Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  Several members of the audience fidgeted, some turning to their neighbour and expressing their disgust that such a creature should indeed be let loose amongst them.

  ‘Tomorrow night, my friends, Simeon Crosby will stand before the people of this ancient and loyal town and profit from the deeds he has committed. Remember his namesake from Luke Chapter Two. And behold, there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; and the same man was just and devout. Are these words to describe Mr Crosby?’

  After a slight hesitation, during which the audience were unsure as to whether the question were rhetorical or not, many of them responded with a resounding, No!

  ‘Is it our duty to sit back and do nothing while he slakes the thirst of a salivating audience?’

  No!

  ‘Shall we march to the Public Hall here in Wigan and prevent such vileness from staining the town’s good name?’

  Yes!

  ‘Then it shall be. We will all meet at the Market Square at six o’clock tomorrow evening and march down to the Public Hall with our determination lighting the way!’

  One man, seated in the centre of the room, raised a hand. Once the speaker acknowledged him, he spoke while remaining seated. His voice was low, menacing.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got in mind then? A march an’ a banner? Be more like Walkin’ Day than a soddin’ protest.’

  The room had grown silent, only the rain slashing against the windows could be heard.

  Before Evelyne could say anything, the man went on.

  ‘The man’s nowt but a murderer hisself, ain’t he? Makes a livin’ out o’ death.’ He paused. ‘That’d be funny, that. A livin’ out o’ death. So somebody like that won’t take a blind bit o’ notice of a banner an’ a few folk shoutin’. Be like wavin’ a snotrag at a wolf.’

  Evelyne coughed and flicked a glance at some of the women in the room. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, friend?’ he asked, wary of the answer.

  ‘I reckon the only thing what’d make that feller sit up an’ take notice would be a bit of his own medicine.’

  ‘Surely you don’t mean…’

  ‘If there’s enough of us, we could drag the bugger from the stage an’ wrap a rope around his neck an’ scrawp him down Market Street to the Market Square.’

  ‘And then what?’ Evelyne asked, an appalled expression on his face now. ‘Hang him by the neck until he is dead? A public execution, the like of which we’ve not seen since ’68?’

  But the man merely shook his head. ‘Just tie the bugger to a railing an’ cover the swine wi’ tar an’ feathers. That’ll do wonders for his swagger!’

  Evelyne stood there open-mouthed. Another member of his audience piped up, ‘Oh aye? We can all bring feathers but who’s goin’ to cough up for a bucket full o’ tar, eh? Ye daft sod.’

  There was laughter at that point, more out of relief than humour, and the original proposer stood up, swore at the last speaker and the audience in general, then pushed his way past those seated beside him and cursed his way down to the bar below with a valedictory, ‘Lot o’ soft shites!’ ringing in their ears.

  Evelyne made a few final comments and sat down to a great round of applause, and within minutes, the group had left the room. The speaker stayed behind, gathering his notes and reflecting on a job well done. He hadn’t noticed the single person left at the back of the room.

  ‘An interesting speech, sir!’ came the voice, disembodied by the gloom.

  Thomas Evelyne glanced up, peering into the darkness. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he said, with a tinge of curiosity in his voice. ‘There’s always one, sadly.’

  ‘Of course. Hot air and bluster, men like that. They love the sound of their own righteousness.’

  ‘You aren’t from the town?’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Evelyne. I’m a stranger.’

  But then, before he could clearly discern the man’s features – he was standing behind the oil lamp, and it was all he could do to make out a shape at all – the door swung open and the stranger left the room. The light from the small landing shone briefly on his face.

  Evelyne nodded, as if to confirm something.

  *

  Ellen Brennan felt it quite a luxury to have her husband home during the day. Michael had explained that it was hardly a blessing: Captain Bell had put him in charge of the following evening’s duties involving the visit and talk given by Simeon Crosby, and when Brennan had pointed out that he hadn’t had a single day off duty for over two weeks, the chief constable had shown his magnanimity by granting him a full afternoon off.

