The House Of Smoke (20 page)

‘All these heads,’ I said, keen to move away from observations about me, ‘have they also come from museums and medical schools?’

He laughed. ‘No, only those two.’

‘And all the others?’

‘They are the heads of my enemies.’ His eyes lingered on them with malicious nostalgia, before he added, ‘This is my trophy room and my laboratory. I have here, at my fingertips, the skulls of politicians, policemen, judges and members of every major criminal family in the country.’

He passed from skull to skull and touched each one like a wine merchant might fondly caress bottles of valuable vintages. ‘I also have heads from palmers, nobblers, duffers, snoozers, cracksmen, macers and broadsmen. Every type of lowly felon you could imagine. From phrenology, I know what makes the broadsman a good card sharp, the macer an excellent cheat and the nobbler such a violent punisher of men.’

I noticed all the skulls were unnamed and not even identified by numbers or codes. ‘There are so many – how do you know which head is which?’

‘Oh, I know them all. Know them intimately. I need no records or
aide memoires
. I remember each and every head, as it was when it was full of flesh and hair, when brains pulsed beneath these foolish foreheads and plotted against me. I even remember the foul words spoken by many of these gaping, silent mouths.’

He turned around slowly. ‘They were monsters who preyed on society and when my path crossed theirs they threatened me or my family to such a degree that they had to die.’

I counted more than thirty heads in the room. Thirty lives taken. ‘Is this everyone you have had killed?’

‘Good Lord, no. These are only the ones that mattered. The instigators. The leaders. The truly troublesome.’

‘Why are you showing me these things, telling me about all this?’

He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘So you understand me. What my life is about and the cause that drives us all.’

‘Cause?’

‘Every life must have direction. Purpose. I spoke some time ago to Mr Herbert Spencer, a man from these Derbyshire hills and a great biologist. Like Mr Charles Darwin and myself, Herbert is fascinated by the evolution of mankind and I proposed to him my theory that life is about ‘the survival of the fittest’. He was quite taken by the phrase. I saw all expression on his face freeze at the thought. To survive, Simeon, we must eliminate our enemies, especially the most evil of them.’

Moriarty walked towards the door, where one skull stood alone against a wall. ‘That specimen was from a particularly evil strain of mankind. It was harvested very recently by the talented Miss Breed. By the time the whole strain is wiped out, that entire wall will be filled with plinths and specimens.’

He slapped his hand on the middle of the skull bone and a smile lit up his face. ‘Come now. We are late for dinner.’

‘Whose head is it?’ I asked as we left the room.

‘Not the one I truly wish for,’ he said as he closed the door and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘In time, I will tell you more, Simeon, much more. But not now. The duration of such a revelation would ruin what I hope is a very good meal.’

I know not how the days in gaol passed so quickly, only that they were gone.

One hundred and ninety-two hours. This was the sum of time I had left upon God’s earth. Holmes was being proved right; each passing second brought me closer to insanity. I had scraped every bar and brick with that damned nail and had not loosened anything except my mind.

Was escape still possible? It had to be. One of these ancient bricks would loosen. One of those idiot young turnkeys would make a mistake. My chance would come; I just had to remain vigilant.

Noises gathered outside my cell. Perhaps this was the moment. Keys jangled, bolts slid, locks turned and the door creaked open.

A rakish turnkey with a grey beard stood in the entrance. His eyes checked my chains. Satisfied himself that I was not a danger before he even spoke. ‘Time to get you weighed and measured. The ’angman, Mr Warbrick, wants to know your details, so he can prepare good an’ proper.’

‘You mean Billington?’

‘Warbrick. Billington has stepped aside, so his friend can have you.’ Greybeard slapped a baton in the palm of his hand while two other screws fitted walking chains to me.

‘Most generous of him,’ I said. ‘Who would have thought hangmen had hearts?’

‘He’s safe,’ declared a younger one, pulling at my links then standing clear.

‘Then get ’im movin’.’

They marched me to a room close to the kitchens. Jostled me onto a cast-iron beam-scale that more regularly measured sacks of food sent from the merchants.

‘We got ourselves a meaty one, here,’ said a pimply young screw, as he gripped my biceps and held me still.

