by A J Wright
Ellen stood, open-mouthed, as the carriage went past. She could only blink when the hangman gave her a friendly wave of farewell before turning right onto Wallgate. Then she gave a small shiver, imagining someone walking over her grave.
2.
Captain Alexander Bell, Chief Constable of the Wigan Borough Police, was not in the best of moods. Early that morning, he had attended an inquest at the Silverwell Public House on Darlington Street. The deceased, Jane Waller, had been well known in the Scholes area, that most notorious of hellholes, as an inveterate drunkard who had met her untimely end by being struck by not one, but two snowballs, hurled at her by a couple of local toughs. Both snowballs had contained stones. One struck her in the eye, the other on her ear, and she had returned home complaining of pains at the back of her head. She was soon to become delirious and was dead within twenty-four hours. The post-mortem examination had revealed a small clot on her right eye, and on separating the membrane covering the brain, the pathologist had found a much larger clot. The cause of death was therefore compression of the brain from haemorrhage.
The jury returned a verdict of misadventure.
Because her inebriated state contributed to her demise.
It had meant, of course, that the two miscreants who had brought about her death were guilty of nothing more than a common assault.
Now, as if to compound his misery, he had had to despatch that overgrown ape, Jaggery, to make sure their visitor was brought to the station unmolested. It had been Captain Bell himself who had suggested by telegram that Simeon Crosby arrive a day earlier than planned, thus thwarting the expected hostile reception by those interfering simpletons from the Society for the Abolition of Capital Punishment.
The man was here to deliver a talk on his life’s experiences, for pity’s sake – not swing some filthy swine from the gallows.
He was musing idly to himself how he could name two who deserved that fitting fate, when there was a knock on his door, and he could hear the hoarse, rasping cough that Constable Jaggery thought was a supplementary indicator of his bovine presence.
‘Enter!’ he bellowed.
Jaggery swung the door open and stepped inside, followed by Violet Crosby, her husband, Simeon Crosby, and Gilbert Crosby, the hangman’s brother.
Captain Bell waved a hand of dismissal to his constable, who closed the door behind him with obvious relief. His three visitors were invited to sit down. After the usual preliminaries, he got down to business.
‘You will know, of course, that a small group of people are determined to prevent you from speaking at the Public Hall?’
Simeon Crosby clasped his hands and rested them on his large chest. ‘Captain Bell, these people – or their associates – stand for hours outside prison with their candles and their prayers and then hurl the most horrible abuse when I step through the gates. The vast majority are, of course, women.’
Violet Crosby gave a weak smile and said, ‘My husband calls them his petticoat gauntlet.’
Captain Bell nodded. As an ex-military man, he recognised at once the reference to an archaic form of punishment where the offender is forced to run between two rows of soldiers and suffer a plethora of blows.
‘So you can understand,’ the hangman went on, with a sharp glance at his wife, ‘that a few females waving placards are hardly the stuff of nightmares.’
‘Quite.’ The chief constable pursed his lips to prevent an ironic smile from betraying his thoughts. This man has little idea of how ferocious a group of Wigan females can be. ‘Nevertheless, it was commendable of you to accept my suggestion.’
‘That was my doing, Captain Bell.’ It was the younger brother, Gilbert Crosby, who spoke. ‘If Simeon had had his way, he would have insisted on a brass band blaring out his arrival and marching us from the station.’ The flicker of amusement in his eyes was countered by the frown on his brother’s face.
‘It’s the first time my wife has expressed a desire to accompany me on such a visit,’ Simeon said. ‘It wouldn’t be seemly to subject her to the screeching of protesters.’
‘Perhaps I might screech back,’ said Violet quietly.
For a moment, there was a flash of anger on her husband’s face, but it quickly vanished.
‘That, too, would be unseemly, my dear,’ was his response.
‘You’re staying at the Royal Hotel, I see,’ said Captain Bell, anxious to move the conversation quickly to its conclusion.
