Книга - Gallows Thief

Gallows Thief
Bernard Cornwell


1820s Britain: after the wars with France, when unemployment was high and soldiers could be paid off, when the government was desperately afraid of social unrest, any crime was drastically punished and thousands were hung. But one could petition the King and an investigation might ensue…The man in the dark cell in Newgate Prison was due to hang in a week. He had been found guilty of murdering the aristocrat whose portrait he was painting. He claimed to be innocent – but then the hangman had never hung a guilty man, he said. But even in 1820, the Home Secretary could occasionally use his powers to grant mercy if his investigator found cause and Rider Sandman, once of the First Foot Guards, is given the job.Rider Sandman, a hero of Waterloo, has family debts to repay but when his first steps in the investigations produce a sizeable bribe to look the other way, this only arouses his smouldering anger over the condition of England, a country which he and others in Wellington's army had fought to preserve. Stepping between gentlemen's clubs and taverns, talking to aristocrats, fashionable painters, their models, and their mistresses, dodging professional cut-throats and deceptive swordsmen, Sandman uncovers a conspiracy of silence, a group whose proudest boast was that they would do anything for any one of them.Sandman is a wonderful character, as yet undaunted by the sleazy streets, dank jails or the looming scaffold, and uncorrupted by politicians, sneering gentlemen or frightening bruisers, an investigator in the making and a brilliant, but very different, hero for all Bernard Cornwell fans.























Copyright (#u20afc9b5-4e9e-56e7-a87a-b0e45ac90a58)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2001

Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2001

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover images © ClassicStock/Alamy Stock Photo (street scene); Shutterstock.com (texture)

Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007437559

Ebook Edition © June 2010 ISBN: 9780007339518

Version: 2018-10-01




Dedication (#u20afc9b5-4e9e-56e7-a87a-b0e45ac90a58)


For Antonia and Jef


Contents

Cover (#uee4c7677-6f35-54e2-adb0-d72679537b1b)

Title Page (#u6d23e21b-68ca-5c86-8cb7-df9a770bbb6c)

Copyright (#u6f2b7f30-a378-53ca-8e91-ad3f7184b3e1)

Dedication (#u5526fe41-f36b-5d74-b640-386b6ff45217)

Prologue (#u7723ec25-f50f-55ae-87c9-ad9b23ade9d3)

Chapter 1 (#uf959a3fa-fb79-5962-9ff5-adafefbefe97)

Chapter 2 (#u3f321531-8ad6-580c-a7a0-e25f336fc6ea)

Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)



Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)



Read on for an excerpt from Fools and Mortals (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Bernard Cornwell (#litres_trial_promo)



The SHARPE Series (in chronological order) (#litres_trial_promo)

The SHARPE Series (in order of publication) (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#u20afc9b5-4e9e-56e7-a87a-b0e45ac90a58)


Sir Henry Forrest, banker and alderman of the City of London, almost gagged when he entered the Press Yard for the smell was terrible, worse than the reek of the sewer outflows where the Fleet Ditch oozed into the Thames. It was a stink from the cesspits of hell, an eye-watering stench that took a man’s breath away and made Sir Henry take an involuntary step backwards, clap a handkerchief to his nose and hold his breath for fear that he was about to vomit.

Sir Henry’s guide chuckled. ‘I don’t notice the smell no more, sir,’ he said, ‘but I suppose it’s mortal bad in its way, mortal bad. Mind the steps here, sir, do mind ’em.’

Sir Henry gingerly took the handkerchief away and forced himself to speak. ‘Why is it called the Press Yard?’

‘In days gone by, sir, this is where the prisoners was pressed. They was squashed, sir. Weighed down by stones, sir, to persuade them to tell the truth. We don’t do it any longer, sir, more’s the pity, and as a consequence they lies like India rugs, sir, like India rugs.’ The guide, one of the prison’s turnkeys, was a fat man with leather breeches, a stained coat, and a stout billy club. He laughed. ‘There ain’t a guilty man or woman in here, sir, not if you asks them!’

Sir Henry tried to keep his breathing shallow so he would not have to inhale the noxious miasma of ordure, sweat and rot. ‘There is sanitation here?’ he asked.

‘Very up to date, Sir Henry, very up to date. Proper drains in Newgate, sir. We spoils them, we do, but they’re filthy animals, sir, filthy. They fouls their own nest, sir, that’s what they do, they fouls their own nest.’ The turnkey closed and bolted the barred gate by which they had entered the yard. ‘The condemned have the freedom of the Press Yard, sir, during daylight,’ he said, ‘except on high days and holidays like today.’ He grinned, letting Sir Henry know that this was a jest. ‘They has to wait till we’re done, sir, and if you turn to your left you can join Mister Brown and the other gentlemen in the Association Room.’

‘The Association Room?’ Sir Henry enquired.

‘Where the condemned associate, sir, during the daylight hours, sir,’ the turnkey explained, ‘except on high days and holidays like this one is today, sir, and those windows to your left, sir, those are the salt boxes.’

Sir Henry saw at the end of the yard, which was very narrow and long, fifteen barred windows. The windows were small, dark-shadowed and on three floors, and the cells behind those windows were called the salt boxes. He had no idea why they were called that and he did not like to ask in case he encouraged more of the turnkey’s coarse humour, but Sir Henry knew that the fifteen salt boxes were also known as the devil’s waiting rooms and the antechambers of hell. They were Newgate’s condemned cells. A doomed man, his eyes a mere glitter behind the thick bars, stared back at Sir Henry who turned away as the turnkey hauled open the heavy door of the Association Room. ‘Obliged to you, Sir Henry, obliged, I’m sure,’ the turnkey knuckled his forehead as Sir Henry offered him a shilling in thanks for his guidance through the prison’s labyrinthine passages.

Sir Henry stepped into the Association Room where he was greeted by the Keeper, William Brown, a lugubrious man with a bald head and heavy jowls. A stout priest wearing an old-fashioned wig, a cassock, stained surplice and Geneva bands stood smiling unctuously beside the Keeper. ‘Pray allow me to name the Ordinary,’ the Keeper said, ‘the Reverend Doctor Horace Cotton. Sir Henry Forrest.’

Sir Henry took off his hat. ‘Your servant, Doctor Cotton.’

‘At your service, Sir Henry,’ Doctor Cotton responded fulsomely, after offering Sir Henry a deep bow. The Ordinary’s old-fashioned wig was three plump billows of white fleece that framed his whey-coloured face. There was a weeping boil on his left cheek while, as a specific against the prison’s smell, a nosegay was tied around his neck, just above the Geneva bands.

‘Sir Henry,’ the Keeper confided to the prison chaplain, ‘is here on official duty.’

‘Ah!’ Doctor Cotton’s eyes opened wide, suggesting Sir Henry was in for a rare treat. ‘And is this your first such visit?’

‘My first,’ Sir Henry admitted.

‘I am persuaded you will find it edifying, Sir Henry,’ the priest said.

‘Edifying!’ The choice of word struck Sir Henry as inappropriate.

‘Souls have been won for Christ by this experience,’ Doctor Cotton said sternly, ‘won for Christ, indeed!’ He smiled, then bowed obsequiously as the Keeper ushered Sir Henry away to meet the other six guests who had come for the traditional Newgate breakfast. The last of the guests was called Matthew Logan and he needed no introduction, for he and Sir Henry were old friends and, because both were city aldermen, they were considered very distinguished visitors this morning for the Court of Aldermen were the official governors of Newgate Prison. The Keeper and the Ordinary, whose salaries were fixed by the aldermen, pressed coffee on the two men, but both declined and Logan took Sir Henry’s arm and led him to the hearth where they could talk privately beside the smouldering embers and smoking ashes.

‘You’re sure you want to see this through?’ Logan asked his friend solicitously. ‘You look damned pale.’

Sir Henry was a good-looking man, lean, tall and straight-backed with a clever and fastidious face. He was a banker, rich and successful. His hair, prematurely silver for he was only a few days past his fiftieth birthday, gave him a distinguished appearance, yet at that moment, standing in front of the prisoners’ fireplace in the Association Room, he looked old, frail, emaciated and sickly. ‘It’s the early morning, Logan,’ he explained, ‘and I’m never at my shining best this close to dawn.’

‘Quite,’ Logan said, pretending to believe his friend’s explanation, ‘but this ain’t an experience for everyone, though I must say the breakfast afterwards is very good. Devilled kidneys. This is probably my tenth or eleventh visit, and the breakfast has yet to disappoint me. How is Lady Forrest?’

‘Florence keeps well, thank you for asking.’

‘And your daughter?’

‘Eleanor will doubtless survive her troubles,’ Sir Henry said drily. ‘A broken heart has yet to prove fatal.’

‘Except in poets?’

‘Damn poets, Logan,’ Sir Henry said with a smile. He held his hands towards the remnants of the fire that was waiting to be blown back into life. The prisoners had left their cooking pots and cauldrons stacked about its edges and a pile of blackened potato peelings was curled in the ashes. ‘Poor Eleanor,’ Sir Henry said, ‘if it was up to me, Logan, I’d let her marry, but Florence won’t hear of it and I suppose she’s right.’

‘Mothers usually know best about such things,’ Logan said airily, and then the room’s low murmur of conversation died as the guests turned towards a barred door that had opened with a sudden and harsh squeal. For a heartbeat no one appeared in the doorway and it seemed all the guests held their breath, but then, to an audible gasp, a man carrying a stout leather bag stumped into sight. There was nothing about his appearance to explain the gasp. He was burly, red-faced and dressed in brown gaiters, black breeches and a black coat that was buttoned too tightly over his protuberant belly. He respectfully pulled off a shabby brown hat when he saw the waiting gentry, but he offered no greeting and no one in the Association Room acknowledged his arrival.

‘That,’ Logan told Sir Henry under his breath, ‘is Mister James Botting, more familiarly known as Jemmy.’

‘The petitioner?’ Sir Henry asked softly.

‘The very same.’

Sir Henry suppressed a shudder and reminded himself that men should not be judged by their outward appearance, though it was hard not to disapprove of a being as ugly as James Botting, whose raw-beef slab of a face was disfigured by warts, wens and scars. His bald pate was surrounded by a fringe of lank brown hair that fell over his frayed collar and, when he grimaced, which he did every few seconds in a nervous habit, he displayed yellow teeth and shrunken gums. He had big hands which heaved a bench away from a table onto which he slung his leather bag. He unbuckled the bag and, conscious of being watched by the silent visitors, brought out eight coils of thin white cord. He placed the coils on the table where he fussily arranged them so that they were in a neat row and equidistant from each other. Next, and with the air of a conjuror, he took out four white cotton sacks, each about a foot square, that he placed by the coiled lines and last of all, after glancing up to make sure he was still being observed, he produced four heavy ropes made of three-stranded hemp. Each rope looked to be about ten or twelve feet long and each had a noose tied into one end and an eye spliced in the other. James Botting laid the ropes on the table and then stepped back. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said smartly.

‘Oh, Botting!’ William Brown, the Keeper, spoke in a tone which suggested he had only just noticed Botting’s presence. ‘A very good morning to you.’

‘And a nice one it is too, sir,’ Botting said. ‘I feared it might rain, there was such a pain in my elbow joints, but there ain’t a cloud in sight, sir. Still just the four customers today, sir?’

‘Just the four, Botting.’

‘They’ve drawn a good crowd, sir, they have, a very good crowd.’

‘Good, very good,’ the Keeper said vaguely, then returned to his conversation with one of the breakfast guests. Sir Henry looked back to his friend Logan. ‘Does Botting know why we’re here?’

‘I do hope not.’ Logan, a banker like Sir Henry, grimaced. ‘He might botch things if he did.’

‘Botch things?’

‘How better to prove he needs an assistant?’ Logan suggested with a smile.

‘Remind me what we pay him.’

‘Ten shillings and sixpence a week, but there are emoluments. The hand of glory for one, and also the clothes and the ropes.’

‘Emoluments?’ Sir Henry was puzzled.

Logan smiled. ‘We watch the proceedings up to a point, Sir Henry, but then we retire for devilled kidneys and as soon as we’re gone Mister Botting will invite folk onto the scaffold for a touch of the dead man’s hand. It’s supposed to cure warts and I believe he charges one shilling and sixpence for each treatment. And as for the prisoners’ clothes and the killing ropes? He sells the clothes to Madame Tussaud if she wants them, and if not then the clothes are sold as keepsakes and the rope is cut into fragments that are usually hawked about the streets. Believe me, Mister Botting does not suffer from penury. I’ve often thought we ought to offer the job of hangman to the highest bidder instead of paying the wretch a salary.’

Sir Henry turned to look at Botting’s ravaged face. ‘The hand of glory doesn’t seem to work on the hangman though, does it?’

‘Not a pretty sight, is he?’ Logan agreed with a smile, then he held up his hand. ‘Hear it?’

Sir Henry could hear a clanking sound. The room had fallen silent again and he felt a kind of chill dread. He also despised himself for the prurience that had persuaded him to come to this breakfast, then he shuddered as the door from the Press Yard opened.

Another turnkey came into the room. He knuckled his forehead to the Keeper, then stood beside a low slab of timber that squatted on the floor. The turnkey held a stout hammer and Sir Henry wondered what its purpose was, but he did not like to ask, and then the guests closest to the door hauled off their hats because the Sheriff and Under-Sheriff had appeared in the doorway and were ushering the prisoners into the Association Room. There were four of them, three men and a young woman. The latter was scarce more than a girl and had a pinched, pale and frightened face.

‘Brandy, sir?’ One of the Keeper’s servants appeared beside Matthew Logan and Sir Henry.

‘Thank you,’ Logan said, and took two of the beakers. He handed one to Sir Henry. ‘It’s bad brandy,’ he said under his breath, ‘but a good precaution. Settles the stomach, eh?’

The prison bell suddenly began to toll. The girl twitched at the sound, then the turnkey with the hammer ordered her to put a foot onto the wooden anvil so her leg irons could be struck off. Sir Henry, who had long ceased to notice the prison’s stench, sipped the brandy and feared it would not stay down. His head felt light, unreal. The turnkey hammered the rivets from the first manacle and Sir Henry saw that the girl’s ankle was a welt of sores.

‘Other foot, girl,’ the turnkey said.

The bell tolled on and it would not stop now until all four bodies were cut down. Sir Henry was aware that his hand was shaking. ‘I hear corn was fetching sixty-three shillings a quarter in Norwich last week,’ he said, his voice too loud.

Logan was gazing at the quivering girl. ‘She stole her mistress’s necklace.’

‘She did?’

‘Pearls. She must have sold it, for the necklace was never found. Then the tall fellow next in line is a highwayman. Pity he isn’t Hood, eh? Still, we’ll see Hood swing one day. The other two murdered a grocer in Southwark. Sixty-three a quarter, eh? It’s a wonder anyone can eat.’

The girl, moving awkwardly because she was unaccustomed to walking without leg irons, shuffled away from the makeshift anvil. She began crying and Sir Henry turned his back on her. ‘Devilled kidneys, you say?’

‘The Keeper always serves devilled kidneys on hanging days,’ Logan said, ‘it’s a tradition.’

The hammer struck at the highwayman’s leg irons, the bell tolled and James Botting snapped at the girl to come to him. ‘Stand still, girl,’ he said, ‘drink that if you want it. Drink it all.’ He pointed to a beaker of brandy that had been placed on the table next to the neatly coiled ropes. The girl spilt some because her hands were shaking, but she gulped the rest down and then dropped the tin mug, which clattered on the flagstones. She began to apologise for her clumsiness, but Botting interrupted her. ‘Arms by your side, girl,’ he ordered her, ‘arms by your side.’

‘I didn’t steal anything!’ she wailed.

‘Quiet, my child, quiet.’ The Reverend Cotton had moved to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘God is our refuge and strength, child, and you must put your faith in him.’ He kneaded her shoulder. She was wearing a pale-blue cotton dress with a drooping neckline and the priest’s fingers pressed and caressed her exposed white flesh. ‘The Lord is a very present help in times of trouble,’ the Ordinary said, his fingers leaving pinkish marks on her white skin, ‘and he will be thy comfort and guide. Do you repent your foul sins, child?’

‘I stole nothing!’

Sir Henry forced himself to draw long breaths. ‘Did you escape those Brazilian loans?’ he asked Logan.

‘Sold them on to Drummonds,’ Logan said, ‘so I’m damned grateful to you, Henry, damned grateful.’

‘It’s Eleanor you must thank,’ Sir Henry said. ‘She saw a report in a Paris newspaper and drew the right conclusions. Clever girl, my daughter.’

‘Such a pity about the engagement,’ Logan said. He was watching the doomed girl who cried aloud as Botting pinioned her elbows with a length of cord. He fastened them behind her back, drawing the line so tight that she gasped with pain. Botting grinned at her cry, then yanked the cord even tighter, forcing the girl to throw her breasts forward so that they strained against the thin material of her cheap dress. The Reverend Cotton leant close so that his breath was warm on her face. ‘You must repent, child, you must repent.’

‘I didn’t do it!’ Her breath was coming in gasps and tears were streaming down her distorted face.

