A Death Left Hanging

Table of Contents

Also by Sally Spencer

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

A Note on Judicial Hanging

Prologue – June 1934

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

THE SALTON KILLINGS

MURDER AT SWANN'S LAKE

DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

THE DARK LADY

THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

DEAD ON CUE

THE RED HERRING

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

THE ENEMY WITHIN

A DEATH LEFT HANGING

THE WITCH MAKER

THE BUTCHER BEYOND

DYING IN THE DARK

STONE KILLER

A LONG TIME DEAD

SINS OF THE FATHERS

DANGEROUS GAMES

DEATH WATCH

A DYING FALL

FATAL QUEST

 

The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

 

THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

THE RING OF DEATH

ECHOES OF THE DEAD

BACKLASH

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

For Sharon Payne

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2003 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

Copyright © 2003 by Sally Spencer

The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13 978-0-7278-5903-3 (cased)

ISBN-13 978-1-4483-0086-0 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

Judicial hanging using the ‘long drop' method is, if carried out properly, a rather precise art. Since the
possible
drop is always further than will be required, the
actual
drop is determined by the length of the rope, and given that the laws of physics dictate that a lighter person will need a longer fall than a heavier one, different lengths of rope are required in each individual case. Thus, a ten-stone prisoner will require a drop of nine feet eleven inches, while one who weighs thirteen stone will only need a fall of eight feet four. Once the calculation has been made, care must be taken to ensure that the rope is indeed of the right length. An error of a quarter of an inch either way is permissible, but a greater variation may well result in decapitation.

On the day prior to the execution, a sandbag is ‘hanged'. It weighs fourteen pounds less than the intended victim (total body weight minus head weight), for whilst the body will continue to accelerate under the force of gravity, the head will be restrained by the noose. The sandbag is left hanging up until one hour before the execution. Once it is removed, the rope is examined for any signs of stretching, and if such stretching has occurred, another adjustment must be made to the length of the drop.

The rope itself is normally Italian silk hemp, and the noose end is bound with chamois leather to avoid marking the skin. The noose is made by passing the rope through a brass eyelet. This eyelet must be positioned under the angle of the left side of the jaw, to ensure that the head is thrown backwards during the drop.

It takes between a quarter and a third of a second for the prisoner to reach the end of the drop. Death, when it comes, is caused by comatose asphyxia. Brain death will normally occur after approximately six minutes, whole body death after ten to fifteen. The victim, however, is unaware of this process. In that first split second, he or she has suffered a dislocation of the cervical vertebrae and the crushing of the spinal cord, and though the body may twitch and the bowels open, the mind is in a state of deep unconsciousness.

T
he woman in the condemned cell was unaware of any of the technical intricacies involved in her imminent execution. She had, however, been assured by the prison authorities that her death – when it came – would be quick and painless. And she believed those assurances, because she had learned to trust the governor and his wardresses, and had come to accept that they genuinely wished to make things as easy for her as they possibly could.

Even though the mechanics of the actual execution itself were kept from her, there were other matters on which she had already been briefed.

‘Because it's better for you that you know the procedures in advance, Margaret, my dear,' the governor said in a kindly tone. ‘That way, we can be sure they won't come as a shock to you.'

‘What kind of procedures are we talking about?' she wondered aloud.

Well, for a start, the governor said, she would be wearing a white hood when she died.

Why
white
? she asked. Why not black – the symbol of death?

Even as she put the question, she knew it was a trifling and irrelevant thing to ask. And yet she somehow derived comfort from the fact that it
was
so mundane – that it avoided, or at least postponed, grappling with the bigger issues.

Why was the hood white? the governor had repeated, as if he was as grateful as she herself to turn this macabre conversation into some kind of game or puzzle. Well, to be honest with her, nobody really knew the answer to that. It was simply tradition – for centuries the hood had been white, and no one had ever come up with a good reason for changing it.

