A Matter for the Jury (15 page)

‘Talking of lying to the police,' Hardcastle asked, ‘how does he account for his fingerprint being found on the window ledge?'

‘He now admits that he did board the
Rosemary D
on one occasion, probably two or three weeks before the murder. He was worried that she was a hazard to river traffic, and he wanted to see whether there was any information he could find to hand over to the River Board. He was hoping they would move her.'

‘No good reason not to tell the police about that,' Hardcastle observed.

‘No,' Barratt agreed quietly.

‘I hope he's telling the truth about that,' Hardcastle said, after a pause. ‘I really do. Because if the prosecution were ever able to prove that the blood stain got on to the window ledge before the fingerprint, or even at about the same time, Billy Cottage would hang. I don't think there would be anything we could do about it.'

21

Flashback

Arthur Ludlow had
left the long brown envelope undisturbed on the telephone table by the front door, where his mother had placed it, in accordance with Ludlow family tradition, on the day it arrived. He left it there to preserve the memory; so that it would be waiting for him every day on his return from work; so that every day, he could re-live the moment when his life changed for ever. As he gently lifted the envelope from the table, feeling the familiar touch of the coarse brown paper, he would remember the heart-stopping moment when he carefully teased the top of the envelope open. He would read, as if for the first time, his name and address, written in black ink by someone with a neat hand:
Arthur Ludlow Esq, (‘
Esq'
,
no less) 23 Borough View Road, Blackburn, Lancs; and above his address, at the top of the envelope, the printed capital letters: OHMS – On Her Majesty's Service. It was a daily pleasure that never grew old, never lost its sheen.

The letter written to Arthur ‘O
n Her Majesty's Service' was no longer enclosed in the envelope in which it had arrived. It had long since hung, encased in an austere black frame, on the wall of the front room, next to a photograph of the family on holiday at Morecombe, circa 1938, and a commemorative plate depicting the Queen and Prince Philip on their wedding day. Arthur had placed it there so that he was free to gaze at it more or less at will, at any time of the day or night because, as custom dictated, the front room of the terraced house, while the most formally and expensively furnished, was used only when guests were expected on such special occasions as Christmas and funerals.
At other times, it remained unoccupied, silent and aloof, a place of superiority far removed from the unassuming dullness of the rest of the house. Over the course of time, Arthur had gazed at it so often that he knew every word by heart. It was dated 25 November 1958, typed on Home Office stationery, his name and address repeated, top left, in the correct official manner.

Dear Sir,

I am directed by the Home Secretary to inform you that following your application and your interview and training at HM Prison, Pentonville, your name has been added to the list of persons competent for the office of executioner. You are reminded that, as the list of persons competent is in the possession of High Sheriffs and Governors, it is unnecessary to apply for employment in connection with an execution. Any such application may be regarded as objectionable conduct and may lead to the removal of your name from the list. You are also reminded that it is expected that the conduct and general behaviour of a person on the list will be respectable and discreet, not only at the place and time of execution, but before and subsequently.

A memorandum of the conditions to which any person acting as executioner is required to conform is enclosed for your attention. Any inquiry should be directed to the undersigned.

Yours Faithfully,

(Illegible handwritten signature)

James Milburn

Assistant Permanent Secretary

* * *

The chain of events which had led to the letter's arrival began early on a Saturday evening in a pub called the Anchor Inn, in Darwen. The Anchor was within reasonable walking distance from Ewood Park, home of Blackburn Rovers Football Club.

Life at 23 Borough View Road had continued, interrupted only by service in the world wars, for the lifetimes of two generations of Ludlows before Arthur. His father and grandfather had lived almost identical lives, working as assistant brewers at the Thwaites Brewery, a local landmark and valued contributor to the economy of the town.
After an all-too-brief youth each had courted a local girl and brought her to the house as his bride; and each had a son, an only child. Arthur left school at 16 and, about four years before he could legally drink the product, was duly apprenticed in his turn to learn the trade of brewer at Thwaites. When he made his application to the Home Office, Arthur was 25 years of age, and a fully-qualified brewer. His father had been dead for three years. His mother looked after him and, although she was in robust good health, fretted constantly about the lack of a bride prepared to take her place when her time came.

