The Fiend in Human

by John MacLachlan Gray

  Lord have mercy upon you!

  Christ have mercy upon you!

  Lord have mercy upon you!

  Christ have mercy upon you!

  It may come as an astonishment to the Reader that every word of the above pronouncement is distinctly heard by him to whom it is directed – through air choked with smoke and fog and through a succession of stone walls six feet thick – as though it were spoken in the next room. Such is the power of the Word over the constructions of human hands.

  Your correspondent (in the absence of Mr Whitty, who is in recuperation) can attest to this, having spent the longest night of his life in the presence of the condemned man Walter Sewell, otherwise known as the True Chokee Bill, the Fiend in Human Form.

  Surprising, the honours and trials which accrue unexpectedly to a man – being in this case the opportunity afforded to your correspondent of playing a raven’s role, to perch o’ertop a condemned man’s shoulder during the last hours of his life. It is by no means clear how this doubtful privilege came to pass, for the harm he has done to your correspondent, and to persons near and dear to him, would indicate otherwise. Conceivably, the condemned man saw in some action of your correspondent an inadvertent trace of human decency which, when communicated, had the effect of quelling a throng of citizens enraged by the enormity of his crimes. In no wise did your correspondent intentionally effect such a thing, who would gladly have watched the man cut into pieces and thrown into the sea.

  And yet, in keeping with the right, accorded a condemned man, of a single visitation, an invitation was sent and received. Should your correspondent have refused it, the man would needs have passed the night alone, the night before he meets Our Blessed Saviour. Therefore, out of an obligation to honour the last request of even such a beast as this, and an offer from The Falcon to publish our observations, your correspondent acceded to the prospect of passing the night in the condemned cell of Newgate Gaol, in company with the True Fiend in Human Form.

  In spite of the reek of the prison generally, the corridor leading to the condemned cell, although dimly lit, exudes a sanitary air, in keeping with a terminology in which the man about to die becomes the ‘patient’, and the execution becomes the ‘file’. Outside the condemned man’s quarters stands a warden – a muscular, experienced, yet kindly man who presents the welcoming gaze of a doorman.

  ‘What is your business, Sir?’ he asks.

  ‘As you shall have been informed, Warden, I have been invited to write upon the file forthcoming.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Sir. From The Falcon. You are indeed expected – though I am afraid you will gain little from the patient. Please to enter and see for yourself.’

  The turnkey opens the door to the cell and we step inside a room which was built as for a monastery, without decoration save for a crucifix on one wall and a table containing a Testament, soiled and torn by use. Seemingly in defiance of the ruminative cast to the décor was the sound emanating from within: not a Sorrowful Lamentation, not a Defiance in the Face of Doom, but the incoherent, infantile, primitive wail of a terrified man.

  Is it right to speak of cowardice at such a time and circumstance? Or has the word outworn its usefulness in the privileged world from which he has descended? In a world of comfort, is there honour to be gained in the defiance, or at any rate the stoic acceptance, of suffering and death? Or do the quality find honour in most conspicuously cringing from such? Your correspondent does not know, Dear Reader, if he ever did.

  All the same, your correspondent took his place on the one available stool and, in the absence of a cushion, leaned his back against the stony wall, while the condemned man wept in the bed opposite. In the meanwhile, the bells of St Sepulchre rang their tribute: the message was spoken, and was heard.

  I do not know for how long I sat across the room from the patient, curled like a newborn on his cot, a moist package of blubbering flesh, alternately gasping for breath then begging for his mother, then crying out the name of a prominent family forever soiled by his acquaintanceship. While clearly incapacitated by the sheer extremity of his situation, as the dreadful night wore on it became evident that the significance of the evil done by him, the bleak events which had taken place and were yet to take place on account of the Fiend, had entirely escaped his ken – or rather he had escaped them, having flown to some other part of his mind, some other world in which he is innocent; in which, however tormented, he feels the satisfaction of having been wronged, set upon, made the victim of a cruel world. I do not know when the Chaplain arrived, or whether our man did the patient any good, but suspect not.

  In any event, there was no speaking with this person. Your correspondent does not know why he was invited, except as a possible diversion from the prospect at hand.

  Like the bells of St Sepulchre, outside the walls could be heard, as clearly as though it took place in the next room, the hammering together of the black scaffold (one might expect such frequent usage to merit a permanent facility), the size and shape of a showman’s caravan and with a similar purpose, if we are to judge by the anticipatory cries, the songs, the curses and imprecations, of the audience already gathered.

  Especially does a hanging hold fascination for criminals – as an opportunity for boasting, and, in the case of pickpockets, for plying their trade. Older members of this set recall the days when the wretches were hung up in rows, when bets were taken as to which would die basely and which would die well. The spectacle holds yet another benefit for the criminal: now familiar with death, he is thereby equipped to deal with it himself.

