The Hangman's Secret

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “So what? It don’t mean he’s guilty for sure,” Mick says. Either he still hopes that if he incriminates the sheriff, he’ll win Catherine’s hand, or his mind is too one-tracked to change course.

  “A witness has placed the governor near the scene of the murder,” I say. “Have you found anybody to place Hargreaves there?”

  “Nope. But give me time.”

  “There are still four other suspects,” I say.

  “Forget ’em and help me go after Hargreaves.”

  “Mick, we can’t focus on him and ignore everybody else.” Kindness softens Hugh’s exasperation. “To restore Sarah’s reputation and get our detective agency back up and running, we have to solve this case before the police do. We can’t afford to be wrong.”

  “I know I’m right. I’m gonna get Hargreaves if it’s the last thing I ever do.” Mick runs upstairs, and his bedroom door slams.

  The rest of us exchange troubled glances. Hugh says to me, “Any ideas?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Snowflakes gray with soot drift from the opaque sky as Mick, Hugh, and I walk past Newgate Prison the next morning. “Too bad we can’t just barge in and grab her by the scruff,” Mick says.

  “What fun would that be?” Hugh laughs, always happy to start a new venture.

  Yesterday we decided to confront Mrs. Fry about her false tip about Amelia Carlisle. But if she’s inside the prison, she’s safe from us; we’re banned from Newgate, and the wardens won’t let us in.

  We go to the Copper Kettle, a pub near the prison, sit at a table in the back, and order hot whisky. Hugh reaches in his pocket and brings forth the letter we composed yesterday so that we can reread it one last time. I saw you outside Harry Warbrick’s pub the night he was murdered. Meet me at the Copper Kettle right now, or I’ll tell the police.

  “Good?” Hugh asks.

  Mick and I nod. Hugh seals the letter in its envelope and gives it to Mick with a shilling. Mick runs off. He seems deliberately cheerful today, as if he’s trying to put his quarrel with Catherine behind him. As Hugh and I wait for him to return, I try not to think of Barrett.

  “Don’t worry about Barrett,” Hugh says, perceptive as always. “He’s a good detective, but if you couldn’t find your father, I doubt he’ll be successful. And you two will make up.”

  I smile. Although I don’t believe him, I appreciate his effort to console me. “Thank you.”

  Mick returns. “I bribed a guard to deliver the letter to Mrs. Fry.” He sits down, breathless from running. “Do you think she’ll come?”

  “Oh yes,” Hugh says. “If she killed Harry Warbrick, she’d rather negotiate terms with a blackmailer than be arrested. If she’s innocent, she’ll want to tell the blackmailer to shove it.”

  We nurse our drinks, watching the clock. Twenty minutes later, Hugh points at the window. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  There, outside the pub, is Dorothea Fry in her blue-plaid wool coat and dark blue felt bonnet. We exchange triumphant smiles. Mrs. Fry reaches for the door, her expression stoic. I can’t tell whether she’s come to negotiate with or tell off her blackmailer. I feel a twinge of panic. Once we’ve lured her to us, how are we going to make her tell us why she played the hoax? Again, we’ve not planned far enough ahead.

  Mrs. Fry pauses, then walks away. We gape at one another. Mick says, “She musta smelled a rat.”

  We run out to the street. The gray falling snow obscures the figure of Mrs. Fry, who’s halfway down the block, walking fast. She turns, sees us, and breaks into a run.

  “Mrs. Fry!” I call as we chase her. “Stop!”

  She turns the corner onto Newgate Street. Following her, we come upon a crowd gathered outside the prison. We weave between people, searching for Mrs. Fry. She’s gone. We stop, panting from breathlessness and frustration. I notice that the crowd is larger than the daily assembly of folks who loiter outside Newgate to watch the police bring in criminals. Reporters and photographers flock around a police wagon parked by the main entrance.

  Mick speaks to a teenaged boy who stands near us. “What’s going on?”

  “They caught the bloke who hanged the hangman.”

  “No!” Mick exclaims. Hugh and I stare in dismayed surprise.

  “Yeah.” The boy points at the wagon. “He’s in there.”

  “Who is he?” Mick asks.

  “Dunno.”

  Two men climb down from the seat beside the wagon’s driver. One is Inspector Reid, the other Malcolm Cross.

