The Hangman's Secret

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Hugh pushes himself to his feet and says ruefully, “I can take on murderers, but God save me from the press. At least we have something to report to Sir Gerald tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning there’s no new crime scene, thank heaven. While Hugh sleeps in, Mick, Fitzmorris, and I enjoy a proper breakfast at the dining room table. Fitzmorris, reading the Daily World, says, “Good Lord.” He shows Mick and me the story written by Malcolm Cross, illustrated with my photographs of Harry Warbrick.

  This is the first time that photographs I’ve taken of a murder victim have appeared in the paper. When I’d arrived at other crime scenes, the body had been removed or the police wouldn’t let me near it, and I photographed only the site. These photographs are not only horrifying but obscene. I feel ashamed because they’re disrespectful to the dead man, and they pander to the public’s desire for lurid thrills.

  “The police are asking anyone with information about the murder to come forward,” Fitzmorris says. “Apparently, they’ve no clues yet.”

  “Me either,” Mick says ruefully. “I watched Mrs. Warbrick’s house all afternoon, but her man never came out. Either he left before I got there, or he stayed till after I left to meet Catherine at the theater.”

  Last night Mick came home after I was asleep. This is the first I’ve heard of his unsuccessful investigation. I’m disappointed because we still don’t know who Mrs. Warbrick’s lover is.

  “How is Catherine?” I say.

  Mick scowls at his plate and stops eating, as if he’s lost his appetite. “She’s seein’ somebody.”

  “She’s always seeing somebody. It never lasts long,” Fitzmorris says in an attempt to cheer Mick up.

  Catherine has been in love, and engaged, so many times I’ve lost count. “Who is he?”

  “Don’t know. She wouldn’t say.”

  That’s a bad sign. Catherine usually regales us all with talk of her suitors. I sense that she doesn’t want to jinx her new relationship by publicizing it too soon. It could be serious.

  “There was a big vase of roses in her dressing room,” Mick says, “and she had a new bracelet.”

  This new suitor sounds wealthy, alas.

  Mick pushes his plate away, stands, and says, “I’ll go back to Mrs. Warbrick’s house and watch for her man.”

  This isn’t a good time to revive our old argument, but I’ve let things slide for weeks, and if I let them slide longer, I won’t be doing Mick a favor. “Mick, you have to go to school.”

  Mick stares at me in wounded disbelief; I’ve hit him while he’s down. “But I have to solve the murder.”

  Fitzmorris leaves, not wanting to be caught up in a quarrel. I say, “You can help Hugh and me after school.”

  “I don’t wanna go back there,” Mick says, angry and defiant. “The teachers are mean. The other kids are always pickin’ fights and gettin’ me in trouble.”

  I remember my own days at the charity boarding school. Quiet and shy, I meekly endured the discipline and bullying. But the Whitechapel public school is rougher, and scrappy Mick doesn’t take abuse lying down.

  “It’s just for two more years,” I say. Many people leave school when they’re younger than Mick. If he stays until he’s sixteen, the extra education will give him an advantage.

  Mick bangs his hand on the table; dishes clatter. “I ain’t got two years to lose!”

  I know he hates the idea of languishing in class while Catherine waltzes away with her mystery suitor. I feel sorry for him.

  Desperation shines in Mick’s blue eyes. “If I solve the murder, maybe Sir Gerald will keep me on. And maybe give me a raise.”

  He’s counting on a position with Sir Gerald to give him an advantage with Catherine, who knows how rich and powerful Sir Gerald is and likes having a connection to him via Mick. “If you want a permanent job and a raise from Sir Gerald, you need more education.” I know Mick is good at arithmetic and reads well, but he’s terrible at grammar and spelling. “He’s not going to promote you ahead of better-qualified men.”

  “I always done good work for him. He likes me. And he never got no proper education either.”

  “I know.” I think Sir Gerald sees his young self in Mick—the poor, low-class boy making his way in the world by his own wits. “But his top men are educated, and the higher you stand with him, the better chance you’ll have with Catherine.”

  Mick frowns as his contrariness battles with common sense. “Oh, all right. I’ll go to school.”

