“No.”
“Should I write that down?” the secretary asks.
“No.” Edward lowers his voice. “Any one of these injuries might have killed him—if not right away, then soon enough.”
“But with only one, he might have lived long enough to tell someone who did it.”
“That’s true.”
Strathern lifts Sir Henry’s arm off the table. It doesn’t go far. “Mr. Billings, if you will please record: state of rigor mortis is extreme, indicating the time of death is likely to be between twelve and fifteen hours ago.” He sets the arm down again. “According to people who saw him last, Sir Henry was still alive at eleven last night, which would put his death at some time between eleven and one of the clock.”
“Rigor mortis won’t wear off for another twelve hours or more. How’re we going to get all his clothes off while he’s so stiff?”
“We’ll have to cut them off.” Edward takes up the scissors again and begins cutting along a jacket sleeve while Hamish removes one of Sir Henry’s gloves. “Good God,” Hamish says. He holds up a bloodied hand. “Look at this.”
The outside three fingers of the right hand have been cut off at the base, just above the metacarpal bones. Edward removes the other glove. The left hand is intact.
“The watchman who discovered the body this morning said that no purse or coin was found on him,” Edward says. “Maybe the person—or people—who killed him stole his rings too.”
“By cutting off his fingers?”
“It may have been easier than taking the rings off.”
Edward strips off the layers of jacket, coat, and vest, uncovering the left half of Sir Henry’s torso. Hamish cuts off the garments on the other side. On Sir Henry’s right breast, just below the clavicle, the killer—Strathern can only assume it is the killer—has used the point of his knife to carve symbols deep into the flesh: a kind of curved Y, an X inside a square, and a cross.
“Mother of Christ,” Hamish swears softly. “What is that?”
The work of a madman, Edward thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
The news crier stands on the corner of King’s Street waving a sheaf of crudely printed paper. “Murder in St. James’s!” he shouts. “Murder in St. James’s Park!”
Moll Harris pushes her way into the crowd and swaps a halfpenny for a handbill. The news crier’s gaze lingers briefly on the plum-colored crescent under her eye before quickly moving on to the others eager to press money into his palm. She walks quickly as she reads:
“Heinous Murder Comitt’d in St. James’s Park: Under cover of Night this 12th of November an unknown Assailant viciously Attack’d Sir Henry Reynolds and left him for Dead; by which means he did Die; of Wounds so Grievous that his Body was near Decapitat’d; and his Arms and Legs nearly cut Asunder. His Majesty Charles the 2nd calls out his Guard to hunt down the Villain.”
Moll crushes the paper in her hand and lets it fall to the ground. Only the murder of a gentleman would cause such a fuss. Londoners meet with unnatural deaths all the time, but for the most part the law can’t be bothered to raise a hue and cry for any of them. Especially if they are poor, and especially if they are women. She thinks of a girl she knew named Beth, who once dwelled, as Moll did, in the dark courts and alleys around Maiden Lane. Beth disappeared a few months ago. Like Moll, she’d eked out a living picking pockets and practicing the art of “buttock and twang”: picking up a mark in a tavern and luring him into a back alley, where her lover or pimp—in Moll’s case, the foul-tempered Seamus Murphy—knocked him down and took whatever was worth stealing. Beth disappeared, and nobody even bothered to look for her. Her shiftless, maggoty-headed husband said she’d run off, but Moll didn’t believe him for a second; she’d lay a bet that Beth was pushing up flowers in an unmarked mound in one of the fields around London.
That’s what will happen to Moll too if she doesn’t escape now. At last she’s got money enough, and God knows she’s got reason enough: the bruises that everyone can see are nothing compared to the ones hidden under her clothes. Of course, if Seamus discovers that she’s gone off with the spoils from last night, her life won’t be worth a farthing. But by her estimations he won’t recover from his drunken binge for at least another few hours, by which time she’ll be gone from this godforsaken city.
She makes her way through the maze of market stalls, heading toward Russell Street on the east end. In sight are no less than six of the King’s Horse Guards. Do they imagine that the “villain” will march up to them and give himself up? The thought provokes a bitter laugh. They’ll never find the man who done it, never.
