by Peter Murphy
The letter written to Arthur ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ was no longer enclosed in the envelope in which it had arrived. It had long since hung, encased in an austere black frame, on the wall of the front room, next to a photograph of the family on holiday at Morecombe, circa 1938, and a commemorative plate depicting the Queen and Prince Philip on their wedding day. Arthur had placed it there so that he was free to gaze at it more or less at will, at any time of the day or night because, as custom dictated, the front room of the terraced house, while the most formally and expensively furnished, was used only when guests were expected on such special occasions as Christmas and funerals. At other times, it remained unoccupied, silent and aloof, a place of superiority far removed from the unassuming dullness of the rest of the house. Over the course of time, Arthur had gazed at it so often that he knew every word by heart. It was dated 25 November 1958, typed on Home Office stationery, his name and address repeated, top left, in the correct official manner.
Dear Sir,
I am directed by the Home Secretary to inform you that following your application and your interview and training at HM Prison, Pentonville, your name has been added to the list of persons competent for the office of executioner. You are reminded that, as the list of persons competent is in the possession of High Sheriffs and Governors, it is unnecessary to apply for employment in connection with an execution. Any such application may be regarded as objectionable conduct and may lead to the removal of your name from the list. You are also reminded that it is expected that the conduct and general behaviour of a person on the list will be respectable and discreet, not only at the place and time of execution, but before and subsequently.
A memorandum of the conditions to which any person acting as executioner is required to conform is enclosed for your attention. Any inquiry should be directed to the undersigned.
Yours Faithfully,
(Illegible handwritten signature)
James Milburn
Assistant Permanent Secretary
* * *
The chain of events which had led to the letter’s arrival began early on a Saturday evening in a pub called the Anchor Inn, in Darwen. The Anchor was within reasonable walking distance from Ewood Park, home of Blackburn Rovers Football Club.
Life at 23 Borough View Road had continued, interrupted only by service in the world wars, for the lifetimes of two generations of Ludlows before Arthur. His father and grandfather had lived almost identical lives, working as assistant brewers at the Thwaites Brewery, a local landmark and valued contributor to the economy of the town. After an all-too-brief youth each had courted a local girl and brought her to the house as his bride; and each had a son, an only child. Arthur left school at 16 and, about four years before he could legally drink the product, was duly apprenticed in his turn to learn the trade of brewer at Thwaites. When he made his application to the Home Office, Arthur was 25 years of age, and a fully-qualified brewer. His father had been dead for three years. His mother looked after him and, although she was in robust good health, fretted constantly about the lack of a bride prepared to take her place when her time came.
Arthur’s social life consisted of visits to Ewood Park; the occasional game of crown green bowls during the light summer evenings, a public green being conveniently situated just across the road from the house; and Saturday nights. Saturday night was spent at one or more pubs in the company of his two best friends, Sam Shuttleworth and Terry Pickup. The three young men had been at school together, and Sam now worked alongside Arthur at Thwaites. Terry drove a Blackburn Corporation bus. On Saturdays, when the Rovers were playing at home, they started with an afternoon at Ewood Park, from where they would adjourn to the Anchor Inn for a few pints to celebrate or drown their sorrows, as the case might be. It was during such an early autumn evening in 1957, after a dispiriting loss, that Arthur Ludlow saw the rest of his life staring him in the face from the dregs at the bottom of an empty pint glass. This was it. It was never going to change. He would follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather; work as a brewer all his life as they had; die too young, as they had; live in the same house as they had; marry the same kind of woman as they had; and have nothing to look forward to except watching the Rovers and endless nights spent downing pints with Terry and Sam. Arthur loved and respected his parents and grandparents. He found no fault with their choice of lifestyle in the times in which they had lived. But the world was changing. There were opportunities available which past generations could not have dreamed of. He was in danger of letting them pass him by. He would leave the world having made no impression on it. And it was then that Arthur Ludlow decided that it was not enough; that he had to make some change, that he had to aspire to something more. But however long he gazed into the dregs of his beer, he found no inspiration about what he was looking for, much less how he might go about attaining it.
He drained the glass and walked slowly to the bar. The depressing display at Ewood Park seemed to have sucked the life out of the supporters, and the Anchor Inn was relatively quiet. Only a scattering of blue and white scarves lay desolately on tables in front of groups of men of all ages who were making little conversation.
‘Same again, Arthur?’ the landlord asked.
‘Aye, same again, Joe, thanks.’
‘Where are your mates tonight? Didn’t you go to t’ match?’
Arthur tossed his head back in disgust.
‘Aye, and a right bloody waste of time it were, an’ all. If they get any worse, we’ll be in’t third division before long. Terry and Sam went home for tea. They’ll be in for a pint later, happen.’
Arthur paid for his beer and was about to return to his seat.
‘You can take a look at this while you wait, if you want,’ Joe offered sympathetically, reaching for a copy of the Daily Express he had folded up at the side of the till behind the bar. ‘It might take your mind off t’ Rovers. It’s yesterday’s mind, but still…’
‘Aye, I will, thanks,’ Arthur replied.