‘Hands in front, girl!’ Botting snapped and, when she awkwardly lifted her hands, he seized one wrist, encircling it with a second length of cord which he then looped about her other wrist. Her elbows were secured behind her body, her wrists in front, and because Botting had pulled her elbows so tightly together he could not join her wrists with the cord, but had to be content with linking them.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she wailed.

‘Botting?’ the Keeper intervened.

‘Shouldn’t be my job to do the pinioning,’ Botting snarled, but he loosened some of the tension from the cord holding her elbows and the girl nodded in pathetic thanks.

‘She’d be a pretty thing,’ Logan said, ‘if she was cleaned up.’

Sir Henry was counting the pots in the hearth. Everything seemed unreal. God help me, he thought, God help me.

‘Jemmy!’ The highwayman, his leg irons struck off, greeted the hangman with a sneer.

‘Come here, lad,’ Botting ignored the familiarity. ‘Drink that. Then put your arms by your side.’

The highwayman put a coin on the table beside the brandy beaker. ‘For you, Jemmy.’

‘Good lad,’ the hangman said quietly. The coin would ensure that the highwayman’s arms would not be pinioned too tightly, and that his death would be as swift as Botting could make it.

‘Eleanor tells me she’s recovered from the engagement,’ Sir Henry said, his back still to the prisoners, ‘but I don’t believe her. She’s very unhappy. I can tell. Mind you, I sometimes wonder if she’s being perverse.’

‘Perverse?’

‘It occurs to me, Logan, that her attraction to Sandman has only increased since the engagement was broken.’

‘He was a very decent young man,’ Logan said.

‘He is a very decent young man,’ Sir Henry agreed.

‘But scrupulous,’ Logan said, ‘to a fault.’

‘To a fault indeed,’ Sir Henry said. He was staring down at the floor now, trying to ignore the girl’s soft sobbing. ‘Young Sandman is a good man, a very good man, but quite without prospects now. Utterly without prospects! And Eleanor cannot marry into a disgraced family.’

‘Indeed she cannot,’ Logan agreed.

‘She says she can, but then, Eleanor would,’ Sir Henry said, then shook his head. ‘And none of it is Rider Sandman’s fault, but he’s penniless now. Quite penniless.’

Logan frowned. ‘He’s on half-pay, surely?’

Sir Henry shook his head. ‘He sold his commission, gave the money towards the keep of his mother and sister.’

‘He keeps his mother? That dreadful woman? Poor Sandman.’ Logan laughed softly. ‘But Eleanor, surely, is not without suitors?’

‘Far from it,’ Sir Henry sounded gloomy. ‘They queue up in the street, Logan, but Eleanor finds fault.’

‘She’s good at that,’ Logan said softly, though without malice for he was fond of his friend’s daughter, though he thought her over-indulged. It was true that Eleanor was clever and too well read, but that was no reason to spare her the bridle, whip and spur. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘doubtless she’ll marry soon?’

‘Doubtless she will,’ Sir Henry said drily, for his daughter was not only attractive but it was also well known that Sir Henry would settle a generous income on her future husband. Which was why Sir Henry was sometimes tempted to let her marry Rider Sandman, but her mother would not hear of it. Florence wanted Eleanor to have a title, and Rider Sandman had none and now he had no fortune either, and so the marriage between Captain Sandman and Miss Forrest would not now take place – Sir Henry’s thoughts about his daughter’s prospects were driven away by a shriek from the doomed girl, a wailing shriek so pitiful that Sir Henry turned in shocked enquiry to see that James Botting had hung one of the heavy noosed ropes about her shoulders and the girl was shrinking from its touch as though the Bridport hemp was soaked in acid.

‘Quiet, my dear,’ the Reverend Cotton said, then he opened his prayer book and took a step back from the four prisoners who were all now pinioned.

‘This was never the hangman’s job,’ James Botting complained before the Ordinary could begin reading the service for the burial of the dead. ‘The irons was struck and the pinioning was done in the yard – in the yard – by the Yeoman of the Halter! By the Yeoman of the Halter. It was never the hangman’s job to do the pinioning!’

‘He means it was done by his assistant,’ Logan muttered.

‘So he does know why we’re here?’ Sir Henry commented as the Sheriff and Under-Sheriff, both in floor-length robes and wearing chains of office and both carrying silver-tipped staves, and both evidently satisfied that the prisoners were properly prepared, went to the Keeper who formally bowed to them before presenting the Sheriff with a sheet of paper.

‘“I am the resurrection and the life,”’ the Reverend Cotton intoned in a loud voice, ‘“he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”’

The Sheriff glanced at the paper, nodded in satisfaction and thrust it into a pocket of his fur-trimmed robe. Until now the four prisoners had been in the care of the Keeper of Newgate, but now they belonged to the Sheriff of the City of London who, formalities over, crossed to Sir Henry with an outstretched hand and a welcoming smile. ‘You’ve come for the breakfast, Sir Henry?’

‘I’ve come as a matter of duty,’ Sir Henry said sternly, ‘but it’s very good to see you, Rothwell.’

‘You must certainly stay for the breakfast,’ the Sheriff said, as the Ordinary recited the prayers for the burial of the dead. ‘They’re very good devilled kidneys.’

‘I could get a good breakfast at home,’ Sir Henry said. ‘No, I came because Botting has petitioned for an assistant and we thought, before justifying the expenditure, that we should judge for ourselves whether or not one was needed. You know Mister Logan?’

‘The alderman and I are old acquaintances,’ the Sheriff said, shaking Logan’s hand. ‘The advantage of giving the man an assistant,’ he added to Sir Henry in a low voice, ‘is that his replacement is already trained. And if there is trouble on the scaffold, well, two men are better than one. It’s good to see you, Sir Henry, and you, Mister Logan.’ He composed his face and turned to Botting. ‘Are you ready, Botting?’

‘Quite ready, sir, quite ready,’ Botting said, scooping up the four white bags and thrusting them into a pocket.

‘We can talk at breakfast,’ the Sheriff said to Sir Henry. ‘Devilled kidneys! I smelt them cooking as I came through.’ He hauled a turnip watch from a fob pocket and clicked open its lid. ‘Time to go, I think, time to go.’

The Sheriff led the procession out of the Association Room and across the narrow Press Yard. The Reverend Cotton had a hand on the girl’s neck, guiding her as he read the burial service aloud, the same service that he had intoned to the condemned prisoners in the chapel the day before. The four prisoners had been in the famous Black Pew, grouped about the coffin on the table, and the Ordinary had read them their burial service and then preached that they were being punished for their sin as God had decreed men and women should be punished. He had described the waiting flames of hell, told them of the devilish torments that were even then being prepared for them, and he had reduced the girl and one of the two murderers to tears. The chapel’s gallery had been filled with folk who had paid one shilling and sixpence apiece to witness the four doomed souls at their last church service.

The prisoners in the cells overlooking the Press Yard shouted protests and farewells as the procession passed. Sir Henry was alarmed by the noise and surprised to hear a woman’s voice calling insults. ‘Surely men and women don’t share the cells?’ he asked.

‘Not any longer,’ Logan said, then saw where his friend was looking, ‘and I assume she’s no prisoner, but a lady of the night, Sir Henry. They pay what’s called “bad money” to the turnkeys so they can come and earn their living here.’

‘Bad money? Good Lord!’ Sir Henry looked pained. ‘And we allow that?’

‘We ignore it,’ Logan said quietly, ‘on the understanding that it’s better to have whores in the prison than prisoners rioting.’ The Sheriff had led the procession down a flight of stone stairs into a tunnel that ran beneath the main prison to emerge at the Lodge, and the gloomy passage passed an empty cell with an open door. ‘That’s where they spent their last night,’ Logan pointed into the cell. The doomed girl was swaying and a turnkey took her elbow and hurried her along.

‘“We brought nothing into this world,”’ the Reverend Cotton’s voice echoed from the tunnel’s damp granite walls, ‘“and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the Name of the Lord.”’

‘I didn’t steal anything!’ the girl suddenly screamed.

‘Quiet, lass, quiet,’ the Keeper growled. All the men were nervous. They wanted the prisoners to cooperate and the girl was very close to hysteria.

‘“Lord, let me know mine end,”’ the Ordinary prayed, ‘“and the number of my days.”’

‘Please!’ the girl wailed. ‘No, no! Please.’ A second turnkey closed on her in case she collapsed and had to be carried the rest of the way, but she stumbled on.

‘If they struggle too much,’ Logan told Sir Henry, ‘then they’re tied to a chair and hung that way, but I confess I haven’t seen that happen in many many years, though I do remember that Langley had to do it once.’

‘Langley?’

‘Botting’s predecessor.’

‘You’ve seen a number of these things?’ Sir Henry asked.

‘A good few,’ Logan admitted. ‘And you?’

‘Never. I just conceived today as a duty.’ Sir Henry watched the prisoners climb the steps at the end of the tunnel and wished he had not come. He had never seen a violent death. Rider Sandman, who was to have been his son-in-law, had seen much violent death because he had been a soldier and Sir Henry rather wished the younger man was here. He had always liked Sandman. Such a shame about his family.

At the top of the stairs was the Lodge, a cavernous entrance chamber that gave access to the street called the Old Bailey. The door that led to the street was the Debtor’s Door and it stood open, but no daylight showed for the scaffold had been built directly outside. The noise of the crowd was loud now and the prison bell was muffled, but the bell of Saint Sepulchre’s on the far side of Newgate Street was also tolling for the imminent deaths.

‘Gentlemen?’ The Sheriff, who was now in charge of the morning’s proceedings, turned to the breakfast guests. ‘If you’ll climb the steps to the scaffold, gentlemen, you’ll find chairs to right and left. Just leave two at the front for us, if you’d be so kind?’

Sir Henry, as he passed through the towering arch of the high Debtor’s Door, saw in front of him the dark hollow underside of the scaffold and he thought how it was like being behind and underneath a stage supported by raw wooden beams. Black baize shrouded the planks at the front and side of the stage which meant that the only light came from the chinks between the timbers that formed the scaffold’s elevated platform. Wooden stairs climbed to Sir Henry’s right, going up into the shadows before turning sharply left to emerge in a roofed pavilion that stood at the scaffold’s rear. The stairs and the platform all looked very substantial and it was hard to remember that the scaffold was only erected the day before an execution and dismantled immediately after. The roofed pavilion was there to keep the honoured guests dry in inclement weather, but today the morning sun shone on Old Bailey and was bright enough to make Sir Henry blink as he turned the corner of the stairs and emerged into the pavilion.

A huge cheer greeted the guests’ arrival. No one cared who they were, but their appearance presaged the coming of the prisoners. Old Bailey was crowded. Every window that overlooked the street was crammed and there were even folk on the rooftops.

‘Ten shillings,’ Logan said.

‘Ten shillings?’ Sir Henry was bemused again.

‘To rent a window,’ Logan explained, ‘unless it’s a celebrated crime being punished in which case the price goes up to two or even three guineas.’ He pointed at a tavern that stood directly opposite the scaffold. ‘The Magpie and Stump has the most expensive windows because you can see right down into the pit where they drop.’ He chuckled. ‘You can rent a telescope from the landlord and watch ’em die. But we, of course, get the best view.’

Sir Henry wanted to sit in the shadows at the back of the pavilion, but Logan had already taken one of the front chairs and Sir Henry just sat. His head was ringing with the terrible noise that came from the street. It was, he decided, just like being on a theatre’s stage. He was overwhelmed and dazzled. So many people! Everywhere faces looking up at the black-draped platform. The scaffold proper, in front of the roofed pavilion, was thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide and topped by a great beam that ran from the pavilion’s roof to the platform’s end. Black iron butcher’s hooks were screwed into the beam’s underside and a ladder was propped against it.

A second ironic cheer greeted the sheriffs in their fur-trimmed robes. Sir Henry was sitting on a hard wooden chair that was slightly too small and desperately uncomfortable. ‘It’ll be the girl first,’ Logan said.

‘Why?’

‘She’s the one they’ve come to see,’ Logan said. He was evidently enjoying himself and Sir Henry was surprised by that. How little we know our friends, he thought, then he again wished that Rider Sandman was here because he suspected that the soldier would not approve of death made this easy. Or had Sandman been hardened to violence?

‘I should let him marry her,’ he said.

‘What?’ Logan had to raise his voice because the crowd was shouting for the prisoners to be brought on.

‘Nothing,’ Sir Henry said.

‘“I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle,”’ the Reverend Cotton’s voice grew louder as he climbed the stairs behind the girl, ‘“while the ungodly is in my sight.”’

A turnkey came first, then the girl, and she was awkward on the steps because her legs were still not used to being without irons and the turnkey had to steady her when she half tripped on the top step.

Then the crowd saw her. ‘Hats off! Hats off!’ The shout began at the front and echoed back. It was not respect that caused the cry, but rather because the taller hats of the folk in front obscured the view for those behind. The roar of the crowd was massive, crushing, and then the people surged forward so that the City Marshal and his men who protected the scaffold raised their staves and spears. Sir Henry felt besieged by noise and by the thousands of people with open mouths, shouting. There were as many women as men in the crowd. Sir Henry saw a respectable-looking matron stooping to a telescope in one of the windows of the Magpie and Stump. Beside her a man was eating bread and fried egg. Another woman had opera glasses. A pie-seller had set up his wares in a doorway. Pigeons, red kites and sparrows circled the sky in panic because of the noise. Sir Henry, his mind swimming, suddenly noticed the four open coffins that lay on the scaffold’s edge. They were made of rough pine and were unplaned and resinous. The girl’s mouth was open and her face, which had been pale, was now red and distorted. Tears ran down her cheeks as Botting took her by a pinioned elbow and led her onto the planks at the platform’s centre. That centre was a trapdoor and it creaked under their weight. The girl was shaking and gasping as Botting positioned her under the beam at the platform’s far end. Once she was in place Botting took a cotton bag from his pocket and pulled it over her hair so that it looked like a hat. She screamed at his touch and tried to twist away from him, but the Reverend Cotton put a hand on her arm as the hangman took the rope from her shoulders and clambered up the ladder. He was heavy and the rungs creaked alarmingly. He slotted the small spliced eye over one of the big black butcher’s hooks, then climbed awkwardly back down, red-faced and breathing hard. ‘I need an assistant, don’t I?’ he grumbled. ‘Ain’t fair. Man always has an assistant. Don’t fidget, missy! Go like a Christian!’ He looked the girl in the eyes as he pulled the noose down around her head. He tightened the slip knot under her left ear, then gave the rope a small jerk as if to satisfy himself that it would take her weight. She gasped at the jerk, then screamed because Botting had his hands on her hair. ‘Keep still, girl!’ he snarled, then pulled down the white cotton bag so that it covered her face.

She screamed. ‘I want to see!’

Sir Henry closed his eyes.

‘“For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday.”’ The Ordinary had raised his voice so he could be heard above the crowd’s seething din. The second prisoner, the highwayman, was on the scaffold now and Botting stood him beside the girl, crammed the bag on his head and climbed the ladder to fix the rope. ‘“O teach us to number our days,”’ the Reverend Cotton read in a singsong voice, ‘“that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”’

‘Amen,’ Sir Henry said fervently, too fervently.

‘Here,’ Logan nudged Sir Henry, whose eyes were still closed, and held out a flask. ‘Good brandy. Smuggled.’

The highwayman had flowers in his buttonhole. He bowed to the crowd that cheered him, but his bravado was forced for Sir Henry could see the man’s leg trembling and his bound hands twitching. ‘Head up, darling,’ he told the girl beside him.

Children were in the crowd. One girl, she could not have been a day over six years of age, sat on her father’s shoulders and sucked her thumb. The crowd cheered each arriving prisoner. A group of sailors with long tarred pigtails shouted at Botting to pull down the girl’s dress. ‘Show us her bubbies, Jemmy! Go on, flop ’em out!’

‘Be over soon,’ the highwayman told the girl, ‘you and I’ll be with the angels, girl.’

‘I didn’t steal anything!’ the girl wailed.

‘Admit your guilt! Confess your sins!’ the Reverend Cotton urged the four prisoners, who were all now lined up on the trapdoor. The girl was furthest from Sir Henry and she was shaking. All four had cotton bags over their faces and all had nooses about their necks. ‘Go to God with a clean breast!’ the Ordinary urged them. ‘Cleanse your conscience, abase yourselves before God!’

‘Go on, Jemmy!’ a sailor called. ‘Strip the frow’s frock off!’

The crowd shouted for silence, hoping there would be some final words.

‘I did nothing!’ the girl screamed.

‘Go to hell, you fat bastard,’ one of the murderers snarled at the Ordinary.

‘See you in hell, Cotton!’ the highwayman called to the priest.

‘Now, Botting!’ The Sheriff wanted it done quickly and Botting scuttled to the back of the scaffold where he stooped and hauled a wooden bolt the size of a rolling pin from a plank. Sir Henry tensed himself, but nothing happened.

‘The bolt,’ Logan explained softly, ‘is merely a locking device. He has to go below to release the trap.’

Sir Henry said nothing. He shrank aside as Botting brushed past him to go down the stairs at the back of the pavilion. Only the four condemned and the Ordinary were now out in the sunlight. The Reverend Cotton stood between the coffins, well clear of the trapdoor. ‘“For when thou art angry all our days are gone,”’ he chanted, ‘“we bring our years to an end, as it were a tale that is told.”’