A muscular hand grabs her upper arm and twists it painfully. “Just where did you think you were going?” Seamus snarls.
The odor of beer on his breath is so strong that Moll can taste it. “Let me go.” She thought he was still out cold when she tiptoed from the room.
“Do you know what the law will do to a woman that deserts her husband and robs him blind? It’ll be Newgate for you, without nothing to look forward to but the gallows.”
“You’re not my husband.”
“I am if I say I am.”
“Let me go!” This time Moll says it loud enough to turn a few heads.
“First you’ll give me that purse.”
He grabs her hand, pulling one of her fingers back, hard. She yelps with pain. “Give me the purse,” he threatens.
“Stop it.” Her finger feels like it’s about to break. “I’ll give it to you, but you’ve got to give your word not to hurt me.”
The coarse barking sound that issues from his mouth is what Seamus would call a laugh. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, you will,” he says. His free hand grapples at her waist, reaching into the placket between her outer skirt and petticoats to take hold of the richly endowed purse they’d lucked into last night while prowling St. James’s Park. Sir Henry Reynolds’s purse, Moll knows now. Seamus puts it safely into his own breeches and lets her go, regarding her with an expression she knows too well, one of domination and disgust.
He’ll kill her this time, Moll is sure of it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. There won’t be any handbills about her death, no King’s Guards looking for her killer, no justice. Seamus will tell people she’s run off, and they’ll believe him, because if they don’t he’ll beat them black and blue. And soon they’ll stop asking.
There’s only one way out of her predicament. “Help!” Moll screams. “Guards! Over here! This is the man who killed that gent!”
Two of the Horse Guards turn swiftly, urging their mounts toward Moll and Seamus, and call out to the other guards in the square.
“You bitch,” Seamus spits.
“There isn’t a word nasty enough for what you are,” she sneers back. “Over here!” she yells again. At last, she’ll be free of him. “This here’s the man you want—the man who killed Sir Henry Reynolds!”
Chapter Twenty-eight
25 November 1672
To the Rue de Varenne, Paris
Tho’ I can think of few, if any, reasons for you to return to your native soil, should you ever step foot on these Shores again I must recommend that you take in the unique spectacle that is an English hanging.
The hordes at Tyburn are near-frenzied with Bloodlust. Not only men but women resort to Blows and Hair-tearing for the best views of the Gallows and to better witness the death of a known Outlaw. The only seats worth having (where your own Neck will not be broken in a scuffle, or your pocket picked by Thieves so impudent they steal even under the gibbet) are those in the spectator stands built by the enterprising Villagers of Tyburn: very dear but well worth it.
From here I have a clear vista of the triangular Scaffold—commonly called the Triple Tree, or the Three-legged Mare, or the Deadly Nevergreen—and the Tyburn road leading back toward London, lined with the sorts that always come out for Occasions such as this: apprentices, laborers, lay-abouts, and riff
raff.
Only one neck is destined for the Noose today. In the past week Seamus Murphy’s infamy has spread faster than a Pestilence, and so his Execution has drawn a sizable crowd. Not the tens of thousands one might see on a public hanging day, when as many as twenty-four luckless Souls are strung up, but impressive nonetheless. Murphy’s crime quickly escalated from Murder to Barbarianism of the most heinous kind, fueled by the sorts of lurid Fantasies that sell broad-sheets. Rumors say that he not only dismembered Sir Henry’s body and scattered it all about St. James’s Park, but that he feasted on the pieces as well. It’s all bitter lies and Falsehoods, of course, grisly tales to titillate the rabble.
