The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  Titus lifted the hank of hair to his face. Already it did not smell of her, but of the vinegary brown paper. Their mother used to weave it with wild flowers and tell Hannah she was a fairy princess. Hannah would sweep around and not permit anyone to remove the decoration until she was asleep and it had become crushed and limp.

  Sick at heart, Titus tucked the hair into the gap behind the brick along with their mother’s. It would be another week before he could see Hannah. He could not bear to think what might happen to her in that place in the mean time.

  He stared out of the little window. Already a smog was coming down, drowning the soft pink of the sky in a hopeless grey.

  Later that day they found another body.

  It was a small boy this time, maybe four or five. Titus heard the men talking out in the yard. There must have been something in the water, they said, some chemical from the tanner’s place upriver, because the body hadn’t decomposed at all. Might have gone in yesterday. Couldn’t have, of course: Rancer had been in prison more than a week before he was hanged, and it bore all the hallmarks of another Wigman murder.

  The doctor didn’t agree.

  Titus was in the yard, scraping the mud off the cart’s wheels, when Hadsley came into Pilbury’s office.

  ‘The boy’s been dead two days at most.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Pilbury said.

  Titus went over to the other side of the carriage to hear better.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. My methods are scientific.’

  Titus glanced in and caught Hadsley’s acid smile but ducked his head as Pilbury walked to the window.

  ‘Looks to me like someone was so impressed with his methods they’ve decided to continue where he left off,’ Hadsley said.

  ‘Was there an egg?’

  ‘Exactly the same place: back of the throat.’

  ‘Have you told anyone about the eggs?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The doctor frowned.

  ‘No-one but you, me and the Chief Inspector knows about them,’ Pilbury said.

  ‘Not even the judge?’

  ‘There was no reason to bring it out at trial. We had enough evidence and it would only have provoked more salacious headlines.’

  For a moment there was silence but for the rhythmic scrape of Titus’s brush against the cartwheels.

  ‘Did you get it wrong, William?’ All trace of smugness in the doctor’s voice had vanished. ‘Was Rancer innocent?’

  ‘No. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So . . . there might be an accomplice?’

  Titus’s hand froze mid-scrape and even the horses raised their heads from the hay buckets to fix their large brown eyes on the window.

  Pilbury’s reply was almost too quiet to catch.

  ‘There might.’

  Peering in, Titus saw the two men staring at one another: Pilbury, tall and lean; the doctor short and round, with little close-set eyes that glinted with intelligence.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone yet, Hadsley, about the time of death.’

  The doctor raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m almost sure of the culprit,’ Pilbury continued, ‘and to announce a fresh murder to the press could result in a mob attack. Trust me, Hadsley, please. I will make the arrest tonight.’

  ‘Why did you not arrest this person before if you suspected him?’

  Pilbury hesitated and the doctor continued, ‘You do not need to answer. You ask me to trust you, and yet you have put your own trust in the dubious visions of a young girl who claims to commune with the spirits. Back when you were still using your own powers of detection, unparalleled powers I might add, then I trusted you. Now . . .’

  The doctor sighed and took off his spectacles. Rubbing them with his handkerchief he continued, ‘I know it’s been hard for you, William.’

  ‘Hadsley, please . . .’

  ‘I understand why you went to her. God knows I might have done the same in your position. But grief is one thing, credulity and folly are something else entirely.’

  He did not look at Pilbury as he picked up his hat from the desk and turned to go.

  ‘Get some sleep, William. You look like the walking dead.’

  ‘Marcus.’

  There was no anger in the policeman’s voice. The doctor paused in the doorway but did not look back.

  ‘If I have made a mistake give me a chance to rectify it.’

  The merest hint of a nod was the only sign the doctor had heard, before he walked out into the corridor and shut the door behind him. Pilbury sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands.

