It would be a pleasant day. But first he had to pen the instruction to Bevan. Best do it quickly and acknowledge that he had no choice. This was one case he could not, would not take on.
52
‘Why don’t we go to the Old Mill House tomorrow?’ Timothy had spent four days working on the Dump, trying to make it more habitable. They had bought a second oil stove and another gas camping cooker, and one room was now more or less free of draughts.
‘Why?’ April was sitting wrapped in a rug, listening to their portable radio. ‘I told you we were going to lie low.’
‘We have. We’ve been bloody stuck here. And we’d get the place nicer quicker if you would help.’ He glared at her.
‘You’re supposed to be the handyman.’ Her voice was laden with sarcasm.
‘Don’t you want to know what’s happening over there? We could go and see if we can find the silver. It’s there somewhere. It must be. We could burgle the place.’
‘And look what happened last time you tried that.’
‘So, what are we going to do?’
There was a long silence. He glared at her, waiting.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Well, I’m going out,’ he said at last, defiantly. ‘I might go and have a look at Number 26. I reckon I could get in there easily enough. There’s a garden at the back; no one would hear if I broke in.’
‘And supposing Ruth is there?’
He grinned. ‘I might take the chance to remind her how much she misses me.’
April finally looked at him. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Only joking.’
‘I wish I thought you were. You’re obsessed with that woman. You stay here. Forget Ruth. Forget Number 26. We’ll pay the Old Mill House a visit when I say so, and not before, do you understand?’
‘So we are going back there?’
She thought again. ‘Yes, we’re going back there. Once they’re off their guard.’
Dickon had brought Andrew the news. Thomas Erskine could not or would not defend him. He did however recommend another barrister to take on the defence and offered to defray the expenses of the case, ‘for the sake of our former acquaintance on HMS Tartar, and ignoring your subsequent unwelcome attentions to my family’. So, Andrew found he was to be lodged in a private cell at Newgate Prison until his trial, bed and candles were to be provided and Dickon would be given the money to bring in food. ‘To assuage his conscience,’ Andrew sneered as he looked round his new abode. Dickon wisely held his tongue.
The barrister, though eloquent, did not succeed and Andrew Farquhar was found guilty of a whole raft of crimes, from petty theft to murder.
Word was brought to Thomas as he sat at the breakfast table with Fanny. He was tempted not to tell her after he had read the letter, but, seeing her watchful eyes upon him, changed his mind. ‘They found Farquhar guilty last night.’
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Will he hang?’
‘Yes.’
‘God rest his soul.’
‘Indeed.’
They sat in silence for several minutes then Thomas rose to his feet. ‘I must go to my chambers.’ He walked over and kissed the top of her head. ‘It’s no more than he deserves.’
‘No.’ She reached up and clasped his hand. ‘I will tell Abi.’
‘Of course. It will in any case be in all the newspapers. They love a good hanging.’ His voice was grim.
‘Will you visit him in prison?’
‘No.’
He kept his word, but on the morning of the hanging he found himself in the crowds making their way to Tyburn in the company of his friend, James Boswell. ‘I went to a hanging once before,’ Boswell had confided. ‘As you know, I went with a kinsman of yours. I did not intend to go again.’ But he had reluctantly agreed to Thomas’s persuasions. Thomas had to go. He felt he owed it to the man, he wasn’t sure why.
The night before, he had a dream. If it was a dream. Voices were calling to him, voices he somehow knew were from the past.
Don’t go.
Who were these people, gathering round him, wise men, and women too, ancients, his ancestors, why did they bother themselves with his affairs?
Don’t go.
How could he not? It was his duty. If he had chosen to represent Farquhar, could he have saved him? He doubted it. For all his confidence in his own capabilities, he could not in all conscience try to save the neck of a man whom he knew in his soul to be guilty, to be evil through and through.
So he ignored the voices in his dream.
