by Sarah Rayne
McNulty had remained in the governor’s room for over an hour, discussing the exact details of the experiment, considering how they should deal with the actual weighing of O’Kane’s body. There was an unhealthy excitement in his voice as he talked about body weight and about allowing for the evacuation of the body’s fluids at the moment of death. Lewis had thought himself hardened to the sometimes messy spasms of a hanged body, but he found it repellent to be discussing this when it was Nicholas O’Kane.
Around midnight he conducted a brief interview with the senior warder, Arthur Millichip, saying he had found cause to dismiss Saul Ketch, and that Ketch had left Calvary and was not to be allowed back under any circumstances.
Millichip did not ask about the cause for dismissal and he did not seem particularly surprised. He said Ketch had always been a bit unsatisfactory, although there had not been anything you could actually get hold of, if Sir Lewis took his meaning? A bit of a slippery customer, was Millichip’s opinion of Ketch, and it would not surprise him if the man came back to Calvary one day as an inmate. In any event, it was good riddance to bad rubbish as far as he, Millichip, was concerned.
‘Did you want me for anything else, Sir Lewis, because with Ketch gone I’ll need to re-arrange my rotas?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lewis. ‘But there’s nothing else. Thank you, Millichip.’ He watched the man go out. He was reasonably sure Millichip was not one of McNulty’s scavengers but he was not sufficiently sure of it to ask for his help in tracing the others. It flickered in his mind that he might ask Belinda to help on that score, but then he wondered how far he could trust Belinda and how far he could trust anyone at all. He wondered where Belinda was tonight. Was she asleep somewhere – in her own bed or someone else’s? He did not know if she was on duty tonight, and he realized he did not know where or how she lived. Did she have a house of her own, or did she live with family?
When at last he went to bed, he dreamed about Cas. He dreamed Cas was laughing at the idea of being dubbed a hero and saying that far from being any such thing, he had betrayed his country and sold naval secrets to the Kaiser’s armies. There was nothing wrong with doing that, said Cas, not if you believed in your cause. He had believed passionately in what he did, but because of it, in a few hours he would die for a dream. That was what all traitors did, said the shadow who had Cas’s voice but Nicholas O’Kane’s eyes. Traitors died not for flag, nor king, nor emperor, but for a dream born in a herdsman’s shed . . .
Lewis came fully and abruptly awake, the lines of the Irish poem still ringing in his ears. He stared up at the ceiling, the dream still strongly with him. To die for a dream, a dream born in a herdsman’s shed. O’Kane had read the poem to him shortly after coming to Calvary; he had a good voice for reading, soft and just very slightly touched with an Irish accent, and Lewis, listening, had instantly had a picture of the poverty-stricken Irish crofters, gathering round their peat fires, planning how to overturn English domination and rule their own land. The Irish were the dreamers and the rebels of the world, of course. Irresponsible and erratic, but filled with such charm.
O’Kane had said that if possible he would like the poem to be incorporated into his funeral service. Could that be done? Lewis had seen no reason why not.
In accordance with custom, the kitchen staff set out a light breakfast in the governor’s rooms for McNulty, the chaplain and Mr Pierrepoint and his assistant. McNulty arrived punctually, and Lewis, who could never eat on such mornings, saw with faint nausea that the man piled his plate with eggs and toast. Their eyes met briefly and there was the sly glint of the conspirator in the doctor’s expression; Lewis was glad that the chaplain and Pierrepoint came in almost at once. He managed to drink a cup of coffee and felt slightly better for its warmth.
Then he said, ‘Gentlemen, because of the nature of this prisoner’s conviction, I have decided that Dr McNulty and I will prepare him for execution in the condemned cell.’ He glanced at the chaplain. ‘Mr Pilbeam I should like you to be outside while we do so.’
‘Very well, Sir Lewis. I shall commence reading the order of service when you bring the prisoner out. Is that agreeable to you?’
‘Perfectly. You’ve got the verse of the Irish poem, haven’t you?’
‘I have.’
‘Good. Dr McNulty, are you all right?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I thought you sounded as if you had a cold. Perhaps not, though. Mr Pierrepoint, may I have a word before you go?’
Pierrepoint had been at the door with the others, but he turned and came back. ‘Yes, Sir Lewis?’
