Stokes chuckled. ‘He’s already gone. Went this morning – twelve o’clock, sharp. It’ll be your turn next, C.3.3. You’re off in a week’s time, aren’t you?’
‘I did not know that Luck had gone already,’ I said. ‘I did not hear him go. He did not call goodbye. How was he?’
‘Quiet as a mouse. He hobbled out. Half doubled up, he was. He took quite a lashing last night. But he’d dressed for the occasion – put on his fancy woman’s make-up and wrapped his head in a sari . . . He looked a proper Indian tart.’
I looked up at Warder Stokes, suddenly perturbed. ‘Who carried out the beating last night?’ I asked.
‘I did,’ replied the young warder.
‘You were administering rough justice,’ I said. ‘The beating hadn’t been sanctioned by the visiting committee.’
‘The governor was acting within his rights. He had to restore order. He had to have calm before the hanging.’
‘Yes,’ I said. I looked down at my cold plate of hard bread and black potatoes. I looked about my empty, soulless cell. It was early evening and the month was May, but if there was still sunshine in the sky outside it did not find its way through my barred window. I felt a darkness closing in. ‘I am surprised the hanging went ahead,’ I said.
‘It had to,’ answered Warder Stokes emphatically. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘It had to. That’s what the governor said. He said Atitis-Snake had “tried it on” – fought like a lunatic to make us think he was one. “He must not get away with it.” That’s what the governor said.’
‘And perhaps Atitis-Snake half hoped that Luck might indeed half kill him because then he’d be in no fit state for his own hanging?’ I suggested.
Stokes gazed down at me in wonderment. ‘That’s exactly what the governor said, too. A man’s got to be fit enough for the gallows – that’s the rule.’
‘And, from all you say, Sebastian Atitis-Snake was far from fit enough . . .’
Warder Stokes shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, he’d lost his voice and his face was turned to pulp, but he had a pulse. That’s what the doctor said.’
‘Has Dr Maurice returned?’ I asked, surprised.
‘No – another doctor. Dr Roberts. He comes in when the surgeon’s on leave. The governor asked him, straight out, “Is the condemned man alive, Doctor?” “He is,” said the doctor. “Then he can hang at eight, as the court ordered.”’
‘And that was that,’ I said.
‘The hangman wasn’t too happy – it was Mr Billington – but the governor stood firm – and the hanging happened.’
I nodded, looking down at my plate once more. ‘I assumed it had,’ I said. ‘There was no chapel and we were kept in our cells all morning. I remembered the routine from last time.’
‘It was done proper. It was dignified. As it ought to be.’
‘I listened out for the church bell at eight o’clock.’ I looked up at Stokes. There was no malice in his freckled face. ‘Does the hanging happen on the first stroke or the last?’ I asked.
‘The first,’ he said. It was apparent that he was eager to tell me more.
‘Were you on special duty, Warder Stokes?’ I asked. ‘I know you hoped to be.’
The young turnkey shook his head. ‘I was not. I asked cos I know you wants the detail for your poem—’
‘There may be no poem,’ I protested gently.
‘But Major Nelson said it had to be done by the book. The condemned man has to have warders who don’t know him at the last – so they don’t show him any favour. I was with Wooldridge when he went cos I didn’t know him. This time they had two lads from D Ward. They did their duty.’
‘It is a frightful enterprise,’ I said, ‘taking another man’s life.’
‘Mr Billington does a good, clean job.’
‘He wears gardener’s gloves as he goes about his business,’ I said.
‘He’s the best there is,’ replied Warder Stokes, nodding sagely.
‘Your father knew him?’
‘And my granddad knew his dad. And I knows his sons. He’s got three boys.’
‘All in the hanging trade, are they?’
‘And proud of it,’ said Warder Stokes happily.
‘And was Mr Billington content with the way it went this morning? Did you speak to him after it was over?’
‘I did,’ said Warder Stokes, now looking a little pleased with himself. ‘We had a beer together in the warders’ mess. It went really well in the end, he said.’
‘I am glad,’ I said – not thinking what I said.