The crowd parts and the Procession comes into view. The condemned Man arrives at Tyburn according to tradition, sitting upon his own black-shrouded Coffin in the back of an open Ox-cart. In the cart with him are the prison Chaplain, the Hangman, and a few Guards. On horse-back ahead of the cart rides the City Marshal, accompanied by the Under-sheriff and a group of Guards and Constables armed with Staves, to protect the cortege on its slow two-mile journey from Newgate. Those Criminals that the people favor are pelted along the way with Roses and ribbons, and cheered by wanton Women leaning from balconies, but those that are despised get another Treatment altogether: no doubt Seamus Murphy has been bombarded with stinking Refuse and dead Cats. The retinue stops first at St. Sepulchre, where the Clergyman rings a bell and gives the condemned a Posie and a cup of wine. Then the cart lingers at tavern after tavern, where the Prisoner, the Constables, and the Guards—except for those who ride on the Wagon, who are not allowed to drink—knock back countless glasses of liquid Courage.
The Constables push the throng away from the Gallows and the cart is driven right underneath. The Chaplain—well-fed and earnestly pious, by the look of him—stands and calls for quiet. Remarkably, the people listen, but then this is the Play-act they have been waiting for.
“Good people of London! Behold the sinner Seamus Murphy, murderer of Sir Henry Reynolds! Now sentenced to be hanged by the neck until he dies. Stand, sinner!”
Murphy struggles to his feet, hindered by his bound Wrists and a snout full of hard liquor. He is a Brute indeed, with a neck as thick as his Head and a heavy Brow shading malevolent eyes. Even now, only minutes away from his own Demise, he appears eager for a brawl. A few rotten vegetables arc out of the crowd and splatter against the wagon. Murphy bellows with rage.
“Good people, desist!” the Chaplain shouts. “You will have your justice!” He holds up his Bible like a beacon and as the crowd calms down he turns to Murphy. “You that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears, and ask mercy of the Lord for the salvation of your soul.”
The Chaplain moves aside so the Executioner can come forward with his Rope, but the Hangman is as drunk as his Victim, and he mistakenly slips the Noose over the head of the Chaplain. The crowd erupts in jeers, cheers, and shouts. The Chaplain turns in red-faced fury to berate the Hangman, who with a sloppy grin puts the rope around the Neck where it rightly belongs.
There’s a moment of hushed expectation as everyone waits for Murphy to begin his last dying Speech. If he knows what’s good for him he won’t disappoint, and will give them the Show they long for: insouciant Bravado in the face of death and a sorrowful and complete Confession. Otherwise no one will do him the kindness of pulling his Legs and putting him out of his Misery, but will let him choke and swing for what will seem—to him, at any rate—an Eternity.
At first he refuses to Speak: he breathes heavily, like a Runner in a race, and licks his Lips, and uses all other sorts of means to Delay. The Chaplain thumps Murphy’s head with the Bible and calls him a scurvy Dog. This encouragement is what finally makes him speak.
“I lived an evil life,” he says, glaring at the Chaplain, who nods sagely for him to continue. No doubt they have rehearsed this Speech, for the Chaplain makes a mint selling the printed chapbooks of the Confessions and Last Dying Words of Newgate’s condemned. “I never did nothing that was any good. I took what I wanted and spent it on drink. I cheated and robbed, and once I beat a man so hard he died.” Murphy glowers at the crowd. “But I ain’t supposed to be here today. I did not kill that gent!”
The crowd bellows in reply and surges forward angrily. This is not what they have come for.
“Good people of London!” the Chaplain shouts, this time to no avail. He motions to the Hangman to get on with his job; the people will wait no longer. He is clearly disappointed by Murphy’s lack of eloquence. The Hangman throws the rope over the Gallows, hoisting Murphy into the air, and secures the Rope around the beam. Murphy’s body flails and jerks about like a fish on a hook, his legs kicking at the empty air. At the sudden Shock of seeing him rise from the Wagon the crowd pulls back, almost as if they were one giant Body all attached, and Silence ripples through them like a breaking wave.
“It’s only a kick, man!” some wiseacre yells.
“A wry neck with wet breeches!” This comment provokes a dark Laughter, and the Crowd is better contented. For the next twenty minutes or so they will watch him Die—a slow, asphyxiating Death—and the people will be Satisfied. They are too Ignorant to know that Murphy is not God’s avenging angel, he would never have been entrusted with the Task I hold dear. A task that continues to consume my mind, my soul, my life.
