The Hangman's Secret

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “He hasn’t been seen here in more than twenty years,” Miss Hartwell says, crushing my hopes. “Good riddance.”

  Miss Johnson fixes her shrewd gaze on me. “Why are you interested in Lucas Zehnpfennig?”

  I suddenly remember that she was always quick to sniff out people’s secrets—she caught servants at the vicarage stealing food—and now she suspects that I’m not who I said I am. Loath to let her and Miss Hartwell know my true motive, I lean toward them, cup my hand around my mouth, and lie, “This is about the Ripper murders.” Their faces express the fearful thrill that any mention of the Ripper provokes. “I’m investigating an anonymous tip that my newspaper received. It said to look at Lucas Zehnpfennig.”

  “Could he be the Ripper?” Awe hushes Miss Hartwell’s voice. Miss Johnson looks disconcerted because this man she knew might be the notorious killer, and she never suspected.

  “At the moment, Mr. Zehnpfennig is just a person of interest,” I say.

  “The other papers haven’t mentioned him,” Miss Johnson says.

  “Mine seems to be the only one that received the tip.” It occurs to me that if Lucas learns he’s been implicated in the Ripper murders, he’ll make himself scarce. “I would appreciate your keeping our talk confidential. If Mr. Zehnpfennig is the Ripper and I’m the reporter who breaks the story, it will do great things for my career.”

  “Yes, of course.” Miss Hartwell looks glad to be let in on the secret.

  “I don’t think it could be him,” Miss Johnson says.

  “Why not?” I ask. “You said he was a troublemaker.”

  “Not that kind of troublemaker. He never killed anybody.”

  “But Millicent, don’t you remember, we thought he did?” Miss Hartwell says. “When that girl Ellen Casey was murdered, Lucas was the first person we thought of.”

  I gulp ale to hide my astonishment.

  “The first person you thought of,” Miss Johnson retorts. “I never thought he did it.”

  “But you gave me the idea.”

  “You’re so forgetful, Agnes.” Miss Johnson says to me, “The police didn’t think Lucas killed that girl. He was never arrested.” Her grimace says she did think Lucas was guilty and would rather forget her mistaken judgment. She frowns at my notebook.

  I scribble, Lucas killed Ellen Casey? I press so hard with the pencil that the tip of the lead breaks. My heart gallops under my fancy cape. I came to Clerkenwell to discover what role Lucas played in my father’s disappearances, and here is a connection between him and the crime for which my father was blamed.

  Miss Hartwell cringes from her friend’s rebuke. “But the police took him to the station for questioning.”

  This is the first I’ve heard that my father wasn’t their only suspect.

  “They let him go, didn’t they?” Miss Johnson says with an air of triumph. “They decided it was that photographer—Benjamin Bain.”

  I flinch at the sound of my father’s name. My elbow knocks my glass, and I grab it before it can spill. I take a deep drink of the sour ale, to calm my nerves.

  “Oh, but it couldn’t have been Mr. Bain,” Miss Hartwell murmurs. “He was such a nice, gentle man.”

  I remember that a boy at school wrote “Witch” on the chalkboard in her classroom and I laughed; now I wish I could tell her I’m sorry. Her testament to Benjamin Bain’s good character means so much to me.

  “Agnes, he ran away, don’t you remember?” Miss Johnson says, exasperated. “He wouldn’t have unless he was guilty.” Her glance at me is sharp, speculative.

  I fear she’s on the verge of recognizing me. “Have you any idea where I might find Mr. Zehnpfennig?”

  Both women shake their heads. “He left Clerkenwell at around the same time Mr. Bain did,” Miss Hartwell says. “I always thought it an odd coincidence.”

  Here is a hint that someone besides my father went on the run after Ellen Casey’s murder. Then Miss Hartwell says, “I also thought it odd that Mr. Bain and Lucas were friends—a nice man like Mr. Bain and a troublemaker like Lucas.”

  If they were friends, why didn’t my father want Lucas in our house? Comprehension strikes as I remember Lucas petting my hair while I sat on his lap. My father thought Lucas was going to molest me! He must have known or suspected that Lucas had an attraction to young girls. Did he also know that Lucas murdered Ellen Casey? I think he must have. But why didn’t he tell the police? Why did he run away instead?

  “Well, they came from the same village,” Mrs. Johnson says with another sharp glance at me. “Maybe they both went back there.”

