by A J Wright
Brennan knew exactly what his superior was saying.
If in doubt, strike out.
*
The temperature had dropped considerably as the day wore on. The gas lamps that stretched the length of Market Street seemed to lose their glow against the bitter chill of the approaching night.
It was that time of evening when the mill-girls and the pitmen and the foundry workers had already made their way home from work and were either eating their tea or having what they commonly referred to as a nod before turning out for the night. For most of them, the local pubs would provide a warm and convivial refuge for a few hours, where gossip could be exchanged or grievances aired to the background rattle of dominoes or the dull thud of darts. As a consequence, there were few people on the street itself, other than the two police constables who stood across from the Market Square and observed the proceedings with barely concealed annoyance at the boredom and the cold. They muttered curses under their visible breaths.
For some thirty or so, whose social conscience proved stronger than the cold or the desire for smoke-filled bars, the Market Square was tonight’s draw. Thomas Evelyne stood in the covered entrance to the Market Hall, wrapped his muffler close around his neck and watched the numbers grow – slowly, it had to be said. Still, it was rather pleasing to see that so many people from the town had heeded his call. If he hadn’t decided to come here and organise the march and the protest outside the Public Hall, why, they’d be with the rest of their friends, doing what they did every night of the week. Hadn’t he woken something inside them – some spirit of righteous protest? Yet even these people were blind to the abomination of what people like Simeon Crosby were doing in the name of justice.
Simeon Crosby.
How he hated that man!
A smile creased his face when he spotted three clergymen walking towards the assembling group, and he wondered idly what the collective noun for clergymen could be. A trinity, perhaps? Whatever the term was, he felt a glow of satisfaction: having members of the church march alongside him would do his cause no harm whatsoever. Further, he reasoned, it would lend a certain sanctified gravitas to what he was hoping to achieve tonight. Then he noticed, with a smile, that Miss Woodruff, the woman journalist he had spoken to earlier that day, had suddenly made an appearance and was making a beeline for the three clergymen, notepad in hand.
He looked at his watch: time to address the gathering, give them some final words to fire their anger and urge them to be vociferous in their condemnation of such an unwelcome visitor.
He found a sturdy wooden box, the sort of container used to transport vegetables from farm to market, turned it over and planted both feet on it, testing his weight. Satisfied it wouldn’t split mid-speech, he raised his arms high above his head. Gradually the message got through to those gathered there, and the excited chatter slowly subsided. He cleared his throat and began to speak.
‘Friends. We have in this town a representative of justice. Or so he would like us to think. He has, on a regular basis, fastened a rope around the neck of someone found guilty in a court of law. He has, on a regular basis, gripped the lever that, with one forceful pull, sends the condemned man to his eternal judgement. And now, on a regular basis, he flitters from town to town, like some vampire bat sated with blood, to describe his experiences in gruesome detail. I mentioned eternal judgement just then. For who is the only one who can deliver such a judgement? Who is the only one who should hold sway over the life of every man, woman and child on this earth?’
He paused and directed his gaze to the trinity of vicars standing to his left. The oldest of them, a grey-haired gentleman with watery eyes and cheeks of a mottled pink, folded his hands across his chest and shouted, ‘Only the Lord our God, sir. Only the Lord our God.’
The two alongside him both added loudly, ‘Amen!’ and the word rippled along the crowd like an echo in a long tunnel.
Evelyne raised both hands. The crowd fell silent. ‘It is now being suggested that, in order to show how merciful and considerate we have become, the authorities should make arrangements for the condemned man to be visited by a mesmerist to prepare him for the gallows. Or better still, inject him with an anaesthetic to replace the glasses of gin or brandy with which he is traditionally dosed. What kind of people are we, when those who suggest those things claim they are examples of a humanitarian approach to judicial death? It is far, far better to remove, not a man’s life, but a man’s freedom. Life imprisonment, not legal strangulation!’
The crowd cheered and the trinity applauded politely.
‘But surely, my friends, even though the capital penalty is still woefully upon us, surely it is an abomination for someone like Mr Simeon Crosby to glory in its squalor, make a profit, not only from the grubbiness of his employment but also the lurid accounts of the things he has seen and done? One march like ours will never bring about the abolition of hanging, but this single march of ours can and will bring about the strangulation of a wicked man’s voice. He must be stopped, my friends. Simeon Crosby must be prevented from speaking tonight! Let us, therefore, march with Right and the Almighty on our side and make every effort to keep this monster from corrupting the good people of this town!’
He jumped down from the wooden crate and strode purposefully to his left, towards where the trinity were standing.
‘Gentlemen,’ he declared. ‘I would consider it a great honour if you would lead the march to the Public Hall. Your presence would lend our purpose a certain gravitas.’
The three vicars murmured to each other before nodding their assent. They took up their position at the head of the group, and Evelyne fell in behind them as they began the march along Market Street towards the Public Hall, some three hundred yards away. He glanced quickly behind him. The rest of the crowd were following, as were the two constables, who seemed more cheerful than earlier.