Lewis said, ‘Can you trust McNulty and me to pinion O’Kane’s hands and ankles before he’s brought out?’
It was many years since a condemned man had had to make the slow, shambling walk to the scaffold with his wrists already pinioned, the leather strap binding his elbows against his body, and his ankles loosely fettered, so Pierrepoint looked a bit surprised. Before he could speak, Lewis said, ‘I realize it’s not the custom any longer, but this is an awkward case and there have been whispers of trouble.’
Would Pierrepoint assume this meant Lewis had received information that O’Kane’s Irish companions or his German masters might be planning a rescue attempt and that there had to be extra security as a result? Yes, he seemed to have done. He still looked dubious but he was nodding his agreement.
‘Although we’ll need to check the straps and the pinions at the last moment, Sir Lewis.’
‘Yes, of course. That needn’t take more than a few seconds, though. In strict confidence, we have definite word of trouble brewing over this execution. We may need to seal off the prison at least until after the funeral. You’re booked into the King’s Head, I think? Ah, good. Then I’m going to arrange for you and your assistant to be taken straight back there after the execution. I don’t want you caught up in any violence – you could be a target. Dr McNulty or I can bring the death certificate down to you later today.’
‘It’s not according to regulations, Sir Lewis.’
‘The Home Office were quite clear on the point,’ said Lewis smoothly.
‘Good enough.’
At twenty past seven the under-sheriff of the county was admitted, and five minutes later, McNulty and the chaplain returned. Lewis felt his heart start to beat faster. This is it, he thought, and picking up the leather straps the assistant had brought, he said, ‘Gentlemen, if you’re ready, shall we go?’ He was immeasurably relieved to hear that his voice held its usual cool note of polite authority, but when the under-sheriff glanced questioningly at the straps he ignored him.
As they walked towards the condemned block Lewis heard the other prisoners banging their tin mugs against the doors or the barred windows of their cells. It was strong and rhythmic as if a giant iron heart was beating at Calvary’s centre. They would keep it up until the clock had finished striking eight, and then, as if a command had been given, they would stop abruptly. Just as the condemned man’s heart would stop.
Lewis glanced at McNulty. The doctor was silent and apparently composed, but his eyes darted this way and that like a watchful snake’s, as if they were the only part he could not keep suppressed. The few mouthfuls of coffee Lewis had managed to drink stirred uneasily and he had to take several deep breaths to steady himself.
Millichip, solemn and hushed-faced, met them at the entrance to the condemned block, and touched his cap respectfully before turning to unlock the door. He would have been with O’Kane all night; he was not precisely the man with whom Lewis would have wanted to share his own final night on earth but at least he was better than Saul Ketch. Keeping the leather straps out of sight behind his back, Lewis stepped inside, leaving the chaplain and under-sheriff in the passageway.
O’Kane’s chair was facing the door and Lewis saw that there was still a trace of light in his eyes. But as he looked at Lewis and McNulty, he gave a small nod and the thread of light was quenched. It almost always happened like that and it was
one of the things Lewis hated so much; it was as if the condemned man had been valiantly clinging to the last shreds of hope but, with the unlocking of the cell door, had finally accepted that hope must be relinquished.
McNulty must have arranged for the weighing machine to be brought here earlier on, which angered Lewis because it had not been part of the arrangement. But it was pointless to protest now, and he stood aside as Millichip, obedient to Lewis’s brief order, went out.
McNulty gestured to O’Kane to step onto the machine. A faint puzzlement flickered in O’Kane’s eyes, as if he might be thinking, but we’ve already done all this, then he gave a half shrug and did as he was bidden. A tiny nerve was jumping in McNulty’s cheek, but he worked swiftly, moving the tiny metal weights along the rack, and scribbling his findings in a notebook. He repeated the process, but when he seemed set to make a third check, Lewis said, ‘Enough. Mr O’Kane, I’m sorry but we must fasten on the straps in here.’
‘Here? I had hoped to walk unfettered to my death, Sir Lewis.’
‘I’m truly sorry, but it’s necessary.’ He handed the ankle straps to McNulty.
