The House Of Smoke

by Sam Christer

  ‘I have already.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Dear fellow, would you still be imprisoned if I had been successful?’

  ‘But what of your experts?’

  ‘Dismissed as opinion. The truth is, a policeman has been killed and someone must be hanged for it. They believe it might as well be you. There is of course the second murder you were charged with. That hardly helped your case.’

  ‘Elizabeth MacIntosh. Do you believe I killed her?’

  ‘No, I do not. You had nothing to gain from it. You are an intelligent man; should you have wished to murder her you would have chosen a better time and place. But I cannot prove your innocence there, if that is what you were leading up to.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Then I must disappoint you. At first I thought there was something in the fact that the lady’s throat had been cut by a right-handed man holding her from behind. I believed you to be left-handed. But on closer observation you gave away that you are ambidextrous. A rarity, and in your case unfortunate because it means you could have killed her.’

  He produced a pipe from his pocket and inspected it but didn’t light it. ‘I had hoped to make a case on the direction of the blood spray found across your shirt and vest. Her killer would have been covered in it, but an area of clothing would also have been blood free, where the killer held Miss MacIntosh close to him as he made the fatal incision.’

  ‘The police took my clothing.’

  ‘I know they did. I made enquiries. And after conviction they disposed of it all. I was not surprised to learn that they have no records of where the garments went.’

  ‘Then it seems all your efforts are to no avail, Mr Holmes. Being hanged for crimes I didn’t commit will leave me every bit as dead as being hanged for ones I did.’

  ‘Then testify against the Moriarties. Both James and Brogan. Begin anew.’

  It was the first time he had mentioned both brothers and I could not keep the surprise from my eyes.

  Holmes looked amused. ‘Please do not tell me you thought that I did not know Brogan was the real power in the family?’

  I said nothing. My loyalty was still instinctive.

  ‘I have known it for some time. It merely suited me not to pay him the public attention I afforded his brother. Tell someone that you know their secret and they make plans accordingly. Let them believe they have fooled you and you have an advantage. I am under no illusions. James is the flame that draws the moth. Brogan is the whole candlestick. And you, Mr Lynch, you can help me burn down their empire.’

  I knew I was at the point of no return. The answer I gave now would seal the fate of either myself, or my father and uncle. My heart pounded and my mouth grew dry. Was Holmes lying?

  It certainly would have been easy for him to trace my connection to the Connor twins. But was the rest of it true? Had Jimmy really killed Jackson? And had the home secretary truly turned down Holmes’s appeal? Might it be that Holmes never spoke to him because he wished me not to be freed unless I gave up Moriarty and his family?

  My troubled mind thought up an alternative scenario – one even more worrying: had my father also known that I had not killed Jackson?

  He had admitted to an almost forensic inspection of my early life. Had he discovered the same thing as Holmes but nevertheless held the threat of the noose over my head, just to control me, to manipulate me to kill for him and become what he wanted me to be – his murderous heir?

  ‘Do something good with your life, Lynch,’ implored Holmes as he watched me fight my thoughts. ‘Seize this final opportunity of clemency and do not go to the grave with such terrible stains on your soul.’

  I closed my eyes. My head would not clear. Blood pounded in my temples – the blood of my sworn oath. The blood of my family. I put my hand to my forehead and felt sweat beading there. I had not a clear thought in my mind. Everything was corrupted.

  I opened my eyes and looked Holmes in the face. ‘My answer is the same, sir. I am done with this life and the way I have lived it. I want no more deaths, of any kind, on my conscience. Good men or bad men, I do not want to send any of them prematurely to their graves. It is best that you go now; go and pay your companion the twenty pounds you owe him.’

  Execution Day

  Newgate, 18 January 1900

  Through the cell bars I listened to the midnight bells toll. I tried through sheer power of will to halt those cast-iron notes in mid-chime and freeze time, but the last minutes of the last day of my life would not be held back.