  Ambushed by this second surprise, I can’t even pretend to take notes. I always thought my father was born and raised in London. “What village?” I say, breathless.

  “I asked Mr. Bain once, and he just smiled and brushed me off,” Miss Hartwell says.

  “I always thought that was suspicious,” Miss Johnson says darkly, scrutinizing me. “I managed to get it out of him that he was from Ely.”

  I can tell that she’s about to ask me where I’m from and who my family is. I rise, thank the women for their time, and make a hasty exit.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day in Clerkenwell, questioning more people about Lucas Zehnpfennig. I considered traveling to Ely, but the railway map shows that it’s some seventy miles from London—a good half day’s journey each way. By eight o’clock in the evening, however, I was sorry I didn’t go, for my inquiries in Clerkenwell were fruitless. Disappointed and weary, I gambled that it was safe to go back to Whitechapel.

  There, a few cabs and a lone omnibus roll down the foggy high street. The shops are closed, their ground-floor windows dark except for those of the Angel and the White Hart public houses—and my studio. Apprehension puts me on guard, for my companions are usually upstairs at this hour. From inside the studio, a man’s angry voice blares so loudly that I can hear it even though the door is closed. I see, through the moisture-clouded window, Inspector Reid gesticulating furiously at Hugh and Mick.

  Staying away all day wasn’t long enough to hide from the police.

  Hugh sees me and covertly waves his hand, shooing me away. Reid notices, turns, and when he spots me, an ugly, wolfish grin spreads over his face. He flings open the door. “If it isn’t the elusive Miss Bain.”

  My heart is beating hard, pumping so much energy through me that I’m sure I could outrun Reid, but I can’t leave Hugh and Mick to take the brunt of his anger. When Reid bows with mock politeness and motions for me to enter the studio, I comply with as much dignity as I can summon. He shuts the door. The odor of his pine-scented shaving soap taints the air. My camera, flash lamp, and furniture seem to cower from his hostility. Two police constables lean against the fireplace. Reid knows better than to confront my friends and me alone.

  “I’ve had half the police force looking for you,” Reid says. “Where’ve you been all day?”

  Holding his gaze, I don’t answer. Hugh and Mick keep quiet. We mustn’t let slip any information that might enable Reid to lay his clutches on my father.

  “PC Barrett wasn’t looking too happy today,” Reid says. “What’s the matter—had a lover’s tiff? Or maybe he’s just upset because you’ve been wreaking havoc behind his back.”

  My heart contracts. The shaky terms on which Barrett and I parted are getting shakier.

  “But never mind,” Reid says. “What I really want to know is, where did you get that tip about Amelia Carlisle?”

  “From an anonymous source,” I say.

  “Right, that’s what the story in the paper said. Who is it?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Reid grimaces in disgust. “I think there isn’t any anonymous source. I think you made the whole thing up.”

  Hugh and Mick snort in indignation. I say, “I did not.”

  “Then tell me who the source is.”

  Either I give up Mrs. Fry or I’m a liar. Reid smirks at my uncomfortable silence and says, “Tha
t’s what I thought—Amelia Carlisle didn’t escape, and the story in the Daily World is just another of Sir Gerald’s publicity stunts.”

  Mick leaps to my defense. “Miss Sarah didn’t make it up.”

  “And you can’t know for sure about Amelia,” Hugh says. “You weren’t at her hanging. Besides, I passed by Whitechapel Police Station today, and there were people lined up outside to report sightings of her.”

  The newspaper story must have inspired people to think they’d seen Amelia. Even if many are mistaken, perhaps some actually have seen her. I remember that thousands of sightings of Robin Mariner were reported after he was kidnapped. The power of the press is great indeed.

  “You oughta be lookin’ for Amelia instead of botherin’ Miss Sarah,” Mick says.

  “Amelia could be walking around town, free as a bird.” Hugh adds slyly, “Just like Jack the Ripper.”

  The three of us know Jack the Ripper is gone, but Hugh couldn’t resist a jab at Reid’s sorest spot. Reid clenches his fists, and his face is so livid with anger that I think he’s going to strike Hugh. We back away from him, but the constables move in on us from behind, enraged by Hugh’s allusion to the police’s failure to solve their most notorious murder case.

