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Authors: John MacLachlan Gray

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New Oxford Street
As noted previously, the creation of dismal New Oxford Street bisected the great rookery, thereby doubling the population of the remaining half, while leaving the Duke of Bedford £114,000 to the good. New Oxford Street also had the inadvertent effect of re-establishing St Giles Church as the principal gateway to the Holy Land, a sort of interregnum between one world and the next.
St Giles is well equipped for this responsibility. There has been a house of prayer on this site since 1101, when Queen Matilda founded a leper hospital, whose chapel became the parish church. As well, convicts on their final passage to Tyburn for execution were traditionally permitted to stop at the Angel next door, to be presented with a St Giles’ bowl of ale, thus to drink a last refreshment before passing out of this life.
How suitable to the memory of Giles, the seventh-century Greek whose insistence on living as a leper outside the walls of the town, and whose own damaged leg, established his patronage of cripples and beggars.
So thinks Whitty, loitering in the doorway of an abandoned shop on New Oxford Street, having followed the elegantly clad figure from Regent Street to Oxford Circus, thence to St Giles High Street, and to this church, with its spire thirty fathoms high and its reeking churchyard in which lies the poet Marvell, who employed the grave as an inducement to his coy mistress, and now experiences the truth of his contention at length.
After William Ryan alighted from the hansom and disappeared through the front entrance of the Grove of the Evangelist, his former travelling companion did not order the driver to take him home; rather, he took to the street himself and settled into a bush for a sleepless night of watching; which exercise has continued ever since, for it is not in Whitty’s nature to let go of a narrative, whether it be of any use to him or not.
Hence, he proceeded to follow Mr Ryan at a distance wherever he chose to travel, over the course of nearly a week: to his tailor, to his tobacconist, to the various places of high living available to a
vindicated murderer with a generous mistress. Impressive, thinks Whitty, the quickness and ease with which a man will create an agreeable daily ritual, then follow it to the point of religion.
In the meanwhile, over the course of his sleepless wandering, Whitty has gained an appreciation of the sartorial difficulties presented by outdoor living – how the poor come to appear in such a bedraggled state. Lurking in the shadows as Mr Ryan’s observer, wrapped as a blanket against the cold, Whitty’s fine green overcoat has deteriorated to the point where he may never again wear it in public. In addition, he now appreciates the importance of tobacco to ease the pangs of hunger and maintain wakefulness – and, of course, a drop or two of gin.
To be deceived so thoroughly! For Whitty this is not to be borne. If he cannot come to some understanding of what happened and how, it is an open question whether he will ever trust his instinct again. For when a writer’s pride in instinct is pricked, the spirit literally splits in two, into the prosecution and the accused, the executioner and the condemned.
The evening fog has just begun to settle as Whitty retreats into a corner of the doorway, the better to render himself inconspicuous to his quarry – which action proves unnecessary in any case, for the correspondent’s deteriorated condition renders him virtually invisible to passers-by.
William Ryan, for his part, wearing a dove-grey coat and matching top hat, spotless linen and a twice-around neck-cloth of blue silk (the current custom), cuts a figure which is the very essence of suave civility. With not so much as a glance at the figure in the doorway, he traverses the walkway, opens the heavy door of the church and disappears within.
The time approaches eight o’clock – or so says the clock. One never knows with church clocks, in this temporal era.
Having sharpened his concentration with a pinch of snuff, Whitty crosses the street and passes through the gate, noting the tableau overhead in which our Lord and Saviour presides over a tangle of human bodies, some playing harps and horns, others opening their clothes to reveal breasts of bone, all rising from their graves.
This is Resurrection Gate, through which coffins are carried to service. How appropriate.
Upon entering the church foyer he hears the unmistakable sound of a workman effecting repairs to a piece of wooden furniture. Upon entering the nave, he understands a great deal.
The pulpit, to the left of the altar, is enormous, made of mahogany, constructed as a tower from which the spiritual leader, standing at the lectern on a Sunday, hovers above the congregation, having reached his perch by a winding stair.
