The Hangman's Secret

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Get back!” Barrett yells at me.

  As the gunshot reverberates, we duck behind a coal bin. Peeking out, I see Hargreaves reach for the trap door to seal the shaft down which my friends have vanished. Barrett charges at Hargreaves, knocks him sideways. They fall to the floor and wrestle for control of the gun. I run to look down the shaft. It’s more than ten feet deep. At the bottom is black, glimmering water. I call Hugh and Mick. There’s no answer. I kneel on the floor and then lower myself into the shaft. Awkward in my long skirts, I grasp the rough, rusty ladder and climb down. The smell of sewage and dead things is a thick, gaseous miasma that makes me gag. I’m in a brick-walled tunnel that must be thirty feet across, with curved walls and an arched ceiling. The tunnel is half full of water, the foot of the ladder submerged. I can’t tell how deep the water is, but it’s flowing fast—too fast.

  “Hugh! Mick!” I don’t see them. A loud bang above terrifies me. Has Barrett been shot?

  Barrett yells, “Sarah! Watch out!”

  I look up and see Hargreaves crouched at the top of the shaft, aiming the gun at me. I scream as Barrett grabs Hargreaves. Then they’re tumbling down the shaft toward me. I duck, but their weight hits my back with a jarring thud, breaks my grip on the ladder, and I plunge into the water. It closes over my head, so cold that I’m instantly chilled to the bone, so deep that my feet don’t touch bottom. Its fetid sliminess invades my nose and mouth. My skirts billow up around me, tangling my arms as I frantically swim upward. I break the surface, gasping air, spitting water that tastes like chemicals, excrement, and rotten meat and burns my eyes. Near me, Barrett and Hargreaves fight amid wild splashes and gurgles. It’s so dark that I can’t see anything except a faint glow receding into the distance as the current carries us away from the shaft. I want to swim back to the shaft like a drowning animal desperate to survive, but I have to help Barrett; I have to find Hugh and Mick. Shivers wrack my body as I tread water. My feet kick lumpy objects—garbage or corpses? Something with a long tail slithers past me—a rat or snake?

  The tunnel brightens. High overhead a crisscrossed circle of light appears. It must be a street lamp shining through a storm sewer grate. I see that the water level has risen; the tunnel is two thirds full. Some ten feet from me, the black surface of the water shatters and a hulking, dripping figure rises. It’s a monster with seaweed for skin, crusted with barnacles. I scream in alarm. The light gleams on its wet, coppery hair, and I recognize Sheriff Hargreaves. Barrett surfaces by him, panting. Hargreaves raises his hands, claps them down on Barrett’s head and pushes. The water roils as Hargreaves holds Barrett under it. I swim across the current toward Hargreaves. Breathless and exhausted, I grab him. My hands slide on his wet, slimy face. He kicks backward and pain bursts in my knee. I gouge his eyes with my fingernails. He bellows and thrashes, then plunges deep into the water.

  I gulp air before I’m pulled down. In a maelstrom of kicking and hitting, Hargreaves seizes hold of my coat. He’s trying to keep me submerged until I drown. My chest is bursting with the urge to inhale, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I can’t see him through the dark, cloudy water. I strike out blindly, and my fist connects with flesh as we slam against a wall. His grip on me releases. I fight my way upward. My head clears the surface; blessed air inflates my lungs. I don’t see Hargreaves; he’s still underwater, stunned or dead.

  I don’t see Barrett either.

  Panic-stricken, I shout his name as I swim in frantic zigzags, searching for him. The light grows faint as the current carries me away from the storm grate. I bump against a large, heavy shape that floats just beneath the surface. I clutch it and feel a rough wool coat, then the features of a face that I don’t need to see to recognize. I pull Barrett up, hold his head above the water. I wail with terror because I think he’s drowned.

  He coughs and sputters. Moaning in relief, I hold him tight, sure that if I let go, he’ll die. Barrett, gasping, says, “Where are Mick and Hugh?”

  “I don’t know. We have to find them!”

  We swim side by side with the current. The water is still rising, the tunnel three-quarters full, the ceiling a few feet above us. The pain in my head throbs. My heavy, sodden skirts weigh me down. I’m beyond exhaustion; I can’t go on for much longer. Barrett’s breathing is ragged, and I fear he was injured while fighting Hargreaves. The tunnel goes completely black. We’re going to drown without ever seeing the light again.

