The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  Arthur rolled his eyes. “Mother, even if he does get sentenced, he won’t be in prison for that long. Please, let’s try to keep things in perspective.”

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” I added helpfully.

  “It’s probably quite exciting,” Martha added, then hastily ducked back behind the door frame at the sight of Mother’s expression.

  “Exciting? What a preposterous thing to say!” She snorted, then rose from the armchair, tugging her skirts back into place. “I’d feel a lot better about it if you two would agree to go and visit him.”

  Arthur gave me a look, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, easing his arm over Mother’s shoulder, and guiding her out to the kitchen. “If it would put your mind at rest, we’ll do it.”

  “Today?”

  “I doubt they’ll let us see him at such short notice,” I said quickly, catching Eleanor’s eye. She winced, then started setting the tea tray.

  “They will if you pay them, won’t they?” Mother said, with a deliberate nod in Arthur’s direction.

  Poor old Arthur, I thought. Already, he’s become the family’s personal bank. I wonder how long it will be until the role irks him? Knowing his generous nature, it probably never would. I personally had never been comfortable asking him for financial assistance, though Mother seemed to have no such problem.

  Martha skipped around the table, her stockinged feet sliding on the tiles. “Can I go too?”

  “Absolutely not!” Mother squawked. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “Why can’t I go? I won’t make a fuss or anything.”

  “It’s indecorous for a young lady to enter a gaol.”

  “Oh, everything’s indecorous when you’re a girl. It’s so dull, why do men have all the fun?”

  “That’s a very good question,” Eleanor muttered quietly, eyes twinkling. She handed me the tray, which was stacked to the brim with cups, saucers, a teapot and a pile of buns.

  Arthur nudged his sister. “If it was up to me, you could come like a shot,” he said, as they headed out into the garden. “But it isn’t, I’m afraid. I’ll tell you everything about it, though, how about that?”

  “No, you will not!” Mother trailed after them, her voice trailing out into the sunshine. “There’s absolutely nothing she needs to know about gaols, thank you very much!”

  I grimaced, waited for my wife to step out, then followed, tray in hand. I didn’t anticipate being able to spend much time enjoying tea in the sunshine. Past experience had taught me that if Mother wanted us to do something, she’d keep on at it like a terrier with a rabbit, until we caved in. Sure enough, less than half an hour later, Arthur and I eventually conceded defeat, headed out to the main street, and hailed a hansom cab to take us to Clerkenwell House of Detention.

  “So much for a relaxing weekend,” I grumbled, as the driver whipped the horses to a canter. The carriage jolted into action, before settling into a comfortable, rattling rhythm. “I was quite enjoying resting in the garden, listening to the bees and the sparrows.”

  “I know,” Arthur replied, patting his brow with his handkerchief, before folding it delicately back into his pocket. He surveyed me carefully, before adding, “So, do you think he did it?”

  I leant back, considering. “Who knows? I don’t feel as if I know Fred at all these days. He’s sunk low, Arthur, he really has.”

  I thought back to that last disastrous time I’d seen him, when he’d brought the odious Elizabeth Stride into our family home. She’d certainly seemed like the type to drag a man down into the gutter. I supposed we should be thankful for small mercies that their relationship had ended when it did.

  “I wouldn’t mind so much,” Arthur said, with a twinkle in his eye, “if Clerkenwell wasn’t such a deucedly unpleasant place to visit.”

  “Worse than Whitechapel,” I added.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But still. It’s a den of ill repute. We shall have to be on our guard for cutpurses.”

  The hansom cab finally pulled outside the gates of the prison, the horse hoofs clattering to a halt over the cobblestones. It was a suitably grave, ominous gate; oak-heavy and flanked by cold grey stone.

  “’Ere you are,” the driver croaked through the hatch door. “You just visiting, then?”

  Arthur paid him, then rapped on the glass. “Yes. That will be all, thank you.”