‘Meat to be tightly strung,’ quipped another, ‘like brisket or pork.’

‘Get on with it,’ demanded Greybeard.

His minions struggled to select the correct weights that would determine my measure.

‘Sort yourselves out!’ demanded Greybeard. He looked to me and added, ‘An’ you, stand still. Mr Warbrick says he needs precise measurements so he can despatch you humanely, so don’t you move none.’

‘Twelve stones, nine pounds and three ounces,’ announced a third man.

‘’appen the executioner doesn’t want you ’
anging around
unnecessarily,’ added Pimples.

Once they had their measure, I was bundled back to the cell and pushed to the floor. My arms were yanked high behind my back while they undid the walking chains and secured me again to the cold iron ring sunk in the floor.

Greybeard stayed just out of my reach, staring at me. ‘I know what you done, Lynch. Who you killed.’ He spat on the ground. ‘I hope your visit to the scales has got you thinkin’ what it’ll be like.’ He put a hand to his throat. ‘The jerk of the rope. Your body fallin’ like a sack of rocks. You swingin’ an’ stranglin’, while your legs dance, an’ your rotten ’eart jumps clean out its ribcage.’ He stepped back into the doorway. ‘Think on it now, Lynch.’

He was about to shut the door when Huntley appeared over his shoulder.

‘Move aside, man. I need to talk to the prisoner.’

Greybeard looked startled and stepped into the corridor.

‘Close the door.’

The turnkey hesitated then did as instructed.

Huntley looked to me. ‘Unpleasant fellow. I hope he didn’t behave in an unchristian way?’

‘Unchristian?’ I smiled. ‘That fellow would have sold tickets to the crucifixion. He’s the type that thinks executions are entertainment.’

‘I don’t believe the taking of
any
life to be correct. Either by a criminal such as yourself or for that matter by the Crown.’

‘A radical view.’

‘I like to think of myself as a reformer, not a radical. Though when I look at the penal system I see precious little evidence of reformation.’

‘Perhaps in time you will. I hear that, thanks to the reformists, Tyburn Tree is now a place of free speech. All kinds of imbeciles assemble there and spout whatever nonsense has been brewing in their brains.’

‘That much is true. Speaker’s Corner lies close by. Though talking treason will still get you stretched.’

‘And rightly so.’

I considered taking him prisoner. He was a young and able man but no match for me. Michael Brannigan had taught me a dozen ways to incapacitate a fellow like him. I could do it easily. Grab the nail from its resting place and hold it to his throat. But then what?

‘I have been asked by your lawyer,’ said Huntley, ‘to assure you that he has been doing all he can from a legal perspective.’

I glanced at the window. ‘There is more chance of me escaping through those bars than Levine walking me out of here as a free man. And both you and I know there is no chance of that.’

‘Not any more, but there have been escapes. You’ve heard of Jack Sheppard?’

‘A figure of folk stories and exaggerations.’

‘Undeniably, but he was also a real person and many of the tales are true. Sheppard was a burglar, the best in London many said, and he did escape from here, twice.’

‘
Twice?
’

‘Once through a barred window like yours and once up a chimney.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘He even helped his lover escape.’

‘And how did he do that?’

‘He cut through the window bars, dangled a sheet over the outer wall and helped her down.’

‘And they both got clean away?’

‘They did, but Sheppard was recaptured and hanged.’

‘A good story with a bad ending.’

‘Most stories of the condemned are.’ Huntley must have feared his quip depressed me, for he added, ‘But I do understand that Mr Theodore Levine is quite one of the finest legal minds in the city. If there are grounds for appeal, I am certain he will find them. Or invent them.’

‘I will try to draw comfort from that remark.’

‘I have arranged exercise for you. My men will come shortly and take you to the yard. The day is cold but clear. Some fresh air will do you good.’

I was about to thank him when keys turned in the lock.

The door opened and Johncock stormed in, followed as usual by several of his men.

‘Mr Huntley, I am informed you have arranged for Lynch to be given access to the yard – is that right?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘I have cancelled the order.’

‘With respect, sir, I have full authority when it comes to the welfare of this inmate. He is entitled to exercise and—’

‘Fuck your “authority”, Newgate is my gaol.’ Johncock slapped a hand on Huntley’s chest and pushed him back a pace. ‘Outside, Mr Huntley. You and I need to have a private word.’

