The Hangman's Secret

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “So the poor fellow’s head came off because he fell such a long distance,” Hugh marvels. “After hanging so many people, wouldn’t he have known to use a shorter rope?”

  “I should think so.” I focus my camera on Warbrick’s suspended head.

  “If he was in a disturbed state of mind, he might not have cared,” Barrett says.

  “He’d have cared,” says a man in the crowd. “He always bragged that he’d never botched a hanging. He liked to tell the story of a hangman, named James Berry, who decapitated a bloke in 1885. Called Berry a disgrace to the profession. He wouldn’t have botched his own hanging. It was a matter of honor.”

  I’d never thought of honor in connection with hangmen, but I suppose that every profession has its standards. I’m carefully composing these photographs, even though they may be too gruesome to publish in the newspaper.

  “If Mr. Warbrick didn’t hang himself, then this was murder.” Hugh sounds excited.

  “We better look for clues.” Mick hurries toward the stairs.

  Barrett blocks his path. “Oh no, you don’t.” He says to me, “This is why I don’t want you and your friends here.”

  When we’re confronted with a mystery, we feel compelled to solve it, even if it’s none of our business. If we run roughshod over the crime scene, Barrett could get in serious trouble for letting us obstruct the police’s efforts to catch the murderer.

  Nimbly avoiding the blood on the floor, Mick runs through the doorway at the right of the passage, into the taproom. “Don’t worry—I won’t tinker with evidence.”

  Barrett stalks after him. I follow, eager to get away from the corpse and propelled by my curiosity. The taproom has a wood floor and wainscoting and contains a dozen wooden tables with benches. Framed pictures cover the whitewashed walls. At the back is the bar, with its row of taps; the bottles and glasses on shelves behind it; and the fireplace. A gaslight fixture dangles from the pressed tin ceiling.

  “Look!” Mick says.

  “Found something?” Hugh calls.

  Mick points to the floor. “Bloody footprints.”

  I see smeared red marks on the floor. Barrett says, “Don’t step on them.”

  “Somebody was here after Warbrick’s head came off,” Mick says. “They walked in his blood.”

  Something crunches under my foot. “Here’s broken glass.” I see more fragments under the tables and smell spilled liquor. “These may be signs of a struggle. Warbrick may have fought with his killer before he died.”

  “Maybe,” Barrett says. “But fights and broken glass in pubs aren’t unusual.”

  I point out damp, bloody streaks amid the glass. “I think that whoever tracked blood in here was trying to clean up. Why would he, unless he killed Warbrick and didn’t want anyone to know the hanging wasn’t suicide?”

  “You’re right.” Barrett sounds grudgingly impressed by my deductions.

  Mick is in the passage, tiptoeing between blood spatters and around the headless corpse. Barrett gingerly follows him to the back door. Mick opens it. “It weren’t locked.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” Hugh calls.

  “Someone went out the back door after Warbrick died.” I look outside.

  Across the alley, trees with bare branches loom inside the brick wall that encloses the yard of Christ Church. Red footprints show on the thin snow on the cobblestones, getting fainter until they vanish amid other footprints. I hear the sound of hoofbeats and wheels rattling in the street.

  Someone calls, “The police surgeon’s here with the meat wagon.”

  “Time for you to go.” Barrett points Mick and me toward the front door. “Out!”

  CHAPTER 2

  A crowded, noisy underground train takes Hugh, Mick, and me across town to Blackfriars Station. We carry my photography equipment to Fleet Street, where the major newspapers are based in tall buildings that rise like cliffs, and the loud, mechanical clatter of printing presses reverberates. Traffic adds to the din. Fleet Street is one of London’s main thoroughfares, clogged with pedestrians. Carriages and cabs stall behind omnibuses pausing to let out passengers and wagons delivering huge rolls of paper to the presses. Snow, smoke, and fog veil the massive dome of St. Paul’s to the east and the Gothic spire of St. Dunstan’s Church to the west. The snow on the ground is already black with soot. So are the hems of my skirts by the time we reach the headquarters of the Daily World.

