The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  Confusion froze him to the spot.

  He was holding a lock of Hannah’s hair.

  The door opened and Pilbury entered.

  ‘Hello. What’s this? What are you doing in here?’

  Titus’s fist closed around the hair and with his other hand he took a shovelful of coal.

  ‘I wanted to get a fire going for you, sir, so the room was warm when you came in.’

  To his ears, still ringing with shock, his voice sounded stiff and unnatural.

  ‘Good lad. Well, carry on. I might have a bit of a doze while we’re nice and quiet.’

  Titus finished laying the fire, replacing the brick as he did so, then crept from the room.

  When he got back to the stables he took his own parcel of Hannah’s hair from the niche in the wall and compared it to the lock from Pilbury’s office. They were not quite the same. Hannah’s hair was finer and straighter, and it struck Titus that this lock might have belonged to Charly. All the victims he had seen on Pilbury’s walls were very fair. Which word had Pilbury used on the beach: ‘Purity’?

  That afternoon Titus managed to replace the hair and steal a truncheon, before settling back in his spot by the stable door. From here he could observe Pilbury, armed, and subdue him if he had to.

  But tonight all was well and Pilbury was on his way home, utterly himself, by eight.

  The same happened the next night, and by the following day Titus’s anxiety had receded a little, so that evening, when Pilbury cooked himself a large plate of bacon and eggs, Titus thought nothing of it.

  Until the singing started. It was so low that he would not have heard it if he hadn’t been listening.

  He tucked the truncheon down the back of his trousers, took a coil of rope from the stable door and let himself into the darkened kitchen. The ticks and creaks of the range set his nerves on edge even before he reached Pilbury’s office. The door was closed and the singing inside continued. He stood outside long enough to hear the end of the song, before finally knocking.

  ‘Come in,’ a sly voice said.

  Titus withdrew his hand. This was not what he had expected.

  ‘Inspector Pilbury?’ he called quietly through the door.

  ‘Y-e-e-s-s,’ the voice drawled. ‘Come in, if you please.’

  Titus had expected a straightforward fight during which he would try to overpower Pilbury and tie him to the chair while the fit passed, but it seemed as if this madness was not so straightforward. Pilbury’s personality seemed to have split in two. Was this the one who had attacked the child on the beach? If so, might he yet recognise Titus? He thought for a moment, then leaned forward and spoke through the door.

  ‘You must come quickly, sir, to the cells, one of the prisoners is ill.’

  He already had his back turned when the door opened and he felt the strangeness of the presence on his heels as he led the way down the corridor towards the front desk. If he needed more proof, Pilbury made no protest that this was not the most direct route to the cells.

  On the way past the front office he took the ring of keys that hung beneath the desk, with a nod to the duty officer, as if he was acting on Pilbury’s authority.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ the man said to Pilbury and Pilbury replied likewise.

  They passed out into the courtyard with the line of cells on their left. In the last few minutes a fog had rolled in and its fingers curled around Titus’s feet.

  ‘The drunk they brought in at three was making some terrible choking noises, and I was afraid he’d swallowed his tongue.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Take a look for yourself, sir, in here.’

  Titus opened the cell door, leaving the key in the lock. It was as black as hell inside. Pilbury walked past Titus and into the shadows. Immediately Titus swung the door shut behind him and turned the key. At the clang of the door Pilbury spun round and his white face hurtled up out of the gloom. Titus jerked back as reeking spittle struck his face through the bars.

  ‘You!’ he snarled.

  The eyes glittered, darker than Pilbury’s, and the breath smelled as if it was just released from a grave.

  ‘You deprived me of a child. Let me out or I will send you to the bottom of the river instead.’

  ‘Mister Pilbury,’ Titus said loudly. ‘Please try and fight this sickness. Can you hear me, sir?’

  Pilbury chuckled, a sound like the creaking of an old ship.

  ‘Let me out,’ he hissed.

