Even from the railway station, Colbeck could hear the noise and he was grateful that he did not have to walk directly through the market, where his elegant attire would make him incongruous among the more homespun garments on show. As it was, he attracted a lot of curious glances. Maidstone prison was a forbidding sight. Erected behind the Sessions House, it had four hundred night cells and was encircled by a high perimeter wall that acted as a stern warning to any would-be malefactors. The man on duty at the gate was so unaccustomed to the appearance of a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard that he refused to admit Colbeck until word had been sent to the governor.
There was a long delay. Taken aback by news of his unexpected visitor, Henry Ferriday nevertheless agreed to see him, deciding that he would not have come all that way from London unless it were on a matter of some importance. Colbeck was admitted and escorted to the governor's office, a small, untidy, cheerless room that overlooked the exercise yard. Ferriday welcomed him with a warm handshake and an inquisitive frown. He waved the detective to a chair.
'Well,' he said, resuming his own seat behind the desk, 'to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?'
'I'm hoping that you can help me with an investigation.'
'We are always ready to do that.'
'It concerns the murder of Jacob Guttridge.'
'Yes,' said Ferriday, shaking his head, 'we saw mention of that in the newspapers. He was here only a matter of weeks ago, you know.'
'Was it the first time he'd carried out an execution at Maidstone?'
'No, no, Inspector. It would have been his third visit.'
Henry Ferriday was a lean man of middle years with hollow cheeks and large, mobile eyes. He had compensated for a dramatic loss of hair by trying to grow a beard but the experiment had been only a limited success. In his black frock coat, and with his sharp features, he looked like a giant crow. While he talked, he kept peering nervously over his shoulder as if fearing that someone would smash a way through the barred window behind him. From the way that the governor talked, Colbeck judged him to be a kind, humane man who had come into the prison service out of a sense of vocation and who still retained vestiges of an idealism that had largely melted away in the white-hot furnace of daily experience.
'In the past,' he explained, 'we were happy with Mr Guttridge's services – insofar as any happiness can attend an execution, that is. Personally, I find them rather disgusting events and I hate being forced to witness them. My digestion is never the same for days afterwards.'
'Tell me about the most recent execution, if you will.'
'Nathan Hawkshaw?'
'Yes, Governor. Was he a local man?'
'He was a butcher in Ashford, twenty miles or so from here. And butchery was involved in his crime, alas,' he said, tossing another glance over his shoulder. 'Hawkshaw was hanged for the murder of Joseph Dykes whom he hacked to death with a meat cleaver. It was a brutal assault. And the worst of it was that Hawkshaw refused to show the slightest remorse. He said that he was glad Dykes was dead though he insisted that he was innocent of the crime.'
'Was there any doubt about his guilt?'
'Not as far as the court was concerned, Inspector, and we are guided by the sentences that they hand down. Hawkshaw's was a capital offence so we sent for Mr Guttridge.'
'Do you happen to know the details of the case?' asked Colbeck. 'I'd be grateful for anything that you can tell me. This was the last execution carried out by Mr Guttridge and it may have some bearing on his death.'
'I fail to see how.'
'Humour me, if you please. I came in search of facts.'
'Then the person you should be talking to,' said Ferriday, getting up to cross to the door, 'is our chaplain, the Reverend Jones. He struggled hard with Nathan Hawkshaw but to no avail.' He opened the door. 'Narcissus will furnish you with all the details you need.'
'Narcissus?'
'That's his name, Inspector. Narcissus Jones.' He spoke briefly to someone in the corridor outside then closed the door. 'Our chaplain is Welsh. He's a man of strong opinions.'
'Not always the case with a man of the cloth.'
'Prison plays havoc with a man's spiritual values. Even the most pious Christian will question his faith when he has worked in this godforsaken hell-hole for any length of time. Yet it has not affected the chaplain in that way,' said Ferriday, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel so that he had an excuse to look behind him. 'If anything, life within these walls has only reinforced his commitment.'
