The Hangman's Secret

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Excuse me,” I say to a red-faced older man standing beside me, “what are these?”

  He shouts in my ear so I can hear him above the noise. “Ropes from Harry’s hangings.”

  My jaw drops. Warbrick sold the ropes as souvenirs! Other frames contain newspaper clippings. One, from 1873, is about Mary Ann Cotton, a “black widow” who poisoned three of her husbands and eleven of her thirteen children to collect on their burial insurance policies. Others show Charles Peace, the crippled burglar who shot a policeman and was hanged in 1879, and Kate Webster, the Irish servant girl hanged that same year for murdering her mistress. Kate dismembered the body, boiled the flesh off the bones, and gave the “lard” to the neighbors. These are all criminals Warbrick executed.

  “It’s too bad about Amelia Carlisle’s rope,” the man shouts.

  Amelia Carlisle, the most recent notorious murderer, was a baby farmer—a woman who took in unwanted babies for a fee and supposedly farmed them out to adoptive parents or raised them herself. In actuality, she killed them rather than take the trouble to find homes for them or spend money on their care. She was convicted of the murders of three babies and hanged in November. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict her of the hundreds of other murders that she probably also committed over the years. Her past caught up with her, but she only had one life to lose on the gallows. Her infamy almost equals that of Jack the Ripper. The framed clipping shows the photograph taken after her arrest. Deep-set eyes glower from beneath slanted dark brows in her haggard face. She has black hair severely parted in the middle, and she wears a hat trimmed with satin ribbons and a coat with a fur collar. I don’t recall any mention of who had executed the “Baby Butcher,” as the press had dubbed Amelia. I’m surprised to learn that Warbrick did the honors, but he obviously made no secret of it, and it’s boosted the public’s interest in his murder.

  “What’s too bad?” I ask.

  “The rope was stolen.” The man points to an empty frame on the wall.

  All that remains on the board is the label, “Amelia Carlisle, £5 per inch.”

  “Must’ve been last night,” the man says. “I was here yesterday until closing, and the rope was there then.”

  He sidles off while I wonder if the killer stole Amelia’s rope. Was theft the motive for the murder? Looking around for someone else to talk to, I see a man standing alone. I weave through the crowd and step into the open space that surrounds him. He’s about thirty years old, of average height but odd proportions—large head, broad shoulders and chest, and long arms; thin, truncated legs. His jacket is too tight, its sleeves too short; his baggy trousers puddle around his black boots. He has a pale, clean-shaven face with a heavy jaw, and he holds his bowler hat in his large hands.

  “Hello,” I say.

  He stares at me without expression. His eyes are dark brown to match his cropped hair. They stay open for an uncomfortably long interval before he blinks hard and says, “Six feet nine inches.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I say, puzzled.

  “That would be the ideal distance for you to drop if you were hanged.”

  “What?”

  His unblinking gaze sizes me up. “You’re about one hundred twenty-five pounds?”

  I’m affronted because this complete stranger dares to remark on the personal subject of my weight. “Yes, but why—”

  “Six feet nine inches, and your neck would break quickly and cleanly. If the drop were too much shorter, you would slowly strangle to death.” He speaks in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. “If the drop were too much longer, you would be decapitated. Like Harry was.”

  If this is his idea of a conversational icebreaker, then I can see why the other folks are giving him a wide berth. “How do you know that?”

  He takes a white calling card from his pocket and gives it to me. Plain black print reads Ernie Leach, Assistant Hangman. 45 White Horse Lane, Stepney. My fingers feel as if they’ve touched something unclean. I slip the card into my pocketbook.

  “I’m, uh, glad to meet you, Mr. Leach.”

  Ernie Leach nods, stares, and blinks hard again—a tic, I realize. I wonder if he’s picturing me swinging from the end of a rope. He’s repellent, but maybe he has information germane to Warbrick’s murder, so I’d better keep the conversation going. “I didn’t know there were assistant hangmen,” I say.

