The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5) Read online

  I admit his earnestness impressed me. I was at a loss how to respond. ‘Very well,’ was all I could manage, although I wondered if I were rash to promise it.

  It was all he wanted to hear.

  ‘So, begin,’ he ordered and pushed towards me a sheet of paper, a pot of ink and a pen lying in readiness – I now realised – for this purpose. ‘I, James Mills, being of sound mind and aware I go to meet my Maker in the morning, declare—’ He stopped suddenly and frowned. ‘There must be a witness. Have the warder come in.’

  The warder was duly summoned from where he waited outside the door. I think he had been listening at the grille because his face betrayed eager curiosity when he entered.

  ‘On the late afternoon of the fifteenth of June, eighteen fifty-two, I was returning alone, on horseback, from a business visit at Putney,’ Mills continued. ‘It was a Tuesday. You see, the date is fixed in my memory! I was riding across the heath. It can be a lonely place. The criminal element that used to be a feature of it still hadn’t entirely forsaken it sixteen years ago; so I had my eyes well open for thieves and vagabonds. Yet, in good weather, there are usually enough respectable people out there, taking exercise, or travelling across it as I was. Earlier, on my way to make my visit, I had even seen a drover herding cattle towards the metropolis for slaughter at Smithfield. But June is a fickle month. On that day it had been sultry and airless. Then, as I set out for home, and as bad luck would have it, a sudden summer storm blew up. The skies opened, sending down heavy rain, accompanied by a strong wind and great rolling claps of thunder. The heath was deserted. Any other travellers had been forced to seek shelter, and I knew I must do the same. It was all I could do to control my frightened horse. A clump of trees not too far away offered the nearest sanctuary and I turned towards it.

  ‘It proved a small coppice. I dismounted at the edge and led my horse forward under the branches. They did little to shield the pair of us. I then realised that there was a house nearby, just ahead of me, beyond the trees. I tied my horse to a suitable branch and set out on foot towards the place, hoping it would prove to be an inn, as I calculated I wasn’t far from the Portsmouth road. If so, I could retrieve my poor beast and the pair of us would find shelter. But it was a private house, of a style that suggested the earlier part of the last century. The eaves came down low and the windows were small. Smoke came from a chimney in fitful bursts when the rain didn’t go straight down and must almost have quenched the fire below. The sky was dark – not because it was late but because of the weather – and all around gloomy. A lamp had been lit in a room on the ground floor. I approached and first thumped the knocker on the main entrance. But no one came and I supposed that, with the noise of the storm, no one within could hear me. So I made my way towards the lighted window and peered in.’

  ‘You must wait a moment and allow me to catch up,’ I requested. I had been scribbling as fast as I could but the candlelight was poor and the ink badly mixed. There was a risk I’d obscure half the narrative with blots.

  Mills listened as I read back to him what I’d written down so far. He nodded to express his satisfaction.

  The warder, called to witness the account, was breathing heavily and quite fascinated.

  ‘I looked into a small sitting room, with a low ceiling and open beams across in the old style. It was comfortably furnished. I remember a grandfather clock stood against the wall to my right. There was a fire burning in the hearth.’

  ‘A thunderstorm,’ I interrupted, ‘usually follows hot, sultry weather such as you mentioned prevailing before the rain poured down. Yet there was a fire?’

  ‘I only report what I saw!’ Mills replied testily. ‘Yes, a fire. The rain was indeed finding its way down the chimney and the flames flickered, growing taller, then falling back almost to nothing. Remember, please, the fire was not the only source of light. There was an oil lamp, too, on a small table. The glow of that was what had attracted me from outside. Believe me, I could make out everything within quite clearly. That is important. I saw what I saw and did not imagine it.’

  ‘Then what did you see?’ I asked. ‘If you don’t cut it short, I’ll run out of paper.’ But despite my sharp words I had been drawn into his tale already. I felt myself on that windswept heath. I heard the hiss of the rain pattering on to the parched soil and pressed my face to the wet panes of the window. What could he have seen so dreadful that he could not face death without unburdening his mind of it?

