The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  ‘Hannah!’ he called across the yard. The fingers did not pause.

  ‘Go and fetch her,’ he said to the nurse.

  ‘I’m not at your beck and call.’

  ‘Then . . . then tell her I will come back tomorrow and she’d better be ready to speak to me or . . . or . . . or there’ll be trouble for her.’

  The nurse smirked.

  ‘Gloria’s thrashed her twice already this week,’ she nodded at one of the burly women at the end of the table, ‘and she didn’t utter a peep. A skinny little streak like you is hardly gonna have her quaking in her boots.’

  It took Titus a while to swallow his anger and shame and the burning desire to run at that great ugly bully of a woman and beat his fists into her fat belly. Eventually he had composed himself enough to speak.

  ‘Then please tell her there will be a currant bun waiting for her.’

  The nurse sniffed and stared at him.

  ‘And for yourself, of course.’

  Back in the porter’s room he almost told the man he would take Hannah there and then. Perhaps he could sneak her into the stables with him and feed her with his own lunch and the scraps left by the other men. But it couldn’t work. Samson was in and out of the stables and, besides, Titus would be so busy worrying about what she was up to he’d never be able to concentrate on the job. If he ended up getting himself dismissed then where would they be?

  He slunk out of the office and through the bleak courtyard feeling as low as he’d done when they first arrived.

  That night he slept fitfully, keeping half an ear out for the chimes of Big Ben. As soon as they struck six he was up and seeing to the horses. If he completed his chores by half past eight he could nip out to see Hannah and be back by the time the men had finished their breakfast.

  But it soon became apparent he was going nowhere today. By eight the station was swarming with activity. The jury in the Rancer trial had retired the previous night and the verdict was due to be delivered in a few hours.

  The atmosphere at the station was buoyant as the men frantically completed their tasks so as to be allowed to accompany the Inspector to court. The general feeling was that he was certain to be found guilty and sent to the gallows, and so the men had recovered their boldness a little.

  Titus was ordered here and there to pass messages or fetch ink or boot polish, and barely had time to prepare Beatrice and Leopold for the journey.

  By one o’clock the entire station was deserted as the men bundled onto the carriage that would take them to court. The yard echoed with laughter and banter, as if they were off to see a man married rather than condemned. Only Pilbury’s face was grim as he emerged into the grey afternoon.

  ‘Are you worried he’ll get off?’ Titus asked him as the Inspector came around to pat the horses.

  ‘Oh, they’ll convict him and hang him.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just another death, boy,’ Pilbury sighed as he put on his top hat. ‘There are so many.’

  He climbed up onto the carriage and Titus opened the gate for them.

  As it clanged shut Big Ben struck half past the hour. He was too late to see Hannah. He trudged back to the deserted stables and curled up on his bed with his face to the wall.

  10

  The week passed agonisingly slowly. The cart was called out barely a handful of times as most of the prisoners, drunks and wife beaters and pickpockets were brought in by the beat officers. At breakfast on Wednesday morning Pilbury came into the station kitchen.

  ‘I’ll be leaving for Newgate shortly, if anyone wants to accompany me.’

  There was a pause in the muffled crunching of toast, then a general shrugging of shoulders and mumbled excuses. Titus could feel the Inspector’s eyes pass over him and he concentrated all his attention on wiping a blob of strawberry jam from his cuff.

  ‘Cowards,’ Pilbury said with a smirk and went out.

  After the Inspector had gone Samson sent Titus to the market for more hay for the horses, but he hadn’t got further than the end of the street when he came face to face with Stitcher, piggybacking Charly. When he saw Titus, Charly scrambled off Stitcher’s back then ran straight up and kicked him in the shins.

  The two older boys regarded one another in silence. Eventually Stitcher broke it.

  ‘So, you was there for the Wigman, then.’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’

  ‘And now you’re workin’ for the police.’

  His black eyes bored into Titus but his voice was expressionless.

  ‘Yes.’

