Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery (32 page)

I looked at the warder, wreathed in smiles, and suddenly thought back to the horror of the morning: the hanging that had gone ahead, as planned, at eight o’clock.

‘But the fighting stopped?’ I said.

‘Oh yes,’ chuckled Stokes.

‘How? What stopped it?’

The warder’s eyes brightened. ‘My whistle.’ From his pocket, Warder Stokes produced a a small tin whistle, no more than three inches in length. He held it up proudly for me to inspect. ‘This was my dad’s whistle. As I came chasing down the corridor I remembered I had it and out it came and I blew it full blast . . .’

‘And it worked?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘It worked a treat,’ said Warders Stokes, his freckled face flushed in triumph. ‘I blew the whistle and the fighting just stopped – like a train juddering into the station, it just ran out of steam. The governor says I’m due for a medal.’

‘Congratulations, warder.’

‘And the inmates – all ten of them – they’re due for the cat. It was an “insurrection” – that’s what the governor called it.’

‘I heard a whipping last night,’ I said, looking up at Stokes. ‘Have they started already?’

‘Oh no, last night – that was the Indian princess. He was given six strokes of the birch – right away, governor’s orders. He’d left Atitis-Snake as good as dead. He mashed him up right and proper – took his head and scraped it against the cell wall, half tore his face off. And when we opened the cell door there he was, kicking the poor bastard’s throat in.’

‘C.3.2. was doing this?’ I marvelled.

‘He was. C.3.2. was kicking Atitis-Snake’s head in. I saw him do it. Do you know what the governor called him? “A thing possessed”.’ Stokes’s face glowed with the thrill of the drama. ‘And once the princess saw the cell door was open he was through it like a scalded cat.’ Stokes laughed. ‘There was no holding him. He was along the corridor, like greased lightning – up the stairs, onto the gantry, back in his cell. You must have heard him?’

‘Yes, I heard him,’ I said, now closing my eyes briefly and thinking back to the night before. ‘I heard the running footsteps, I heard the cell door slam. I didn’t know what had happened.’

‘We locked him up and got the others back to their cells and called the doctor for Atitis-Snake and went to report to the governor. The governor ordered the beating for C.3.2. there and then.’

I studied the young warder’s freckled face. I knew him to be a good man at heart. ‘You told Major Nelson you didn’t believe it was Luck that started the fight?’

‘It wasn’t C.3.2. that shouted that stuff about “Hang well, Professor Moriarty”. I told the governor that, but he said that C.3.2. had to be punished cos he was part of the fight and cos of the damage he done Atitis-Snake. He half killed him.’

‘And Luck, I suppose, had to be punished last night because today he is due for release.’

Stokes chuckled. ‘He’s already gone. Went this morning – twelve o’clock, sharp. It’ll be your turn next, C.3.3. You’re off in a week’s time, aren’t you?’

‘I did not know that Luck had gone already,’ I said. ‘I did not hear him go. He did not call goodbye. How was he?’

‘Quiet as a mouse. He hobbled out. Half doubled up, he was. He took quite a lashing last night. But he’d dressed for the occasion – put on his fancy woman’s make-up and wrapped his head in a sari . . . He looked a proper Indian tart.’

I looked up at Warder Stokes, suddenly perturbed. ‘Who carried out the beating last night?’ I asked.

‘I did,’ replied the young warder.

‘You were administering rough justice,’ I said. ‘The beating hadn’t been sanctioned by the visiting committee.’

‘The governor was acting within his rights. He had to restore order. He had to have calm before the hanging.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I looked down at my cold plate of hard bread and black potatoes. I looked about my empty, soulless cell. It was early evening and the month was May, but if there was still sunshine in the sky outside it did not find its way through my barred window. I felt a darkness closing in. ‘I am surprised the hanging went ahead,’ I said.

‘It had to,’ answered Warder Stokes emphatically. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘It had to. That’s what the governor said. He said Atitis-Snake had “tried it on” – fought like a lunatic to make us think he was one. “He must not get away with it.” That’s what the governor said.’

