The House Of Smoke

by Sam Christer

  He was about to shut the door when Huntley appeared over his shoulder.

  ‘Move aside, man. I need to talk to the prisoner.’

  Greybeard looked startled and stepped into the corridor.

  ‘Close the door.’

  The turnkey hesitated then did as instructed.

  Huntley looked to me. ‘Unpleasant fellow. I hope he didn’t behave in an unchristian way?’

  ‘Unchristian?’ I smiled. ‘That fellow would have sold tickets to the crucifixion. He’s the type that thinks executions are entertainment.’

  ‘I don’t believe the taking of any life to be correct. Either by a criminal such as yourself or for that matter by the Crown.’

  ‘A radical view.’

  ‘I like to think of myself as a reformer, not a radical. Though when I look at the penal system I see precious little evidence of reformation.’

  ‘Perhaps in time you will. I hear that, thanks to the reformists, Tyburn Tree is now a place of free speech. All kinds of imbeciles assemble there and spout whatever nonsense has been brewing in their brains.’

  ‘That much is true. Speaker’s Corner lies close by. Though talking treason will still get you stretched.’

  ‘And rightly so.’

  I considered taking him prisoner. He was a young and able man but no match for me. Michael Brannigan had taught me a dozen ways to incapacitate a fellow like him. I could do it easily. Grab the nail from its resting place and hold it to his throat. But then what?

  ‘I have been asked by your lawyer,’ said Huntley, ‘to assure you that he has been doing all he can from a legal perspective.’

  I glanced at the window. ‘There is more chance of me escaping through those bars than Levine walking me out of here as a free man. And both you and I know there is no chance of that.’

  ‘Not any more, but there have been escapes. You’ve heard of Jack Sheppard?’

  ‘A figure of folk stories and exaggerations.’

  ‘Undeniably, but he was also a real person and many of the tales are true. Sheppard was a burglar, the best in London many said, and he did escape from here, twice.’

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘Once through a barred window like yours and once up a chimney.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘He even helped his lover escape.’

  ‘And how did he do that?’

  ‘He cut through the window bars, dangled a sheet over the outer wall and helped her down.’

  ‘And they both got clean away?’

  ‘They did, but Sheppard was recaptured and hanged.’

  ‘A good story with a bad ending.’

  ‘Most stories of the condemned are.’ Huntley must have feared his quip depressed me, for he added, ‘But I do understand that Mr Theodore Levine is quite one of the finest legal minds in the city. If there are grounds for appeal, I am certain he will find them. Or invent them.’

  ‘I will try to draw comfort from that remark.’

  ‘I have arranged exercise for you. My men will come shortly and take you to the yard. The day is cold but clear. Some fresh air will do you good.’

  I was about to thank him when keys turned in the lock.

  The door opened and Johncock stormed in, followed as usual by several of his men.

  ‘Mr Huntley, I am informed you have arranged for Lynch to be given access to the yard – is that right?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘I have cancelled the order.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I have full authority when it comes to the welfare of this inmate. He is entitled to exercise and—’

  ‘Fuck your “authority”, Newgate is my gaol.’ Johncock slapped a hand on Huntley’s chest and pushed him back a pace. ‘Outside, Mr Huntley. You and I need to have a private word.’

  They exited, followed by Johncock’s cronies and through the viciously slammed door, I briefly heard shouting.

  Silence followed.

  Silence that stretched from seconds to minutes and then hours.

  Apparently, I wasn’t to be exercised after all.

  More importantly, Mr Huntley’s star was no longer in the ascendency and Johncock was once more master of what was left of my life.

  Derbyshire, April 1886

  I took a morning off from sitting with Brannigan and spent it running errands for the professor.

  Firstly, I delivered a handsome amount of money to a judge staying at Tissington Hall, a fine Jacobean mansion located only a few miles away from Moriarty’s abode, then picked up a hefty envelope of documents from a senior police officer in Matlock Bath.