Arthur's social life consisted of visits to Ewood Park; the occasional game of crown green bowls during the light summer evenings, a public green being conveniently situated just across the road from the house; and Saturday night
s. Saturday night was spent at one or more pubs in the company of his two best friends, Sam Shuttleworth and Terry Pickup. The three young men had been at school together, and Sam now worked alongside Arthur at Thwaites. Terry
drove a Blackburn Corporation bus. On Saturdays, when the Rovers were playing at home, they started with an afternoon at Ewood Park, from where they would adjourn to the Anchor Inn for a few pints to celebrate or drown their sorrows, as the case might be. It was during such an early autumn evening in 1957, after a dispiriting loss, that Arthur Ludlow saw the rest of his life staring him in the face from the dregs at the bottom of an empty pint glass. This was it. It was never going to change.
He would follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather; work as a brewer all his life as they had; die too young, as they had; live in the same house as they had; marry the same kind of woman as they had; and have nothing to look forward to except watching the Rovers and endless nights spent downing pints with Terry and Sam. Arthur loved and respected his parents and grandparents. He found no fault with their choice of lifestyle in the times in which they had lived. But the world was changing. There were opportunities available which past generations could not have dreamed of. He was in danger of letting them pass him by. He would leave the world having made no impression on it.
And it was then that Arthur Ludlow decided that it was not enough; that he had to make some change, that he had to aspire to something more. But however long he gazed into the dregs of his beer, he found no inspiration about what he was looking for, much less how he might go about attaining it.

He drained the glass and walked slowly to the bar. The depressing display at Ewood Park seemed to have sucked the life out of the supporters, and the Anchor Inn was relatively quiet. Only a scattering of blue and white scarves lay desolately on tables in front of groups of men of all ages who were making little conversation.

‘Same again, Arthur?' the landlord asked.

‘Aye, same again, Joe, thanks.'

‘Where are your mates tonight?
Didn't you go to t' match?'

Arthur tossed his head back in disgust.

‘Aye, and a right bloody waste of time it were, an' all. If they get any worse, we'll be in't third division before long. Terry and Sam went home for tea. They'll be in for a pint later, happen.'

Arthur paid for his beer and was about to return to his seat.

‘You can take a look at this while you wait, if you want,' Joe offered sympathetically, reaching for a copy of the
Daily Express
he had folded up at the side of the till behind the bar. ‘It might take your mind off t' Rovers. It's yesterday's mind, but still…'

‘Aye, I will, thanks,' Arthur replied.

He
spread the newspaper out on the table and sipped his pint as he scanned stories about politics with little interest. He flipped through the pages quickly. Towards the end of the paper, just before the sports pages, were several pages of official announcements and advertisements for jobs. And there it was.

The Home Office

Additions to the List of Approved Executioners

The Home Office proposes to add a number of names to the list of persons competent to conduct executions. The list is provided to High Sheriffs and Governors of Prisons who are responsible for the carrying out of judgments of execution, and who may invite persons on the list to conduct a particular execution.
Selection for the list is by interview and training. Candidates must be persons of exemplary character and in sound health. The Home Secretary wishes to emphasise that any evidence of prurient interest, or disposition towards publicity seeking or sensationalism, will be regarded as disqualifications for the position. Applications in writing should be sent to the address given below, giving full details of the applicant's educational background and record of employment. Full disclosure must be made of any disability.

