by Sam Christer
I did not confirm or deny anything.
Holmes paced again. ‘Patrick Hoolihan is almost as complete a fool as his half-wit cousin Andrew O’Connell. Although the latter can be forgiven as nature dealt him a most unfortunate set of cards.’
I wanted to ask what had become of them both but held my silence.
‘They’re both still at large,’ said the shadow passing by me. ‘Fittingly, they are said to be as thick as thieves. Although, as you would expect, many of Hoolihan’s original gang have gone.’ He stepped closer and added, ‘Several of them have been hanged. Some have been killed while at large. Others have simply disappeared.’
He reached into his jacket and produced a document marked with a red wax seal. ‘This is official confirmation that, should you provide a full and honest account of your years of criminal activity in the employ of James Moriarty, then you will not be executed. Furthermore, should your testimony result in a successful prosecution of Moriarty then you will be pardoned.’ He stepped forward and pushed the letter against my chest.
I let it drop to the floor. ‘I said I have given my answer.’
‘That document is signed by Sir Matthew White Ridley, the home secretary.’
‘Had Lord Salisbury himself signed it, it would still be on the stone and my answer would remain the same.’
‘With a pardon, you could start a new life. I would personally see to it that you were resettled a long way from the reach of that octopus Moriarty.’
I confess that Holmes’s words woke in me my sleeping worms of doubt. I itched to accept his offer, to be done with the relentless frustration of being unable to escape.
I picked up the official document. His eyes widened in victory, and in that distasteful moment of presumed triumph he sparked in me a resolve not to give in. Not yet, at least. I handed it back to him.
‘My answer remains a firm “No”, Mr Holmes. I am now bereft of further ways to phrase the rejection.’
‘Stubbornness is an impediment, not a virtue, Lynch. You need to overcome it.’
‘And you need to leave, Mr Holmes. You have worn out my patience. And as I am sure you are aware, beneath this awfully thin veneer of politeness lies the essence of a murderous man.’
‘I am sure that is true. Very well, I shall go, but remember this. My offer is not without limit. You have three days, including today, in which to accept it. After that, consider it withdrawn.’
‘I wish to use the lavatory, Mr Holmes, and would greatly appreciate some privacy, if you please.’
He looked to me again. Searched for some sign of weakness that would allow him to negotiate further.
I undid my trousers and dropped them. ‘You could leave me that offer if you wish. The paper upon which it is written looks soft and clean; I may have use for it after all.’
‘Gaoler!’ shouted Holmes. ‘Release me, immediately.’
Derbyshire, May 1887
There is a small hamlet on the haunch of the River Dove called Milldale and in it a packhorse crossing known as Viator’s Bridge. It was made famous by the writer Izaak Walton in his book The Compleat Angler as a spot where fishermen gathered and gossiped before taking to the banks.
I knew it for a different reason. It was also where a fortune-telling hag fished for coin. Many a mill girl had crossed the old crone’s palms with silver, in return for the promise of a dark handsome stranger to marry, or at least a husband who wouldn’t beat her.
Lacking a better way to while away the hours of a lazy spring afternoon, I had put coin in the gypsy’s hand and sat opposite her while she read my palm. Her brow furrowed and dark eyes squinted as she took an age to tell me nothing of note. Then she finished with words I would never forget. As I was about to leave, she said, ‘We all have a hidden sense that can warn us of opportunities to be seized or impending dangers to be avoided. You would do well, young man, to heed yours.’
I smiled sceptically. ‘I am afraid I have no such powers.’
‘We all have them but few of us recognise them or understand how to use them.’
‘And how should I recognise these powers?’
‘You have proof of their existence every time someone tells you that they feel there is a change in the air, or they remark that they “just knew things would turn out exactly like they did”, or they speak of a gut feeling that something bad is about to happen.’
‘Those certainly are all things I have said and experienced.’
She looked pleased with herself. ‘Then use such instincts. Build them like muscles. I see a restlessness in your eyes. You have the look of a hunter.’
