by A J Wright
Before she could respond, he raised a hand and added, ‘I think he was in jest. The world is fast changing, Miss Woodruff. In my view, women have as much right as men to follow whatever they wish to. If you wish to become a journalist, then…’
‘I don’t wish to become one. I am one.’
‘Then I apologise.’
She nodded, an acceptance of his apology. ‘And I’m writing a series of articles about capital punishment in general and Simeon Crosby in particular.’
Evelyne bristled at the name.
She went on. ‘My articles are published in The Graphic, as a matter of fact.’ She raised her chin proudly.
He looked impressed. The Graphic was a highly respected magazine. ‘In that case, why do you wish to speak with me? I detest the fellow Crosby and everything that he stands for. If I had my way…’ Here he stopped himself, the expression on his face one of restrained anger. ‘I apologise. There are times when I forget I’m not standing on a platform.’
She clasped her hands in a demure show of understanding. ‘I fully accept your principled stand, Mr Evelyne. Our purposes are not at odds. I have no intention of writing a eulogy. For my earlier articles, I have spoken with families of those who have been victims of crime, seeking their views of capital punishment.’
Evelyne frowned. ‘I would have thought their views were unanimously in favour?’
‘For the most part, yes. Although some of them expressed the wish to see those who took their loved ones from them suffer the much longer punishment of life imprisonment. Some feel that hanging is a merciful end.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I never thought I’d hear hanging and merciful in the same sentence.’
‘Sentence indeed,’ she said with a smile that rendered her features more alluring. ‘My new article will concern in part the impact of Mr Crosby’s visit on the ordinary people of the town. What is now known as the human interest dimension.’
‘I am not an ordinary person of the town,’ he said politely. ‘I’ve never been to Wigan. I don’t see how I…’
She raised a gloved hand. ‘You’re leading a protest at tonight’s meeting. Last night, I gather you addressed people from the town to gain support for your abolitionist cause. I should like your perspective on how your cause was greeted. Unanimous agreement? Any dissent? How many women attended? That sort of thing.’
With a slow shake of the head, he said, ‘You know, of course, that there are fewer advocates of the abolitionist cause than twenty years ago?’
‘Yes. It is a great pity. I tend to the opinion that most murderers are insane. To commit that most heinous of crimes must require some loosening of rationality. Is it, therefore, right to hang an insane person?’
A strange expression appeared on Evelyne’s face. It seemed to his visitor that he actually seemed irritated by her observation.
‘Surely that is an argument worth pursuing?’ she asked.
Evelyne cleared his throat. ‘The taking of any life is an abomination, Miss Woodruff. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Of course.’
‘And if the government pursue the taking of a life as a policy of law then surely they are guilty of an abomination, whether the condemned unfortunate is sane or insane?’
‘I agree. But—’
‘—And the laughable claim that it is a deterrent!’ Here his voice began to rise, causing Miss Woodruff to shift in her seat.
He saw her discomfiture at once. ‘I’m sorry, I tend to get carried away.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You wished to know how my meeting was received last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘With a lukewarm enthusiasm. Some professed anger at the visit of an official murderer. Some merely wished to cause trouble for the fun of it. We even had a suggestion that Crosby be tarred and feathered.’
‘Goodness.’ She placed a hand to her neck, as if she herself were in imminent danger of such a threat. ‘I see.’ She paused, appeared to be considering something. Then she spoke, in a lower voice this time. ‘Do you mind if I make some mention of your movement in my article?’
He frowned. ‘Movement is far too grand a word.’
‘But you are an abolitionist?’
‘I am.’
‘Then what is your opinion of the fact that the Society for the Abolition of Capital Punishment is fast losing its influence? That the Howard Association has taken up the mantle? What is your vision of the future? Do you think—
Evelyne held up his hand. ‘Please, Miss Woodruff. I have no wish to be a part of your article. Worthy though it will undoubtedly be.’
‘But if it furthers your cause?’