  “Most people don’t. Public executions were abolished in 1868, and nobody but a few of us ever gets to see a hanging.”

  “What do assistant hangmen do?”

  “We help set up the equipment and strap the prisoner. Afterward, we help take the body down and clean up.”

  “Clean up?”

  “When people are hanged, they usually empty their bladder and bowels. It’s an involuntary physical reaction.”

  Remembering the stench of feces this morning, I feel nauseated again.

  “We get paid three guineas plus traveling expenses,” Leach says.

  He must like his work so much that he’s willing to do it for a pittance. “Have you another job too?”

  Nod, hard blink. “I work for the gas company. They give me time off when I’m called to a hanging. It’s a public service.”

  I attempt to turn the conversation to the murder. “Did you work with Mr. Warbrick?”

  “Yes. We did twenty-seven hangings together.”

  The total number of executions performed by all the hangmen in recent years alone must be enormous. “Who do you think killed him?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m glad somebody did.”

  I’m surprised because I wouldn’t expect anyone at a wake to say he’s glad the deceased is deceased. “Why is that?”

  “He tried to have me struck off the list of hangmen.” Anger enlivens Leach’s stoic face. “It took me seven years to get on the list. There are so many applicants, and the Home Office doesn’t hire very many. I submitted my application fifteen times.” His eyes glint with ardor. “I’ve always wanted to be a hangman. When I was a boy, I read everything about hanging I could find. I built a miniature gallows and hanged cats and dogs. It’s a science.”

  I stare in horror. Was the science or the killing the main attraction for Ernie Leach?

  Leach goes on, oblivious. “I’ve assisted at thirty-nine hangings. I’m reliable—I do everything by the book. I was up for promotion to hangman. But Warbrick gave me a bad reference.”

  “Why?”

  “At a hanging last November, he miscalculated the drop distance. I corrected him. He had to go along with me. He knew I was right, but he didn’t like it. He told the Home Office that I’m a pervert who enjoys killing. They don’t want people of that sort.”

  I wonder if Warbrick was right. “What did you do?”

  “I reported Warbrick for drinking the night before executions,” Leach says. “It’s against the law. But I saw him, twice. That’s why he miscalculated—he was drunk.”

  I suppose there are rivalries in every profession.

  “He wasn’t sacked, but he was put on notice.” Leach adds, “He was very angry. He came to my house and picked a fight. The neighbors broke it up. Which is a good thing, because I could’ve killed the bastard.”

  A normal person wouldn’t admit so readily that he had a motive for murder, but Ernie Leach is clearly not a normal person. “Did you kill Mr. Warbrick?” I ask.

  Leach recoils as if I’ve insulted him. “And make such a sloppy, amateurish mess of it? I should say not.”

  Before I can suggest that making a mess of Warbrick’s hanging could have been a ploy to disguise the fact that it was done by a professional, Hugh joins us, carrying two pints of ale.

  “Sorry, I got caught up in conversation.” Hugh gives me one pint, and when I introduce Mr. Leach, offers him the other.

  “I’m not drinking tonight. I’ve a hanging tomorrow. I’ll be going now.” Leach elbows his way through the crowd, toward the door.

  I tell Hugh what Leach said. Hugh laughs. “It takes all kin
ds. Do you think he did it?”

  “I certainly think he’s capable. Have you learned anything?”

  “Our host is the chap who tended bar for Warbrick when he was out of town for executions. He said the lease on the pub expires this month, and the widow isn’t going to renew it. She told him to use up the stock.” Hugh raises his glass to me.

  The cold, tart ale washes away the bad taste that my conversation with Ernie Leach left in my mouth. “If Mrs. Warbrick gives up the pub, how will she live?”

  “Her husband had a burial insurance policy. Quite a generous one.”

  I think of Mary Ann Cotton, who poisoned fourteen people for the insurance money. “So the widow had a financial motive for the murder.”

  “Plus the facts that she didn’t like being married to a hangman and she has a lover.”