  Their six-year-old son, Barry, was at school, and the two of them sat by the fire and watched the flames dancing in the grate.

  ‘I love this,’ Ellen said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pouring down outside. And us here. Nice an’ warm.’

  Brennan smiled. ‘I don’t even feel guilty.’

  ‘Guilty?’

  ‘Being here when by rights I should be on duty.’

  ‘Rights?’ Ellen repeated playfully. ‘It’s our right to sit here without worrying about anything else.’

  He reached out to hold her hand. The rain was relentless and at times, sounded like a whole hail of pebbles rattling against the window. ‘There’ll not be much to do today, anyway. Constables have a clever habit of finding the most sheltered place there is on their beat.’

  ‘Need to be a big shelter for poor Freddie,’ she said with a comical frown.

  ‘Poor Freddie Jaggery will be as dry as a bone and as warm as that hearthstone. You mark my words.’

  They lapsed once more into silence. There was, indeed, something cosy about the warmth and brightness of the fire and the darkening world outside. He looked at the clock – ten past four – and hoped little Barry didn’t get too drenched on his walk home. He would come running down the street in his usual race with his best friend, Robert, from two doors along, and doubtless he’d be wet through from the puddles he just couldn’t bring himself to avoid.

  ‘This man I shared a carriage with,’ said Ellen, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Simeon Crosby.’

  ‘It’s daft, but I would have said he was well off, what with him being fat and sporting a beard.’

  Brennan laughed out loud.

  ‘But then I saw his clothes and, well, he didn’t seem so well off after all. His cuffs were frayed, for one thing. Don’t they get paid well?’

  ‘Hangmen?’ he frowned and thought a little before replying. ‘I doubt very much that they do it for the money, Ellen. There’s a standard fee of ten pounds for each execution and three guineas for his assistant, if he has one. Nobody’ll get rich that way. Besides, the man’s retired.’

  ‘But why do it? I mean, surely there’re better ways of earning a living?’

  Brennan shrugged. ‘He’ll have had his reasons.’

  ‘Could you do it?’

  ‘What? Hang a man?’

  ‘Or a woman.’

  Brennan gave it some thought. ‘I think I could hang a man right enough. Someone who’s done something awful enough to turn your stomach.’

  She watched his eyes and wondered what horrors he’d seen over the years, horrors he never discussed with her once he shut the front door behind him.

  ‘And yet people still murder, don’t they? Hanging doesn’t put them off,’ she said.

  He leaned forward, picked up the poker and stirred the coals, sending flashes of sparks flying up the chimney. ‘No it doesn’t deter, Ellen. Not in the slightest. But it does make sure of one thing.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Well there’s never been one case – not one – of a hanged man coming back and committing another murder. Never.’

  She smiled and dug him in the ribs.

  Actually, he thought, there had been one such case, although he decided not to mention it to Ellen. A murderer was saved from the gallows because of a botched execution – and the man was taken back to his cell. The experience, h
owever, had disturbed his mind so much that he was admitted to the prison hospital, from where he made a daring escape. Unfortunately, he committed another murder – some poor fellow’s wife when he broke into their house looking for food. The man was caught and was eventually hanged – successfully, this time.

  No point in relating the sorry tale to Ellen. It would serve only to upset her.

  Suddenly, they heard shrill screams from the pavement beyond the front window. The front door burst open, and their son, Barry, stood there, dripping wet, a huge smile on his face.

  ‘I won, Dad!’ he said, trying to catch his breath. ‘That’s t’first time I’ve ever beat him! An’ guess what he wanted me to do?’

  ‘What?’ said Brennan with a smile.

  ‘Play knock an’ run. But that’s not a nice game, is it, Dad?’

  ‘No, lad. It’s not.’

  Ellen went quickly over to him, wrapped her arms around his wet frame and brought him quickly to the fire.

  4.