‘I’m not a member of any society. I have no link with the Howard Association or the Quakers or any official body. I’m just someone who believes in direct action.’ He sat back, his face now breaking into something approaching a smile. ‘Might I suggest that you come to the Market Square this evening – it’s just down the road, about a hundred or so yards away from where we are sitting – and seek the views of those attending? Mind you, they’re quite a rough lot, here in Wigan.’
‘Where are you staying, Mr Evelyne?’
He gave her a long, hard look. ‘The Queen’s Hotel. Hardly a grand affair. Why?’
‘I should like to speak further. There are… other questions I should like to ask.’
He slowly shook his head. ‘There won’t be time, I’m afraid. I shall be leaving this place first thing tomorrow morning.’
She bowed her head gracefully. ‘Very well. But I shall certainly take the opportunity to hear you speak to the masses.’
‘You have a ticket for tonight’s entertainment?’
She shook her head. ‘Mr Crosby’s talk? Entertainment is hardly the word I’d use. But no. I have no desire to hear what he has to say. I am much more interested in what his wife has to say.’
‘His wife?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s here with him? In Wigan?’
She gave a rather mischievous smile, leaning forward to adopt a more confidential air. The action somehow made her appear more human. ‘I have taken the liberty of communicating with her. And she has finally agreed to speak with me. Hers is the voice I wish to hear above all others. Living with the hangman. A wifely perspective.’
‘The man has no sense of propriety. To bring his wife with him when there may well be noisy protestations…’
She shrugged. ‘She insisted. After I’d made the suggestion, of course.’ She gave another smile, this time conspiratorial.
‘So he knows nothing of the interview? Surely he would never allow that? Not when he’s hoping to make his fortune writing his memoirs with Mr Batsford. It would somehow steal his thunder.’
Her voice now adopted an almost secretive tone, yet as she spoke, he couldn’t help thinking that there was something of the child in her, confessing to something very naughty.
‘He indeed knows nothing about our little arrangement. While he is addressing his salivating audience in the Public Hall, I shall be conducting my interview with his beloved wife in their hotel room. She has agreed to feign a headache. It’s rather exciting, don’t you think?’
Evelyne held up his hands in appreciation of her initiative.
‘Then I wish you good luck,’ he said. ‘And I look forward to reading your article, especially Mrs Crosby’s views!’
She stood up and again shook his hand. ‘Thank you for speaking with me. I hope your protest is heard loud and clear by Mr Crosby. A pity I won’t be able to speak with him. Not tonight, at any rate. I’ve heard that he speaks with no journalists except one.’
‘Yes. The redoubtable Mr Batsford. He had the audacity to attend my little gathering last night. He thought I didn’t recognise him.’ He stood and opened the door for her.
‘Mr Batsford is a disgrace to the noble calling of journalism, Mr Evelyne. He should spend his time reporting the news plainly and without prejudice, not acting as diarist to the hangman.’ She spoke with feeling, and a little colour beg
an to suffuse her cheeks. She frowned and appeared to be on the verge of saying something but then she shook her head and dismissed the unspoken comment. Instead, she added, ‘I shall be at the Market Square this evening and speak with as many of your followers as I can.’
With that, she swept from the room, leaving Evelyne with a rather confused expression on his face.
*
The Pavilion Café in Mesnes Park was half empty, despite the throng of chattering mill-girls seated on the benches surrounding its outside perimeter, taking in the fresh breeze that made such a pleasant contrast with the dust-heavy atmosphere of the nearby Rylands Mill. Many of them had brought their own food in snap tins, very few of them using the facilities inside the café.
Ralph Batsford and Violet Crosby sat inside. The noise from the girls thronging the park at midday had encouraged them to seek comparative silence; away from the chatter, the two of them could hear themselves talk, and that, after all, had been the prime purpose Batsford had had in inviting Violet Crosby to join him in the town’s foremost park. Both of them took a sip of tea, Violet giving a little smile as she replaced her cup.