  Thackeray, the coachman who had taken me on the deceptive mission to ‘steal’ the King John tiara from Lord Graftbury’s estate, drove me hither and thither. It made an agreeable change to ride up on the box with him, and he delighted in pointing out homes and areas of note, including businesses established to charge people to bathe in the county’s natural waters. ‘They’s mad in the ’ead, they is,’ he proclaimed in his gruff Lancashire accent. ‘Pays good money to drink rain and an’ sit in it till their knackers freeze off. Pays even more for the same bleedin’ water to be ‘eated in baths so theys can steam themselves. Who knows wot the world’s comin’ to.’

  I thought back to the squalor I had endured as a child. ‘There are times when I would have gladly paid for a hot bath.’

  He was not deterred by my interruption. ‘I reckons all the water round ’ere’s what gived the professor ideas for them baths back at the big ’ouse. More money than sense, the lot of ’em. Even our prof.’

  When we got back, I helped Thackeray rub down the horses and put away the carriage in the big barn where all the vehicles were kept – broughams, landaus and all manner of char-a-bancs, curricles, floats and gigs.

  He ran a hand lovingly over the black lacquer of a nearby vehicle. ‘A curricle like this is light ’n’ fast. But it leaves you out on show. Draws eyes from all round. So, when you is wantin’ to go in-cog-nito as Mr Gunn calls it, this old beaut’ is your best bet.’ He slapped his hand on the back of the most familiar type of carriage in the country.

  ‘It’s a Hackney, isn’t it?’

  ‘An, ’ackney, indeed.’

  ‘I grew up in London and saw plenty of them.’

  ‘I bet you did. There’s more than four thousand ’ackneys down there. But none like this. We rebuilt ’er. Made ’er lighter. Lowered an’ stiffened the suspension. Now she’s easy for two good animals to pull, fast an’ nimble.’

  He was about to go into greater detail, when we were interrupted by Jane, the young maid who had taken me to the bathhouse after my first encounter with Brannigan.

  ‘Hello!’ she shouted from the doorway. ‘Is anyone in there?’

  ‘Thackeray’s ’ere – wot d’you want?’

  She headed towards us. ‘Is Mr Lynch with you?’

  ‘Yes. I am here.’ I came out from behind the Hackney.

  ‘I’ve come from Mr Brannigan, sir. He’s been asking for you.’

  I was distressed to hear of this. ‘I told him last night that I was going on some errands this morning.’

  ‘I only know that he’s asking, sir. Shoutin’ your name every time he can get a breath.’

  ‘I’ll come straight away.’ Even though Brannigan had plainly forgotten what I’d told him, I felt guilty about not having been there for him.

  I followed Jane across the courtyard. She left me at a side door and went to the kitchen, while I made my own way to Brannigan’s bedroom.

  His curtains were closed but the sun was at its brightest and a warm lemony light forced its way over the rails and around the edges of the fabric.

  Michael was propped up on a pillow. His eyes were half-shut and there was a terrible rattling in his breathing. The suggestion of a smile came to his dried lips when he saw me and he lifted a hand from his bed. ‘Some water.’ He had not the strength to add a ‘please’.

  ‘Of course.’ I hurried to a rough wooden table set against a wall and from a large pitcher poured him a glas
s. I returned to the bed and held it out for him. His hand came up again but not high enough to take the glass. I put it to his lips and gently tilted it so he could drink. He shut his mouth when he had had enough. I put the drink down on a table by the bed. ‘Tell me if you’d like some more.’

  ‘Pipe,’ he answered, feebly.

  ‘No.’ I smiled at him. ‘You know what Dr Reuss said. No smoking. It’s not good for you.’

  ‘Fuck him!’ He took a breath. ‘Pipe. A last smoke, Simeon.’

  It hurt me to hear him say that. It was as though he was dying this very minute. Maybe I’d read too much into it.

  ‘Pipe,’ he pleaded.

  I looked across the room. Many of his belongings were on a shelf, along with a photograph of him as a young wrestler. I brought his tobacco pouch, matches and pipe. It was a vintage piece made of clay, the bowl engraved with Romany caravans and horses.