‘It’s all in the preparation,’ continued Stokes complacently. ‘That’s why he has to come the night before – observe the condemned man, take a good look at his neck, make sure the gallows is in good working order.’
‘Where is the gallows kept?’ I asked. ‘I have seen Mr Billington crossing the yard, but not known where he was going.’
‘We erect the gallows in the photographic house, at the back of D Ward. It’s where they make the photographs of the prisoners when they arrive. It was the potato store – you know the place.’
‘I don’t think I do,’ I said.
‘It’s a bit cramped for the gallows, but it does the job.’
‘Did you help build the scaffold?’ I asked.
‘I did. Platform, trapdoor, gallows – all erected in an hour. Heavy work cos it’s solid oak. Oak for the gallows, elm for the coffin. I done it with Warder Martin and a couple of the other, younger warders – and then Mr Billington tests it. That’s the other reason he has to be here the night before. He gets a bag of sand the exact weight of the condemned man and he hangs it from the rope – to test it, and to stretch the rope, and to make sure he’s got enough room under the trapdoor for the drop.’
‘It’s an art,’ I murmured.
‘It’s a science, according to Mr Billington. It’s all about attention to detail. The sack of sand hangs from the rope all night and then, about six o’clock in the morning, Mr Billington goes in and takes it down and checks the apparatus one last time.’
‘At six in the morning? But the execution isn’t until eight?’
Stokes laughed. ‘Then he has his cup of tea and a slice of bread and dripping.’
‘Go on,’ I said, fascinated as much by the manner of Stokes’s telling of his terrible tale as by the matter of it.
‘At quarter to eight, on the dot, the dignitaries all meet at the governor’s house—’
‘The dignitaries?’
‘That’s the governor and the undersheriff and the chaplain and the surgeon – all in their Sunday best. At ten to eight they march, all solemn, like, from the governor’s house to the photographic house and they gets into position beside the gallows and they wait. At five to eight, the governor checks his timepiece and gives the hangman the nod. That’s when Mr Billington makes his way to the condemned man’s cell. The two special duty warders are waiting for him there. At three minutes to eight, the warders get the condemned man to his feet and they tie his hands with leather straps and the executioner puts a white sack over his head and they walk him from his cell to the photographic house.’
‘He doesn’t see the gallows?’
‘No.’
‘It is a hideous game of blind man’s buff,’ I cried. ‘They walk him from his cell, you say . . .’
‘It’s only a matter of yards.’
‘Doesn’t the man resist?’
‘Not usually – but they had to drag Atitis-Snake. He’d been broken in that fight last night. He couldn’t speak. He could barely stand. I don’t think he knew what was happening to him.’
‘Was that right? Was that “doing it by the book”?’
‘Right or wrong, it’s what happened. And it’s all over in a moment. It’s only thirty seconds from the condemned cell, along the passage and out into the photographic house.’
‘But if the wretched man is being dragged . . .’
‘He gets there all the same – and at one minute
to eight he’s marched onto the platform under the rope.’
‘But he cannot see the rope? His head is hidden in a sack?’
‘He can’t see the rope, but he can feel it. Mr Billington puts the rope around his neck. And it’s a science, as he says, cos the rope is adjusted to the left side of the jaw so it forces the head to twist and turn backwards.’ Warder Stokes looked at me with gleaming eyes. ‘That’s what helps break the neck,’ he declared.
‘Of course,’ I murmured.
‘At eight o’clock, as the clock beyond the wall begins to strike,’ he continued, ‘the special warders stands back, the governor nods, Mr Billington pulls the lever, the trap door opens—’
‘And the poor wretch tumbles to his doom.’
‘He does – and as he goes the chaplain says a prayer.’
‘Who was the chaplain?’ I asked.
‘The vicar from St Jude’s. He’s an old man. I don’t think he’s really up to it any more.’
‘And for how long is the poor dead man left hanging there?’
‘An hour.’
‘An hour?’ I gasped, in horror.
‘It’s to give his soul time to leave his body – that’s the idea.’
‘And does everybody stand about and watch?’ I asked, appalled.
