In the distance, Alastair could see the faint stirrings of dawn. If there had ever been a day that he wished he would never see, it was this one. Despite their very best efforts, his best friend would die this morning.
He’d come to know Keats quite by accident. He had appeared at the door of Alastair’s free clinic one evening, helping a limping constable. The man had broken his ankle and was in considerable pain. While Alastair treated him, Keats had asked all sorts of questions, all with a purpose, now that he thought about it. The sergeant had been testing him, finding out what sort of person he was. All through that first meeting, he’d acted the part of a fop out for a night’s jolly in Whitechapel. It wasn’t until Jacynda arrived earlier this fall that he’d learned Keats’ true vocation. Once they’d crossed that hurdle, their friendship had deepened.
Which only makes it harder now.
Behind him, he heard the endless pacing of Lord Wescomb. It was amazing the man was still on the move, given his recent wounding. The three of them—the peer, the doctor, and Kingsbury—had made the rounds until half past three in the morning. They had cajoled and argued with Home Office, met with the Prime Minister, even sent an urgent appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury and to the Queen.
Nothing had come of it.
Nothing.
The pacing stopped.
“We should leave now,” the peer advised in a voice made hoarse by a night’s worth of pleading. “There will be a scrum outside of the prison. We do not want to be caught in that.”
“I would advise you not to attend, my lord. Your health is still at risk,” Alastair said.
Wescomb waved him off. “I must do this. It is my failure, and I must face it head on.”
Alastair nodded somberly, though he disagreed that it had anything to do with Wescomb’s abilities. After one last whispered prayer, he followed the lord down the darkened hallway.
Lady Sephora waited at the foot of the stairs.
“John…”
The peer embraced her with his uninjured arm. “We have done all we can, Sephora. It is truly in God’s hands now.”
A single tear wound its way down her pale cheek. She made no effort to brush it away, allowing it to be joined in a moment by another. And then another.
A most elegant eulogy for our dear friend.
~??~??~??~
As the time drew near, the crowd milled outside the prison like cattle in a tight corral. Cynda guessed there must be at least five hundred Londoners awaiting the death of one man. Some were selling hot potatoes and others broadsheets that supposedly contained Keats’ last words. Still, there was a solemnity here that had been missing at past executions.
To her annoyance, one of her memories returned in full force, reinforced by a particularly vivid run report. The year was 1760, the execution of an earl at Tyburn Hill, west of London. A tourist had insisted he wanted to see a “genuine hanging” and had paid her employers extra for the privilege. Worried what might happen if a junior Rover took the assignment, she’d reluctantly taken the trip.
They’d waited for nearly three hours for the prisoner’s arrival from Newgate as his escort fought their way through the thousands packing the route and the area around the scaffold. During that time, she protected her charge from the dregs of London’s underclass: pickpockets, belligerent drunks, blousy prostitutes hunting customers, robbers, and unscrupulous vendors of all sorts.
At that time, the long drop wasn’t in use. No quick or painless death; just slow strangling at the end of a rope. The locals called it “dancing the Tyburn jig.” She’d kept her eyes averted during that horror, but the tourist had watched every agonizing minute with morbid fascination. Despite the garish spectacle, he’d been elated. He’d witnessed a bit of history, he said, and then promptly purchased one of the broadsheets as a souvenir for his wife. When Cynda returned home, she informed TIC that she would never go near another hanging.
And yet here she was.
At least the ritual had changed. Now the executions took place inside Newgate Prison, away from the crowds, every attempt made to preserve the condemned’s dignity.
Except this time it was Jonathon Keats.
“What if ’e’s not good for it?” someone called out behind her, jarring her out of her sickening recollection. “If they can ’ang ’im, they can ’ang any of us.”
“He’s the one,” another protested. “They nicked him right proper.”
“Not sure ’bout that.”
Cynda felt hope stir. If they weren’t sure, maybe history wasn’t either.
“I’ve got all my legs crossed,” her delusion announced. “Hard to hold on that way, though.” That made her smile, despite the situation.
Thanks.
She returned her gaze to the flagpole. The bell would toll when the drop was opened, and then they’d run up the black flag. If she could sense the seconds passing from out here, what was it like for Keats?
Just then, she caught sight of a man working his way through the crowd. He passed a chimney sweep, then paused and shook hands with the fellow. Her mouth fell open. T.E. Morrisey was clad in period garb, looking more like a clerk than a toff with that bowler. He was carrying a pasteboard suitcase. He approached her with a casual nod, as if this rendezvous had been planned.