  Michael was incapable of putting together the smoke, so I tapped the bowl on the bedside table, took a pinch of leaves from the pouch and packed the pipe. I lit it and raised smoke before holding it to his lips.

  The old wrestler struggled to draw down the tobacco. His lungs fought back and forced him to cough. It made his chest tighten. His face corrugated with pain.

  I pulled the stem from his lips. His eyes looked at me accusingly and I let him try again. This time he did better. Took short draws, held down the smoke until his body surrendered to the fumes.

  Several silent minutes passed – me holding the pipe to his mouth, him lying back, his throat rasping from poisonous inhalation and painful expiration. I had no idea what thoughts passed through his mind, but I was recalling our first fight. How comprehensively he had defeated me. This dying man seemed an entirely different person.

  The lips stopped sucking. The rasping ceased. For a split second, I saw a hint of contentment in his eyes.

  ‘Are you finished?’

  Slowly, he tilted his head my way. ‘Finished. Yes, I am finished.’

  I took the pipe and placed it on the table by his bed. Went to pull the top sheet up over his arms.

  He grabbed my wrist. ‘Simeon.’

  ‘What?’

  His eyes looked pained again. ‘Please, help me.’

  I smiled. ‘I am not getting you whisky, so don’t be asking me to—’

  ‘End me.’

  I took my hands off the sheet. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Finish me off, lad.’

  The remark made me shudder. ‘You’re talking nonsense.’ I pulled up the white sheet.

  He pushed it down again. ‘Please.’ Another cough rose, scratching its way up from his lungs and watering his eyes.

  I reached over and passed him a bowl to spit into. Brannigan spattered it with black and bloody phlegm then fell back to his pillow, exhausted.

  I put the bowl down and listened to him wheeze. The breathing seemed to rattle every bone in his wasted frame.

  His face twisted again in pain. Then there was a smell. An awful stench. He had fouled himself.

  I looked at him and he stared back into my eyes and then away in shame.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a maid and we will clean you up. Make you comfortable again.’

  His head turned my way. ‘For God’s sake, save me from this.’

  He was crying. The most powerful person I had ever fought was in tears.

  I felt myself well up. Felt all his shame and hopelessness. ‘Shall I call the professor? Dr Reuss?’

  His hand searched for mine. I took his fingers, squeezed them, gave him courage. ‘The doctor will give you opium. He’ll be able to—’

  ‘Do it!’ he pleaded. ‘Do it now.’

  I felt his hand tighten around mine. My heart jumped in fear. I glanced to the open door, hoping someone would come in and break this moment.

  He coughed again. Retched over the sheet beneath his chin.

  I pulled away and walked to the door, shut it and slowly walked back. I tried not to look at him. My left hand covered his mouth. My right pinched his nose before he could take a breath.

  Michael grabbed at my left arm with both hands, and I thought he was going to fight me. But he didn’t. His demeanour was of someone lost, not frightened.

  I began to pull my hand from his mouth, but he kept it there and shut his eyes. I held on and pushed down, pinched more tightly. Michael’s legs kicked. His back arched. Knees raised. Heels scuffed at the sheets.

  Then the kicking stopped and his hands fell from my arm. There was a final awful rattling in his chest but I kept my hand across his mouth, still held his nose. Made sure it was done.

  Then I just stood there and stared. Listened for the silence. Watched for the lack of movement. Birds called in the trees outside his window. Floorboards creaked beyond his room.

  The door opened noisily and startled me. Surrey held onto the handle as she entered. ‘My goodness,’ she said, making light of the smell, ‘has someone—’

  She saw Michael and her eyes found mine, questioningly.

  I confirmed her thoughts. ‘He’s dead.’

  She let go of the door and rushed to him. Put her fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse – something I hadn’t thought of doing. Then she looked up at me.

  ‘Did you find him like this?’

  I didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say or how to behave.

  She looked at Michael again. Saw how the sheets had been soiled and kicked up, how his spitting bowl had been knocked over. She touched the warm pipe on the table.