'That's comforting to hear.'
'Narcissus Jones is a species of saint.'
Colbeck was not at all sure that he wanted to discuss a murder investigation with a Welsh saint but he had no alternative. In any case, after the fulsome praise that the governor had heaped on the man, the detective was interested to meet him. Ferriday seemed to be slightly in awe of the chaplain, almost to the point of deference. Colbeck fished.
'You say that Nathan Hawkshaw protested his innocence?'
'Most prisoners do that, Inspector,' said the other, wearily. 'The worse their crimes, in my experience, the louder they deny their guilt. Hawkshaw was unusual in one respect, though, I have to concede that.'
'Oh?'
'A campaign was launched on his behalf.'
'What sort of campaign?' asked Colbeck. 'A plea for his release?'
'A full-throated demand for it,' replied Ferriday. 'Quite a sizeable number of people were involved. They had leaflets printed, claiming that Hawkshaw was innocent and they even brought banners and placards to the execution. It made the ordeal even more horrible.' There was a tap on the door. 'Ah, that will be the chaplain. He raised his voice. 'Come in!'
The door opened and the Reverend Narcissus Jones stepped into the room. He was even taller than Colbeck, a solid man in his forties with broad shoulders and huge hands. Dark hair of impressive luxuriance fell back from the high forehead and almost touched the edge of his clerical collar. His features were rugged, his nose bulbous, his eyes small and darting. Colbeck's first impression was that he bore less resemblance to a species of saint than to a species of farm animal. Ferriday was still on his feet. Introduced to the newcomer, Colbeck got up to exchange a handshake with him and to feel the power in his grip. Reverend Narcissus Jones liked to display his strength.
When all three of them were seated again, the governor explained the purpose of Colbeck's visit. The piggy eyes of the chaplain flashed.
'Oh, I remember Nathan Hawkshaw,' he said in a lilting voice that was deeper and more melodious than anything Colbeck had ever heard coming from a human mouth before. 'Distressing case. Very distressing. One of my rare failures as a chaplain. Is that not so, Governor?'
'You did your best.'
'I wrestled with him for days on end but I could find no way to awaken his conscience. Hawkshaw was adamant. Kept insisting that he was not responsible for the killing, thereby adding the crime of deceit to the charge of murder.'
'The chaplain even had to overpower the man,' recalled Ferriday.
'Yes,' said Jones, piqued by the memory. 'The prisoner was so incensed with anger that he dared to strike at me and – what was far worse in my eyes – he had the audacity to take the Lord's name in vain as he did so. I felled him with a punch – God help me!'
'After that, we had to keep him under restraint.'
'From what the governor has been telling me,' said Colbeck to the muscular priest, 'this Nathan Hawkshaw was not the only person convinced of his innocence. He had a group of supporters, I believe.'
'A disorderly rabble from Ashford,' said Jones with a loud sniff. 'Thirty or more in number. They even tried to rescue Hawkshaw from the prison but the attempt was easily foiled. Instead, they chose to disrupt the execution.'
'Fortunately,' added Ferriday, 'we had advance warning that there might be trouble. Extra constables were on duty to keep the crowd under control and they were certainly needed.'
'That was largely Mr Guttridge's
fault. He stirred them up to the very edge of mutiny. I've never seen such incompetence on a scaffold.'
'What happened?' asked Colbeck.
'The hangman made a few mistakes,' said Ferriday, mildly.
'A few?' boomed Jones. 'Let us be brutally frank, Governor. The fellow made nothing but mistakes. To begin with, he tried to take over my job and offer the prisoner spiritual sustenance. That was unforgivable.' He checked himself and spoke with more control. 'I know that one should not speak ill of the dead – especially if they die by violence – but I find it hard to think of Mr Guttridge without feeling a surge of anger. Giving the prisoner a religious tract, indeed! Reading a ridiculous poem at him! And that was not the sum of his imperfections. As soon as he arrived here, we could smell the brandy on his breath.'
