The Incendiary's Trail

by James McCreet

  ‘I am interested in your choice of text. The book of Revelation, chapter seventeen, if I recall.’

  ‘Aha! So you do know your scripture.’

  ‘Have you read of the murder of Mary Chatterton at Haymarket?’

  ‘It is a sign. And the ten horns which thou sawest upon the beast, these shall hate the whore, and shall make her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh and burn her with fire.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Mary, Mr Archer? Did you know her?’

  ‘She was a whore. Upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.’

  Noah sighed, his patience now strained to its limits. He looked about him and saw what he expected to see: a dozen or so people assiduously not looking in his direction. It was human nature that when something caused embarrassment, it became curiously invisible. Without a word of threat, Noah’s fist flashed rapidly into the cavity beneath the clergyman’s bony chest and the man collapsed to the ground in a flutter of dark drapery. As he lay there pale and panting, Noah knelt by his side.

  ‘Listen carefully, Mr Archer. I have neither the time nor the inclination for your scripture, much as I admire its lyrical qualities. You will answer my questions, or I will be forced to cast your body into this pestilential Styx here, without the benefit of Charon’s steerage. I prefer the Greek to the Hebrew, you see. Now, let us begin again – in your own words, if you please.’

  Passers-by turned away from the scene and nursemaids called children away from the vicinity. Only one man, sitting at a bench with an unread newspaper, watched the tableau with interest.

  ‘A street girl – as I’m sure you fully comprehend – is one of the most astute judges of attire in the city, for it is necessary that she be able to discern a client and his wealth at a glance. She will charge what she thinks she can get away with, and approach only he who is likely to patronize girls of her sort. She knows that the judge or aristocrat keeps his own seclusive in high style at Regent’s-park and would not lower himself to associate with a common prostitute. I hope I am not patronizing you, Sergeant Williamson.’

  ‘Please, go on, Mr Askern.’

  ‘Well, as I say, the street girl knows at a glance and to within a fraction of an inch how fashionable a man’s hat is and whether it is made of silk, rabbit skin or beaver. She knows if his gloves are kid or pigskin. She can see if his boots have been made to order by a bootmaker, or handed down via a Rosemary-lane shop. She knows from a man’s very coat buttons how much he will pay. Of course, we all notice such things if we are sapient, but the street girl reads them as we might read the Times. Indeed, let us conduct a game just for our amusement.’

  ‘What manner of game?’

  ‘Imagine that you are not a man of London. Imagine that you had just arrived here from the country. You would not know how to read a man’s attire as we city dwellers do. So, if you saw . . . let me see . . . a dirty boy with his hair shorn—’

  ‘I would imagine him a recently released convict, although if his hair is very short, I would be inclined to think he has escaped.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But a newcomer would not know this. Let us say that he saw a man with mother-of-pearl buttons on his blue jacket, a coarse checked shirt and a long moustache oiled to its tips—’

  ‘A sailor, naturally. Most likely a Spaniard or Lascar – you were going to mention his dark complexion, no doubt.’

  ‘I see that you understand. A man’s clothes represent a kind of language, but you must know that language. For example, a cap-wearing man with his broad trouser bottoms turned up—’

  ‘—would be a boatman or dredgerman.’

  ‘I see I do not have to illustrate further. Such examples are simple enough. I might add, unnecessarily I suppose, that location is also an important consideration.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Well, a Chinese sailor – no matter how odd his appearance – is liable to attract little or no attention along the Minories, but he would be a curiosity on Oxford-street. Likewise, a man in a silk top hat might as well wear a bell if walking through St Andrews-street, whereas a beggar would attract no attention at all in the same place. Rather obvious examples, I’m afraid, but I am trying to answer a question I do not clearly understand.’

  ‘In fact, you have made an important point. You say that it is a language. Might it not be possible that a man might learn to speak this language? Not only to recognize, but to adopt the identity of others?’

  ‘Again, I do not quite follow you, detective.’