They exited, followed by Johncock’s cronies and through the viciously slammed door, I briefly heard shouting.

Silence followed.

Silence that stretched from seconds to minutes and then hours.

Apparently, I wasn’t to be exercised after all.

More importantly, Mr Huntley’s star was no longer in the ascendency and Johncock was once more master of what was left of my life.

I took a morning off from sitting with Brannigan and spent it running errands for the professor.

Firstly, I delivered a handsome amount of money to a judge staying at Tissington Hall, a fine Jacobean mansion located only a few miles away from Moriarty’s abode, then picked up a hefty envelope of documents from a senior police officer in Matlock Bath.

Thackeray, the coachman who had taken me on the deceptive mission to ‘steal’ the King John tiara from Lord Graftbury’s estate, drove me hither and thither. It made an agreeable change to ride up on the box with him, and he delighted in pointing out homes and areas of note, including businesses established to charge people to bathe in the county’s natural waters. ‘They’s mad in the ’ead, they is,’ he proclaimed in his gruff Lancashire accent. ‘Pays good money to drink rain and an’ sit in it till their knackers freeze off. Pays even more for the same bleedin’ water to be ‘eated in baths so theys can
steam themselves
. Who knows wot the world’s comin’ to.’

I thought back to the squalor I had endured as a child. ‘There are times when I would have gladly paid for a hot bath.’

He was not deterred by my interruption. ‘I reckons all the water round ’ere’s what gived the professor ideas for them baths back at the big ’ouse. More money than sense, the lot of ’em. Even our prof.’

When we got back, I helped Thackeray rub down the horses and put away the carriage in the big barn where all the vehicles were kept – broughams, landaus and all manner of char-a-bancs, curricles, floats and gigs.

He ran a hand lovingly over the black lacquer of a nearby vehicle. ‘A curricle like this is light ’n’ fast. But it leaves you out on show. Draws eyes from all round. So, when you is wantin’ to go
in-cog-nito
as Mr Gunn calls it, this old beaut’ is your best bet.’ He slapped his hand on the back of the most familiar type of carriage in the country.

‘It’s a Hackney, isn’t it?’

‘An, ’ackney, indeed.’

‘I grew up in London and saw plenty of them.’

‘I bet you did. There’s more than four thousand ’ackneys down there. But none like this. We rebuilt ’er. Made ’er lighter. Lowered an’ stiffened the suspension. Now she’s easy for two good animals to pull, fast an’ nimble.’

He was about to go into greater detail, when we were interrupted by Jane, the young maid who had taken me to the bathhouse after my first encounter with Brannigan.

‘Hello!’ she shouted from the doorway. ‘Is anyone in there?’

‘Thackeray’s ’ere – wot d’you want?’

She headed towards us. ‘Is Mr Lynch with you?’

‘Yes. I am here.’ I came out from behind the Hackney.

‘I’ve come from Mr Brannigan, sir. He’s been asking for you.’

I was distressed to hear of this. ‘I told him last night that I was going on some errands this morning.’

‘I only know that he’s asking, sir. Shoutin’ your name every time he can get a breath.’

‘I’ll come straight away.’ Even though Brannigan had plainly forgotten what I’d told him, I felt guilty about not having been there for him.

I followed Jane across the courtyard. She left me at a side door and went to the kitchen, while I made my own way to Brannigan’s bedroom.

His curtains were closed but the sun was at its brightest and a warm lemony light forced its way over the rails and around the edges of the fabric.

Michael was propped up on a pillow. His eyes were half-shut and there was a terrible rattling in his breathing. The suggestion of a smile came to his dried lips when he saw me and he lifted a hand from his bed. ‘Some water.’ He had not the strength to add a ‘please’.

‘Of course.’ I hurried to a rough wooden table set against a wall and from a large pitcher poured him a glass. I returned to the bed and held it out for him. His hand came up again but not high enough to take the glass. I put it to his lips and gently tilted it so he could drink. He shut his mouth when he had had enough. I put the drink down on a table by the bed. ‘Tell me if you’d like some more.’

‘Pipe,’ he answered, feebly.