The Hangman's Child

by Francis Selwyn

  Then Rann saw the figure at whom the Private-Clothes man had shouted. Fowler still carried the ash-plant. The neatly shaven face was smeared and blotched, like an actor painted with a grotesque beard. The linen summer suit was patched by damp and slime. In full view of a brother officer on the pier, however, he was closing on the Newgate fugitive.

  Tomnoddy turned to the river.

  'Right behind me, Jack. To the very inch.'

  'I can't swim, Tom, specially not with cuffs on. He could have me easy with another jack on the pier.'

  'He got no such luck,' said Tomnoddy grimly. 'Stick right behind me.'

  Rann glanced back and saw Fowler stumbling on the mud but gaining. Tomnoddy reached the tideline, Rann at his back, and waded in. Rann took from his pocket the large cotton handkerchief, its hem containing five gold sovereigns and the shipping agent's receipt. He knotted it round his neck. Before he had followed Tomnoddy twenty feet into the river chill, the current at his knees, Fowler splashed after them.

  'Keep right behind!' Tomnoddy said again. ‘I walked this river since I was ten years old. There's places you can step easy as on your parlour floor. And places where you'd step and never be seen again.'

  'What you going to do, Tom?'

  Tomnoddy turned his head, surprised at the question.

  'I'm going to kill him, Jack. Same as he would you. He can't let you tell the tale now.'

  'You got nothing to kill him with! He's got the ash-plant. He could knock a man's brains out with that.'

  Tomnoddy ignored his objection. Rann glanced back again. Fowler's smooth self-confidence had cracked in a look of insane anger, his features distorted by shadow and darkness. Whether or not Rann had it in his power to destroy the inspector, Fowler's expression suggested it. Once or twice he sabre-slashed at the fugitives with his heavy stick but the distance was too great. With the water at their waists, Tomnoddy and Rann were pulling ahead. Rann guessed they were a bridge-span into the river.

  He heard Tomnoddy say softly, 'Just here, to the right. Hold my belt, if you can. We got to turn sharp.'

  The downstream current washed against their chests, as they turned the angle. Their pursuer had fallen back, as Tomnoddy had calculated he would. But now Tomnoddy seemed to make a decisive error. Fowler saw the fugitives turn and took his chance to cut the corner, bringing Rann into range of his ash-plant. He was only twelve or fifteen feet behind them as he chose his angle of interception.

  The manoeuvre was almost complete, Rann within range of the heavy stick. Fowler lunged again, the tide ripping at his waist. He strode powerfully through ten, fifteen, twenty paces. Then he gave a sudden gasp and sank to his shoulders. For two or three silent seconds, his face was a mask of horrified realization, without a scream or sound, until the water closed gently over his head.

  'There's places,' Tomnoddy repeated slowly, 'where you may walk safe as in your own parlour, and places where you step once and aren't never seen again. There's a rib of stone comes out from Pelican Stairs and turns. You could walk to the moon on it. Step off it and there's only mud soft as treacle. He might have known if he'd stopped to think.'

  He turned back the way they had come.

  ‘I can't go back, Tom!' Rann said suddenly.

  'And you can't go on,' Tomnoddy said. 'Policeman Verity knows you never coopered Pandy.'

  'None of the others knows! I don't trust police.'

  'All right,' said Tomnoddy, drawing Rann reluctantly behind him. 'You'd trust your penny-dancer, would you?'

  Rann looked at the pier and saw beside the bulky figure of Verity the trim-waisted shape of Miss Jolly in the glow of the oil-lamps. He followed Tomnoddy to the tideline.

  The old sewerman said quietly, 'Don't come no closer, Jack. Stay here.'

  Tomnoddy walked up to the pier and confronted the solid form of the Private-Clothes sergeant.

  "ello, Mr Verity. You seen anything tonight?'

  Verity looked at him without answering. Then he said, 'What I seen, Tomnoddy, is a real 'ero. First I seen Mr Bragg on the foreshore. Then I seen a fugitive, one Jack Rann, chased into the river by Mr Fowler. Me being too far off to render assistance. I saw Mr Fowler keep after him, until they reached the part where the stone goes to quicksand.'

  'And then, Mr Verity?'

  'And then, Mr Tom, I saw 'em go down.'

