The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  If he’d been a real gentleman Titus might have stood a chance of talking his way in, but he was pretty sure this one had the measure of him already so, with a curl of his lip, Titus turned and headed back the way he had come.

  The queue was gone now and the foyer was filled with shifting shadows. The occasional brooch or brass handle gleamed in the low lantern light but the room might as well have been filled with a mass of crawling beetles. As Titus crossed the threshold, a sharp-faced usher gripped his arm.

  ‘Ticket.’

  Titus stood up straight and gave the boy an aggrieved look.

  ‘I ain’t here for the show. I been sent to find Doctor Magnusson. The Duke’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  The usher’s eyes widened.

  ‘You seen him?’ Titus went on urgently. ‘Tall feller, top hat, beard. Looks grand, like.’

  The usher frowned. ‘I think so . . . Did he have a big black bag with him?’

  ‘That’s him! Thank the Lord.’

  Titus patted the boy on the shoulder and pushed his way into the foyer. The atmosphere in there was charged with excitement. For the next ten minutes he milled around, following the ebb and flow of the crowd impatient to enter the auditorium. This was where they’d be, in amongst it all, where gentlemen touching hip-to-hip wouldn’t feel their pocket watches gently slipping away, and ladies wouldn’t notice the sudden lightness of their arm where a moment ago a purse had dangled. But he didn’t run into them and, more tellingly, there were no cries of fury or surprise. Once he dropped to his knees and peered through the legs – Charly barely came up to an adult’s hip – but there was no sign of them. The only other possibility was that they might be holed up under the seats in the auditorium itself. A few minutes later the auditorium doors opened and Titus allowed himself to be carried with the surge.

  Those in front of him rushed forward and those behind thrust at his back until he was inexorably carried to the front rows. Only as he was driven down the third row from the front and came face to face with those galloping up from the opposite aisle did he realise he was trapped. Somebody thrust him down into a seat in order to scramble over him to the one on the other side and soon he was surrounded.

  Turning round he saw a thousand wide eyes, glittering in the gloom, all staring at the stage.

  He turned back. Having worked a few medium shows before he was a little surprised by what he saw. The chair positioned on the dais was a simple wooden thing, more at home in servants’ quarters than here. And that was the only item of furniture he could make out. Where was the cabinet? These, he had thought, were de rigueur for every medium worth the name. At some point in the séance the medium would conceal herself inside and then various spirits would emerge to speak their divine truths. Coincidentally these spirits usually bore no small resemblance to the medium herself, with a few more veils and perhaps an Egyptian-style wig. But the cabinet was not there. Neither was there a table with a conveniently draping cloth, a shadowy assistant, nor any of the accoutrements usually employed to hoodwink an audience: just the chair and the plain back wall of the stage. There was a little more light than was usual too: a lantern on either side of the room and a line of candles on the edge of the stage. Even the curtains had been tied back as if to show that no-one was hiding amongst their folds.

  The loud bang made him jump and a rustle passed through the audience as all heads turned at once.

  The man who had been smoking at the stage door was now standing at the back of the auditorium.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Palace Theatre. As you can see,’ he held up a bunch of keys which glimmered in the lantern light, ‘I have just locked you all in.’

  A murmur shivered around the audience.

  ‘The stage manager has kindly permitted me to take charge of the only set of keys, which will hang on my waistcoat until the very end of the séance. No man, woman or child will be allowed in or out of this room, except under the direst of circumstances, and thus you may have total confidence that no-one can steal in to assist Signorina Vaso. Now then,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I know you have all heard of Summerland. That paradise where spirits bask in eternal peace, free from care and sorrow . . .’

  A few nods from the audience.

  ‘Well, the spirits you will meet tonight have not yet passed on into that blessed realm. They are lost souls. Suffering and afraid. I must warn you that the spectacle you are about to witness may be disturbing, even terrifying.’

  He paused to allow his words to take their full dramatic effect.

  Titus settled back into his seat. It looked as if he was here for the duration.

  ‘Anyone having second thoughts, all those who possess a fragile disposition, any lady who might be with child, I ask that you please leave now.’

  Nobody moved.

  ‘Very well. We will begin.’

  With that he crossed his arms behind his back and gave his full attention to the stage.

  As everyone followed his lead, cries of surprise went up from some of the ladies. The chair on the stage was now occupied, by what appeared at first glance to be a ghost.

  Titus smiled. A clever little trick to get them all in the mood. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a wholly wasted hour after all; perhaps he might actually enjoy himself.

  The girl was thin and pale as a pipe stem. She had nothing on but a white nightdress that only came down to her knees. Mediums liked to do that sort of thing to prove they weren’t hiding any props. Her head was bent and she gripped her knees so tightly Titus could see the tendons springing out on the backs of her hands. When she eventually looked up Titus saw that she was no older than he, delicately pretty but with large shadows bruising her cheeks and eye sockets.

  Her eyes were huge as they stared into the darkness. The candles at the front of the stage made her own shadow on the back wall seem to loom over her. A soft breeze disturbed her fine black hair and Titus glanced round to see if the doors had been surreptitiously opened. They had not.