‘No. The dignitaries goes back to the governor’s house for breakfast. It’s just the specials and the hangman who wait behind.’
‘And when the hour is up?’
‘When the hour’s up, the dignitaries come back and the body comes down. The doctor does a quick post-mortem and signs the death certificate. And the undersheriff signs a bit of paper confirming the death was lawful. And then the warders put the body in the coffin.’ Stokes leant towards me knowingly. ‘I know you wants the detail, C.3.3. It is a special coffin.’
‘Made of elm, I know.’
‘It’s got large holes on the sides and ends . . . Big ones.’
‘To hasten the decay?’ I said, with a dry mouth.
‘That’s it. That’s it exactly. And then they all escorts the coffin out into the garden and down to the bit of ground by the east wall, behind the boiler house, where the hanged ones get buried. That’s where I was. I wasn’t on special duty, but I did get to help dig the grave – and shovel in the lime. It’s the lime what makes it decay all the quicker.’ The young warder looked at me with satisfaction. He folded his arms once more. It seemed his story was done.
‘Well, you played your part, Warder Stokes,’ I said. ‘You did your duty.’
‘And I’ve told you all about it – as I said I would.’
‘You have indeed,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I looked up at him and smiled. ‘But there was one detail you forgot. Did the condemned man’s legs twitch? You didn’t say.’
Warder Stokes laughed. ‘But I did ask Mr Billington. And no, his legs didn’t twitch.’
Conclusion
Dieppe, France, 25 June 1897
‘Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring, Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?’
Sebastian Melmoth smiled as he spoke. And as he smiled he contemplated the bubbles that danced towards the brim of his newly filled glass of champagne. ‘I never lose count of the number of glasses I have drunk,’ he said, ‘because I never begin to count them in the first place.’ He laughed softly at his own joke and closed his eyes. The sun was less bright than before: the warmth of it was wonderful.
‘Are those lines from the poem that you are writing?’ enquired Dr Quilp, putting down his pen and pulling his chair closer to the table.
‘No, they are from a poem that I wrote a long time ago.’ Melmoth opened his eyes. ‘I am surprised you do not know it. You know so much about me.’
It was gone half past four in the afternoon. The two men had been sitting for more than two hours at the same corner table on the pavement outside the Café Suisse. They were alone. The café always seemed dead at this time of day. Where they sat was no longer in the shade, but the sun was not so high now and Melmoth, at least, was revelling in its rays. ‘When I was young,’ he murmured, ‘the moon was everything to me. I knew her. I could reach out my hand to touch her. She was my friend. Now I find her cold and distant. Now that I am old I need the comfort of the sun.’
‘You are not old,’ said Quilp. He shifted on his chair and pulled a linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He began to mop his brow.
‘And you are not well, Doctor,’ answered Melmoth, sitting up and setting his glass down on the table. ‘The sun is too much for you.’
‘I am quite well,’ said Quilp, smiling.
Melmoth took out his half-hunter to check the time. He turned and looked down the empty street, towards the docks. ‘The paddle steamer will be here quite soon and the foot passengers will all come trundling past. The English will notice us sitting here, but if they recognise me they will pretend that they don’t. That is what happens when fame turns to infamy.’
A seagull screeched overhead. ‘Perhaps they will not recognise you,’ said Dr Quilp. ‘It is your name that gives you your reputation, and your work, not your face.’
‘You are quite right, Doctor. Thank you. And it may be for the best. I am no longer the Adonis I once was.’ He grinned and showed off his ungainly yellow teeth. ‘I caught sight of myself in the looking glass this morning. I look exactly like an overblown Botticelli cherub run to seed.’
Quilp laughed. ‘And what do I look like?’ he asked.
‘An hour ago I would have said a vulpine Prussian officer on his way to fight a duel, but now I am not so sure. You are sweating, Doctor. You are weeping. You don’t look well.’ Melmoth picked up his glass. ‘You need to rest, Doctor. You need to lie down.’ Melmoth looked about the table with its litter of empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. ‘We are done here, aren’t we? You must go to bed and I must go home.’ He pushed his chair a little from the table and nodded towards Quilp’s pen and notebook. ‘I take it that you have heard all that you came to hear? I hope that I have earned my entertainment – and more?’ He reached out his right hand and lightly touched Quilp’s chequebook, which was also lying on the table.