‘Something amuses you?’ Batsford said.
She indicated the girls who sat outside, their backs towards them and their heads moving in animated conversation. ‘I remember when I was their age. Worked in a shop in Morecambe. We’d often spend our free time in Summer Gardens. Lovely place. And they had a pavilion there that was a pavilion.’ She waved her hand around the café. ‘How many folk do you think this pavilion holds?’
Batsford shrugged. ‘Hundred or so. At a squeeze.’
‘The pavilion in Summer Gardens held over ten thousand. Imagine that, eh?’
‘Amazing.’
She took another sip of tea and looked directly at him, the glow of nostalgia that had flittered across her face now replaced by something much more serious.
‘Now, Mr Ralph Batsford. There’s no one can hear us. We’re just two people having a midday cup of tea. So, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, eh? You didn’t invite me to this park, lovely though it is, to admire the gardens.’
Batsford clasped his hands together and leaned forward. ‘There’s something we need to discuss,’ he said, quietly but firmly.
‘Go on,’ she said with a sparkle of amusement in her eye.
With his eyes cast down as if he were examining the wood grain of the table, he said, ‘It has to stop before it begins. If Simeon were to find out…’
Playfully, she cupped her mouth with her left hand to simulate shock.
‘Why, Mr Batsford, sir, I really have no idea what you’re referring to. Upon my soul, sir!’ She spoke in a high-pitched, sing-song voice, the way a coquettish heroine might speak in one of her beloved novels.
‘It isn’t just Simeon who would be hurt, is it? There’d be yourself, whether you see that now or not. No one can foresee the consequences of such a course of action.’
‘And you, of course, Ralph. There’d be you and your… feelings to consider, wouldn’t there?’
He sighed heavily. A group of mill-girls seated on a bench beyond the window burst into raucous laughter. The timing gave him the strangest sensation that they were actually laughing at him and his predicament. Violet Crosby gave him her sweetest smile.
This was not going to be easy.
*
Oscar Pardew read the poster with interest.
He’d almost missed it as he shuffled along the row of terraced houses. He had no idea where he was headed, but the long street swept away from the centre of town where the loudest noises were, and he needed to find some sort of quiet place, a place that was free from crowds and all the hubbub of a bustling town. Halfway along the street, he passed what had once been a shop, but now thick wooden slats were nailed to its window frame and a letting sign pasted across at an angle. The space had afforded room for numerous posters advertising services such as Stammering Cured! Fig and Lemon Jam – The Most Delicious & Healthy Jam Ever Made! Dutch Bulbs At Low Prices! And in the centre of such temptations was a dark-edged poster proclaiming the Blood-Curdling Tales From England’s Pre-eminent Executioner: Once Heard – Never Forgotten! Mr Simeon Crosby In Person.
Oscar smiled when he saw the details of time and venue. Wigan Public Hall. King Street. 7.30. Tuesday 13th November. That was today. He’d heard right, then, back at Haydock. His mind had worked wonders, and he hadn’t been confused, no cloud blocking things out. He peered closer, saw the price of a ticket, saw also, a handwritten addendum which declared that the event was now sold out.
Then, as he progressed further down the street, something else caught his eye. A narrow poster that appeared to have been hastily stuck to the wall beside another derelict shop. It was Crosby’s name, printed in thick bold letters, that made him stop and take notice.
Whereas Mr Simeon Crosby should consider – does his murderous noose reform or deter? Mass Meeting Tuesday 13th Market Square Wigan. 6.30.
A March of Mercy.
He screwed his face in an effort to ponder the question, but no answer came soaring through the clouds taking shape in his head. Instead, he shrugged and carried on walking, letting his mind reflect on the fact that today was Tuesday, and tonight, he would do what he had come to do. It didn’t matter about not having a ticket. He didn’t have any wish to hear Mr Crosby speak about his experiences and what he could tell from how the condemned faced him and what they did and what they said. But the other meeting – the Market Square, wherever that was. He could go there, couldn’t he? They were going to have a meeting about Mr Simeon Crosby and then there’d be a march of mercy. He liked the sound of that.