  Mills appeared unperturbed by my impatience. He knew he had hooked his fish – me – and was reeling him in.

  ‘I could see an elderly gentleman slumbering in a chair. He had white hair and there was a cane leaning against the arm of the chair. The fire had no doubt been lit on his account. I tapped with little hope of awakening him. Then, as I debated what to do, the door of the room suddenly opened and a young woman came in. I had been hoping someone would arrive, perhaps a maidservant to tend the fire. But this was a young lady. She was no servant, I am sure of it. She was a handsome girl, perhaps twenty years old, in a gown of some dark colour, mauve or purplish. It had a lace collar and cuffs. Her hair was dressed in ringlets, much a fashion at that time, as you may yourself recall. She stood for a moment in the open doorway looking at the sleeping old gentleman. Then she went towards the hearth.

  ‘Perhaps she had come to see how the fire did. But when she got there, she stood before the old fellow’s chair for a minute or two, staring down at him. Believe me, Ross, there was no concern or affection on her face. Her expression was bitter. It both surprised and shocked me. Nevertheless, the rain was trickling down my neck in a most unpleasant manner, so I raised my hand again to knock at the windowpane. I hoped my sudden appearance, as a face peering in, wouldn’t alarm her. If she screamed, then the old man would wake up with a start and there would be such a to-do. However, before I could knock, she moved in a sudden and determined manner as if her mind were made up. She went to another chair nearby and picked up a cushion. I thought she meant to make the old fellow more comfortable and stayed my hand to allow her time to do it. That was my unwitting mistake.’

  Mills paused. The warder’s hoarse breath seemed unnaturally loud. I wrote out the last few words and nodded at him to signal he should go on.

  ‘She placed the cushion upon the old man’s face,’ Mills said bleakly, ‘in a most deliberate and careful manner, and smothered him.’

  ‘Strewth . . .’ croaked the warder.

  ‘You are certain of this?’ I demanded.

  ‘As certain as I am that the hangman is practising his knots, even as we speak. She held the cushion down with both hands, eventually picking it up again and bending over him to see if he still breathed. She even stretched out her bare palm and held it before his nose and mouth, to feel if there were yet breath.’

  ‘He did not resist?’

  ‘I doubt he knew what was happening. He started and put up his hands when she first pressed down the cushion. He made a feeble gesture or two, and then it was over.’

  ‘And you? You did nothing to prevent this?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I was quite frozen with the horror of it. Besides, how could I have done anything? I was outside in the storm.’

  ‘You could have shouted, struck the window as forcefully as you could, broken it if necessary.’

  Mills waved his hand irritably. ‘Yes, yes, all this is very well and spoken after the event. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. But it was so unexpected, so sudden, and so quick . . . It was the very last thing in the world I might have anticipated. You don’t walk up to a respectable house prepared to see murder done! I would have signalled my presence urgently, as you describe, had I the slightest inkling of her intention.’

  I nodded to show I accepted the point he’d made. Mills took a deep breath. ‘Satisfied the work was done, she walked quickly out of the room. She had left the door open on her entry, but now she closed it behind her. Her victim was alone, but for the spectator of it all, myself, still
pressed against the wet windowpane as if frozen to it. The old fellow’s head lolled sideways. One arm dropped down by the side of the chair, dislodging the cane propped there. He was lifeless, Ross, and I was in a pretty fix.’

  ‘You could have gone back to your horse, remounted, and ridden to the next habitation to raise the alarm.’

  ‘I intended that, I swear. I ran back to where I’d left my horse, dragged the wretched beast from what little shelter he’d enjoyed and scrambled into the saddle. But I had become disoriented in the storm, in seeking shelter, by the shock of what I’d witnessed . . . I must have ridden in circles and eventually, when I did make a straight line, I found myself almost at the river before I saw the tower of the St Mary’s church, shops and houses.’

  ‘Where you could still have raised the alarm or sought out the authorities.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Ross. As I rode, I had had time to reflect on what might happen if I raised a hue and cry. To begin with, a number of well-to-do folk have houses in the area and they don’t want to be troubled with anything so unpleasant as murder! So it would not be an easy thing to knock on a door and tell someone. I was not sure where to turn.’