“What are you—?”
“It’s supposed to bring good luck,” he explained, offering his soot-stained hand.
She continued to stare. He had no business here. It was too dangerous for him. And yet… Cynda bit her lip in frustration. It was good to see him again.
Morrisey moved closer, lowering his voice. “Things are melting down at home. I’ll tell you more later.”
Oh, what the hell. They shook hands, her frown deepening. He might have invented this technology, but as a Rover he was a babe in the woods.
One more person to worry about.
“All…right. Stick close and ensure nothing you value is in a pocket.” Like your interface.
He nodded ruefully. “Already learned that lesson. Luckily, the urchin only got a shilling.”
She leaned closer and whispered to him of the previous night’s events.
He smiled in approval. “Excellent. I wondered how you were going to handle the situation since your original plan went awry.”
“It’s time!” someone called out. A shout went up around them.
Cynda jammed her eyes shut and prayed harder than she ever had in her life.
Come on! You know it’s not supposed to be this way.
She felt a reassuring hand on her elbow. “Keep faith,” he said. “History often has a mind of its own.”
Cynda had nurtured similar hopes last night, riding high on the adrenalin rush. Now, as she stood outside this stone prison, one of hundreds awaiting the flag to rise, she knew only one thing for certain.
Time had become her enemy.
~??~??~??~
Keats heard the sound of the key in the lock: he was as ready as any man could be. He’d arisen at dawn, shaved and taken only a cup of strong tea, refusing the brandy and food they’d offered.
But it was not the executioner who stepped into his cell.
“Chief Inspector,” he said, his heart swelling in gratitude.
How could I ever think you would forget me?
Fisher’s demeanor had changed. He didn’t carry himself with as much authority, and though immaculately dressed, it was easy to discern the emotional and physical toll these few weeks had exacted.
At least I shall be at peace when this is over.
The two guards departed without saying a word. His superior waited until the door shut behind them and then he spoke. “Sergeant, I thought…” He shook his head. “It is absurd to be so formal at this moment.”
Knowing he needed time to compose himself, Keats kept silent, hearing the seconds tick off. When his mentor finally did speak, his voice almost broke. “I have come to offer my apology, Jonathon. I have failed you. We should have been able to prove your innocence, just as we should have found the true killer.”
“We were all fighting a losing battle,” Keats replied. “I do not hold you or Ramsey accountable in any way.”
“That is very gracious. Still, I came to make peace with you.” He halted for some time. Keats began to worry that he wouldn’t finish what he wanted to say before the executioner arrived.
“I must admit, Jonathon, I am rarely in awe of other men, yet your final statement in the courtroom was one of the finest I have ever heard.” His eyes moved away and he blinked rapidly. “They have reprinted it in the newspapers. It is what is fueling the fury around this debacle.”
“Sir, I—”
There was the turn of a key in the lock. The cleric stepped inside the cell.
“It is time,” he said solemnly.
Keats delivered a short nod. He didn’t know what to say. How should he thank Fisher for being the father he’d always wanted?
They began to shake hands, but that wasn’t enough. His mentor embraced him. Keats could feel him trembling with emotion. He was doing the same. When they broke apart, Fisher murmured, “The truth will out in time. Rest easy, Jonathon. Your job is done.”
“Thank you…J.R. I could not have asked for a better man to guide me.”
“That remains to be seen.” His voice broke again. “I’m sorry, I cannot be present when… I cannot watch this travesty unfold.”
“I do not want you there,” Keats said, feeling tears in his eyes. “It would only make it worse.” He wiped them away as a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Berry, the executioner.
He cleared his throat. “I must pinion you, sir.”
The chief inspector paused at the cell door, gave Keats a final nod and then went his way with unsteady steps.
The hangman positioned Keats’ hands and made final adjustments to the straps. “I understand you have not confessed to this crime.”
“No, sir, I have not. I swear before God that I did not kill her.”
The hangman paused in his preparations, his face troubled. “I have no desire to execute an innocent man, but I must perform my duty.”
“Yes, you must. Just as I did mine.”
The procession moved down the corridor toward the execution shed, a lengthy troop of officials, and the condemned. The Chief Warder headed up the procession, followed by other warders, the chaplain, then Keats and Berry. Behind them were more officials. Though the hangings were no longer public, there still needed to be witnesses.