He and Boswell had tickets for the stands erected to give those prepared to pay for a better view of the proceedings over the heads of the milling crowds. Thomas stared round. Hanging days were one of the popular sights of London. The air was full of the smell of food from the stalls set up along Oxford Street; pedlars circulated with printed texts of the full confessions of the men about to die. There were no women today, which would disappoint some. His eyes kept going back to the stark silhouette of the gallows, empty for now, and he realised he felt sick.
They could hear the carts coming from a long way away by the roar of the crowds that accompanied them. He could feel the palms of his hands sweating. Farquhar was, it appeared, the star of the show today. The Invisible Man, the gentleman thief whose knife had a silver blade, murderer, blackmailer and all-round low-life crook.
He was dressed for the occasion in smart new clothes, his hair tied back jauntily, smiling, acknowledging the swelling roar of the crowd. The cart in which he stood pulled round in front of the stand and Thomas felt the man’s gaze. The two men looked at one another for a full minute as the horse was brought to a halt by the press of people and Thomas felt the full force of the man’s stare as the mocking insouciance adopted to please the crowd fell away for a moment to show the icy hatred beneath. ‘My God!’ James Boswell whispered. ‘He doesn’t care for you, my friend.’
‘No.’ Thomas’s voice was husky. ‘If I were a papist I would be tempted to cross myself.’
Boswell chuckled. ‘Papist or not, I would do it.’
‘Hanging should not be made a public spectacle,’ Thomas muttered. ‘This reduces people who watch to the lowest of the low.’
‘And that includes us?’
‘No.’ The retort was brisk. ‘We are not here for fun.’
Each man was allowed his time to address the crowd. Farquhar was the last to speak. As he stood up, ignoring the clergyman who stood beside him, Bible in hand, he looked down at the crowd, bowed and smiled and gave them a few words of wit and wisdom that had his audience howling with approval. It was as the hangman stepped forward to pull the cap over his eyes that they heard him utter the one word, ‘No.’ The man shrugged and stood back to adjust the noose, leaving Andrew’s face uncovered as he turned towards the stands. His eyes once more sought out Thomas. He gave a small bow. ‘We will meet again,’ he called, his voice carrying over the howls of the crowds around him. ‘Don’t think you’ll escape me.’
The gleeful yell of the crowd as the rope pulled taut was deafening. Farquhar kicked desperately for a long time before the movements grew feeble and at last he was still, his neck bent at a grotesque angle, the only one to have elected to leave his face bare.
Thomas sat still, mesmerised by the bloated, terrifying rictus of the mouth, the staring eyes. He had seen the thing he dreaded most, the shadow lifting from the body, drifting towards him and hovering at the end of the row of seats, and he saw the shadow’s lips move, the repeated words drifting like smoke.
Don’t think you’ve escaped me.
Boswell sat beside Thomas for several seconds, then put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘It’s over. Let’s find a drink.’ His voice was hoarse. Around them people were already moving, the entertainment over, vacating the benches, setting off back into town, still in festive mood.
Thomas climbed to his feet and followed his friend down the rickety steps. He gave one last glance
over his shoulder towards the scaffold. Around it the ground was rapidly emptying, the grim structure under guard, the bodies left to hang until they were taken away on the carts. There was nothing now but wind-blown rubbish left to show for the vast numbers of people who had been there.
The two men followed the crowd for a while then turned off Oxford Street and ducked into the first tavern they found. Boswell pushed his friend into an empty booth and went to order two double brandies. He put a glass into Thomas’s hand. ‘Let’s drink to the man’s soul, may it rest in peace.’
Thomas shivered. ‘That man’s soul will never rest in peace.’
‘Aye. I got that message loud and clear. I’d not want to be haunted by the likes of him.’ Boswell tipped his drink down his throat. ‘But a God-fearing man like yourself has nothing to worry about, surely.’