‘Fat bastard, Cotton!’ the highwayman shouted. The girl was swaying and under the thin cotton that hid her face Sir Henry could see her mouth was opening and closing. The hangman had vanished under the platform and was clambering through the beams that supported the scaffold to reach a rope that pulled out the baulk of timber that supported the trapdoor.

‘“Turn thee again, O Lord!”’ The Reverend Cotton had raised one hand to the heavens and his voice to the skies. ‘“At the last and be gracious unto thy servants.”’

Botting jerked the rope and the timber shifted, but did not slide all the way. Sir Henry, unaware that he was holding his breath, saw the trapdoor twitch. The girl sobbed and her legs gave way so that she collapsed on the still-closed trapdoor. The crowd uttered a collective yelp that died away when they realised the bodies had not dropped, then Botting gave the rope an almighty heave and the timber shifted and the trapdoor swung down to let the four bodies fall. It was a short drop, only five or six feet, and it killed none of them. ‘It was quicker when they used the cart at Tyburn,’ Logan said, leaning forward, ‘but we get more Morris this way.’

Sir Henry did not need to ask what Logan meant. The four were twitching, jerking and twisting. They were doing the Morris dance of the scaffold, the hempen measure, the dying capers that came from the stifling, killing, throttling struggles of the doomed. Botting, hidden down in the scaffold’s well, leapt aside as the girl’s bowels released themselves. Sir Henry saw none of it for his eyes were closed, and he did not even open them when the crowd cheered itself hoarse because Botting, using the highwayman’s pinioned elbows as a stirrup, climbed up to squat like a black toad on the man’s shoulders to hasten his dying. The highwayman had paid Botting so he would die more quickly and Botting was keeping faith with the bribe.

‘“Behold, I show you a mystery.’” The Ordinary ignored the grinning Botting, who clung like a monstrous hump on the dying man’s back. ‘“We shall not all sleep,”’ Cotton intoned, ‘“but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.”’

‘There’s the first one gone,’ Logan said, as Botting clambered down from the corpse’s back, ‘and I’ve got a mortal appetite now, by God, I have an appetite!’

Three of the four still danced, but ever more feebly. The dead highwayman swung with canted head as Botting hauled on the girl’s ankles. Sir Henry smelt dung, human dung, and he could suddenly take no more of the spectacle and so he stumbled down the scaffold steps into the cool, dark stone shelter of the Lodge. He vomited there, then gasped for breath and waited, listening to the crowd and to the creak of the scaffold’s timbers, until it was time to go for breakfast.

For devilled kidneys. It was a tradition.




1 (#u20afc9b5-4e9e-56e7-a87a-b0e45ac90a58)


Rider Sandman was up late that Monday morning because he had been paid seven guineas to play for Sir John Hart’s eleven against a Sussex team, the winners to share a bonus of a hundred guineas, and Sandman had scored sixty-three runs in the first innings and thirty-two in the second, and those were respectable scores by any standards, but Sir John’s eleven had still lost. That had been on the Saturday and Sandman, watching the other batsmen swing wildly at ill-bowled balls, had realised that the game was being thrown. The bookmakers were being fleeced because Sir John’s team had been expected to win handily, not least because the famed Rider Sandman was playing for it, but someone must have bet heavily on the Sussex eleven which, in the event, won the game by an innings and forty-eight runs. Rumour said that Sir John himself had bet against his own side and Sir John would not meet Sandman’s eyes, which made the rumour believable.

So Captain Rider Sandman walked back to London.

He walked because he refused to share a carriage with men who had accepted bribes to lose a match. He loved cricket, he was good at it, he had once, famously, scored a hundred and fourteen runs for an England eleven playing against the Marquess of Canfield’s picked men and lovers of the game would travel many miles to see Captain Rider Sandman, late of His Majesty’s 52nd Regiment of Foot, perform at the batting crease. But he hated bribery and he detested corruption and he possessed a temper, and that was why he fell into a furious argument with his treacherous team-mates and, when they slept that night in Sir John’s comfortable house and rode back to London in comfort next morning, Sandman did neither. He was too proud.

Proud and poor. He could not afford the stagecoach fare, nor even a common carrier’s fare, because in his anger he had thrown his match fee back into Sir John Hart’s face and that, Sandman conceded, had been a stupid thing to do for he had earnt that money honestly, yet even so it had felt dirty. So he walked home, spending the Saturday night in a hayrick somewhere near Hickstead and trudging all that Sunday until the right sole was almost clean off his boot. He reached Drury Lane very late that night and he dropped his cricket gear on the floor of his rented attic room and stripped himself naked and fell into the narrow bed and slept. Just slept. And was still sleeping when the trapdoor dropped in Old Bailey and the crowd’s cheer sent a thousand wings startling up into the smoky London sky. Sandman was still dreaming at half past eight. He was dreaming, twitching and sweating. He called out in incoherent alarm, his ears filled with the thump of hooves and the crash of muskets and cannon, his eyes astonished by the hook of sabres and slashes of straight-bladed swords, and this time the dream was going to end with the cavalry smashing through the thin red-coated ranks, but then the rattle of hooves melded into a rush of feet on the stairs and a sketchy knock on his flimsy attic door. He opened his eyes, realised he was no longer a soldier, and then, before he could call out any response, Sally Hood was in the room. For a second Sandman thought the flurry of bright eyes, calico dress and golden hair was a dream, then Sally laughed. ‘I bleeding woke you. Gawd, I’m sorry!’ She turned to go.

‘It’s all right, Miss Hood.’ Sandman fumbled for his watch. He was sweating. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Saint Giles just struck half after eight,’ she told him.

‘Oh, my Lord!’ Sandman could not believe he had slept so late. He had nothing to get up for, but the habit of waking early had long taken hold. He sat up in bed, remembered he was naked and snatched the thin blanket up to his chest. ‘There’s a gown hanging on the door, Miss Hood, would you be so kind?’

Sally found the dressing gown. ‘It’s just that I’m late,’ she explained her sudden appearance in his room, ‘and my brother’s brushed off and I’ve got work, and the dress has to be hooked up, see?’ She turned her back, showing a length of bare spine. ‘I’d have asked Mrs Gunn to do it,’ Sally went on, ‘only there’s a hanging today so she’s off watching. Gawd knows what she can see considering she’s half blind and all drunk, but she does like a good hanging and she ain’t got many pleasures left at her age. It’s all right, you can get up now, I’ve got me peepers shut.’

Sandman climbed out of bed warily for there was only a limited area in his tiny attic room where he could stand without banging his head on the beams. He was a tall man, an inch over six foot, with pale-gold hair, blue eyes and a long, raw-boned face. He was not conventionally handsome, his face was too rugged for that, but there was a capability and a kindness in his expression that made him memorable. He pulled on the dressing gown and tied its belt. ‘You say you’ve got work?’ he asked Sally. ‘A good job, I hope?’

‘Ain’t what I wanted,’ Sally said, ‘because it ain’t on deck.’

‘Deck?’

‘Stage, Captain,’ she said. She called herself an actress and perhaps she was, though Sandman had seen little evidence that the stage had much use for Sally who, like Sandman, clung to the very edge of respectability and was held there, it seemed, by her brother, a very mysterious young man who worked strange hours. ‘But it ain’t bad work,’ she went on, ‘and it is respectable.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Sandman said, sensing that Sally did not really want to talk about it, and he wondered why she sounded so defensive about a respectable job and Sally wondered why Sandman, who was palpably a gentleman, was renting an attic room in the Wheatsheaf Tavern in London’s Drury Lane. Down on his luck, that was for sure, but even so, the Wheatsheaf? Perhaps he knew no better. The Wheatsheaf was famously a flash tavern, a home for every kind of thief from pickpockets to petermen, from burglars to shop-breakers, and it seemed to Sally that Captain Rider Sandman was as straight as a ramrod. But he was a nice man, Sally thought. He treated her like a lady, and though she had only spoken to him a couple of times as they edged past each other in the inn’s corridors, she had detected a kindness in him. Enough kindness to let her presume on his privacy this Monday morning. ‘And what about you, Captain?’ she asked. ‘You working?’

‘I’m looking for employment, Miss Hood,’ Sandman said, and that was true, but he was not finding any. He was too old to be an apprentice clerk, not qualified to work in the law or with money, and too squeamish to accept a job driving slaves in the sugar islands.

‘I heard you was a cricketer,’ Sally said.

‘I am, yes.’

‘A famous one, my brother says.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ Sandman said modestly.

‘But you can earn money at that, can’t you?’

‘Not as much as I need,’ Sandman said, and then only in summer and if he was willing to endure the bribes and corruption of the game, ‘and I have a small problem here. Some of the hooks are missing.’

‘That’s ’cos I never get round to mending them,’ Sally said, ‘so just do what you can.’ She was staring at his mantel on which was a pile of letters, their edges frayed suggesting they had all been sent a long time in the past. She swayed forward slightly and managed to see that the topmost envelope was addressed to a Miss someone or other, she could not make out the name, but the one word revealed that Captain Sandman had been jilted and had his letters returned. Poor Captain Sandman, Sally thought.

‘And sometimes,’ Sandman went on, ‘where there are hooks there are no eyes.’

‘Which is why I brought this,’ Sally said, dangling a frayed silk handkerchief over her shoulder. ‘Thread it through the gaps, Captain. Make me decent.’

‘So today I shall call on some acquaintances,’ Sandman reverted to her earlier question, ‘and see if they can offer me employment and then, this afternoon, I shall yield to temptation.’

‘Ooh!’ Sally smiled over her shoulder, all blue eyes and sparkle. ‘Temptation?’

‘I shall watch some cricket at the Artillery Ground.’

‘Wouldn’t tempt me,’ Sally said, ‘and by the by, Captain, if you’re going down to breakfast then do it quick ’cos you won’t get a bite after nine o’clock.’

‘I won’t?’ Sandman asked, though in truth he had no intention of paying the tavern for a breakfast he could not afford.

‘The ‘sheaf’s always crowded when there’s a hanging at Newgate,’ Sally explained, ‘’cos the folk want their breakfasts on their way back, see? Makes ’em hungry. That’s where my brother went. He always goes down Old Bailey when there’s a scragging. They like him to be there.’

‘Who does?’

‘His friends. He usually knows one of the poor bastards being twisted, see?’

‘Twisted?’

‘Hanged, Captain. Hanged, twisted, crapped, nubbed, scragged or Jack Ketched. Doing the Newgate Morris, dancing on Jemmy Botting’s stage, rope gargling. You’ll have to learn the flash language if you live here, Captain.’

‘I can see I will,’ Sandman said, and had just begun to thread the handkerchief through the dress’s gaping back when Dodds, the inn’s errand boy, pushed through the half-open door and grinned to discover Sally Hood in Captain Sandman’s room and Captain Sandman doing up her frock and him with tousled hair and dressed in nothing but a frayed old dressing gown.

‘You’ll catch flies if you don’t close your bloody gob,’ Sally told Dodds, ‘and he ain’t my boman, you spoony little bastard. He’s just hooking me up ’cos my brother and Mother Gunn have gone to the crap. Which is where you’ll end up if there’s any bleeding justice.’

Dodds ignored this tirade and held a sealed paper towards Sandman. ‘Letter for you, Captain.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Sandman said, and stooped to his folded clothes to find a penny. ‘Wait a moment,’ he told the boy who, in truth, had shown no inclination to leave until he was tipped.

‘Don’t you bug him nothing!’ Sally protested. She pushed Sandman’s hand away and snatched the letter from Dodds. ‘The little toe-rag forgot it, didn’t he? No bleeding letter arrived this morning! How long’s it been?’

Dodds looked at her sullenly. ‘Came on Friday,’ he finally admitted.

‘If a bleeding letter comes on Friday then you bleeding deliver it on Friday! Now, on your trotters and fake away off!’ She slammed the door on the boy. ‘Lazy little bleeder. They should take him down bleeding Newgate and make him do the scaffold hornpipe. That would stretch his lazy bloody neck.’

Sandman finished threading the silk handkerchief through the gaps in the dress’s fastenings, then stepped back and nodded. ‘You look very fetching, Miss Hood.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do indeed,’ Sandman said. The dress was pale green, printed with cornflowers, and the colours suited Sally’s honey-coloured skin and curly hair that was as gold as Sandman’s own. She was a pretty girl with clear blue eyes, a skin unscarred by pox and a contagious smile. ‘The dress really does become you,’ he said.

‘It’s the only half good one I’ve got,’ she said, ‘so it had better suit. Thank you.’ She held out his letter. ‘Close your eyes, turn round three times, then say your loved one’s name aloud before you open it.’

Sandman smiled. ‘And what will that achieve?’

‘It will mean good news, Captain,’ she said earnestly, ‘good news.’ She smiled and was gone.

Sandman listened to her footsteps on the stairs, then looked at the letter. Perhaps it was an answer to one of his enquiries about a job? It was certainly a very high class of paper and the handwriting was educated and stylish. He put a finger under the flap, ready to break the seal, then paused. He felt like a fool, but he closed his eyes, turned three times then spoke his loved one’s name aloud: ‘Eleanor Forrest,’ he said, then opened his eyes, tore off the letter’s red wax seal and unfolded the paper. He read the letter, read it again and tried to work out whether or not it really was good news.

The Right Honourable the Viscount Sidmouth presented his compliments to Captain Rider Sandman and requested the honour of a call at Captain Sandman’s earliest convenience, preferably in the forenoon at Lord Sidmouth’s office. A prompt reply to Lord Sidmouth’s private secretary, Mister Sebastian Witherspoon, would be appreciated.

Sandman’s first instinct was that the letter must be bad news, that his father had dunned the Viscount Sidmouth as he had dunned so many others and that his lordship was writing to make a claim on the pathetic shreds of the Sandman estate. Yet that was nonsense. His father, so far as Rider Sandman knew, had never encountered Lord Sidmouth and he would surely have boasted if he had for Sandman’s father had liked the company of important men. And there were few men more important than the Right Honourable Henry Addington, first Viscount Sidmouth, erstwhile Prime Minister of Great Britain and now His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State in the Home Department.

So why did the Home Secretary want to see Rider Sandman?

There was only one way to find out.

So Sandman put on his cleanest shirt, buffed his fraying boots with his dirtiest shirt, brushed his coat and, thus belying his poverty by dressing as the gentleman he was, went to see Lord Sidmouth.

The Viscount Sidmouth was a thin man. He was thin-lipped and thin-haired, had a thin nose and a thin jaw that narrowed to a weasel-thin chin and his eyes had all the warmth of thinly knapped flint and his thin voice was precise, dry and unfriendly. His nickname was ‘the Doctor’, a nickname without warmth or affection, but apt, for he was clinical, disapproving and cold. He had made Sandman wait for two and a quarter hours, though as Sandman had come to the office without an appointment he could scarce blame the Home Secretary for that. Now, as a bluebottle buzzed against one of the high windows, Lord Sidmouth frowned across the desk at his visitor. ‘You were recommended by Sir John Colborne.’

Sandman bowed his head in acknowledgement, but said nothing. There was nothing to say. A grandfather clock ticked loud in a corner of the office.

‘You were in Sir John’s battalion at Waterloo,’ Sidmouth said, ‘is that not so?’

‘I was, my lord, yes.’

Sidmouth grunted as though he did not entirely approve of men who had been at Waterloo and that, Sandman reflected, might well have been the case for Britain now seemed divided between those who had fought against the French and those who had stayed at home. The latter, Sandman suspected, were jealous and liked to suggest, oh so delicately, that they had sacrificed an opportunity to gallivant abroad because of the need to keep Britain prosperous. The wars against Napoleon were two years in the past now, yet still the divide remained, though Sir John Colborne must possess some influence with the government if his recommendation had brought Sandman to this office. ‘Sir John tells me you seek employment?’ the Home Secretary asked.

‘I must, my lord.’

‘Must?’ Sidmouth pounced on the word. ‘Must? But you are on half pay, surely? And half pay is not an ungenerous emolument, I would have thought?’ The question was asked very sourly, as though his lordship utterly disapproved of paying pensions to men who were capable of earning their own livings.

‘I’m not eligible for half pay, my lord,’ Sandman said. He had sold his commission and, because it was peacetime, he had received less than he had hoped, though it had been enough to secure a lease on a house for his mother.

‘You have no income?’ Sebastian Witherspoon, the Home Secretary’s private secretary, asked from his chair beside his master’s desk.

‘Some,’ Sandman said, and decided it was probably best not to say that the small income came from playing cricket. The Viscount Sidmouth did not look like a man who would approve of such a thing. ‘Not enough,’ Sandman amended his answer, ‘and much of what I do earn goes towards settling my father’s smaller debts. The tradesmen’s debts,’ he added, in case the Home Secretary thought he was trying to pay off the massive sums owing to the wealthy investors.

Witherspoon frowned. ‘In law, Sandman,’ he said, ‘you are not responsible for any of your father’s debts.’

‘I am responsible for my family’s good name,’ Sandman responded.