  That afternoon there was a commotion in one of the interview rooms. Titus heard shouting out in the yard and then the clang of a cell door. He’d gone into the kitchen to warm a bucket of water for the horses’ wash down, when two of the men entered. They made a pot of tea and then sat down at the table. Titus lingered at the stove to find out what had happened.

  ‘So what do you reckon then?’ said the younger man.

  ‘She’s just a tart,’ said the older one. ‘Too drunk to know what she’s talking about, and he’s a lying little thief. I’m not going to take their word over the Doc and the boss.’

  ‘They seemed pretty sure. Said they’d taken him to the bonfire at Battersea themselves. Bought him a toffee apple. Didn’t you see how red his lips were when they brought him in? Like my boy’s gets when he eats ’em.’

  ‘So he had a toffee apple, so what?’

  ‘So they don’t sell ’em nowhere until Bonfire Night, and that was Thursday: the day after they hanged Rancer.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m just saying that maybe this one wasn’t Rancer.’

  ‘Well, as far as I’m concerned,’ the older one said after a pause, ‘if the Inspector says it was him it was him.’

  Titus picked up the bucket and left the kitchen. Outside he paused in the sunlight and breathed in the chill air. So Inspector Pilbury was lying to his men. Did he hope to catch this accomplice himself, before the press and public found out there had been a fresh killing? It seemed he’d received enough personal criticism during the first investigation, perhaps he couldn’t face anymore. Well, Pilbury might think he could pull the wool over his men’s eyes, but Titus was damned if he would let him face this new danger alone.

  That night he had his supper in the stables, as usual, but after extinguishing the lamp he settled himself in the shadows behind the door. From here he could see across the courtyard to Pilbury’s office. The lamp was lit and occasionally Pilbury’s shadow would pass across the window.

  The night quickly grew cold. The horses’ breath billowed out to mingle with the fog rolling over the courtyard wall. If it was to be a smoggy night he would have to keep close to Pilbury, but not so close that he gave himself away. The policeman would be furious if he caught Titus trailing him.

  He dozed and when he came round the lamp was burning low in Pilbury’s office. Crouching near to the ground Titus sprinted across the open yard to the other side and stood with his back to the wall, then sidled along it to peer into the office. His heart sank. Pilbury had already gone and one of the other officers was occupying his desk.

  But risking a second look he saw that the figure hunched over the desk was the Inspector after all. He was recognisable only by his neat hairline and the badges on his shoulder, because the way he slouched was so unlike his normal erect posture.

  He was not writing, or reading a report, but merely sat studying his hands, turning them palm up and then palm down again, as if he did not quite recognise them. Titus swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. There was an unspoken understanding in the station that the Inspector, however brave and clever, was of a fragile disposition.

  Pilbury laid his hands on the table, threw back his head and chuckled. Titus ducked down beneath the windowsill. It was there, in the silence that followed, that Titus heard weeping. Not the weeping of a maudlin drunk, but terrible, despairing moans that ended on a wrenching sob and a shudd
ering gasp of breath, before continuing again. They were coming from the cells. Titus remembered the commotion earlier on involving the tart and the thief. After checking that Pilbury was not about to leave – he had pushed back his chair and was now studying his feet – Titus crept along the wall around to the cells.

  Through the bars Titus could see a figure, barely more than a child, huddled in the far corner, holding itself around the knees and rocking backwards and forwards. Whatever this person had done, Titus felt an overwhelming urge to offer some comfort.

  He called softly through the bars, ‘Hush now, don’t cry. Let me go and find the duty officer and see if he will release you.’

  The boy stopped weeping and looked up.

  ‘Titus?’ he croaked. Staggering to his feet he lurched across to the door.

  ‘Stitch! What’s wrong? Why are you here?’

  ‘Charly,’ he managed, gripping the bars to support himself, ‘Charly’s dead.’

  ‘Charly?’ Titus repeated stupidly.

  ‘Your precious policeman hanged the wrong man!’

  Spittle flew through the bars to sting Titus’s cheek, and for a moment there was such rage in Stitcher’s cracked face that Titus recoiled, but then Stitcher crumpled to the ground, sobbing.