  ‘To the Metropolitan Police!’ I snapped. ‘I accept you may not have found an officer to hand in Putney. But, for pity’s sake, man, you had reached the bridge! You had but to ride across it and report what you’d witnessed to the first officer you saw.’

  ‘You make it sound simple,’ Mills said angrily. ‘Let us say I found a constable – on either side of the bridge. There would still be questions, delays. I would be asked to return to the scene of the crime with the officers. I couldn’t be certain of finding it again at once. They might think I was leading them on a fool’s errand. If we found the house – and the old fellow lying dead – what then? More questions. More delay. Suppose they asked my business acquaintance at Putney to vouch for me? Eventually the whole wretched affair would find its way into the newspapers and what a time the reporters would have! They’d camp out on my doorstep demanding my eyewitness account. I couldn’t allow that. The business matter I’d attended at Putney was of a very delicate nature. I – I could not admit to being there.’

  The warder and I exchanged glances. We were of a mind, I fancy. It had not been a business visit that had taken Mills to Putney, but an amorous one. He seemed always to have had an eye for a pretty woman. The lady he’d visited in Putney had no doubt been married, quite possibly to someone of consequence. Mills’s remark about wealthy people having homes in the area, and not wanting to hear of murder, had been made with one particular household in mind.

  As if he could read my mind, Mills said defiantly: ‘The old man was dead. I couldn’t bring him back to life. I had to think of my own circumstances . . .’

  ‘And you now wish me to investigate a murder that took place sixteen years ago? The gentleman’s death was perhaps subject to inquiry at the time.’

  He shook his head. ‘I kept a close eye on the newspapers for some time afterward. Such a case, had it been investigated, would have been closely followed by the press, for obvious reasons. The old fellow’s death must have been declared due to natural causes – of whatever kind – and this stated on the death certificate.’

  ‘All the more difficult to investigate it now!’ I pointed out. ‘The news may not have reached the press and the absence of a report doesn’t necessarily tell us anything. But let us say a professional man – a doctor or a coroner – ruled upon the death at the time. This is quite possible. Then he must, if he is still alive, be prepared to admit he made a mistake, or could have made a mistake. Why should he? What if he insists there was no error? It is far too late in the day to dig up the body, even if an order could be obtained. Most of all, after so long, who is there to care?’

  Mills’s smile this time was positively wolfish. ‘I thought, my dear Ross, the police cared.’

  I sighed. ‘Have you the address of this house?’

  ‘Of course I don’t!’ he fairly shouted at me. ‘It was in the middle of Putney Heath. It was near a sizeable coppice. It was built, I’d guess, a hundred and twenty years ago. I have described it to you as best I can.’

  ‘And you expect me to find it?’

  ‘I have told you the date the death occurred,’ Mills retorted. ‘You know the approximate location. Good heavens, man! You are the detective. Must I direct you? The house was old, and indeed may once have been an inn, but it was certainly by then a gentleman’s home. Perhaps that of a prosperous city businessman, now long retired? At any rate, the room was well furnished. The girl was a young lady . . .’

  The warder burst out laughing. ‘Some young lady, that! What, go smothering an old gent with a cushion?’

  Mills gave him a withering look and turned back to me. ‘I shall sign the document now. You sign it, too, Ross, and this fellow – as witnesses.’ He indicated the warder.

  We all signed.

  ‘Now you can go.’ Mills suddenly sounded tired. ‘I have spoken my piece and cleared my conscience. Now it’s up to you.’

  I got up, folding the statement and tucking it securely into my breast pocket. ‘Is there anything else you would like? A book, perhaps?’

  ‘No, no.’ Mills shook his head. ‘Only, perhaps, more coffee if possible.’ He looked up at me. ‘I do not want to fall asleep,’ he said, ‘not now. I shall be doing that soon enough.’ He paused. ‘Besides, he watches me.’

  ‘I have to watch you!’ said the warder, affronted. ‘It’s my job. Fellows like you try and cheat the hangman.’ Turning to me, he explained, ‘They go banging their heads on the walls or tear up their shirts to make a rope and hang ’emselves if they’re not watched.’