  When the bell of St Sepulchre first rang, the Fiend heard it – indeed, it roused him to momentary sensibility, for he sat bolt upright of a sudden and cried: ‘One! Seven hours!’

  So saying, he fell to his knees and seemed to pray for a very long time – until the next bell, at which he cried: ‘Hark!’ With a cry of despair he left off praying, fell once again upon the cot, and cried bitterly.

  Worn with nervous excitement, not to say dismay, your correspondent drifted into an unsettled slumber and fevered dreams, to be awakened by the last bell. Upon opening the eyes it was as though the cell itself had grown smaller, or had been shrouded by an invisible tent containing the sadness within.

  Even so, the opening of the cell door and the entrance of the officials came as a fresh shock to the patient – who, amid renewed prayers and imprecations, refused his breakfast, then resisted the attachment of chains with such unexpected force (and an unbecoming degree of squealing), that the warden and turnkeys grew short of breath in restraining him; so that when finally they ushered the patient from the cell, it was unclear whether he was walking of his own accord or being carried – down the stone steps, down the bleak stone passageway, down to the black metal door …

  Upon opening the door, the sound is like a wind which roars into the building, then hisses, then roars again, as though coming from one enormous mouth. Before being led outside, the prisoner peers through the doorway – not at the ardent throng of factory-workers and servants, not at the tract- and refreshment-sellers, not at the frock-coated constables manning the low barrier in front of the black-covered scaffold, but at the windows opposite and above, where the quality reside, there to take in the spectacle at £10 per seat.

  It seems as though he is searching for a familiar face.

  Now his eyes focus upon the presence of the Chaplain before him, prayer book in hand. Now he is conscious of the presence of Mr Calcraft (who will earn a guinea for the morning’s work), standing behind the Chaplain like a parson of lower degree, with his hairless brow and the pockmarks upon his cheeks. Now two helmeted wardens step to either side, take hold of the patient’s arms, and nudge him forward. Thus encouraged, he steps outside – and the sheer size of his audience dawns upon him, while up goes the cry of ‘Hats off!’ followed by a resonating silence. Suddenly he becomes aware of pigeons scattering about as the procession takes its first few steps, across the stones to the waiting scaffold.


  And he falls.

  Your correspondent has seen such a fall before. When a man falls thus, it is not because he has stumbled. Nor is it the fall of a man who has suddenly grown faint. It is the fall of a man who has fallen out of the world.

  Were his hands free, officials would perhaps have seen him clutch his chest – which seemed to bother the patient all night long. In this case, however, his hands being tied and his encounter with death thereby masked, the patient’s abrupt demise occurred unannounced.

  The initial response of the wardens was one of simple embarrassment, for such men pride themselves in their ability to maintain the dignity and the drama of the moment. Hence, the response was as though a pair of servants had dropped their trays; hence, they pulled the patient to his feet with a degree of roughness – and in doing so discovered that the man had lost his skeleton, that there was no purchase to be had in lifting, that their efforts resembled an attempt to sustain a long, heavy mattress in a vertical position.

  Now the physician emerged from behind the curtain under the scaffold, to ascertain the cause of the delay. Stooping amid the black-coated officials, Mr Mortimer affirmed what the rest of the party, reluctantly, had grasped.

  The patient was dead.

  Therefore he could not be killed.

  It took several minutes for the group to arrive at this self-evident conclusion, during which time the crush of spectators, craning their necks from beyond the circle of constables, made its feelings known with increased vehemence, rising to an extended murderous roar, awful to hear, amid which din the deceased man was dragged back through the black door where the official party could debate their next step, assembled above the prone, lifeless figure of the Fiend in Human Form.

  It is surely unnecessary at this point to recall for the Reader the events of five and forty years before, when, having come to witness the execution of Holloway and Hagarty on this site, thirty persons were crushed to death in the crowd.

  At length a worried official from the Sheriff appeared through the black door and the roar which poured into the hallway was like a flood. A moment hence, two more constables joined us: the position outside had been made much worse as a result of a group of young men from the country, who, in their eagerness to have an effect on the proceedings, had linked arms and moved toward the scaffold, thereby creating a kind of retracting fence, with the resulting panic within.

  Such was the roiling push and pull of alarmed humanity, several persons had already lost their footing and fallen to the ground, thereby placing themselves at risk of being trampled to death. In addition, citizens in attendance on Snow Hill had begun to throw rocks and other objects into the throng, thereby increasing the sense that some kind of attack was underway.

  It is not possible for us adequately to narrate how a decision such as the one which subsequently occurred in the stone confines of Newgate Gaol came to pass. Certainly, your correspondent could not quarrel with it – if one was to avoid the senseless loss of innocent life.