'Most executioners need a drink to steady their hand,' remarked Colbeck, tolerantly. 'Mr Cathcart is noted for his fondness for the bottle.'
'I had a drink myself beforehand,' confessed Ferriday.
'That may be, Governor,' said Jones, tossing his hair back, 'but you did not let it interfere with the discharge of your duties. That was not the case with Mr Guttridge. He tripped on the steps as he went up on to the platform.'
'Nervousness. The baying of that huge crowd upset him.'
'It did not upset me and many of them were abusing me by name.'
'You were an example to us all, Narcissus.'
'With the exception of the hangman.'
'What exactly did he do wrong?' inquired Colbeck.
'Everything, Inspector,' the Welshman told him. 'I thought that Hawkshaw was a benighted heathen but, to his credit, at the very last, he showed a glimmering of Christian feeling. When he saw there was no escape from his fate, he finally began to pray. And what does that fool of an executioner do, Inspector?'
'Tell me.'
'He pulled the bolt before the prayers were over.'
'It was most regrettable,' commented Ferriday.
'Mr Guttridge lost his nerve,' accused Jones, 'and fled from the scene without even checking that he had done his job properly.'
'I take it that he hadn't,' said Colbeck.
'No, Inspector. When the trap sprang open, Hawkshaw somehow contrived to get his heels on the edge so that he did not fall through it. You can imagine how that inflamed the crowd. The mood was riotous.'
'What did you do?'
'The only thing that we could do,' said Ferriday, flicking a glance behind him to check for eavesdroppers. 'I had Mr Guttridge brought out again and ordered him to dispatch the prisoner quickly. But, when he tried to push Hawkshaw's feet away from the trap, the man kicked out violently at him and – the sight will stay for me forever – his supporters urged him on with manic cries as they fought to get at us. Truly, I feared for my own life.'
'In the end,' said Jones, taking up the story, 'Mr Guttridge beat his legs away and he dropped through the trap, but the fall did not break his neck. He was jerking wildly around in the air. Everyone could see the rope twisting and turning. That really made passions rage.'
'I sent Guttridge below to pull on his legs,' said Ferriday, swallowing hard, 'but he could not even do that properly. One of the warders had to assist him. Nathan Hawkshaw was left hanging there, in agony, for well over five minutes. It was an abomination.'
'And Mr Guttridge was to blame?' said Colbeck.
'Regrettably, he was.'
'If all this took place in front of his loved ones, it must have fired some of them up to seek revenge against him.'
'Death threats were shouted from all sides.'
'I deplore those threats,' said Jones, 'but I sympathise with the impulse to make them. If I'm honest – and honesty is the essence of my character – I could have called for Mr Guttridge's head at that point in time. He was a disgrace to his calling. Ieusi Mawr!' he exclaimed with an angry fist in the air. 'Had there been another rope on the scaffold, I'd gladly have hanged that drunken buffoon alongside the prisoner, then swung on his legs to break that worthless neck of his.'
Henry Ferriday turned to Colbeck with a weak smile.
'I did warn you that the chaplain had strong opinions,' he said.
CHAPTER SIX
Before he set out, Victor Leeming took the precaution of changing into a shabby old suit that he kept at the office for just such occasions. Although it was invariably crumpled, the clothing he wore to Scotland Yard every day was too close to that of a gentleman to allow him an easy passage through Bethnal Green, the most miserable and poverty-stricken district in the whole of the city. His aim was to be as nondescript as possible so that he could merge with his surroundings. For that reason, he traded his hat for a battered cap and his shoes for a pair of ancient boots. When he left the building, he looked more like a disreputable costermonger than a detective. Some of the cabs that he tried to hail refused to stop for him, fearing that he would be unable to pay his fare.
It was over a year since he had been in Bethnal Green but he remembered its notorious reek all too well. No sooner did he reach the area than it assaulted his nostrils once more. In a space enclosed between a hoarding on either side of the Eastern Counties Railway was a vast ditch that had been turned into an open sewer, filled with ever-increasing quantities of excrement, dead cats and dogs, rancid food and disgusting refuse of every imaginable kind. Passing within thirty yards of this stagnant lake, Leeming had to put a hand across his nose to block out the stench. Denizens of Bethnal Green had long been habituated to the stink of decomposition.