‘Almost,’ answered Quilp. He returned his handkerchief to his pocket and sat forward. He pushed his spectacles up his nose and looked directly at Sebastian Melmoth. ‘A few moments more. We must round off the story. I feel that you have not told me everything.’
‘I have given you the tale of Atitis-Snake, the poisoner. Isn’t that what you came for?’
‘In part, of course – yes.’ Quilp glanced down at his chequebook. ‘It is murder that excites the public. We both know that.’
‘And I have brought the tale to a fitting climax with the condemned man swinging from the rope.’
‘You have,’ said Quilp, ‘and I am grateful.’ He sat back and with his right hand lifted the last bottle of Perrier-Jouët from the ice-bucket beside the table. ‘There’s a glass more here for each of us. Let us finish the bottle – and finish the story.’
‘Very well,’ said Melmoth, easing himself to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me a moment. I must go and powder my nose – as American women like to say. Do you know the expression? It is one of my favourite euphemisms.’ He took up his cigarette and his glass of champagne and looked down at Dr Quilp. ‘I notice that you powder yours literally, Dr Quilp.’
Quilp laughed as Melmoth, lumbering like a sacred elephant, made his stately way into the darkness of the café.
He was not long gone and when he returned to the table he appeared lighter on his feet – less inebriate, more alert. Before he resumed his seat he cleared some space on the table, moving the ashtrays and empty glasses to another table. ‘Finita la commedia,’ he said, smiling at Dr Quilp. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’
Quilp looked up, confused. ‘I do not quite follow you,’ he said.
Melmoth sat down. ‘You will, Doctor. You will.’ Melmoth’s energy had returned
to him. He laid his hands flat upon the table and spread out his fingers. He looked at Quilp. ‘Where were we?’ he asked.
Quilp picked up his pen. ‘At the hanging of Atitis-Snake.’
‘Ah, yes,’ murmured Melmoth, reaching into his pockets for another cigarette. ‘In my end is my beginning.’
Quilp had moved his chair while Melmoth had been ‘powdering his nose’. He was no longer in the direct sunlight. He opened his notebook and stared down at it. ‘You had just given me Warder Stokes’s account of the execution,’ he said. ‘That was Tuesday the eleventh of May.’
‘Yes,’ said Melmoth, holding a lighted match to his cigarette. ‘Tuesday, eleventh May. And a week later to the day, I was released.’
‘How was that final week at Reading Gaol?’ asked Quilp.
‘Horrible,’ answered Melmoth, his brow suddenly furrowing at the recollection. ‘Ghastly. The men who had been involved in the fracas outside the condemned man’s cell on the eve of the execution – each one of them was given twelve strokes of the cat-o’-nine-tails, including the crippled half-witted soldier, Prince.’
‘A.2.11.?’ said Quilp.
‘You recall his number?’ said Melmoth, drawing on his cigarette. ‘I am impressed.’
‘I have it written down,’ said Quilp, holding up his notebook.
‘Prince was not a party to the so-called “insurrection”, but he was cruelly beaten all the same. I heard it happen and the next day I saw him as we took our daily exercise in the fool’s parade. The lashing he had been given had made him mad.’ Tears now filled Melmoth’s eyes. ‘Oh, the pity of it,’ he murmured. ‘But there was worse.’
‘Worse?’
‘Yes. On the Friday before my release, as I was making my way across the outer courtyard towards the garden shed to collect my tools for my day’s labour, I passed the wardress.’
‘The woman with the fine features whose name you never knew?’
Melmoth smiled. ‘You have been attentive, Dr Quilp. Yes, the same.’ He drew slowly on his cigarette, studying Quilp carefully as he spoke. ‘And as I looked at those fine features I believe, for the first time, I understood them. I had been looking for a mystery where there was none. Her beauty reflected her nature. Her open face reflected her spirit. We must remember that there is outright good in the world as well as outright evil.’
Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery Page 22