  He glanced at the figure below him, with the hands manacled, as if he noticed nothing. Rann looked up and saw the girl detach herself from the other two who were alone upon the pier. She walked down to him and stood with the light of the shore at her back. To one side the scavengers were still busy with the body of Bragg, misshapen in wet clothes as if it had been beaten to blubber.

  Miss Jolly opened her hand and showed the little key which Verity had entrusted to her. She found the keyhole of the cuffs, sprang their lock, and took them. The light was behind her but the eyes that were hidden from him by the darkness looked at him in a long remembrance. Her hand touched his.

  'Goodbye, Handsome Jack,' she said softly, and turned away.

  She looked down at him again from the pier as he slipped away towards Pelican Stairs, along a little passageway by the lighted tavern windows of the Prospect of Whitby. Untying the handkerchief which he had knotted round his neck for safety as he entered the water, he worked a sovereign from its hem. Beyond the alleyway, a cab was parked on the far side of Wapping Lane. Rann strode towards it, a single gold coin in his hand.

  'Drury Lane, fast as ever you can. An' this is yours if you can do it before the hour.'

  The old cabman got down to open the door, his movements lopsided from the gait of a wooden leg.

  'Good as there, sir,' he said confidently, 'and as for that sov, you paid your whack already'

  Jack Rann and the cab were out of sight when Verity took the handcuffs that the girl had brought back and threw them clear beyond the railings into deep water.

  34

  'Let me have this straight.' Chief Inspector Croaker's eyes grew smaller and brighter.

  Verity stood at attention, chin up and shoulders back. In the light of the next summer evening he faced three of them, seated behind the desk of Superintendent Gowry's office, the grandest of all the rooms in Whitehall Place.

  'Straight!' Croaker glared at him. One of the other two was an out-of-area Inspector of Constabulary in black frogged coat and military breeches. At the centre sat Gowry, forehead and cheeks brick-red from Indian service which had turned his fine moustaches and abundant hair pure white. Gowry had fought in the relief column from Jalalabad to Kabul, after the slaughter of the British regiments at Gandamak. He had been an infantry major in Sir Colin Campbell's advance on the Sikh artillery, saving the day at Chilianwalla. Unlike Croaker, Verity knew him as a real soldier.

  'As I say, sir, I was on the pier when all this was happening below.'

  'Alone on the pier?' Gowry enquired gently. Verity met the keen blue eyes with a feeling of regret. 'No other officer present, sir. And having no idea of Mr Fowler nor Rann being in the outfall

  'Let me have this straight, Sergeant!' Croaker was back again, bitterly encumbered by the presence of Gowry and a senior official. 'While Inspector Fowler, regardless of his own safety, plunged into the river in pursuit of an escaped murderer, you were content to stand upon the pier and watch?'

  'Yessir.' He caught a movement of Gowry's eyes, sorrow at trust betrayed. 'Only it wasn't just like that, sir, with respect.'

  'Oh? Was it not?'

  'You have to remember, sir, that it was dark and all this happened very quick. I never thought Mr Fowler'd chance going in the river, sir. Knowing how many have gone down there.'

  Croaker's mouth twisted with contempt.

  'Indeed, Sergeant. But there is some difference in moral calibre between yourself and Inspector Fowler, is there not?' 'Oh, yes, sir. Most definite, sir.'

  Gowry came in again, quietly. 'What exactly, Sergeant, did you see?'

  'Rann vanished, sir, and so did Mr Fowler. Straight do
wn. One minute the water was just at his waist. Next minute he dropped, sunk, clean gone. Must have stepped off a stone ridge into soft mud. Like quicksand when the ebb begins.'

  'Do you say, Sergeant, that Mr Fowler and Rann were both lost?'

  'Lost to sight, sir.'

  'At the same moment?'

  'Near enough, sir. 'Course, it was dark.'

  He stared firmly into the evening sky beyond the window and wondered whether his answers had yet crossed the threshold of a painted 'Commandment Against False Witness' in the Cornish chapel of his childhood. The Inspector of Constabulary intervened, a hard quizzical face that had grown used to lies.

  'Bragg lay dead on the foreshore. That right, Sergeant? Caught in the main drain by the sluice and washed out?'

  'No doubt of that, sir.'

  'The fugitive Rann and Mr Fowler must have come out alive? So Rann, Bragg and another man whose bones were found eaten clean were in the sewer tunnels with Mr Fowler in pursuit?'

