The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5) (3 page)

Even as I spoke, I realised this was the reason she had not gone to the parish authorities and claimed relief under the Poor Law. She had a child and would be required to name the father so that he could be found and made to reimburse any money the parish spent on his family. But she did not want him found, that was it! I began to doubt the accuracy of her story, such as it was. Possibly even the name she’d given me was false. At any rate, the man had not left her. She had run away from him. She feared any authority would force her back to him. He must be a brute, that she chose this archway as a better and safer place for them both.

I went on my way. There were many who would have told me she would buy alcohol with the money, but I believed she would buy food for the child, if not for herself.

I completed my journey home, feeling unaccustomedly useless. I couldn’t help the woman, other than leave her in the shelter she’d found and hope she’d come to the Yard the next day. (I doubted she would. She would be too frightened.) Nor could I do anything about Mills’s testimony, with the result that a murderess remained free out there somewhere. London was full of wrongs and any police officer who thought he could right even half of them would be a fool.

But he could still try.

The house was quiet. The parlour clock told me it was nearly midnight. Lizzie was already abed and so was our maid-of-all-work, Bessie. I went into the kitchen and found a large plate of cold sliced beef, carefully covered over to protect from mice, and a jar of pickled onions. I didn’t fancy either. But the kitchen was warm and comfortable and I sat for a while by the range and thought over what had happened. I would go to Dunn in the morning and report it. I had no hope of there being any action, but it must be officially recorded.

I heard a sound at the door into the kitchen from the hall, and there stood Lizzie in her nightgown and a shawl, with her long dark hair braided into a single plait, and holding up a guttering candle. The dancing flame chased shadows across her face. She was in her early thirties now but, to me, still looked a young girl. She had been a very young girl when I had first set eyes on her, back home in Derbyshire. We had been children, she the doctor’s daughter and me the grimy lad who worked down in the mine. Her father’s generosity had taken me from that life and seen to it I had an education. I doubted he meant I would reward him by marrying his daughter.

‘You found the beef?’ she asked. That meant, why hadn’t I eaten any of it?

‘I am not hungry,’ I defended myself. ‘I’m sorry if I wakened you.’

‘I wasn’t asleep, only dozing.’ She sat down before the range in a chair facing mine. ‘What happened at Newgate? Mills must be very distressed. One has to pity him.’

So I told her the whole thing from beginning to end. She listened without interruption. Then, when I fell silent, she said firmly: ‘You could have done nothing else. You had to go to the governor.’

‘Perhaps he was right and Mills was making a fool of me.’

‘Of course, he
might
have been doing that!’ she retorted. ‘But you don’t know.’

‘I’ll never know,’ I said wryly.

After a moment, she stretched out her hand and placed it on my arm. ‘You did the right thing,’ she said. ‘You have done all you could.’

I wished I believed her.

Chapter Three

Elizabeth Martin Ross

I HAD been awaiting Ben’s return from Newgate all evening. I had gone upstairs to bed, but not to sleep.

We had been about to sit down to our supper earlier when the message came that he was required there. A condemned man had made it his last request that he speak to the arresting officer in his case. That had been Ben. He had stood up from the table, made a brief apology, and left at once. I had not attempted to delay him or suggest he dine first. But I had known he would not only be hungry when he returned, he would be in mental turmoil.

Any visit to Newgate has a depressing effect on Ben’s spirits, as it would on any sane person’s. I have never been inside the fortress-like walls of that dreadful place, although I have occasionally shopped in the market that thrives in the street just outside it. The market stallholders and other shoppers seem never to give it a second look. For me, its castle-keep-like appearance, blind windows and the stone frieze of entwined manacles and chains above the main entrance send a shudder down my spine.

Now, on this occasion, Ben’s visit had been made much more difficult by Mills’s strange allegation. Could it be true? I wondered. Or was it just the invention of a desperate man about to climb the steps to the gallows? Even the thought of what must happen in the morning made me shiver.

Ben believed Mills’s tale; that was the problem. Because he believed it, he would not be able to leave it alone. The idea of an uninvestigated murder would continue to prey on his mind; above all if he were unable to persuade anyone else to take it seriously.

There was nothing more I could have said to him that would have made things easier. I had offered the obvious words of comfort. I urged that he had done his best in going to the governor, that it was not his fault if the governor had dismissed the claim made. Mills should have spoken out earlier. After all, he had had sixteen years to do so, if his strange tale were true. In the end we had agreed to discuss it no more, as it was now in the early hours.

Ben slept badly and I hardly at all as he tossed and turned beside me. It began to prey on my mind, too. If Mills had given an honest account, then what had led to the awful scene he’d witnessed that fateful day on Putney Heath? What hatred had built up in the heart of an apparently respectable young woman and why? I knew already that I could no more leave the question unanswered than Ben could. That is to say, he could do little more than file a report in the morning at Scotland Yard. As for me, I could only lie awake here with images of the wretched Mills in his cell, dancing in the darkness before me.