Lord Sidmouth gave a snort of derision that could have been in mockery of Sandman’s good name or an ironic response to his evident scruples or, more likely, was a comment on Sandman’s father who, faced with the threat of imprisonment or exile because of his massive debts, had taken his own life and thus left his name disgraced and his wife and family ruined. The Home Secretary gave Sandman a long, sour inspection, then turned to look at the bluebottle thumping against the window. The grandfather clock ticked hollow. The room was hot and Sandman was uncomfortably aware of the sweat soaking his shirt. The silence stretched and Sandman suspected the Home Secretary was weighing the wisdom of offering employment to Ludovic Sandman’s son. Wagons rumbled in the street beneath the windows. Hooves sounded sharp, and then, at last, Lord Sidmouth made up his mind. ‘I need a man to undertake a job,’ he said, still gazing at the window, ‘though I should warn you that it is not a permanent position. In no way is it permanent.’

‘It is anything but permanent,’ Witherspoon put in.

Sidmouth scowled at his secretary’s contribution. ‘The position is entirely temporary,’ he said, then gestured towards a great basket that stood waist high on the carpeted floor and was crammed with papers. Some were scrolls, some were folded and sealed with wax while a few showed legal pretensions by being wrapped in scraps of red ribbon. ‘Those, Captain,’ he said, ‘are petitions.’ Lord Sidmouth’s tone made it plain that he loathed petitions. ‘A condemned felon may petition the King in Council for clemency or, indeed, for a full pardon. That is their prerogative, Captain, and all such petitions from England and Wales come to this office. We receive close to two thousand a year! It seems that every person condemned to death manages to have a petition sent on their behalf, and they must all be read. Are they not all read, Witherspoon?’

Sidmouth’s secretary, a young man with plump cheeks, sharp eyes and elegant manners, nodded. ‘They are certainly examined, my lord. It would be remiss of us to ignore such pleas.’

‘Remiss indeed,’ Sidmouth said piously, ‘and if the crime is not too heinous, Captain, and if persons of quality are willing to speak for the condemned, then we might show clemency. We might commute a sentence of death to, say, one of transportation?’

‘You, my lord?’ Sandman asked, struck by Sidmouth’s use of the word ‘we’.

‘The petitions are addressed to the King,’ the Home Secretary explained, ‘but the responsibility for deciding on the response is properly left to this office and my decisions are then ratified by the Privy Council and I can assure you, Captain, that I mean ratified. They are not questioned.’

‘Indeed not!’ Witherspoon sounded amused.

‘I decide,’ Sidmouth declared truculently. ‘It is one of the responsibilities of this high office, Captain, to decide which felons will hang and which will be spared. There are hundreds of souls in Australia, Captain, who owe their lives to this office.’

‘And I am certain, my lord,’ Witherspoon put in smoothly, ‘that their gratitude is unbounded.’

Sidmouth ignored his secretary. Instead he tossed a scrolled and ribboned petition to Sandman. ‘And once in a while,’ he went on, ‘once in a very rare while, a petition will persuade us to investigate the facts of the matter. On those rare occasions, Captain, we appoint an Investigator, but it is not something we like to do.’ He paused, obviously inviting Sandman to enquire why the Home Office was so reluctant to appoint an Investigator, but Sandman seemed oblivious to the question as he slid the ribbon from the scroll. ‘A person condemned to death,’ the Home Secretary offered the explanation anyway, ‘has already been tried. He or she has been judged and found guilty by a court of law, and it is not the business of His Majesty’s government to revisit facts that have been considered by the proper courts. It is not our policy, Captain, to undermine the judiciary, but once in a while, very infrequently, we do investigate. That petition is just such a rare case.’

Sandman unrolled the petition, which was written in brownish ink on cheap yellow paper. ‘As God is my wittness,’ he read, ‘hee is a good boy and could never have killd the Lady Avebury as God knows hee could not hert even a flie.’ There was much more in the same manner, but Sandman could not read on because the Home Secretary had started to talk again.

‘The matter,’ Lord Sidmouth explained, ‘concerns Charles Corday. That is not his real name. The petition, as you can see for yourself, comes from Corday’s mother, who subscribes herself as Cruttwell, but the boy seems to have adopted a French name. God knows why. He stands convicted of murdering the Countess of Avebury. You doubtless recollect the case?’

‘I fear not, my lord,’ Sandman said. He had never taken much interest in crime, had never bought the Newgate Calendars nor read the broadsheets that celebrated notorious felons and their savage deeds.

‘There’s no mystery about it,’ the Home Secretary said. ‘The wretched man raped and stabbed the Countess of Avebury and he thoroughly deserves to hang. He is due on the scaffold when?’ He turned to Witherspoon.

‘A week from today, my lord,’ Witherspoon said.

‘If there’s no mystery, my lord,’ Sandman said, ‘then why investigate the facts?’

‘Because the petitioner, Maisie Cruttwell,’ Sidmouth spoke the name as though it tasted sour on his tongue, ‘is a seamstress to Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte, and Her Majesty has graciously taken an interest.’ Lord Sidmouth’s voice made it plain that he could have gladly strangled King George III’s wife for being so gracious. ‘It is my responsibility, Captain, and my loyal duty to reassure Her Majesty that every possible enquiry has been made and that there is not the slightest doubt about the wretched man’s guilt. I have therefore written to Her Majesty to inform her that I am appointing an Investigator who will examine the facts and thus offer an assurance that justice is indeed being done.’ Sidmouth had explained all this in a bored voice, but now pointed a bony forefinger at Sandman. ‘I am asking whether you will be that Investigator, Captain, and whether you comprehend what is needed.’

Sandman nodded. ‘You wish to reassure the Queen, my lord, and to do that you must be entirely satisfied of the prisoner’s guilt.’

‘No!’ Sidmouth snapped, and sounded genuinely angry. ‘I am already entirely satisfied of the man’s guilt. Corday, or whatever he chooses to call himself, was convicted after the due process of the law. It is the Queen who needs reassurance.’

‘I understand,’ Sandman said.

Witherspoon leant forward. ‘Forgive the question, Captain, but you’re not of a radical disposition?’

‘Radical?’

‘You do not have objections to the gallows?’

‘For a man who rapes and kills?’ Sandman sounded indignant. ‘Of course not.’ The answer was honest enough, though in truth Sandman had not thought much about the gallows. It was not something he had ever seen, though he knew there was a scaffold at Newgate, a second south of the river at the Horsemonger Lane prison, and another in every assize town of England and Wales. Once in a while he would hear an argument that the scaffold was being used too widely or that it was a nonsense to hang a hungry villager for stealing a five-shilling lamb, but few folk wanted to do away with the noose altogether. The scaffold was a deterrent, a punishment and an example. It was a necessity. It was civilisation’s machine and it protected all law-abiding citizens from their predators.

Witherspoon, satisfied with Sandman’s indignant answer, smiled. ‘I did not think you were a radical,’ he said emolliently, ‘but one must be sure.’

‘So,’ Lord Sidmouth glanced at the grandfather clock, ‘will you undertake to be our Investigator?’ He expected an immediate answer, but Sandman hesitated. That hesitation was not because he did not want the job, but because he doubted he possessed the qualifications to be an investigator of crime, but then, he wondered, who did? Lord Sidmouth mistook the hesitation for reluctance. ‘The job will hardly tax you, Captain,’ he said testily, ‘the wretch is plainly guilty and one merely wishes to satisfy the Queen’s womanly concerns. A month’s pay for a day’s work?’ He paused and sneered. ‘Or do you fear the appointment will interfere with your cricket?’

Sandman needed a month’s pay and so he ignored the insults. ‘Of course I shall do it, my lord,’ he said, ‘I shall be honoured.’

Witherspoon stood, the signal that the audience was over, and the Home Secretary nodded his farewell. ‘Witherspoon will provide you with a letter of authorisation,’ he said, ‘and I shall look forward to receiving your report. Good day to you, sir.’

‘Your servant, my lord,’ Sandman bowed, but the Home Secretary was already attending to other business.

Sandman followed the secretary into an ante-room where a clerk was busy at a table. ‘It will take a moment to seal your letter,’ Witherspoon said, ‘so, please, sit.’

Sandman had brought the Corday petition with him and now read it all the way through, though he gleaned little more information from the ill-written words. The condemned man’s mother, who had signed the petition with a cross, had merely dictated an incoherent plea for mercy. Her son was a good boy, she claimed, a harmless soul and a Christian, but beneath her pleas were two damning comments. ‘Preposterous,’ the first read, ‘he is guilty of a heinous crime,’ while the second comment, in a crabbed handwriting, stated: ‘Let the Law take its course.’ Sandman showed the petition to Witherspoon. ‘Who wrote the comments?’

‘The second is the Home Secretary’s decision,’ Witherspoon said, ‘and was written before we knew Her Majesty was involved. And the first? That’s from the judge who passed sentence. It is customary to refer all petitions to the relevant judge before a decision is made. In this case it was Sir John Silvester. You know him?’

‘I fear not.’

‘He’s the Recorder of London and, as you may deduce from that, a most experienced judge. Certainly not a man to allow a gross miscarriage of justice in his courtroom.’ He handed a letter to the clerk. ‘Your name must be on the letter of authorisation, of course. Are there any pitfalls in its spelling?’

‘No,’ Sandman said and then, as the clerk wrote his name on the letter, he read the petition again, but it presented no arguments against the facts of the case. Maisie Cruttwell claimed her son was innocent, but could adduce no proof of that assertion. Instead she was appealing to the King for mercy. ‘Why did you ask me?’ Sandman asked Witherspoon. ‘I mean you must have used someone else as an Investigator in the past? Were they unsatisfactory?’

‘Mister Talbot was entirely satisfactory,’ Witherspoon said. He was now searching for the seal that would authenticate the letter, ‘but he died.’

‘Ah.’

‘A seizure,’ Witherspoon said, ‘very tragic. And why you? Because, as the Home Secretary informed you, you were recommended.’ He was scrabbling through the contents of a drawer, looking for the seal. ‘I had a cousin at Waterloo,’ he went on, ‘a Captain Witherspoon, a Hussar. He was on the Duke’s staff. Did you know him?’

‘No, alas.’

‘He died.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’

‘It was perhaps for the best,’ Witherspoon said. He had at last found the seal. ‘He always said that he feared the war’s ending. What excitement, he wondered, could peace bring?’

‘It was a common enough fear in the army,’ Sandman said.

‘This letter,’ the secretary was now heating a stick of wax over a candle flame, ‘confirms that you are making enquiries on behalf of the Home Office and it requests all persons to offer you their cooperation, though it does not require them to do so. Note that distinction, Captain, note it well. We have no legal right to demand cooperation,’ he said as he dripped the wax onto the letter, then carefully pushed the seal into the scarlet blob, ‘so we can only request it. I would be grateful if you would return this letter to me upon the conclusion of your enquiries, and as to the nature of those enquiries, Captain? I suggest they need not be laborious. There is no doubt of the man’s guilt. Corday is a rapist, a murderer and a liar, and all we need of him is a confession. You will find him in Newgate and if you are sufficiently forceful then I have no doubt he will confess to his brutal crime and your work will then be done.’ He held out the letter. ‘I expect to hear from you very soon. We shall require a written report, but please keep it brief.’ He suddenly withheld the letter to give his next words an added force. ‘What we do not want, Captain, is to complicate matters. Provide us with a succinct report that will allow my master to reassure the Queen that there are no possible grounds for a pardon and then let us forget the wretched matter.’

‘Suppose he doesn’t confess?’ Sandman asked.

‘Make him,’ Witherspoon said forcefully. ‘He will hang anyway, Captain, whether you have submitted your report or not. It would simply be more convenient if we could reassure Her Majesty of the man’s guilt before the wretch is executed.’

‘And if he’s innocent?’ Sandman asked.

Witherspoon looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘How can he be? He’s already been found guilty!’

‘Of course he has,’ Sandman said, then took the letter and slipped it into the tail pocket of his coat. ‘His Lordship,’ he spoke awkwardly, ‘mentioned an emolument.’ He hated talking of money, it was so ungentlemanly, but so was his poverty.

‘Indeed he did,’ Witherspoon said. ‘We usually paid twenty guineas to Mister Talbot, but I would find it hard to recommend the same fee in this case. It really is too trivial a matter so I shall authorise a draft for fifteen guineas. I shall send it to you, where?’ He glanced down at his notebook, then looked shocked. ‘Really? The Wheatsheaf? In Drury Lane?’

‘Indeed,’ Sandman said stiffly. He knew Witherspoon deserved an explanation for the Wheatsheaf was notorious as a haunt of criminals, but Sandman had not known of that reputation when he asked for a room and he did not think he needed to justify himself to Witherspoon.

‘I’m sure you know best,’ Witherspoon said dubiously.

Sandman hesitated. He was no coward, indeed he had the reputation of being a brave man, but that reputation had been earnt in the smoke of battle and what he did now took all his courage. ‘You mentioned a draft, Mister Witherspoon,’ he said, ‘and I wondered whether I might persuade you to cash? There will be inevitable expenses …’ His voice tailed away because, for the life of him, he could not think what those expenses might be.

Both Witherspoon and the clerk stared at Sandman as though he had just dropped his breeches. ‘Cash?’ Witherspoon asked in a small voice.

Sandman knew he was blushing. ‘You want the matter resolved swiftly,’ he said, ‘and there could be contingencies that will require expenditure. I cannot foresee the nature of those contingencies, but …’ He shrugged and again his voice tailed away.

‘Prendergast,’ Witherspoon looked at Sandman even as he spoke to the clerk, ‘pray go to Mister Hodge’s office, present him with my compliments and ask him to advance us fifteen guineas,’ he paused, still looking at Sandman, ‘in cash.’

The money was found, it was given and Sandman left the Home Office with pockets heavy with gold. Damn poverty, he thought, but the rent was due at the Wheatsheaf and it had been three days since he had eaten a proper meal.

But fifteen guineas! He could afford a meal now. A meal, some wine and an afternoon of cricket. It was a tempting vision, but Sandman was not a man to shirk duty. The job of being the Home Office’s Investigator might be temporary, but if he finished this first enquiry swiftly then he might look for other and more lucrative assignments from Lord Sidmouth, and that was an outcome devoutly to be wished and so he would forgo the meal, forget the wine and postpone the cricket.

For there was a murderer to see and a confession to obtain.

And Sandman went to fetch it.

In Old Bailey, a funnel-shaped thoroughfare that narrowed as it ran from Newgate Street to Ludgate Hill, the scaffold was being taken down. The black baize that had draped the platform was already folded onto a small cart and two men were now handing down the heavy beam from which the four victims had been hanged. The first broadsheets describing the executions and the crimes that had caused them were being hawked for a penny apiece to the vestiges of the morning’s crowd who had waited to see Jemmy Botting haul the four dead bodies up from the hanging pit, sit them on the edge of the drop while he removed the nooses and then heave them into their coffins. Then a handful of spectators had climbed to the scaffold to have one of the dead men’s hands touched to their warts, boils or tumours.

The coffins had at last been carried into the prison, but some folk still lingered just to watch the scaffold’s dismemberment. Two hawkers were selling what they claimed were portions of the fatal ropes. Bewigged and black-robed lawyers hurried between the Lamb Inn, the Magpie and Stump and the courts of the Session House that had been built next to the prison. Traffic had been allowed back into the street so Sandman had to dodge between wagons, carriages and carts to reach the prison gate where he expected warders and locks, but instead he found a uniformed porter at the top of the steps and dozens of folk coming and going. Women were carrying parcels of food, babies and bottles of gin, beer or rum. Children ran and screamed, while two aproned tapmen from the Magpie and Stump across the street delivered cooked meals on wooden trays to prisoners who could afford their services.

‘Your honour is looking for someone?’ The porter, seeing Sandman’s confusion, had pushed through the crowd to intercept him.

‘I am looking for Charles Corday,’ Sandman said, and when the porter looked bemused, added that he had come from the Home Office. ‘My name is Sandman,’ he explained, ‘Captain Sandman, and I’m Lord Sidmouth’s official Investigator.’ He drew out the letter with its impressive Home Office seal.

‘Ah!’ The porter was quite uninterested in the letter. ‘You’ve replaced Mister Talbot, God rest his soul. A proper gentleman he was, sir.’

Sandman put the letter away. ‘I should, perhaps, pay my respects to the Governor?’ he suggested.

‘The Keeper, sir, Mister Brown is the Keeper, sir, and he won’t thank you for any respects, sir, on account that they ain’t needful. You just goes in, sir, and sees the prisoner. Mister Talbot, now, God rest him, he took them to one of the empty salt boxes and had a little chat.’ The porter grinned and mimed a punching action. ‘A great one for the truth was Mister Talbot. A big man, he was, but so are you. What was your fellow called?’

‘Corday.’

‘He’s condemned, is he? Then you’ll find him in the Press Yard, your honour. Are you carrying a stick, sir?’

‘A stick?’