This stairway contains two landings: at the second landing Whitty observes William Ryan, having taken off his fine grey coat, lit by the dappled light afforded by the stained-glass windows above, in the act of removing one of several carved wooden panels, fitted into frames and concealing the interior structure; this particular panel is held in place, not by pegs like the others, but by means of a piece of leather, attached on the inside and acting as a kind of hinge. After peering inside, Ryan reaches underneath the second landing and removes a canvas satchel which has been lodged there, brushing off a light coating of dust.
‘Good evening, Mr Ryan. I trust you found your blood money without difficulty?’
Having recognized the voice, William Ryan squints in the direction of the man standing in the shadows next to the rear pew. ‘And a good evening to you, Mr Whitty, Sir. You’ve arrived a bit late, I’m afraid.’
‘Late for what, Sir?’
‘Having ascertained the hiding place from Mr Hollow, clearly you were after the prize. I am sorry to have outrun you.’
‘Not at all, Mr Ryan. I learned nothing from Mr Hollow. You are welcome to the money, and welcome to go to Hell.’
‘Whitty, allow me to warn you not to trouble me nor my wife-to-be, as we prepare for our journey. I wish you well, Sir, as long as you do not present a threat or inconvenience. If such is the case, it would give me some satisfaction to reveal the full particulars, about the correspondent who freed a murderer in return for a saleable narrative – and a share in the spoils.’
‘Speaking of which, you will wish to safeguard the contents of your satchel, Sir. This is not a good neighbourhood through which to transport a large amount of money.’
‘Save your concern for your own money, Mr Whitty. I shall manage.’
Unwilling to put down the satchel even for a moment, William Ryan shrugs his dappled coat awkwardly over one shoulder and proceeds down the aisle.
‘By the way, Mr Ryan, I congratulate you on your fine suit of clothes. Especially the scarf – from Forbes, is it not?’
‘Right you are, Sir. You have an eye for haberdashery.’
‘I should have thought you would have purchased your scarf from Poole’s.’
Ryan pauses at the top of the steps to regard the correspondent, with the aspect of a tolerant man whose patience has reached its limit.
‘That is enough, Mr Whitty. Having served your purpose, you are becoming a pest. Accordingly, if I hear of you again I promise you a terrific amount of harm – in which effort I have already prepared a document as I have just described, addressed to a Mr Fraser of
Dodd’s,
containing revelations what will put you on the street for good, Sir – if not in transportation.’
‘I am acquainted with Mr Fraser. A good choice for a spot of blackmail.’
‘You know more than I, Mr Whitty, about the power of the press.’
Whereupon William Ryan exits the church, passing through Resurrection Gate, and disappears into the dark emptiness of New Oxford Street.
CORRESPONDENT TO TAKE HIS LEAVE
Mr Edmund Whitty, Special Correspondent
for
The Falcon,
begs to take temporary leave
of his position for reasons of health. In his
absence, he directs the reader’s attention to
the observations of his substitute, the eminent
and highly readable Mr Henry Owler.
The Grove of the Evangelist
Whitty examines Mrs Marlowe’s library. Unusually for this part of London, they are not show-books. All bear signs of use: Milton, Thomas à Kempis, a much-thumbed Keats, Quarle’s
Emblems
, Dante, Schiller, Tupper … The titles suggest a member of a reading set, while the Pre-Raphaelite daub on the wall suggests a Bohemian taste; no doubt the combination reflects the sensibility of the Fashionable Girls’ School, about which much has been said.
‘I compliment you on your library, Madam. Do you propose to transport these volumes to the New World?’
‘No, Sir, I have already read them. Other than the poets, I have no wish to read them again.’
Mrs Marlowe reclines in a divan beside the fire, wearing loose jodhpurs and Belgravia boots, her glorious hair piled atop her head in suitable disarray. On the tea-table is a small yet alarming horsehair whip, with a handle made of glass and brass; next to it is another volume of Keats.
‘I shall not take up a great deal of your time, for I see that I have interrupted you in the course of your studies.’
‘I don’t know why you have come, Mr Whitty, being informed that Mr Ryan is not on the premises.’