  “Our friends have beaten us to the punch,” Hugh says glumly.

  I should be glad of justice for Harry Warbrick, but there goes our hope of solving his murder and restoring my reputation. Ashamed of my selfishness, I’m also avid to see who the culprit is. We jostle our way closer to the wagon and stand on tiptoe while Reid unlocks its door. Two constables drag out the prisoner—a stout man, hatless in a black overcoat with a fur collar. He looks to be in his fifties, his gray hair trimmed short around a bald crown. His hands are cuffed behind his back, and his pudgy face wears a dazed, terrified expression. I’ve never seen him before. He disappears from my view as the police march him into Newgate amid exploding flash powder. Reporters shout questions; the crowd roars and jeers. The heavy door yawns open, swallows the constables and prisoner, then slams shut.

  Hugh shakes his head in amazement. “I was so sure it had to be one of the people at Amelia’s hanging.”

  “Me too,” Mick says, crestfallen.

  I can tell he’s thinking of Sheriff Hargreaves and Catherine. This new development has dashed his hopes as well as mine. “We were all wrong.” I can’t believe it. Every instinct still tells me that Amelia’s hanging is germane to the murder, and the witnesses are still suspects.

  Inspector Reid and Malcolm Cross stand on the steps in front of the main entrance, flanked by constables. Reid holds up his hand, and the crowd grows quiet. Our two foes, joined in an alliance we never expected, are about to make a speech. Flashes illuminate their self-congratulatory expressions as they pose for the cameras.

  “I’m pleased to announce that I have arrested the man who murdered Harry Warbrick.” Reid raises his voice above the murmurs of excitement. “His name is Jacob Aarons.”

  We exchange baffled glances: The name means nothing to us; the killer is someone we never came across during our investigation. But of course we focused on the suspects who were at Amelia Carlisle’s hanging.

  “Mr. Aarons is a dealer of curios and antiques,” Malcolm Cross says. “I discovered that he had quarreled with Harry Warbrick. They were bitter enemies.”

  Mrs. Warbrick had said that her husband had been very well liked. It appears that by taking her word for it, instead of looking for his enemies, we were seriously negligent.

  “Harry Warbrick had promised to sell Mr. Aarons the rope he’d used to hang Amelia Carlisle,” Reid says.

  Mick curses under his breath. Hugh mutters, “I’d forgotten all about the missing rope.”

  Malcolm Cross had profited by investigating the angle that we overlooked.

  “Mr. Aarons had made a down payment, but Harry Warbrick decided he could make more money selling the rope in pieces.” Cross savors the limelight, his voice shrill with excitement. “He reneged on his promise.”

  And here’s a motive we failed to unearth—not a conspiracy of silence regarding a notorious criminal’s execution, but a simple business deal gone wrong.

  “Mr. Aarons was furious,” Reid says. “He assaulted Harry Warbrick at The Ropemaker’s Daughter. They fought. Some customers threw Mr. Aarons out of the pub. They heard Mr. Aarons threaten to come back and kill Warbrick.”

  I’m ashamed of myself for not questioning Warbrick’s customers. Perhaps I deserve the ruin that the newspapers have made of my reputation.

  “I paid a visit to Mr. Aarons at his shop in Bloomsbury,” Cross says. “I found the rope hidden in a cupboard, and a pair of shoes with blood on the soles.”

  I close my eyes for a mome
nt and see footprints in the blood on the floor of The Ropemaker’s Daughter. Malcolm Cross had tracked them to their source while my friends and I had been chasing wild geese.

  “Mr. Cross reported his discovery to me,” Reid says. “I arrested Mr. Aarons.”

  The audience cheers. Reid and Cross beam. As the reporters shout questions, Cross calls, “Read the details in the Daily World!” The constables hold back the crowd to let him and Reid descend the steps and stroll down the street as if they’re royalty.

  But I realize that the story I’ve just heard is far from conclusive. I look at Hugh and Mick and see the same thought in their eyes, the same hope of getting ourselves out of disgrace. We hurry through the departing crowd, after Cross and Reid. Cross ignores us; he and Reid keep walking. Reid grins and says, “Case closed, no thanks to you.”

  “No, it ain’t,” Mick says.

  “You proved that Mr. Aarons was at the scene of the murder,” I say to Reid. “You haven’t proved he’s guilty of killing Harry Warbrick.”