  Verity's forehead creased.

  'How it must have been, sir.'

  'It argues great courage on Mr Fowler's part, does it not, to tackle three such dangerous men in the confines of the sewers? But when the moment came, you were content to stand and watch, as Mr Fowler went to his death.'

  The broad window looked out clear across Lambeth and Bermondsey. A dying sun shone red-gold on the pale classical spire of St John's, Rotherhithe. Under its elongated shadow, the squat hull of the Batavia had been winched about until she lay with bows downstream. Several passengers were at the stern rail, taking a last view of the towers of Westminster and the Pool of London. By midnight, the vessel would drop her pilot off Gravesend. Tomorrow she would enter the open waters of the Western Approaches, lost to the world until she docked ten days later at New York.

  The questioning had lasted a full hour. The Inspector of Constabulary looked up at the plump witness.

  'You may leave this inquiry, Sergeant. It does behove you, nonetheless, to reflect on the part you have played in the loss of a dangerous fugitive and of a most gallant officer. You may also reflect upon your debt to Inspector Croaker.'

  'Sir?'

  'Your folly in attempting to search the premises of Bragg in Drury Lane has been redeemed. On hearing of your failure, Mr Croaker obtained a justice's warrant and led a party of twelve uniformed officers with Sergeant Samson at dawn today. Two persons, Hardwicke and Atwell, were arrested in possession of a large amount of money in bank notes and bonds, suspected as being the greater part of the proceeds of a fraud now known to have been committed upon clients of the Cornhill Vaults.'

  'Sir?'

  'Two other persons, a young woman that was known for previous offences, and a man Samuel with a conviction for dishonesty, were detained but released. They claimed to have gone to the house together merely for immoral purposes, an assertion against which there is no evidence. As a result of Mr Croaker's diligence, some four-fifths of the proceeds from the Cornhill fraud appear to have been recovered.'

  'Glad to hear it, sir. With respect, sir.'

  'Your gladness, Sergeant, is neither here nor there. You would do better to thank the good fortune which has placed you under the command of an officer of such courage and resource as Chief Inspector Croaker.'

  'Yessir. Thank you, sir.'

  As their eyes met, Croaker was favouring him with a tight reptilian grin of triumph and promise. 'Eyes front!' Gowry said quietly.

  The Inspector of Constabulary talked on. Verity wondered how much the final missing fifth of the proceeds amounted to. He gazed solemnly at the window, where the last of the sun on a stretch of cloud above Rotherhithe was turning to the deepest gold. The passengers at the rail of the Batavia made their way below, as the light faded and the vessel moved slowly downstream.

  Half an hour later, in the sergeants' room, among tall sloping desks and stools, Samson said, 'Had your roasting, then?'

  Verity glowered at him.

  'Why was you with Mr Croaker down Drury Lane?'

  Samson flushed. He brushed his mutton-chop whiskers on the edge of his hand.

  'Fair's fair,' he said reasonably. 'You'd had your chance. And Bragg was gone off with Handsome Rann.'

  Verity took a step towards him and Samson took a step back.

  'I want to know, Mr Samson.'

  Samson shrugged.

  'Disturbance outside Ma Martileau's. Forty or fifty cabmen and half-a-dozen reverend gentlemen, all swearing a pure virgin been enticed into a house of sin and imprisoned in the attics. Mrs Verity's old father seen rioting! They was going to have their way in with staves and cab-whips to rescue the doxy.' 'And Mr Croaker went down for that?'

  'Not exactly,' Samson said self-consciously. 'We heard that bugger Rann been mixed up in it, no one knowing yet he couldn't be because you seen him sink in the mud. Still, it had Mr Croaker off like a greyhound. We got in there with a warrant. Had to fist one or two. Bragg's footmen. Virgin turned out to be Mag Fashion, that hasn't been a virgin since she knew she could be otherwise.'

  Verity looked uneasily at his companion.

  'Who said about Jack Rann being there?'

  Samson beamed and worked his knuckles reminiscently.

  'Joker. Told someone he was Rann and if we wanted him he was living on the top floor of Mother Martileau's. By then, of course, you'd seen Handsome Jack in the mud. All we found was Soapy Samuel and Mag Fashion locked in the attics, with Hardwicke and Atwell downstairs counting the money.'

  Samson snorted derisively and continued.