‘I have come because it is you whom I wish to visit.’
‘Oh, really? I did not take you for an Eton man.’
‘That is hard, Madam, and I resent the insinuation.’
‘I am a woman most men find of limited interest. Only Mr Ryan has ever valued me for myself. For what purpose do you wish to see me?’
‘In the interests of my own peace of mind, Madam, such as it is, not to mention your security and happiness.’
‘I am flabbergasted, Sir, by the depth of your concern.’
‘Mrs Marlowe, let us be candid: I don’t expect you to pay the slightest attention to what I am about to say. None the less, it is my duty to inform you that your husband-to-be is a murderer and a thief, though not necessarily in that order.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Whitty, but are you delirious? You seem to be in the throes of a fever. And your appearance, Sir! Had Mrs Button not
recognized you at the door, my footman would have turned you away.’
‘I agree, Madam, that I am not looking my best at this moment. None the less, I have something of value to offer.’ So saying, the correspondent produces a sheaf of paper, folded into a packet.
‘What is that, Sir?’
‘It is a narrative. An alternative narrative.’
‘Alternative to what, Mr Whitty?’
‘To the narrative advanced by Mr Ryan, which you have purchased with your future.’
‘And which narrative is the true one, Sir?’
‘I should leave that for you to decide, Madam, if indeed it matters to you. In any case there is some doggerel included which will amuse you.’
Now I lay in Newgate Gaol
As Chokee Bill to die;
Though doomed to Hell I cannot fail
To apprehend a lie,
One fiend to wear a hemp cravat,
Which the other fits;
One fiend hangs for murder that
The other fiend commits …
‘I do not wish to read it, Sir. It is not a verse form which interests me, therefore I shall not take it. Mr Ryan warned me that you might appear with fantastic claims, displaying indications of dementia – the result of a shock to the system, compounded by overindulgence.’
Whitty shrugs, returning the packet to his coat pocket. ‘As you wish, Madam. You are, it is plain to see, a shrewd woman with a hard-earned knowledge of the world, who will not be made an easy victim. As such, I suggest that you know a brutal and deceptive man when you meet one. Should you, in your travels with Mr Ryan, encounter a curiously large amount of money in his possession, or an unaccountable streak of brutality in his manner – think on me, Mrs Marlowe. Think on the events which have taken place in recent weeks, and use your best judgement, and decide who has been your friend. And now, Madam, please allow me to bid you a very good-day.’
‘And to you, Mr Whitty.’
They rise in unison. Mrs Marlowe takes the little whip from the table in her strong white fingers. Her hand trembles, but quickly regains its poise.
Whitty crosses to the door, stops, and turns as though an afterthought has occurred to him: ‘By the by, Madam, I wonder if you might
allow me to present you with this.’ So saying, he produces the scarf, an expensive scarf made of silk, which has been cruelly twisted and soiled.
‘What is that, Sir? And why should I want it?’
‘It is a very fine scarf, I assure you. It came from Forbes.’ Indeed, the correspondent bought it from that establishment this morning, and a pretty price it was, too.
‘Goodbye, Mr Whitty. Perhaps my husband-to-be will have use of it.’
‘For your sake, Madam, I sincerely hope not.’
So saying, Whitty exits the room, leaving the scarf on the table, coiled like a worm.
The dark woman with the peculiar scar awaits him in the foyer. Without doubt she has been listening in on the proceedings in the sitting-room.
Whitty executes a small bow. ‘Good-day, Mrs Button. May I assume that you will be accompanying your employer to the New World?’
‘Yes, Sir. I shall accompany my mistress wherever she goes.’
‘In that case I must bid you goodbye as well. I expect we shall not meet again.’
‘I expect not, Sir. It is a big ocean.’
‘In which case, may I have permission to ask a personal question?’
‘You may, Sir, though I do not guarantee an answer.’
‘It is about your injury, Madam.’
‘Do you mean my scar?’ She touches with one finger the deep red welt, as though to be assured of its existence.
‘Yes.’ Whitty is working on instinct, drawing upon a part of the mind not usually accessed without medication.