  “That’s for a jury to decide,” Reid says, “but he’s sure to be convicted. There’s enough evidence.”

  “Evidence that he’s a thief, not a murderer,” Hugh says.

  Scorn curls Reid’s lip. “When he came to steal the rope, Warbrick must have caught him. They fought, and Mr. Aarons killed Warbrick. Then he tried to make it look like suicide.”

  “How do you know that’s true?” I say.

  “You’re just trying to poke holes in the case against Mr. Aarons so you won’t look so bad.” Nettled, Reid walks faster. I think he’s not as sure of himself as he would like to be.

  Cross deigns to acknowledge me with a sneer. “You tripped yourself up once. Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

  I hurry to catch up with Reid. “You may be railroading an innocent man while the real killer goes free.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion. I stand by mine.”

  “If you’re so confident that you’re right, then why are you getting hot under the collar?” Hugh asks. “If you have any doubts, the time to admit them is now, not after Mr. Aarons is hanged.”

  Reid pauses and faces us. “Now that Sir Gerald’s cut you from his payroll, you should be looking for another job. If you’ll excuse me, PC Barrett and I have a fugitive named Benjamin Bain to catch.” He aims an evil smile at me and stalks off.

  I halt in my tracks, alarmed by the news that although he thinks the murder is solved, he and Barrett aren’t going to drop the hunt for my father.

  Hugh says to Cross, “You really shouldn’t publish this story.”

  “That’s up to Sir Gerald, and he’s happy with it.” Cross adds, “He’s given me a raise.”

  “You’re putting your career at risk,” Hugh says. “If Mr. Aarons proves to be the wrong man, the same thing that happened to Sarah could happen to you.”

  Cross snorts. “Don’t you wish?”

  I feel oddly protective toward Sir Gerald. He’s not only the cold-hearted businessman who used me and fired me; nor is he only the monster who’s taken the law into his own hands and has blood on them. He’s a father whose child disappeared, and I’m a child whose father disappeared; I can’t help feeling a bond with him despite everything.

  “You’re endangering Sir Gerald too,” I say. “He and the Daily World could suffer.”

  “No worry.” Cross is more confident than Reid.

  “We ain’t gonna stop investigating,” Mick says, “not ’til the real killer’s behind bars.”

  “You three rotters listen up.” Cross’s perpetual smile and relaxed attitude vanish, unmasking the hard-bitten man behind them. “I’ve worked for newspapers since I was twelve. I quit school to sell them after my dad died, and I had to help my mum support my brothers and sisters. I’ve always wanted to be a reporter, and this is my chance to make it big.” He points his finger at us. “Don’t wreck things for me. Or else.”

  “Or else what?” Mick shoves his face close to Cross’s.

  Cross’s smile returns, malevolent and cunning; he addresses Hugh. “How long have you and Tristan Mariner been lovers?”

  I can’t breathe. Mick’s jaw drops. Hugh turns pale with shock.

  “Yeah, I know about you two gal-boys,” Cross says. “I followed you to the Bishop Hotel the other night.”

  Hugh sways as if he’s going to faint. I grab his arm to support him. “You don’t know anything,” I say to Cross. “They’re just friends.”

  “Friends who backscuttle each other.” Cross’s contemptuous gaze rakes Hugh. “If you didn’t want anybody to see you going at it, you should’ve left the key in the keyhole.”

  I picture Cross kneeling outside the door of the hotel room, grinning as he spies on Hugh and Tristan. I behold him with hatred and revulsion.

  “You bastard!” Mick raises his fists at Cross. “I’ll—”

  Cross says to all of us, “You’ll back off the Warbrick murder case. Or I’ll tell Sir Gerald.”

  * * *

  Late that night I wait up for Hugh. The parlor feels empty despite Mick and Fitzmorris’s company, cold despite the fire in the hearth. Hugh has gone to tell Tristan that the bomb has dropped, and their secret is in our enemy’s hands.

  The sound of the front door opening launches us to our feet. Hugh plods up the stairs, and we sit down before he joins us in the parlor; we don’t want to seem too eager to barrage him with unwelcome questions. His face is weary, haggard. He tosses his hat and coat on the rack and carefully lowers himself to the chaise longue as if he’s so fragile his bones might break. Fitzmorris hands him a cup of tea. Suspense thickens the silence.

