A Stroke of Bad Luck

by Diane Janes

  The prisoner hesitated. He was sitting on the side of his bed, where he had previously been chatting with Tyler and Gregory. He wasn’t a big talker, but when he had something to say, it had generally been worth listening to. He was well informed, for a man of his class, and forthright with his opinions. You learned a lot about a man, sitting with him, hour after hour, for six long weeks. Though raised in a town, he loved the countryside. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about the welfare and husbandry of horses, but he was also well-up on the repair and maintenance of motor vehicles. He had spoken affectionately of his relations and appeared to have a very wide circle of friends. ‘Meeting him in the pub, you wouldn’t have had him down as a murderer,’ Harry Gregory had once remarked.

  He was easy to like, that was the trouble. He told them that he’d always had a quick temper, but there hadn’t been much sign of that in here. By and large he had given them no trouble, aside from occasionally being a bit cheeky, while on remand. He liked a laugh and a joke and he’d told them one or two good stories, these last few weeks, retaining his sense of humour, even in this cheerless place.

  The warders had been curious of course, about the crime itself, but they were under strict instructions not to ask for any details, and Ernest had volunteered none, explaining nothing, but simply acting as if he was confident of a reprieve. Surely now, Joe thought, he must realise that it wasn’t going to come? The chaplain had taken to visiting every day, and Ernest had been reading his Bible as Reverend Hadfield had advised him to. Apparently Ernest had attended the Mission Hall in Huddersfield as a lad, which had proved a point of connection between them, for Joe Fazackerley too had been raised a Methodist, and they had exchanged memories of favourite hymns together. Aye, there was none as could sing out like a Methodist. (Harry Gregory, a Baptist himself, had begged to disagree.)

  ‘I want to get word to Miss Morton.’ The prisoner’s words came unexpectedly, startling Joe out of his reverie.

  ‘How do you mean, Ernest?’ Harry Gregory asked.

  ‘I’d like to see her – as soon as possible.’

  ‘But it’s ten o’clock at night.’

  ‘I know. I meant tomorrow. I’d like to get word to her to come in and see me tomorrow.’

  Joe hesitated, glancing at Gregory. ‘We won’t be able to do anything now Ernest. Shifts have changed and there will be no one in the office until the morning. I daresay they could send word then, but…’

  Harry helped him out: ‘There’s no guarantee that she would get the message. She might not be at home and…’

  ‘And time’s running short,’ Ernest finished for him.

  ‘Are you sure that she would want to come?’ Joe asked, quietly. ‘It’s a big thing, for a young woman to come into the jail like that.’

  ‘She will come. She’s asked me for the truth and I want to give it to her.’

  ‘Ernest – what exactly do you mean? Are you saying that you haven’t told the whole truth until now?’ Joe’s tone was cautious. They were not to upset the prisoner, or ask him probing questions, but on the other hand, if he was minded to make a clean breast of it, a final confession before witnesses, it would put a lot of minds at rest and stifle all these do-gooders who’d been hanging about near the prison gates, waving placards and shouting after officers, when they arrived for work or left for home.

  ‘I want to tell Miss Morton what really happened. She’s a good sort and she deserves to know. And her father too. Loves his horses does Mr Morton. I’ve known him since I were only a lad myself. He often had a kind word for me at shows, and it was him as recommended me to work for Fred in the first place. I saw the way he looked at me, when he thought it was me as had killed his son. It upset me at the time but I thought I must keep quiet, you see.’

  ‘Only now you’ve changed your mind?’

  ‘I have. But it’s to Miss Morton I want to tell what really happened.’

  ‘Ernest,’ Joe leaned forward in his chair. ‘A request like this is very unusual, especially with Miss Morton not being a member of your family and all. It would have to go through the governor and even if he agreed to it, we may not be able to get Miss Morton here in time.’ He paused. Brown was watching him, taking in and weighing up what he said. Joe abruptly recalled those descriptions which the two women had given of him at the trial, a man who had supposedly looked ‘wild’ and ‘mad’. Yet here was this same man facing imminent death, and Joe thought that he had seldom seen a man who looked more calm and resolute. A man who having made up his mind to do something, now intended to see it through.

  ‘If you were to tell us what it is that you want to tell Miss Morton, and we were able to pass this on to the governor tomorrow morning, that might help persuade him to send for Miss Morton.’

  The man on the bunk hesitated. After an almost unbearably long pause, he drew in a breath and said, ‘Very well. I’ll tell you what really happened.’

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Monday 5 February 1934

  His Majesty’s Prison, Armley, Yorkshire

  John Wilton, recently promoted to prison governor’s secretary, sat at his desk in the corner of the most comfortable room in Armley Jail and watched as the prisoner and his guards came marching through the doorway. He had never seen Ernest Brown in the flesh and like the majority of the population of Yorkshire and beyond, entertained a certain amount of curiosity about the man. In Wilton’s case the level of curiosity had been considerably elevated by the conversation which he had overheard between his gaffer and Brown’s guards, Fazackerly and Gregory, just half an hour earlier.