But he wouldn’t let it distract him.
There was only one thing he needed to do. He would do it for his beloved father. He reached into his shirt and took out the small framed photograph, gazing at it for a while. Remarkable, he thought, how a photograph can almost bring someone back to life.
‘If only I could,’ he said, reaching down and kissing Dead Father.
*
When Brennan and Jaggery got back to the station, Brennan immediately reported to Captain Bell’s office and explained what little he knew about the mysterious conversation involving Gilbert Crosby the previous night, as well as the fact that he never returned to the hotel.
‘Simeon Crosby says it isn’t at all out of character?’ the chief constable asked.
‘It’s what he says.’
‘You have doubts, Sergeant?’
‘I don’t like things half-heard, sir. This business about ten pounds and Gilbert Crosby insisting that the thing had to be done last night. I’d like to know what thing is so urgent.’
Captain Bell walked over to the window and gazed out. It was a habit of his, and sometimes, Brennan resented the fact that he spent half his time addressing the man’s back.
Finally, he said, ‘In India, not all that long ago, they used a particular kind of executioner. You’ve heard of the caste system, Sergeant?’
‘I have, sir.’
‘Well, over there, they employed men of a low caste to act as executioners. Imagine the ignominy of being hanged by someone of a lower caste. But these hangmen were grossly unpopular. So hated, in fact, that they were forced to seek shelter in the very prisons that housed the ones they were hired to execute.’
Brennan watched his superior’s shoulders rise and fall as he sighed heavily.
‘They were also former criminals themselves. Marked in some way around their eyes to show their lowly and shameful status. It was ironic that they were scorned and insulted by the people, while the condemned man was regarded as almost holy. Men, women and even children would reach out and touch him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Brennan, unsure how to respond.
Captain Bell whirled round. ‘The point is, they got it wrong, didn’t they? In hiring low caste criminals, they turned the people against capital punishment at a stroke. Very short-sighted, Sergeant.’
‘Yes,
sir.’ Remarkable how a conversation that began with Gilbert Crosby had now changed course – and continent.
‘And I wonder if Mr Crosby writing about his experiences and touring the country like some nonsensical magic lanternist isn’t having the same effect as the low castes. Giving the ultimate punishment a bad name.’
‘He would argue the opposite, sir. Sharing his experiences, as it were.’
‘And causing possible mayhem, Sergeant Brennan, as it were.’
‘Quite, sir.’
The chief constable clapped his thin hands together, a sign that the time for philosophy had passed. ‘I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of Gilbert Crosby, Sergeant.’
Brennan forebore from making some ribald joke at the chief constable’s expense. Ribaldry had no place in this man’s office.
‘Now to more practical matters. This rabble-rouser, Evelyne – is he garnering any sort of support?’
Brennan shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, sir. From what I can gather, there were around twenty people at the meeting last night at the Legs of Man. If that’s any indication of what to expect tonight, I don’t think we’ll find things too difficult. It’s hardly in the same league as the problems we faced this time last year.’
‘Indeed, Sergeant.’ Captain Bell’s voice adopted a sombre tone. The miners’ strike of a year ago had brought the town great hardship, when feelings were hot among the miners, who saw the police as the supporting arm of the coal owners. It hadn’t helped that the army had been called in as a precaution and installed in the Drill Hall. Fortunately, there had been no large-scale riot, as there had been over the Pennines in Featherstone, where two miners had been shot dead by the military, but it had been a close run thing nevertheless. And the murder of a prominent colliery owner hadn’t helped matters.
‘The men are all prepared, Sergeant. You are in charge, of course. Just make sure no one does anything silly. Remember, we are the arm of the law. The strong arm of the law.’