  ‘Let me ask you this: what would you think if the sailor you described, or the beggar, was stopped by a constable and was discovered to be not a sailor or a beggar but a barrister.’

  ‘How absurd! Why would a barrister dress as a sailor? Costume is reserved for the stage.’

  ‘You have already demonstrated that a man is known by his clothing. If a man wanted to hide his identity, could he not use these same assumptions against those who sought him? Thus, a sailor who was wanted for murder – if he was cunning – could adopt the appearance of, say, a beggar or a costermonger. Who would know him? He could remain in the city and yet be invisible. When one asks the local constable if he has seen an unknown sailor on his beat, he is not likely to answer “Yes, he is disguised as a beggar.” He will look for a sailor and not find him.’

  ‘What you say is true, but I have not seen any evidence of the phenomenon.’

  ‘You may have heard about a recent case of a lady who arrived at fashionable shopping areas in a smart carriage with her own footman. This elegant and well-dressed woman would purchase items at a series of shops and tender counterfeit money. Naturally she was not suspected because “ladies” do not do such things. However, a quick-witted constable followed her and discovered that she was working for a gang of thieves from one of the lowest areas of the city. All were imprisoned.’

  ‘Well, yes, I can see how that deception might have been effected. However, I still fail to see the direction of your argument.’

  ‘Let us take the fictional master criminal we were speaking of. How would he dress?’

  ‘Aha! Now I see! Yes . . . I admit he would have to change his appearance to render himself invisible. But those who had contact with him would know his face, would they not? Nothing remains secret for long in the gin shops and penny gaffs . . . and yet I have never heard mention of a character such as the one you describe.’

  ‘I have no answers, Mr Askern – only questions. I had hoped your particular knowledge of the city would provide me with some.’

  ‘I am sorry I cannot be of more help. If I have learned anything in my researches, it is that there are areas of London that might as well be those blank spaces on old marine maps: “Here be Monsters”. We know the names of the streets; we may map and catalogue them, but the wretched lives that exist there are beyond our comprehension. There is crime and bestiality that is barely human, walking barefoot in the filth as if Christ had never trod the earth and science had never opened our eyes. There are people who barely know how to speak, let alone pray. Indeed, there are monsters among us.’

  Mr Williamson only nodded. Mr Askern’s latter statement was perhaps truer than he knew. Sometimes the detective wished that the Thames could rise and wash away the detritus at its banks, or that fire would once again cleanse the city. It was a tree whose roots and branches were tainted with canker. He shook his head slightly and stood.

  ‘Thank you for your time, sir. It has been enlightening. Please contact me at Scotland Yard if you should receive any intelligence concerning what we have discussed.’

  ‘I will, Sergeant. I am amongst the population almost every evening. Perhaps I could ask a few pertinent questions.’

  ‘By all means do so. I do have one final question. Did you meet any other visiters on the night you visited the house in Lambeth?’

  ‘Let me think . . . Well, I did not meet one, but I did see a gentleman arrive by ca
rriage. He had Eliza-Beth with him and escorted her into the house.’

  ‘Indeed? You have not mentioned this previously.’

  ‘I suppose you have reminded me.’

  ‘Hmm. What did he look like?’

  ‘I did not pay him much attention. I cannot recall seeing his face.’

  ‘Because it was covered?’

  ‘It was dark, but . . . yes, perhaps his lower face was obscured by a cape or a stock.’

  FIFTEEN

  It is almost one week to the hour since we met Mr Coggins, alias Dr Zwigoff. In the interim, he has become a much wealthier man. The furore over Eliza-Beth’s death was the publicity he had always dreamed of but been too parsimonious to buy. The shows at Vauxhall Gardens had been extended to cater for the greater numbers of customers, and his pockets had been further swelled by the increase in private viewings. In short, business was good. It was a pity, therefore, that this day would be his last on earth.