  Titus ran across the courtyard and through the door that led to the front desk. There he persuaded the young duty officer to lock the front door a moment and come and see to his friend.

  ‘It was only the violence of grief,’ Titus whispered as the officer peered in at Stitcher’s now motionless form, curled on the floor of the cell. ‘The dead child was his brother. Please, I can vouch for him. Let me take him home.’

  Stitcher seemed oblivious to the opening of his cell door and was a dead weight in Titus’s arms as he hoisted him upright and dragged him into the courtyard.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Titus panted. ‘We won’t get far like this. Try and walk.’

  Stitcher’s eyes stayed closed but his legs straightened and he allowed Titus to lead him towards the gate. On the way Titus glanced into Pilbury’s office. The room was empty. He swore beneath his breath.

  ‘Right, Stitch, we’re gonna have to get a move on.’

  The cold air soon woke Stitcher from his stupor and he was able to tell Titus what had happened.

  Charly had gone missing the day after Bonfire Night. He’d insisted on going back to the park to hunt for discarded sweets and lost coins from the previous evening. Stitcher had told him to sod off if he thought he was trekking two miles for a muddy old toffee apple, and sent the boy off alone. No-one in the house had been concerned when he did not return that night. Charly was often taken in by do-gooding old ladies, charmed by his cherubic face and flaxen hair, only to be turfed out for pilfering the silver spoons. But when he wasn’t back by Friday night they grew worried and this morning he and Rosie had gone looking for him.

  They found him on the beach by Lambeth Pier. He’d been pulled out of the water by a tinker couple who were in the process of stripping him of his clothes and boots. Stitcher had gone for them with a boathook and the old pair made off before they could be forced to tell what they knew.

  ‘He looked so perfect, like a marble angel. His feet still had the marks from the lace holes of his boots what they stole off him.’

  Stitcher stumbled on the cobbles, and Titus supported him.

  ‘Even if we hadn’t of taken him ourselves to the park I should’ve known by his face he hadn’t been dead long. I’ve seen drowned ones plenty of times. The skin of their hands peels off like gloves when they’ve been in more than a couple of hours. Charly’s fingers were just a bit wrinkled. If I’d have gone with him . . .’

  He couldn’t continue and they walked on in a silence they’d never experienced with Hannah and Charly by their sides.

  ‘You don’t have to come no further,’ Stitcher said at the turn into Orchard Street. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  Titus reached out and touched his friend’s shoulder and felt it trembling.

  ‘Charly would think I’m a right nancy if he could see me like this, eh?’

  Titus shook his head. ‘Charly thought the sun shone out of your arse.’

  Stitcher looked away and when he looked back his eyes were shining, but with as much fury as grief.

  ‘I tell you what, if your useless bloody boss can’t catch who killed him then I’ll do it my bloody self. And when I find him . . .’

  The knife flashed out from Stitcher’s sleeve and, with a swift slicing movement, carved a line of blood across his palm. He squeezed his fist and let the drops fall onto the dirty cobbles.

  ‘I swear to you, my darling,’ he cried up at the starless sky, ‘I’ll cut his effing liver out.’

  With that he turned and fled into the shadows of the darkening streets.

  After taking a moment to orientate himself, Titus set off in the direction of Judas Island. Pilbury must have gone straight there to arrest the old lady.

  He realised, as he made his way through the brooding alleys surrounding the old church, that a few weeks away from the place had turned him soft. He called himself names under his breath and spat a few times, but no pretence at nonchalance could prevent the hairs rising up along his spine as he stepped into the still square. A breeze had blown up and the moon fluttered briefly into view, casting mobile shadows on the ground, and washing the whole square in an eerie silver light.

  The black windows of the church watched his approach. To avoid the telltale creak of the gate Titus climbed over the railing, landing in a patch of weeds that dissolved into squealing black shapes. Something wriggled and mewled under his foot – a pink, hairless thing, scrabbling at his boot with soft claws – and he hurried away from the nest before its parents regained their courage and returned.

