Hanging Murder
Page 4
The hangman had miscalculated the length of rope.
Simeon Crosby shook his head at the unforgivable error. The fact that he himself had been the guilty hangman would naturally preclude him from mentioning that particular incident in his list of anecdotes. Besides, since he had perfected his Table of Drops, and every one of his subsequent customers had gone to meet his maker corpus et caput intactus, so to speak, it irked him that some of his detractors were spreading the lie that more than one of his subjects had been decapitated. Lies beget lies, and people prefer to believe varnished calumnies than the unvarnished truth, for no matter how many times he denied such rumours, they continued to follow him like horse muck.
He had severed one head. No more.
The second incident concerned the ironically named Benjamin Goodfellow. Simeon maintained that the lever and the trapdoors were in perfect working order when he had rehearsed the execution only the day before. Why the mechanism should refuse to operate a matter of hours later had been a positive conundrum at the time. It was only much later that some idiot in the prison admitted he’d fooled around with the contraption on the eve of execution. Still, he had been exonerated, and that was all that mattered.
But the unfortunate event had its uses. In the book, a whole chapter would be devoted to it, on the advice of Ralph Batsford, who said it provided rich material. It was, he’d argued, an excellent example of the Inevitability of Justice, and tomorrow night, he would share the anecdote in a section of his speech he would call Justice Always Prevails. For hadn’t he had the rare privilege of ensuring justice was finally done when, after Goodfellow had escaped from prison and killed once more, he had been caught and finally renewed his acquaintance with the hangman?
I am the only executioner to hang a man twice for two separate crimes!
As at his last talk in Carlisle, it was his climactic boast. It had brought forth a thunderous applause from the audience.
He sighed, read through his notes and gave a satisfied nod before turning to the bed behind him, where his wife, Violet, lay sleeping.
The train journeys – from their home in Lancaster to Preston, then Preston to Wigan – had been tiring, he had to admit. It had come as a surprise when she had asked to come with him this time: since he had retired from his post a few months earlier, he had travelled to various towns and cities to deliver his talk, but she had never shown any desire to accompany him until now. He should regard it as a compliment, he knew, that his wife should show her support for him in such a way. But he had a vague feeling that marital loyalty had little to do with her presence.
Over the last few weeks, he’d had an idea that she wasn’t being completely truthful with him. Small things, surreptitious movements, unexpected flushes of embarrassment which he put down to the sensational nature of the novel she was reading.
But he wondered, nevertheless.
Batsford, he suspected, had talked her into coming, more than likely to add the personal touch to his memoirs. To be fair, the journalist had proved most helpful in his suggestions for the whole concept.
Still, he was probably concerned over nothing. She would see for herself the way people regarded him, especially women: that expression of fascination and disgust whenever he was introduced to them. The disgust, of course, was natural, he’d told Violet before they travelled. It was the fascination that was more surprising and (although he didn’t admit it to his wife) more enjoyable. He supposed it was the proximity to a dispenser of death, one who did so with the full blessing of Her Majesty.
Only soldiers on a battlefield shared such a privilege.
There was a knock on the door.
Crosby glanced across at his wife, whose sleep remained undisturbed by the knocking. He left the table and his notes and moved quickly to the door in case whoever it was knocked again.
When he opened the door, he found Ralph Batsford standing there.
Crosby looked back to his wife and stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him.
‘Batsford,’ he said with more than a hint of pique in his voice. ‘I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed? My notes aren’t quite…’
Batsford frowned and placed an arm on the hangman’s shoulder. ‘There’s disturbed, and then there’s disturbed,’ came the cryptic reply.
‘What the blazes does that mean?’
‘It’s what you will be when I tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Disturbing news, Simeon. Disturbing news.’
5.
Haydock Lodge, Private Asylum for the Restoration and Care of the Insane, lay two miles from Newton-le-Willows Station on the LNWR line, just under eight miles from Wigan. It had formerly been owned by a prosperous country gentleman, and its advertisement in the London and Provincial Medical Directory proclaimed proudly that:
The accommodation is of a superior character, the apartments being spacious, cheerful, and admirably arranged for the purposes of classification, without entailing any objectionable features, such, for instance, as one suggestive of restraint.
Of its numerous patients in residence, nineteen were listed as having no occupation, thirty-six were designated as living on their own means, while others had formerly held occupations in areas as diverse as governess (two, female), sempstress (one, female), solicitor (one, male), salesman (cutlery), and chartered accountant (one, male).
It was one of the more unsavoury aspects of an attendant’s duties to escort the patient to the water closet, with a view to observing the necessary natural function of bladder and/or bowel. Particular care had to be taken with one such patient, Oscar Pardew, who, in his more lucid days, had worked in the Indian Civil Service. Oscar had two unfortunate habits: the first was more than likely a consequence of his days in the Raj, for he insisted on shaking hands with all and sundry with a handshake so firm, the recipient often yelped in pain. His other, more revolting habit, involved the swallowing of buttons and coins, much to the annoyance of the other patients and on several occasions prompting hysteria from the sempstress, whose collection of clothing fragments would never get finished for the ball if that man continued to eat her finest black glass buttons with their delightful reliefs of animals and plants. An assurance from the attendants that she might well see them returned to her in due course brought forth a barrage of the foulest language.