‘A pistol, sir. No? Some gentlemen do, but weapons ain’t advisable, sir, on account that the bastards might overpower you. And a word of advice, Captain?’ The porter, his breath reeking of rum, turned and took hold of Sandman’s lapel to add emphasis to his next words. ‘He’ll tell you he didn’t do it, sir. There ain’t a guilty man in here, not one! Not if you ask them. They’ll all swear on their mothers’ lives they didn’t do it, but they did. They all did.’ He grinned and released his grip on Sandman’s coat. ‘Do you have a watch, sir? You do, sir? Best not take anything in that might be stolen. It’ll be in the cupboard here, sir, under lock, key and my eye. Round that corner, sir, you’ll find some stairs. Go down, sir, follow the tunnel and don’t mind the smell. Mind your backs!’ This last call was to all the folk in the lobby because four workmen, accompanied by three watchmen armed with truncheons, were carrying a plain wooden coffin out through the prison door. ‘It’s the girl what was stretched this morning, sir,’ the porter confided in Sandman. ‘She’s going to the surgeons. The gentlemen do like a young lady to dissect, they do. Down the stairs, sir, and follow your nose.’

The smell of unwashed bodies reminded Sandman of Spanish billets crowded with tired redcoats and the stench became even more noxious as he followed the stone-flagged tunnel to where more stairs climbed to a guardroom beside a massive barred gate that led into the Press Yard. Two turnkeys, both armed with cudgels, guarded the gate. ‘Charles Corday?’ one responded when Sandman enquired where the prisoner might be found. ‘You can’t miss him. If he ain’t in the yard then he’ll be in the Association Room.’ He pointed to an open door across the yard. ‘He looks like a bleeding mort, that’s why you can’t mistake him.’

‘A mort?’

The man unbolted the gate. ‘He looks like a bloody girl, sir,’ he said scornfully. ‘Pal of his, are you?’ The man grinned, then the grin faded as Sandman turned and stared at him. ‘I don’t see him in the yard, sir,’ the turnkey had been a soldier and he instinctively straightened his back and became respectful under Sandman’s gaze, ‘so he’ll be in the Association Room, sir. That door over there, sir.’

The Press Yard was a narrow space compressed between high, dank buildings. What little light came into the yard arrived over a thicket of spikes that crowned the Newgate Street wall beside which a score of prisoners, easily identifiable because of their leg irons, sat with their visitors. Children played round an open drain. A blind man sat by the steps leading to the cells, muttering to himself and scratching at the open sores on his manacled ankles. A drunk, also in chains, lay sleeping while a woman, evidently his wife, wept silently beside him. She mistook Sandman for a wealthy man and held out a begging hand. ‘Have pity on a poor woman, your honour, have pity.’

Sandman went into the Association Room which was a large space filled with tables and benches. A coal fire burnt in a big grate where stew pots hung from a crane. The pots were being stirred by two women who were evidently cooking for a dozen folk seated round one of the long tables. The only turnkey in the room, a youngish man armed with a truncheon, was also at the table, sharing a gin bottle and the laughter which died abruptly when Sandman appeared. Then the other tables fell silent as forty or fifty folk turned to look at the newcomer. Someone spat. Something about Sandman, maybe his height, spoke of authority and this was not a place where authority was welcome.

‘Corday!’ Sandman called, his voice taking on the familiar officer’s tone. ‘I’m looking for Charles Corday!’ No one answered. ‘Corday!’ Sandman called again.

‘Sir?’ The answering voice was tremulous and came from the room’s furthest and darkest corner. Sandman threaded his way through the tables to see a pathetic figure curled against the wall there. Charles Corday was very young, he looked scarce more than seventeen, and he was thin to the point of frailty with a deathly pale face framed by long fair hair that did, indeed, look girlish. He had long eyelashes, a trembling lip and a dark bruise on one cheek.

‘You’re Charles Corday?’ Sandman felt an instinctive dislike of the young man, who looked too delicate and self-pitying.

‘Yes, sir.’ Corday’s right arm was shaking.

‘Stand up,’ Sandman ordered. Corday blinked in surprise at the tone of command, but obeyed, flinching because the leg irons bit into his ankles. ‘I’ve been sent by the Home Secretary,’ Sandman said, ‘and I need somewhere private where we can talk. We can use the cells, perhaps. Do we reach them from here? Or from the yard?’

‘The yard, sir,’ Corday said, though he scarcely seemed to have understood the rest of Sandman’s words.

Sandman led Corday towards the door. ‘Is he your boman, Charlie?’ a man in leg shackles enquired. ‘Come for a farewell cuddle, has he?’ The other prisoners laughed, but Sandman had the experienced officer’s ability to know when to ignore insubordination and he just kept walking, but then he heard Corday squeal and he turned to see that a greasy-haired and unshaven man was holding Corday’s hair like a leash. ‘I was talking to you, Charlie!’ the man said. He yanked Corday’s hair, making the boy squeal again. ‘Give us a kiss, Charlie,’ the man demanded, ‘give us a kiss.’ The women at the table by the fire laughed at Corday’s predicament.

‘Let him go,’ Sandman said.

‘You don’t give orders here, culley,’ the unshaven man growled. ‘No one gives orders in here, there aren’t any orders any more, not till Jemmy comes to fetch us away, so you can fake away off, culley, you can—’ The man stopped suddenly, then gave a curious scream. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘No!’

Rider Sandman had ever suffered from a temper. He knew it and he fought against it. In his everyday life he adopted a tone of gentle deliberation, he used courtesy far beyond necessity, he elevated reason and he reinforced it with prayer, and he did all that because he feared his own temper, but not all the prayer and reason and courtesy had eliminated the foul moods. His soldiers had known there was a devil in Captain Sandman. It was a real devil and they knew he was not a man to cross because he had that temper as sudden and as fierce as a summer storm of lightning and thunder. And he was a tall and strong man, strong enough to lift the unshaven prisoner and slam him against the wall so hard that the man’s head bounced off the stones. Then the man screamed because Sandman had driven a hard fist into his lower belly. ‘I said let him go,’ Sandman snapped. ‘Did you not hear what I said? Are you deaf or are you just a bloody God-damned idiot?’ He slapped the man once, twice, and his eyes were blazing and his voice was seething with a promise of even more terrible violence. ‘Damn it! What kind of fool do you take me for?’ He jerked the man. ‘Answer me!’

‘Sir?’ the unshaven man managed to say.

‘Answer me. God damn it!’ Sandman’s right hand was about the prisoner’s throat and he was throttling the man, who was incapable of saying anything now. There was utter silence in the Association Room. The man, gazing into Sandman’s pale eyes, was choking.

The turnkey, as appalled by the force of Sandman’s anger as any of the prisoners, nervously crossed the room. ‘Sir? You’re throttling him, sir.’

‘I’m damn well killing him,’ Sandman snarled.

‘Sir, please, sir.’

Sandman suddenly came to his senses, then let the prisoner go. ‘If you cannot be courteous,’ he told the half-choked man, ‘then you should be silent.’

‘He won’t give you any more lip, sir,’ the turnkey said anxiously, ‘I warrant he won’t, sir.’

‘Come, Corday,’ Sandman ordered, and stalked out of the room.

There was a sigh of relief when he left. ‘Who the hell was that?’ the bruised prisoner managed to ask through the pain in his throat.

‘Never laid peepers on him.’

‘Got no right to hit me,’ the prisoner said, and his friends growled their assent though none cared to follow Sandman and debate the assertion.

Sandman led a terrified Corday across the Press Yard to the steps which led to the fifteen salt boxes. The five cells on the ground floor were all being used by prostitutes and Sandman, the temper still seething in him, did not apologise for interrupting them, but just slammed the doors then climbed the stairs to find an empty cell on the first floor. ‘In there,’ he told Corday, and the frightened youth scuttled past him. Sandman shuddered at the stink in this ancient part of the jail that had survived the fires of the Gordon Riots. The rest of the prison had burnt to ash during the riots, but these floors had merely been scorched and the salt boxes looked more like mediaeval dungeons than modern cells. A rope mat lay on the floor, evidently to serve as a mattress, blankets for five or six men were tossed in an untidy pile under the high-barred window while an unemptied night bucket stank in a corner.

‘I’m Captain Rider Sandman,’ he introduced himself again to Corday, ‘and the Home Secretary has asked me to enquire into your case.’

‘Why?’ Corday, who had sunk onto the pile of blankets, nerved himself to ask.

‘Your mother has connections,’ Sandman said shortly, the temper still hot in him.

‘The Queen has spoken for me?’ Corday looked hopeful.

‘Her Majesty has requested an assurance of your guilt,’ Sandman said stuffily.

‘But I’m not guilty,’ Corday protested.

‘You’ve already been condemned,’ Sandman said, ‘so your guilt is not at issue.’ He knew he sounded unbearably pompous, but he wanted to get this distasteful meeting over so he could go to the cricket. It would, he thought, be the swiftest fifteen guineas he had ever earnt for he could not imagine this despicable creature resisting his demands for a confession. Corday looked pathetic, effeminate and close to tears. He was wearing dishevelled but fashionably elegant clothes; black breeches, white stockings, a frilled white shirt and a blue silk waistcoat, but he had neither cravat nor a topcoat. The clothes, Sandman suspected, were all a good deal more expensive than anything he himself possessed and they only increased his dislike of Corday, whose voice had a flat and nasal quality with an accent that betrayed social pretensions. A snivelling little upstart, was Sandman’s instinctive judgement; a boy scarce grown and already aping the manners and fashion of his betters.

‘I didn’t do it!’ Corday protested again, then began to cry. His thin shoulders heaved, his voice grizzled and the tears ran down his pale cheeks.

Sandman stood in the cell doorway. His predecessor had evidently beaten confessions out of prisoners, but Sandman could not imagine himself doing the same. It was not honourable and could not be done, which meant the wretched boy would have to be persuaded into telling the truth, but the first necessity was to stop him weeping. ‘Why do you call yourself Corday,’ he asked, hoping to distract him, ‘when your mother’s name is Cruttwell?’

Corday sniffed. ‘There’s no law against it.’

‘Did I say there was?’

‘I’m a portrait painter,’ Corday said petulantly, as if he needed to reassure himself of that fact, ‘and clients prefer their painters to have French names. Cruttwell doesn’t sound distinguished. Would you have your portrait painted by Charlie Cruttwell when you could engage Monsieur Charles Corday?’

‘You’re a painter?’ Sandman could not hide his surprise.

‘Yes!’ Corday, his eyes reddened from crying, looked belligerently at Sandman, then he collapsed into misery again. ‘I was apprenticed to Sir George Phillips.’

‘He’s very successful,’ Sandman said scornfully, ‘despite possessing a prosaically English name. And Sir Thomas Lawrence doesn’t sound very French to me.’

‘I thought changing my name would help,’ Corday said sulkily. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Your guilt matters,’ Sandman said sternly, ‘and, if nothing else, you might face the judgement of your Maker with a clear conscience if you were to confess it.’

Corday stared at Sandman as though his visitor were mad. ‘You know what I’m guilty of?’ he finally asked. ‘I’m guilty of aspiring to be above my station. I’m guilty of being a decent painter. I’m guilty of being a much better damned painter than Sir George bloody Phillips, and I’m guilty, my God how I’m guilty, of being stupid, but I did not kill the Countess of Avebury! I did not!’

Sandman did not like the boy, but he felt in danger of being convinced by him and so he steeled himself by remembering the warning words of the porter at the prison gate. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Eighteen,’ Corday answered.

‘Eighteen,’ Sandman echoed. ‘God will have pity on your youth,’ he said. ‘We all do stupid things when we’re young, and you have done terrible things, but God will weigh your soul and there is still hope. You aren’t doomed to hell’s fires, not if you confess and if you beg God for forgiveness.’

‘Forgiveness for what?’ Corday asked defiantly.

Sandman was so taken aback that he said nothing.

Corday, red-eyed and pale-faced, stared up at the tall Sandman. ‘Look at me,’ he said, ‘do I look like a man who has the strength to rape and kill a woman, even if I wanted to? Do I look like that?’ He did not. Sandman had to admit it, at least to himself, for Corday was a limp and unimpressive creature, weedy and thin, who now began to weep again. ‘You’re all the same,’ he whined. ‘No one listens! No one cares! So long as someone hangs, no one cares.’

‘Stop crying, for God’s sake!’ Sandman snarled, and immediately chided himself for giving way to his temper. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

Those last two words made Corday frown in puzzlement. He stopped weeping, looked at Sandman and frowned. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said softly, ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘So what happened?’ Sandman asked, despising himself for having lost control of the interview.

‘I was painting her,’ Corday said. ‘The Earl of Avebury wanted a portrait of his wife and he asked Sir George to do it.’

‘He asked Sir George, yet you were painting her?’ Sandman sounded sceptical. Corday, after all, was a mere eighteen years old while Sir George Phillips was celebrated as the only rival to Sir Thomas Lawrence.

Corday sighed as though Sandman was being deliberately obtuse. ‘Sir George drinks,’ he said scornfully. ‘He starts on blackstrap at breakfast and bowzes till night, which means his hand shakes. So he drinks and I paint.’

Sandman backed into the corridor to escape the smell of the unemptied night bucket in the cell. He wondered if he was being naïve, for he found Corday curiously believable. ‘You painted in Sir George’s studio?’ he asked, not because he cared, but because he wanted to fill the silence.

‘No,’ Corday said. ‘Her husband wanted the portrait set in her bedroom, so I did it there. Have you any idea how much bother that is? You have to take an easel and canvas and chalk and oils and rags and pencils and dropcloths and mixing bowls and more rags. Still, the Earl of Avebury was paying for it.’

‘How much?’

‘Whatever Sir George could get away with. Eight hundred guineas? Nine? He offered me a hundred.’ Corday sounded bitter at that fee, though it seemed like a fortune to Sandman.

‘Is it usual to paint a portrait in a lady’s bedroom?’ Sandman asked in genuine puzzlement. He could imagine a woman wanting herself depicted in a drawing room or under a tree in a great sunlit garden, but the bedroom seemed a very perverse choice to him.

‘It was to be a boudoir portrait,’ Corday said, and though the term was new to Sandman he understood what it meant. ‘They’re very fashionable,’ Corday went on, ‘because these days all the women want to look like Canova’s Pauline Bonaparte.’

Sandman frowned. ‘You confuse me.’

Corday raised suppliant eyes to heaven in the face of such ignorance. ‘The sculptor Canova,’ he explained, ‘did a likeness of the Emperor’s sister that is much celebrated and every beauty in Europe wishes to be depicted in the same pose. The woman reclines on a chaise longue, an apple in her left hand and her head supported by her right.’ Corday, rather to Sandman’s embarrassment, demonstrated the pose. ‘The salient feature,’ the boy went on, ‘is that the woman is naked from the waist up. And a good deal below the waist, too.’

‘So the Countess was naked when you painted her?’ Sandman asked.

‘No,’ Corday hesitated, then shrugged. ‘She wasn’t to know she was being painted naked, so she was in a morning gown and robe. We would have used a model in the studio to do the tits.’

‘She didn’t know?’ Sandman was incredulous.

‘Her husband wanted a portrait,’ Corday said impatiently, ‘and he wanted her naked, and she would have refused him, so he lied to her. She didn’t mind doing a boudoir portrait, but she wasn’t going to unpeel for anyone, so we were going to fake it and I was just doing the preliminary work, the drawing and tints. Charcoal on canvas with a few colours touched in; the colours of the bed covers, the wallpaper, her ladyship’s skin and hair. Bitch that she was.’

Sandman felt a surge of hope, for the last four words had been malevolent, just as he expected a murderer would speak of his victim. ‘You didn’t like her?’

‘Like her? I despised her!’ Corday spat. ‘She was a trumped-up demi-rep!’ He meant she was a courtesan, a high-class whore. ‘A buttock,’ Corday downgraded her savagely, ‘nothing else. But just because I didn’t like her doesn’t make me a rapist and murderer. Besides, do you really think a woman like the Countess of Avebury would allow a painter’s apprentice to be alone with her? She was chaperoned by a maid all the time I was there. How could I have raped or murdered her?’

‘There was a maid?’ Sandman asked.

‘Of course there was,’ Corday insisted scornfully, ‘an ugly bitch called Meg.’

Sandman was totally confused now. ‘And, presumably, Meg spoke at your trial?’

‘Meg has disappeared,’ Corday said tiredly, ‘which is why I am going to hang.’ He glared at Sandman. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m making it up. But there was a maid and her name was Meg and she was there and when it came to the trial she couldn’t be found.’ He had spoken defiantly, but his demeanour suddenly changed as he began to weep again. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked. ‘I know it does. It must!’

Sandman stared down at the flagstones. ‘Where was the house?’

‘Mount Street,’ Corday was hunched and sobbing, ‘it’s just off …’

‘I know where Mount Street is,’ Sandman interrupted a little too sharply. He was embarrassed by Corday’s tears, but persevered with questions that were now actuated by a genuine curiosity. ‘And you admit to being in the Countess’s house on the day she was murdered?’

‘I was there just before she was murdered!’ Corday said. ‘There were back stairs, servants’ stairs, and there was a knock on the door there. A deliberate knock, a signal, and the Countess became agitated and insisted I leave at once. So Meg took me down the front stairs and showed me the door. I had to leave everything, the paints, canvas, everything, and that convinced the constables I was guilty. So within an hour they came and arrested me at Sir George’s studio.’

‘Who sent for the constables?’

Corday shrugged to suggest he did not know. ‘Meg? Another of the servants?’

‘And the constables found you at Sir George’s studio. Which is where?’

