The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5) (2 page)

‘You must wait a moment and allow me to catch up,’ I requested. I had been scribbling as fast as I could but the candlelight was poor and the ink badly mixed. There was a risk I’d obscure half the narrative with blots.

Mills listened as I read back to him what I’d written down so far. He nodded to express his satisfaction.

The warder, called to witness the account, was breathing heavily and quite fascinated.

‘I looked into a small sitting room, with a low ceiling and open beams across in the old style. It was comfortably furnished. I remember a grandfather clock stood against the wall to my right. There was a fire burning in the hearth.’

‘A thunderstorm,’ I interrupted, ‘usually follows hot, sultry weather such as you mentioned prevailing before the rain poured down. Yet there was a fire?’

‘I only report what I saw!’ Mills replied testily. ‘Yes, a fire. The rain was indeed finding its way down the chimney and the flames flickered, growing taller, then falling back almost to nothing. Remember, please, the fire was not the only source of light. There was an oil lamp, too, on a small table. The glow of that was what had attracted me from outside. Believe me, I could make out everything within quite clearly. That is important. I saw what I saw and did not imagine it.’

‘Then what did you see?’ I asked. ‘If you don’t cut it short, I’ll run out of paper.’ But despite my sharp words I had been drawn into his tale already. I felt myself on that windswept heath. I heard the hiss of the rain pattering on to the parched soil and pressed my face to the wet panes of the window. What could he have seen so dreadful that he could not face death without unburdening his mind of it?

Mills appeared unperturbed by my impatience. He knew he had hooked his fish – me – and was reeling him in.

‘I could see an elderly gentleman slumbering in a chair. He had white hair and there was a cane leaning against the arm of the chair. The fire had no doubt been lit on his account. I tapped with little hope of awakening him. Then, as I debated what to do, the door of the room suddenly opened and a young woman came in. I had been hoping someone would arrive, perhaps a maidservant to tend the fire. But this was a young lady. She was no servant, I am sure of it. She was a handsome girl, perhaps twenty years old, in a gown of some dark colour, mauve or purplish. It had a lace collar and cuffs. Her hair was dressed in ringlets, much a fashion at that time, as you may yourself recall. She stood for a moment in the open doorway looking at the sleeping old gentleman. Then she went towards the hearth.

‘Perhaps she had come to see how the fire did. But when she got there, she stood before the old fellow’s chair for a minute or two, staring down at him. Believe me, Ross, there was no concern or affection on her face. Her expression was bitter. It both surprised and shocked me. Nevertheless, the rain was trickling down my neck in a most unpleasant manner, so I raised my hand again to knock at the windowpane. I hoped my sudden appearance, as a face peering in, wouldn’t alarm her. If she screamed, then the old man would wake up with a start and there would be such a to-do. However, before I could knock, she moved in a sudden and determined manner as if her mind were made up. She went to another chair nearby and picked up a cushion. I thought she meant to make the old fellow more comfortable and stayed my hand to allow her time to do it. That was my unwitting mistake.’

Mills paused. The warder’s hoarse breath seemed unnaturally loud. I wrote out the last few words and nodded at him to signal he should go on.

‘She placed the cushion upon the old man’s face,’ Mills said bleakly, ‘in a most deliberate and careful manner, and smothered him.’

‘Strewth . . .’ croaked the warder.

‘You are certain of this?’ I demanded.

‘As certain as I am that the hangman is practising his knots, even as we speak. She held the cushion down with both hands, eventually picking it up again and bending over him to see if he still breathed. She even stretched out her bare palm and held it before his nose and mouth, to feel if there were yet breath.’

‘He did not resist?’

‘I doubt he knew what was happening. He started and put up his hands when she first pressed down the cushion. He made a feeble gesture or two, and then it was over.’

‘And
you
? You did nothing to prevent this?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I was quite frozen with the horror of it. Besides, how could I have done anything? I was outside in the storm.’

‘You could have shouted, struck the window as forcefully as you could, broken it if necessary.’

Mills waved his hand irritably. ‘Yes, yes, all this is very well and spoken after the event. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. But it was so unexpected, so sudden, and so quick . . . It was the very last thing in the world I might have anticipated. You don’t walk up to a respectable house prepared to see murder done! I would have signalled my presence urgently, as you describe, had I the slightest inkling of her intention.’

I nodded to show I accepted the point he’d made. Mills took a deep breath. ‘Satisfied the work was done, she walked quickly out of the room. She had left the door open on her entry, but now she closed it behind her. Her victim was alone, but for the spectator of it all, myself, still pressed against the wet windowpane as if frozen to it. The old fellow’s head lolled sideways. One arm dropped down by the side of the chair, dislodging the cane propped there. He was lifeless, Ross, and I was in a pretty fix.’