  With a grumble, the driver released the catch on the door, letting us climb out. It was even warmer here than in Mother’s garden; the air was more stagnant, and far less fragrant. A group of filthy children gazed on with eyes that were too big for their heads, and a beggar rested against the wall, fingers clasped around a bottle. Arthur wasn’t wrong about this place, I thought. Let’s hope this doesn’t take too long.

  “Shall we?” To my surprise, even Arthur looked rather hesitant, his usual confidence sliding beneath an expression of concern.

  We raised our fists and knocked smartly on the gate door. Then, we waited. The children edged closer, eyes widening at our clothes, our shined shoes, the cleanliness of our skin. I felt like a foreigner, gawped at by strangers, even though my own home was just a few miles across the river.

  Finally, with an ear-splitting creak, the gate swung open. A stiff, austere man peered out, uniform buttoned to his neck, a boxlike hat atop his head.

  “Yes, gentlemen?” He scratched his mutton-chops, a raspy, insect-like noise, then folded his arms, looking down at us from the length of his not inconsiderable nose.

  Arthur stepped forward. “We’re here to visit a prisoner. It’s urgent.”

  The guard shook his head. “No visitors permitted.”

  “We have money?”

  “Hmm.” The guard paused, then studied us carefully. “How much do you have?”

  We glanced at one another and shrugged.

  “How much does it take?” Arthur asked.

  “Ten shillings.”

  I snorted. “Surely not.”

  “That’s what it is, gentlemen. Take it or leave it.”

  Arthur pressed against the gate before the man could close it. “How about five shillings?”

  “Eight.”

  “Seven?”

  The guard sighed, an elaborate noise that suggested he’d engaged in this ritual many times before. “Very well. Come in and tell me which prisoner you’d like to visit. You haven’t got long though. That’s the rules, I’m afraid.”

  We entered the courtyard and tried not to flinch as the gates slammed shut behind us. The main building was an elegant yet forbidding affair; brick-built and flanked by pillars, but the surrounding buildings were far starker. These, I presumed, must be where the prisoners were held captive.

  “Come on, come through. We haven’t got all day.” The prison guard ushered us through to a grimy-looking room with a large, unwieldy desk, plus several other guards, all wearing matching expressions of weariness and ill-concealed contempt. I felt my skin crawling beneath my shirt.

  “Right, Frederick, you said his first name was?” The prison guard rifled through some papers on the desk, then prodded a finger against one of them. “Ah, yes, here he is. Cell eighteen. I’ll take you there now.”

  We followed him down the narrow corridors, which stank of damp, crumbling brick and human misery. It was a hovel of a place, poorly kept and badly designed; even worse than I’d imagined it. After a time, we began to pass cell doors, grim metal affairs with grilled windows. I spied the occasional face, peering out at us with interest, but kept my head down. I had no wish to interact with these people. Come to mention it, I hardly have any desire to interact with Fred, I thought bitterly.

  Cell eighteen was on the left, at what must have been the end of one of the wings. It felt darker here, perhaps a little colder. Certainly, this wasn’t a place that sunlight ever reached. In fact, it was as far removed from the beautiful spring day outside as could be imagined.

  Pity rose in my chest, tre
mulous as a bird. No creature deserves to be trapped somewhere like this, I thought. Especially not my eldest brother. Fred was a hard man to understand, and even harder to like at times, but he wasn’t a bad person, I was certain. How had it come to this? A memory came to mind of the three of us, running across the fields after church, Martha wailing in the distance, her plump little legs unable to keep up with us. We’d been laughing, breathlessly panting, intent on reaching the woods before Mother could call us back.

  How things have changed, I thought, as the guard pulled open the cell door.

  Fred sat within, hunched and diminished on the spartan single bed, as though the walls themselves had drained him. He raised his head as we entered, then broke into a coughing fit, which may have started as a laugh.

  “What are you two doing here?” he growled, thumping at his chest.

  “That’s a fine greeting,” Arthur replied, entering the cell reluctantly. “A good afternoon or hello would have done the job, you know.”