  I tell Hugh about Amelia Carlisle’s rope and the possibility that its theft is connected with the murder. The sound of clinking glass interrupts our speculations. “Attention, please,” shouts the bartender. The crowd quiets. “I propose a toast to our dear departed friend, Harry Warbrick.”

  Cries of “Here, here!” are drowned out by someone yelling, “Take your hands off me!”

  The crowd moves back from the argument that rages by the door. I glimpse two men tussling. One is Ernie Leach. As the bigger man holds him by the lapels, he throws punches and shouts, “You’re not getting anything out of me. Leave me alone!”

  The bartender and another man wade into the fray, pull the combatants apart, and shove them out of the pub. Hugh sets our empty glasses on a table, pulls me toward the door, and says, “I’d like to know what that was about. Come on.”

  * * *

  Outside the pub, the big man who accosted Ernie Leach hunches on his hands and knees. Leach is gone. The night is colder, the air a poisonous grayish-yellow from snowflakes, gas lamps, and smoke.

  “I say, are you all right?” Hugh extends his hand to the man.

  “Yeah,” the man says in a surly, breathless voice. Grasping Hugh’s hand, he pulls himself to his feet. “Thanks.” His paunch bulges under his tweed overcoat. His puffy features and curly strawberry-blond hair give him the look of an aging, dissipated cherub.

  Hugh picks up his fallen bowler hat and gives it to him. I see something else he must have dropped. I crouch, retrieve a notebook with a pencil stuck in the spine, and read the words printed on the cover: The Telegraph. “Are you a reporter?”

  He nods as I hand him the notebook. “Charlie Sullivan. On the beat for twenty years and still getting my arse kicked for the sake of a story.”

  The Telegraph is the newspaper that Malcolm Cross once worked for, the Daily World’s chief rival. I flash a look at Hugh, warning him not to let on that we’re with the competition.

  “Hugh Richards and my sister, Sarah,” Hugh introduces us. He’s realized that not only would a veteran reporter like Charlie Sullivan know about his scandal, the man might recognize my real name from the newspaper stories about Robin Mariner’s kidnapping.

  Sullivan squints, as if he’s trying to place us. Hugh distracts him by saying, “Are you covering Harry Warbrick’s murder?”

  “Damned right. It’s a big story. I spotted three reporters from other papers at the wake.”

  “I’m sorry you were thrown out,” Hugh says.

  “Yeah, me too. I was following a big lead.”

  Hugh and I exchange covert glances as our interest perks up.

  “Did you know Harry Warbrick?” Sullivan asks.

  “Not personally,” Hugh says. “We live in the neighborhood. We stopped by to pay our respects.”

  “Oh. Well, good night then.” Sullivan obviously thinks we’re not potential sources, and therefore not worth his time.

  We need to find out what his big lead is. Hugh says, “How about if we buy you a drink someplace?”

  Sullivan considers, then shrugs. “Won’t say no.”

  We walk to the Queen’s Head, where we lunched with Mick earlier. The pub isn’t crowded, probably because the regulars are availing themselves of free drink at The Ropemaker’s Daughter. We have a table to ourselves by the fire, under a portrait of Queen Elizabeth. Sullivan gulps his ale and licks his lips. His eyes are bloodshot, his nose red with broken veins.

  “Why were you rough-housing with Ernie Leach?” Hugh asks.

  “I wanted information from him. He wouldn’t talk. Damned Official Secrets Act.” Seeing our puzzled expressions, Sullivan says, “Executions are covered by the Official Secrets Act. Whatever happens during a hanging, nobody who was there is allowed to blat it about afterward. Anybody who does could go to prison.”

  “I assume you’re interested in something that happened during a hanging?” Hugh says.

  “You assume right.” Sullivan drains his glass.

  I signal the barmaid to bring him another. “Which hanging?”

  Sullivan looks around the room, as if to check for eavesdroppers, and lowers his voice. “Amelia Carlisle.”

  I’m interested to hear her name crop up for the second time tonight. “But how do you know something happened when nobody is allowed to talk?”