  After spending almost three months on remand, followed by another six weeks in the condemned cell, being ushered into the governor’s office must be akin to entering another world, Wilton thought. The echoing corridors, clanging iron gates, perpetual clatter of keys and distant voices raised against the general clamour, all of which made up the prisoners’ world, abruptly transformed into an oasis of leather chairs (not that the prisoner would be invited to sit down of course) and polished wooden desks, a clear glass, unbarred window, and a carpet, patterned in red and black, which deadened the sound of Ernest’s feet, and those of his inevitable escort, the familiar shapes of Bottomley and Jordan, his minders for the day shift.

  ‘Now then, Brown.’ The governor’s voice was firm but not unkind. ‘This story which you told the officers, in your cell last night – can you explain to me why you have withheld it until now?’

  It was clearly not the question which he had been anticipating, and for a moment Ernest Brown hesitated, emitting no more than a small choking sound, the product of a dry throat.

  ‘It is quite different to the story you have been telling all along, isn’t it?’ coaxed the governor. ‘It’s not at all the same as the story which you told, on oath, in court.’

  ‘No sir.’ Now that the man had found his voice it came out strongly.

  ‘Which of these stories is correct? The one you told on oath, after placing your hand on the Holy Bible, or the one you are telling us now, when you have taken no oath at all to tell the truth?’

  ‘The one that I’m telling now is the truth.’

  ‘Address the governor as “sir”.’ Bert Jordan issued a swift reminder.

  ‘The one that I am telling now, sir.’

  ‘Would you be willing to tell this new story after taking such an oath? Bearing in mind that your time on earth now is liable to be short? That having stood before an earthly court, you will soon be standing before the court of Heaven?’

  ‘I am not afraid to stand before the court of Heaven, sir, for I believe they will give me fairer judgement there than I have had on earth.’ Ernest held his head erect and looked the man behind the desk right in the eyes. ‘I am perfectly willing to swear on the Bible, the life of my daughter, or anything else you care to suggest, that the story I told last night is the true one.’

 
‘So, let us return to the original question. Can you explain why you have waited until now to tell this story? You realise that it is probably too late to save yourself?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Then why are you telling this new story now?’

  ‘I have been thinking of Miss Morton, sir. She asked me to tell her the truth and last night, I finally decided that I should. Mr Fazackerley and Mr Gregory told me that if I explained the whole circumstances to them, it might make you more favourably inclined to asking Miss Morton to come and visit, so that I can explain it all to her in person.’

  ‘So you have come up with this story in order to gain a last visit from Miss Morton?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Ernest refused to be riled. ‘I have decided to tell Miss Morton the truth. I’ve kept silent until now, but in doing so, I can see that I have wronged Miss Morton. I don’t want to die with a lie on my conscience and her not knowing how her brother met his end. She desired to have the truth and I have decided to give it to her.’

  ‘Let us return to our starting point. I understand what you say about Miss Morton, but for goodness sake, man, you have been under sentence of death for these past six weeks. Surely you did not want to die for a crime which you say you did not commit?’

  ‘But I did not believe that I was going to die, sir.’

  There was a mulish note in the prisoner’s voice, which Wilton could tell was exasperating the governor.

  ‘How can you possibly say that? You stood in court and were sentenced, were you not? You attended your appeal and heard it turned down. You have known for weeks now that you were to face execution. How could you have believed otherwise?’

  ‘I believed British justice to be the finest in the world. That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? An innocent man has nothing to fear. I didn’t believe they could find me guilty.’ Wilton detected an unmistakable hint of bitterness, bordering on recrimination, in the man’s tone.

  The governor inhaled deeply, but before he could respond, the prisoner continued, ‘Beyond reasonable doubt, it’s supposed to be, sir. How could they find me guilty, when I hadn’t committed the crime? And even when the jury said I was guilty, I thought it would be looked at. I thought someone higher up would look into it and see that I was an innocent man.’

  ‘But you now admit that you told the court lies.’

  ‘It shouldn’t matter what you say – lies or not – if you’re innocent then you’re innocent,’ Ernest said stubbornly.

  ‘It is highly irregular, Brown, and I warn you now that I can make no promises, but I will have some sheets of foolscap sent to your cell and I want you to write down the story that you told Fazackerley and Gregory last night, and that they in turn have told me this morning. It is just faintly possible, that some “higher-ups” as you put it, may be willing to consider what you have to say. I assume that you are prepared to put this story down on paper?’

  ‘Yes sir, of course.’

  ‘Very well then. You will need to make a quick job of it. Time is pressing. See what you can do, and when it is finished,’ the governor’s glance embraced Bottomley and Jordan, both standing silent and impassive to either side of their charge, ‘I want it brought to me immediately. It goes without saying that none of this is to be discussed beyond the walls of this office and of Brown’s quarters.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  After chorusing their agreement, the warders prepared to escort Brown out of the room, but though the governor had glanced away, his attention momentarily distracted by a gust of wind which flung a handful of hailstones against the window, Wilton saw that the groom from Huddersfield had not quite finished.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but what about Miss Morton?’