  The five-story building boasts a stone facade, Greek columns, Moorish arched windows, and Baroque turrets. Above a giant clock on the curved corner is the Mariner insignia—a sailing ship sculpted in marble, a nod to Sir Gerald’s past as a shipping magnate. On the ground floor, an army of men operates the presses and linotype machines. As we climb the stairs, I feel the vibration of the giant machines casting iron letters and rolling, printing, and cutting pages for the next edition. I breathe the distinctive odor of chemical ink, hot metal, and motor oil. On the second floor are the photography and engraving studios. The darkrooms contain sinks, running water, all the necessary tools, spacious worktables, modern enlargers, and cabinets full of supplies. I could leave my negatives for the staff to develop, as other photographers do, but I prefer to develop them myself and control their quality.

  Hugh chats with the staff while Mick helps me pour chemical solutions into trays. When we started working for the paper, I worried that Hugh wouldn’t fit in. A little more than a year ago, a different newspaper exposed him as a homosexual. His family disowned him; his high-society friends dropped him; and wherever he goes, he fears that people will shun him. Some here have indeed snubbed him and made unkind remarks, but most were willing to give him a chance, and his charm has won them over. He loves company, and he’s happy to have new friends.

  Mick and I develop, enlarge, and print the photographs. It takes awhile, because the newspaper keeps the negatives of the pictures it publishes, and I always shoot extras for my own portfolio. We’re just finishing when Hugh knocks on the door.

  “Sir Gerald wants to see you in the conference room. Bring the photographs.”

  I give the negatives to the engravers, who will convert the shades of gray into a halftone—a pattern of tiny black dots. They’ll copy the halftone onto a metal plate coated with chemicals and etch it with acid. The finished plate, mounted on the press, produces amazingly detailed, realistic printed images. Wide-scale use of this method is a recent innovation in the newspaper business. I’m proud to see my work in the Daily World, but apprehension speeds my heartbeat as I carry the damp prints up the stairs, past the third floor where reporters, at long tables beneath hanging lamps, type on rackety typewriters amid tobacco smoke and clicking telegraph machines. These photographs of the murder scene, taken under less than ideal conditions, aren’t my best, and Sir Gerald, who takes an active interest in the newspaper’s operation, is capable of severe retribution when displeased.

  On the fourth floor, where the top brass have their offices, I find Sir Gerald seated in the conference room with two men I know only by name and sight. One is James Palmer, editor-in-chief; the younger is Malcolm Cross, a reporter. My gaze fixes on Sir Gerald. Over six feet tall, his stout body clad in an expensive black suit, he dominates any gathering; he commands attention. He’s more than sixty years old, his hair and beard iron gray, his broad features weathered by years at sea, but he’s strong and robust. I hover outside the door as he gives orders to the two men. His rough Northern accent reveals his origins as a cabin boy from Liverpool. Now he notices me.

  “Miss Bain. Come in.”

  He and the other men stand as I approach. The room is untidy, the table scattered with proof sheets; back issues of the newspaper are piled on the floor. Grimy windows look out on Fleet Street. Sir Gerald pulls out a chair for me and says, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  We sit, and I spread the photos on the table. Even in black and white, the images of Harry Warbrick’s decapitated corpse and his head suspended from the noose are stunningly e
xplicit.

  “Holy hell!” Sir Gerald says.

  James Palmer and Malcolm Cross gape with horrified revulsion. Mr. Palmer is a gentleman in his fifties, thin of hair, face, and chest, wide of bottom. Spectacles frame his red-rimmed eyes. Despite the fire in the hearth, he wears thick layers of clothing, a wool muffler, and fingerless gloves. He’s one of the few men in the upper echelon that Sir Gerald didn’t fire when he bought the Daily World. I know this because Hugh tells me all the gossip. Shy with strangers, I’ve not cultivated new friends, and I prefer to keep a low profile, for reasons related to my past.

  “And the poor bastard was a hangman?” Sir Gerald asks.