‘You could have gone back to your horse, remounted, and ridden to the next habitation to raise the alarm.’

‘I intended that, I swear. I ran back to where I’d left my horse, dragged the wretched beast from what little shelter he’d enjoyed and scrambled into the saddle. But I had become disoriented in the storm, in seeking shelter, by the shock of what I’d witnessed . . . I must have ridden in circles and eventually, when I did make a straight line, I found myself almost at the river before I saw the tower of the St Mary’s church, shops and houses.’

‘Where you could still have raised the alarm or sought out the authorities.’

‘You don’t understand, Ross. As I rode, I had had time to reflect on what might happen if I raised a hue and cry. To begin with, a number of well-to-do folk have houses in the area and they don’t want to be troubled with anything so unpleasant as murder! So it would not be an easy thing to knock on a door and tell someone. I was not sure where to turn.’

‘To the Metropolitan Police!’ I snapped. ‘I accept you may not have found an officer to hand in Putney. But, for pity’s sake, man, you had reached the bridge! You had but to ride across it and report what you’d witnessed to the first officer you saw.’

‘You make it sound simple,’ Mills said angrily. ‘Let us say I found a constable – on either side of the bridge. There would still be questions, delays. I would be asked to return to the scene of the crime with the officers. I couldn’t be certain of finding it again at once. They might think I was leading them on a fool’s errand. If we found the house – and the old fellow lying dead – what then? More questions. More delay. Suppose they asked my business acquaintance at Putney to vouch for me? Eventually the whole wretched affair would find its way into the newspapers and what a time the reporters would have! They’d camp out on my doorstep demanding my eyewitness account. I couldn’t allow that. The business matter I’d attended at Putney was of a very delicate nature. I – I could not admit to being there.’

The warder and I exchanged glances. We were of a mind, I fancy. It had not been a business visit that had taken Mills to Putney, but an amorous one. He seemed always to have had an eye for a pretty woman. The lady he’d visited in Putney had no doubt been married, quite possibly to someone of consequence. Mills’s remark about wealthy people having homes in the area, and not wanting to hear of murder, had been made with one particular household in mind.

As if he could read my mind, Mills said defiantly: ‘The old man was dead. I couldn’t bring him back to life. I had to think of my own circumstances . . .’

‘And you now wish me to investigate a murder that took place sixteen years ago? The gentleman’s death was perhaps subject to inquiry at the time.’

He shook his head. ‘I kept a close eye on the newspapers for some time afterward. Such a case, had it been investigated, would have been closely followed by the press, for obvious reasons. The old fellow’s death must have been declared due to natural causes – of whatever kind – and this stated on the death certificate.’

‘All the more difficult to investigate it now!’ I pointed out. ‘The news may not have reached the press and the absence of a report doesn’t necessarily tell us anything. But let us say a professional man – a doctor or a coroner – ruled upon the death at the time. This is quite possible. Then he must, if he is still alive, be prepared to admit he made a mistake, or could have made a mistake. Why should he? What if he insists there was no error? It is far too late in the day to dig up the body, even if an order could be obtained. Most of all, after so long, who is there to care?’

Mills’s smile this time was positively wolfish. ‘I thought, my dear Ross, the police cared.’

I sighed. ‘Have you the address of this house?’

‘Of course I don’t!’ he fairly shouted at me. ‘It was in the middle of Putney Heath. It was near a sizeable coppice. It was built, I’d guess, a hundred and twenty years ago. I have described it to you as best I can.’

‘And you expect me to find it?’

‘I have told you the date the death occurred,’ Mills retorted. ‘You know the approximate location. Good heavens, man! You are the detective. Must I direct you? The house was old, and indeed may once have been an inn, but it was certainly by then a gentleman’s home. Perhaps that of a prosperous city businessman, now long retired? At any rate, the room was well furnished. The girl was a young lady . . .’

The warder burst out laughing. ‘Some young lady, that! What, go smothering an old gent with a cushion?’

Mills gave him a withering look and turned back to me. ‘I shall sign the document now. You sign it, too, Ross, and this fellow – as witnesses.’ He indicated the warder.

We all signed.

‘Now you can go.’ Mills suddenly sounded tired. ‘I have spoken my piece and cleared my conscience. Now it’s up to you.’

I got up, folding the statement and tucking it securely into my breast pocket. ‘Is there anything else you would like? A book, perhaps?’