  When he turned back she had closed those disconcerting eyes and placed her hands palm up in her lap.

  ‘Florence, are you there?’

  Her voice was much stronger than her frame would suggest. It bounced off the walls and high ceiling and in the silence that followed its echoes seemed to go on forever. The concentrated hush of the room pressed so hard on Titus’s temples he felt dizzy. Then she took a great gasping breath and opened her eyes.

  ‘I am here.’

  Though her lips moved in perfect synchronicity with the words, it was impossible to believe she had spoken them. This new voice was extremely old and had a Scottish lilt. Presumably this was the ‘Spirit Guide’, who would mediate between herself and the Other Side. Titus was half-impressed that she hadn’t picked the usual ‘Arab Prince’ or ‘Egyptian Queen’. He glanced behind him again to try and see which plant in the audience was throwing her voice. Without exception all faces were rapt, all mouths hung open.

  ‘Is anyone with you?’ This was the medium herself again. Titus leaned forward and squinted into the darkness. Was someone crouched on the floor? Or was there some kind of grille allowing an accomplice to speak from an anteroom?

  ‘Edwin,’ the old woman said. ‘He has a message for his mama.’

  Titus jumped as a woman behind him gave a stifled yelp.

  ‘Edwin wishes you to know that he did not suffer, since the musket bullet penetrated his brain in such a way that death was instantaneous. He wants your assurance that you will endeavour to live happily again before he can pass over.’

  For a moment the room was silent and then a choked voice said:

  ‘He has it.’

  A sigh passed over the company. Before Titus could catch his breath the spirit guide spoke again.

  ‘Clara is here.’

  No sound came from the audience.

  ‘Clara wishes to tell her sisters that she is at peace now and hopes they can forgive her.’

  Poor Clara’s loved ones were
clearly absent because when her name elicited no howls or shrieks a ripple of impatience passed through the crowd.

  As the show went on, various names were hazarded with varying degrees of success. Even when no-one owned up to a particular spirit, Signorina Vaso would continue with the message, as if that were the important part of the night’s proceedings rather than the entertainment of the crowd.

  Titus grew bored. He picked at a threadbare patch of velvet on the arm of his seat.

  ‘Is there a Titus in the room?’

  His heart tried its very hardest not to stop dead.

  ‘An old friend has a message.’

  He attempted a sneering grin but his lips peeled back from his teeth.

  ‘Ronnie says to keep your wits about you because there’s something big coming your way.’

  He almost laughed out loud in relief. The only Ronnie he knew was Ronnie Black: alive and well and living in Bristol. He’d left Stitcher’s gang not long before Titus and gone off to try his luck in the shipyards. He’d tried to persuade Titus to go too, but the shipyards were no place for a girl of nine and he wasn’t going to leave Hannah behind.

  The medium moved on but Titus couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. He tried to tell himself she’d just plucked a likely name from the air (no doubt everyone in the room knew a Ronnie) but she’d certainly seemed to be directing her speech to him. And the way she’d seemed to still be looking at him, even though her eyes were closed, brought goosebumps up on his arms

  Murmurs from the crowd snapped his attention back to the dais. Something was happening to the Signorina’s face. The prettiness had entirely gone from her and her flesh had congealed into something resembling a death mask. Her eyes were glazed, her body rigid against the chair back. From somewhere deep down in her throat there came a grunting, choking sound.

  Abruptly her head was wrenched back and the audience gasped. Something large and writhing was making its way up her throat. Titus could not take a breath as the thing made its way into the medium’s mouth, pushing her swollen tongue out like a strangulation victim. And then white froth appeared at her lips. No, no, it was more fluid than that; like cream. Although cream would not slither down her chin and then rear up to sway a pointed tongue at the audience as if tasting them.

  It was ectoplasm. Though he’d heard of it he’d never seen anyone try to do it before. It must be white ribbon, swallowed in a ball and then slowly unravelled . . . But wait, now something else was happening. It couldn’t be ribbon for now the white material spread out and seemed to drape itself over a human body.

  It was a child, but not an infant: nine or ten Titus guessed. Too large to conceal without someone noticing. He shuffled down in his seat as the figure went suddenly still, as if seeing for the first time the crowd of people observing it.

  ‘Dad?’

  It was the tremulous voice of a frightened child.

  The approximation of a face scoured the room, pausing interminably on each terrified countenance.

  ‘He’s got me, Dad!’ the child’s voice cried. ‘Come quick or he’ll do me like the rest!’

  A woman behind him gasped. ‘He means the Wigman!’ she hissed to her friend. ‘Perhaps he’ll reveal his identity!’

  But now the shape was backing away, raising hands to its face as if to ward off a blow. The figure merged with the edge of the stage and Titus watched transfixed as the flame of the candle burned for a moment inside its chest before guttering and going out.

  This display of anguish was too much for a woman in the front row.

  ‘You poor wretch!’ she wailed and flung herself at the stage, arms extended. But the apparition had vanished. The woman’s arms wheeled through darkness and she crashed to the floor. The lamps were turned up and men rushed to her aid. A moment later she and the now-senseless Signorina were carried from the room, and the subdued audience filed out after them.