Arthur had never thought very much about capital punishment. He had accepted it as a part of British life. To the extent he had ever considered the matter, he approved of it as a form of natural justice. ‘An eye for an eye
' was a lesson which had been drilled into him at chapel every Sunday when he was a child, and he saw no reason to question it. He supposed that there must be men who carried out executions, but it had never before occurred to him to ask who they were, or to imagine that such a position could be applied for. But suddenly, everything became clear. He could be of service to High Sheriffs and Governors. He could occupy a respected position in public service. He could take the first steps towards a different life. He did not
, for one moment, doubt his ability to be a hangman, or his temperament for the job.

When Terry and Sam made their way into the bar some forty minutes later, the
Daily Express
was still open at the announcements page on the table in front of him. Looking up, Arthur smiled brightly.

‘What will it be, lads? A pint of the usual?'

‘I don't know what you've got to be so bloody cheerful about,' Terry replied. ‘We played like a right bunch of old women.'

‘It's just a game, Terry,' Arthur said brightly. ‘Happen we'll win next week.'

‘Get home,' Sam said wearily. ‘No bloody chance. Any road, after this afternoon you shouldn't be looking that happy until you've had at least three pints. What's up? Did somebody die and make you rich?'

Arthur began his walk to the bar.

‘No,' he replied.
‘But I've made a decision about my future.'

Terry and Sam exchanged looks.

‘Oh, aye?' Terry said.

‘Aye. I'm going to be t' public hangman.'

Sam and Terry
looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

‘Get home, you daft bugger,' Sam said.

‘I bloody am, an' all,' Arthur insisted, as he made his way to the bar. ‘You'll see if I don't.'

‘Right,' Terry replied. ‘You're a grand lad, Arthur. A pint of the usual it is, then.'

22

‘You bloody didn't,
' Sam said, shaking his head incredulously.

‘I bloody did, an' all,' Arthur insisted.

‘Give over, the two of you,' Terry intervened. ‘You sound like summat' out of a pantomime.'

‘Well, that's Sam's fault for not believing me,' Arthur replied.

There was a silence. Without taking his eyes off Arthur, Terry
took a first sip of his pint.

‘Did you though, Arthur?'

‘Aye.'

Sam snorted before taking a long drink.

‘So what you're saying is: you answered an advert in the
Daily Express
to be a hangman; you filled in t' form; and they asked you to go to London for training.'

‘That's what I said.'

‘Just like that?'

‘No, not just like that. I told you. They interview you first.
You go to the nearest big prison to be interviewed by the Governor. So I went to Strangeways, you know, in Manchester. Then, if they are satisfied with t' interview, they might invite you to Pentonville Prison in London for training for a couple of days.'

‘What kinds of things did the Governor ask you?'

Arthur shook his head.

‘All kinds of things. About my education; how I heard about the job; why I was interested in it; did I have any relatives who had applied in the past; was I in good health; had I ever been in trouble with the law; what did I do when I wasn't working at Thwaites. You would have thought I wanted to work for MI6 or summat.'

‘They wanted to know if there were owt strange about you,'
Terry suggested.

‘We could have bloody told them that,' Sam said sullenly. ‘No need to go all t' way to bloody Strangeways.'

‘Well, they can't be too careful, I suppose,' Terry said. ‘You can't have the public hangman running amok and going on t' rampage, can you? No telling what might happen if he got out of control with a noose in his hand.'

Arthur smiled. ‘Aye, they have to have the right man for the job. They made that clear enough. Any road, when I came out of the interview, I had no idea how it had gone, really. But a couple of weeks later, they said I should come to London for the training.'

‘What were it like, the training? Did you actually hang anyone?' Terry asked.

‘Get home, you daft bugger,' Sam replied. ‘They wouldn't let you do that while you were training… at least I bloody hope not.
Would they?'

‘No,' Arthur said. ‘Of course not. No, you have to wait after the training. If they think you can do it, they put you on the list, and then you can act as assistant to the chief executioner. You do that a lot before they put you in charge of an execution yourself.'

‘I should bloody hope so, an' all.' Sam muttered, raising his pint to his lips.