  The guard clicked his fingers in our direction. “You’ve got five minutes, you hear?” Without waiting for a reply, he slammed the door behind us.

  Let’s hope he remembers to let us out again, I thought, laughter rising nervously in my throat. I looked around. There was nowhere to sit, only the bed, and it didn’t feel appropriate to perch next to Fred, especially in his present state.

  A blackbird warbled from outside, a distant trill that sounded vaguely forlorn, or perhaps it was the dank ambiance of the cell that made it seem so. We waited patiently for Fred to speak.

  “Well, here you have it,” he said eventually, gesturing around the room. “My palace. It’s a step up from my room down at the dock, to be honest.”

  Arthur leant against the wall, exhaling heavily. He appeared surprisingly comfortable with his surroundings, given how incongruous he looked. “Mother’s out of her mind with worry, you know,” he said.

  “I’m sure she is. She always frets about everything.”

  “She’s got fairly good cause to fret this time. I mean,” Arthur said, looking up at the meagre window, with its thick iron bars, “this is terrible, Fred. It really is.”

  “I didn’t do it, you know,” Fred grumbled, shifting awkwardly. The sheets crackled under him, sounding more like paper than fabric.

  “Why were you even there?” I asked. “Surely you can see that it looks suspicious, walking alone at that hour?”

  Fred bristled. “Oh, you think I’m guilty, do you? Well, thank you very much, brother. Thank you for your faith in me. Not that I’m surprised. You and Father always saw the worst in me, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  Arthur raised his hands placatingly. “That’s not what he said, Fred. Come on, we’ve only got a few minutes, we need to work out how we can get you out of here. Let’s not waste the time bickering.”

  Fred shot me a dark look, then leant back against the wall. “I was out looking for someone. That’s all. I saw the man on the floor, all bloodied up, but it wasn’t me who hit him. I didn’t steal his money either.”

  “Who were you looking for?” Arthur asked.

  “No one you’d care about.”

  “Not Elizabeth Stride?” I guessed.

  “It’s none of your business.”

  I sighed. This was getting us nowhere, and I wished, more fervently than ever, that we hadn’t come. I could tell from Arthur’s expression that he was thinking the same.

  “Perhaps you should forget about Elizabeth,” I suggested gently. “That sort of woman will only drag you down, and—”

  “—You don’t know her, so don’t start with all that. She’s just got herself mixed with some bad folk, that’s all. She’s had a damned hard life.”

  “I wasn’t saying she hadn’t, I merely said—”

  “—This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Arthur interrupted, tapping at his wristwatch and giving us both a pointed look. “Fred, did you see the person who did hit him? The man who’d been attacked, I mean.”

  Fred shook his head. “No, they were long gone. I heard the man groaning, he was by the side of the river, his head bleeding. I was trying to help him, but look where it’s got me!” His cynical laugh sounded flat and muffled against the dense brick walls.

  “Look,” Arthur said slowly, smoothing his hair down. “I can afford to hire you a solicitor, one that will—”

  “—Oh, I’m not accepting your charity, little brother. I need to keep some scrap of dignity.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Fred, you’ll stand a far better chance of being released with a legal expert fighting on your behalf. You can’t defend yourself in the court, you won’t stand a chance.”

  “No.” Fred crossed his arms and glared at us both.

  “If you won’t do it for us,” I snapped, “do it for Mother. Think about how this affects her. Everyone in Battersea is gossiping about it.”

  Something in Fred’s expression softened for a moment, like the sun filtering through a bleak cloud. Then he met my eye and hardened once again.

  “I can’t be held responsible for the idle prattle of villagers.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Arthur said with a sniff. “God, the air in here is diabolical, isn’t it? No wonder you’ve got a rotten cough.”

  “Yes, that’s why people die in places like this.”

  “Now, there’s a cheerful thought.”

  Fred’s eyes narrowed, then he chuckled. “Look at you two,” he said slowly, leaning back. “You look about as out of place as can be. Especially you, Arthur, with your fancy clothes.”