  Emerging from the auditorium into the relative brightness of the foyer was like bursting out of stagnant water into fresh air.

  Titus needed a drink. Back when his mother only took it to help her sleep he’d enjoyed a glass or two of gin with her before bed, but after seeing what it did to her he’d forsworn it. He passed through the few remaining audience members towards the doors. The mood was subdued. Most stood around staring into the glasses of wine brought round on a tray by the usher. Titus ducked behind a pillar, but the boy was pale and kept forgetting to ask his customers for payment, so didn’t spot him. A few people whispered breathlessly to one another. Those women the medium had addressed directly were crying.

  On a high table near the doors two glasses of wine sat, forgotten, while their owners compared how much one another’s hands were shaking. Titus picked up one of the glasses and tossed it back. Then he went back for the second.

  Out on the street he leaned against a wall and closed his eyes. Dizziness from the wine added to the shock of the séance was making him nauseous. He wanted to go home to bed. But if he got home and Hannah wasn’t there he’d just have to go out looking for her again.

  He sighed and opened his eyes. The street lights were bright against the black sky and the few well-to-do people still out were hailing cabs. It must be getting late. Stitcher and his gang didn’t go out at night – they left that sort of work, the sort that would get you hanged, to the older, harder men. If Hannah had been out pickpocketing with them there was only one place she was likely to be by now.

  He pushed himself off the wall and started walking in the direction of King Street police station.

  3

  ‘Is she here?’

  The copper on the front desk nodded: ‘Out back with the Inspector. I believe they’re discussing the various merits of plums versus greengages.’

  ‘Has he charged her?’

  The copper chuckled. ‘What do you think?’

  He unlocked the door to the right of the desk and Titus thanked him and walked through.

  Long before he saw his sister he could hear her, mouthing off in that insistent high-pitched gabble about how if she had a police station she’d make the officers wear red so they would look bold and dashing like soldiers. He clenched his teeth and stalked down the corridor to the kitchen.

  Hannah sat swinging her legs on the kitchen table, giving Inspector Pilbury the benefit of her wisdom between mouthfuls of plum. A bowl sat next to her, filled with nothing but plum stones. She had eaten all the officers’ fruit. A flush of fury and embarrassment rushed up Titus’s neck.

  The Inspector, smoking by the fire in his shirtsleeves, saw Titus first.

  ‘Look lively, Hannah,’ he said. ‘The guvnor’s here.’

  Hannah jumped off the table as if it had been suddenly turned to hot iron.

  ‘I didn’t do nothing,’ she said. ‘I was just there, like, that’s all.’

  ‘Evening, Inspector,’ Titus said, standing a little straighter. ‘Thanks very much for looking after her.’

  ‘Oh, she’s been looking after me. If it wasn’t for your sister I’d never have known cholera could be caught from pigeons.’

  ‘Please excuse her ignorance, sir, she’d rather be hanging about with thieves and no-hopers than going to school.’

  Hannah opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind.

  ‘Ah well,’ the Inspector sighed, knocking his pipe out against the fireplace, ‘I suppose this charming interlude must come to an end.’

  He got up and wandered over to the window that looked out on the prison yard and cells.

  ‘Come on!’ Titus hissed at Hannah. ‘And I hope you thanked him for all them plums.’

  ‘I was bloody starving,’ she squealed. ‘I ain’t eaten nothing since yesterday morning.’

  He took her by the arm, a little too roughly for she winced in pain and then her lip began to wobble.

  ‘Oh don’t start,’ he muttered and led her towards the door at the back of the room: they could go out through the yard gate.

  The Inspector was deep in thought
, his face expressionless as he stared out. He was tall and thin but this slenderness did not mean weakness. The muscles of his biceps strained at the fabric of his shirt, the veins snaking up them like ropes. His hands were large and red and might easily have belonged to a hardened villain, but their colour did not extend to the rest of him. His face was grey and his jaw shadowed, as if his teeth were permanently clenched.

  ‘Thanks again, sir. And thanks for not charging her. Next time I reckon you ought to. It might change her bad ways.’

  ‘She’s not bad, Titus. I should know.’

  He turned and gave the children a wan smile. It was that sad, kindly face that had so entranced Hannah the first time she saw him.

  During one of their parents’ bitterest disputes the police had been called and the whole family were transported to the station. While the adults had been confined to the cells, Titus and Hannah were settled in front of the kitchen fire with teacakes and mugs of cocoa. God knows what it was that entranced Inspector Pilbury about his cocky little sister, but he’d had a soft spot for her ever since that first meeting. Tonight she’d probably hung around after the rest of the gang had scarpered and got herself caught deliberately, just so she could get a meal in the warm.

  Frankly he didn’t mind too much. In fact he was so glad to be spending a moment or two with the Inspector, he was finding it hard to stay angry with her.

  ‘We’ll be off then, and I swear you won’t be seeing Hannah again.’

  Glancing briefly at his hand and deciding it was adequately clean, he held it out to the older man.

  ‘Oh I do hope that’s not the case,’ Pilbury said, taking it, then frowning.

  ‘Good God, boy, you’re freezing. Sit a moment by the fire and warm up before you go.’