He caught sight of a dishevelled-looking individual who shuffled along at the rear of the group, to whom Miss Woodruff had now attached herself. She seemed to be engaged in conversation, and at one point, the man reached beneath his coat and took out a small object. He spoke to her with great animation for several seconds and seemed to be urging her to look at the object more closely. Then, she seemed to step back with an expression of disgust and horror on her face and moved quickly away from him. The man merely shook his head, as if he were disturbed by a swarm of bees.
Oscar Pardew had a confused expression on his face. Why did the woman leave him? After all, he’d merely introduced her to Dead Father. He looked up, to the head of the crowd, to the man who had been speaking to them. That man had called Simeon Crosby a monster. Despite the wisps of cloud that were slowly beginning to take shape behind his eyes, he made every effort to keep focused on what he had come to do.
He glanced down at the photograph, could almost feel his father’s stern gaze, watching what he would do next.
*
At that moment, Ralph Batsford locked his room in the Royal Hotel then walked along the corridor towards Simeon Crosby’s room. The door opened and Simeon stepped out, his face registering surprise at seeing the journalist.
‘Ralph? I thought we were to meet in the bar?’
Batsford shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d give you a knock. Make sure you were ready.’
Crosby gave a quick glance back into the room.
‘Is Violet ready?’ Batsford nodded towards the open door.
For an instant, there was a flash of annoyance on Crosby’s face. Instead of answering, he stepped back towards the room and said loudly, ‘I hope you feel better soon, dear. Perhaps your headache might go away if you put that silly romantic volume down and got some sleep.’
With that, he closed the door.
Batsford sighed. ‘Still no sign of Gilbert?’
Crosby shook his head curtly, giving the impression that any mention of his brother was unwelcome. Then his mood seemed to lighten, and he held up a small leather case which he patted gently. ‘T
he best speech I’ve ever given,’ he said with some pride.
‘Violet is unwell?’ He stepped towards Crosby’s room. ‘Perhaps we should send for—’
Crosby slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘All that reading, my dear chap. All that reading! Best to leave her to her rest, eh?’ With that, he led Batsford along the corridor to the stairs. ‘And I have an audience waiting,’ he added.
‘You also have three very large constables waiting in the hotel foyer, Simeon, all ready to escort you to your awaiting carriage. It seems the chief constable is taking no chances with your well-being.’
At the top of the stairs, Batsford glanced back down the corridor, a deep frown creasing his forehead.
9.
Detective Sergeant Brennan had deployed his men wisely.
Four constables were standing at the top of King Street, where the marchers would have to pass in order to make their way down towards the Public Hall. No carriages had been allowed to enter, and the chief constable, at Brennan’s bidding, had asked for the tram service to be suspended for a half-hour while the expected protest took place.
He had given orders for the men to give a stern and no-nonsense response to the group as they passed by, a timely reminder that the forces of law and order were in no mood to tolerate anything other than an orderly demonstration from those wishing to register their protest at Crosby’s presence. Halfway along King Street, another four men, two on either side of the street, stood with heads held erect as if on inspection, and outside the Public Hall, four constables stood on the steps, two on each side, to provide a barrier that would keep the marchers out. On the lowest step, in the middle of the two lines, stood Constable Jaggery, his large presence and scowling features enough to discourage even the most dedicated of protesters.
Already a queue of ticket-holders was waiting patiently against the wall of the building, and judging from the expressions on their faces, Brennan could see they were both unnerved by the sight of so many policemen and excited at the prospect of hearing what the cause of their presence had to say. He noticed there was roughly an equal mix of men and women waiting to enter. He felt slightly taken aback by the sight of so many women, wondering why they would choose to listen to the morbid and probably gruesome reminiscences of an executioner. He couldn’t imagine Ellen sitting there and taking in such horrors.
Suddenly he heard the sound of distant voices. He looked up the street and saw one of his constables raise an arm. It was a signal that the marchers were almost at the top of the street.
‘Look at ’em,’ said one man in the queue. ‘Holy bloody joes.’
‘Aye,’ said another. ‘They’d be singin’ a different tune if it were theirs what got done in. They’d be skrikin’ for blood then, the soft bastards.’
Brennan turned and gave the attendant on the door a curt nod. ‘Right, son,’ he said. ‘Let ’em in.’
Quickly, the attendant opened the hall door and ushered in those waiting.
‘’Ave your tickets ready, if you please!’ he announced.
The audience filed in, some of them exchanging pleasantries with the policemen as they passed through, as though, for the moment, they shared the same firm belief in the forces of law and order.
Then Brennan raised his arm once more and the constables halfway along the street immediately took up fresh positions across the street itself to form a human barrier.
He saw the marchers now at the top of the street, where King Street and Wallgate formed a junction. They were singing the hymn Nearer My God To Thee. The constables stepped forward and had a word with the three vicars at the head of the march. They all gave a sharp nod, and the four officers led the way down King Street. The marchers appeared to be following the commands of the police – Brennan could see there were no arguments or raised voices, nor was there any arm-waving, and he wondered if tonight’s display would, after all, proceed along orderly and civilised lines.
He was ready if it didn’t.