‘Sackville Street. Above Gray’s, the jewellers.’ Corday stared red-eyed at Sandman. ‘Do you have a knife?’

‘No.’

‘Because if you do, then I beg you give it me. Give it me! I would rather cut my wrists than stay here! I did nothing, nothing! Yet I am beaten and abused all day, and in a week I hang. Why wait a week? I am already in hell. I am in hell!’

Sandman cleared his throat. ‘Why not stay up here, in the cells? You’d be alone here.’

‘Alone? I’d be alone for two minutes! It’s safer downstairs where at least there are witnesses.’ Corday wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘What do you do now?’

‘Now?’ Sandman was nonplussed. He had expected to listen to a confession and then go back to the Wheatsheaf and write a respectful report. Instead he was confused.

‘You said the Home Secretary wanted you to make enquiries. So will you?’ Corday’s gaze was challenging, then he crumpled. ‘You don’t care. No one cares!’

‘I shall make enquiries,’ Sandman said gruffly, and suddenly he could not take the stench and the tears and the misery any more and so he turned and ran down the stairs. He came into the fresher air of the Press Yard, then had a moment’s panic that the turnkeys would not unbolt the gate that would let him into the tunnel, but of course they did.

The porter unlocked his cupboard and took out Sandman’s watch, a gold-cased Breguet that had been a gift from Eleanor. Sandman had tried to return the watch with her letters, but she had refused to accept them. ‘Find your man, sir?’ the porter asked.

‘I found him.’

‘And he spun you a yarn, I’ve no doubt,’ the porter chuckled. ‘Spun you a yarn, eh? They can gammon you, sir, like a right patterer. But there’s an easy way to know when a felon’s telling lies, sir, an easy way.’

‘I should be obliged to hear it,’ Sandman said.

‘They’re speaking, sir, that’s how you can tell they’re telling lies, they’re speaking.’ The porter thought this a fine joke and wheezed with laughter as Sandman went down the steps into Old Bailey.

He stood on the pavement, oblivious of the crowd surging up and down. He felt soiled by the prison. He clicked open the Breguet’s case and saw it was just after half past two in the afternoon; he wondered where his day had gone. To Rider, Eleanor’s inscription inside the watch case read, in aeternam, and that palpably false promise did not improve his mood. He clicked the lid shut just as a workman shouted at him to mind himself. The trapdoor, pavilion and stairs of the scaffold had all been dismantled and now the tongue-and-groove cladding that had screened the platform was being thrown down and the planks were falling perilously near Sandman. A carter hauling a vast wagon of bricks whipped blood from the flanks of his horses, even though the beasts could make no headway against the tangle of vehicles that blocked the street.

Sandman finally thrust the watch into his fob pocket and walked northwards. He was torn. Corday had been found guilty and yet, though Sandman could not find a scrap of liking for the young man, his story was believable. Doubtless the porter was right and every man in Newgate was convinced of his own innocence, yet Sandman was not entirely naïve. He had led a company of soldiers with consummate skill and he reckoned he could distinguish when a man was telling the truth. And if Corday was innocent then the fifteen guineas that weighed down Sandman’s pockets would be neither swiftly nor easily earnt.

He decided he needed advice.

So he went to watch some cricket.




2 (#u20afc9b5-4e9e-56e7-a87a-b0e45ac90a58)


Sandman reached Bunhill Row just before the city clocks struck three, the jangling of the bells momentarily drowning the crack of bat on ball, the deep shouts and applause of the spectators. It sounded like a large crowd and, judging by the shouts, a good match. The gatekeeper waved him through. ‘I ain’t taking your sixpence, Captain.’

‘You should, Joe.’

‘Aye, and you should be playing, Captain.’ Joe Mallock, gatekeeper at the Artillery Ground, had once bowled for the finest clubs in London before painful joints had laid him low, and he well remembered one of his last games when a young army officer, scarce out of school, had thrashed him all over the New Road outfield in Marylebone. ‘Been too long since we seen you bat, Captain.’

‘I’m past my prime, Joe.’

‘Past your prime, boy? Past your prime! You aren’t even thirty yet. Now go on in. Last I heard England was fifty-six runs up with only four in hand. They need you!’

A raucous jeer rewarded a passage of play as Sandman walked towards the boundary. The Marquess of Canfield’s eleven were playing an England eleven and one of the Marquess’s fielders had dropped an easy catch and now endured the crowd’s scorn. ‘Butter-fingers!’ they roared. ‘Fetch him a bucket!’

Sandman glanced at the blackboard and saw that England, in their second innings, were only sixty runs ahead and still had four wickets in hand. Most of the crowd were cheering the England eleven and a roar greeted a smart hit that sent the ball scorching towards the field’s far side. The Marquess’s bowler, a bearded giant, spat on the grass then stared up at the blue sky as if he was deaf to the crowd’s noise. Sandman watched the batsman, Budd it was, walk down the wicket and pat down an already smooth piece of turf.

Sandman strolled past the carriages parked by the boundary. The Marquess of Canfield, white-haired, white-bearded and ensconced with a telescope in a landau, offered Sandman a curt nod, then pointedly looked away. A year ago, before the disgrace of Sandman’s father, the Marquess would have called out a greeting, insisted on sharing a few moments of gossip and begged Sandman to play for his team, but now the Sandman name was dirt and the Marquess had pointedly cut him. But then, from further about the boundary and as if in recompense, a hand waved vigorously from another open carriage and an eager voice shouted a greeting. ‘Rider! Here! Rider!’

The hand and voice belonged to a tall, ragged young man who was painfully thin, very bony and lanky, dressed in shabby black and smoking a clay pipe that trickled a drift of ash down his waistcoat and jacket. His red hair was in need of a pair of scissors for it collapsed across his long-nosed face and flared above his wide and old-fashioned collar. ‘Drop the carriage steps,’ he instructed Sandman, ‘come on in. You’re monstrous late. Heydell scored thirty-four in the first innings and very well scored they were too. How are you, my dear fellow? Fowkes is bowling creditably well, but is a bit errant on the off side. Budd is carrying his bat, and the creature who has just come in is called Fellowes and I know nothing about him. You should be playing. You also look pale. Are you eating properly?’

‘I eat,’ Sandman said, ‘and you?’

‘God preserves me, in His effable wisdom He preserves me.’ The Reverend Lord Alexander Pleydell settled back on his seat. ‘I see my father ignored you?’

‘He nodded to me.’

‘He nodded? Ah! What graciousness. Is it true you played for Sir John Hart?’

‘Played and lost,’ Sandman said bitterly. ‘They were bribed.’

‘Dear Rider! I warned you of Sir John! Man’s nothing but greed. He only wanted you to play so that everyone would assume his team was incorruptible and it worked, didn’t it? I just hope he paid you well for he must have made a great deal of money from your gullibility. Would you like some tea? Of course you would. I shall have Hughes bring us tea and cake from Mrs Hillman’s stall, I think, don’t you? Budd looks good as ever, don’t he? What a hitter he is! Have you ever lifted his bat? It’s a club, a cudgel! Oh, well done, sir! Well struck! Go hard, sir, go hard!’ He was cheering on England and doing it in a very loud voice so that his father, whose team was playing against England, would hear him. ‘Capital, sir, well done! Hughes, my dear fellow, where are you?’

Hughes, Lord Alexander’s manservant, approached the side of the carriage. ‘My lord?’

‘Say hello to Captain Sandman, Hughes, and I think we might venture a pot of Mrs Hillman’s tea, don’t you? And perhaps some of her apricot cake?’ His lordship put money into his servant’s hand. ‘What are the bookies saying now, Hughes?’

‘They strongly favour your father’s eleven, my lord.’

Lord Alexander pressed two more coins on his servant. ‘Captain Sandman and I will wager a guinea apiece on an England win.’

‘I can’t afford such a thing,’ Sandman protested, ‘and besides I detest gambling on cricket.’

‘Don’t be pompous,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘we’re not bribing the players, merely risking cash on our appreciation of their skill. You truly do look pale, Rider, are you sickening? Cholera, perhaps? The plague? Consumption, maybe?’

‘Prison fever.’

‘My dear fellow!’ Lord Alexander looked horrified. ‘Prison fever? And for God’s sake sit down.’ The carriage swayed as Sandman sat opposite his friend. They had attended the same school where they had become inseparable friends and where Sandman, who had always excelled at games and was thus one of the school’s heroes, had protected Lord Alexander from the bullies who believed his lordship’s clubbed foot made him an object of ridicule. Sandman, on leaving school, had purchased a commission in the infantry while Lord Alexander, who was the Marquess of Canfield’s second son, had gone to Oxford where, in the first year that such things were awarded, he had taken a double first. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been imprisoned,’ Lord Alexander now chided Sandman.

Sandman smiled and showed his friend the letter from the Home Office and then described his afternoon, though the telling of his tale was constantly interrupted by Lord Alexander’s exclamations of praise or scorn for the cricket, many of them uttered through a mouthful of Mrs Hillman’s apricot cake which his lordship reduced to a spattering of crumbs that joined the ashes on his waistcoat. Beside his chair he kept a bag filled with clay pipes and as soon as one became plugged he would take out another and strike flint on steel. The sparks chipped from the flint smouldered on his coat and on the carriage’s leather seat where they were either beaten out or faded on their own as his lordship puffed more smoke. ‘I must say,’ he said when he had considered Sandman’s story, ‘that I should deem it most unlikely that young Corday is guilty.’

‘But he’s been tried.’

‘My dear Rider! My dear, dear Rider! Rider, Rider, Rider. Rider! Have you ever been to the Old Bailey sessions? Of course you haven’t, you’ve been far too busy smiting the French, you wretch. But I dare say that inside of a week those four judges get through a hundred cases. Five a day apiece? They often do more. These folk don’t get trials, Rider, they get dragged through the tunnel from Newgate, come blinking into the Session House, are knocked down like bullocks and hustled off in manacles! It ain’t justice!’

‘They are defended, surely?’

Lord Alexander turned a shocked face on his friend. ‘The sessions ain’t your Courts Martial, Rider. This is England! What barrister will defend some penniless youth accused of sheep stealing?’

‘Corday isn’t penniless.’

‘But I’ll wager he isn’t rich. Good Lord, Rider, the woman was found naked, smothered in blood, with his palette knife in her throat.’

Sandman, watching the batsmen steal a quick single after an inelegant poke had trickled the ball down to square leg, was amused that his friend knew the details of Corday’s crime, suggesting that Lord Alexander, when he was not deep in volumes of philosophy, theology and literature, was dipping into the vulgar broadsheets that described England’s more violent crimes. ‘So you’re suggesting Corday is guilty,’ Sandman said.

‘No, Rider, I am suggesting that he looks guilty. There is a difference. And in any respectable system of justice we would devise ways of distinguishing between the appearance and the reality of guilt. But not in Sir John Silvester’s courtroom. The man’s a brute, a conscienceless brute. Oh, well struck, Budd, well struck! Run, man, run! Don’t dawdle!’ His lordship took up a new pipe and began setting fire to himself. ‘The whole system,’ he said between puffs, ‘is pernicious. Pernicious! They’ll sentence a hundred folk to hang, then only kill ten of them because the rest have commuted sentences. And how do you obtain a commutation? Why, by having the squire or the parson or his lordship sign the petition. But what if you don’t know such elevated folk? Then you’ll hang. Hang. You fool! You fool! Did you see that? Fellowes is bowled, by God! Middle stump! Closed his eyes and swung! He should be hanged. You see, Rider, what is happening? Society, that’s the respectable folk, you and me, well you at least, have devised a way to keep the lower orders under our control. We make them depend upon our mercy and our loving kindness. We condemn them to the gallows, then spare them and they are supposed to be grateful. Grateful! It is pernicious.’ Lord Alexander was thoroughly worked up now. His long hands were wringing together and his hair, already hopelessly tousled, was being shaken into a worse disorder. ‘Those damned Tories;’ he glared at Sandman, including him in this condemnation, ‘utterly pernicious!’ He frowned for a second, then a happy idea struck him. ‘You and I, Rider, we shall go to a hanging!’

‘No!’

‘It’s your duty, my dear fellow. Now that you are a functionary of this oppressive state you should understand just what brutality awaits these innocent souls. I shall write to the Keeper of Newgate and demand that you and I are given privileged access to the next execution. Oh, a change of bowler. This fellow’s said to twist it very cannily. You will have supper with me tonight?’

‘In Hampstead?’

‘Of course in Hampstead,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘it is where I live and dine, Rider.’

‘Then I won’t.’

Lord Alexander sighed. He had tried hard to persuade Sandman to move into his house and Sandman had been tempted, for Lord Alexander’s father, despite disagreeing with all his son’s radical beliefs, lavished an allowance on him that permitted the radical to enjoy a carriage, stables, servants and a rare library, but Sandman had learnt that to spend more than a few hours in his friend’s company was to end up arguing bitterly. It was better, far better, to be independent.

‘I saw Eleanor last Saturday,’ Lord Alexander said with his usual tactlessness.

‘I trust she was well?’

‘I’m sure she was, but I rather think I forgot to ask. But then, why should one ask? It seems so redundant. She was obviously not dying, she looked well, so why should I ask? You recall Paley’s Principles?’

‘Is that a book?’ Sandman asked, and was rewarded with an incredulous look. ‘I’ve not read it,’ he added hastily.

‘What have you been doing with your life?’ Lord Alexander asked testily. ‘I shall lend it to you, but only so that you can understand the vile arguments that are advanced on the scaffold’s behalf. Do you know,’ Lord Alexander emphasised his next point by stabbing Sandman with the mouthpiece of his pipe, ‘that Paley actually condoned hanging the innocent on the specious grounds that capital punishment is a necessity, that errors cannot be avoided in an imperfect world and that the guiltless suffer, therefore, so that general society might be safer. The innocent who are executed thus form an inevitable, if regrettable, sacrifice. Can you credit such an argument? They should have hanged Paley for it!’

‘He was a clergyman, I believe?’ Sandman said, applauding a subtle snick that sent a fielder running towards the Chiswell Street boundary.

‘Of course he was a clergyman, but what does that have to do with the matter? I am a clergyman, does that give my arguments divine force? You are absurd at times.’ Lord Alexander had broken the stem of his pipe while prodding his friend and now needed to light another. ‘I confess that Thomas Jefferson makes the exact same point, of course, but I find his reasoning more elegant than Paley’s.’

‘Meaning,’ Sandman said, ‘that Jefferson is a hero of yours and can do no wrong.’

‘I hope I am more discerning than that,’ Lord Alexander replied huffily, ‘and even you must allow that Jefferson has political reasons for his beliefs.’

‘Which makes them all the more reprehensible,’ Sandman said, ‘and you’re on fire.’

‘So I am,’ Lord Alexander beat at his coat. ‘Eleanor asked after you, as I recall.’

‘She did?’

‘Did I not just say so? And I said I had no doubt you were in fine fettle. Oh, well struck, sir, well struck. Budd hits almost as hard as you! She and I met at the Egyptian Hall. There was a lecture about,’ he paused, frowning as he stared at the batsmen, ‘bless me, I’ve quite forgotten why I went, but Eleanor was there with Doctor Vaux and his wife. My God, that man is a fool.’

‘Vaux?’

‘No, the new batsman! No point in waving the bat idly! Strike, man, strike, it’s what the bat is for! Eleanor had a message for you.’

‘She did?’ Sandman’s heart quickened. His engagement to Eleanor might be broken off, but he was still in love with her. ‘What?’

‘What, indeed?’ Lord Alexander frowned. ‘Slipped my mind, Rider, slipped it altogether. Dear me, but it can’t have been important. Wasn’t important at all. And as for the Countess of Avebury!’ He shuddered, evidently unable to express any kind of opinion on the murdered woman.

‘What of her ladyship?’ Sandman asked, knowing it would be pointless to pursue Eleanor’s forgotten message.

‘Ladyship! Ha!’ Lord Alexander’s exclamation was loud enough to draw the gaze of a hundred spectators. ‘That baggage,’ he said, then remembered his calling. ‘Poor woman, but translated to a warmer place, no doubt. If anyone wanted her dead I should think it would be her husband. The wretched man must be weighted down with horns!’

‘You think the Earl killed her?’ Sandman asked.

‘They’re estranged, Rider, is that not an indication?’

‘Estranged?’

‘You sound surprised. May one ask why? Half England’s husbands seem to be estranged from their wives. It is hardly an uncommon situation.’

Sandman was surprised because he could have sworn Corday had said the Earl had commissioned his wife’s portrait, but why would he do that if they were estranged? ‘Are you certain they’re estranged?’ he asked.

‘I have it on the highest authority,’ Lord Alexander said defensively. ‘I am a friend of the Earl’s son. Christopher, his name is, and he’s a most cordial man. He was at Brasenose when I was at Trinity.’

‘Cordial?’ Sandman asked. It seemed an odd word.

‘Oh, very!’ Alexander said energetically. ‘He took an extremely respectable degree, I remember, then went off to study with Lasalle at the Sorbonne. His field is etymology.’

‘Bugs?’

‘Words, Rider, words.’ Lord Alexander rolled his eyes at Sandman’s ignorance. ‘The study of the origins of words. Not a serious field, I always think, but Christopher seemed to think there was work to be done there. The dead woman, of course, was his stepmother.’