She pictured the hood as rather like a flour sack, and found that a new and terrible thought had come into her mind.

‘Will I have to wear it for long?' she had asked in a sudden panic, as she pictured spending her last few minutes – perhaps even her last few
hours
– in total darkness. ‘Will they put the hood on while I'm still in this cell. I don't think I could bear that. I . . . don't . . . think . . . I could bear it!'

‘I know that, Margaret,' the governor said soothingly. ‘I know just how you feel.'

‘How
can
you know?' she demanded, her fear being replaced by a sudden anger. ‘Are
you
going to be hanged, Governor?'

‘No, of course I'm not. But . . .'

‘Because if you're not – if you can't already feel that rope around your neck – then you can't
possibly
read my mind.'

The governor smiled sadly. ‘You see this situation as something unique to yourself, Margaret,' he said softly. ‘That's perfectly understandable, but it simply isn't the case. Others have trodden the same path you are soon to tread, and they have felt the same concerns as trouble you now. We have watched them, and we have learned from them. We understand your fears, and we sympathize with them. You do not wish to go to your death blinded, and nor will you. The hood will not be put over your head until you reach the chamber.'

‘And where is the chamber? Is it far from here?'

The governor shook his head. ‘No, not far,' he said vaguely. ‘Not far at all.'

It was an hour since she had last seen the governor. She was lying down on her bed. Her eyes were closed and her body was still, but her mind was roving far and wide. She was thinking, at that moment, of the parsonage in which she had been brought up. It had been a big, rambling place. The rooms inside it had been large, yet filled as they were with the heavy ugly furniture that previous generations of departed vicars had left behind them, they somehow managed to appear cluttered. Her room in this prison was a complete contrast, containing only a table, a bed and a wardrobe, all of them made of a lighter – more cheerful – wood than the sombre mahogany she had grown up surrounded by.

Next to her cell was her bathroom, and beyond that a third room in which she could see her visitors. See – but not touch. Because though her ex-sister-in-law, whom she loved dearly, had been only inches away from her, the glass partition between them had been as effective as any high stone wall in keeping them apart.

‘Don't you worry about Jane,' Helen Hartley had told her. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I'll bring her up as if she was my own.'

‘I know you will,' Margaret said gratefully.

‘But it doesn't have to come to the worst, you know. I've been talking to a lawyer. A good one. He says your barrister made a real hash of your defence. He says there are strong grounds for a mis-trial.'

‘We've been over this so many times before,' Margaret said wearily.

‘I know. But this is your last chance. If you'll only––'

‘Put your palm against the glass!' Margaret said, so fiercely that there was no doubt it was an order.

‘Margaret––'

‘Put it against the glass!'

Helen had done as she'd been told, and Margaret raised her own hand to cover it.

‘We must leave things as they are!' Margaret urged. ‘If you say so much as a word I don't want you to, I'll never forgive you. I'll save my dying breath to curse you with.
Do you understand?!
'

‘Yes,' Helen had replied, defeated. ‘Yes, I understand.'

There were two female wardresses permanently in her cell, and though they were willing enough to talk when that was what she wished, they seemed equally content to remain silent when she wanted to let her mind roam as it was doing now.

She was thinking about her two marriages, the first one to Robert and the second one to Fred. If only Robert hadn't died and she hadn't met Fred, then she might have lived another thirty years. But it had not been meant to be. Instead, Fate had decided that she should meet her death.

No, not Fate! she told herself angrily. Not Fate at all. Her destiny had been in her own hands – was still in her own hands if only she chose to . . .

She was straying towards dangerous ground, she realized. Better not to let that happen. Better, as with the white hood, to concentrate on the mundane.

She did not open her eyes again, but instead strived to visualize her cell. The wardrobe – on the mundane level she was seeking – bothered her. It was so large. Why did she need such a big wardrobe, when the only thing hanging in it was the dress she would wear when they led her down that final walk to oblivion?