  Malcolm Cross beats me to the reply. “That’s right, Sir Gerald. My source is reliable.” He has a round, rosy, boyish face, and a perpetual smile, but his blue eyes are as sharp as cut glass. He wears natty striped shirts with suits tailored to fit his trim figure and more expensive than he can afford. Hugh told me that Sir Gerald hired Cross away from the Telegraph, and although Cross is only twenty—the youngest of all the reporters—he’s the rising star.

  “Run the pictures in the morning paper,” Sir Gerald says.

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Palmer’s face shows the same nervousness that I feel in the presence of Sir Gerald.

  Sir Gerald’s bold eyes gleam. “This could be a big story.”

  He has an instinct for big stories, even though he’s only been in the newspaper business for the six months since he bought the Daily World and invited me to join the staff as a photographer.

  “I’m ready for a new challenge,” he’d said that summer day in his office at the Mariner Bank. “This is an excellent business opportunity. I’ve seen the power of the press.”

  I interpreted that as a reference to the kidnapping of his son Robin and all the public attention the press had generated. But he never talks about Robin, and it’s a tacit rule that no one mentions the kidnapping in his presence.

  “The Daily World was heading for bankruptcy,” he said. “I got it cheap. If I can turn it around, I’ll buy others and build a newspaper empire.”

  I think he had other motives besides a desire for novelty.

  In the aftermath of Robin’s kidnapping, Sir Gerald took ill—with pneumonia, according to an official statement. But rumors said he’d had a nervous breakdown. Hugh confirmed it with people who work for Sir Gerald. They said he had stopped sleeping and washing, drank too much, looked like a tramp, and frightened them with his erratic, sometimes violent behavior. He made rash investments. Customers and business partners lost confidence in him and withdrew their money from his bank. Friends and politicians distanced themselves from him.

  Perhaps his new venture was an attempt to distract himself from the horror of the kidnapping and a way to regain his hold on his wealth and power.

  His wife confined him to their mansion on Hampstead Heath and called in the best physicians to treat him secretly. When he recovered, he followed the same daring course of action as he had decades ago, when some ships in his fleet were wrecked at sea and he lost a fortune. He used his remaining funds to buy up banks and reinvented himself as one of England’s richest men. When his banking empire faltered, he plunged into the newspaper business with the same ruthless determination to succeed. He poured money into the Daily World, buying new equipment, hiring new staff, and clearing out deadwood. The antiquated paper gained a modern, eye-catching design, with plentiful photographs, and he has increased circulation twenty percent. Hugh says the staff members are afraid they’ll fail to live up to his expectations and lose their jobs.

  I wonder if, in addition to a breakdown, Sir Gerald suffered an attack of conscience over black marks on his record. A cutthroat businessman who’s destroyed his rivals, he’s also a former slave trader and a murderer. Is he trying to make a fresh start, to outrun fate?

  “Find out everything about Warbrick’s death,” Sir Gerald tells Malcolm Cross.

  “I’ll get on to my contacts at the police station right away.” Cross’s smile broadens with pleasure at this important assignment.

  I clear my throat. “It was murder.”

  Cross and Mr. Palmer look at me as if the furniture had spoken. “How do you know?” Mr. Palmer says.

  Uncomfortable in the sudden limelight, I describe the signs of a struggle hastily cleaned up, the open back door, and the bloody footprints in the alley. I mention that Mr. Warbrick, a proud expert hangman, would have avoided decapitating himself.

  Mr. Palmer raises his eyebrows, impressed; Cross frowns because I’ve one-upped him.

  “Murder,” Sir Gerald says with relish. “The story’s getting even better. Have the police any leads on who did it?”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “Incompetent fools.” Sir Gerald has a dim view of the police because he thinks they mishandled the investigation of Robin’s kidnapping.

  Cross’s smile hardens with his determination to regain the center of attention. “I’m sure I can dig up some new facts.” He rises.

  “Wait,” Sir Gerald says. “I’ve an idea. Let’s beat the police at their own game.”

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Palmer asks.

  Dread gathers in the pit of my stomach. I think I know what’s coming.

  “We’ll stage a contest. We’ll investigate Warbrick’s murder and solve it before the police do,” Sir Gerald explains. “We’ll run progress reports in the paper. It’ll boost sales.”