‘Some fish and game. And a rabbit or two,’ I confessed.
She stared at my hands and her face grew cold. ‘I think not only of fish and fowl.’
I had heard enough. ‘Good day to you, ma’am.’
She rose and rushed to me. ‘Here is your money back, hunter. I will not take it.’ She pressed the coins into my hand. ‘It has blood on it. I want none of your clink.’
I did not take it from her. Instead, it dropped to the floor and she left it there.
As I turned to leave, the gypsy shouted after me, ‘Learn those senses. You will need them, for hunters are also hunted.’
I was to be reminded of this conversation one year and two days after the funeral of Michael Brannigan. Surrey had been asked by Moriarty’s brother James to travel to Ireland to assist one of his men, a former colonel called Moran. In her absence, I was required to travel with Brogan Moriarty, Sirius and Lady Elizabeth to an upcoming race at Epsom, where I was told there might be business to be done, both on and off course.
The day before our planned departure, I felt all the symptoms the fortune-teller had spoken of. Something was about to change – I felt it in my gut. The hairs on my arms bristled. I was certain my life was set to take some surprising turn.
I readied myself for the task in hand. Prepared my rather unusual travel bag, comprising casual and formal clothes and an efficient ‘killing kit’ that suited whatever eventuality might arise. I also wanted something to read, a distraction to dull the boredom of endless hours travelling by horse and locomotive.
I visited Moriarty’s library, made a rough selection of books and took them to a table to whittle down the number. Since Michael’s death, I had read most voraciously. Sitting quietly and immersing myself in literature seemed to create some balance after the brutal physicality of a kill, or the hard work I put into keeping myself fit.
I was but a short way through making my choices when the door opened and Elizabeth entered. At that moment, I again experienced the very feelings that the gypsy had described. The air was charged with excitement from the first second Elizabeth’s eyes caught mine.
‘I hear tomorrow we are to go to Epsom together,’ she remarked as she neared me.
As I looked at her, the awkwardness I had created by stealing a kiss in this very room returned.
‘So I understand,’ I finally replied. ‘The professor informed me at breakfast.’ I gestured to the books laid out on the table in front of me. ‘I am looking for something suitable to pass the journey.’
She put down some books of her own and sat opposite me. ‘Have you been racing before?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘I adore it. At least I adore the fashions and the thrill of winning.’ She added quickly, ‘But not the cruelty to the horses.’
‘Is it so cruel?’
‘Don’t be naive. Of course it is. All that whipping and kicking with heels. It is terribly cruel. And then there is the fixing, the deliberate ways of making them sick or injured, to ensure one wins over the other. I suspect it is even crueller than your precious boxing.’
‘I had never really thought about it.’
‘Then you should.’ She finally looked at the book I was reading. ‘Romeo and Juliet?’
‘I have read it once before and thought it worth revisiting.’
She picked it up and flicked lightly through some page
s. ‘Because you enjoyed it so greatly?’
‘What is there not to enjoy about a young man’s pursuit of his love?’
‘What indeed?’ She smiled coyly.
‘And I prefer Shakespeare’s Queen Mab to Shelley’s, even though the fairy is somewhat duplicitous.’
‘Do you indeed?’ Her smile became flirtatious enough for me to be reminded of the fortune-teller’s comments about sensing and seizing opportunity.
‘You look very beautiful today. Too beautiful to be in a dusty library. Would you like to walk in the grounds with me?’
‘I would not.’ She laughed playfully. ‘Tell me instead, how does Shakespeare’s Mab differ from Shelley’s?’
‘I believe you know how.’
‘I would like to hear you tell me.’
‘Well, it seems to me that Shakespeare’s fairy fills people’s minds with hopes and dreams. Lovers with love. Soldiers with soldiering. His Mab is more sensual, more passionate and daring than Shelley’s cynical old sprite.’
‘And has this sensual Mab visited you in your sleep?’