  ‘Not him,’ said Mills to me, pointing at the warder. ‘Him.’ He pointed at the opposite wall.

  ‘Mind gone,’ confided the warder to me in a whisper and tapping his own brow with a grimy forefinger. ‘That happens, too, you know.’

  But I knew whom Mills could see.

  ‘Bring him some more coffee,’ I said to the warder in a low voice and he nodded.

  ‘Oh, Ross!’ Mills’s voice called, as I was about to step out of the cell. I paused and turned. ‘There is one thing about that house. I’ve just remembered. It had a weathervane attached to the chimney. It was whirling round and round in the storm. It was shaped like an animal, a running fox, I fancy, with his brush held straight out behind him.’

  The warder pulled the door shut and locked it. He looked at me inquiringly.

  ‘What about all that then, sir?’

  ‘I must speak with the governor immediately,’ I said.

  ‘Bless you, Mr Ross, the governor’s at home, most likely sitting down to his dinner or enjoying a glass of brandy after it.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I must disturb him. He must be told of this at once, tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed the warder, nodding sagely. ‘It will be that.’

  Chapter Two

  THE GOVERNOR was indeed at home and, as if my disturbing him there at this late hour were not embarrassing enough, he was sitting with guests at dinner. They had reached the stage where the ladies had retired to gossip and the gentlemen were relaxing with the port and cigars. That’s when I arrived, dishevelled and demanding to speak to him. Give the man his due; he agreed to see me in his study for ten minutes.

  So there he sat before me, in his gleaming starched white shirtfront and cuffs and immaculate black tailcoat, his face red from good food and good wine, and from the luxury of a fire lit on a cool September evening. An aroma of cigar smoke wafted around him. I was put in mind of Charles Dickens’s yarn, A Christmas Carol, a favourite read of my wife, Lizzie. It was not the time of year and there was no holly wreathing the man’s brow, but in all other ways I could not but think of the ghost of Christmas Present.

  And there was I, the ghosts of Christmas Past and Future rolled into one, speaking of old murder and soon-to-be-execution.

  He heard m
e out, took Mills’s statement, read it through. Then he put it down with a sigh. ‘My dear chap,’ he said, ‘you appear to have had a most difficult evening. Will you take a glass of brandy?’

  ‘You are too kind,’ I told him ruefully, ‘but I must decline. I shall arrive home late enough without doing it smelling of brandy.’

  He chuckled. ‘Now, see here, Inspector Ross. You were quite right to bring this to my attention. But I do urge you now to go home to your wife, your much-delayed dinner and your bed. Put this whole matter out of your mind. Frankly, there is nothing to be done.’

  ‘Mills should be questioned again in the morning,’ I protested. ‘Taken under secure guard to Putney to help us locate the house . . .’

  The governor waved a well-manicured hand. ‘My dear fellow, there is no house. There was no murder witnessed through a window. What is it good Dr Johnson said? That when man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully? It certainly seems to have inspired Mills’s imagination.’

  I uttered a yelp of protest.

  He shook his head at me. ‘See here, Ross, this prisoner, Mills, is to be hanged as soon as this coming morning. He may have been able to put on a good show till now, hiding any fears. But now the moment has almost come. Reality has concentrated his mind. He is prepared to do anything to delay the dreadful event. To gain a few hours, a few days . . . It may seem little enough, but not to a man in his circumstances.

  ‘Let us suppose,’ he continued, ‘that, instead of making this declaration in the condemned cell, Mills had walked, as a free man with clean hands, into the nearest police station sixteen years ago and reported what he now claims to have seen at Putney. Even then, surely you will agree, that the first thing any police officer would do would be to establish what kind of man had made such a strange and serious accusation? In short, is the witness credible? Is he of good character? Respected and successful in his business? Has he a clear head? Is he likely to speak or act wildly? Only if they thought there was some reason to believe him – and not take him for drunk or mad or acting from malice – only then would police resources and public money be spent on an investigation. Am I not correct?’