  The silence that followed marked the beginning of the end, brought me so close to the gates of hell that I could smell the sulphur and feel the flames. These were my final few hours.

  Even the rancid air of the gaol was precious today. Closing my mouth, I breathed in fully through my nostrils and exhaled slowly, understanding for the first time what a marvellous narcotic oxygen was. Greedily, I drew down breath after breath and I swear my heart beat faster and my head grew giddy.

  I had lived a full life. One beyond murder, experiencing much of what all men crave. I had travelled the world. Loved and been loved. Fathered a child.

  Philomena, Elizabeth and baby Molly had brought me such joy. They had touched my heart and out of the great slab of wickedness that defines me, they had sculpted the semblance of a kind man. Cyril Lynch had given me his name and taught me how to be honourable. Had Molly lived, I would have brought her up in the wholesome way that he had tried to raise me. Molly would have been a good girl. Good through and through.

  And then there came Brogan Moriarty, my father. He had taken me in. Fed me. Clothed me. Educated me. Provided for me. Given me the chance to make my fortune, meet the woman I loved and have the child I adored.

  And he had taught me to commit murder. To protect him and be like him, until one day I could inherit one of the biggest criminal empires in England. As unforgivable as those deeds were, he remained my father, my only living blood.

  And then there was his reluctant young lover, sweet Alice, my biological mother. The woman I had maligned most of my life and had never known. Alice, the parent I would have loved to have been a son to. Perhaps if she had survived my sordid birth, then both our lives would have been different.

  I laughed at my thoughts. Life, it seemed, was painfully crowded with perhapses.

  The moon moved in a gentle arc across the barred window and cast silvery shadows upon the stone cell floor. I knelt, dipped my hands in them and studied the magical luminescence on my skin. I was washing my hands clean. Ridding myself of the blood I was stained with.

  I stared at the silhouette beside me. A monster on his knees, clutching at nothing. This was my shade. The shadow of the man I had become.

  I stood in the centre of the cell and it stung me to think I would never see the magnificence of the moon again. I would be hanged and cut down before the sun reached its apex and began its descent into the west. The lice that crawled in my hair would soon be overcome by corpse flies and maggots of the earth.

  I was still standing when an elderly turnkey entered the cell. He was the mild-mannered fellow who had spoken kindly to me about Louise Masset’s execution and said she had found peace at the end. ‘Mr Johncock sent me to enquire about your final wishes.’

  I laughed. ‘I should like to be freed and spit in the old curmudgeon’s eyes as I dance out of the gates.’

  A smile tugged the corner of his lips. ‘Something special perhaps from the kitchen?’

  I laughed. ‘Special? Their food is more likely to kill me than the knot around my neck.’

  ‘Then a jug of ale, or cup of gin to steady the nerves?’

  ‘I have no nerves, only regrets, and ale or gin is no solution to those.’

  ‘As you wish. Is there a will to be lodged, or one still to be written?’

  ‘Neither. I leave behind no more than I had when I entered this world. And before you ask; no, there is no final letter I wish to pen.’ My eyes fixed again on the patch of sky b
eyond the bars. ‘Tell me precisely what happens when I next leave this cell.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘It will be quick.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The Execution Detail will come. You will be taken in haste to the Pinioning Room where Mr Warbrick’s assistant will secure your arms. They will walk you free of leg irons to the scaffold. You will climb the stairs and then be hooded, positioned on the trap, noosed and hanged.’

  I looked at him. ‘And that is it? So perfunctory?’

  ‘It is. It will be over within minutes.’

  ‘I pray you are right.’

  ‘Your priest has confirmed that he will attend but asks if you would kindly allow another cleric to accompany him due to the fact his health remains poor.’

  ‘Of course, but I prefer he does not come. His good health is more important than my bad death.’

  ‘I am told he has already risen from his bed and is on his way.’

  ‘He is a kind man and I am grateful.’

  The turnkey looked to the window. Dawn was coming. ‘I need to convey your answers to Mr Johncock. Is there anything else you wish to ask for?’