‘Nightly.’
‘And what has she filled your sweet head with?’
‘With dreams of love, of course.’
‘Not slitting throats?’
‘Just love. One pure love.’
‘But Simeon, you are a soldier now, are you not? Moriarty’s newest recruit. A proud fighter in his ranks.’
‘I obey him, as you do. That does not mean I dream of the life he shapes for me. I dream of you, you know I do.’
‘And you know you should not.’ Her gaiety faded. She rose and wandered to the shelves.
I called after her. ‘Elizabeth, why do you provoke me to talk of such things only to reject me again?’
She faced the books as she answered. ‘Perhaps it is because I am trying to discover your true feelings.’ Then she half-turned and added, ‘Perhaps it is because I cannot help myself.’
I rose and walked towards her. ‘The thoughts I have for you do not come nightly in my dreams; they are in my mind all day and at all moments. There is not a minute within an hour when—’
She cut me off by extending both hands and pushing a book towards me. ‘Take this.’
My hands involuntarily grasped the volume.
‘Take it and read it. It will serve you far better than Romeo and Juliet.’ And with that she glided past me to the door.
‘Elizabeth, wait!’
She stopped and smiled. ‘Read the book, Simeon. Learn the dangers that dreams and hopes can lead to. And if you need help in understanding anything, then we can discuss it on the way to Epsom. Or if you cannot wait, then you will find me in my room this evening.’
Six Days to Execution
Newgate, 12 January 1900
Yesterday, I had been blinded by optimism. Dazzled by my colourful counsel and the belief he had engendered within me that I might escape the noose. But with the new dawn and the lack of further news from Mr Levine came the reversal of my moods and I found myself contemplating the worst.
There were but two more days, after which the clemency deal Holmes had offered would disappear like the pale show of light outside my postage stamp of a window. It was the only true guarantee that I would be freed and therefore able to exact the revenge that was eating me alive. Increasingly, that thought alone seemed sufficient compensation for selling the last ounce of respect I had clung onto.
My eyes roamed the walls of my cell for the millionth time. There were scratched messages on almost every brick. Lines of verse, prayers, pleas for mercy authored by the cell’s previous occupants. Made no doubt with nails like the one smuggled to me in chapel. Lord knows, it was proving good for nothing more than leaving a vain mark on the masonry.
I had read most of the inscriptions within my first hour inside this godforsaken place. They were footnotes to each individual author’s execution. Final efforts to leave a mark in a world that wanted rid of them.
Now as the end loomed large, I stood alongside innumerable initials, crossed-off days and pleas for forgiveness and began my inscription.
SL 1900 …
It wasn’t much to leave behind.
The last century had started with horses and carts and finished with trains, trams and automobiles. Machinery had begun replacing men in many jobs and electricity was replacing gas. I had been born into a world of advancement and opportunity and had become nothing more than a grave filler.
I retraced my initials and the date, hoping the motion would awaken some creative thoughts.
It didn’t.
The nail had become annoyingly blunt. I tried to sharpen it on the wall next to the window. Scarped hard where bricks met the floor close to the edge of my bunk. It sank into the mortar rather than scratched over it. Clogged with dust and debris.
My heart missed a beat. This must have been the only place in the cell I had not previously scraped and poked at.
I looked to the door. Listened for the sound of gaolers. Ran the nail back and forth. The mortar was mouldy and soft. Years of damp and filth had eaten the bond between brick and floor. I scraped furiously, produced small but multiple heaps of slurry that had to be fingered away. Running the metal along the top of the brick had the same effect. Mortar slopped away like rancid butter.
I paused and listened for sounds of gaolers outside the door. There were none. I scraped vertically this time, first on the left, then on the right of the target brick. It wobbled; with more effort it would come free. I knew that if I jammed the nail deep into the rotten mortar I could prise this single brick out of the wall.