During one such visit to the water closet, the attendant, whose name was Simpson, stood as far from the open door as he could while maintaining sight of Oscar. Closet duty was, by its very nature, unpleasant, but having to scrutinise the consequences for extraneous matter and then removing it was beyond the call. Sometimes, they simply ignored it and allowed Pardew to do the business and manage his own cleaning. And the time he took to do it!
While Simpson stood in the doorway connecting the closet room with the narrow corridor that led back to the main lounge area, he was joined by Potter, another attendant. The two of them smoked a cigarette, and after sharing a quite salacious reference to the visibly and audibly straining Oscar Pardew, allowed their conversation to drift to other topics.
‘I wouldn’t miss it. Not for anythin’,’ said Potter, inhaling deeply before blowing forth a perfect set of smoke rings.
‘An’ I’m bloody well stuck ’ere. Don’t fancy swappin’?’
‘I most certainly don’t. Not every day you get to meet a bloke what kills for a livin’.’
They both laughed.
‘My uncle heard Simeon Crosby speak, you know,’ Potter said. ‘Over in Liverpool a month ago.’
‘I know. You said.’
‘He reckoned some of those tales’d make your hair stand on end.’
‘You told me.’
‘Even got to shake his hand after. Said it felt strange, shakin’ the hand that pulled the lever.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of what that hand had done.’
Simpson shrugged. ‘Anyroad, I can always catch him again. The bugger’s retired, ain’t
he? He’ll be makin’ more money by talkin’ about hangin’ folk than actually hangin’ ’em!’
‘Rumour has it he’s writin’ a book about his experiences.’
Simpson straightened his back in a show of righteous indignation. ‘Now that’s crossin’ the line, I reckon.’
‘Why? It’d be a seller, right enough.’
‘An’ what about the families, eh? All them as is left behind when he watches ’em drop?’
‘What about ’em?’
‘They’ll not be best pleased readin’ about their loved ones an’ their last minutes in this world, will they?’
‘Well they won’t be readin’ about it if they don’t bloody well buy the thing. Nobody’s forcin’ ’em. Besides, if they’re related to a bad un there’s no tellin’ they’re not as bad. Just luckier.’
Potter inhaled once more, swirled the smoke around his mouth before exhaling. This time, Simpson noted with satisfaction, the smoke rings were misshapen, fragmenting weakly within seconds.
There was a loud, painful grunt from the closet.
A few moments later, Oscar Pardew was standing in the doorway and holding up, with some pride, what looked like two ha’pennies soaked in filth that dripped thickly to the ground.
‘A penny for your thoughts, my dear badmash,’ he said with a grin.
*
Barry Brennan frowned and twitched his nose. While his mother was in the kitchen getting their tea ready, he was standing at the front window watching the rain bounce on the pavement beyond.
‘Dad?’
‘What?’
‘Do you remember when we went to the park? For the gala?’
Michael Brennan smiled at the memory. Back in May, on Whit Monday, the Grand Gala at Mesnes Park had been expected to raise a large sum for the Infirmary in Wigan, but the rain had kept many away, with the result that, after the expenses of the many acts booked to perform were taken into account, the gala made precious little for the fund. But, despite the foul weather, he recalled how excited his young son had been to see the feats of the Brothers Anistine on the Flying Rings, the child bicyclist, Young Adonis, who did impossible things on a drawing-room table, and more than anything else, the Grand Display of Fireworks at the end of the day (although the much anticipated Mammoth Whirlwinds, Roman Candles and Whistling Rockets had proved to be vulnerable to raindrops).
‘I do, lad. It was a good day.’
‘It rained.’
‘It did.’
‘Why did it rain then?’
His son had recently taken to asking questions of superficial simplicity, requiring him to respond with frankness.
‘Because the sun had gone away.’
‘Why? If God knew there was a gala in the park why did he make the sun go away?’
‘Well, sometimes we don’t know why God does things. If we did, we’d be like God ourselves, wouldn’t we? We don’t always have sunshine, and we don’t always have rain.’
‘We have snow, too!’
‘That’s right.’
‘It snowed last week.’
‘It did.’
‘So why is it raining today? Did God get fed up of the snow? Happen he sent the rain to get rid of the snow, melt it, eh, Dad?’
‘Happen.’
‘But it were good, all that snow. We had snowball fights at school.’
Brennan ruffled his son’s hair.
‘So why did God make it rain on Gala Day then?’
‘Ask your mother,’ Brennan said, just as Ellen came back into the living room.
*
‘Well?’
Simeon Crosby sat across from the journalist in the lounge area of the Royal Hotel. There was only one other person in the room, and he was reading a newspaper with his back to them.