  Titus took a step forward, holding his gaze without flinching.

  ‘I won’t let you out, and you’ll keep your trap shut unless you want to be hanged.’

  ‘Hah!’ Pilbury cried. ‘That’s no more painful than a wasp sting. And I should know.’

  He leered through the bars and Titus backed into the courtyard. Soon the monstrous grin was drowned in smog, but even when he had reached the sanctuary of the stables he felt he could still see it floating towards him through the fog.

  After an initial bout of bellowing and door-rattling the cells stayed quiet for the rest of the night, but Titus lay paralysed with fear until dawn finally broke.

  As the fog burned off Titus forced himself up and out into the courtyard, fully expecting to see the cell door broken open. It was still padlocked. He took the key he had slipped from the bunch before returning it to the desk last night, and went over to the cell. Pilbury lay on his side on the floor breathing deeply.

  Titus knocked quietly.

  ‘Mister Pilbury?’

  The figure stirred and as it stretched its legs the tang of urine drifted across to Titus. But that was all. There was nothing of the grave in the foetid air of the little room.

  ‘Inspector?’

  The eyes opened, blinking in the sunlight.

  ‘Do you know me, sir?’

  ‘Titus? Is that you?’

  Titus hurriedly unlocked the door and helped Pilbury to his feet.

  ‘What happened? Why am I in the cells?’

  There was fear in his voice.

  ‘Let me take you back to your office.’

  There was a spare pair of trousers in Pilbury’s wardrobe and while the Inspector dressed Titus went to fetch a bottle of brandy from the Rose and Crown. When he came back Pilbury was leaning on his desk, his head in his hands.

  He looked up when Titus entered and Titus marvelled at the difference between the Inspector now and what he had been last night. Certainly he could never mix them up. Pilbury’s eyes were set in deep wells of grey and criss-crossed with scarlet but they were not those monstrous black pits from the night before. He was trembling as he took the brandy and swigged it straight from the bottle.

  As he drank, Titus talked rapidly.

  ‘Last night you said you wanted to look in on one of the prisoners, and you asked me to come as the fellow was violent. We found him asleep. You said you wanted to discuss the Rancer murders with him and that you’d wait until he woke up. I can only think that you fell asleep waiting and whoever was on duty didn’t see you on his rounds and locked the door by mistake.’ He ended with a shrug and a reassuring smile. ‘You have been very tired, sir.’

  But the Inspector was not reassured.

  ‘I remember nothing after five. I pissed myself, boy.’

  Titus looked at his boots.

  ‘There is something gravely amiss. I shall ask Hadsley to come and examine me. And Titus, I must ask you again not to tell the others . . .’

  ‘I won’t, sir.’

  For a moment Pilbury’s mouth trembled but he quickly recovered himself.

  ‘You are a good lad. Now, off with you. Beatrice and Leopold will be wanting their breakfast.’

  14

  The following evening Titus watched Pilbury, bent and sunken-eyed, trudge out of the back door at five and hail a cab home.

  But after the Inspector left, Titus just couldn’t settle. He wandered about the station, eventually ending up at the front desk where the duty officer let him sit behind the counter and re
ad the evening edition. A little later on a delivery boy came in.

  ‘Package for Inspector Pilbury,’ the boy said, ‘from Doctor Hadsley.’

  ‘The Inspector’s gone home,’ the duty officer said. ‘Can you take it on to him?’

  ‘Nah. Me mother’s expecting me back to help with the baby.’

  ‘There’s a penny in it if you do.’

  ‘And a thrashing from me mother. No thanks.’

  He turned and scurried out of the door.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Titus said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll need the cart before the pubs close.’