‘He talked to you of her?’

‘We talked of serious things,’ Alexander said reprovingly, ‘but naturally, in the course of any acquaintanceship, one learns trivia. There was little love lost in that family, I can tell you. Father despising the son, father hating the wife, wife detesting the husband and the son bitterly disposed towards both. I must say the Earl and Countess of Avebury form an object lesson in the perils of family life. Oh, well struck! Well struck! Good man! Capital work! Scamper, scamper!’

Sandman applauded the batsman, then sipped the last of his tea. ‘I’m surprised to learn that Earl and Countess were estranged,’ he said, ‘because Corday claimed that the Earl commissioned the portrait. Why would he do that if they’re estranged?’

‘You must ask him,’ Lord Alexander said, ‘though my guess, for what it is worth, is that Avebury, though jealous, was still enamoured of her. She was a noted beauty and he is a noted fool. Mind you, Rider, I make no accusations. I merely assert that if anyone wanted the lady dead then it could well have been her husband, though I doubt he would have struck the fatal blow himself. Even Avebury is sensible enough to hire someone else to do his dirty work. Besides which he is a martyr to gout. Oh, well hit! Well hit! Go hard, go hard!’

‘Is the son still in Paris?’

‘He came back. I see him from time to time, though we’re not as close as when we were at Oxford. Look at that! Fiddling with the bat. It’s no good poking at balls!’

‘Could you introduce me?’

‘To Avebury’s son? I suppose so.’

The game ended at shortly past eight when the Marquess’s side, needing only ninety-three runs to win, collapsed. Their defeat pleased Lord Alexander, but made Sandman suspect that bribery had once again ruined a game. He could not prove it, and Lord Alexander scoffed at the suspicion and would not hear of it when Sandman tried to refuse his gambling winnings. ‘Of course you must take it,’ Lord Alexander insisted. ‘Are you still lodging in the Wheatsheaf? You do know it’s a flash tavern?’

‘I know now,’ Sandman admitted.

‘Why don’t we have supper there? I can learn some demotic flash, but I suppose all flash is demotic. Hughes? Summon the carriage horses, and tell Williams we’re going to Drury Lane.’

Flash was the slang name for London’s criminal life and the label attached to its language. No one stole a purse, they filed a bit or boned the cole or clicked the ready bag. Prison was a sheep walk or the quod, Newgate was the King’s Head Inn and its turnkeys were gaggers. A good man was flash scamp and his victim a mum scull. Lord Alexander was reckoned a mum scull, but a genial one. He learnt the flash vocabulary and paid for the words by buying ale and gin, and he did not leave till well past midnight and it was then that Sally Hood came home on her brother’s arm, both of them worse for drink, and they passed Lord Alexander who was standing by his carriage, which he had been delighted to learn was really a rattler, while its lamps were a pair of glims. He was holding himself upright by gripping a wheel when Sally hurried past. He stared after her open-mouthed. ‘I am in love, Rider,’ he declared too loudly.

Sally glanced back over her shoulder and gave Sandman a dazzling smile. ‘You are not in love, Alexander,’ Sandman said firmly.

Lord Alexander kept staring after Sally until she had vanished through the Wheatsheaf’s front door. ‘I am in love,’ Lord Alexander insisted. ‘I have been smitten by Cupid’s arrow. I am enamoured. I am fatally in love.’

‘You’re a very drunken clergyman, Alexander.’

‘I am a very drunken clergyman in love. Do you know the lady? You can arrange an introduction?’ He lurched after Sally, but his club foot slipped on the cobbles and he fell full length. ‘I insist, Rider!’ he said from the ground. ‘I insist upon paying the lady my respects. I wish to marry her.’ In truth he was so drunk he could not stand, but Sandman, Hughes and the coachman managed to get his lordship into his carriage and then, glims glimmering, it rattled north.

It was raining next morning and all London seemed in a bad mood. Sandman had a headache, a sore belly and the memory of Lord Alexander singing the gallows song that he had been taught in the taproom.

And now I’m going to hell, going to hell,

And wouldn’t we do well, we do well,

If you go there to dwell, there to dwell,

Damn your eyes.

The tune was lodged in Sandman’s mind and he could not rid himself of it as he shaved, then made tea over the back room fire where the tenants were allowed to boil their water. Sally hurried in, her hair in disarray, but with her dress already hooked up. She ladled herself a cup of water and lifted it in a mock toast. ‘Breakfast,’ she told Sandman, then grinned. ‘I hear you was jolly last night?’

‘Good morning, Miss Hood,’ Sandman groaned.

She laughed. ‘Who was that cripple cove you was with?’

‘He is my particular friend,’ Sandman said, ‘the Reverend Lord Alexander Pleydell, MA, is second son of the Marquess and Marchioness of Canfield.’

Sally stared at Sandman. ‘You’re gammoning me.’

‘I promise I am not.’

‘He said he was in love with me.’

Sandman had hoped she had not heard. ‘And doubtless this morning, Miss Hood,’ he said, ‘when he is sober, he will still be in love with you.’

Sally laughed at Sandman’s tact. ‘Is he really a reverend? He don’t dress like one.’

‘He took orders when he left Oxford,’ Sandman explained, ‘but I rather think he did it to annoy his father. Or perhaps, at the time, he wanted to become a fellow of his college? But he’s never looked for a living. He doesn’t need a parish or any other kind of job because he’s rather rich. He claims he’s writing a book, but I’ve seen no evidence of it.’

Sally drank her water, then grimaced at the taste. ‘A reverend rich cripple?’ She thought for a moment, then smiled mischievously. ‘Is he married?’

‘No,’ Sandman said, and did not add that Alexander regularly fell in love with every pretty shopgirl he saw.

‘Well, I could do a hell of a lot worse than a crocked parson, couldn’t I?’ Sally said, then gasped as a clock struck nine. ‘Lord above, I’m late. This bugger I’m working for likes to start early.’ She ran.

Sandman pulled on his greatcoat and set off for Mount Street. Investigate, Alexander had urged him, so he would. He had six days to discover the truth, and he decided he would begin with the missing maid, Meg. If she existed, and on this wet morning Sandman was dubious of Corday’s story, then she could end Sandman’s confusion by confirming or denying the painter’s tale. He hurried up New Bond Street, then realised with a start that he would have to walk past Eleanor’s house in Davies Street and, because he did not want anyone there to think he was being importunate, he avoided it by taking the long way round and so was soaked to the skin by the time he reached the house in Mount Street where the murder had taken place.

It was easy enough to tell which was the Earl of Avebury’s town house, for even in this weather and despite a paucity of pedestrians, a broadsheet seller was crouching beneath a tarpaulin in an effort to hawk her wares just outside the murder house. ‘Tale of a murder, sir,’ she greeted Sandman, ‘just a penny. ‘Orrible murder, sir.’

‘Give me one.’ Sandman waited as she extricated a sheet from her tarpaulin bag, then he climbed the steps and rapped on the front door. The windows of the house were shuttered, but that meant little. Many folk, stuck in London outside of the season, closed their shutters to suggest they had gone to the country, but it seemed the house really was empty for Sandman’s knocking achieved nothing.

‘There’s no one home,’ the woman selling the broadsheets said, ‘not been anyone home since the murder, sir.’ A crossing sweeper, attracted by Sandman’s hammering, had come to the house and he also confirmed that it was empty.

‘But this is the Earl of Avebury’s house?’ Sandman asked.

‘It is, sir, yes, sir,’ the crossing sweeper, a boy of about ten, was hoping for a tip, ‘and it’s empty, your lordship.’

‘There was a maid here,’ Sandman said, ‘called Meg. Did you know her?’

The crossing sweeper shook his head. ‘Don’t know no one, your honour.’ Two more boys, both paid to sweep horse manure off the streets, had joined the crossing sweeper. ‘Gorn away,’ one of them commented.

A charlie, carrying his watchman’s staff, came to gawp at Sandman, but did not interfere, and just then the front door of the next house along opened and a middle-aged woman in dowdy clothes appeared on the step. She shuddered at the rain, glanced nervously at the small crowd outside her neighbour’s door, then put up an umbrella. ‘Madam!’ Sandman called. ‘Madam!’

‘Sir?’ The woman’s clothes suggested she was a servant, perhaps a housekeeper.

Sandman pushed past his small audience and took off his hat. ‘Forgive me, madam, but Viscount Sidmouth has charged me with investigating the sad events that occurred here.’ He paused and the woman just gaped at him as the rain dripped off the edges of her umbrella, though she seemed impressed by the mention of a viscount, which was why Sandman had introduced it. ‘Is it true, ma’am,’ Sandman went on, ‘that there was a maid called Meg in the house?’

The woman looked back at her closed front door as if seeking an escape, but then nodded. ‘There was, sir, there was.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘They’ve gone, sir, gone. All gone, sir.’

‘But where?’

‘They went to the country, sir, I think.’ She dropped Sandman a curtsey, evidently hoping that would persuade him to go away.

‘The country?’

‘They went away, sir. And the Earl, sir, he has a house in the country, sir, near Marlborough, sir.’

She knew nothing more. Sandman pressed her, but the more he questioned her the less certain she was of what she had already told him. Indeed, she was sure of only one thing, that the Countess’s cooks, footmen, coachmen and maids were all gone and she thought, she did not know, that they must have gone to the Earl’s country house that lay close to Marlborough. ‘That’s what I told you,’ one of the sweeping boys said, ‘they’ve gorn.’

‘Her ladyship’s gorn,’ the watchman said, then laughed, ‘torn and gorn.’

‘Read all about it,’ the broadsheet seller called optimistically.

It seemed evident that there was little more to learn in Mount Street, so Sandman walked away. Meg existed? That confirmed part of Corday’s tale, but only part, for the painter’s apprentice could still have done the murder when the maid was out of the room. Sandman thought of the Newgate porter’s assurance that all felons lied and he wondered if he was being unforgivably naïve in doubting Corday’s guilt. The wretched boy had, after all, been tried and convicted, and though Lord Alexander might scorn British justice, Sandman found it hard to be so dismissive. He had spent most of the last decade fighting for his country against a tyranny that Lord Alexander celebrated. A portrait of Napoleon hung on his friend’s wall, together with George Washington and Thomas Paine. Nothing English, it seemed to Sandman, ever pleased Lord Alexander, while anything foreign was preferable, and not all the blood that had dripped from the guillotine’s blade would ever convince Lord Alexander that liberty and equality were incompatible, a point of view which seemed glaringly obvious to Sandman. Thus, it seemed, were they doomed to disagree. Lord Alexander Pleydell would fight for equality while Sandman believed in liberty, and it was unthinkable to Sandman that a freeborn Englishman would not get a fair trial, yet that was precisely what his appointment as Investigator was encouraging him to think. It was more comforting to believe Corday was a liar, yet Meg undoubtedly existed and her existence cast doubt on Sandman’s stout belief in British justice.

He was walking east on Burlington Gardens, thinking these wild thoughts and only half aware of the rattle of carriages splashing through the rain, when he saw that the end of the street was plugged by a stonemason’s wagons and scaffolding, so he turned down Sackville Street where he had to step into the gutter because a small crowd was standing under the awning of Gray’s jewellery shop. They were mostly sheltering from the rain, but a few were admiring the rubies and sapphires of a magnificent necklace that was on display inside a gilded cage in the jeweller’s window. Gray’s. The name reminded Sandman of something, so that he stopped in the street and stared up past the awning.

‘You tired of bleeding life?’ a carter snarled at Sandman, and hauled on his reins. Sandman ignored the man. Corday had said that Sir George Phillips’s studio was here, but Sandman could see nothing in the windows above the shop. He stepped back to the pavement to find a doorway to one side of the shop, plainly separate from the jewellery business, but no plate announced who lived or traded behind the door that was painted a shining green and furnished with a well-polished brass knocker. A one-legged beggar sat in the doorway, his face disfigured by ulcers. ‘Spare a coin for an old soldier, sir?’

‘Where did you serve?’ Sandman asked.

‘Portugal, sir, Spain, sir, and Waterloo, sir.’ The beggar patted his stump. ‘Lost the gam at Waterloo, sir. Been through it all, sir, I have.’

‘What regiment?’

‘Artillery, sir. Gunner, sir.’ He sounded more nervous now.

‘Which battalion and company?’

‘Eighth battalion, sir,’ the beggar was now plainly uncomfortable and his answer was unconvincing.

‘Company?’ Sandman demanded. ‘And company commander’s name?’

‘Why don’t you brush off,’ the man snarled.

‘I wasn’t long in Portugal,’ Sandman told the man, ‘but I did fight through Spain and I was at Waterloo.’ He lifted the brass knocker and rapped it hard. ‘We had some difficult times in Spain,’ he went on, ‘but Waterloo was by far the worst and I have great sympathy for all who fought there.’ He knocked again. ‘But I can get angry, bloody angry,’ his temper was rising, ‘with men who claim to have fought there and did not! It bloody annoys me!’

The beggar scrambled away from Sandman’s temper and just then the green door opened and a black pageboy of thirteen or fourteen recoiled from Sandman’s savage face. He must have thought the face meant trouble for he tried to close the door, but Sandman managed to put his boot in the way. Behind the boy was a short elegant hallway, then a narrow staircase. ‘Is this Sir George Phillips’s studio?’ Sandman asked.

The pageboy, who was wearing a shabby livery and a wig in desperate need of powdering, heaved on the door, but could not prevail against Sandman’s much greater strength. ‘If you ain’t got an appointment,’ the boy said, ‘then you ain’t welcome.’

‘I have got an appointment.’

‘You have?’ The surprised boy let go of the door, making Sandman stumble as it suddenly swung open. ‘You have?’ the boy asked again.

‘I have an appointment,’ Sandman said grandly, ‘from Viscount Sidmouth.’

‘Who is it, Sammy?’ a voice boomed from upstairs.

‘He says he’s from Viscount Sidmouth.’

‘Then let him up! Let him up! We are not too proud to paint politicians. We just charge the bastards more.’

‘Take your coat, sir?’ Sammy asked, giving Sandman a perfunctory bow.

‘I’ll keep it.’ Sandman edged into the hallway which was tiny, but nevertheless decorated in a fashionable striped wallpaper and hung with a small chandelier. Sir George’s rich patrons were to be welcomed by a liveried page and a carpeted entrance, but as Sandman climbed the stairs the elegance was tainted by the reek of turpentine and the room at the top, which was supposed to be as elegant as the hallway, had been conquered by untidiness. The room was a salon where Sir George could show his finished paintings and entice would-be subjects to pay for their portraits, but it had become a dumping place for half-finished work, for palettes of crusted paint, for an abandoned game pie that had mould on its pastry, for old brushes, rags and a pile of men’s and women’s clothes. A second flight of stairs went to the top floor and Sammy indicated that Sandman should go on up. ‘You want coffee, sir?’ he asked, going to a curtained doorway that evidently hid a kitchen. ‘Or tea?’

‘Tea would be kind.’

The ceiling had been knocked out of the top floor to open the long room to the rafters of the attic, then skylights had been put in the roof so that Sandman seemed to be climbing into the light. Rain pattered on the tiles and enough dripped through to need catchment buckets that had been placed all about the studio. A black pot-bellied stove dominated the room’s centre, though now it did nothing except serve as a table for a bottle of wine and a glass. Next to the stove an easel supported a massive canvas while a naval officer posed with a sailor and a woman on a platform at the farther end. The woman screamed when Sandman appeared, then snatched up a drab cloth that covered a tea chest on which the naval officer was sitting.

It was Sally Hood. Sandman, his wet hat in his right hand, bowed to her. She was holding a trident and wearing a brass helmet and very little else. Actually, Sandman realised, she was wearing nothing else, though her hips and thighs were mostly screened by an oval wooden shield on which a union flag had been hastily drawn in charcoal. She was, Sandman realised, Britannia. ‘You are feasting your eyes,’ the man beside the easel said, ‘on Miss Hood’s tits. And why not? As tits go, they are splendid, quintessence of bubby.’

‘Captain,’ Sally acknowledged Sandman in a small voice.

‘Your servant, Miss Hood,’ Sandman said, bowing again.

‘Good Lord Almighty!’ the painter said. ‘Have you come to see me or Sally?’ He was an enormous man, fat as a hogshead, with great jowls, a bloated nose and a belly that distended a paint-smeared shirt decorated with ruffles. His white hair was bound by a tight cap of the kind that used to be worn beneath wigs.

‘Sir George?’ Sandman asked.

‘At your service, sir.’ Sir George attempted a bow, but was so fat he could only manage a slight bend at what passed for his waist, but he made a pretty gesture with the brush in his hand, sweeping it as though it were a folded fan. ‘You are welcome,’ he said, ‘so long as you seek a commission. I charge eight hundred guineas for a full length, six hundred from the waist up, and I don’t do heads unless I’m starving and I ain’t been starving since ’ninety-nine. Viscount Sidmouth sent you?’

‘He doesn’t wish to be painted, Sir George.’

‘Then you can bugger off!’ the painter said. Sandman ignored the suggestion, instead looking about the studio which was a riot of plaster statues, curtains, discarded rags and half-finished canvases. ‘Oh, make yourself at home here, do,’ Sir George snarled, then shouted down the stairs. ‘Sammy, you black bastard, where’s the tea?’

