Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(55)

“Oh, no,” whispered Hero as the dying prisoners writhed in agony, twisting and twitching helplessly, the men’s legs kicking out spasmodically. Do the Morris dance on air, they called it. Dance the hempen measure, and cut a caper on the way to hell. All were euphemisms for hanging, cynical descriptions of the macabre jerks and gyrations performed by the condemned in their death throes.

There had been a time, when executions used to take place out at Tyburn, when the doomed prisoners’ friends and loved ones could grasp the dying men’s and women’s legs and pull, thus speeding their deaths. But that was no longer allowed. Now those who could afford it paid the hangman to do basically the same thing. But such a luxury was beyond the means of a desperate woman condemned for stealing food or three poor poachers. And so the executioner simply stood with his arms crossed at his chest and watched them suffer.

“I should have left her money for the hangman,” Hero said, stricken. “I didn’t think.”

Alexi sucked in a shaky breath. “Neither did I.”

An eternity later, Hero said, “My God. How much longer can it go on?”

“Sometimes it can take as long as four or five minutes. It’s a horrible way to die—strangling. That’s why the French instituted the guillotine.”

The young poachers’ bowels and bladders had released, staining their breeches. And still the dying fought to live, uselessly, hopelessly.

Finally, one after the other, they ceased to struggle, until all four dangling bodies simply swayed heavily at the ends of their ropes. They would be left hanging like this for an hour before being cut down. St. Sepulchre’s bell gave one final clang and fell silent. The prison bell tolled on and on.

The gathering of dignitaries beneath the pavilion rose to their feet and filed off the platform in a solemn procession. They would now retire to the Keeper’s house, where they would consume the traditional post-hanging breakfast of deviled kidneys.

With the departure of the officials, the crowd of spectators pressed forward. Many would pay the hangman a shilling to touch the hands of the dead, which was believed to be a cure for warts and tumors and other growths. An executioner could make quite a tidy sum out of a hanging, since he would also be allowed to sell the clothes of the dead and to cut the ropes used to kill them into short lengths to sell as souvenirs.

Hero glanced over at Alexi and was shocked to see the Frenchwoman’s face wet with tears. “It’s barbarism,” said Alexi, her accent unusually heavy. “How can anyone think this is right? To kill a starving seventeen-year-old girl for stealing a ham? A ham!”

Reaching out, Hero grasped her friend’s hand, tight. And for a long moment, the two women simply held on to each other as the crowds dissipated below and the cold golden sun slid behind a new bank of clouds.





Chapter 32

“His name was Jack Donavon,” Sir Henry Lovejoy told Sebastian as the two men stood side by side, staring down at the ashen naked corpse of the man killed in the Strand.

The body lay facedown on an old door propped up on two empty whiskey barrels in the taproom of the Black Swan on Fleet Street, for the viewing of the body of the deceased was an important part of any inquest. The jurors who’d been called to serve were still milling about, along with a number of curious onlookers. By law, any sudden, violent, or unexplained death required an inquest. And because there were so few places capable of holding the kinds of crowds gruesome dead bodies could attract, the proceedings typically were held in a public house or an inn.

“So who was he?” asked Sebastian, his eyes narrowing as he studied the purple knife wound in the dead man’s back.

“A generally unsavory character from the sounds of it, although by all accounts not a simple thief. I suspect he wasn’t after your purse.”

“I didn’t think he was.”

Sir Henry nodded. “Unfortunately, we’ve no idea who he was working for or who his companion—and inadvertent murderer—might have been.”

“Lovely.”

Sir Henry shivered. A fire had recently been kindled on the enormous old-fashioned hearth, but the blaze was meager, and the room was still cold enough that few of those present were inclined to remove their greatcoats. “You’ve no idea who might have an interest in seeing you dead?”

“Not really.”

A commotion near the door foretold the imminent arrival of the coroner. Sir Henry glanced behind them, then lowered his voice to say, “One of my lads did learn something you might find of interest: Edward Ambrose is in debt.”

“Did your lad manage to discover why?”

“The usual: mainly gambling, along with an unhealthy addiction to Bond Street tailors and high-end jewelers such as Rundell and Bridge.”

“Any sign of a mistress?”

“My lads say there is talk, but they’ve yet to verify it.” The magistrate pursed his lips in thought. “The debt obviously reflects poorly on Mr. Ambrose’s character. But unless he’s planning to acquire a new rich wife, I fail to see how it constitutes a motive for murder.”

“It doesn’t—if Jane was murdered. But if Ambrose struck her in anger and accidently killed her, the debt might explain the nature of their quarrel.”

“There is that.” Sir Henry shivered again and drew a handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose. “You’ve seen the frozen river?”