  The duty officer agreed and gave Titus an address in Chelsea. He walked down Victoria Street then cut through the back streets behind the station to Eaton Square. The gang often used to come up here in the small hours and dare one another to try and break into one of the vast houses. But these were the properties of politicians and lords, and Stitcher and Co. were not yet desperate enough to risk their necks. His steps slowed and he gazed into the lighted windows where families sat around sumptuous drawing rooms, or dined beneath glittering chandeliers. It wasn’t the glitz and opulence that drew his eyes, however, it was the child reading on his father’s knee in one house; the girl playing the piano while her family looked on in another; the crying baby in its mother’s arms.

  He gazed through the railings until frowning servants whisked the drapes closed and the scenes vanished.

  Passing through Sloane Square onto the King’s Road, Titus tried to ignore his itchy fingers as he went past shop after shop of fine jewellery, perfume, leather gloves, confectionery, and all the other wonders that were a world away from the Acre.

  Shawfield Street was a wide terrace of three-storey, white-stucco houses with black railings and polished brass on the doors. Number twelve had three black-and-white chequered steps that led up to a dark green door. On this door, he noticed, the brass was a little tarnished. He rapped three times then took a step back to wait.

  After three or four minutes had passed he pressed his ear to the door. There were no sounds of movement inside.

  The shutters of the front room were closed. Did that mean Pilbury hadn’t been home since early this morning?

  A flame of fear sprang up in his chest.

  He knocked again, harder and longer, then stepped back onto the street and tried to see into the upper windows. The shutters upstairs were closed too.

  Perhaps it was nothing more serious than that Pilbury had stopped for a drink somewhere. Titus had specifically heard Pilbury telling the cabbie to bring him back here so he could not be far away. Unless it had been a ruse . . .

  Titus was sitting on the steps, wondering what to do, when a woman’s skirts appeared in his field of vision.

  ‘Hello, my darling. You waiting for Mr Pilbury?’

  A short round woman stood before him carrying a basket.

  ‘Yes,’ Titus said, getting to his feet, ‘I’ve a delivery for him. But he’s not in.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure he is.’

  She took a key from the pocket of her apron and climbed the stairs.

  ‘I’m Dorothy Membery, his housekeeper. Well, former housekeeper he calls it, but I still look after him as much as he’ll let me – a cake or a pie now and again to keep his spirits up.’

  She opened the door and stepped into the darkened hallway. ‘Come in and I’ll see if I can find him for you.’

  Titus followed her down the hallway to a kitchen at the end. This room was lighter as it backed onto a large garden whose flower beds were crowded with brightly coloured blooms and weeds in equal measure. There was a small glasshouse against the western wall but instead of plants it seemed to contain only tools and blocks of wood. He could just make out, on one of the worktops, a ball and two short sticks.

  ‘It’s a shame, isn’t it?’ Mrs Membery said, coming to stand beside him. ‘To let it go to ruin. But it was her garden and he won’t let no-one else touch it.’

  She went back to the table and began unloading the basket.

  ‘Beef and oyster pie,’ Mrs Membery announced. ‘That’s his favourite. Roast shoulder of mutton, and a jam sponge.’

  Titus’s stomach growled and his tongue prickled at the sight of the sugar-crusted cake.

  ‘Now, why don’t you go off and find him. Stairs play merry hell with my hips. He’s probably in the back room at the top.’

  As he was climbing the stairs she called out to him, ‘Make sure he gives you your bus fare back!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Titus said. ‘I can walk back to the station.’

  Mrs Membery appeared in the hall. ‘You work with him, do you?’

  Titus nodded, feeling rather a fraud.

  ‘Well, in that case,’ she disappeared and came back with the basket, ‘I’ll be off. Mr Membery will be clamouring for his tea. Maybe he’ll even let you have a taste of that cake . . . Cheerio!’

  A moment later she was out of the door. As it swung shut, gloom descended on the hall.

  Continuing up the staircase, Titus noticed patches of dark wallpaper where pictures must once have hung. Two were oval, for portraits.

  The room at the top of this first flight was in darkness. He stood on the threshold and called quietly, ‘Mr Pilbury?’

  A shape was stretched out across a sofa. He didn’t think it proper to shake Pilbury awake so he went to the window and opened a shutter.