  He eased onto his back foot, ready to run. There was no sense fighting Stitcher who was stronger, quicker and always carried a knife.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Stitcher said.

  Titus blinked.

  ‘I knew you’d never stay with us,’ Stitcher went on and Titus could tell by the pulled down corners of his mouth that it cost him a lot to say it.

  ‘If it were just me, Stitch . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I swear on Ma’s grave that I will never, ever . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  For a while after that Stitcher seemed very interested in a piece of lichen that was peeling off the wall.

  ‘So, er, what you doin’?’

  Stitcher perked up immediately.

  ‘Goin’ to the hangin’. Aren’t you? I’d’ve thought you lot’d get pride of place up the front!’

  ‘I wouldn’t want it.’

  Stitcher blinked at him. ‘Why?’

  Titus shrugged. ‘I’ve seen enough of him to last a lifetime.’

  Stitcher’s mouth spread into a leer.

  ‘Scared of him, were ya?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat!’ Charly chanted.

  ‘I wasn’t scared,’ Titus sighed, trying to sound weary instead of defensive.

  ‘Well, if you ain’t scared come along with us and watch the bugger dance.’

  Stitcher smiled but the smile was faltering and when he spoke again his voice had lost its jeering edge. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  Titus glanced back at the station. Even from here he could hear Samson bawling out one of the junior officers. Well, he thought, swallowing hard, Samson would just have to lump it.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  It was too far to walk so they jumped on an omnibus heading towards the city. When the conductor came for their fares Stitcher stared pointedly at Titus and he rooted around in his pocket for the money Samson had given him for the hay. Then they climbed the narrow stairs to the cheap seats on top.

  It was cold up there, and the damp air soon saturated their clothes. Charly climbed onto Stitcher’s lap and Stitcher pulled his jacket around the smaller boy’s narrow shoulders. As they drew near the river a thick fog rolled in, concealing the road and the lower part of the coach from sight and deadening all sound, until Titus felt as if he was being rowed across a silent sea. The muffled rumble of the wheels on the muddy road was like the hiss of oars through still water. He shivered and pulled his jacket tight across his chest.

  ‘So, the Rancers, eh?’ he said, to break the silence.

  Stitcher gave a low whistle. ‘Rosie says she reckons he might have had his brain addled by all the knocks his dad give him.’

  ‘Dead isn’t he, the dad?’

  Stitcher nodded. ‘Rosie says the witch murdered him. Well, that’s what he told everyone down the Archer anyway.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Rancer Senior told his mates at the pub that his wife was murdering him with a curse but he was too scared to do anything about it, and a week later he up and died.’

  ‘Not much of a bully, then?’

  ‘Only to the boy. He was scared of the wife so he took it out on the boy. Terrible things. Joseph started off at the school where you went, but he got so many knocks about the head by his pa that in the end he couldn’t remember which way up was Tuesday, so he stopped going and went to help hi
s ma instead. Used to collect the stuff for her spells. The odd chicken bone here or a bit of hair. Rancer Senior didn’t like it. Two against one, he said. So he decided to scare the boy out of his wits and put him off witchcraft once and for all. He was a gravedigger up at St Bride’s, so one night he took the boy up to a grave what he’d just dug. A his-and-hers plot, you know? And the wife had been buried years before. Well, Rancer Senior took the boy and threw him in the hole next to the old coffin. Rotten it was and you could see the skellington through the planks. It was raining cats and dogs, and every time the boy tried to get out he slipped down into the mud. The next morning they found him floating in a foot of water with the corpse’s arms around his neck. They thought he was dead from the shock. Took all his mother’s potions and mumbo-jumbo to bring him back. She never forgave the old man. She would have made him suffer longer if she could, but – according to Rosie – one day she found him beating the boy with an iron poker, so she finished him there and then. One word and his heart stopped. Course it was a heart attack so the police couldn’t do nothing. But the whole Acre knew it was her. And she wanted them to.’

  He gave a little shudder and his arms tightened around Charly, who was falling asleep.