  From his corner, Wilton noted that while Brown’s words were always polite, his tone never became craven or subservient.

  The governor turned back to find the prisoner still standing in the same position as before. ‘I have noted your request regarding Miss Morton.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Only now was Brown prepared to follow the lead from his guards, and turning on his heel, he marched smartly from the room.

  It had hardly been necessary to reiterate the element of secrecy, Wilton thought. The entire prison had been placed in lockdown for the duration of Brown’s outing to the governor’s office, in order to ensure that none of the other inmates should be aware that there was anything unusual going on. Now that the trio were on their way back to Brown’s normal quarters and the door had closed behind them, the governor turned his attention to his secretary.

  ‘Wilton, kindly organise the necessary writing materials to be taken down to the condemned cell immediately. Then get the Home Secretary on the telephone.’

  ‘Sir John Gilmour, sir?’

  ‘Of course Sir John Gilmour. The holder of the office hasn’t changed since yesterday evening, has it?’

  ‘No sir. Of course not. And what about Miss Morton, sir?’

  ‘What about Miss Morton?’

  ‘Do you wish me to attempt to communicate with the lady, sir? We have her address – and possibly her telephone number – in the file.’

  ‘Certainly not. Not only would it be highly irregular, but we simply cannot start a hare running. There has been quite enough fuss and agitation about this particular case already.’

  Prisoners were supplied with a limited amount of prison notepaper for their letters, but that would clearly be inadequate for the matter in hand. Deciding that the fastest way to get the sheets of foolscap down to Brown would be to take them from his own supply of stationery and send them with Partridge, the minion who occupied a desk just outside the governor’s door, Wilton went immediately to the large cupboard which stood in an alcove adjacent to his desk, and began to count out some sheets from his stock. In prison, everything was counted and recorded. He decided that four, which allowed for eight sides of writing, would be more than enough. Emerging from behind the cupboard door, he saw that the governor, generally very much a stranger to idleness, was sitting at his desk with folded hands, staring at the panels of the door through which Ernest Brown and his guards had recently departed, much as if he was mentally following them on their long walk back to Brown’s quarters.

  Wilton decided to be bold. ‘What do you make of it, sir? This new story that Brown is telling?’

  ‘I don’t know, Wilton. Quite frankly, I don’t know. However, if it is something which may make a difference to his case, then naturally it is my duty to pursue the matter.’

  ‘Naturally, sir.’

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Monday 5 February 1934

  The Home Office, Whitehall, London

  ‘So come on Featherstone, old chap. You must know what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  Seeing that the two men were alone, James Hedley-Bruce decided that it was safe to give his colleague a friendly nudge, while saying, ‘Dear boy, it’s always confidential.’ He knew perfectly well that Featherstone wouldn’t hold out on him – he never did. Besides which, even in his own much less senior capacity, he was aware of one or two of the details, because Featherstone had already asked him to make a couple of telephone calls.

  Charles Featherstone glanced over his shoulder conspiratorially – an entirely unnecessary measure in the otherwise deserted office – and said, ‘It’s the man Ernest Brown. Under sentence of death at Leeds and supposed to hang tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I guessed as much.’

  ‘There’s been a telephone call from the prison governor. Apparently this Brown chap made a clean breast of things to the prison warders last night.’

  ‘I’ve heard that a lot of them do that at the end. So if he’s admitted it at last, why all the fuss?’

  ‘You don’t understand. Brown isn’t confessing, apparently he has named someone else.’

  ‘But w
asn’t he pleading not guilty all along?’

  ‘Yes, but apparently this new story – well – the prison governor seems to think that there might be something in it.’

  ‘The “something” presumably being that Brown didn’t do it after all, because he can prove that somebody else did?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Bit late for a last ditch appeal.’

  ‘There can’t be another appeal. There’s no legal precedent for it. The only possibility now would be a Royal Pardon.’

  ‘Involving the King himself.’

  ‘His Majesty will always follow whatever the Home Sec recommends in matters like these.’

  ‘And what does Sir John think about it all?’

  Featherstone shrugged. ‘It’s a hot potato. You can’t win with the public, when it comes to executions.’

  ‘And is this fellow Brown telling the truth, do you think?’

  ‘Who knows? A man of that type would say anything to save his own skin, I would imagine.’

  ‘Well so would I!’

  ‘What? Say anything?’

  ‘In that situation? Of course I would. The fellow’s probably lying through his teeth. So what’s the old man going to do about it?’

  ‘He’s got the prison governor to catch the train down to London, bringing this new confession with him.’

  ‘The prison governor himself eh?’ Hedley-Brown drew in a breath through pursed lips, making the air whistle as it crossed his lower teeth.

  ‘The prison governor himself,’ Featherstone repeated. He wished that Hedley-Bruce was not given to such extravagant gestures as whistling through his teeth. An unattractive sort of activity in an otherwise very attractive young man. ‘In the meantime the Home Sec is assembling some of the original team from the trial to meet the DPP and discuss it. This is very hush hush,’ he added.

  ‘Of course. So that’s why he wanted me to get old Paley Scott on the blower this morning.’