  Now he was on his way – along with many thousands of others – to see Bully Bradford hang. It was four o’clock in the morning on that momentous Monday morning and Henry Coggins gurgled like a wineskin as he walked, so full of gin was his portly stomach. A light mist hung low over the city, settling glassily on roofs and chimneys – chimneys which had momentarily paused in their almost unceasing sooty exhalation. At this hour of the morning, after the gin shops had closed and before the respectable retailers opened their doors, one might imagine oneself in a different, more innocent place. An earthy compost of wet earth drifted from a nearby park, and a lamb, escaped from Smithfield, trotted lost through pastures long subsumed by cobbles and brick, bleating its own futile lament.

  Countless others were also moving towards Newgate. Along Fleet-street, Cheapside and Aldersgate; across Black-friars, Southwark and London bridges they came. The criminals and workers walked, while the well-to-do travelled by carriage and cab. How would it look, were one to float above the scene in a balloon? Like ants converging in multitudinous paths on a tasty morsel dropped in the forest? No morsel this, however. This was the gallows – already in situ before the implacable façade of Newgate gaol.

  And as Mr Coggins entered that broad thoroughfare, a hundred or so others were already loitering there, some of whom had been in attendance since the previous evening. The barricaded area around the black-painted scaffold itself was dark with people – the worse kind of people, naturally. Gap-toothed boys in fustian and their ‘gals’ with cotton shawls tight about their shoulders to keep out the pre-dawn chill, all stamping their feet and breathing on hands while exchanging banter about previous ‘shows’. Between puffs of pipe tobacco, the rapscallions boasted knowledgeably in front of the girls:

  ‘I was ther for the Frenchy manservant – Cor-Voosi was ’is name. Blubbed like a girl, he did. I wod take it like a man.’

  ‘He did not! He prayed to God even as he dropt. I saw it from the very spot.’

  ‘Aye, and his legs moved after he was dead, doing the Newgate hornpipe!’

  At this piece of intelligence, and at the jerky simulation accompanying it, the girls squealed. This prompted more gruesome lore from the boys, which drifted into the properties of the rope used, and how much Mr Calcraft might charge afterwards for a few inches of that dread cord.

  More arrived: a steady flow of humanity from all over the city and from as far afield as Bristol and Norwich, where news of the horrific murder had been the only topic of conversation for weeks. Mr Coggins took his place, feeling no cold in his intoxicated state.

  Inside the prison itself, the Mr Bradford lay disconsolate and insomniac upon his bed. His clothes had been taken from him the night before and thoroughly searched lest he should take his own life in the night and cheat the hangman. They had found nothing – no message to a loved one, no fragment of scripture for comfort, no sharpened splinter of wood with which to open a vein. He would exit this world in those same empty clothes.

  He shivered. Having attended a few executions, he knew that the streets would already be filling with people come to see him. Not knowing his face, they nevertheless knew his name and infamy. By eight o’clock, the streets before the gaol would be full of people, all of their faces turned upon one point. They would be waiting to see his face and execrate him as a killer, to watch his life jerked quickly from his body.

  He would not blub, he was sure of that. He had already decided that he would focus upon his shoes until the blessed grace of the hood gave him privacy. Until that moment, innumerable thousands of eyes would bore into him, unmanning him. He would not blub, he was sure of that.

  Voices echoed coldly through the stone corridors towards his cell. It was the prison clergyman, a solicitous old gent come to give the prisoner his final sacrament. For Mr Bradford, who had never ventured inside a church unless for nefarious purposes, the ceremony was one of almost mute incomprehension, the bully murmuring unfamiliar ‘amens’ just slightly after the other men. He knew there was a heaven, and perceived dimly that this softly worded ritual was his means of entry. It was of little consolation, for the devil himself lurked just out of eyesight beyond the cell: Mr William Calcraft, the hangman.

  On the exit of the clergyman, the hangman entered. Expecting a demon, Mr Bradford was surprised to see that the countenance of his executioner was in fact kinder than that of the priest. Its very calmness and lack of expression was, indeed, a palliative influence. This man who had extinguished the lives of more than a hundred was as famous to the criminals of England as the Queen or Lord Nelson, and Mr Bradford showed him more deference than he had ever shown any other man. ‘Tell me how to die well,’ he said, his voice an arid croak.