I lay flat on the floor, working the brick up and down and side to side. It slipped back, in danger of disappearing into the blackness behind it. I couldn’t let that happen. If it slipped into that space then I might not recover it and the hole would be left exposed and noticeable.
With great care, I manoeuvred the brick forward. Firstly, from the left. Then the right. Soon, I was able to get my fingers onto the edges and eased it forward. It came away completely.
I froze with shock. I had taken a brick out of the cell wall.
The rest of the wall was still intact but to me it felt like I had cracked opened a safe. The rectangular hole beyond the brick was tiny, but it was a hole.
Beyond it there was only blackness. I put my ear as close to the gap as I could get and heard a distinct sound of wind. It convinced me I had discovered a chimney, still bricked at the bottom but hopefully open at the top.
Thoughts of Jack Sheppard sprang to mind. One of his escapes had been through such a shaft.
Loud sounds on the landing caused me to stop. Hurriedly, I brushed the scrapings and filth into the small hole then replaced the brick. I grabbed a book and sat on my bunk. Keys jangled. I realised I still had the nail in my hand, and jammed it into the back of my shoe.
The door opened. A gaoler, a vile hog of a man called Wallace, rubbed his whiskery jowls as he entered.
‘Stand up, Lynch!’
My heart skipped as I rose.
He peered at my feet to check that my new leg irons were still secured to a floor ring, then glanced around the rest of the cell, before adding, ‘Father Deagan is here to see you.’ He stepped aside. ‘Please come in, Father. Our apologies for the stink and for him over there stinkin’ more than anythin’.’
The priest entered. He looked older and weaker than I remembered. ‘Thank you, officer,’ he managed. After pressing a handkerchief to his mouth to stifle a cough, he added, ‘You may leave us now.’
The door shut. Deagan lifted his tired face and shook my hand. ‘How are you, my son? I hope you are holding up as you climb your own Calvary.’
‘I am fine, Father.’ I made space for him on the bunk. ‘Please sit down. You really do not look so well.’
‘I confess to being somewhat under the weather. But I do count my blessings. God gives me the constitution to soldier on and administer his word.’ He lifted a leather bag and from it produced two
prayer books and two sets of red rosary beads. Without asking he passed one to me. ‘I thought we might pray together. Nothing grander or more ambitious than that. A shared moment of divinity, that is all.’
‘I am ashamed to say it is many years since I have prayed. So many that I cannot remember.’
‘That is why I brought the book.’ He closed my hand around it and then struggled to rise from the bunk. ‘Please help me kneel as my old joints have grown rusty in this wet and bitter winter.’
‘Of course, Father.’
I held his arm as he lowered himself to the hard floor and then knelt myself. For a second, his breath drew short and he stayed motionless until another fit of coughing was finished.
I waited patiently while he regained his composure, hoping his illness wasn’t serious. Winter was a time of dying. Prison flu killed a person a week, took felons and gaolers without prejudice.
‘Let me offer you some words of fortitude,’ he said weakly. ‘Some trusted words from Man’s most trusted book.’ He lifted a rosary over his head, set it in place around his neck and kissed the small black crucifix. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, ‘he began, ‘I shall not want …’
The words of the psalm struck chords within me and raised hopes that I feared might be false ones. Could a killer like me really pass through the valley of death into the green pastures of heaven? Was I not the embodiment of evil and was this not the time the Devil would come and claim his soul?
Father Deagan touched my arm. He pulled me out of my contemplative state and pressed me into prayers. We did the full circle of the rosary, the ‘crown of roses’ in all its Christocentric glory, punctuated only by the rasping of his painful cough.
When we finished, he looked to me and asked, ‘Now Simeon, while you are in this state of grace, would you like me to hear your confession?’
It seemed right to say yes. Perhaps the old priest was a perfect salesman and knew that if he had me kneeling and in a state of prayer then I would finally consent. Certainly, I saw no harm in it.
I rejoined my hands and said, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have not made a confession since I was a child and had not long since completed my first communion.’