  * * *

  “The Harry Warbrick murder could be an even bigger story than I thought,” Sir Gerald says. “A connection with Amelia Carlisle is the icing on the bloody cake.”

  Hugh and I are seated at the table in the conference room at the Daily World with Sir Gerald, Malcolm Cross, and Mr. Palmer, and we’ve just described what we learned last night.

  “We issued two thousand more copies than usual this morning,” Mr. Palmer says. “Word from the streets says they’ll probably sell out. Should we double the print run for tomorrow?”

  Cross snorts. “Not on account of a tip from Charlie Sullivan.”

  “Why not?” Sir Gerald asks.

  “I know Charlie—he’s a washed-up blowhard. Odds are, he fabricated the story about Amelia Carlisle’s hanging to make himself seem important.”

  I think Cross is upset because we were the ones who got the tip. “We missed you at the wake last night.”

  “I was there when you arrived,” Cross retorts. “I saw you leave early to chase after Charlie.”

  “What have you been up to, Mal?” Sir Gerald’s tone says he doesn’t suffer fools who carp instead of contributing.

  Cross’s perpetual smile widens. “I’m working on a different theory about the murder.”

  “Care to share it with us?” Hugh says, irked by Cross’s superior attitude.

  Revulsion toward Hugh twists Cross’s mouth. “Not until I’ve gathered evidence to support it. I know better than to jump on a bandwagon before I’m sure it’s heading in the right direction.”

  I’m not liking Cross any better than yesterday, and I’m afraid we missed something important by leaving the wake early. I glance at Hugh, who shakes his head—he thinks Cross is bluffing. Cross and Sir Gerald face each other like two men about to duel. Something unspoken passes between them—an acknowledgment of kinship?

  “All right,” Sir Gerald says. “Run with your theory.” I remember that he likes playing his cards close to his chest, and he must respect Cross for doing the same. My heart sinks and Hugh frowns as Cross rises in Sir Gerald’s estimation. “Just don’t come back empty-handed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cross grins, elated.

  Sir Gerald stands and looks out the window. I picture him on his ship at sea, watching the horizon for land. “Sometimes, all the justice in the world isn’t enough. Sometimes the hunger never goes away.”

  We all sit silent and tense, aware that he’s not making a general observation, but alluding to Robin’s kidnapping, the forbidden subject. The hunger he refers to must be his need to avenge Robin, and it must still rage within him even though the person responsible for Robin’s fate is dead.

  “Sometimes you have to take whatever you can get.” His voice rings like hot iron struck on an anvil. “By God, we’re going to solve this murder.”

  The Warbrick case is personal for him, not just a matter of winning a contest and selling newspapers. There’s nobody else to punish on behalf of Robin, so Sir Gerald is gunning for the killer who hanged Harry Warbrick.

  Sir Gerald flashes a glance at Hugh and me. “Competition is a good motivator.” He hasn’t missed the rivalry between us and Cross. “I don’t care how the lot of you solve the case as long as you do.”

  I feel a sudden, unwelcome sense of camaraderie with Cross. Woe betide all of us if we fail Sir Gerald.

  “In the meantime, we need to find out what happened during Amelia Carlisle’s hanging,” Sir Gerald says. “I’ll call
in some favors.”

  * * *

  We never learned what favors Sir Gerald called in, but three hours later, after a flurry of communiques sent by telegraph and messenger, Hugh and I find ourselves lugging my photography equipment up to Newgate Prison. Located less than a mile east of Fleet Street, the prison is a massive vault constructed of granite blocks, akin to a medieval fortress. It houses both male and female prisoners, in separate wards, and Amelia Carlisle spent her last days there. All the executions performed in London take place at Newgate.

  An icy wind whips the clouds and smoke around the great dome of nearby St. Paul’s Cathedral. Horses and carriages skitter on frozen slush. I trod carefully so as not to slip as we head, according to Sir Gerald’s instructions, to the central section of the prison, a four-story block with a row of arched, barred windows on each level. At an entrance on one side of the central section, police constables unload shackled criminals from enclosed wagons. At the other, a queue of people waits to visit prisoners.

  “Mick will be sorry he missed this jaunt,” Hugh says.