  'When Bragg went off with Rann, I reckon Hardwicke and Atwell were left behind, to snuff Soapy Samuel and Mag Fashion. Hardwicke and Atwell say otherwise, of course. They swear Samuel went willing to Ma Martileau's, asking for their help, saying he can tell 'em where to fetch more money from the Cornhill Vaults than they ever imagined. Down the Ratcliff Highway, under a floor.'

  'Where?'

  'They couldn't say,' Samson shrugged, 'some old tosher's place. I reckon Hardwicke sees how they might get the money and skip before Bragg comes back. If there's no money down the Highway, they can always do Samuel and Maggie for having 'em on. So Atwell guards 'em and Hardwicke goes to find the money. The tosher weren't there, them working at nights. Hardwicke comes back with thousands of bank notes, bonds, and sovs, which he swears he only had because they meant to have it off Samuel and the tosher to return it to the lawful owners.' 'What's Samuel say?'

  'He don't know a thing about the money. Him and Mag Fashion just went to the house for a bit of a time. No witnesses to say otherwise. Hardwicke and Atwell were downstairs with the money in their hands. Makes them primo for the Cornhill Vaults. Inquiries been made about that today. Seems Lord Mancart had a bill for a thousand sovs dishonoured yesterday.'

  'What time was you and Mr Croaker at Bragg's place?'

  'About four in the morning. Hardwicke and Atwell never knew then that Bragg and Flash Fowler were dead. I'd say they was about ready to snuff Samuel and Maggie, then off with the money. But they was still there when Mr Croaker came to join the fun. Anyhow, while you was giving evidence just now, Hardwicke and Atwell been charged with doing the Cornhill Vaults.'

  'Hardwicke and Atwell couldn't do a china pig!'

  Samson grinned hugely.

  'And you'd know about that, would you? You was the bright spark reckoned Handsome Rann never done Pandy Quinn. But he did.'

  Verity stared at him. 'Who says?'

  'Mr Home Secretary. He been through the case. Been through this so-called new evidence. Knives and drains. Nothing but nonsense dreamed up by you and old Baptist Babb and Chaffey, scrubber-up at inquests. So the Home Office still says Handsome Jack was well due for stretching. Only you reckon the bugger saved 'em the trouble, out on the mud.'

  They climbed back on their stools and opened their diary ledgers.

  'It is true, isn't it?' Samson asked presently. 'What is?'

  'Handsome Rann. You saw him sucked down like Charley Fowler?'

  Verit
y stared at him, as if thinking of something far beyond.

  'Mr Samson, have I ever lied to you?'

  They went back to their chores. Samson looked up again.

  'Any rate, I suppose you can have this back now,' he said.

  It was the envelope in which Verity had sealed his posthumous memorandum to Croaker. Until Samson tossed it on to the desk, he had forgotten it. He picked it up.

  'You bloody opened it!' he said. 'It was to be handed unopened to Mr Croaker if the worst should happen to me!'

  Samson shrugged.

  'But the worst didn't happen to you, my son. Only to be unopened if handed to Mr Croaker, supposing the worst happened. Nothing about being unopened if the worst didn't happen. Lot of rubbish about Handsome Rann not doing Pandy Quinn, which Mr Home Secretary says he did. Sly Joanne being snuffed when even the inquest said found-drowned. Still, I liked the last bit -commending Mrs Verity and her infants to friends of virtue and religion. Rich, that was!'

  The outrage was so absolute that Verity was lost for words. He tucked the torn envelope into his pocket. At last he said sadly, 'You ain't a man of confidence, Mr Samson. Not a man of confidence at all.'

  It was rare for Chief Inspector Croaker to address the Private-Clothes Detail on parade but he did so on the following morning in the yard of Whitehall Place. Verity found himself in the front rank, almost face-to-face with his commander. The day was cool with a breeze from the river, whipping and snapping at the flag, lowered to half-mast.

  'In Charles Foxe Fowler we mourn the passing of a senior officer and a gallant comrade.' Croaker was shouting a little, as if to make himself heard above the breeze. 'We mourn his passing but treasure his example.'

  'Example, my arse!' said a quiet voice behind Verity. 'The easiness of his manner concealed a .. . .'

  bloody robber,' said the quiet voice and someone sniggered. '... dedication, loyalty and feeling ...' '...up a dollymop's skirt...'