‘Gilbert here has taken charge of all arrangements.’
On cue, his brother smiled at their host and said, ‘We have reservations at the Royal for two nights. Simeon will present his talk at the Public Hall tomorrow evening – the management informed me the other day that all tickets have been sold – and we will leave on Wednesday morning for Manchester.’
‘A city I haven’t visited since my retirement two months ago,’ said Simeon. ‘It must be almost a year since my last, more melancholy visit there. I spent the night as a guest at Strangeways and left quite early the following morning.’
No need to enquire as to what happened in the intervening hours, reflected the Chief Constable. The Serving of Justice.
‘I have made arrangements for my constables to keep a sharp eye out for the period of your stay here in Wigan.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ asked Gilbert Crosby. ‘The abolitionists are hardly a major force these days, are they?’
‘Perhaps not. But over the last few days, posters have appeared urging support for a protest tomorrow night.’
Crosby’s eyes widened. ‘The abolitionists aren’t quite dead yet then?’
The chief constable reached into his desk and brought out a crumpled sheet of paper, which he passed across to Crosby.
If you object to a man guilty of savage murder in your midst, you would do well to visit the Assembly Room at the Legs of Man this Monday at 4 o’clock, where reasons will be given for a strong protest against the hangman Simeon Crosby’s presence in this fine Christian town. Thomas Evelyne.
The hangman frowned and passed it back with a shake of the head. ‘Never heard of the fellow. We had someone in Carlisle who organised something similar. It’s an unfortunate consequence of what my responsibilities involved, I’m afraid.’ He gave the chief constable an enigmatic smile and added, ‘The protest fizzled out like a damp firework because the police in Carlisle were on their toes.’
Captain Bell gave a defensive cough. ‘He sounds like one of these professional agitators, if you ask me. He has also put posters up around the town, urging all Christian-minded folk to attend a gathering in the Market Square tomorrow evening with a view to then marching through the town and disrupting your talk at the Public Hall.’
‘I have every confidence in your management of the situation, Chief Constable. This Evelyne won’t be the first, and he won’t be the last. But as I’m now retired from my melancholy duties he’s a little late in his protest, isn’t he?’
With a sigh, Captain Bell stood up and walked over to a small safe embedded in the wall. He opened it and took out a small cluster of papers. ‘These,’ he said with a flourish, ‘are letters which have been sent to the local newspapers. All of them complain about your visit. Some of them refer to you as murderer, and some refer to you as worse. It is to the great credit of the editors at the Examiner and the Observer that they refused to publish them and saw fit to bring them to my attention.’
He offered the letters to the hangman, who waved them aside with barely concealed contempt. He turned and replaced them in the safe, closing the door with a heavy thud.
‘To these people, Captain Bell, I’m an embarrassment and yes, to some, a murderer in all but name. But what am I to those who have suffered? To the families of those slain by some evil villain? To them, I’m the hand they would love to wield themselves. We can all stand on principles until evil pays us a visit.’
The chief constable blinked. He wasn’t used to people delivering speeches in his office. He was normally the
one doing that.
‘The letters contain what you might expect from those with a warped attitude to the dispensing of justice,’ Bell replied obliquely. ‘But the good thing is, the letters are written by articulate men and women.’
‘And why is that a good thing?’ Gilbert Crosby’s tone suggested a growing irritation.
‘Because articulate people express their outrage by pen and paper.’ He let the inference as to how inarticulate people show their outrage hang in the air. ‘And, of course, we will have several of our men on duty at the Public Hall tomorrow night,’ the chief constable went on, ignoring the concern on Gilbert Crosby’s face.
‘What is your personal view, sir?’ Violet Crosby asked. ‘Do your sympathies lie with these abolitionists or with the poor victims and their relatives?’