  “I wouldn’t be.” I recall my own brief, terrifying incarceration in 1888. At that time, I had done nothing that I thought merited incarceration, but things have changed since then. The past I have in common with Hugh and Mick is a shadow that encroaches on our daily existence. If the police knew about the night in the slaughterhouse, we would be thrown in Newgate and not come out alive. I can tell from his queasy expression that Hugh is thinking the same thing.

  “On second thought, I wouldn’t be sorry to miss it myself,” he says.

  Fear of prison isn’t the only reason for my discomposure. Today’s venture is yet another secret from Barrett. I almost hope we won’t learn anything here and add more secrets to my guilty trove. Someday I may have to choose between Barrett and my job, and the choice isn’t as simple as love versus money, or fear of losing Barrett versus fear of Sir Gerald.

  Two brutish wardens dressed in gray uniforms and caps stand at the ironclad door of the central section. When we introduce ourselves, one says, “Governor Piercy is expecting you.” They escort us inside, to a hall with a cracked tile floor, where empty chairs stand against the stained plaster wall and a police constable occupies a desk at the end. The cold air smells damp and stale like a cellar. The wardens tell us to put my equipment on the desk, then they search us for weapons or other contraband. They don’t offer to fetch a female warden for me. Their hands squeezing and patting us seem deliberately rough and intrusive. As the warden touches my breasts, I flinch.

  “Is this really necessary?” Hugh says. “We’re here on business for the Daily World. We’re not criminals.”

  “Everybody gets searched,” the warden probing Hugh says. “It’s the law.” He and his partner open my pocketbook, satchel, camera case, and trunk. They manhandle the contents.

  “Please be careful,” I say.

  They grin. This is our first inkling that everybody who works at Newgate knows the purpose of our visit and we’re not welcome. They lead us up a dingy, gaslit flight of stairs. The second floor resembles a not very prosperous business establishment. The wardens usher us into an office, then stand outside the door. A man rises from behind a massive desk. Tall and spare, with a slight hump on his back, a narrow face, and beaked nose, he has the look of a vulture. His thick gray hair crests from a widow’s peak above his steel-gray eyes.

  “Governor Piercy. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Hugh says.

  “Lord Hugh. Miss Bain.” His voice is unexpectedly suave. His courtesy doesn’t mask his distaste; it’s obvious he’s seeing us only because Sir Gerald twisted his superiors’ arms.

  He glances at the equipment we’re carrying. “No photography.”

  “Why not?” I say.

  Piercy addresses his reply to Hugh, as if he thinks me unworthy of his notice because I’m female, plain, low on the social ladder, or all of those reasons. “Photography inside Newgate is a violation of security rules.”

  “Governor, there must be a mistake,” Hugh says with his usual, good-natured confidence. “Sir Gerald Mariner sent us on an investigation for the Daily World, and the paper needs pictures to illustrate the story.”

  “Sir Gerald isn’t in charge here.”

  I comprehend that Piercy means to obstruct us in every way possible. He says, “Follow the rules, or I’ll have you escorted out right now.”

  Heaven knows what Sir Gerald would do if we got ourselves thrown out of Newgate before we’ve discovered anything to back up our theory that there’s a connection between Harry Warbrick’s murder and Amelia Carlisle’s execution. I sense that Governor Piercy doesn’t want her execution investigated. He must be hiding something related to it, something serious enough that he would rather risk Sir Gerald’s wrath than have it exposed. We need to find out what it is.

  “Very well.” Hugh smiles, acting the graceful loser. “No photography.”

  Piercy motions us to the two chairs in front of his desk and takes his own seat behind it. His seat is constructed of thick dark wood, has a high back and curved arms, and resembles a medieval throne. “How can I be of assistance?”

  I let Hugh do the talking because he’s better at coaxing information out of people than I am. He says, “We’d be obliged if you would tell us what happened at Amelia Carlisle’s execution.”

  “That’s not possible. The Official Secrets Act forbids me.” Piercy seems glad to disappoint us, perhaps gladder to have an ironclad excuse.