  “Nobody is allowed. But somebody did.” Sullivan chuckles. “Old Harry had loose lips when he was hitting the bottle, which was pretty often lately.”

  I’m eager for a new episode in the Amelia Carlisle story. Everyone else in London must be too, and Sir Gerald would hate for the Telegraph to publish it first.

  “Well, don’t keep us on tenterhooks,” Hugh says. “Do tell.”

  “Harry never said. He just hinted. That was his way—he’d string me along for a while because he liked the attention. Eventually he would give in. He’s been my anonymous source for some juicy bits about other hangings.” Sullivan’s expression turns grim. “But not this time.”

  “Why not this time?” I say, disappointed.

  “I’d been kissing up to Harry for weeks. We were supposed to meet at The Ropemaker’s Daughter tonight, and I thought he was ready to spill. But then …” Sullivan pantomimes pulling a noose tight around his own neck.

  Can it be mere coincidence that Harry Warbrick was murdered when on the verge of revealing a secret? Hugh and I avoid looking at each other, lest we betray our excitement. “What do you think happened at the hanging?” I ask.

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” Sullivan says. “If the hangman had been anyone except Harry, I’d have figured he’d botched it. Ever heard of William Calcraft?” Hugh and I shake our heads. “He was the official hangman of London from 1829 to 1879. Many of the poor sods he hanged died slowly and agonizingly by strangulation because their necks didn’t break. Sometimes he would pull on their legs or climb on their shoulders to hurry up the process.”

  I wince. Hugh says, “That’s a picture I won’t be able to get out of my mind.”

  “That was in the days of public executions,” Sullivan says. “The mobs went wild. Nowadays, the whole process is carried out behind closed doors. More civilized. If hangings are botched, the government keeps it under wraps. But Harry was an expert, at least according to himself. If he’d botched Amelia’s hanging, he’d have kept his mouth shut.”

  “Any other ideas?” Hugh asks.

  “Whatever happened, it didn’t take long. Harry bragged about how fast he could finish a hanging. His best time was forty-two seconds from when the prisoner walked into the execution shed to when he was swinging from the rope. While Harry was teasing me about his big story, he said, “ ‘Two minutes and fifty seconds. You’d be amazed at how much can happen in two minutes and fifty seconds.”

  Two minutes and fifty seconds had seen the execution of a woman who’d murdered hundreds of babies. What else had it seen?

  Charlie Sullivan voices my next speculation: “Could be, Harry’s murder and the incident during Amelia’s hanging are connected.”

  “An intriguing possibility,” Hugh says.

  “Now that Harry is gone, I’m looking for other sources,” Sullivan says.


  I perceive a reason for the fisticuffs at The Ropemaker’s Daughter. “Ernie Leach is a source?”

  “Maybe. The little creep wouldn’t even tell me whether he assisted with Amelia’s hanging. But I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

  “How?” Hugh asks. We lean toward Sullivan, eager for tips to aid our own investigation.

  Sullivan leans back. “Hey, wait. I know you.” He points at Hugh. “Lord Hugh Staunton. You were caught in that vice raid about a year ago.”

  The vice squadron raided a party attended by homosexual men and caught Hugh in compromising circumstances. My heart sinks. This has happened before—someone recognizing Hugh and recalling the scandal. Hugh was once a popular, highly visible man-about-town in London’s most fashionable set. Now he flushes and cringes as he waits for the insults that inevitably follow.

  Instead, Sullivan points at me. “And you’re Sarah Bain. Sir Gerald Mariner hired the two of you to find his kidnapped baby. And now you both work for him at the Daily World. You’re trying to steal my story!”

  “No,” I protest.

  “That wouldn’t be sporting,” Hugh says.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Sullivan’s puffy face reddens with anger. “I heard about your contest—it’s all over Fleet Street.”

  He stands up, grabs the table, and overturns it. Glasses go flying and shatter on the floor. I jump out of the way, but the table hits Hugh, his chair topples, and he falls on his rear end. Sullivan stalks out the door, calling over his shoulder, “Find your own damn leads.”