  ‘There is nothing.’

  ‘Then I will pray for you, Simeon Lynch. May the difficult moments in front of you pass as quickly and painlessly as possible.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He turned and out of some kindness closed the door behind him with a respectful gentleness uncommon to the gaol.

  I was alone. I put my hand in my pocket and retrieved the crumpled, faded shade that Philomena had given me. It meant so much more now than it had ever done. I kissed the worn image and held it to my heart. ‘Please forgive me for all my shameful ways. For what I have done and not done. For how I have repeatedly let you and Cyril down.’

  I kissed the picture again and lodged it high in a crack in the brickwork of the cell. Neither Philomena nor Alice would be enduring the gallows.

  A look at the window told me dawn was at the gates.

  A noise in the door lock startled me: the time had come. The door opened and Johncock stood there.

  ‘I am ready.’ I took a deep breath and proffered my wrists.

  Johncock glanced to the men who followed him in. ‘Take him to the Pinioning Room. There’s a hearty breakfast awaiting us, men – let’s be done with this scum as soon as we can.’

  The detail of four marched me quickly into a cell less than twenty seconds from mine. My heart raced so fast I thought I would die before I reached the scaffold.

  There were other men in the small room – Warbrick’s assistants. On a shelf opposite me were coils of ropes, stacks of laundered clothes, towels and sheets.

  Not sheets. Shrouds.

  Then I saw it – the loose cotton hood to pull over the condemned man’s head. My head.

  I was still staring at the dreaded garment when one of Warbrick’s men drew my wrists down by my side and behind my back. I didn’t fight. I felt cold steel, the click of tight, fresh chains on me.

  This was wrong.

  I knew from what others had said that my hands needed to be by my sides.

  Johncock faced me and smiled. ‘We still have a little time on our hands, Lynch. Time enough for this.’ He punched me hard in the stomach.

  The blow took me by surprise and was all the more painful for it. A turnkey to my side threw a right-hander that all but broke my cheekbone. Another grabbed my hair and held up my head.

  Johncock hit me again. Once. Twice. Three times.

  The blows dropped me to my knees and such was the pain in my stomach I was unable to breathe.

  The assistant keeper bent low and held my head up as he told me, ‘We’re going to tell the world you screamed like a coward, Lynch. That you fought like a girl and begged not to be brought out. That you weren’t man enough to face your punishment.’

  I tried to get up to fight, but heavy boots thumped into my sides, and ribs. I collapsed to the floor and a heel came down onto the bottom of my spine. Steel toecaps bust bones. They straightened me out, turned me over and kicked me from shins to shoulders.

  My hands were held fast behind me so I was powerless to protect myself. Boots piled into me like hammers breaking rocks.

  Blackness found me. I was dying. God was being merciful. I was not going to hang ignominiously; I was going to perish here, in private, in the soft unconsciousness that now engulfed me.

  I woke groggy. Blinded by blood in my eyes. Terrible pain pounded my forehead. Unable to stand, I slapped my hands on cold stone and tried to crawl.

  Strong hands pulled me upright. Straightened me. Walked me.

  A room swam into a hazy view.

  A pew tilted left to right. I thought for a moment that I was in church. Strange faces peered at me. Looked past me and up on high.

  The gallows.

  The scaffold loomed large to my left. This was no church and no nightmare. I could smell the room. Hear voices. Hushes.

  Panic rose in my chest.

  Those holding me swung away from the pew. I glimpsed a brick wall. Warbrick’s men crowded me. Forced something in my mouth.

  I tasted cloth.

  They tied a gag around my face. I snorted air. The instinct to survive was still there.

  The hood.

  The dreaded hood slipped over my head. The gaolers acted with the speed and deftness of fingersmiths. I tried to raise my hands but they were restrained. Not by rope, as I expected, nor by the manacles that previously restrained me.

  I was in a straitjacket.