‘Nothing at all.’ Thomas threw back his own drink and felt in his pocket for some change. ‘Let’s have another of those. When I get home I want to be too drunk to remember anything at all about today.’
53
Ruth had been about to gather her books and papers into her bag. She glanced at the story she had been reading, the scribbled, breathless account in Thomas’s journal of the hanging of Andrew Farquhar and in spite of herself she read on, seeing the scaffold in her head. The carts, the horses, the crowd. The condemned men, their elbows strapped to their sides, leaving their hands free to pray, the thick ropes around their necks, their nightcaps ready to pull down over their faces. It was horrific.
She couldn’t stop reading. Only when James Boswell stood up and prepared to help his friend home from the tavern did she close the notebook and shakily stand up. She wished she hadn’t read it. She felt sick.
The Chopin recital had long ago finished and now there was something orchestral on the radio. She listened for a moment without recognising it. Closing her laptop, she slid it into its bag. Notebooks, files of letters, the little journals she was only now beginning to explore, and textbooks joined it and she was ready to go upstairs to grab some overnight things.
The light on the landing was on and as she looked up she thought she saw a shadow move. She hesitated then forced herself to climb the stairs. All she needed was a toothbrush, a change of clothes.
The light was flooding out of her bedroom door. She must have left it on. She took a deep breath. Surround herself with the bubble of protection then go in, collect her stuff and leave. It would take two minutes. Somehow she made herself approach the door.
The room appeared normal. There was no one there. The curtains were stirring gently as the night wind blew outside the window. She walked over to it, made sure it was closed and locked, then she turned towards the bathroom. Brush and comb, washing things, a few cosmetics, tossed with her clothes into her holdall. She grabbed it and turned towards the door then she paused. Her mother’s jewel box was sitting on the dressing table. In the bottom was a fine gold chain and, strung on it she had noticed, there was a gold cross that the Bradfords seemed to have overlooked. Her mouth dry, she fastened it round her neck. She paused and looked round. If she had forgotten anything that was tough. This time she remembered to turn off the light.
Before she left the house she carefully set the alarm, then ran the few steps to her car, throwing her bags into the boot, almost crippled with sudden panic. Her heart rate had tripled by the time she had climbed in and slammed the door and she sat, her forehead resting on the steering wheel before she leaned forward and with shaking hands inserted the key. Only when the engine began to purr quietly and solidly and she felt the little car respond to the accelerator did she begin to calm down.
Behind her, in the house, the radio played on in the kitchen. This time it was the sound of a Beethoven piano sonata that filled the silence.
Thomas found Fanny waiting for him in her small parlour. It was almost dark in there, lit by a single candle. He gave her a look of helpless misery. ‘I’m sorry. James and I got drunk.’
She had risen to her feet; she went to put her arms around him. ‘Was it awful? You mustn’t blame yourself. Even you could not have saved him. He deserved everything he got.’ Her determined tone made him realise she had been rehearsing the words, probably for hours, waiting for him to come home.
Thomas flung himself down on a chair. ‘He saw I was there.’
‘Here.’ She poured him a brandy from the decanter on the sideboard and handed him the glass.
‘Sweetheart, I’m already drunk.’
‘So, another won’t hurt. Then we can call Benjamin to help you to bed.’
‘He bowed to me and he shouted something,’ Thomas mumbled. ‘James thought he cursed me, but the man in front of me said it sounded more like a promise.’ He took a gulp from the glass. ‘A promise to meet again.’
Fanny paled a little as she went back to the sideboard. ‘Here. Take some more. Put him out of your head.’
‘He swung there and he kicked so desperately and he didn’t die. Not for ages. It is a barbaric death, Fanny, with the crowd baying like hounds. It is despicable. If it must be done, it should be done decently behind walls.’ His hands around the glass were shaking.
She sighed. ‘He threatened me and your children, Tom. He attacked our daughter; he tried to push me under a chaise.’