‘No, no.’ Mills shook his head. ‘Only, perhaps, more coffee if possible.’ He looked up at me. ‘I do not want to fall asleep,’ he said, ‘not now. I shall be doing that soon enough.’ He paused. ‘Besides, he watches me.’

‘I have to watch you!’ said the warder, affronted. ‘It’s my job. Fellows like you try and cheat the hangman.’ Turning to me, he explained, ‘They go banging their heads on the walls or tear up their shirts to make a rope and hang ’emselves if they’re not watched.’

‘Not him,’ said Mills to me, pointing at the warder. ‘
Him
.’ He pointed at the opposite wall.

‘Mind gone,’ confided the warder to me in a whisper and tapping his own brow with a grimy forefinger. ‘That happens, too, you know.’

But I knew whom Mills could see.

‘Bring him some more coffee,’ I said to the warder in a low voice and he nodded.

‘Oh, Ross!’ Mills’s voice called, as I was about to step out of the cell. I paused and turned. ‘There is one thing about that house. I’ve just remembered. It had a weathervane attached to the chimney. It was whirling round and round in the storm. It was shaped like an animal, a running fox, I fancy, with his brush held straight out behind him.’

The warder pulled the door shut and locked it. He looked at me inquiringly.

‘What about all that then, sir?’

‘I must speak with the governor immediately,’ I said.

‘Bless you, Mr Ross, the governor’s at home, most likely sitting down to his dinner or enjoying a glass of brandy after it.’

‘Nevertheless, I must disturb him. He must be told of this at once, tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.’

‘Aye,’ agreed the warder, nodding sagely. ‘It will be that.’

Chapter Two

THE GOVERNOR was indeed at home and, as if my disturbing him there at this late hour were not embarrassing enough, he was sitting with guests at dinner. They had reached the stage where the ladies had retired to gossip and the gentlemen were relaxing with the port and cigars. That’s when I arrived, dishevelled and demanding to speak to him. Give the man his due; he agreed to see me in his study for ten minutes.

So there he sat before me, in his gleaming starched white shirtfront and cuffs and immaculate black tailcoat, his face red from good food and good wine, and from the luxury of a fire lit on a cool September evening. An aroma of cigar smoke wafted around him. I was put in mind of Charles Dickens’s yarn,
A Christmas Carol
, a favourite read of my wife, Lizzie. It was not the time of year and there was no holly wreathing the man’s brow, but in all other ways I could not but think of the ghost of Christmas Present.

And there was I, the ghosts of Christmas Past and Future rolled into one, speaking of old murder and soon-to-be-execution.

He heard me out, took Mills’s statement, read it through. Then he put it down with a sigh. ‘My dear chap,’ he said, ‘you appear to have had a most difficult evening. Will you take a glass of brandy?’

‘You are too kind,’ I told him ruefully, ‘but I must decline. I shall arrive home late enough without doing it smelling of brandy.’

He chuckled. ‘Now, see here, Inspector Ross. You were quite right to bring this to my attention. But I do urge you now to go home to your wife, your much-delayed dinner and your bed. Put this whole matter out of your mind. Frankly, there is nothing to be done.’

‘Mills should be questioned again in the morning,’ I protested. ‘Taken under secure guard to Putney to help us locate the house . . .’

The governor waved a well-manicured hand. ‘My dear fellow, there is no house. There was no murder witnessed through a window. What is it good Dr Johnson said? That when man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully? It certainly seems to have inspired Mills’s imagination.’

I uttered a yelp of protest.

He shook his head at me. ‘See here, Ross, this prisoner, Mills, is to be hanged as soon as this coming morning. He may have been able to put on a good show till now, hiding any fears. But now the moment has almost come. Reality has concentrated his mind. He is prepared to do anything to delay the dreadful event. To gain a few hours, a few days . . . It may seem little enough, but not to a man in his circumstances.

‘Let us suppose,’ he continued, ‘that, instead of making this declaration in the condemned cell, Mills had walked, as a free man with clean hands, into the nearest police station sixteen years ago and reported what he now claims to have seen at Putney. Even then, surely you will agree, that the first thing any police officer would do would be to establish what kind of man had made such a strange and serious accusation? In short, is the witness credible? Is he of good character? Respected and successful in his business? Has he a clear head? Is he likely to speak or act wildly? Only if they thought there was some reason to believe him – and not take him for drunk or mad or acting from malice – only then would police resources and public money be spent on an investigation. Am I not correct?’

‘Yes,’ I said reluctantly.