  “We’ve never done such a thing …” Mr. Palmer subsides as Sir Gerald frowns.

  I’m not the only one who walks on eggshells around Sir Gerald, for fear that the erratic, violent behavior that accompanied his breakdown will return.

  “But what a wonderful publicity stunt,” Cross says.

  Sir Gerald ignores Cross’s attempt to ingratiate himself. “You’ll write the stories.”

  “I can do more than that,” Cross says. “I’ll find witnesses and suspects.”

  “Fine. However”—Sir Gerald points his thick, blunt finger at me—“Miss Bain, you’re in charge of the investigation.”

  The dread solidifies into a cold, heavy weight as my memory echoes with gunshots. My last investigation for Sir Gerald ended in more than one death. But I thrill at the prospect of a new crime to solve, and all my life I’ve been attracted to danger. Fear makes me feel alive. It’s a quirk of my nature. Still, I have strong reason not to want to be in charge of the investigation. Barrett is already upset about my photographing crime scenes. I don’t want us on opposite sides, with me competing against the police to solve the murder.

  “Her?” Cross regards me with scorn. “She’s a woman.”

  Other women work at the paper, but they’re low within the hierarchy. One writes an advice column for female readers; the others are secretaries or tea servers. There are some female reporters and editors at other papers, I’ve heard.

  “She’s not even a reporter,” Mr. Palmer says.

  “She’s an experienced detective,” Sir Gerald says. “She’s worked for me before.”

  I can tell from their perturbed expressions that Cross and Mr. Palmer know Sir Gerald hired my friends and and me to find Robin. I’m sure they’d like to remind Sir Gerald that the outcome was hardly ideal, but they dare not break the rule about silence on the subject of the kidnapping.

  “Perhaps it would be best if Mr. Cross leads the investigation,” I say. My friends and I can assist while keeping a low profile. Barrett won’t have to know we’re involved.

  Cross looks surprised that I would dodge what he considers a plum assignment. He and Mr. Palmer turn expectantly to Sir Gerald.

  “It would be best if everyone followed orders.” The warning note in Sir Gerald’s voice quells further dissent.

  I see another reason why Sir Gerald put me in charge: Hugh, Mick, and I are beholden to him, and he trusts us to look out for his interests; less so the ambitious, self-serving Cross.

  “Now that that’s settled, let’s get something else straight,�
� Sir Gerald says. “Whatever you find out, keep it quiet until it’s published.” He addresses Mr. Palmer: “Tell the whole staff that everything to do with the Warbrick murder is strictly confidential. No blabbing to the wife or chums or other papers. Especially not to the police. We don’t want them using our information to get the jump on us. We need to be ten steps ahead of them by the time it’s in print.”

  Now I’m really disturbed, for not only must I head this contest with the police, but I can’t tell Barrett anything I learn; he’ll have to read it in the newspaper along with the rest of London. Honesty has been a serious issue in our relationship since we first became acquainted, when Barrett was on the Ripper case and my friends and I conducted our own clandestine hunt for the killer. Later, Barrett worked on the Mariner kidnapping case, and Sir Gerald hired us as private detectives. Both situations required me to keep information to myself, and Barrett wasn’t happy about it. And I have other secrets related to my family’s past.

  I speak up hesitantly. “Couldn’t the police accuse us of obstructing justice?” That’s a crime, but I fear losing Barrett as much as a jail sentence.

  “They can accuse us. It won’t stick,” Sir Gerald says with calm confidence. He has connections with people in high places all over the world, but I can only hope that his wealth and power will shield his associates as well as himself from the law. “Time’s a-wasting.” He waves his hand in dismissal. “Go solve the murder.”

  * * *

  I hurry after Malcolm Cross as he strides down the passage. He goes into the stairwell and slams the door in my face. Irritated, I yank it open and call, “Mr. Cross!”

  He pauses halfway down the dim, cold flight of stairs. “What do you want?”

  Our dislike is mutual, but we’re yoked together nonetheless. “We should discuss how to proceed with the investigation.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I’m not working for you.”

  “Sir Gerald expects us to solve the murder. We need to figure out what to do, divide up the tasks—”