‘A certain gentleman caused it while of unsound mind. For my mistress’s sake, I shall not tell you who he was, nor what happened to him.’
‘Mrs Button, you have been graciously forthcoming. As a token of my thanks, might you find a use for reading material on your way to America?’
‘That is possible, Sir. While at sea, the time does weigh heavily upon one’s hands.’
‘Then I beg you to accept this trifle, with my compliments.’ So saying, he removes the packet from his pocket.
‘Thank you, Sir. I shall read it with interest.’
‘See that you take care of your mistress, should she have need of you.’
‘Do not worry yourself with that, Sir. I always take excellent care of my mistress.’
THE MURDERER’S CELL, NEWGATE:
AN UNUSUAL INCIDENT
by
Henry Owler
Special Correspondent
The Falcon
Mr Robert Dow, merchant-tailor, deceased 1612, in his Will did charge the sexton of St Sepulchre’s that he should pronounce two exhortations to the person condemned, and ring the bell while the prisoner was carted past the church, for which service was left the sum of 26s. 8d., for ever.
Furthermore, an exhortation was to be pronounced to the condemned on the night before his death, as follows:
You prisoner within, who, for wickedness and sin, after many mercies shown, are now appointed to die tomorrow, give ear and understand that the great bell of St Sepulchre’s shall toll for you, to which end that all goodly people, hearing that bell, knowing it is for your death, may be stirred up heartily to pray to God. Therefore I beseech you to keep this night in watching and prayer for the salvation of your soul, while there is yet time and place for mercy, knowing tomorrow you must sit at the judgement-seat of your Creator, there to give an account of all things done in this life, and to suffer eternal torments for your sins committed against Him, unless through your hearty repentance you find mercy through the merits, death and passion of your only mediator and advocate, Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God to make intercession for those who penitentially return to Him.
Lord have mercy upon you!
Christ have mercy upon you!
Lord have mercy upon you!
Christ have mercy upon you!
It may come as an astonishment to the Reader that every word of the above pronouncement is distinctly heard by him to whom it is directed – through air choked with smoke and fog and through a succession of stone walls six feet thick – as though it were spoken in the next room. Such is the power of the Word over the constructions of human hands.
Your correspondent (in the absence of Mr Whitty, who is in recuperation) can attest to this, having spent the longest night of his life in the presence of the condemned man Walter Sewell, otherwise known as the True Chokee Bill, the Fiend in Human Form.
Surprising, the honours and trials which accrue unexpectedly to a man – being in this case the opportunity afforded to your correspondent of playing a raven’s role, to perch o’ertop a condemned man’s shoulder during the last hours of his life. It is by no means clear how this doubtful privilege came to pass, for the harm he has done to your correspondent, and to persons near and dear to him, would indicate otherwise. Conceivably, the condemned man saw in some action of your correspondent an inadvertent trace of human decency which, when communicated, had the effect of quelling a throng of citizens enraged by the enormity of his crimes. In no wise did your correspondent intentionally effect such a thing, who would gladly have watched the man cut into pieces and thrown into the sea.
And yet, in keeping with the right, accorded a condemned man, of a single visitation, an invitation was sent and received. Should your correspondent have refused it, the man would needs have passed the night alone, the night before he meets Our Blessed Saviour. Therefore, out of an obligation to honour the last request of even such a beast as this, and an offer from
The Falcon
to publish our observations, your correspondent acceded to the prospect of passing the night in the condemned cell of Newgate Gaol, in company with the True Fiend in Human Form.
In spite of the reek of the prison generally, the corridor leading to the condemned cell, although dimly lit, exudes a sanitary air, in keeping with a terminology in which the man about to die becomes the ‘patient’, and the execution becomes the ‘file’. Outside the condemned man’s quarters stands a warden – a muscular, experienced, yet kindly man who presents the welcoming gaze of a doorman.
‘What is your business, Sir?’ he asks.
‘As you shall have been informed, Warden, I have been invited to write upon the file forthcoming.’
‘Ah, yes, Sir. From
The Falcon.