  Hugh wraps his hands around the cup, warming his hands, then looks up at us. His green eyes are bloodshot, their lids smudged with purplish shadows. “I told Tristan that if he wanted to call us quits, I would understand.” The strain in his voice says how much those words cost him. “He said we should stop seeing each other.”

  Tristan, wracked with guilt about their relationship, terrified of exposure, has broken Hugh’s heart rather than face the music. I’m too furious at him to be tactful. “The coward!”

  “That’s like closing the barn door after the horse is out,” Mick says, indignant.

  Right now I hate Tristan as much as I hate Malcolm Cross, but Hugh leaps to his defense. “Don’t blame Tristan. Cross is more of a danger to him than me. The press has already let my dirty cat out of the bag. Tristan still has everything to lose. If the Church finds out about him, he’ll be defrocked and excommunicated. Even worse, he’ll have to reckon with Sir Gerald.”

  Sir Gerald, who’s already disappointed with his son for choosing the priesthood instead of joining the Mariner family business. Sir Gerald, who isn’t above wreaking violent punishment upon people who run afoul of him, even if they’re his own blood kin.

  “Tristan needs to put some distance between us. It’s the only way he’ll be able to deny Malcolm Cross’s accusation and protect himself.” Hugh’s voice is leaden with sorrow. “He’s going back to India.”

  “Like a weasel running off to hide in its hole,” I say, disgusted.

  “Sarah, please. I know you never liked Tristan, but you’re not making things any better.”

  “I’m sorry.” I want to tell him that he’s better off without his faithless lover, but he won’t believe it; he’ll only resent me for saying so.

  “You shouldn’t be concerned only about Tristan,” Fitzmorris says. “If Sir Gerald learns about his affair with you, it won’t be only Tristan that he’ll punish.”

  “We’ll play along with Cross. We’ll stop investigating the murder,” Mick says. I can see that he’s reluctant to give up trying to pin it on Sheriff Hargreaves, but his loyalty to Hugh outweighs even his love for Catherine. “Then Cross won’t rat you out to Sir Gerald.”

  I nod. Hugh is also more important to me than finding out who killed Harry Warbrick or salvaging my reputation.

  “The hell he won’t,” Hugh says with a gl
um laugh. “Oh, maybe not right now, but someday, when he’s feeling mean or bored, he’ll play his card. Tristan told me that I should go away too.”

  A stab of panic contracts my stomach. “Go away where?”

  “Maybe America. Or Australia. Someplace where nobody knows me and I can change my name and start a new life.”

  Fitzmorris, Mick, and I are too horror-stricken to speak. The thought of Hugh far away, never to be seen again, carves a painful chasm in my heart. He’s my family, my dearest friend. I see from the expressions on their faces that Mick and Fitzmorris are feeling the same loss and grief that I am. We each wait for someone else to find the courage to speak the necessary words.

  “You oughta go,” Mick says, his voice gruff with reluctance.

  “Yes,” I say, swallowing a sob. “As much as we would hate to lose you, we want you to—to have a chance at happiness.” Fitzmorris nods. I think of Barrett and my father. I suppose I can live without Barrett, and I’ve had twenty-four years to get used to my father’s absence. But I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Hugh’s.

  “But there’s no place in the world where everybody accepts men like me,” Hugh says. “Wherever I go, I’ll get in trouble and have to decamp again. Once I start running, there’ll be no end to it, and that’s no way to live. Besides, Sir Gerald has a long reach.” Hugh smiles with wry humor. “You’ll have to put up with me for the foreseeable future.”

  Relief fills the chasm in my heart. Mick whoops with joy, then claps his hand over his mouth, embarrassed. Fitzmorris coughs as he and I wipe away tears.

  Hugh too is teary-eyed, touched by the love that he can see in us even though we’re too inhibited to express it verbally. “If I have to suffer, it’s better to do it among friends.”

  At least Hugh has us. He once told me that Tristan has few friends and none who truly know him. I experience a rare moment of sympathy for Tristan as I picture him alone in a dark, cold, empty church, praying. I hope God gives him comfort.

  “Does this mean we’re gonna go ahead with solvin’ the hangman’s murder?” Mick says cautiously.