  Surrey stepped away from the bed and put her hands on my arms. ‘Are you all right?’

  I couldn’t speak.

  She put a finger across my lips. ‘You found him like this. You came in and found him like this. Didn’t you?’

  I nodded.

  She embraced me. Held me tight for a moment. It was good that she was here. That she understood.

  ‘Go downstairs,’ she said. ‘Find the professor and tell him Michael has passed. That I am with him and I need some assistance. He will take care of everything.’

  I turned to leave.

  ‘Simeon,’ she called.

  I turned.

  ‘I know this is what Michael wanted. He had asked me to …’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘to help him … but I couldn’t.’

  Eight Days to Execution

  Newgate, 10 January 1900

  It was Johncock who next opened my cell door. His lackeys closed it after him and stood by the lock as he advanced on me. ‘Get up off your bunk, Lynch.’ His face was still reddened from his earlier anger at Huntley.

  I rose with my customary slowness.

  He stood so close to me, his boots touched the ends of my toes. My heels were backed against the bunk. I could see nothing but his eyes and the triumph that burned there.

  ‘If you think toads like Huntley can disrupt my gaol and make life soft for you, then you are mistaken. Newgate is mine. What happens here is down to me. Me! Not the blessed keeper and his committees. Not this wretched government of no-good do-gooders. And certainly not Mr Harrison Fucking Huntley.’ His rage caused him to pant for breath before he added, ‘Do you understand me, Lynch? Do you? You murderous piece of shit, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

  He shouted so loud that my eardrums buzzed like a thousand bees inside a clouted hive.

  I didn’t shout back at him. To the contrary, I whispered, ‘I think the whole gaol heard you, Mr Johncock. Most of London, too.’

  He stepped back a stride, and told his men. ‘I’m finished with him.’

  A crony banged on the door for it to be opened.

  Johncock jabbed a finger at me. ‘Huntley doesn’t really care, you fool. He doesn’t give a damn about you or your so-called welfare. Not one jot. This is all about him. What’s good for him and his career, that’s all. You’re just a pawn in his game.’

  He walked over to his men. ‘The prisoner wants exercise, so give it to him. Make this monster walk until he falls to his knees and begs to crawl
back into this cell as though it’s a palace.’

  Derbyshire, April 1886

  Sick to the pit of my stomach, I carried my grief down the grand staircase to the main hall, where the enormity of my actions sank in and overwhelmed me. I’d grown closer to Michael than I’d realised. He’d won me over. Shaped me. Influenced me. Now, I had ended his life.

  In a daze, I wandered the corridors until I came to Moriarty’s study. To my relief, I heard him in conversation with Cornwell, the butler, a man I knew was certain to take charge.

  I knocked and opened the door.

  They looked surprised to see me.

  ‘Mr Brannigan has passed away,’ I said from the doorway.

  Moriarty’s face creased up in pain.

  I stepped closer and knew I had to lie about what had happened. ‘Sir, I had been called in to see him by one of the maids, and I am afraid he was gone by the time I arrived. Surrey, Miss Breed, is with him now.’

  The professor’s head slumped to his chest.

  ‘I will attend to him, sir,’ said Cornwell. ‘Once I have ensured that we have done what needs to be done then I shall come back to you and see if you wish to visit him.’ Without another word he left and set about his duties.

  I stayed, expecting Moriarty to ask questions. Awkward questions that might force me to confess my lie. But the professor’s head remained sunk in his hands. A full minute passed before he looked up. His eyes were glassy and grief had already corrugated his brow. ‘Leave me now, please, Simeon. I would like to be alone with my thoughts and you are a distraction to me.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’ I nodded respectfully and left.

  Once I shut his door, I found myself stranded. I could not return to the bedroom. Could not simply walk in there and innocently ‘help out’ in the aftermath of the murder I had committed.

  I found my way into the garden and sought sanctuary in the maze. Here I had privacy. A place to hide from the snarling dogs of anger, loss and shame that were snapping at my heels.