  Gilbert Crosby stood at the bar of the Royal Hotel and leaned with his back to the counter. He had an audience of a half-dozen now, and what had begun as a simple and inquisitive customer asking, ‘Wheer did tha get that bugger from then?’ soon developed into an entertaining way of passing a rainy afternoon. The old man who had asked the question had pointed directly at the scar on the right side of Gilbert’s face, and the subsequent explanation had gradually drawn others in, for Gilbert’s was far from a quiet voice.

  ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘I was only in Germany a short time. A few days. But I wasn’t to know their ridiculous customs, nor their laughable and impossible language.’

  ‘Tha cawn’t tell a bloody word Germans say,’ said another member of his audience, a small, thin-chested man with a permanent stoop and a face the colour of parchment, a man who had never been further than Blackpool in his life.

  ‘Indeed not.’

  ‘So this German lad offered thee out ’cos tha trod on his bloody dog’s tail?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, yes. He was a student at the university, see? They have particular rules about insults and whatnot. So I was forced to meet this student at dawn in some fog-enshrouded clearing in the woods.’

  ‘So wheer did t’get thi sword from, like?’

  Gilbert took a long, slow drink and drained his glass, holding it up to the light so that they could all see the frothy dregs clinging to the sides.

  ‘I’ll get thee a drink, lad,’ the old man offered, and Gilbert clapped him on the shoulder as if they had been drinking partners for years. He passed the glass back to the landlord who gave him a suspicious glance before throwing a towel over his shoulder and pumping the ale.

  ‘Oh they’re quite a friendly bunch, the Germans. One of his friends lent me his weapon.’

  ‘Was it thi first time? Wi’ a sword?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So tha lost then?’ said another of the drinkers.

  ‘Oh no, I won the duel. Slashed the devil’s face on both sides.’ Here, he stepped forward and swept out his right hand, making swift slicing movements to the right and left of an imaginary foe. ‘They judge the duel on who’s lost least blood. Then we sat down on a handcart and let the doctors stitch us. Without any anaesthetic, of course.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ said one of them.

  ‘Germans!’ said another with a sneer. He reached down and aimed a perfect globule of spit into the spittoon at the corner of the bar.

  Gilbert raised his eyebrows and shook his head. ‘They were amicable after that. And respectful. Took me to a beer hall, and we all got roaring drunk.’

  There was a further discussion on the relative merits of fighting a duel with swords or a clog-fight, and after the audience had explained the essential rules of clog-fighting – basically, there were none, and both men stood with arms on each other’s shoulders, naked, but for their iron-rimmed clogs and then proceeded to kick each other’s shins to a bloody pulp – there was common agreement that the German way of doing things seemed much more civilised.

  When his audience had gone, he stood at the bar and looked round. Two men, a young man and an older one, were sitting in a corner, away from the bar. Buoyed by his new-found popularity, he made his way over to them.

  ‘A dreadful day,’ he said by way of introduction, nodding to the window where the rain was creating an opaque, distorted view of the street beyond.

  The older man followed his gaze. ‘Indeed,’ he said.

  It was a dismissal and a rude one at that.

  ‘Are you staying here at the Royal?’ Gilbert asked, still awaiting an invitation to join their company.

  He noticed that the younger man seemed rather ill at ease. In circumstances such as this, he immediately raised his hand and touched his scar.

  ‘I hope my duelling scar doesn’t upset you!’ he said with an attempt both at humour and ingratiation.

  ‘No,’ said the younger man.

  ‘We were discussing business,’ the older one said.

  Gilbert, taking that as the best hope he had of an invitation, pulled up a chair and sat down at their table. ‘And what business are you in?’

  ‘Commercial travellers,’ the younger one said.

  ‘Very busy ones,’ added the older man. By the tone of his voice and the expression on his face, it was clear that there would be little else forthcoming.

  Gilbert had the feeling that he had interrupted something – certainly, when the younger one raised his glass to his lips, it was more as a way of avoiding any further engagement than slaking his thirst.

  An uncomfortable silence reigned for a few minutes. As a last resort, Gilbert announced that he was visiting the town in the company of his brother, who was quite a celebrity.

  When neither of them asked the expected next question, he stood up again and glared down at them.