You are indeed expected – though I am afraid you will gain little from the patient. Please to enter and see for yourself.’
The turnkey opens the door to the cell and we step inside a room which was built as for a monastery, without decoration save for a crucifix on one wall and a table containing a Testament, soiled and torn by use. Seemingly in defiance of the ruminative cast to the
décor
was the sound emanating from within: not a Sorrowful Lamentation, not a Defiance in the Face of Doom, but the incoherent, infantile, primitive wail of a terrified man.
Is it right to speak of cowardice at such a time and circumstance? Or has the word outworn its usefulness in the privileged world from which he has descended? In a world of comfort, is there honour to be gained in the defiance, or at any rate the stoic acceptance, of suffering and death? Or do the quality find honour in most conspicuously cringing from such? Your correspondent does not know, Dear Reader, if he ever did.
All the same, your correspondent took his place on the one available stool and, in the absence of a cushion, leaned his back against the stony wall, while the condemned man wept in the bed opposite. In the meanwhile, the bells of St Sepulchre rang their tribute: the message was spoken, and was heard.
I do not know for how long I sat across the room from the patient, curled like a newborn on his cot, a moist package of blubbering flesh, alternately gasping for breath then begging for his mother, then crying out the name of a prominent family forever soiled by his acquaintanceship. While clearly incapacitated by the sheer extremity of his situation, as the dreadful night wore on it became evident that the significance of the evil done by him, the bleak events which had taken place and were yet to take place on account of the Fiend, had entirely escaped his ken – or rather he had escaped them, having flown to some other part of his mind, some other world in which he is innocent; in which, however tormented, he feels the satisfaction of having been wronged, set upon, made the victim of a cruel world. I do not know when the Chaplain arrived, or whether our man did the patient any good, but suspect not.
In any event, there was no speaking with this person. Your correspondent does not know why he was invited, except as a possible diversion from the prospect at hand.
Like the bells of St Sepulchre, outside the walls could be heard, as clearly as though it took place in the next room, the hammering together of the black scaffold (one might expect such frequent usage to merit a permanent facility), the size and shape of a showman’s caravan and with a similar purpose, if we are to judge by the anticipatory cries, the songs, the curses and imprecations, of the audience already gathered.
Especially does a hanging hold fascination for criminals – as an opportunity for boasting, and, in the case of pickpockets, for plying their trade. Older members of this set recall the days when the wretches were hung up in rows, when bets were taken as to which would die basely and which would die well. The spectacle holds yet another benefit for the criminal: now familiar with death, he is thereby equipped to deal with it himself.
When the bell of St Sepulchre first rang, the Fiend heard it – indeed, it roused him to momentary sensibility, for he sat bolt upright of a sudden and cried: ‘One! Seven hours!’
So saying, he fell to his knees and seemed to pray for a very long time – until the next bell, at which he cried: ‘Hark!’ With a cry of despair he left off praying, fell once again upon the cot, and cried bitterly.
Worn with nervous excitement, not to say dismay, your correspondent drifted into an unsettled slumber and fevered dreams, to be awakened by the last bell. Upon opening the eyes it was as though the cell itself had grown smaller, or had been shrouded by an invisible tent containing the sadness within.
Even so, the opening of the cell door and the entrance of the officials came as a fresh shock to the patient – who, amid renewed prayers and imprecations, refused his breakfast, then resisted the attachment of chains with such unexpected force (and an unbecoming degree of squealing), that the warden and turnkeys grew short of breath in restraining him; so that when finally they ushered the patient from the cell, it was unclear whether he was walking of his own accord or being carried – down the stone steps, down the bleak stone passageway, down to the black metal door …
Upon opening the door, the sound is like a wind which roars into the building, then hisses, then roars again, as though coming from one enormous mouth. Before being led outside, the prisoner peers through the doorway – not at the ardent throng of factory-workers and servants, not at the tract- and refreshment-sellers, not at the frock-coated constables manning the low barrier in front of the black-covered scaffold, but at the windows opposite and above, where the quality reside, there to take in the spectacle at £10 per seat.
