The Hangman's Child

by Francis Selwyn

  The restless amusement ended and there was silence as the broken piano rang out its suggestion of eastern dance.

  'Round the back, Mr Samson! Make sure she don't do a bunk through the alley'

  'See the turn first,' Samson said amiably.

  'There ain't going to be a turn. You'll see all there is to see in the alley. Get there and hold her if she tries to slip out.'

  He stood up and moved in the shadows towards the roughly constructed stage, leaving Samson to hurry to the alleyway. Behind the calico screens, fierce gaslight shone full on the stretched fabric, casting the girl's shadow. Verity moved behind the lights, where she could scarcely see him. He gave Samson a counted minute. Then he reached for the gas-tap and turned it. The brilliance spluttered into fading twilight, a last glow of red-hot mantels, and darkness.

  The audience began to shout its disapproval. A party of costers set up a slow handclap. But Verity knew what Miss Jolly must do. Only one door led behind the stage and she would bolt for it. He was there, seizing an upper arm whose texture might equally have been silk fleshing or cool skin.

  'Right, miss!' he said. 'You an' me needs to have a word.'

  She let out a wail of terror, more intense than he could account for. Twisting for her life, she broke free and fled, apparently naked, for the alley door. Hearing the cry, Samson opened it from the other side. They were in the passageway of the old warehouse, Verity at one end, Samson at the other, Miss Jolly in the middle.

  'Ain't you got more sense?' Samson asked with a smile. 'You can't go out there like that!'

  'She might, Mr Samson. Supposing she was in fear of someone that could do worse things to her than the law ever would.'

  The tumult among the audience died as Dandy O'Hara appeared with a coster favourite, 'My Long-Tailed Jock'. A large man opened the door between the stage and the passageway. He saw the two policemen with his dancing-girl and quickly withdrew. Miss Jolly dodged towards the dressing cubicle where she had left her clothes. She cried out as Samson followed. Verity motioned him back.

  'Now, you listen, my girl,' he said firmly, standing over her, 'we got no quarrel with you, nor what you been doing here. But Jack Rann's another matter. You being his sweetheart.'

  'No!' she cried, folding her arms crosswise to cover herself. 'Never!'

  'Don't come it,' Samson said, still grinning at her. 'You was his doxy long ago. You'd know where he was, if anyone did!' 'I don't!'

  She snatched a bundle of linen to herself. Verity let out a sigh of impatience.

  'We ain't here to hang Jack Rann, but we might save him.' The look that slanted from her dark eyes made it impossible to tell whether she believed him. 'Save him?'

  They faced each other over a distance of three feet.

  'Handsome Rann never coopered Pandy Quinn,' Verity said gently. 'He couldn't have done. I know that now.'

  Samson looked at him in dismay.

  'Draw it mild, my son,' he said quickly.

  Verity ignored him and held Miss Jolly's gaze.

  The knife Mr Fowler found in Saffron Hill never came from the Golden Anchor. Drains don't run that way.'

  The tight-lidded eyes flicked from Verity to Samson, choosing which to believe.

  'And the blood,' Verity said patiently. 'All the blood Jack Rann had on him never come from Pandy Quinn. Might be from another man, or a stuck pig, or a blood pudding. Quinn being cut with a stiletto hardly bled at all. Only way he might bleed was being carried rough from somewhere else. In that case he wasn't cut in the tap-room. And in that case Jack Rann never did it. The taproom was the only room your Jack was in.'

  'Then who?' she wailed.

  'Same men as held Pretty Jo's head under water until she died, then left her on Wapping Reach like a found-drowned.' 'But why?' She sat down on a stool in her cubicle. 'Once we find Jack Rann, we'll know. Where is he?' 'He's gone!' 'Where?'

  'I don't know!' The eyes went round and the mouth opened in a tragic gape.

  "Course you bloody know!' Samson said irritably. Verity frowned again and waved him to silence.

  'Your Handsome Jack got more danger of being done to death by the men who fitted him to Pandy's murder than he ever has of being hanged by Jack Ketch. Don't you know that?'

  The first tear brimmed and she nodded silently.

  'Right,' said Verity gently, 'you gotta be a good, brave, girl, and help us find him before he's hurt as bad as Pandy Quinn.'

