Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(67)

The chaplain was intoning the words of the funeral service as we went – and no matter the crime, it must be a terrible thing to hear your own funeral service read.

At the words ‘Ashes to ashes and dust to dust’, Esther looked up and saw the stone creatures, and that was when she swooned in earnest. She had to be lifted and carried the rest of the way, and between them, the warders got her through the door. And there inside, waiting for her, was the sturdy figure of the hangman, his hands gloved – black and thick, exactly as I had imagined. His eyes displayed no emotion, although I suppose he has had to school himself not to do so. His assistant – a runty-looking youth – stood nearby.

The hangman – I dislike referring to him in such terms, but I never heard his name, and in fact would rather not know it – held a white canvas hood, rather like a large sugar bag. As he stepped forward I saw that immediately behind him was the outline of the trapdoor in the floor, with a massive lever rising up from it. I have always prided myself on my phlegmatic nature, but my heart began to beat uncomfortably fast, and when I glanced at Mr Porringer I saw he was the colour of a tallow candle.

A white line was painted on the trapdoor, and the warders carried Esther across and positioned her exactly on it. She was still barely able to stand, and someone murmured something about a chair. But as the hangman pulled the hood over her head, she seemed to straighten up, as if accepting what was to come, and squaring her shoulders to meet it. Moving quickly and smoothly, the hangman slid the thick rope over her head and adjusted it around her neck, paying particular attention to the placing of the massive knot.

The first chime of nine o’clock sounded, and Mr Glaister, standing next to me, said, very softly, ‘It will be over by the last chime of nine.’

But it was not.

As the hangman threw the massive lever, the screech of the mechanism tore through that small room like the rasp of a nail on slate, and even from where I stood I felt the floor shiver.

The trapdoor moved slightly, as if something immensely heavy had jumped on to it. But it did not open. That is the thought that etched itself on my mind, and those are the words that have stayed with me. It did not open.

The woman on the trap raised her head slightly, as if trying to understand, or as if trying to see through the thick hood. The hangman shook his head as if angry or bewildered or both, dragged the lever back to its original place, and pressed hard, this time using both hands.

Again there was the shiver of movement, and a faint creak of old wood. But again the trapdoor remained closed.

Mr Glaister and the doctor both stepped forward then – there was some kind of hasty murmured discussion, which I could not hear. Behind me, Mr Porringer swayed slightly and pressed a hand to his lips, and I remember feeling a spurt of anger towards him, because it was scarcely the moment to display weakness. In a low, furious whisper, I said, ‘If you are about to be ill, you had best go outside.’

He gulped and nodded, and I stepped back to open the door for him. He rushed out, his handkerchief to his mouth.

When I returned to the room, they had moved Esther off the trapdoor, and the men seemed to be conducting some kind of test. A thick plank had been lain across the trap, and the assistant was crawling around the edges, examining the hinges, tapping at the thick oak. The wood resonated slightly, with a dull hollow sound. The hangman himself was poring over what looked like a chart with weights and calculations on it. And all the while, the woman waiting to die stood between two warders, still blinded by the dreadful hood, but turning her head from side to side like an uncomprehending animal being led to the slaughterhouse. I am not an emotional woman, but I felt a deep pity for Esther Breadspear.

Then the executioner stepped back and nodded, and said something about ‘Deeply regret’ or ‘Deeply distressed’ and added, ‘All is now in order.’

Mr Glaister, that good, kind gentleman, reached out to pat Esther’s shoulder, and said, ‘Soon you will be beyond all this, my dear.’

But she was not.

When they made the third attempt, something even more terrible happened. The trapdoor opened, and there was a dreadful cracking sound – the kind of crack that makes you wince and feel as if something deep and agonizing has wrenched at the base of your neck. Esther Breadspear gave a moan of pain, and it was then that I saw only half of the trap had opened. It had jerked the doomed woman into an ugly, uneven position, so that part of her was dangling over the execution pit, but the left side of her body was resting on the half of the door – the half that had not moved. She struggled and writhed frantically.

The hangman dragged at the lever again, but the remaining door refused to open. Even from where I stood I saw sweat break out on his brow, then the assistant ran over to him, and they put their combined weight behind the task. Still the half of the door did not move, and still Esther Breadspear writhed and moaned.

The hangman turned to the watchers, and put up his hands in a gesture of panic, as if saying, ‘Help me – I don’t know what to do.’ He was visibly shaken, and his hands – those dreadful gloved hands – were trembling. The assistant looked as if he was about to faint.

Mr Glaister took over. He rapped out an order to the two warders, who at once dropped a thick plank over the gaping pit. By dint of standing on that and stretching out their arms, they could reach Esther.

‘Cut her down,’ said Mr Glaister very sharply. ‘Quickly now.’