  “Yes, what a funny trio we make,” Arthur commented with a grin. “A dandy, an office clerk, and a felon awaiting trial.”

  Fred laughed, just as the door swung open with a protesting squeal.

  The guard peered in, eyes shadowed by the peak of his hat. “Time’s up, gents.”

  “That wasn’t five minutes!” Arthur stuttered.

  “It was by my watch.”

  Seven shillings for that, I thought, then followed Arthur out into the corridor. What a waste of money, not to mention time. We’d achieved nothing from our visit, apart from verifying that Fred was alive and mostly well.

  “Don’t you worry,” Arthur muttered, as the prison guard locked the cell door carefully behind us. “I’ll get him that solicitor, whether he likes it or not. We won’t see this family shamed any further.”

  I nodded, all the time wondering when it was that Arthur had become as preoccupied as I about preserving appearances. We’d always laughed about Mother’s pretentions when we’d been younger. How had it happened that we’d gradually inherited those same pretentions ourselves? I always thought Father would be ashamed if he knew how low Fred had fallen, I thought, walking back along the corridor and out into the relief of the sunshine. But perhaps he’d be just as appalled by Arthur’s and my rise into snobbishness.

  We exited the same way we had entered, through the weighty, unforgiving prison gates. As they clanked shut behind us, I took a deep breath, relishing the open air, pungent and sewage-laced as it was. We must get my brother out of there, I thought, with sudden ferocity. Whatever he is, and whatever he’s done, he doesn’t deserve to stay in a place like that.

  “Let’s hail a hansom cab,” Arthur suggested, tugging at his collar. “I don’t know about you, but I’m rather keen to get back to Mother’s. Look, there’s one over there; quickly, come on, before someone else gets it.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a bonneted figure, watching us with brazen curiosity. Before I had a chance to observe her properly, she turned, heels clicking along the uneven road as she departed. Her dress was muddied at the hem, ill-fitting around the shoulders, and there was something about her posture that was familiar.

  Long Liz? I wondered, but couldn’t be certain. The figure disappeared around the corner. Surely it can’t have been her, I reasoned, tempted nonetheless to go after her, just to make sure. Why
would she be hanging around outside, when she and Fred are no longer engaged?

  “Come on,” Arthur said, nudging me out of my stupor. “I have no desire to stay here longer than necessary.”

  “Yes, yes,” I replied distractedly. “Arthur, did you see that woman? The one who was here just a few moments ago?”

  “No, why?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. There had been something unsettling about the incident, though I couldn’t perceive exactly what had bothered me so. Perhaps it had been the bright, unflinching nature of her gaze, before she’d scurried away.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said finally. “Let’s return to Mother’s.”

  TWELVE

  — 1912 —

  A SMASHED WINDOW.

  It’s something the ghost has seen before, many times. But on this occasion, with a group of baying women surrounding the scattered glass, it’s somehow more shocking, more absolute. The glass captures the sunlight in an almost celebratory manner; like dangerous confetti.

  Agnes chuckles. She finds his horror amusing, he can tell. He chooses to ignore her, and, instead, follows the crowd of females down the street, sensing their energy, their jubilance and defiance, combined with more than a little anxiety. Soon enough, they start to pick up their pace, no doubt searching for the next shop window to smash, and he hastens his own pace to keep up with them; horrified and fascinated in equal measures.

  Suffragettes, he thinks. That is all they have heard about for the last month or so, staying with Daisy and her husband, who bears it all with weary tolerance. Daisy is here now, they can see her red hat, bobbing among the crowds. How such a thing could be tolerated, he doesn’t know. He remembers women used to be happy for men to make all the important decisions, but it seems that, once again, the world has moved forward and left him behind.

  “You really don’t like this, do you?” Agnes says. Her eyes glitter with amusement.

  “You know perfectly well that I don’t. It’s highly improper.”

  “Oh, you stick in the mud. Don’t you think it’s rather wonderful?”