  “Mick!” I call. “Hugh!”

  A faint cry answers. Barrett and I swim faster. In the distance, the water ripples with light from another sewer grate. I see Hugh by the wall, one arm hooked around a ladder that extends up to the grate, standing on a submerged rung. His other arm is around Mick, holding Mick’s head above the water.

  I cry with relief. Barrett says, “Thank God.”

  Hugh sobs. “I can’t revive Mick. I don’t think he’s breathing.”

  Mick’s eyes are closed, his mouth slack. Terror thumps my heart. “Oh no. No!”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Barrett says.

  We swim to the ladder and catch onto it. Barrett gasps as he climbs a few rungs. Hugh and I lift Mick. His drenched body is inert, heavy. The effort strains my muscles and tears a groan from Hugh. Barrett hangs onto the ladder with one hand, circles his arm under Mick’s, and pulls. Step by laborious step we scale the ladder. Barrett presses his face against the storm grate and calls, “Help! Is anybody there? Help!”

  The rising water floats Hugh, Mick, and me upward. Only inches remain between our heads and the ceiling. The current, all the more powerful, threatens to tear my hand off the ladder. We haven’t time or strength to swim back to the shaft in Old Bailey. Hugh and I add our pleas to Barrett’s.

  “Who’s that?” a man’s gruff voice calls.

  “We’re trapped down here,” Barrett yells. “Get us out!”

  A clamor of shouts, running footsteps, and metal clanking on metal begins above us. Something big and heavy thuds against me. It’s Sheriff Hargreaves, his blue eyes fierce with determination to survive. He seizes my coat. The sewer grate lifts. Hands pull Barrett to safety, then Hugh and Mick, then Hargreaves and me. We collapse on cold, wet cobblestones. People flock around us. Hugh and I spread Mick on the ground and push on his chest. Mick lies still, silent. My heart clenches; tears of grief flood my eyes. Then his chest swells with a big, wheezing breath, and he coughs so hard that his whole body jerks. His eyes pop open, and water spews from his mouth.

  “Thank God,” Hugh moans.

  As I sob with relief, I see Sheriff Hargreaves crawling away. Barrett lurches toward him, grabs his legs, and says, “You’re under arrest!”

  CHAPTER 30

  The women’s ward of London Hospital is noisy with nurses distributing lunch trays and patients chattering while they eat. There’s no tray for me; the curtains around my bed are closed. I’ve just finished dressing, and after three weeks here, I’m ready to go home, eager to see Barrett, Mick, and Hugh. After our rescue, an ambulance wagon brought us to the hospital, where we fell ill with terrible nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and fever contracted from the polluted River Fleet. For many days, I badly wanted to die. Thank heaven and Sir Gerald that we survived.

  The din in the ward quiets; voices lower to murmurs. When I pull back the curtains, there stands Sir Gerald himself, portly and dignified in his fur-collared overcoat. Nurses and patients stare with the awe that his presence commands. “Miss Bain. How are you?” he says.

  “Much better.” I’m surprised to see him; this is the first time he’s visited me. I’m glad of the opportunity to say, “Thank you for all you’ve done for us.” He’s the reason that my friends and I are alive: he paid for the best doctors in London to treat us.

  “It was the least I could do. You people risked your lives to set things right. I respect that. And you gave me a big story. Circulation’s up thirty percent.” Sir Gerald smiles. “I should thank you.”

  After we were rescued, he caught wind o
f it and sent a reporter to the hospital for an interview. I’ve been following the sequel to our story in the newspapers. Sheriff Hargreaves has been charged with the murders of the Reverend Starling, Harry Warbrick, Ernie Leach, and the other eight people who died in the gas explosion, and the attempted murders of Hugh, Mick, and me. Governor Piercy was caught at the London docks, trying to flee the country. Hargreaves swore he was innocent, but Piercy gave evidence against him in exchange for a prison sentence instead of the death penalty for his own role as an accomplice in the crimes. Hargreaves is in Newgate, awaiting trial and probable hanging. The whole story of the intersection between his past and Amelia Carlisle’s ran with the photos that I took in Leeds, which the staff of the Daily World developed while I was in the hospital. All the newspapers in town have sung the praises of Sarah Bain, Lord Hugh Staunton, Mick O’Reilly, and Police Constable Thomas Barrett, the heroes who risked death to solve the case. My reputation has gone from mud to gold.