Letum non omnia finit.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Fourth week of Michaelmas term
“BOTH OF YOU, but especially you, Hoddy, should know better,” Andrew Kent said angrily. “What the hell did you think you would do in here, anyway?” They stood in the main room of Derek Goodman’s set. When Hoddy and Claire had seen who had come in the door, they’d emerged from the bedroom to greet him, even though they’d both known they’d get a dressing down.
“We’re looking for the diary Claire discovered. It’s all my fault, Andy. I’m the one who suggested coming here.”
“Why aren’t you looking for it in the Wren Library?”
“We did,” Claire said. “It not there.”
“And what are you doing here?” Hoddy asked Andrew.
Andrew took a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. Claire saw that it was the same one that Portia had given him the day before: a photocopy of the diary page with Derek Goodman’s handwriting at the bottom. “I’m looking for the diary too.”
“Why didn’t you go to the library?” Hoddy asked.
“I’m familiar with Derek’s habits. I rather suspect it’s here somewhere. Don’t you?”
Claire and Hoddy nodded. “We were just about to look through the boxes of materials near his desk,” Claire said.
“We could use some help,” Hoddy added.
Andrew reluctantly nodded his agreement. They cleared off the dining room table, then brought in boxes from the office. They placed them on the floor near their feet and began taking things from them and spreading them out on the table.
An odd collection it was, with books, papers, dissertations, and journals all jumbled together. A copy of the Historical Journal, 1998, vol. 3. The Tyburn Hanged. Minutes of a Royal Society meeting from 1672. Old and New London. A drawing for a water pump from around the same time with a letter to the Royal Society from the inventor requesting a patent. A dissertation on the Opium Wars of the early nineteenth century written in the 1930s. The Cabal, a book about the five ministers who advised Charles II in the late 1660s to early 1670s, after the ouster of Lord Clarendon. A few reports from the College of Physicians. A dusty copy of the London Pharmacopoeia. Robert Hooke’s Micrographia. Claire tried to arrange them in some sort of order, wondering what could possibly connect all these incongruent materials together. Andrew and Hoddy, busy at the same task, didn’t seem to have any clearer idea than she did.
A knock sounded on the door and they all looked up, startled and wary. What would the police say if they found them here, going through Derek Goodman’s stuff? What would the master say? Strange, but Claire could have sworn she
’d seen a guilty look in Andrew’s eyes, the same sneaking guilt she felt herself. Was it because it was a little too easy to forget why they were here and simply enjoy the deeply satisfying act of rummaging around in old books and papers? Or was it because there was something immensely pleasurable about the quiet presence of each other’s company? Whatever it was, she was not to know, as the person outside knocked more insistently, and Andrew got up to answer the door.
“Dr. Kent.” The young man was obviously surprised to see him. He was also obviously a student, dressed in typical garb of sneakers, jeans, and a rumpled corduroy jacket of a dark and indeterminate hue. A bulky neon orange canvas backpack hung from one shoulder.
“Robbie, come in,” Andrew said, opening the door wider and stepping aside. “You know Dr. Humphries-Todd. This is Dr. Donovan, a new lecturer who’s filling in for Dr. Scott. Dr. Donovan, Robbie Macintosh, one of Dr. Goodman’s MPhil students.” A graduate student, Claire deciphered, working on his master’s degree under Derek Goodman’s tutelage.
Robbie entered and looked around uneasily. He looked like he suffered from the usual graduate-student afflictions of too much coffee, not enough sunshine, not enough sleep. “Where’s Dr. Goodman?” he asked.
“Dr. Goodman?” Andrew repeated. He exchanged a worried glance with the two others. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Oh, dear,” Hoddy said.
“What’s happened?” Robbie asked anxiously.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Robbie,” Andrew said. “But Dr. Goodman, he…had an accident.” Andrew shot a meaningful look at the two others: this was the story they were going to stick to for now. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Robbie’s head swiveled from Andrew to Hoddy to Claire and back again. “You’re joking.”
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