boy had also been approached for information, but neither had been able to report anything which remotely implied that the fellow should escape the hangman on the grounds that he was a lunatic, and as a result, his date with the execution chamber had now been slated for 6 February. This in turn had sparked a further flurry of protest, mostly in the form of letters to the newspapers, or else direct to the Home Office, arguing that it was disgraceful to torment a man by constantly promising him death, but then postponing it.

  ‘Another one?’ Sir John said, without bothering to disguise the weariness in his tone. ‘I thought you had Beach dealing with all of those?’

  ‘This one is slightly different, sir. In the first place it is addressed to you personally, but the really unusual aspect is that the letter appears to have been written by the sister of the deceased in the case.’ A quizzical look from his boss encouraged him to continue. ‘The letter comes from a Miss Florence Morton, sir, and she appears to be suggesting that the man Brown is innocent.’

  ‘Are you sure that it’s genuine, Featherstone? Did the dead man even have a sister? You know what some of these cranks and fraudsters are like.’

  ‘The letter arrived several days ago, sir, and I have already taken the liberty of making some enquiries. So far as it has been possible for me to ascertain, the letter does indeed emanate from the victim’s sister.’

  ‘How very odd. The relatives are generally at the forefront in baying for the guilty party’s blood. Is she a crank herself – or an abolitionist perhaps?’

  ‘The young woman writes in a perfectly rational manner, and she makes no objection to hanging per se, merely to hanging what she perceives as an innocent man. If I may suggest, Sir John, irrespective of the contents, a personal reply would appear indicated, given her very close association with the case.’