Ralph Batsford leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘You know there’ll be some protest tomorrow night?’
Crosby sighed. ‘There’s always protests. Protesters are like bloody ants. Can’t get rid.’
‘Agreed. But I have a bad feeling about this one.’
‘Why?’
Batsford shrugged. ‘I went to a meeting across the street. Public house called the Legs of Man. They were organising the protest for tomorrow.’
‘Like I said. Ants.’
Batsford shook his head. ‘One man suggested they drag you from the Public Hall and – what was the colourful word he used? Ah, I remember: scrawp you down the street to the Market Square where, he suggested, they cover you in tar and feathers.’
Crosby blinked. ‘They wouldn’t bloody dare!’
‘Oh, I think the man who made the suggestion would dare. He seemed angry enough.’
‘There’ll be police there. The chief constable said so.’
‘Depends on how many.’ He sat there silent for a few moments to let the implications sink in. ‘I need hardly remind you of the consequences of such an attack.’
‘Consequences?’ Crosby’s voice rose, causing the man reading his newspaper to turn round and glare at him. ‘I’d be covered in tar and bloody feathers. That’d be the bloody consequence!’
Batsford shook his head. ‘What I mean is, it wouldn’t look good.’
‘Course it wouldn’t bloody well look good! I’d be tied to a post like a black chicken!’
‘Not what I meant. I was talking about the publicity. For the book.’
Crosby blinked and gave it some thought. He had high hopes that the book he was writing – or rather, the book that Batsford was writing, with information and anecdotes provided by himself – would make his fortune. How many people over the years had urged him to write a record of his experiences for the edification of the country at large? But it was only when Batsford had approached him after the Goodfellow affair with the notion of a memoir, secretly penned by Batsford, containing everything the general public would be clamouring to read, that he grew warm to the idea. It took him a length of time to agree, but once he had, his imagination grew. He even pictured himself signing copies of his book, not only in this country but further afield – America, say?
‘An old editor of mine,’ Batsford went on, breaking into his vision of a drinks party in some Manhattan Club, ‘was in Dublin in ’83 when the students of Trinity College threatened to tar and feather the Lord Mayor himself after he was invited to attend the University’s Philosophical Society. They were planning to tar and feather him and drag him into the examination hall where the meeting was to take place. Imagine the outrage. The humiliation.’
‘What happened?’
‘Why, the Lord Mayor decided against turning up.’
Crosby’s face grew an alarming shade of red. ‘You’re suggesting I do the same? Skulk in my room like some coward?’
‘Think of it, man. The disgrace of being hauled through the streets by a jeering mob and then given what is commonly regarded as the ultimate humiliating punishment… It isn’t the sort of publicity we need, is it?’
At that point, the hangman stood up and thrust out his chest with some pride.
‘I’ve never skulked in my life. And I can stand up to any man. If you think for one second, Batsford, that I would stand there and allow myself to be – what was it – scrawped down the street of this godforsaken shithole in the armpit of the north then you don’t bloody well know me!’
Batsford, recognising the man’s mood, forebore from pointing out that armpits don’t have shitholes.
With that, Crosby turned on his heel and left the lounge.
Batsford waited a few moments and then headed to the staircase to return to his own room. He knew that the Crosbys were planning to dine in the hotel tonight and not venture forth. He had been invited to join them but had politely declined. Crosby and his wife were dining alone together, for the odious Gilbert had declared a wish to sample the evening delights of the town. Alone, he had pointedly stated, the single, loaded word aimed directly at Batsford, who had no intention of being in the fellow’s company any longer than was professionally necessary.
>
No, Batsford had much to occupy his mind and needed the privacy of a quiet supper in his room to decide how to proceed.
Tomorrow, he would deal with the troublesome matter.
*
When Simeon Crosby returned to his room, he saw his wife sitting up in bed, reading the novel she was currently devouring: Moths by Ouida.
‘Feeling refreshed, dear?’ he asked with an ironic glance at the novel she was holding.
Violet Crosby raised her eyes and then turned her head to look at the rain-spattered window. ‘Do you know where I am at this moment?’ she asked.
‘Wigan in the rain!’ he declared somewhat dramatically.
‘Well, no. As a matter of fact – or should I say as a matter of fiction – I’ve just been walking through the myrtle wood near the Villa Nelaguine on the Gulf of Villafranca.’
‘And no doubt the sun was beating down, and all was right with the bloody world.’ He spoke without rancour. It was a common theme between them – her yearning for the romantic refuge of her novels while he had his feet firmly planted in the grimness of the here and now.
‘Well not really,’ she said, holding the volume up as if for proof. ‘A seventeen-year-old girl from Northumberland is now the Princess Zouroff in a loveless marriage and—’
He held up his hand. ‘For God’s sake don’t spoil the ending for me!’
She smiled, knowing full well that he would rather have his eyeballs skewered than read the sort of novel she enjoyed. ‘What did Mr Batsford want?’
He gave her a stern look. ‘How did you know? You were asleep.’