  Thus it came to pass that the Fiend in Human Form was lifted upright, braced by a night-stick at his back and supported between our two substantial wardens, who carried him across the stones and up the metal steps of the scaffold. And though his feet dragged upon the ground, to the crowd in attendance it did not seem to matter, nor that he seemed unable to stand upright on his own upon the scaffold as the cap was placed over his head; nor that his eyes appeared to stare fixedly in a single place – at the seats rented by the quality. On the contrary, from the moment the condemned man reappeared, the crowd began to lose its fury, to turn docile as a herd of cattle, which proceeded to watch, wide-eyed, as a familiar ritual was played out for their benefit – the reading of scripture, the shaking of hands, and finally the springing of the trap and the descent of a man; whereupon the doctor beneath seized the legs to ensure the breaking of the patient’s neck, going so far as to reproduce the kick, the tremor and the death spasm, followed by stillness, for realism.

  Then, and only then, was the public satisfied, and willing to go home.

  53

  The Crown

  Whitty adjusts his new frock-coat of violet (well regarded on Bond Street), in the hope that he will grow accustomed to the high silk choker, now the fashion. The cut of his pale yellow trousers is superlative, so long as he does not sit suddenly. Everything is new except the boots, which he judges good for at least another half-year.

  He will be absent from public view for several days: he intends to take the water-cure, a good cleaning being the ticket to health. And the arms of Mrs Plant.

  Aware that he has not been looking his best in past weeks, the correspondent wishes to leave in his wake the impression of a man on top of his game, among colleagues and enemies alike, and among certain young people who might have admired him for some reason, then thought better of it.

  He watches Phoebe while she scans the room in a quick, professional sweep. (She notices him, yet gives him no special attention.) She moves behind the counter to have a quiet word with the barkeeper; now she disappears upstairs, with the preoccupied expression of a practical woman with several things on her mind.

  Stunning Joe Banks, seated beside Whitty near the entrance, wearing a magenta coat (beside which Whitty might as well be a wet pigeon), holds his glass of Scotch whisky to the light in order to inspect its colour. ‘As an employer it is an astonishment to me, how the nature of a position is defined by the one what fills it. The publican business is like boxing in that way.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that Miss Owler has little to do?’

  ‘Quite the contrary, Sir. From the morning she came into our employ, Miss Owler began to discover many things to do. Now she has sufficient to do that I don’t know how I will replace her.’

  ‘What makes you think that you will need to replace her?’

  ‘Miss Owler seeks a career on the stage. When the stage comes into it, you cannot shift them. I have seen it before.’

  Down the stairs she comes, balancing on the palm of one hand a bucket of iced champagne. She crosses the floor, past the dancers to an inconspicuous table occupied by a young Cambridge gentleman who appears alone, neglected and out of place in these surroundings. The sort of gentleman whose custom the Crown seeks; a gentleman who will pay well in future for a welcome now.

  Whitty notes her velvet dress, the colour of coral, quite opposite to the green she wore on that night – which he will revisit more than once, both in memory and as crisp copy, the night a girl stared down the Fiend in Human Form …

  ‘Good evening, Mr Whitty.’ Phoebe smiles and extends her hand. Alas, she takes no particular note of his improved appearance.

  ‘Miss Phoebe, may I say that you look splendid. Allow me to extend my compliments to you on your new dress.’

  ‘It isn’t such a luxury, you know. With a day between wearings, both will wear longer.’

  ‘I’m sure that is so.’ Whitty wonders: What was he seeking? Did he expect to bask in the infatuation of a juvenile forever as a kind of tonic? Fool!

  ‘It is good to see you again, Mr Whitty. I should like to converse at length, for much has happened, but as you can see I have ever so many things to do. Would you excuse me, please?’

  ‘I assure you, Miss, I excuse you utterly.’

  And with a quick nod of acknowledgement to her employer, she is gone.

  A pause, while two gentlemen of a certain age contemplate the relentlessness of time.

  ‘So it goes,’ says Stunning Joe Banks to his glass of whisky.

  ‘So it does.’

  ‘A drop more?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘One can only make the best of things, of course. We all must work with what we have before us, Mr Whitty, and I encourage you to do so. Might I point out that there are women in this very room who might prove diverting. As an example, allow me to direct your attention to the vixen entertaining the young Cambridge fellow by the window: ‘the Jewel of Morocco’, they call her. Background a tota
l mystery. And do you descry the mark over her upper lip? Said to be the mark of a sultan’s daughter …’

  ‘Very impressive,’ agrees Whitty. So saying, he abruptly drains his whisky, retrieves his stick, and leaves without a further glance in Etta’s direction.

  Peculiar sort of fellow, thinks the publican, relighting his cigar.

  54

  The Falcon

  In the darkened wooden hall Owler nods to the young, uniformed electric telegraph messenger, who, after rendering the patterer a quick glance from head to toe, rolls his eyes in disdain and continues out of the building.

  Thinks the patterer: should this current run of good fortune continue, he will instruct Phoebe to purchase a suit of clothes from one of the shops on Waterloo Road – made of wool and not corduroy, in keeping with their improved situation.