‘Doctor, would you—’
But McNulty had already taken the looped leather straps with the thick buckles and was half kneeling, fastening them about O’Kane’s ankles. His head was bent, and Lewis glanced behind him to the quarter-open cell door and the waiting men just out of sight in the corridor. He took a deep breath and pulled from his pocket the heavy glass paperweight he had taken from his desk earlier on. He brought it down hard on McNulty’s head, and there was a dreadful dull crunch and then a grunt as McNulty toppled forward. He lay prone on the floor, and a faint rim of white showed under his eyelids. Nicholas O’Kane backed away, and turned wide uncomprehending eyes on Calvary’s governor.
Keeping his voice low, Lewis said, ‘Quickly, man. Change clothes with him, and help me to put the straps on him.’
‘But what—’
‘Don’t ask questions, just do it. Then you’ll be free and so will I.’ He shot a quick look towards the door again, and gestured to O’Kane to move so that he was out of its line of sight. ‘We have just over ten minutes if we’re lucky.’
‘I guessed you were a risk taker,’ said O’Kane, pulling off McNulty’s distinctive frock coat and then his own things. ‘But I didn’t know you were an outright gambler.’
‘I’m many things.’ Lewis was dragging off McNulty’s shoes and his trousers. ‘Don’t bother about the underclothes. Just get your prison things onto him – you’re much the same height. Pull on his coat. The shoes might not fit, but do the best you can.’
‘Believe me, I’d walk over burning coals to get out of this place,’ said O’Kane.
They pulled the blue serge shirt and trousers onto McNulty’s unconscious form. Just over six minutes left, thought Lewis, glancing at his watch. We’re cutting it dangerously fine. He looked back at O’Kane who had donned the coat and the dark trousers. ‘Yes, that’s all right. Hunch your shoulders a bit. You’ll have to keep your wits about you now, because for the next few minutes you’re Denzil McNulty, and this man is Nicholas O’Kane.’
‘Caradoc, this will never work! I’ll be recognized—’
‘Not if you keep a handkerchief to your face,’ said Lewis, handing him his own. ‘The only two who really know McNulty are the chaplain and Millichip, and I’ve already planted the idea of a head cold in their minds. It’s a dark morning, but keep well back from the others. No one will be looking at you, though – everyone will be concentrating on the man they think is the prisoner.’ He took a second handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it into McNulty’s slack mouth. ‘I’d like to gag him properly in case he comes round and cries out, but this is the best I can manage.’
‘But they’ll know McNulty isn’t me,’ said O’Kane in a strained voice.
Lewis produced the hood – the canvas bag with its drawstring neck and eyelets for breathing, largely intended to hide the worst of the gallows’ stark ugliness from the condemned man. He pulled it down over McNulty’s head and adjusted the strings. ‘They won’t know,’ he said.
‘God Almighty,’ said Nicholas O’Kane, half under his breath, staring down. ‘That’s a faceless creature you’ve made of him.’
O’Kane was right. With the pulling on of the hood, the thing they were supporting between them no longer seemed to be Denzil McNulty: it had turned into a macabre puppet, the head formless inside its pale sack. Take away a man’s face, and what is left of him?
‘You’ll have to pronounce death immediately afterwards,’ said Lewis. ‘Can you do that?’
‘God, how do I know?’
‘You’ve been fighting in a war, O’Kane, even if it was on the wrong side. You must know what death looks like. And it won’t be much more than a formality – Pierrepoint’s never bungled an execution yet and everyone knows it. He’ll leave a timber plank in place across part of the trap and there’s a stethoscope in your pocket – I’ve checked that. All you do is step onto the plank, then kneel, and reach down. His chest will be about level with the floor – you’ll be able to apply the stethoscope. Listen to the heart for a few minutes. It’ll get weaker and then stop. All right?’
‘No, it’s not all right,’ said O’Kane. ‘But I’ll do it. What about afterwards?’
‘Afterwards,’ said Lewis, ‘you and I will have to go down to the brick vault and cut the body down. Pierrepoint would normally supervise that, but I’ve got rid of him. Just take your lead from me. And when it’s over, we let a blackmailing villain be buried in a grave intended for you.’
‘And I walk free?’
‘And you walk free.
Two minutes to eight. There was a sound from beyond the cell door. We’re behind the usual timing, thought Lewis, and they’re wondering what’s happening. But before he could give way to real panic he heard his voice calling out, quite coolly, that the prisoner had swooned.