  Reid’s expression turns ominously jovial. “We’re about to settle the Amelia Carlisle business. She’s going to be exhumed tomorrow. To prove that she’s in her grave.”

  Surprise fills me. The power of the press is even greater than I thought.

  “That’s quite an extreme step,” Hugh says. “And all because of an article about an anonymous tip.”

  “No, not all because of an article about an anonymous tip,” Reid says, mimicking Hugh’s upper-class accent. “The Home Office has been besieged with telegrams and visits from city officials, members of Parliament, the prime minister, and the rich and famous. Not to mention an envoy from Her Majesty the Queen. All of whom are outraged by the idea that there was a conspiracy to help the Baby Butcher escape justice.”

  The story has upheaved society at its highest levels.

  “Well, digging Amelia up is the way to find out if she’s really dead,” Hugh says.

  “Which brings me to the reason I’m here.” Reid reaches in his coat pocket, removes a folded sheet of paper, and gives it to me by smacking it against my chest.

  I gasp at the rude personal contact. Mick says, “Hey!” and lunges at Reid.

  The constables grab him. Reid says, “Down, boy, unless you want to spend the night in Newgate.”

  Mick shakes the constables off, scowls, and jams his hands in his pockets.

  Hugh takes the paper from me and reads, “ ‘To Sarah Bain, Lord Hugh Staunton, and Mick O’Reilly: You are hereby summoned to attend the exhumation of Amelia Carlisle at Newgate Prison on Saturday the eleventh of January’—that’s tomorrow—‘at eleven o’clock AM.’ ”

  “Crikey!” Mick sounds awed and tickled.

  I quail at the thought of what could happen at the exhumation. “Why do we have to be there?”

  “Because you deserve to face the consequences of your mischief.” Reid grins.

  “Wait, there’s more,” Hugh says, frowning at the summons. “ ‘Should you fail to attend, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Signed, James Monro, Chief Commissioner of Police.’ ”

  “I dare you not to show up tomorrow,” Reid says.

  CHAPTER 17

  “This is gonna to be so terrific!” Mick bounces with gleeful anticipation.

  It’s ten thirty in the morning, and he, Hugh, and I are crowded in a cab with my camera equipment, riding to Newgate. After Inspector Reid delivered the summons last night, Sir Gerald sent a message that instructed me to photograph the exhumation.

  “I can’t go through with it.” Hugh’s face is pale, moist, and sickly.

  “Don’t you wanna see if Amelia’s there?” Mick says.

  “I’m afraid that if she is, I’ll disgrace myself.”

  I don’t know which I’m more afraid of—that Mrs. Fry was telling the truth or lying. I suppose I should prefer to see a corpse and look a fool than learn that justice for Amelia Carlisle’s victims was subverted.

  At Newgate, police outside the main entrance are holding back a crowd of men, women, and children, reporters and photographers. Newsboys hawk copies of the Daily World, whose headline announces the exhumation. As we alight from the cab, laden with my equipment, a cry rises from the crowd. “It’s Sarah Bain!”

  I cringe from the mob that presses in around us. Reporters shout, “Miss Bain, who’s the anonymous source? Do you think Amelia will be found in her grave?”

  Cameras thrust at my face; exploding flash powder blinds me. I silently curse Malcolm Cross for making me a celebrity.

  “Let us through!” Constables pushing the reporters and photographers aside usher my friends and me to the entrance. Two black horses draw a large black carriage up to the prison. The carriage bears a gold insignia—a ship in full sail. Sir Gerald steps from the carriage, his tall, stout person clad in a black overcoat and a silk top hat. The crowd keeps a respectful distance; his wealth and power form an invisible barrier around him that even the light from the flashes doesn’t seem to penetrate. He surveys the scene as if he owns everything and everyone in it. The reporters address him with deference.

  “Sir Gerald, are you glad that your newspaper has forced the government to exhume Amelia Carlisle?” “Sir Gerald, can you please give us a statement for our readers?”

  On his heels follows Malcolm Cross, who behaves like a prince making a royal visit, waving to people he knows, his smile broad with self-importance. Sir Gerald pauses near the entrance and says, “All I care about is that Amelia Carlisle got her just deserts. If we find out today that she didn’t, I’ll move heaven and earth to make sure she does.” His words have the gravity of a blood oath. Perhaps he thinks justice for Amelia will feed his hunger for vengeance.