  'He'll be took to Newgate and hanged!'

  'He won't!' said Verity encouragingly. 'There's evidence to show he never cut Pandy. Any case, wouldn't it be better for him to be in Newgate, with a chance to get a pardon, than in the hands of the villains that's never pardoned anyone?'

  She shook her head.

  'He's been took by them,' Verity insisted. 'Ain't that what all this is about?'

  Miss Jolly stared at the floor beyond her toes.

  'Leave him where he is, miss, and he'll die surely as warrant morning at Newgate. Can't you see? You been beaten, hurt, by men of that sort. You know what they can do. If Handsome Jack was free now, don't you think you'd hear?'

  She stared with frightened eyes at the same patch of floor.

  'Bully Bragg and the others,' Verity added quietly, 'ain't it? The men that held him down on Pandy Quinn.'

  She nodded again.

  'And Policeman Fowler?' Verity held his breath.

  Samson looked aghast and Miss Jolly lifted her face, more frightened than ever.

  'Bully Bragg anyway,' Verity said reassuringly. 'Where?'

  Miss Jolly put her hands together.

  'You'll hang him!' she cried at them.

  Samson's face hardened behind the ginger whiskers.

  'Hang you, more like! Make Jack Ketch quite frisky. If there's murder and you let it happen, you're an accessory. If you're lucky you'll be hanged; if you ain't, you'll be caught by those that had Pretty Jo, fighting to breathe with your head held under water till you can't breathe no more.'

  Verity glared at him but Samson's warning did its work.

  'Red-Haired Brigid!' she sobbed, 'that does the Smithfield gaff. I couldn't go where they know me, but Brigid dressed smart in a veil not to be noticed and walked round Bragg's houses. At Martileau's, they had someone in the top rooms working a mirror in the sun. Might be a girl locked up. But it might be him.'

  Verity straightened up, hands behind his back under the tails of his frock coat. Victory had come easily. He saw himself before Superintendent Gowry's desk in a few days, receiving congratulations on the arrest of Bragg, the unmasking of Fowler, the discovery of Jack Rann's innocence.

  'There's a good, brave, sensible girl,' he said gently. 'You get your proper clothes on. We'll save your Handsome Jack.'

  Half an hour later, with Samson escorting Miss Jolly, Verity entered the courtyard off Drury Lane, the soot-grained buildings of a century past towering on every side. Mother Martileau's had been familiar territory to him long before it came under the rule of Bully Bragg. He had arrested a score of its inmates at various times for pilfering the notecases and pockets of their clients, inflicting bodily harm on one another, receiving stolen goods, swearing false evidence.

  At this time of night, the house with its porters in coachmen's capes and breeches, its pillars with their torches of gas, was fully lit and busy. One of the doormen took a single glance at Verity, Samson, and Miss Jolly, then disappeared inside. The other man made no attempt to stop them.

  Verity led the way into the vestibule, the coloured glass of the skylight throwing diffused reflections of rose and turquoise on the black and white tiling. A bedlam of waltzes and polkas came from the introducing-room to one side with its Broadwood grand piano, its pink-shaded lamps, nude statuary, and large gilt-framed mirrors. Officers, gentlemen, Oxford undergraduates who would graduate only in the Racing Calendar or Paul Pry, danced with Sarahs, Beckys, and Lottys until they made their choice and agreed a price.

  Bragg appeared before him, Hardwicke and Atwell either
side. The absurd pile of the Bully's black Pompadour hair was newly arranged, his colour high, as if from a dab of rouge. He was drunk enough to be entirely self-confident as the two sergeants confronted him.

  'Evening, Mr Verity' His eyes rolled and his mouth opened at the preposterous humour of it all. 'Nice new suit that, after your misfortune down Lambeth. You 'ere for a little hocus-pocus, I daresay? Not rumplin' young Suzanne Berry again, I hope. On'y we don't allow that sort of thing here!'

  He grinned hugely at his bodyguards on either side. Hardwicke and Atwell stared at the two policemen with as much indifference as if they were not seeing them.

  "Course,' said Bragg humorously, 'if you brought Miss Shop-Mouse Jolly here for a hidin', an' all you want is a room to do it to her, that's easy sorted.'

  He gave the same open-mouthed grin.