‘And perhaps Atitis-Snake half hoped that Luck might indeed half kill him because then he’d be in no fit state for his own hanging?’ I suggested.

Stokes gazed down at me in wonderment. ‘That’s exactly what the governor said, too. A man’s got to be fit enough for the gallows – that’s the rule.’

‘And, from all you say, Sebastian Atitis-Snake was far from fit enough . . .’

Warder Stokes shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, he’d lost his voice and his face was turned to pulp, but he had a pulse. That’s what the doctor said.’

‘Has Dr Maurice returned?’ I asked, surprised.

‘No – another doctor. Dr Roberts. He comes in when the surgeon’s on leave. The governor asked him, straight out, “Is the condemned man alive, Doctor?” “He is,” said the doctor. “Then he can hang at eight, as the court ordered.”’

‘And that was that,’ I said.

‘The hangman wasn’t too happy – it was Mr Billington – but the governor stood firm – and the hanging happened.’

I nodded, looking down at my plate once more. ‘I assumed it had,’ I said. ‘There was no chapel and we were kept in our cells all morning. I remembered the routine from last time.’

‘It was done proper. It was dignified. As it ought to be.’

‘I listened out for the church bell at eight o’clock.’ I looked up at Stokes. There was no malice in his freckled face. ‘Does the hanging happen on the first stroke or the last?’ I asked.

‘The first,’ he said. It was apparent that he was eager to tell me more.

‘Were you on special duty, Warder Stokes?’ I asked. ‘I know you hoped to be.’

The young turnkey shook his head. ‘I was not. I asked cos I know you wants the detail for your poem—’

‘There may be no poem,’ I protested gently.

‘But Major Nelson said it had to be done by the book. The condemned man has to have warders who don’t know him at the last – so they don’t show him any favour. I was with Wooldridge when he went cos I didn’t know him. This time they had two lads from D Ward. They did their duty.’

‘It is a frightful enterprise,’ I said, ‘taking another man’s life.’

‘Mr Billington does a good, clean job.’

‘He wears gardener’s gloves as he goes about his business,’ I said.

‘He’s the best there is,’ replied Warder Stokes, nodding sagely.

‘Your father knew him?’

‘And my granddad knew his dad. And I knows his sons. He’s got three boys.’

‘All in the hanging trade, are they?’

‘And proud of it,’ said Warder Stokes happily.

‘And was Mr Billington content with the way it went this morning? Did you speak to him after it was over?’

‘I did,’ said Warder Stokes, now looking a little pleased with himself. ‘We had a beer together in the warders’ mess. It went really well in the end, he said.’

‘I am glad,’ I said – not thinking what I said.

‘It’s all in the preparation,’ continued Stokes complacently. ‘That’s why he has to come the night before – observe the condemned man, take a good look at his neck, make sure the gallows is in good working order.’

‘Where is the gallows kept?’ I asked. ‘I have seen Mr Billington crossing the yard, but not known where he was going.’

‘We erect the gallows in the photographic house, at the back of D Ward. It’s where they make the photographs of the prisoners when they arrive. It was the potato store – you know the place.’

‘I don’t think I do,’ I said.

‘It’s a bit cramped for the gallows, but it does the job.’

‘Did you help build the scaffold?’ I asked.

‘I did. Platform, trapdoor, gallows – all erected in an hour. Heavy work cos it’s solid oak. Oak for the gallows, elm for the coffin. I done it with Warder Martin and a couple of the other, younger warders – and then Mr Billington tests it. That’s the other reason he has to be here the night before. He gets a bag of sand the exact weight of the condemned man and he hangs it from the rope – to test it, and to stretch the rope, and to make sure he’s got enough room under the trapdoor for the drop.’

‘It’s an art,’ I murmured.

‘It’s a science, according to Mr Billington. It’s all about attention to detail. The sack of sand hangs from the rope all night and then, about six o’clock in the morning, Mr Billington goes in and takes it down and checks the apparatus one last time.’

‘At six in the morning? But the execution isn’t until eight?’

Stokes laughed. ‘Then he has his cup of tea and a slice of bread and dripping.’