  After picking his way across the detritus towards the mouth of the church door he concealed himself just inside the porch. All was still and quiet, but for the weakening protests of the baby rat.

  And then something crawled out of the darkness of the nave.

  At first he thought it was some kind of giant lizard. He had seen a crocodile once in a book at school. This thing swayed from side to side as it threw out its limbs, just like a crocodile, but its movements were less fluid, more lurching. Could it be a dog? If so the thing was half dead. But it was too large to be a dog. And all the while it kept coming closer and closer, panting wheezily until it was barely a foot from the porch. It did not pause to raise its head, so perhaps it hadn’t seen him. Silently he eased himself up into the empty window, where he crouched, unbreathing, as it passed beneath him and out into the churchyard.

  In his relief he leaned heavily against the crumbling stone of the window, sending bits of grit and stone to patter onto the fallen leaves. The thing paused and turned its head, but only halfway, as if to listen. He knew that hawkish profile immediately.

  Mrs Rancer crawled between the headstones. Occasionally a tree root or fragment of stone would overbalance her, causing her to collapse with a cry of anguish, before righting herself and carrying on. Once she’d got to the railing she hauled herself up it, grunting. Her eyes, presumably accustomed to permanent gloom, were immediately caught by the death throes of the baby rat. With considerable difficulty she bent low enough to pick it up and held it up to the moonlight.

  ‘And what are you trying to tell me, little one?’ she crooned. ‘Is my faithful boy abroad once more?’

  With no means of escape that did not involve blundering through the darkened church Titus watched her make her slow progress to the other side of the graveyard. The moon disappeared for a moment behind a cloud, and when it came out again she was gone. His eyes strained to make her out.

  He was about to step out of the porch but stopped in his tracks, and only just managed to suppress a cry. There she was, not six feet in front of him, slithering along what remained of the path. She must have exhausted herself since she moved much slower now, giving him time to climb back up into his hiding place
. As she passed beneath him the heat of her ragged breaths carried a foul smell up to his nostrils; it was coming from inside her living body but was a stench he usually associated with death – a cat had rotted in the roof of their house at Old Pye Street the previous summer and it filled the room with the same stink. In her wake, however, she left something sweeter.

  Not honey this time, but flowers.

  She dragged herself over to the staircase and lowered herself feet first into the crypt. Her thin white fingers were the last things to slide off the step and into the blackness. Titus waited long minutes before easing himself down from the window ledge.

  No wonder Pilbury hadn’t bothered to come. Mrs Rancer was too frail to overpower a house spider, let alone a healthy child. And it wasn’t as if a weapon had been used to subdue the victims before drowning them. There was simply no way she could have perpetrated this murder, or the others.

  He tiptoed out of the porch and began picking his way between the dark patches of undergrowth. He would go back to the station and try and get some sleep. Tomorrow night he’d have to be more alert if he was to prevent Pilbury evading him a second time.

  Passing along the outside of the railing, the fragrance of flowers came to him again and, looking down, he saw the round yellow heads of tansy, forcing their way up between the nettles, some of their stalks broken halfway up.

  She had been gathering flowers. What a very innocent thing for a witch to be doing in the dead of the night.

  12

  The morning after Titus’s visit to Mrs Rancer, Inspector Pilbury arrived late for work. Titus was relieved. He hadn’t slept much that night, worrying that while he’d been spying on the old woman Pilbury might have been in real danger. The Inspector was pale and drawn, though this was not unusual, but seemed otherwise himself. At lunchtime Titus offered to go to the market to give the men a change from their usual pies. The offer was taken up enthusiastically and he took orders for salt beef and cod, oysters, cheese and plum pudding. He headed down to Strutton Ground and hurried round the stalls, annoying all the wives by pushing in front of them, before finally ending up at Doctor Lovegood’s Natural Remedies stall.