  It had been fitted while I was unconscious. Johncock was taking me to the gallows as though I were a lunatic. A certifiable imbecile.

  I tried to shout but the gag stifled my words.

  Every ounce of dignity had been removed from me. They had even taken away my right to any final words. To say I was sorry.

  I struggled for breath.

  My feet clattered against a wooden step. Strong hands lifted me up another step, and another. My heart banged against my ribs, like it too was desperate to escape.

  Wood creaked beneath my feet.

  I tried to halt the movement. Pushed back. It was no use. My toes scraped across the boarding. Muffled words around me. Father Deagan’s voice, weak and croaky. A prayer of some sort, low and solemn. ‘Amen.’

  Silence.

  Johncock spoke. ‘Prisoner, do you have any last words to say?’

  A man behind me pulled the hood tight. The gag sank deeper into my mouth. I could not make a sound or even nod. The words I wished to utter would never be heard.

  ‘Very well.’

  Hands smoothed down the hood. Touched my throat. I felt the noose slide over the crown of my head. Over my forehead. Over my ears.

  Around my neck.

  It tightened.

  Dear God, this was it.

  A prayer sprang to mind: Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—

  There was a bang, loud as a gunshot.

  The trapdoors opened.

  My feet fell into the void.

  I dropped.

  A sudden jerk. The rope snatched my flesh. Pain encircled my throat. My body bounced. Cries of shock spilled from those who watched.

  Then nothing.

  I was sure I was dead.

  A whisper of voices contradicted me.

  My neck hadn’t broken. I was suspended. Swaying. Swinging by my unbroken neck. Strangling slowly to death. Unable to breathe.

  I snorted. Swayed left and right. Back and forth. The knot pushed my chin up and back. My spine cracked and burned with pain.

  The fall had been too short. I was slowly strangling with each pendulous swing of the rope.

  My feet twitched. The Morris jig. This was it. My involuntary dance of death had started. I felt irresistibly faint again.

  Dear God, I was blacking out. Finally, passing away.

  The swing of the rope slowed to a halt. The creak of the twine and the timbers became no more than distant murmurs and croaks.<
br />
  The swaying stopped. I twirled slowly. Spun into nothingness. No breath in my body. No thought in my mind. No pain.

  My life was over.

  I was done.

  The Day After Execution

  London, 19 January 1900

  Mr Christopher Ellis Ackborne, a veteran reporter for the London Evening Standard, had been invited to witness the execution and wrote about it in the following day’s edition.

  In his article, he went to obsequious lengths to praise both the execution and the executioners.

  The assistant keeper of Newgate, Mr Tobias Johncock, formerly of the Queen’s Guards, used his laudable professionalism to ensure that the hanging of the callous murderer Simeon Lynch was carried out, not only with military precision but also with admirable compassion and true justice. The convict, a beast of a man who had brutally murdered Elizabeth MacIntosh of Derbyshire and Police Constable Thomas J. Jackson of London, had been brought to the gallows visibly restrained after violently assaulting several gaolers and resisting their rightful duty to convey him to the scaffold. The hanging itself proved as merciful and quick as these things can be. Death was promptly certified by a doctor from the Home Office and a member of the Coroner’s Office, after which the body of the murderer was duly taken away and immediately buried beneath the infamous stretch of stones within Newgate known as Dead Man’s Walk.

  Mr Ackborne was a journalist of good repute and undoubtedly his newspaper’s well-educated readership accepted his unwholesome account as entirely truthful and accurate. Indeed, Mr Ackborne had no reason to believe that he had done anything other than report precisely and with integrity exactly what he had witnessed.

  But he had made grave errors. About as grave as any journalist has ever made. He will never be told of them, nor will he ever suspect there to be any. Nor, for that matter, will any of his readers.

  Only Johncock, his special detail of men and a handful of extremely discreet others will ever know the truth.

  To fully understand, time must be rolled back to the minutes just before the hanging, to that tense moment when the witnesses and gaolers gathered in the execution shed.