For a second, Captain Bell’s eyes widened. He seemed to consider his response for a while before saying, ‘Madam, I served in the army for a number of years. I have nothing but wholehearted respect for the concept of discipline, including the ultimate penalty under law. Take flogging, for instance. It is now, sadly, a thing of the past in the army, with those protesting its use claiming that such a public ritual was degrading. I disagree. For those watching, it was a clear punishment for the crime itself, and it was the crime that caused the soldier to lose his integrity, not the ritual of punishment.’
Gilbert Crosby smiled coldly. ‘Careful, sir. That might be taken as advocating the return of public executions!’
Simeon Crosby forestalled any response from their host by standing up, a signal for their departure.
Captain Bell gave them directions to the Royal Hotel – some five minutes’ walk away – and offered to send one of his constables along with them, but all three of them declined the offer. Once they had left, he stood at his window overlooking King Street and watched them stroll out of the building and turn right into King Street, Mr and Mrs Crosby walking arm in arm, with the younger brother a few feet behind them as if keeping guard. Interesting, he mused as he saw them pass several people on the pavement. What would those people think if they knew the hangman had just passed by?
Suddenly, he became more alert. A man – well-dressed, sporting a bowler hat and a walking cane – had been standing idly against the wall on the opposite side of the street. He caught sight of the Crosbys emerging from Rodney Street and immediately sprang to attention. With a flourish of his cane, he acknowledged the curses of a cab driver and stepped out onto the road, heading, in some haste, directly for the chief constable’s recent guests.
‘Look out, man!’ yelled Captain Bell. But his voice failed to penetrate his office window.
With an urgency he hadn’t shown in a while, he wheeled around and made a dash for the door.
3.
Constable Jaggery later declared that he had never seen the chief constable move so fast. He flung open his door and tore down the corridor and a flight of stairs, yelling all the while something about a murder on our doorstep.
Upon hearing such startling news, Jaggery, who had been engaged in conversation with the desk sergeant, turned his gaze to the top step of the station entrance and the literal scene of the reported crime. As Captain Bell hove into view, he was about to point out that he could see no sign of such an outrageous crime when his superior swept past him with the garbled instruction to, ‘Follow me.’
‘Tha’d best do as his bloody lordship says, Constable,’ was the rather languid comment from the desk sergeant.
With a muttered curse, Jaggery moved to the doorway and caught sight of the chief constable hurtling across the street, narrowly escaping the menace of a passing tram, and launching himself at the throat of a dapper young man whom he flung to the ground, grabbing the poor fellow’s walking cane before forcing its tip against his chest.
When Jaggery reached the remarkable scene, he saw the people he had escorted from the station staring down at their would-be assailant with expressions of mirth spread across their faces.
‘Constable, arrest this man.’ Captain Bell, standing astride his victim, seemed a little breathless, but he maintained the pressure of the cane on the man’s chest as if he were wielding his old fullered blade with its point about to plunge into some heathen.
‘You’re absolutely mad!’ said the prone figure, now that the initial shock of assault had subsided.
Jaggery bent down and hauled the miscreant to his feet. With his considerable brute strength, he swung the man round and clamped his hands together, the handcuffs appearing magically and closing around the wrists with a metallic clunk.
‘What’s the charge, sir?’
His superior frowned. ‘We’ll begin with assault. Take it from there.’
‘Assault!’ came the incredulous yelp. ‘I never touched anybody. Ask them!’
Simeon Crosby stepped forward, the smile still creasing his features. ‘I think perhaps I might speak on this man’s behalf, Chief Constable?’
At this point, Captain Bell heard a smattering of sniggers from the crowd that had gathered, intrigued by the commotion. One of the bystanders, a man whose face had seen better days, said, ‘Let him go ye bastard. He’s done nowt.’
‘Aye!’ said another, whom Jaggery recognised as a habitué of the Police Court, a rough-looking individual who swayed from side to side in a vain attempt at the perpendicular. ‘I seed it all. If that fat bastard’s arrestin’ any bugger, it should be thee, assaultin’ a bloke wi’ his own stick.’
There were mutterings of agreement as the crowd swelled.