He spread the newspaper out on the table and sipped his pint as he scanned stories about politics with little interest. He flipped through the pages quickly. Towards the end of the paper, just before the sports pages, were several pages of official announcements and advertisements for jobs. And there it was.
The Home Office
Additions to the List of Approved Executioners
The Home Office proposes to add a number of names to the list of persons competent to conduct executions. The list is provided to High Sheriffs and Governors of Prisons who are responsible for the carrying out of judgments of execution, and who may invite persons on the list to conduct a particular execution. Selection for the list is by interview and training. Candidates must be persons of exemplary character and in sound health. The Home Secretary wishes to emphasise that any evidence of prurient interest, or disposition towards publicity seeking or sensationalism, will be regarded as disqualifications for the position. Applications in writing should be sent to the address given below, giving full details of the applicant’s educational background and record of employment. Full disclosure must be made of any disability.
Arthur had never thought very much about capital punishment. He had accepted it as a part of British life. To the extent he had ever considered the matter, he approved of it as a form of natural justice. ‘An eye for an eye’ was a lesson which had been drilled into him at chapel every Sunday when he was a child, and he saw no reason to question it. He supposed that there must be men who carried out executions, but it had never before occurred to him to ask who they were, or to imagine that such a position could be applied for. But suddenly, everything became clear. He could be of service to High Sheriffs and Governors. He could occupy a respected position in public service. He could take the first steps towards a different life. He did not, for one moment, doubt his ability to be a hangman, or his temperament for the job.
When Terry and Sam made their way into the bar some forty minutes later, the Daily Express was still open at the announcements page on the table in front of him. Looking up, Arthur smiled brightly.
‘What will it be, lads? A pint of the usual?’
‘I don’t know what you’ve got to be so bloody cheerful about,’ Terry replied. ‘We played like a right bunch of old women.’
‘It’s just a game, Terry,’ Arthur said brightly. ‘Happen we’ll win next week.’
‘Get home,’ Sam said wearily. ‘No bloody chance. Any road, after this afternoon you shouldn’t be looking that happy until you’ve had at least three pints. What’s up? Did somebody die and make you rich?’
Arthur began his walk to the bar.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve made a decision about my future.’
Terry and Sam exchanged looks.
‘Oh, aye?’ Terry said.
‘Aye. I’m going to be t’ public hangman.’
Sam and Terry looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.
‘Get home, you daft bugger,’ Sam said.
‘I bloody am, an’ all,’ Arthur insisted, as he made his way to the bar. ‘You’ll see if I don’t.’
‘Right,’ Terry replied. ‘You’re a grand lad, Arthur. A pint of the usual it is, then.’
22
‘You bloody didn’t,’ Sam said, shaking his head incredulously.
‘I bloody did, an’ all,’ Arthur insisted.
‘Give over, the two of you,’ Terry intervened. ‘You sound like summat’ out of a pantomime.’
‘Well, that’s Sam’s fault for not believing me,’ Arthur replied.
There was a silence. Without taking his eyes off Arthur, Terry took a first sip of his pint.
‘Did you though, Arthur?’
‘Aye.’
Sam snorted before taking a long drink.
‘So what you’re saying is: you answered an advert in the Daily Express to be a hangman; you filled in t’ form; and they asked you to go to London for training.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Just like that?’
‘No, not just like that. I told you. They interview you first. You go to the nearest big prison to be interviewed by the Governor. So I went to Strangeways, you know, in Manchester. Then, if they are satisfied with t’ interview, they might invite you to Pentonville Prison in London for training for a couple of days.’
‘What kinds of things did the Governor ask you?’
Arthur shook his head.
‘All kinds of things. About my education; how I heard about the job; why I was interested in it; did I have any relatives who had applied in the past; was I in good health; had I ever been in trouble with the law; what did I do when I wasn’t working at Thwaites. You would have thought I wanted to work for MI6 or summat.’
‘They wanted to know if there were owt strange about you,’ Terry suggested.
‘We could have bloody told them that,’ Sam said sullenly. ‘No need to go all t’ way to bloody Strangeways.’
‘Well, they can’t be too careful, I suppose,’ Terry said. ‘You can’t have the public hangman running amok and going on t’ rampage, can you? No telling what might happen if he got out of control with a noose in his hand.’
Arthur smiled. ‘Aye, they have to have the right man for the job. They made that clear enough. Any road, when I came out of the interview, I had no idea how it had gone, really. But a couple of weeks later, they said I should come to London for the training.’
‘What were it like, the training? Did you actually hang anyone?’ Terry asked.
‘Get home, you daft bugger,’ Sam replied. ‘They wouldn’t let you do that while you were training… at least I bloody hope not. Would they?’
‘No,’ Arthur said. ‘Of course not. No, you have to wait after the training. If they think you can do it, they put you on the list, and then you can act as assistant to the chief executioner. You do that a lot before they put you in charge of an execution yourself.’