Eventually I fell asleep to be awakened by a rattle of fire irons in the kitchen range beneath my feet. Bessie was up and about and encouraging the range to heat up and boil the kettle for hot water. I slipped out of bed, picked up the empty jug on the washstand, and went downstairs to help her.

It is not possible to keep much from our intrepid maid-of-all-work.

‘The inspector came home very late from Newgate, missis,’ she observed, hauling the kettle from the range and splashing most of the contents into the jug. As she was preparing to lug it upstairs, she added casually, ‘Did he go and see that murderer?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘It makes my blood run cold,’ declared Bessie with so much relish I suspected the thought of the wretched Mills in the condemned cell had quite the opposite effect. She then added, with a glance at the clock ticking above the hearth, ‘They’re probably leading him out to the scaffold this very minute!’

‘That’s enough, Bessie!’ I told her sharply. ‘Take up the water or it will go cold again and the inspector not be able to shave.’

Bessie had previously worked in the household of my Aunt Parry. In those days she had called me ‘Miss Martin’. Now, I am afraid, she called me ‘missis’ and there was nothing I could do to change this. Ben was always called by her ‘the inspector’ and I, when talking to her, had to do the same.

‘Yes, missis,’ she said obediently now.

‘And don’t ask him about Newgate!’ I called after her.

‘Of course I wouldn’t, missis!’ floated back down the stairs.

Inspector Benjamin Ross

Before I went up to bed, tired as I was, I had carefully written out Mills’s story while it was still fresh in my mind. I took great care not to omit a single detail: the wild weather, the oil lamp in the parlour window, the old man dozing by the fire, the arrival of the young woman, her dreadful deed and her calm departure. I described how Mills, appalled and disorientated, had ridden aimlessly around the heath before finally coming to houses; by which time he’d decided to say nothing of what he’d seen, for reasons of his own. I read it through two or three times until satisfied and put it in my pocket. If I had a chance, I would hand it to Superintendent Dunn. It might never be investigated but it would be on record.

On my way to Scotland Yard I rehearsed mentally how I would approach the subject. When I arrived, however, and before I could get anywhere near the superintendent, I was intercepted by Sergeant Morris. He stationed his burly frame before me, obliging me to stop and pay attention.

‘I have a message for you, sir,’ he announced, looking, I fancied, slightly furtive.

‘Is it from a young woman giving the name Jane Stephens?’ I asked, remembering I had told the woman beneath the arches to come to the Yard in the morning.

‘No,’ replied Morris, his bushy eyebrows twitching in surprise. ‘Who would she be, then, Mr Ross?’

‘She – I told her to ask either for me or for you. It doesn’t matter – but if she comes here, tell me and no one else. What is your message?’

Morris gave me an old-fashioned look but let the question about Jane Stephens drop. ‘It’s from Mr Dunn, sir. He came in early today and he wants to see you, straight away.’ The sergeant leaned forward and added, sotto voce, ‘I understand, sir, there has been communication.’

‘Communication?’

‘Between the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police – that is to say, his office – and this department, sir. There has been talks in
high places
. Only,’ added Morris, ‘I don’t know what about, as is natural.’

‘Natural?’

‘High places,’ said Morris, ‘do not confide in me, Mr Ross. No more should they. Mr Dunn said to tell him – you, that is – to come direct, no delay.’

I sighed. The carefully memorised speech concocted on my way to work would not be delivered. There would be no need either of that or of my written report. Both the governor of Newgate and the Home Office had moved faster than I’d anticipated. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a little before half past eight. Mills had probably been dead this past two hours. His mischief – as I was beginning to view it – lingered on and was, in a sense, possibly only beginning to meddle in our lives.

Dunn appeared to have been pacing up and down the room as he waited for me. When I entered, he’d reached the far end and turned swiftly to face me. He was alarmingly red in the face and his sharp little eyes glittered beneath the shaggy brows.

‘There you are, Ross,’ he greeted me. ‘I understand you think we have time on our hands here, at the Yard?’

‘No, sir!’ I replied, startled.

‘It seems you do. As if we didn’t have enough cases to investigate and enough criminals don’t take to violence, you have dug up a murder, which, if it ever happened at all, took place sixteen years ago. It was committed in Putney, we are asked to believe. We know neither the name of the victim, nor exactly where he lived. There are no witnesses and no one reported it.’

He paused for breath and I took the opportunity to say quickly, ‘There was one eyewitness and he told me last night what he’d seen.’

‘Well, he won’t tell anyone else,’ said Dunn shortly. He marched to his desk and sat down, placing his stubby hands flat on the polished surface. He was a stocky man who looked more like a farmer than a police officer. His preference for suits of tweed material encouraged the country image. His wiry hair stood up, trimmed off level. It made it look as if he had a scrubbing brush on his head.

‘Mills has gone to the gallows, then,’ I said dully.

‘He has, at six o’clock this morning.’

‘Did Calcraft make a decent job of it this time?’