  'No, Mr Bragg,' Verity said casually, ‘I shan't bother you for a room. I mean to search the premises. I mean to do it now. I'll thank you and your servants to stand clear of my way.'

  Bragg shook his head, as if Verity's practical jokes would be the death of him.

  'Mr Saward!' he called. 'You hear all that, did you?'

  He looked up again at Verity, a hard and triumphant gleam in his eyes. Verity's heart sank. A tall, dark-haired old man, the cheeks sunken and the body stooped, came out of the parlour to one side. His mouth was tightened and pursed as if he had been about to spit phlegm.

  Bragg nodded at Verity.

  'You tell him, Mr Barrister. You'll do it nicer than me.'

  Saward stood before Verity. He sniffed, his nostrils narrowing to little more than bone, and held out his hand. 'Warrant?’

  Verity stared back at him and Saward spoke, as if to one of simple intelligence.

  'Search warrant, mister. Other words, a legal instrument signed on Common Law authority by a Justice of the Peace, authorizing a named officer to enter, by force if necessary, into a specific house or premises for a purpose which must also be specially described—'

  'I ain't got a warrant

  Saward turned away.

  'Then I suggest, mister, that you return when you have one.' 'See?' said Bragg sympathetically. 'Life ain't all Vingt-et-Un at sixpence a dozen, is it, Mr Verity?' Verity glared at him.

  ‘I got reason to suspect that James Patrick Rann, otherwise known as Jack Rann, fugitive from Newgate, is in this house.' Bragg shook his head, as if to clear it.

  'Jack Rann? I don't believe I ever met a Jack Rann. Poxy little name, though, ain't it? Sort of name that needs putting to sleep for its own good. You can't search this house and create a disturbance, of course, Mr Saward just told you that, but wait here a minute.'

  The graceful wrought-iron staircase curved up in a series of diminishing ovals. Bragg walked to the first floor and presently reappeared. Verity understood the extent of the disaster. Behind Bragg, in a lavender-grey suit and green stock, walked Inspector Fowler. Verity waited until they were face to face.

  'Permission to proceed with search of premises. With respect, sir.'

  Fowler looked at him, as if suspecting a trick.

  'It has just been done, Sergeant. Two men upstairs are taking the last witness-statement from a young gentleman of Magdalen College, who appears to have lost a diamond cravat-pin.'

  'Information as to the person Jack Rann being on these premises, sir. With respect.'

  Fowler sighed.

  'Two officers of this division, with my assistance as a passer-by, have just searched the premises at the request of Madame Martileau. Madame fears that there may be a thief among her guests. We have searched the attics, the bedrooms, the reception rooms, the basement, the kitchens, the cellars. There is no Jack Rann in the building.'

  Verity felt his face growing warm and his heart pounding. Flash Charley Fowler stared back at him. Fowler was a liar and a scoundrel but his rank decided the matter.

  'Nossir,' Verity said humbly. 'Very good, sir.'

  Fowler sighed again, as if with relief. He was about to turn to Bragg with an apology but first he dealt with Verity.

  'Have the goodness to go with Samson. Take this young person and wait outside until I come to you. Understand?'

  'Yessir!' A few weeks ago, on the police boat, it was almost impossible to call the newly promoted Fowler 'sir'. Now the compliment came easily from his tongue. With Samson and Miss Jolly, he stood in the lamplight of the paved courtyard.

  'Chinese Shades!' said Samson bitterly. 'Company of a young person! We was supposed to be having a bit of roly-poly! Look at this mess! You any idea what Mr Croaker might have to say ...?'

  He stiffened to attention as Fowler walked leisurely from the lighted doorway.

  'Well,' Fowler said, suddenly amiable, 'I'd say there's no harm done. Madame Martileau's a reasonable woman. Mr Bragg insists he took no offence. An' I hope I'm reasonable. Eh?'

  'Yessir,' said Verity meekly.

  'What I will do, however, is have this young person in custody as suspect and accomplice in the robbing of visitors to Madame Martileau. Others in the house taking the valuables, the same being slipped to this little piece when she puts her nose inside. Right? She been seen keeping watch on the place. Slip the cuffs on her Verity, there's a good fellow.'

  Miss Jolly's face was a parody of terror at being delivered by Fowler to Bragg and the knife, her dark eyes wide and her mouth stretched in a silent scream.