  ‘It’s a bad time all round,’ he went on, lowering his voice. ‘Did you hear about Ronnie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only got word of it a few days ago, though it happened a while back I think. He were down in the hold of one of the ships he was building when half the deck came down on his head. They only recognised him from that tattoo on his back . . . You know? The one with the Sea Monster. Titus . . .? You all right?’

  Titus swallowed a few times to wet his suddenly dry throat. Had Ronnie been dead by the time of the medium’s show at the Palace?

  ‘Yeh. I’m fine.’

  ‘There’s St Paul’s,’ Stitcher said. ‘We’d better get down.’

  He picked up the dozing Charly and they went down the stairs, stepping off into the swirling fog. Up here, away from the river and the factories of the south bank, the smell wasn’t so choking; just coal and woodsmoke and the faint perfume of incense. Titus followed Stitcher along the unfamiliar streets until their progress was stopped by a large crowd. The hubbub woke Charly, who wiped his nose on his brother’s lapel and hopped down.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Stitcher asked a tall man craning his neck to see over the heads of those in front of him.

  ‘They ain’t opened the gates yet but you can hear him singing when it goes quiet.’

  Titus shrank back. Perhaps he could lose the other two in the crowd and slope back to the police station before he had to hear any more of that awful crooning, but then there was a sudden commotion from the front and the crowd surged forward.

  ‘They’ve opened the gates!’ cried the man, and lunged towards the press of backs, entirely oblivious to the fact that Charly had just pinched his pocket watch.

  ‘This way!’ Stitcher cried and led them around the edge of the mass of people to cut in near the front, at which point he began crying out that he’d lost his sister.

  ‘Mary-Ann!’ he hollered. ‘Where are you, littl’un? Oh Christ, she’s only three! MARY-ANN!’

  Concerned onlookers opened up a path that led directly through to the front of the yard. Titus’s footsteps hesitated when he saw the looming scaffold. Two thick black posts rose up from it, and dangling from the crossbeam between them was a single noose, swaying gently in the breeze.

  As the crowd began to pack in around them silence fell, as if an invisible blanket had settled upon them, muting all sound. Feet shuffled. Someone coughed. Charly pushed himself between the older boys and slipped his hands into theirs. His hands felt very cold and small. He was staring up at the scaffold, blinking quickly with those wide blue eyes. The chain of the pocket watch dangled, forgotten, from his pocket.

  ‘Will he fall on us?’ he said to Stitcher.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Stitcher said, but gave his hand a squeeze.

  Fog crept between them, curling its pale fingers into Charly’s hair and winding around Stitcher’s throat. With it came a thin, cold wind that made the noose swing jauntily. A movement from above caught Titus’s eye and he saw that the walls of the prison were bristling with crows, their black eyes glittering as they glared down at the scaffold. Then, as one, their slick, black heads turned.

  ‘Can we go home, Stitch?’ Charly said. ‘I don’t like it.’

  With a sigh of irritation Stitcher picked him up and the smaller boy hid his face in his brother’s neck.

  Then the high, clear voice of a child singing cut through the silence.

  ‘Jesus’ love never failed me yet, never failed me yet . . .’

  A priest was walking slowly from the entrance to the gaol towards the scaffold. Had he brought a choirboy with him, Titus wondered; how strange. But then the priest’s steps turned and goosebumps prickled down Titus’s back. Behind the priest, walking between him and the executioner, was a spindly figure.

  ‘There’s one thing I know,’ the piping voice continued, from Rancer’s black mouth, ‘for he loves me so . . .’

  All Rancer’s hair had been shaved off, leaving areas of black stubble, like patches of rot on a piece of fruit.

  The singing subsided into childish giggles which deepened until they became the ugly rasping cackle that had so chilled the atmosphere of the station.