‘I know.’ He straightened, sitting back in the chair and reaching for her hand. ‘You are right, my darling. He deserved all he got. And he did not repent nor make his peace with God. I pray for him that his soul at least will rest quiet now.’
‘And at last we are safe, Tom.’ She dropped a kiss on the top of his head. ‘What will happen to his body?’ She moved away from him and stood facing the mirror over the sideboard. ‘Will they bury him in a pauper’s grave?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘They’ll take the body for anatomical research. Under the Murder Act it must be either hung in chains on public display or publicly dissected, so “that some further terror and peculiar mark of infamy be added to the punishment”.’ She could hear the quotation of the law in the tone of his voice. ‘“Pour encourager les autres,” as Voltaire said.’
‘Oh, Tom.’ She shuddered. ‘Then he will never rest in peace!’
‘No.’ Tom took another swig from the glass. ‘I fear not.’
‘He will not haunt you, Thomas!’ She knelt in front of him and reached up to hold his arms, her fingers white with the strength of her grip, her face anxious and determined. ‘I will not let him. I will protect you, with my own dying breath if need be.’
‘Sweetheart!’ he leaned forward. ‘My brave wonderful darling. I fear no one can stand in his way if he has made it his last wish.’ He leaned back with a deep sigh.
‘They can. I can. And you have your lucky talisman.’
His eyes flew open. ‘The charm from the obeah woman? It was always directed against him.’
‘You still have it safe?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘I have it safe.’
‘And you have prayed, Tom?’ She sounded stern.
He smiled. ‘I have prayed, my darling.’
‘Then he can’t harm you. All his curses will be useless.’ She scrambled to her feet, smoothing her skirts as she stood up. ‘Now, go to bed. You need to sleep. Today is best forgotten.’
She went to the sideboard and reached for the little bell. Benjamin, Thomas’s valet, must have been waiting outside the door. He gave his master his arm and steadied him as he stood up, guiding him towards the door. Fanny waited until they had disappeared then she sat down in her turn in his chair. She had left her Bible on the little side table, the page marked with a silk ribbon. In St Matthew’s Gospel Jesus had rebuked a devil and cast it out and told his disciples if they had faith the size of a grain of mustard seed then they would be able to move mountains. She closed her eyes. ‘Please, Lord,’ she whispered. ‘I have more faith than a mustard seed. Give me the strength to keep Tom safe.’
Ruth swung the car out of the lane and drove down into Cramond village, tur
ning into the car park. Her panic had returned and was growing stronger. She couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone or something was with her inside the car, clinging to her jacket, tangled in her hair.
Flinging open the door she scrambled out and ran through the hedge and down towards the beach to stand staring out across the stormy Forth. The wind had risen. It tore at her hair and her jacket, thrashing the water into waves that crashed onto the shore and over the causeway that led to Cramond Island. She was tempted to try to walk across to the island before it was completely covered. Surely Farquhar, if it was Farquhar, couldn’t follow her there? The force of the sea would purify her, purge him out of her system. This was Thomas’s battle, not hers. She groped at her throat for the little cross and held onto it tightly, part of her even now unable to believe she was doing such a thing.
The gold was warm and reassuring in her cold fingers.
In her pocket her phone rang. She fumbled for it. ‘Mal?’
‘Where are you? Are you all right? What’s that noise?’
‘It’s the wind and the sea. I was afraid I’d brought him with me and I thought I could blow him away.’
‘Good idea. Are you OK?’
‘I think so. I’m on my way now.’
She climbed back into the car and reached for the ignition key. It had worked. For the time being, Andrew Farquhar had gone.
Thomas
I tried to put all thought of Farquhar away. I would not let his memory haunt me. And for a while my resolution held.
The sadness engendered by the death of my sister Isabella’s kind husband, William, did much to distract Fanny and me from thoughts about the wretched man, as did my involvement with the defence of Lord George Gordon, one of the cases that was to establish me as England’s most successful barrister.