  ‘I hope your sales methods are more communicative than your small talk!’ he said and walked away with as much dignity as he could muster.

  He walked over to the window and gazed out. Across the street, a row of shops, the interiors illuminated to display their wares through the rainy gloom of a late November afternoon, showed little sign of life. This awful rain!

  He turned and gave the lugubrious landlord, who was idly cleaning glasses, a cheery grin. Despite the lack of response from him and the two travellers whose rudeness had irked him, he felt a surge of pride as he reflected on the last half-hour or so. Those fellows earlier had listened to him and been fascinated by his tales of duelling with German students, and not once, in the entire discussion, had he mentioned to them the fact that his brother was Simeon Crosby, the famous hangman.

  They had found him interesting.

  Him and his scar.

  Putting the rest of it to the back of his mind, he decided that the afternoon had been a delight. For the first time in a while, he felt lucky.

  Once Gilbert had left the bar, the older man drained his glass and said curtly to his young companion, ‘I need a cigar.’

  *

  While his brother was thus engaged in the public bar downstairs, Simeon Crosby sat at the small table beneath the window of his room and made one or two alterations to the presentation he would be delivering to the good people of Wigan the following night. He would begin, as he always began, with his favourite, audience-catching anecdotes, relating some of the more unfortunate consequences of not having a widely experienced hangman in charge of the rope. Slipshod botched executions by those who had long since passed into executioner folklore. Such as the time one of his predecessors, the notorious Bartholomew Binns, who was a known drunkard, completely misjudged both the thickness of the rope required to hang a diminutive prisoner and the length of the drop, with the result that the poor wretch, fully expecting a swift passage to the Lower Regions, was seen to swing round and round once the lever had been pulled, and instead of dying from a fractured spinal cord, was seen to writhe in agony as death made its slow advance throu
gh strangulation.

  Or the time back in the good old days of public executions, almost thirty years ago, when George Smith made the unfortunate mistake of failing to attach the rope firmly enough to the beam above the trap door. Once Smith pulled the lever, the prisoner, pinioned and blindfolded and helpless, plunged through the opening and fell unhanged to the ground below. As the public – most of them drunk and raucous – witnessed this abominable display of ineptitude, they jeered and hurled insults aimed not at the condemned man this time (whose crime was now seen as secondary to this most public of humiliations) but at the hapless hangman, who was forced to climb down and give orders for the injured prisoner to be hauled back up and for the rope, still in place around his neck, to be reattached to the beam – this time more securely.

  That was the last time there was a public execution in Staffordshire, he would add, and poor George Smith got the blame!

  The biggest laugh, however, was always reserved for the tale of the four men in Derbyshire, almost eighty years ago, who had been condemned to death for setting fire to a field of corn and hay (pause for gasps of shock at the brutality of the Bloody Code of former times!) On the day of their execution, they stood ready to be despatched by the hangman when it came on to rain most heavily (surely a meaningful comment from the Almighty on the fire and devastation they had caused!) To the shock and amusement of the thousands watching the executions, the men begged for umbrellas to shield them from the rain.

  Perhaps, my friends, they hadn’t realised that if they got to hell sufficiently drenched, it might help dull the fierce flames the devil had waiting for them!

  Levity, he knew, was the perfect seasoning if applied at the right moment.

  There was one mishap, however, that he would refrain from mentioning, while in the spirit of honesty, he would share with them a further mishap from a few years later. It was to be the central focus of his talk.

  The first, unmentionable, incident concerned a condemned man who was due to meet his maker at Norwich Castle back in ’85. He had caved his wife’s head in and hurled her down a well. He was arrested and put on trial for murder, found guilty and sentenced to be hanged. On the day of his execution, the rope was placed around his neck and all due ceremonies observed. The trapdoors swung open, but to the surprise and subsequent horror of all those watching – the sheriff, the prison governor, chaplain and several members of the press, including, of course, the executioner – the rope unexpectedly jerked upwards before dangling like a lifeless snake. This was followed rapidly by a dull thud and the uneven rolling of a decapitated head in the pit below.