*
Under normal circumstances, it would take all of two minutes to make the journey by carriage from the Royal Hotel on Standishgate to the Public Hall in King Street. But these were far from normal circumstances, and Captain Bell had insisted that the carriage, containing Simeon Crosby and two police constables take a circuitous route that would take them down Millgate and at the bottom of that steep incline, via a sharp right into Rodney Street, past the police station and then finally right into King Street, thereby avoiding the route taken by the marchers from Market Square.
Batsford, meanwhile, stood shivering in the icy cold on the steps of the Royal and was informed that the chief constable’s orders extended only to Mr Crosby and his wife and that the journalist was to be accompanied by the remaining constable on foot.
As Crosby was clambering into the carriage, one of the constables asked, ‘Where’s the missus, like?’ He was clearly discomfited by the unexpected absence of Mrs Crosby. It was also clear that this deviation from the chief constable’s orders was something he didn’t really know how to respond to.
‘Mrs Crosby is indisposed,’ her husband replied. ‘She won’t be accompanying us.’
‘I see,’ said the constable, looking at his two colleagues for support.
Both of them shrugged, and one of them, an older, more world-weary chap, added, ‘Nowt we can do. Unless we go an’ skulldrag her out of her room, like.’
Simeon Crosby leaned out from the carriage’s interior. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The constable gave an apologetic cough. ‘Sorry, sir. It were a joke.’
But Crosby’s face showed what he thought of the man’s humour. ‘There’ll be no skulldragging. Do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir. It were only—’
‘—My wife is not to be disturbed.’
‘No, sir.’
As one of the constables climbed in beside him with the other already ensconced beside the driver, Crosby leaned from the carriage and addressed Batsford, who had been watching the exchange with interest.
‘You might as well get in here with me. Plenty room now.’
But Batsford shook his head. ‘I need the exercise,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you there.’
Crosby grunted and rapped on the carriage roof. With a snort, the horse pulled away.
Batsford turned to the constable who was standing beside him. ‘I really don’t think I need an escort, Constable.’
The policeman was young, and Batsford noticed the beginnings of a moustache. He wondered how long it had taken those flimsy hairs to sprout.
‘Chief constable’s orders, sir.’
The journalist gave a quick glance back towards the hotel steps. ‘Well, if you don’t mind waiting…?’
‘Waitin’? What for?’
‘I’ve left my notebook in my room. A reporter without his notebook is like, well, like a constable without his truncheon.’
The young policeman smiled. ‘I’d be buggered baht it.’
‘And so would I, Constable.’ He started to move back towards the steps of the hotel.
‘’Ere, how long will you be, only—’
Batsford held up his hand. ‘As long as it takes, Constable. No more and no less.’
The policeman sighed and walked to the bottom of the steps, watching the reporter take them two at a time.
*
The trouble, when it came, took everyone by surprise.
The marchers, with the three vicars at their head, closely followed by Thomas Evelyne, had halted a few yards from the steps of the Public Hall. The glow from the gas lamps dotted along King Street highlighted the size of the group, and Brennan estimated there were no more than thirty present. The bitter cold of the evening made their combined breaths form small clouds. When he issued his order for the constables to stop the marchers, they had all complied, following the example of the trinity leading them. Many of them stamped their feet, not out of annoyance or impatience, but merely to generate enough energy to create some suspicion of war
mth.
The singing had faded away, and it seemed to Brennan that now they had reached their destination, they were at a loss as to how to proceed.
At that moment, further down the street, he heard the rattle of carriage wheels and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. The sight of a policeman seated beside the driver brought a ripple of murmur as people understood the carriage’s import, but even then, they remained more like placid observers than enraged protesters.
Once the carriage reached the Public Hall, Brennan stepped forward and waited for the door to swing open. He was somewhat surprised to see Simeon Crosby clamber out unaccompanied by his wife, but the important thing now was to get the man safely inside so he could deliver his eagerly awaited talk.
It was as the hangman placed his foot on the first step that a loud yell pierced the air.
‘Murderer!’
He saw the one who had been at the head of the march along with the vicars – Evelyne, presumably – turn to the others in an attempt to generate a loud vocal protest. Several of them complied, but then a man, a dishevelled-looking individual who had been standing at the back of the protesters, surged through the crowd shouting, ‘Crosby! Simeon Crosby!’ and pushing all and sundry out of his way in his eagerness to reach his quarry.
Someone yelled out, ‘Look out – he’s got something in his hand!’
Within seconds, pandemonium broke out as the police constables flanking the marchers plunged into the mass of bodies in a desperate attempt to grab the man, those hurled aside expressing their outrage in the vilest terms. As the man continued to force his way to the front, two more constables leapt into the midst with truncheons raised, but this occasioned more anger, more shoving, more expressions of resentment and indignation directed towards this uniformed intrusion into their ranks, and soon, the hitherto disciplined but hesitant band of protesters had transformed into a chaotic melee of swinging fists and cursing tongues.
Brennan grabbed hold of Crosby and almost lifted him off his feet in his haste to usher him into the relative safety of the auditorium. Once he’d gained the topmost step he wheeled round and called out to Constable Jaggery, ‘Nobody gets past, Constable! Nobody!’