‘Look,’ said the hangman quietly. ‘I know this man. His name’s Ralph Batsford. The only assault he’s guilty of has been with a pen.’
‘A deadly weapon in the wrong hands,’ Captain Bell replied, misunderstanding the comment.
‘I’m a newspaper reporter, you cretin!’ snapped the handcuffed man.
Jaggery gave him a hefty slap around his right ear. ‘Show some bloody respect, pal! That cretin’s Captain Bell hisself.’
Simeon Crosby raised his voice so that everyone could hear. ‘I’d like to thank the chief constable for his swift action. I must admit, it did indeed look as though my poor wife was about to be embroiled in a daylight assault. From a distance. With the police of Wigan led by such courage in the protection of visitors, it is heartening and reassuring. Now, if your constable will kindly release Mr Batsford, we will allow him to accompany us to the hotel where he can recover his senses – especially his hearing – with a reviving drink.’
‘Release the fellow!’ barked Captain Bell with as much authority and dignity as he could muster, given the circumstances.
*
‘It’s all about improvements these days.’
The speaker, Thomas Evelyne, paused and let the irony of his words sink in. There were over twenty people in the assembly room at the Legs of Man Hotel on Standishgate, and in the silence, they could all hear the dulled murmuring from the bar below, punctuated by an occasional raised voice and the slamming of an empty tankard on the counter. It was late afternoon, and there was little light from the small window. The clouds that had brooded malevolently all morning were now shedding their load, and rain smeared the window so that any view through the glass became distorted, fragmented by rivulets that slithered in every direction with no pattern. There was no gas lighting in this upstairs room, and the only illumination came from two oil lamps, one at the front where the speaker stood and another at the rear. Indeed, the lighting seemed most suitable, casting elongated shadows against front and rear walls, creating the macabre impression that the attendance was much larger and they were being observed by a whole phalanx of spirits whose bodies had been excruciatingly stretched by ghostly ropes.
‘We surely live in the most enlightened age. For we now have an official guide, from no less an august body than the Capital Sentences Committee itself, a guide that is meticulous in its measurements and providing our careful and considerate executioners with The Table of Drops. How reassuring it is to know
that science has removed all doubt, all possibility of a gruesome end such as suffocation or decapitation. Weights and measures, my friends!’
The speaker picked up a sheet of paper from the table before him and held it close to the oil lamp. In the half-light, his face, with its sharp pointed nose, staring eyes and dark beard, glistening with sweat and globules of spittle, seemed more demonic than human. His voice was now low, deceptively so, for as his words gathered momentum, he allowed its volume to rise, reaching its climax with the final simile.
‘It’s surely comforting to know, for example, that a man such as myself, who weighs twelve stone fully clothed, requires a drop of seven feet six inches producing a force of one thousand two hundred and sixty pounds per foot. It is further comforting to know that the weighing takes place just before the execution and not on entry to the prison, because our judicial system has found that prisoners actually gain weight once they are incarcerated. We feed them, plump and ready, and then we hang them. Like cattle, my friends. Like cattle to the slaughter.’
There were mutterings of both agreement and dissent.
‘And how long will it be before our enlightened leaders enact that most sophisticated of instruments introduced by our American cousins – the electric chair? It seems, does it not, that there is no limit to the punitive imagination of the modern world.’ He took a deep breath then added, ‘And now we have in our midst Mr Simeon Crosby.’
Again, he paused to allow the opprobrium to gain strength. The hiatus was rendered more portentous by the sudden lashing of torrential rain against the window, giving the impression that the Almighty himself had passed judgement.
‘A man who, until a few months ago, had been responsible not only for many officially sanctioned deaths, but also, to our certain knowledge, the decapitation of five – five – unfortunate souls, simply because he failed to apply the correct procedures. It beggars belief, does it not, that this butcher is now come among us to share his experiences? To entertain? Perhaps we should be grateful that this blood-letting accomplice of the state isn’t illustrating his talk with magic lantern slides.’