‘I should bloody hope so, an’ all.’ Sam muttered, raising his pint to his lips.
23
1964
13 April
Ben walked briskly across Market Square to the Huntingdon Town Hall. He paused briefly and took a deep breath before entering the building and making his way across the small entrance hall to the conference room. He had asked Barratt Davis and Jess Farrar to go on ahead of him after a hasty breakfast in the George Hotel, where they had each taken a room for the duration of the trial of Ignatius Little. He wanted to sit quietly for a while in the hotel lounge, re-reading his notes, going over the case in his mind, trying to bring his nerves under control. His first jury trial at the Old Bailey had been a case of rape. Ben, thrust into it as a pupil, had secured his client’s acquittal, earning praise from all concerned, including the judge; but it had been a nerve-wracking experience, and its memory lingered. Since then there had been one or two short trials, for house-breaking and receiving stolen goods; the defendants had long records and little to hope for, and the trials had been far less stressful. The memory had receded. Now, the prospect of defending against his former pupil-master, in a case in which the stakes were high, had brought the bad memories back into sharp focus. He needed a few minutes alone with his thoughts.
In the conference room he shook hands with Ignatius Little, and tried to assess his mood. The vicar was understandably nervous, but Ben did not sense any resignation or any hint of the kind of near-paralysis which afflicted some clients at the beginning of a trial. He was smartly dressed in a dark grey suit, with a pale green tie, borrowed from Barratt Davis for the occasion.
Little had wanted to wear his clerical collar throughout the trial, but Ben had forbidden it.
‘It’s too assertive,’ he had cautioned. ‘And it will attract some awkward questions from the prosecution. Let’s not forget that you are suspended from exercising your ministry at present.’
Ben left the conference room to find Gareth Morgan-Davies. Barratt followed him into the hall, touched his arm as he turned towards the robing room, and walked a few steps with him.
‘Jess talked with Joan Heppenstall this morning,’ he said confidentially. ‘She is willing to come in case we need her to give evidence. She understands that it will be your decision whether to call her or not, but she felt she owed it to Mr Little to be here. I told her she would not be needed until tomorrow, so she is taking a train from York later this afternoon. Jess will pick her up from Peterborough station and take her straight to the George. We have a room booked for her. There’s no need for her to see him before she comes to court. We don’t want her deciding it was all a terrible mistake and jumping on the first train back to York.’
Ben nodded.
‘Good. We will see how it goes. Hopefully Jess will get a sense of how she is feeling towards him. She’s a calculated risk, but we may need her, especially if he wobbles in cross-examination. What about the character witnesses from the Diocese?’
‘Also booked for tomorrow. John Singer is in charge of getting them here. He has two or three possible witnesses lined up, led by a Canon, no less – the ecclesiastical sort, I mean, not the kind they used at Balaclava. John promised to let me have proofs of evidence from them all this afternoon.’
‘We don’t want to overdo it,’ Ben said. ‘I will call the Canon, and perhaps one other, depending on how it goes, but that’s it. We don’t want the jury to think the Diocese is mounting its own defence rather than Little’s.’
In the robing room Ben found Gareth Morgan-Davies, already in wing collar and bands, his gown and wig laid casually on the table in front of him. His white-ribboned prosecution brief lay unopened on top of a blue notebook nearby.
‘Good morning, Gareth,’ Ben said, as brightly as he could manage, hoping that he sounded more con
fident than he felt. ‘You look cheerful.’
‘I am extremely cheerful,’ Gareth replied. ‘Another Five Nations under our belt this year, marred only by the fact that we could only draw with England and had to rely on the Scots to beat them for us. But Wales is on top once again.’
‘Congratulations,’ Ben smiled. ‘I hope the result was celebrated in suitable style.’
‘Of course,’ Gareth replied. ‘Speaking of which, your lot are not doing too bad, are they? Aren’t you in the Cup Final?’
‘We are,’ Ben said, ‘against Preston North End. We have high hopes.’
‘Good. Now, to business. Any last-minute change of heart by the vicar? I would still be glad to put in a good word to the court if young Raymond doesn’t have to give evidence.’
Ben shook his head.
‘Sorry, Gareth. But there is still time for the prosecution to confess its error and allow this good man of the cloth to leave the court without a stain on his character.’
Gareth picked up his pack of Dunhills and a box of matches from the desk, selected a cigarette, lit it, and drew on it thoughtfully.
‘Ah, so we are still some distance apart, then?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Well, so be it. Look, Ben, I will call Raymond first as soon as I have opened the case. I am going to ask them to close the court to the public during his evidence. I’m not entitled to that. It is a matter of discretion for the court. It is a public trial. But…’
‘I won’t oppose the application,’ Ben replied immediately.
Gareth nodded. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘And we can take a break before cross-examination. If you want, we could even leave it until after lunch.’
‘No need. He may need a short break, but on the whole it is probably best for him to get it all over and done with as soon as possible. I will call his parents next, father first. Mother can take him out for something nice to eat until his father has finished, and then they can take him home.’