  “I don’t often apologize,” Sir Gerald says, “but I’m sorry for the shabby way I treated you and Mick and Lord Hugh. Will you forgive me?”

  I’d have thought he would think paying our doctor bills was compensation enough. And this is the second time he’s saved my life. “Yes, of course.”

  “I want to rehire the three of you at a twenty percent increase in wages,” he says.

  “That’s very generous of you.” But my thoughts fly to Barrett, whose dismay I can picture. I remember that Sir Gerald has done terrible things, and his favor is unreliable. Should I commit myself and my friends to another stint at photographing crime scenes and the prospect of new, dangerous investigations? The thought excites as well as daunts me.

  Sir Gerald sees my hesitation. “Here’s a little sweetening for the deal—you won’t have to work with Malcolm Cross. I fired him, and I’ve hired a new reporter. It’s Charlie Sullivan, the fellow who gave you the tip about Amelia’s hanging.”

  I smile, glad that Cross got his comeuppance and Sullivan his belated reward. “I should consult Hugh and Mick.”

  “You can do it now. They’re waiting for us. I’m driving all of you home.”

  We find them with Barrett in the foyer of the hospital. Mick and Hugh embrace me and kiss my cheeks. I’m delighted to see them, though dismayed at how thin and pale they are. I turn to Barrett. He too has lost weight; the bones of his face are sharper under his dark whisker stubble; but his gray eyes are as clear and keen as ever as he smiles at me.

  “It’s good to see you,” he says.

  Suddenly shy, I murmur, “You too.”

  “Tell them about my offer,” Sir Gerald says.

  After I obey, Mick says, “Criminy!”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Hugh says.

  “So, are you ready to start work tomorrow?” Sir Gerald says.

  “Yes, sir,” Hugh and Mick say.

  If they’re back in the game, then so am I. I nod, afraid to look at Barrett.

  A gust of cold air from the street ushers in a woman who stalks toward us. It’s Catherine, resplendent in a fur coat and bonnet, her beautiful face contorted with turbulent emotion. Mick’s eyes light up. “Catherine!” I can see that he thinks his wish has come true; now that Sheriff Hargreaves is out of the picture, she’s turning to him, the hero who saved her from the villain.

  Catherine slaps him hard across the face. Hugh, Barrett, and I gape in astonishment; Sir Gerald frowns; the people at the reception desk stare.

  “Ow!” Mick touches his reddened cheek. “What was that for?”

  “Lionel is in jail for murder, and it’s your fault!” Catherine’s voice shakes with anger.

  “He’s guilty. He deserves to be punished,” Mick says.

  “Well, he’s not the only one being punished. I’ve been fired from the theater!”

  “Why?” Mick says, alarmed and puzzled.

  “They’re afraid of bad publicity. Everyone knows I was Lionel’s mistress. Just imagine: ‘Now playing.’ ” Catherine points up at an imaginary theater marquee. “ ‘The whore who slept with the man who hanged the hangman!’ ”

  “You can get another job, can’t you?” Mick says.

  “I’ve tried. Nobody at the other theaters will put me on stage. At least not the decent theaters. I’m poison!”

  I say, “Oh, Catherine. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too, but we tried to warn you against being involved with a murder suspect. You didn’t listen.” Hugh’s rebuke is gentle but firm. “Don’t take it out on Mick.”

  Catherine turns on us. “All right, so I’ve been stupid.” Her blue eyes spark with anger at herself as well as us. “But if all of you had minded your own business, this wouldn’t have happened!”

  Now Mick’s own temper ignites. “And a murderer would be walking around, free as a bird. Is that what you want?”

  Catherine sniffles, her eyes tear-shiny. “I want things to be the way they were before.”

  I put my arm around her and say, “I know.” I myself long for the simpler time before I learned that my father was wanted for murder.

  “You’ll get through this, Catherine,” Hugh says. “People have a short memory. Pretty soon there’ll be another scandal, and they’ll forget this one. Your stage career will recover. So will your pride.”

  Incredulous, Catherine pushes me away. “Is that all you think this is about—my career and my pride?” Her face crumples. “I’m in love with Lionel. I’ve never been in love with anyone before. And he’s going to die!”