‘Go on,’ I said, fascinated as much by the manner of Stokes’s telling of his terrible tale as by the matter of it.

‘At quarter to eight, on the dot, the dignitaries all meet at the governor’s house—’

‘The dignitaries?’

‘That’s the governor and the undersheriff and the chaplain and the surgeon – all in their Sunday best. At ten to eight they march, all solemn, like, from the governor’s house to the photographic house and they gets into position beside the gallows and they wait. At five to eight, the governor checks his timepiece and gives the hangman the nod. That’s when Mr Billington makes his way to the condemned man’s cell. The two special duty warders are waiting for him there. At three minutes to eight, the warders get the condemned man to his feet and they tie his hands with leather straps and the executioner puts a white sack over his head and they walk him from his cell to the photographic house.’

‘He doesn’t see the gallows?’

‘No.’

‘It is a hideous game of blind man’s buff,’ I cried. ‘They walk him from his cell, you say . . .’

‘It’s only a matter of yards.’

‘Doesn’t the man resist?’

‘Not usually – but they had to drag Atitis-Snake. He’d been broken in that fight last night. He couldn’t speak. He could barely stand. I don’t think he knew what was happening to him.’

‘Was that right? Was that “doing it by the book”?’

‘Right or wrong, it’s what happened. And it’s all over in a moment. It’s only thirty seconds from the condemned cell, along the passage and out into the photographic house.’

‘But if the wretched man is being dragged . . .’

‘He gets there all the same – and at one minute to eight he’s marched onto the platform under the rope.’

‘But he cannot see the rope? His head is hidden in a sack?’

‘He can’t see the rope, but he can feel it. Mr Billington puts the rope around his neck. And it’s a science, as he says, cos the rope is adjusted to the left side of the jaw so it forces the head to twist and turn backwards.’ Warder Stokes looked at me with gleaming eyes. ‘That’s what helps break the neck,’ he declared.

‘Of course,’ I murmured.

‘At eight o’clock, as the clock beyond the wall
begins
to strike,’ he continued, ‘the special warders stands back, the governor nods, Mr Billington pulls the lever, the trap door opens—’

‘And the poor wretch tumbles to his doom.’

‘He does – and as he goes the chaplain says a prayer.’

‘Who was the chaplain?’ I asked.

‘The vicar from St Jude’s. He’s an old man. I don’t think he’s really up to it any more.’

‘And for how long is the poor dead man left hanging there?’

‘An hour.’

‘An hour?’ I gasped, in horror.

‘It’s to give his soul time to leave his body – that’s the idea.’

‘And does everybody stand about and watch?’ I asked, appalled.

‘No. The dignitaries goes back to the governor’s house for breakfast. It’s just the specials and the hangman who wait behind.’

‘And when the hour is up?’

‘When the hour’s up, the dignitaries come back and the body comes down. The doctor does a quick post-mortem and signs the death certificate. And the undersheriff signs a bit of paper confirming the death was lawful. And then the warders put the body in the coffin.’ Stokes leant towards me knowingly. ‘I know you wants the detail, C.3.3. It is a special coffin.’

‘Made of elm, I know.’

‘It’s got large holes on the sides and ends . . . Big ones.’

‘To hasten the decay?’ I said, with a dry mouth.

‘That’s it. That’s it exactly. And then they all escorts the coffin out into the garden and down to the bit of ground by the east wall, behind the boiler house, where the hanged ones get buried. That’s where I was. I wasn’t on special duty, but I did get to help dig the grave – and shovel in the lime. It’s the lime what makes it decay all the quicker.’ The young warder looked at me with satisfaction. He folded his arms once more. It seemed his story was done.

‘Well, you played your part, Warder Stokes,’ I said. ‘You did your duty.’

‘And I’ve told you all about it – as I said I would.’

‘You have indeed,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I looked up at him and smiled. ‘But there was one detail you forgot. Did the condemned man’s legs twitch? You didn’t say.’

Warder Stokes laughed. ‘But I did ask Mr Billington. And no, his legs didn’t twitch.’

Conclusion
Dieppe, France, 25 June 1897