Keats heard the many footfalls. To his ears, his were steady and did not falter. He took comfort in that. Sweat streamed down his back, though the air was chilly. As they entered Bird Cage Walk, he looked upward through the grills to the open air, the last time he would ever see the sky.
“One moment, please,” he said, halting. There was a brief murmur of protest from one of the men, but it was silenced by Berry.
Tipping his face upward, Keats drank in the morning light. Soon, he would be part of that light, free of the burdens of this life. He would repent to his God in person, and perhaps be able to see his beloved mother again. How he longed to feel her arms around him once more.
“Thank you.” With that, he resumed his progress across the uneven flooring. They would leave him on the rope for an hour, then conduct the post-mortem. Once all the proper paperwork was in order, they would bury him here with the other criminals, covered in quicklime. There would be no final resting place where his family could visit and lay flowers. Instead, his body would become part of the foundation that other condemned men would pass over in years to come.
As he walked, the cleric intoned prayers. Keats was only faintly aware of the words. Soon, they would hoist the black flag and post a public notice that Jonathon Davis Keats had been executed for Murder on this Sixth day of November, One Thousand Eight Hundred and Eighty-Eight. Someone would probably keep it as a memento.
As they entered the open area inside the prison walls that housed the execution shed, Mr. Berry placed the white cap on Keats’ head.
This is it.
Keats’ eyes darted toward the witnesses. There were about a dozen reporters and officials. To his relief, Alastair was not present. He had not wanted his best friend to watch him die. He had said that repeatedly. Perhaps Alastair had finally acquiesced to his most fervent wish.
As he entered the door to the execution shed, he began trembling. This was truly the end. When they had him stop on top of the trap doors, the cap was pulled down, obscuring his vision of the mechanism that would kill him.
Raw panic seized him. Why was he going to his death like a passive lamb? Why didn’t he fight them, shout out his innocence, bellow curses at their heinous deed?
Keats took a deep breath and mastered his fear, though it still choked him as tightly as any rope. He would die with as much dignity as he could muster, if nothing more than as a final tribute to his family and to the man who had been his mentor.
He held his breath, waiting for the feel of the hemp, its weight around his neck, the positioning under his left chin. All the while, muffled words were being exchanged.
Get on with it. His courage was not endless. He could only hold the panic in check for so long.
More murmuring. Then raised voices.
“What is the matter?” he demanded.
“One moment. We’re sorting this out,” someone said.
His anger exploded. “Sort it out on your own time, will you? If you mean to execute me, do it, by God! If not—”
The cap was abruptly removed. He blinked in the muted light of the execution shed. Near the door was a knot of men, talking animatedly. Involuntarily, his eyes drifted upward to the scaffold. To the rope.
“Best not to look that way, Mr. Keats,” Berry advised, giving him a slight turn.
“What is going on?” he asked again, his throat suddenly arid.
“Some matter about your execution, sir,” Berry replied. His tone was clipped, evidence the hangman was displeased with the interruption.
To his surprise, Keats now saw Alastair in the group. Wescomb’s voice rose above the others. Then the group parted. The Chief Warder moved forward.
“Mr. Keats, I am to inform you that there has been a stay of execution.”
“What?” He struggled to understand. “What do you mean? I am pardoned?”
“No, sir. It is a stay only.”
Wescomb hustled forward, his face florid with exertion. “We have witnesses who place you in Whitechapel during the time of the murder. They can prove you are innocent of this crime.”
Keats’ mouth dropped open. Despite the executioner’s warning, he turned to stare up at the rope. His mind recalled the walk from the cell, the feel of the cap, the hollow sound of the trap doors beneath his boots.
What if they don’t exonerate me? What if I have to face this again?
“I cannot,” Keats cried, pulling back. “Dear God, not again!” Then he lost the will to stand.
~??~??~??~
In the distance, Cynda heard St. Sepulchre’s bell tolling the hour. Six…seven…eight. Then its mournful sound ceased.
“Come on,” she whispered.
The crowd shuffled restlessly as voices relayed a message.
“No hangin’ today!” someone shouted.
“What?” another called back. “Why not?”
“Stay of hex-e-cution,” the first voice shouted back.
There were hoots of displeasure. And a few cheers.
“I knew they’d not ’ang ’im,” a man said. “They’d never ’ang a copper.”
Oh, God, it actually worked.
“Very well done,” Morrisey murmured, his voice full of pride.
“It’s not over yet.”
They still have time to kill him.