  The shape was an overcoat.

  Though large and presumably light and airy when the shutters were back, this room was being used as some kind of storeroom. A piano was almost completely disguised by leaning piles of papers. The floor was similarly covered. There were dirty plates and beer bottles on almost every surface, and the unmistakable black confetti of mice. It took him a little while to be certain there was nobody there.

  Next door was a dining room. The table, a golden walnut affair with feet like lions’ paws, could have seated twenty people, and was laid out with silver cutlery, which still gleamed despite the tarnish and dust. The room was so dusty it was as if Titus was viewing it through a veil. He took a step inside and his foot threw up a little cloud of dust motes that hung in the air, illuminated by the thin evening light that seeped through the shutters.

  He mounted the next flight of stairs. On the next floor was the master bedroom. His eyes had got used to the darkness now and he could make out an unmade bed and piles of clothes strewn around. The musty smell of unwashed linen hung in the air and Titus passed quickly down the landing. The next door he came to was another bedroom, with rose-patterned wallpaper. These shutters were open and the sunset fell obliquely onto an iron-framed bed with a damask bedspread. There was a large black chest of drawers on top of which sat a jug and ewer, and beneath it was a square rug upon which someone had embroidered a posy of blue pansies above the word ‘Welcome’. Perhaps it was because of the light but he liked this room, and walked over to the window to see what kind of a view it had. From up here the garden looked beautiful: the weeds were invisible and the grass was a lush green. By a pond at the far end perched a red-hatted gnome with a fishing rod. Titus smiled at the thought of Mr Pilbury buying himself a garden gnome. But then, perhaps it hadn’t been bought for him.

  As he turned to leave the room he suddenly understood what the ball and two sticks in the glasshouse were. Leaning drunkenly against the pillow was a gangly rag doll, its wooden head and arms painted pink. Pilbury had been making toys.

  There was only one room left. The door was ajar and when Titus pushed it lightly with his fingertips it swung noiselessly open, as if it had been waiting for his touch. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the full radiance of the evening sun, filling the room with a syrupy glow and making the four brass knobs on the iron cot against the wall shine.

  The side of the cot had been lowered and Inspector Pilbury was curled up inside. The warmth of the sun, added to the profusion of pink in the room – wallpaper, carpet, bedclothes – gave his face a healthy glow. He s
eemed to be peacefully asleep, his moustache puffing up at every soft snore.

  Titus wondered whether he ought not to just creep downstairs, leave the package on the table and let himself out again. But what would Pilbury think when he found it? That someone had been wandering around his house without his knowledge?

  He backed out of the room, pulled the door closed, waited a few moments, then knocked loudly.

  A cry came from inside.

  ‘Mr Pilbury. It’s Titus. Mrs Membery let me in. I’ve brought a package from Doctor Hadsley.’

  There was a long time in which the only sounds were the creak of bedsprings and the rustle of bedclothes, then Pilbury appeared at the door. His hair was sticking up, his moustache was out of place and there were creases all down one cheek. He smelled of stale beer.

  ‘Good grief, was it that urgent?’ he croaked.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Sorry to bother you, I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘No, wait. He might want an answer.’

  Pilbury fumbled with the package with stiff and clumsy fingers but eventually the wrapping tore and a bottle thudded onto the carpet. He bent over to pick it up and then drew out the note.

  After he’d read it he gave a chuckle and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Damn him,’ he said, handing the note to Titus.

  It read: Something to help you sleep.

  ‘Well, now that I am no longer in that blissful condition perhaps you’d like something warming for your journey home. I’ve a good port somewhere and there may even be a clean glass or two.’

  They sat in the kitchen in a silence that was both comfortable and comforting to Titus. The port was delicious and filled the hole where supper ought to be. Its heavy fragrance numbed his brain. Pilbury drank quickly: two tumblers filled to the brim were gone before Titus had got halfway through his first.