  Cheers from the crowd follow him and Malcolm Cross into the prison. Hugh, Mick, and I trail them. I try to appear calm while my insides quake. In the hall, we meet Governor Piercy, Sheriff Hargreaves, Dr. Davies, and the Reverend Starling. Their expressions are somber, composed; I can’t tell if they’re afraid of what the exhumation will reveal. Only the chaplain’s jerking Adam’s apple betrays any anxiety. They shake hands with Sir Gerald but disregard my friends and me. Dorothea Fry is absent. My uneasiness burgeons as I wonder why.

  “Let’s get started,” Governor Piercy says.

  He and Sheriff Hargreaves lead the way. We walk through the prison, as silent as a funeral procession, to a long, wide corridor lit by a ceiling made of glass windowpanes set in a metal grid. This must be Dead Man’s Walk—the infamous passage between Newgate and the Old Bailey, used by condemned criminals. Beneath the worn, grimy rectangular paving stones that cover the floor is the graveyard where hundreds of criminals executed at Newgate lie buried. But for the grace of fortune, my friends and I might have walked this path to our own deaths. Perhaps someday our earthly remains will rest here.

  The gray masonry walls seem to close in on me. The cold, dank atmosphere sends a shiver rippling through the tension in my muscles. When I see Barrett and Inspector Reid waiting at the end of the passage beside two wardens armed with toolboxes, crowbars, and shovels, my anxiety turns to panic. Reid catches my eye and smiles faintly, as if he knows that I’d hoped he wouldn’t be here. Barrett gives me a brief glance, his eyes dark with accusation and disappointment.

  Our strife has gathered enough force to open a trapdoor, like the one in the execution shed, under my feet. He’ll never forgive this. I can stop waiting for it to be over. Unable to bear looking at him, I study the crude letters carved into the walls—the names of the criminals on whose graves I’m standing.

  Governor Piercy beckons to the wardens. They kneel on the floor and open their toolboxes. As Hugh and Mick help me set the camera on the tripod, I feel awkward, conspicuous. I put my head under the black drape that hangs from the back of th
e camera. When I peer in the viewfinder and crank the bellows, I see the two wardens wielding chisels and mallets against the mortar that cements a section of paving stones in place. The loud pounding, chipping noises echo in the corridor. Their rhythm quickens my heartbeat, heightens the suspense that hushes everyone. Hugh and Mick and the others stand motionless behind me. I hold up the flash lamp, take a photograph, and the powder explodes, lighting up the corridor. I change the negative plate in the camera and refill the lamp.

  The wardens insert their crowbars in the cracks and pry up paving stones. They lean them against the wall and expose a pit that’s some six feet long and three wide. An odor of decay infiltrates the darkness under my drape. Footsteps shuffle as everyone behind me backs away from the plain wooden coffin nested in the pit. I photograph the coffin. Then the wardens pry up the nails that seal it and raise the lid.

  A vicious stench invades my nostrils like the tentacles of a monster. I taste rotten meat and blood, caustic lime. Nausea churns my stomach and dizzies me. The image in the viewfinder blurs. I hear exclamations of disgust.

  “Oh, God,” Hugh says in a hoarse, muffled voice.

  Blinking to clear my vision, breathing shallowly through my mouth, I force myself to watch through the viewfinder. The wardens drop the coffin lid, turn, double over, and retch. The coffin contains a soupy brown muck and a figure that’s barely recognizable as human. Scraps of black fabric clothe bones from which the flesh has dissolved. Strands of dark hair cling to the skull. All that’s left of the face is patches of skin and gray sinews, the features eaten away by the lime, the pale teeth exposed in a ghastly grin. The muck roils as if from tiny vermin spawning.

  “Gorblimey,” Mick whispers.

  Barrett and Reid cover their noses and mouths with their hands, their eyes wide with horrified revulsion. I hear gagging and moaning from the other men and the splatter of vomit. Sour, acrid bile rises in my own throat, and I swallow hard. My position behind the camera, viewing the corpse in a small rectangle of glass, distances me from the horrible reality. Concentrating on my job distracts my mind from my stomach. Moving like a wind-up automaton, I remove and load negative plates, change exposure times, and take photograph after photograph. Exploding flash powder lights up the corpse, and the sulfurous smell of the smoke joins the fetid reek.