  On the wall behind Piercy are framed certificates and photographs. I study the photographs on the wall, a habit born of professional interest. In one, a group of uniformed police constables stands outside a building. I recognize a younger Governor Piercy at the center. Another is a portrait of him in an inspector’s uniform decorated with medals. So he’s a former policeman who rose through the ranks to rule over this dungeon. The certificates look to be commendations for exemplary service, written in ornate calligraphy and embossed with metallic seals. I become aware of an unpleasant smell in the room. Through the gas fumes from the lamps and smoke from the coal stove drifts an odor of rot and decay.

  “Why are hangings covered by the Act?” Hugh says. “I thought it was just for state secrets related to military maneuvers and foreign espionage.”

  The odor is coming from Governor Piercy. Now I notice that his gums are red and swollen, diseased. It looks as though his sharp, yellowish teeth have been chewing raw flesh. It’s his breath I’m smelling.

  “To protect the citizens,” he says. “When hangings were public, the spectacles often provoked violent uproars. Releasing information could have a similar, dangerous result.”

  “Meaning the Act allows society to pretend that hangings are businesslike affairs,” Hugh says, “and the condemned go placidly to their deaths—no muss, no fuss.”

  “Meaning this is a civilized age, and the government doesn’t cater to those who crave morbid thrills.” Governor Piercy’s contemptuous expression puts us, and the Daily World’s readers, among that number.

  Civilized society accepts death as the punishment for major crimes as long as it’s meted out quietly and discreetly. Still, the death penalty sits badly with me, for a personal reason. How many people found guilty of crimes they didn’t commit have married the ropemaker’s daughter? Will my father someday join their number?

  “Of course the government wouldn’t want the public to know that hangings are sometimes botched,” Hugh says, “like Harry Warbrick’s.”

  Piercy remains composed, but I sense a change in the atmosphere, as if there’s suddenly less air in the room. The stench from his diseased mouth grows stronger. As I turn away from it, another photograph catches my eye. It shows Piercy shaking hands with a man dressed in ceremonial robes. The other man looks to be about forty years old, and he’s the same height as Piercy but somehow appears taller. Fair hair like a lion’s mane crowns his handsome face. He exudes a vitality that seems to project him out of the
photograph, into three dimensions.

  “Harry Warbrick didn’t let the Official Secrets Act keep him quiet,” Hugh says.

  “Harry Warbrick was reprimanded for leaking information about hangings. He didn’t go to prison because he denied it was him and so did the reporters he leaked to, but I could tell he was lying.” Revulsion twists Piercy’s thin lips: he didn’t like Warbrick. I wonder if it’s only because Warbrick broke the law or because he had reason to fear what Warbrick might reveal.

  “The thrill seekers would have a field day if they found out that Amelia Carlisle’s head came off when she was hanged, whether it was true or not,” Hugh suggests.

  Governor Piercy smiles, further exposing his ugly red gums. “I can tell you that Amelia Carlisle’s hanging was conducted according to procedure. As are all the hangings at Newgate.”

  “What is the procedure?” I ask, hoping to throw Piercy off guard.

  Piercy stubbornly addresses Hugh. “After the prisoner is convicted, he’s held in a condemned cell for about three weeks, under watch twenty-four hours a day. Then he’s brought to the execution shed. The assistant hangman fastens straps around his body. The hangman puts a white cap over his head and a noose around his neck, and opens the trap door under him.” Piercy spreads his hands as if to say, “End of story.”

  I remember Charlie Sullivan quoting Harry Warbrick: ‘Two minutes and fifty seconds.’ I’m becoming more certain that something of consequence happened during Amelia Carlisle’s last two minutes and fifty seconds alive.

  “You’ve seen executions yourself?” Hugh asks.

  “The prison governor always witnesses hangings. It’s part of the job.”

  “So that puts you, Harry Warbrick, and Ernie Leach in the execution shed during Amelia’s hanging,” Hugh says.

  “Yes, Ernie Leach was the assistant hangman.”

  At least we’ve confirmed that Leach was present. “Who else was there?” I say.

  Governor Piercy flicks a glance in my direction, as though brushing off a fly. “The prison matron, surgeon, and chaplain. The sheriff of London—Sir Lionel Hargreaves.”