  'Nossir,' said Verity quietly, 'with respect, sir.'

  Fowler's face creased with grotesque incomprehension.

  'No, sir? Meaning what, sir?'

  'Ain't possible for you to arrest this young person, sir.' 'Not possible?' Fowler was almost laughing at the absurdity. 'Why not?'

  'She been arrested already, sir. By me and Mr Samson. Matter of Handsome Rann and perverting the course of justice.'

  Samson stared glassily ahead of him, as if seeing deeply into some nameless horror. But he said nothing. Fowler relaxed.

  'In that case, Verity, you got not the least worry. According to the police manual, you now surrender your prisoner to your superior officer.'

  'Oh, I will, sir. But it ain't you, sir.'

  'By God!' said Fowler, all his assumed amiability gone. 'You shall pay a reckoning for this. That girl is my prisoner.'

  Verity stood solidly between Miss Jolly and the inspector.

  'Nossir, with respect, sir. This young person is Mr Croaker's prisoner, having been arrested by me and Mr Samson on Mr Croaker's orders. And just as you happen to be superior to us, Mr Fowler, so Mr Croaker happens to be superior to you. And to us, of course. We got to obey his orders, all of us.'

  Samson gave a slight gasp, as if of pain, but he still said nothing. Fowler looked as though he might make an annihilating riposte. Nothing came. The heavens would fall on the two sergeants next day but for the moment he was beaten. He turned without a word and was about to stride back into Madame Martileau's brightly lit hallway.

  Verity never knew why he asked his parting question. In all the mysteries that had followed the death of Pandy Quinn there was a pattern, after all. Deep in his mind, where he was not aware of it, two fragments of the puzzle joined in certainty. Ten seconds before he spoke, he could not have matched them.

  'Mr Fowler, sir!' Fowler stopped and looked back at him. 'When Pandy Quinn was killed in the tap-room of the Golden Anchor and you was upstairs questioning a young person in connection with a petty crime, that young person was never called to the inquest, not having seen nor heard anything. Never named in the police reports.'

  He stared at Fowler in fascination, seeing such shock in the blue eyes that he could almost not go on with the question.

  'It ain't much, Mr Fowler, but me and Mr Samson was right, wasn't we? The one that never give evidence and wasn't named. She was the one they called Sly Joanne or Pretty-Jo Mischief, wasn't she, sir? The one that was found-drowned off Wapping? It was her, Mr Fowler, wasn't it, sir?'

  Fowler stopped and Verity felt like a man who had hit the bull's-eye of a t
arget without taking aim or knowing it was there. But the shock had gone from the blue eyes. It was not dismay, or anger, or fear that he saw in the inspector's face: there was just the flat despair of a man who had run down the ways and turnings of a labyrinth to find, at last, only a blank and pitiless wall.

  32

  The scream was like a needle of fright through his heart. Worse than by dark, it was horror in full daylight, ringing through the dusty attic sunlight of a warm afternoon. Those who caused it knew their victim would not be heard beyond these rooms. It carried unbridled terror, not pain, the dread of what was to come. They had shown her something as they asked their questions. Some common domestic implement, perhaps, now obscenely menacing. Then came silence, more terrible than the transfixing cry. Rann crossed to the door and beat his fist on it. He rattled the handle in vain, conscious of the mounting toll of seconds that ticked by.

  At last came a choking howl and he knew what they were doing. There was retching, another shrill appeal that failed for want of breath. Someone came to him now. The door opened and Bragg stood flanked by Hardwicke and Atwell. Moonbeam was not there. Rann guessed that the unmarked bruiser had been selected as executioner of Maggie Fashion.

  Bragg stared at Rann, dispensing a bitter smile under the absurdly piled hair.

  'You got something to say, Handsome Jack? Something on your mind, was there?'

  'Ask me, not them,' Rann said quietly. 'I know where the dibs is. They don't.'

  Bragg lifted one corner of his lip above his teeth, the smile of contempt.

  'They ain't been asked yet. Maggie Turnbull with the hard face and big bum had to have a good wash first. Only way to get the truth. Give them a taste of what's coming. Then ask the questions, not before. Saves no end of time.'

  ‘I want an agreement,' Rann said in the same quiet voice, 'that's all.'