  ‘It is quite simple. I will show you where to stand; then I will apply the hood. You will have no problems breathing – many ask me that. I will place the rope around your neck and attach it to the chain on the beam.’

  ‘Will it be quick?’

  ‘Quick enough. You will have a moment to consider your crime.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It came out as a whisper.

  The absurdity of thanking his killer was lost on the bully, and went unremarked upon by the hangman, who had heard it numerous times. There was a bond between criminal and executioner that went beyond common understanding, and which only the latter truly understood. Mr Calcraft’s eyes were not evil. Nor were they kind. He could have been a coach-builder or a tailor going about his business as a matter of routine. Now the clergyman had finished with the soul of this man, Mr Calcraft took charge of his body.

  Producing a rope from a bag, he took the bully’s hands and tied the wrists firmly in front of his body. At this, Mr Bradford felt the prickling burn of tears and coughed to hide them. Shuffling footsteps echoed in the corridor: the prison governor, the sheriff, under-sheriffs and clergyman.

  And there was another, much more disturbing, sound. It was something akin to wind buffeting the building – a low rumble, something at once natural and yet highly unnatural. It was half-past seven.

  Outside, the street was thick with people and the gallows stood as a solitary dark mast in a sea of humanity. Perhaps thirty thousand persons extended from the barriers around the scaffold to a distance from which nothing of worth could possibly be seen. Rather, news from the front telegraphed through human wires to the audience’s extremities – so when a series of hammerings emanated from within the dread structure, they rippled through the people as the wind ripples heads of wheat. Smoke drifted up from innumerable pipes and cigars.

  Hundreds of constables were distributed within the crowd, which laughed and chatted as if at Greenwich fair. Ruffians, clerks, manservants and street girls commingled, the women protected solicitously from the crush by their menfolk. Here and there, a patterer sold penny ‘cocks’ describing the crimes or purporting to be confessions of the illiterate bully. Those who had not managed to obtain such copy made do with handbills printed in excess for previous executions. All were purchased. The thirst for information was unquenchable.

  Ind
eed, the atmosphere was very like that before the theatre curtain opened on a much-praised show. Chatter, laughter and general conversation hummed like a distant river in a gorge. Up on the ‘balcony’, people who had paid to gain access to the upper floors of private houses peered from windows, and men settled upon rooftops for an aerial view. Inside the prison itself, sundry gentlemen who had been granted special (and expensive) rights watched from the stone façade.

  The audience was excited to such a pitch that they were ready to see any spectacle. Were the very Apocalypse to be announced in place of the matinee hanging, they would have applauded its arrival. In its absence, their eyes sought out whatever show presented itself.

  Thus, when a cab driver lashed out in frustration with his whip at the impenetrable multitudes surrounding him, a tremendous jeer went up and the crowd shivered en masse at the opportunity of a performance. Coarse words were uttered by the driver, and were responded to with good-natured catcalls as if the city itself had become a penny gaff. A constable pushed his way through to calm the situation and the collective attention scattered to whatever else might be available.

  ‘This man’s life is nothing to the people but another distraction,’ said Sergeant Williamson, almost to himself.

  ‘As were the deaths of Eliza-Beth and Mary Chatterton,’ agreed Noah.

  The two men stood in the barricaded space between the door of the gaol and the scaffold. The sergeant wore a police uniform and Mr Dyson a dark suit that might pass as a uniform from a distance. Before them, a selection of London’s worst people was gathered at the wooden barrier, jostling for position and heaving like a single, vast organism. Here at the front, the crush was such that a man’s feet might be lifted involuntarily from the ground by the pressure. One of these people, a costermonger lad with a corduroy hat pushed cockily back on his head, called out to the police:

  ‘Oi, bluebottles! Mind yer don’t get yer own ’eads caught in Calcraft’s noose!’

  His friends giggled and jeered their approval.