‘Well, then, how – tonight – would you answer those questions with regard to Mills, the murderer? Is
he
credible?’

‘I understand the argument you make, sir,’ I told him. ‘Perhaps I should be reluctant to take his word. But I cannot disregard any witness telling me of a murder.’

‘And I cannot trouble the home secretary at this time of the evening with this!’ He brandished the statement at me. ‘It is the fantasy of a desperate man. Your wish to be thorough does you credit, Inspector Ross. But I have experience of dealing with men about to go to the gallows. Of course, they panic. They are like a drowning man. They flail about, grasping at any fragile scrap of flotsam to help them stay afloat and alive. Believe me, my dear Ross, there is nothing to be done and no crime to investigate.’

Perhaps he saw I was still unconvinced. The governor leaned forward and went on earnestly, ‘Mills is a clever fellow. I got to know him a little over the past weeks and he is an intriguing character; the very last man, you might have thought, to find himself in his present fix. You, also, Ross got to know him during your investigation into his crime and his trial. But here’s the thing.’ The governor raised a finger. ‘So did
he
get to know
you
!’

This was true. I felt myself redden. The governor leaned back to expound on his theory, making a gesture in the air with his right hand as a conjuror might. ‘“Ross is a conscientious fellow,” Mills says to himself as he sits in the condemned cell. “If I give him this cock-and-bull story, well dressed up to sound plausible, he will feel duty-bound to do something about it and seek to delay my execution.” And he was right. You have done something about it. You have brought this work of fiction to me. I, in turn, have done my duty and read it. Is that not so?’

I had felt my face burn even more and hoped he’d put it down to the fire in his hearth. But he would know he was right, of course. Many a clever crook – or murderer – has sought to find a weakness in the investigating officer that can be exploited. My confidence was ebbing fast. I began to feel I’d been foolish. I should know better than to believe Mills. Of course he sought to delay the horror of what awaited him on the morrow. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you with it, sir,’ I said stiffly.

‘Come, come, my dear Inspector, you did the right thing. Your conscience can be clear.’

Silence fell between us, only the fire crackled. I watched conflicting emotions play across the governor’s ruddy features as he peered at the statement still in his hand.

His conscience might not trouble him but concern for his future career was disturbing him. After all, he had just made a splendid speech telling an officer of the law to disregard a report of murder. It was the sort of grand decision that might possibly come back to bite him.

In a more conciliatory tone, he continued. ‘Well, well, on second thoughts, now that you have told me, I feel I am obliged to take some action. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I will write to the home secretary in the morning, enclosing this document, and send it to him by hand, instructing my messenger that it must be delivered personally. Then you and I will both have done all in our power and can forget about it.’

And the home secretary will order it filed; or toss it into the fire, I thought, but did not say. Then, having much else on his mind, he will forget about the whole thing. Even if he does take it seriously, it will be too late, for Mills will already be dead.

I thanked the governor again for hearing me out; and rose to take my leave. At the door of the room I turned and asked him, ‘The executioner will be Calcraft, I suppose?’

For a moment the governor looked embarrassed and avoided my eye as he replied, ‘Yes, yes, Calcraft. He is the Newgate hangman.’

‘He is a bungler, either through incompetence or by design,’ I said. ‘He ought to be sacked. This is my personal opinion.’

‘He is nearing retirement, certainly,’ replied the governor curtly, ‘but he has served Newgate and other prisons well for many years, doing a task not everyone would wish to do. You, William Calcraft, and I, we all in our several ways serve justice in this country. Our individual personal opinions are of no account. Duty! That is what guides us! Goodnight, Inspector Ross.’

As the butler closed the street door behind me, I caught a snatch of male laughter from the direction of the dining room. The governor had rejoined his guests and probably forgotten Mills already.

I began to walk slowly homeward, still turning over what I should do. Should I let the matter go? I’d done as Mills had asked and reported it. I’d been promised action – even if that action would come too late. What else? Take it directly to a senior police officer? There is a hierarchy within the police force and I could not by-pass it. This meant I would have to disturb Superintendent Dunn, who would be at home now in Camden, and beg him, in turn, to by-pass anyone immediately his senior in order directly to disturb the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

It would take me time to get to Dunn’s home, even if I took a cab. Dunn was a fair man and a good officer, but also impatient; and by nature respectful of those his senior. I would have to inform him the governor of Newgate had promised to contact the home secretary in the morning. That would alarm Dunn enough. It would also count against his troubling Sir Richard Mayne, the commissioner. Sir Richard was a distinguished man. But it was well known that he did not enjoy a good relationship with the office of the home secretary. (This was due to some confusion during the police investigation into the Clerkenwell bombing carried out by Barrett: that same Barrett whose execution had been the last to be carried out before a cheering crowd; and had been overheard by Mills in his cell.) In short, I did not have to visit Dunn to know that the superintendent would no more take the matter to Sir Richard than he would run and knock on the home secretary’s door in person.