‘We’ve tried to rouse him, but he’s out cold. We’re going to carry him out in a minute.’
Millichip murmured an assent and Lewis heard with thankfulness that there was no suspicion in his voice. It was not, indeed, a suspicious situation, because it was not unknown for a man to faint from sheer terror in the final moments.
‘Sir Lewis – wait. Are you actually letting him go to the gallows in my place?’
‘Yes.’
‘In God’s name, why?’
‘I don’t know if it’s in God’s name at all,’ said Lewis. ‘But I’m letting him go to the gallows because he’s a blood-sucking blackmailer, and he deserves to die.’ He met Nicholas O’Kane’s eyes very straightly. ‘Although unlike you, he hasn’t a dream he’s prepared to die for,’ he said. ‘O’Kane, I’m trusting you more than I’ve ever trusted any man in my whole life.’
‘Why?’ said O’Kane again.
‘Too many reasons to list. Now take his feet, and keep in the shadows.’
For an incredible moment he thought O’Kane was going to protest, but he did not. He made a half gesture with one hand as if saying, on your head be it, and bent to pick up McNulty’s ankles. As they carried McNulty out into the corridor the prison bell began the sonorous tolling. That means we should already be inside the execution shed, thought Lewis, hearing it.
‘Sir Lewis, shall I take him?’
It was Millichip, respectfully anxious to take on the task of carrying the unconscious man. Lewis said, ‘Thank you but I have him securely and Dr McNulty is helping me. It’ll be easier if we stay with him. You go ahead of us, please. Mr Pilbeam, begin if you will.’
‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live . . .’
The dozen steps from the condemned cell to the execution shed seemed to stretch out like something in a nightmare. We’ll never do it, thought Lewis. At any minute they’ll realize this isn’t O’Kane we’re carrying. McNulty’s harsh breathing filled the narrow passage, mingling horridly with the chaplain’s sombre tones. We’re going to be late,
thought Lewis, panic rising once again. No, it’s all right, we’re at the door of the execution chamber. But at any second McNulty might recover from the blow to the head, and if he did, would he have time to realize what was happening? Lewis could not begin to think what he would do if McNulty managed to spit out the makeshift gag and shout out the truth.
At least Millichip knew the procedure from here. Open the door, stand respectfully back and let them get on with it. Lewis’s arms were starting to ache with the strain of carrying the dead weight that was Denzil McNulty and a sudden pain tightened around his chest. Heart attack? For pity’s sake, I can’t die of a heart attack in here! He nodded to O’Kane to let go of McNulty’s ankles, and leave it to him from here on, and O’Kane did so. Thank God, at least, for a man who could pick up a meaning from a look. Millichip started forward intending to help, and there was a movement from the under-sheriff as well, but Lewis shook his head.
‘I’m just placing him on the trap and then leaving it to Mr Pierrepoint,’ he said, doing so before anyone could intervene, seeing that the plank was in place for the doctor’s pronouncement of death. So far so good.
He stepped back. ‘Will you need the chair?’ he said to Pierrepoint.
‘I’d prefer not, Sir Lewis. It upsets the balance of the weights.’ He surveyed the unconscious man. ‘Difficult for us when this happens,’ he said. ‘But happen it’s best for him. If he’s lucky he’ll go out not knowing.’
Pilbeam was reaching the end of the service as the five-minute tolling bell stopped and the first chime of eight sounded. Pierrepoint had drawn down the waiting rope from the crossbeam and adjusted it around McNulty’s neck. The second chime of eight sounded. It was then that the hooded head moved.
‘He’s coming round,’ said the under sheriff, sounding panic-stricken.
Lewis said sharply, ‘Stay where you are. Mr Pierrepoint knows how to handle this.’
‘He’s not really conscious, anyway,’ said Pierrepoint.
But McNulty was conscious. He turned his head from side to side, and then, clearly finding himself unable to see, feeling the presence of the handkerchief in his mouth, he began to draw in panic-stricken breaths so that the hood was frenziedly sucked in and out. The clock’s still chiming, thought Lewis in agony. He’s supposed to be dead by the time the last stroke sounds, but he won’t be, he won’t—