  The priest began climbing the scaffold and the wood groaned beneath him. Rancer went next, his footsteps utterly silent as if he were gliding over the wood. He had been bound so tightly that the hands tied at his back had turned blue. Finally came the hangman, short and squat as a tree stump, his expression completely blank. He positioned Rancer behind the noose and busied himself checking the various parts of the structure. Rancer stood motionless, facing out towards the crowd. For a moment there was such a deep silence that everyone in the yard must have heard his next words.

  ‘So many come to watch my little dance,’ he chuckled. ‘At least three of you should learn the steps since it will be your turn soon enough.’

  Stitcher leaned across to Titus and breathed, ‘Reckon he’s talking about me and Charly?’ He grinned but Charly whimpered and clung on tighter.

  Titus tried to respond but his throat had gone bone dry. Almost imperceptibly the crowd edged backwards and moved closer to one another.

  Somewhere in the distance a bell began to toll mournfully, and seemed to take an eternity to strike its nine beats.

  As Rancer’s gaze scoured the yard Titus was paralysed with terror lest he should be recognised, but the killer’s eye was caught elsewhere. A group of top-hatted men stood slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, in a roped-off area beside the scaffold. Titus’s heart jumped as he saw the Inspector. Would Rancer scream abuse at him? Or throw curses until they were choked off by the rope?

  But then Rancer did the most astonishing thing.

  He smiled. He bowed. He tried to raise a hand but, because of the binding, just managed a twitch of the shoulder. The acrid aroma of his sweat reached those in the front row.

  ‘Be seeing you,’ he said to Pilbury.

  To his credit the Inspector did not flinch or avert his gaze and their eyes remained locked until the hangman stepped forward and pulled the bag over Rancer’s head. From the prisoner’s stance, alert and watchful, Titus couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still staring at Pilbury.

  This was the part he had been dreading. Would Rancer finally break down, beg for mercy, sob for his mother, wet himself? That was the worst bit about a hanging, the reason why he and Hannah stopped going. You ended up feeling sorry for even the worst specimens of humanity: Hannah had once cried for days over a young mother who had poisoned her children.

  But Rancer stood patiently while the hangman did his business, as if he were patiently submitting to some minor inconvenience. He scuffed at some sawdust with his toe while the noose was being looped up, whistled as the rope was placed around his neck, then
sauntered over to the hatch as if he were positioning himself for a kiss under the mistletoe. Titus found it impossible to feel any pity for him, only a sort of ghastly awe.

  The priest raised his hand and said in a flat voice, ‘May God have mercy on your soul.’

  There were no last words of comfort and support from the executioner. Not even the customary entreaty to ‘be brave’. Without so much as a pat on the back, he kicked the lever that operated the door, Rancer dropped like a stone and the rope snapped taut with a thud.

  Titus was dimly aware that, beside him, Charly had begun to cry but he could not tear his gaze from the hooded face.

  For several moments afterwards he half expected Rancer’s body to give a convulsion and leap onto the platform again, tearing off the rope and hood to leer out at them – fooled you! But the neck must have instantly broken because there was not the slightest twitch. The corpse only turned in a slow circle in the cold morning air. Gradually the fingers of fog crawled up the scaffold to envelop it in a shroud of grey and the rest of the grim business of cutting him down was hidden from the crowd.

  Titus blinked and took a deep, shuddering breath. It couldn’t have taken more than a minute or two from start to finish but his aching body felt as if it had been standing at the same spot for hours.

  The crowd began to disperse in silence.

  ‘That were smartly done,’ Stitcher said, his voice uncharacteristically low. ‘They were lucky his head din’t shear clean off. All I can say is that they must have been in a great hurry to get rid of him.’

  They wandered back down towards the river but none of them felt much like talking and Charly was still crying. At the corner of the Strand and Newcastle Street, Stitcher asked half-heartedly if he fancied a drink but Titus said he ought to be getting back to the station. Stitcher didn’t seem to mind, merely shrugged, hoisted Charly onto the other hip and wandered away in the direction of the Acre. Titus watched them gradually disappear into the fog, then he turned his steps towards Covent Garden to spend what was left of Samson’s hay money.