I could do no more than I had done. Besides, it was quite possible all this was what is popularly termed a ‘mare’s nest’. Mills had spun me a fantasy of murder unsolved in order to delay his own merited execution. ‘Yes,’ I said aloud to myself, ‘that is it!’

My voice echoed in the empty air. I had reached the embankment and been strolling alongside the river. I was just passing by the arches supporting the brick walls of Waterloo Station. The tide was high and the river lapped at the stone and concrete corset confining it only feet away. I could smell its acrid tang above the smoke from the great engines on the other side of the station’s walls. There was no one around that I could see and I expected no response to my words. But my ear caught the faintest sound from beneath one of the arches. It was a woman’s voice, I was sure of that. I couldn’t catch the words. They were spoken too quietly and, I fancied, not addressed to me. Not a prostitute, then, patrolling the riverside and who thought she spotted in me a possible customer. This was someone else.

The arches were a known refuge for homeless souls. Had the voice been male, I would have put it down as belonging to one of them, and not inquired further. But this was a female voice, and now, to add to my curiosity – and some dismay – I heard a small child give a little cry, as a restless child will when sleep is fitful. I approached the arch and peered into the darkness.

Something moved, no doubt startled at my appearance. I heard the rustle of clothing. The child squeaked again.

‘Who is there?’ I asked.

There was no reply, other than the sound of rapid breathing. I took a box of lucifers from my pocket and struck one. In its flickering light I saw a woman’s terrified face. She was huddled on the ground, wrapped in some kind of cloak or blanket. Before the lucifer’s brief flame was extinguished, I saw the covering move and a small bare foot emerge.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ I urged her. ‘I am a police officer – not in uniform – but an officer of the law, none the less. I am Inspector Ross of Scotland Yard.’

‘I am not begging, sir,’ she whispered in reply.

‘I know that. You are only sheltering here but that is still classed as vagrancy. There are places you can go if you have no other shelter. You should apply to a casual ward at a workhouse for a night’s bed.’

‘Have you seen those places?’ she whispered in reply. ‘You have not, sir, or you wouldn’t suggest it.’

I had never had cause to enter a women’s ward. But, as a younger officer, I had had occasion to search through a men’s ward seeking a wanted man. I remembered it as a dreadful place, airless, stinking, crammed with drunken, diseased and desperate men, young and old. I had even had to throw open the door of the privy in the corner, to see if my fugitive was in there, and shall not forget the open pit, brimming with human excrement.

‘But you have a child with you,’ I argued, none the less. ‘You cannot stay here.’

‘We are safe here,’ she replied obstinately.

‘What has brought you to this state?’ I asked next, as sympathetically as I could.

Almost inaudibly, as if shamed by the admission, she whispered, ‘My husband left us. I do not know where he has gone. I had no money to pay the rent and buy food . . . We had to leave the place where we lodged.’

‘Then apply to the parish!’ I exclaimed.

‘They will send us to the workhouse. They will take my child from me.’ She wrapped her arms around the bundle beneath the shawl. ‘Please, Inspector Ross, don’t arrest me for vagrancy. I do no harm here.’

‘But it is not suitable—’ I broke off. Neither was a casual ward a suitable place for a child. ‘I will leave you here tonight,’ I said. ‘But tomorrow, come to Scotland Yard and ask for me or for Sergeant Morris. We will see you are put in touch with a suitable charity.’

I could rely on Morris, whom I would forewarn, but I hoped Superintendent Dunn never learned I was taking on the work of charities from my office at the Yard.

‘What is your name?’

Reluctantly she answered, ‘Jane Stephens, sir.’

‘Have you no family?’ I asked. ‘Other than your absconded husband?’

‘They’re a long way from here, sir.’

‘Well, well . . . come to the Yard in the morning. Remember, Inspector Ross or Sergeant Morris.’ I delved into my pocket and extracted the few coins there. I held them out to her. ‘Take it. It is not a trick. I shan’t accuse you of begging. Buy something warm for breakfast for yourself and the child.’

She whispered her thanks and took the money. Her fingers, brushing my palm, were soft. This was not a working woman with roughened hands. ‘See here,’ I told her, ‘for your husband to have abandoned you and fail to support his child is an offence and you can report it.’