The Seven Stars lay on the edge of an infamous area known as the Nichol. Named after Nichol Street, one of its main thoroughfares, it was a stronghold for villains of every kind, fifteen acres of sin, crime and sheer deprivation that operated by rules entirely of its own making. Leeming was a brave man, raised in one of the roughest parts of London, but even he would not have tried to walk alone through the Nichol after dusk. Its filthy streets, shadowed lanes and dark passages were a breeding ground for thieves, pickpockets and prostitutes. Its squalid tenements, slum cottages and ramshackle pubs teemed with beggars, orphans, destitute families, ruthless criminals and fugitives from the law. Bethnal Green was a haven for the most desperate characters in the underworld.
Glad that he was visiting the place in broad daylight, Leeming noticed how many animals were roaming the streets. Snarling cats fought over territory with furious commitment while skinny dogs scavenged among the rubbish. The undernourished horses and donkeys that pulled passing carts looked as if they could barely stand. Loud squawks and even louder yells of encouragement disclosed that a cockfight was being held nearby. Unwashed children played desultory games or lounged in gangs on corners. Cries of pain came from behind closed doors as violent men asserted their dominance over wives and mistresses.
Wherever he went, Leeming knew, dozens of pairs of eyes were upon him. He had never endured such hostile surveillance before. It was like a weight pressing down on him. When he entered the Seven Stars, however, the burden was immediately lifted. He collected a few casual looks from the ragged patrons scattered around the bar but they were too busy enjoying their drinks or their gossip to bother overmuch about the newcomer. Leeming sauntered across to the counter and ordered some beer. Filled with chairs and tables, the room was large, low and in a state of obvious neglect but its atmosphere was welcoming enough. The landlord served his customer with a toothless grin.
'There you are, sir,' he said as he put a foaming tankard on the counter. 'Best beer in Bethnal Green.'
'So I heard.' Leeming paid for the drink then sipped it, managing a smile even though it was far too bitter for his taste. 'And he was right. You serve a good brew.'
'Ben, sir. Everyone calls me Ben. I own the place.'
'You run a good house, Ben.'
'Thank you.'
'My first visit won't be my last.'
The landlord appraised him. 'Where are you from, sir?'
'Clerkenwell.'
'Ah, I see.' A burst of cheering and applause cam
e from the back of the establishment and Leeming turned his head questioningly. 'The lads are staging a bout or two. Fond of milling, sir?'
'That's why I came.'
'Then you're in the right place.'
Ben Millgate beamed proudly. He was a short, stubby man in his fifties with a bald pate that was tattooed with scars, and a craggy face. No stranger to a brawl himself, he had other scars on his bare forearms and both ears had been thickened by repeated punishment.
'Did you see the fight at Twyford?' asked Millgate.
'No – worse luck! I'd have given a week's wages to be there.'
'The Bargeman was robbed and so were we.'
'That's what I was told,' said Leeming, nodding seriously. 'They reckon that Mad Isaac fought dirty.'
'That lousy Jew was full of tricks,' said Millgate, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 'So were his friends. I was there and saw it with my own eyes. When the Bargemen staggered back against the ropes, one of Mad Isaac's men punched him in the kidneys. Another time, he was hit with a cudgel. And, three times in a row, that sneaky Jew kicked him when he was on the ground.'
'He should have been disqualified.'
'The referee and the umpires had been bribed.'
'They must've been,' agreed Leeming. 'Rotten, I call it. I had money on the Bargeman to win. He's a true champion.'
'And fought like one as well. Gave no quarter.'
'So I gather. My friend was there to support him. More or less worships the Bargeman. In fact, it was Jake who told me about your beer. Comes in here a lot to watch the young boxers learning their craft.'
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