‘Brewing!’ Sammy called back.

‘Hurry it!’ Sir George threw down his palette and brush. Two youths were flanking him, both painting waves on the canvas and Sandman guessed they were his apprentices. The canvas itself was vast, at least ten feet wide, and it showed a solitary rock in a sunlit sea on which a half-painted fleet was afloat. An admiral was seated on the rock’s summit where he was flanked by a good-looking young man dressed as a sailor and by Sally Hood undressed as Britannia. Quite why the admiral, the sailor and the goddess should have been so marooned on their isolated rock was not clear and Sandman did not like to ask, but then he noticed that the officer who was posing as the admiral could not have been a day over eighteen yet he was wearing a gold-encrusted uniform on which shone two jewelled stars. That puzzled Sandman for a heartbeat, then he saw that the boy’s empty right sleeve was pinned to his coat’s breast. ‘The real Nelson is dead,’ Sir George had been following Sandman’s eyes and thus deducing his train of thought, ‘so we make do as best we can with young Master Corbett there, and do you know what is the tragedy of young Master Corbett’s life? It is that his back is turned to Britannia, thus he must sit there for hours every day in the knowledge that one of the ripest pairs of naked tits in all London are just two feet behind his left ear and he can’t see them. Ha! And for God’s sake, Sally, stop hiding.’

‘You ain’t painting,’ Sally said, ‘so I can cover up.’ She had dropped the grey cloth that turned the tea chest into a rock and was instead wearing her street coat.

Sir George picked up his brush. ‘I’m painting now,’ he snarled.

‘I’m cold,’ Sally complained.

‘Too grand suddenly to show us your bubbies, are you?’ Sir George snarled, then looked at Sandman. ‘Has she told you about her lord? The one who’s sweet on her? We’ll soon all be bowing and scraping to her, won’t we? Yes, your ladyship, show us your tits, your ladyship.’ He laughed, and the apprentices all grinned.

‘She hasn’t lied to you,’ Sandman said. ‘His lordship exists, I know him, he is indeed enamoured of Miss Hood, and he is very rich. More than rich enough to commission a dozen portraits from you, Sir George.’

Sally gave him a look of pure gratitude while Sir George, discomfited, dabbed the brush into the paint on his palette. ‘So who the devil are you?’ he demanded of Sandman. ‘Besides being an envoy of Sidmouth’s?’

‘My name is Captain Rider Sandman.’

‘Navy, army, fencibles, yeomanry or is the captaincy a fiction? Most ranks are these days.’

‘I was in the army,’ Sandman said.

‘You can uncover,’ Sir George explained to Sally, ‘because the captain was a soldier which means he’s seen more tits than I have.’

‘He ain’t seen mine,’ Sally said, clutching the coat to her bosom.

‘How do you know her?’ Sir George asked Sandman in a suspicious tone.

‘We lodge in the same tavern, Sir George.’

Sir George snorted. ‘Then either she lives higher in the world than she deserves, or you live lower. Drop the coat, you stupid bitch.’

‘I’m embarrassed,’ Sally confessed, reddening.

‘He’s seen worse than you naked,’ Sir George commented sourly, then stepped back to survey his painting. ‘“The Apotheosis of Lord Nelson”, would you believe? And you are wondering, are you not, why I don’t have the little bugger in an eyepatch? Are you not wondering that?’

‘No,’ Sandman said.

‘Because he never wore an eyepatch, that’s why. Never! I painted him twice from life. He sometimes wore a green eyeshade, but never a patch, so he won’t have one in this masterpiece commissioned by their Lordships of the Admiralty. They couldn’t stand the little bugger when he was alive, now they want him up on their wall. But what they really want to suspend on their panelling, Captain Sandman, is Sally Hood’s tits. Sammy, you black bastard! What in God’s name are you bloody doing down there? Growing the bloody tea leaves? Bring me some brandy!’ He glared at Sandman. ‘So what do you want of me, Captain?’

‘To talk about Charles Corday.’

‘Oh, Good Christ alive,’ Sir George blasphemed, and stared belligerently at Sandman. ‘Charles Corday?’ He said the name very portentously. ‘You mean grubby little Charlie Cruttwell?’

‘Who now calls himself Corday, yes.’

‘Doesn’t bloody matter what he calls himself,’ Sir George said, ‘they’re still going to stretch his skinny neck next Monday. I thought I might go and watch. It ain’t every day a man sees one of his own apprentices hanged, more’s the pity.’ He cuffed one of the youths who was laboriously painting in the white-flecked waves, then scowled at his three models. ‘Sally, for God’s sake, your tits are my money. Now, pose as you’re paid to!’

Sandman courteously turned his back as she dropped the coat. ‘The Home Secretary,’ he said, ‘has asked me to investigate Corday’s case.’

Sir George laughed. ‘His mother’s been bleating to the Queen, is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lucky little Charlie that he has such a mother. You want to know whether he did it?’

‘He tells me he didn’t.’

‘Of course he tells you that,’ Sir George said scornfully. ‘He’s hardly likely to offer you a confession, is he? But oddly enough he’s probably telling the truth. At least about the rape.’

‘He didn’t rape her?’

‘He might have done,’ Sir George was making delicate little dabs with the brush which were magically bringing Sally’s face alive under the helmet. ‘He might have done, but it would have been against his nature.’ Sir George gave Sandman a sly glance. ‘Our Monsieur Corday, Captain, is a sodomite.’ He laughed at Sandman’s expression. ‘They’ll hang you for being one of those, so it don’t make much difference to Charlie whether he’s guilty or innocent of murder, do it? He’s certainly guilty of sodomy so he thoroughly deserves to hang. They all do. Nasty little buggers. I’d hang them all and not by the neck either.’

Sammy, minus his livery coat and wig, brought up a tray on which were some ill-assorted cups, a pot of tea and a bottle of brandy. The boy poured tea for Sir George and Sandman, but only Sir George received a glass of brandy. ‘You’ll get your tea in a minute,’ Sir George told his three models, ‘when I’m ready.’

‘Are you sure?’ Sandman asked him.

‘About them getting their tea? Or about Charlie being a sodomite? Of course I’m bloody sure. You could unpeel Sally and a dozen like her right down to the raw and he wouldn’t bother to look, but he was always trying to get his paws on young Sammy here, wasn’t he, Sammy?’

‘I told him to fake away off,’ Sammy said.

‘Good for you, Samuel!’ Sir George said. He put down his brush and gulped the brandy. ‘And you are wondering, Captain, are you not, why I would allow a filthy sodomite into this temple of art? I shall tell you. Because Charlie was good. Oh, he was good.’ He poured more brandy, drank half of it, then returned to the canvas. ‘He drew beautifully, Captain, drew like the young Raphael. He was a joy to watch. He had the gift, which is more than I can say for this pair of butcher boys.’ He cuffed the second apprentice. ‘No, Charlie was good. He could paint as well as draw, which meant I could trust him with flesh, not just draperies. In another year or two he’d have been off on his own. The picture of the Countess? It’s there if you want to see how good he was.’ He gestured to some unframed canvases that were stacked against a table that was littered with jars, paste, knives, pestles and oil flasks. ‘Find it, Barney,’ Sir George ordered one of his apprentices. ‘It’s all his work, Captain,’ Sir George went on, ‘because it ain’t got to the point where it needs my talent.’

‘He couldn’t have finished it himself?’ Sandman asked. He sipped the tea, which was an excellent blend of gunpowder and green.

Sir George laughed. ‘What did he tell you, Captain? No, let me guess. Charlie told you that I wasn’t up to it, didn’t he? He said I was drunk, so he had to paint her ladyship. Is that what he told you?’

‘Yes,’ Sandman admitted.

Sir George was amused. ‘The lying little bastard. He deserves to hang for that.’

‘So why did you let him paint the Countess?’

‘Think about it,’ Sir George said. ‘Sally, shoulders back, head up, nipples out, that’s my girl. You’re Britannia, you rule the bleeding waves, you’re not some bloody Brighton whore drooping on a boulder.’

‘Why?’ Sandman persisted.

‘Because, Captain,’ Sir George paused to make a stroke with the brush, ‘because we were gammoning the lady. We were painting her in a frock, but once the canvas got back here we were going to make her naked. That’s what the Earl wanted and that’s what Charlie would have done. But when a man asks a painter to depict his wife naked, and a remarkable number do, then you can be certain that the resulting portrait will not be displayed. Does a man hang such a painting in his morning room for the titillation of his friends? He does not. Does he show it in his London house for the edification of society? He does not. He hangs it in his dressing room or in his study where none but himself can see it. And what use is that to me? If I paint a picture, Captain, I want all London gaping at it. I want them queueing up those stairs begging me to paint one just like it for themselves and that means there ain’t no money in society tits. I paint the profitable pictures, Charlie was taking care of the boudoir portraits.’ He stepped back and frowned at the young man posing as a sailor. ‘You’re holding that oar all wrong, Johnny. Maybe I should have you naked. As Neptune.’ He turned and leered at Sandman. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before? You’d make a good Neptune, Captain. Fine figure you’ve got. You could oblige me by stripping naked and standing opposite Sally? We’ll give you a triton shell to hold, erect. I’ve got a triton shell somewhere, I used it for the Apotheosis of the Earl St Vincent.’

‘What do you pay?’ Sandman asked.

‘Five shillings a day.’ Sir George had been surprised by the response.

‘You don’t pay me that!’ Sally protested.

‘Because you’re a bloody woman!’ Sir George snapped, then looked at Sandman. ‘Well?’

‘No,’ Sandman said, then went very still. The apprentice had been turning over the canvases and Sandman now stopped him. ‘Let me see that one,’ he said, pointing to a full-length portrait.

The apprentice pulled it from the stack and propped it on a chair so that the light from a skylight fell on the canvas, which showed a young woman sitting at a table with her head cocked in what was almost but not quite a belligerent fashion. Her right hand was resting on a pile of books while her left held an hourglass. Her red hair was piled high to reveal a long and slender neck that was circled by sapphires. She was wearing a dress of silver and blue with white lace at the neck and wrists. Her eyes stared boldly out of the canvas and added to the suggestion of belligerence, which was softened by the mere suspicion that she was about to smile.

‘Now that,’ Sir George said reverently, ‘is a very clever young lady. And be careful with it, Barney, it’s going for varnishing this afternoon. You like it, Captain?’

‘It’s—’ Sandman paused, wanting a word that would flatter Sir George, ‘it’s wonderful,’ he said lamely.

‘It is indeed,’ Sir George said enthusiastically, stepping away from Nelson’s half-finished apotheosis to admire the young woman whose red hair was brushed away from a forehead that was high and broad, whose nose was straight and long and whose mouth was generous and wide, and who had been painted in a lavish sitting room beneath a wall of ancestral portraits which suggested she came from a family of great antiquity, though in truth her father was the son of an apothecary and her mother a parson’s daughter who was considered to have married beneath herself. ‘Miss Eleanor Forrest,’ Sir George said. ‘Her nose is too long, her chin too sharp, her eyes more widely spaced than convention would allow to be beautiful, her hair is lamentably red and her mouth is too lavish, yet the effect is extraordinary, is it not?’

‘It is,’ Sandman said fervently.

‘Yet of all the young woman’s attributes,’ Sir George had entirely dropped his bantering manner and was speaking with real warmth, ‘it is her intelligence I most admire. I fear she is to be wasted in marriage.’

‘She is?’ Sandman had to struggle to keep his voice from betraying his feelings.

‘The last I heard,’ Sir George returned to Nelson, ‘she was spoken of as the future Lady Eagleton. Indeed I believe the portrait is a gift for him, yet Miss Eleanor is much too clever to be married to a fool like Eagleton.’ Sir George snorted. ‘Wasted.’

‘Eagleton?’ Sandman felt as though a cold hand had gripped his heart. Had that been the import of the message Lord Alexander had forgotten? That Eleanor was engaged to Lord Eagleton?

‘Lord Eagleton, heir to the Earl of Bridport and a bore. A bore, Captain, a bore and I detest bores. Is Sally Hood really to be a lady? Good God incarnate, England has gone to the weasels. Stick ’em out, darling, they ain’t noble yet and they’re what the Admiralty is paying for. Barney, find the Countess.’

The apprentice hunted on through the canvases. The wind gusted, making the rafters creak. Sammy emptied two of the buckets into which rain was leaking, chucking them out of the back window and provoking a roar of protest from below. Sandman stared out of the front windows, looking past the awning of Gray’s jewellery shop into Sackville Street. Was Eleanor really to marry? He had not seen her in over six months and it was very possible. Her mother, at least, was in a hurry to have Eleanor walk to an altar, preferably an aristocratic altar, for Eleanor was twenty-five now and would soon be reckoned a shelved spinster. Damn it, Sandman thought, but forget her. ‘This is it, sir.’ Barney, the apprentice, interrupted his thoughts. He propped an unfinished portrait over Eleanor’s picture. ‘The Countess of Avebury, sir.’

Another beauty, Sandman thought. The painting was hardly begun, yet it was strangely effective. The canvas had been sized, then a charcoal drawing made of a woman reclining on a bed that was surmounted by a tent of peaked material. Corday had then painted in patches of the wallpaper, the material of the bed’s tent, the bedspread, the carpet, and the woman’s face. He had lightly painted the hair, making it seem wild as though the Countess was in a country wind rather than her London bedroom, and though the rest of the canvas was hardly touched by any other colour, yet somehow it was still breathtaking and full of life.

‘Oh, he could paint, our Charlie, he could paint.’ Sir George, wiping his hands with a rag, had come to look at the picture. His voice was reverent and his eyes betrayed a mixture of admiration and jealousy. ‘He’s a clever little devil, ain’t he?’

‘Is it a good likeness?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Sir George nodded, ‘indeed yes. She was a beauty, Captain, a woman who could make heads turn, but that’s all she was. She was out of the gutter, Captain. She was what our Sally is. She was an opera dancer.’

‘I’m an actress,’ Sally insisted hotly.

‘An actress, an opera dancer, a whore, they’re all the same,’ Sir George growled, ‘and Avebury was a fool to have married her. He should have kept her as his mistress, but never married her.’

‘This tea’s bloody cold,’ Sally complained. She had left the dais and discarded her helmet.

‘Go and have some dinner, child,’ Sir George said grandly, ‘but be back here by two of the clock. Have you finished, Captain?’

Sandman nodded. He was staring at the Countess’s picture. Her dress had been very lightly sketched, presumably because it was doomed to be obliterated, but her face, as striking as it was alluring, was almost completed. ‘You said, did you not,’ he asked, ‘that the Earl of Avebury commissioned the portrait?’

‘I did say so,’ Sir George agreed, ‘and he did.’

‘Yet I heard that he and his wife were estranged?’ Sandman said.

‘So I understand,’ Sir George said airily, then gave a wicked laugh. ‘He was certainly cuckolded. Her ladyship had a reputation, Captain, and it didn’t involve feeding the poor and comforting the afflicted.’ He was pulling on an old-fashioned coat, all wide cuffs, broad collars and gilt buttons. ‘Sammy,’ he shouted down the stairs, ‘I’ll eat the game pie up here! And some of that salmagundi if it ain’t mouldy. And you can open another of the ’nine clarets.’ He lumbered to the window and scowled at the rain fighting against the smoke of a thousand chimneys.

‘Why would a man estranged from his wife spend a fortune on her portrait?’ Sandman asked.

‘The ways of the world, Captain,’ Sir George said portentously, ‘are a mystery even unto me. How the hell would I know?’ Sir George turned from the window. ‘You’d have to ask his cuckolded lordship. I believe he lives near Marlborough, though he’s reputed to be a recluse so I suspect you’d be wasting your journey. On the other hand, perhaps it isn’t a mystery. Maybe he wanted revenge on her? Hanging her naked tits on his wall would be a kind of revenge, would it not?’

‘Would it?’

Sir George chuckled. ‘There is none so conscious of their high estate as an ennobled whore, Captain, so why not remind the bitch of what brought her the title? Tits, sir, tits. If it had not been for her good tits and long legs she’d still be charging ten shillings a night. But did little Charlie the sodomite kill her? I doubt it, Captain, I doubt it very much, but nor do I care very much. Little Charlie was getting too big for his boots, so I won’t mourn to see him twitching at the end of a rope. Ah!’ He rubbed his hands as his servant climbed the stairs with a heavy tray. ‘Dinner! Good day to you, Captain, I trust I have been of service.’

Sandman was not sure Sir George had been of any service, unless increasing Sandman’s confusion was of use, but Sir George was done with him now and Sandman was dismissed.

So he left. And the rain fell harder.

‘That fat bastard never offers us dinner!’ Sally Hood complained. She was sitting opposite Sandman in a tavern on Piccadilly where, inspired by Sir George Phillips’s dinner, they shared a bowl of salmagundi: a cold mixture of cooked meats, anchovies, hard-boiled eggs and onions. ‘He guzzles himself, he does,’ Sally went on, ‘and we’re supposed to bleeding starve.’ She tore a piece of bread from the loaf, poured more oil into the bowl then smiled shyly at Sandman. ‘I was so embarrassed when you walked in.’





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