It seems as though he is searching for a familiar face.
Now his eyes focus upon the presence of the Chaplain before him, prayer book in hand. Now he is conscious of the presence of Mr Calcraft (who will earn a guinea for the morning’s work), standing behind the Chaplain like a parson of lower degree, with his hairless brow and the pockmarks upon his cheeks. Now two helmeted wardens step to either side, take hold of the patient’s arms, and nudge him forward. Thus encouraged, he steps outside – and the sheer size of his audience dawns upon him, while up goes the cry of ‘Hats off!’ followed by a resonating silence. Suddenly he becomes aware of pigeons scattering about as the procession takes its first few steps, across the stones to the waiting scaffold.
And he falls.
Your correspondent has seen such a fall before. When a man falls thus, it is not because he has stumbled. Nor is it the fall of a man who has suddenly grown faint. It is the fall of a man who has fallen out of the world.
Were his hands free, officials would perhaps have seen him clutch his chest – which seemed to bother the patient all night long. In this case, however, his hands being tied and his encounter with death thereby masked, the patient’s abrupt demise occurred unannounced.
The initial response of the wardens was one of simple embarrassment, for such men pride themselves in their ability to maintain the dignity and the drama of the moment. Hence, the response was as though a pair of servants had dropped their trays; hence, they pulled the patient to his feet with a degree of roughness – and in doing so discovered that the man had lost his skeleton, that there was no purchase to be had in lifting, that their efforts resembled an attempt to sustain a long, heavy mattress in a vertical position.
Now the physician emerged from behind the curtain under the scaffold, to ascertain the cause of the delay. Stooping amid the black-coated officials, Mr Mortimer affirmed what the rest of the party, reluctantly, had grasped.
The patient was dead.
Therefore he could not be killed.
It took several minutes for the group to arrive at this self-evident conclusion, during which time the crush of spectators, craning their necks from beyond the circle of constables, made its feelings known with increased vehemence, rising to an extended murderous roar, awful to hear, amid which din the deceased man was dragged back through the black door where the official party could debate their next step, assembled above the prone, lifeless figure of the Fiend in Human Form.
It is surely unnecessary at this point to recall for the Reader the events of five and forty years before, when, having come to witness the execution of Holloway and Hagarty on this site, thirty persons were crushed to death in the crowd.
At length a worried official from the Sheriff appeared through the black door and the roar which poured into the hallway was like a flood. A moment hence, two more constables joined us: the position outside had been made much worse as a result of a group of young men from the country, who, in their eagerness to have an effect on the proceedings, had linked arms and moved toward the scaffold, thereby creating a kind of retracting fence, with the resulting panic within.
Such was the roiling push and pull of alarmed humanity, several persons had already lost their footing and fallen to the ground, thereby placing themselves at risk of being trampled to death. In addition, citizens in attendance on Snow Hill had begun to throw rocks and other objects into the throng, thereby increasing the sense that some kind of attack was underway.
It is not possible for us adequately to narrate how a decision such as the one which subsequently occurred in the stone confines of Newgate Gaol came to pass. Certainly, your correspondent could not quarrel with it – if one was to avoid the senseless loss of innocent life.
Thus it came to pass that the Fiend in Human Form was lifted upright, braced by a night-stick at his back and supported between our two substantial wardens, who carried him across the stones and up the metal steps of the scaffold. And though his feet dragged upon the ground, to the crowd in attendance it did not seem to matter, nor that he seemed unable to stand upright on his own upon the scaffold as the cap was placed over his head; nor that his eyes appeared to stare fixedly in a single place – at the seats rented by the quality. On the contrary, from the moment the condemned man reappeared, the crowd began to lose its fury, to turn docile as a herd of cattle, which proceeded to watch, wide-eyed, as a familiar ritual was played out for their benefit – the reading of scripture,
the shaking of hands, and finally the springing of the trap and the descent of a man; whereupon the doctor beneath seized the legs to ensure the breaking of the patient’s neck, going so far as to reproduce the kick, the tremor and the death spasm, followed by stillness, for realism.

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