  Sobs burst from her. Her naked devastation gives a hint of how she’ll look when she’s old, her beauty gone. I’d thought her a shallow, selfish, fickle girl who liked Sheriff Hargreaves mainly for his wealth, his status, and the prestige that her association with him lent her. Never had I imagined that her feelings for him were so deep. Mick looks devastated because his plan to win her has gone terribly awry, and reality has dashed his naive hopes.

  Catherine glares through her streaming tears at Mick. “I’ll never forgive you. I never want to see you again!” She stalks out of the hospital.

  Mick blinks away his own tears as he watches her disappear.

  * * *

  “Home at last,” Hugh says with a sigh of contentment as Sir Gerald’s carriage stops outside the studio.

  The fog, crowds, and traffic in Whitechapel High Street have never looked so good. I turn to Sir Gerald, seated beside me, and thank him for the ride. He’s gazing out the window at a man who stands near the studio, a dark-clad figure hazy in the fog. As Hugh, Mick, Barrett, and I climb out of the carriage, the man approaches us.

  “Tristan?” Hugh and Sir Gerald say in unison. Jubilation raises Hugh’s voice; puzzlement inflects Sir Gerald’s. I’m surprised and not altogether happy that Tristan has finally put in an appearance.

  “What are you doing here?” Sir Gerald asks.

  Tristan’s handsome face is somber, tense. “I came to see Hugh.” He hesitates a moment. “We need to talk to you.”

  My heart lurches because I realize Tristan means to tell Sir Gerald about their relationship. Hugh’s expression turns grave.

  “All right.” Sir Gerald beckons Hugh and Tristan, and they join him in the carriage. As it rattles away, I say a silent prayer.

  In the studio, Mick runs upstairs to his bedroom and slams the door, still upset about Catherine. Fitzmorris welcomes me home, then tactfully leaves Barrett and me alone in the parlor. We sit on the sofa, gazing into the fire. There’s so much to say; we don’t know where to start. I take a deep breath and tackle the most immediate knotty issue.

  “I don’t suppose you’re glad that I’m going to work for Sir Gerald again.”

  “I can’t say I am.” Barrett’s tone suits his words. “But I can’t kick up a fuss either. While I was in the hospital, the police commissioner came to see me. He reprimanded me for going absent without leave and conducting an outside investigation. Then he gave me a promotion—for going above and beyond the call of duty to bring She
riff Hargreaves to justice.” Barrett’s teeth flash in a jubilant grin. “You’re looking at the newest detective sergeant.”

  I gasp with delight. “That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you.” He’s achieved his goal, and his parents will be thrilled.

  “It wouldn’t have happened if not for Sir Gerald and his contest.” Barrett’s grin turns rueful. “So if you go back to work for him, I’m not in a position to complain.”

  Relief eases my mind. His higher rank will make him more duty-bound to his superiors, and if I cause trouble, he’ll have more to lose, but that’s a bridge to jump off when we come to it. The matter closer at hand is our future. I summon my courage, clear my throat.

  “About that night in Leeds … It can’t happen again. Not that I don’t want it to, but …” I blush with embarrassment. “I’m afraid that …” While I was in the hospital, I was relieved to find myself not pregnant. “There’s nothing to worry about now, but …”

  Barrett nods; he understands everything I haven’t said. “It won’t happen again.” He sounds disappointed but resolute.

  “You know it will.” I feel the heat of desire, see it in Barrett’s eyes. The line has been crossed; we can’t uncross it. If we were alone in the house, we would be in my bedroom making love right now.

  “Then there’s only one thing to do.” Barrett gets down on his knee, takes my hand, and gazes into my eyes. “Sarah Bain, will you marry me?”

  I thought my happiness had reached its full capacity, but now joy overcomes my fear of committing myself, of risking all for love. My brushes with death have made me want to live life to the fullest, with Barrett. But I have to say, “Your parents won’t approve.”

  “They want me to be happy. They’ll come around,” Barrett says with confidence.

  I remember the current of the River Fleet, sweeping us through the tunnel. I feel a similar sensation inside me—our love and all our past experiences that have led up to this moment, carrying us toward the future that I’m ready to brave after we faced death together and survived. The last resistance in me crumbles.