‘I haven’t heard that he didn’t. He’s strung up enough of the condemned to know what he’s about.’

I had my own thoughts on that, but I left them unsaid.

‘Anyhow, that’s quite by the by,’ Dunn rumbled on. ‘We no longer have to worry about James Mills. But you have stirred up the devil of a fuss and to-do by running to the governor. He sent a messenger to the Home Office last night, you know, not more than an hour or two after you left him. There were few staff on duty in the building and they did as might be expected – got rid of the thing. They dispatched a night clerk with the letter to the home secretary’s London home. His private secretary not being on duty, a half-awake butler got the gentleman himself out of his bed at midnight.’ Dunn eyed me quizzically. ‘You are no respecter of persons, Ross.’

I had underestimated the governor. He had not waited until morning. I doubted it was efficiency or a desire to postpone the hanging that had made him send such a message in the middle of the night. It had been the equivalent of Pontius Pilate washing his hands. It had ceased to be the governor’s responsibility. Perhaps, after I’d left him, he’d told his guests about it all and they had urged him to act without waiting for morning. The panicking clerk on the night desk at the Home Office had reacted in the same way and done the same thing. I need not have feared a delay in the news reaching the top man. The very fact that it had been sent after hours meant it had reached its final destination with fewer hands to impede it. If it had been scalding hot it couldn’t have been passed on faster! But it had not prevented Mills reaching his final destination.

‘They didn’t halt the hanging.’ I spoke more to myself than to Dunn but the superintendent answered, accompanying his words with a thump of a fist on the desk.

‘Good heavens, Ross! Of course they didn’t. It was not as if you had sent word of some new evidence in Mills’s own case. Then there might have been some delay while it was investigated. But Mills was found guilty after a properly conducted trial and had later admitted his guilt. He said nothing to you last night to withdraw his confession. He had to hang.’

Dunn paused and went on in a persuasive sort of tone. ‘Come now, Ross, you arrested him. You saw the scene of his dreadful crime?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I did; the room resembled a slaughterhouse, blood everywhere. I shall never forget it.’

‘Then keep the image before you now. Remind yourself that Mills fell out with a business partner, attacked him, and all but sawed off his head with a carving knife. The newspapers’ reports were full of the details of the dreadful business. Mills wrapped his greatcoat over his bloodstained coat and trousers, walked out and took a cab home. The next fare to climb into that same cab complained to the driver of fresh bloodstains on the upholstery. The cabman went to the police, the police to Mills’s house . . . and from there to Appleton’s lodgings to make the awful discovery. This is your man, your informant, Ross.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I could see where this line of argument had taken us: into a dead end. Dunn, like the governor of Newgate the evening before, judged Mills unreliable as a witness, a condemned man living out his last hours in a nightmare.

Dunn nodded, as if confident I saw reason at long last. ‘Now then, Ross, here we have a brand-new accusation concerning the death of an unidentified victim at the hand of an unidentified killer at an address no one knows and taking place sixteen years ago. And we are to take this report as gospel? We are to believe the word of a man like Mills! The
unsubstantiated word
of a self-confessed murderer? A man who apparently had sixteen years to speak out during which he was a respected citizen, not yet with blood on his hands.’

‘Well, sir—’

‘No!’ thundered Dunn. ‘We have a man who waited until he was almost at the steps of the gallows to unburden himself of a fantastic tale, giving no details but a date and a general area – Putney Heath – where this murder is supposed to have taken place! How could you, Ross, an officer of such experience and generally of such good judgement, be taken in by such an obvious ploy to gain time?’

‘I had to make such a judgement, sir. I had no time to think it over. It was, as you say, the eleventh hour. I couldn’t ignore what Mills told me.’ I took a deep breath. ‘For what it is worth, I believed him.’

Dunn rolled bloodshot eyes at me. ‘Did you, indeed? I recommend you, not only as your superior officer but also as a friend, to stop believing it, forthwith. Do not, Ross, go out of this room and start telling all and sundry that there was a murder on Putney Heath, at the home of some respectable citizen, sixteen years ago, and it was not only never reported, it was never investigated. Nor . . .’ Dunn’s voice rose. ‘Nor will it be investigated now, Ross, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ It could not be investigated now. The only witness was dead and probably buried while his body was still warm.

Dunn’s demeanour grew more controlled. He signalled towards a chair, meaning I should sit down. I sat.

He placed his hands together, fingers interlaced, and spoke in a low growl. ‘What I shall say now is between us, Ross. It will not go outside this room.’

‘No, sir, I understand.’

‘There was some little difficulty earlier in the year between the Home Office and the Yard, concerning the investigation into the Clerkenwell bombings. That has all settled down. Nothing must disturb the – er – restored good working relationship. Now, I am not unsympathetic to your predicament when Mills spun you this wild story. In your shoes, sitting in the condemned cell last night with a man about to die, I should probably have done what you did. You were right, quite right, to follow it up. But now it is settled, once and for all. The home secretary has decreed it. There shall be no further action in this matter.’