The Incendiary's Trail (20 page)

Outside, the street was thick with people and the gallows stood as a solitary dark mast in a sea of humanity. Perhaps thirty thousand persons extended from the barriers around
the scaffold to a distance from which nothing of worth could possibly be seen. Rather, news from the front telegraphed through human wires to the audience’s extremities – so when a
series of hammerings emanated from within the dread structure, they rippled through the people as the wind ripples heads of wheat. Smoke drifted up from innumerable pipes and cigars.

Hundreds of constables were distributed within the crowd, which laughed and chatted as if at Greenwich fair. Ruffians, clerks, manservants and street girls commingled, the women protected
solicitously from the crush by their menfolk. Here and there, a patterer sold penny ‘cocks’ describing the crimes or purporting to be confessions of the illiterate bully. Those who had
not managed to obtain such copy made do with handbills printed in excess for previous executions. All were purchased. The thirst for information was unquenchable.

Indeed, the atmosphere was very like that before the theatre curtain opened on a much-praised show. Chatter, laughter and general conversation hummed like a distant river in a gorge. Up on the
‘balcony’, people who had paid to gain access to the upper floors of private houses peered from windows, and men settled upon rooftops for an aerial view. Inside the prison itself,
sundry gentlemen who had been granted special (and expensive) rights watched from the stone
façade
.

The audience was excited to such a pitch that they were ready to see any spectacle. Were the very Apocalypse to be announced in place of the
matinee
hanging, they would have applauded its
arrival. In its absence, their eyes sought out whatever show presented itself.

Thus, when a cab driver lashed out in frustration with his whip at the impenetrable multitudes surrounding him, a tremendous jeer went up and the crowd shivered
en masse
at the
opportunity of a performance. Coarse words were uttered by the driver, and were responded to with good-natured catcalls as if the city itself had become a penny gaff. A constable pushed his way
through to calm the situation and the collective attention scattered to whatever else might be available.

‘This man’s life is nothing to the people but another distraction,’ said Sergeant Williamson, almost to himself.

‘As were the deaths of Eliza-Beth and Mary Chatterton,’ agreed Noah.

The two men stood in the barricaded space between the door of the gaol and the scaffold. The sergeant wore a police uniform and Mr Dyson a dark suit that might pass as a uniform from a distance.
Before them, a selection of London’s worst people was gathered at the wooden barrier, jostling for position and heaving like a single, vast organism. Here at the front, the crush was such
that a man’s feet might be lifted involuntarily from the ground by the pressure. One of these people, a costermonger lad with a corduroy hat pushed cockily back on his head, called out to the
police:

‘Oi, bluebottles! Mind yer don’t get yer own ’eads caught in Calcraft’s noose!’

His friends giggled and jeered their approval.

‘I would respond,’ said Noah to Mr Williamson, ‘but I’d wager most of them will be dead or on the scaffold themselves in a few years.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Have you attended many executions, Sergeant?’

‘I have been obliged to, but I would not voluntarily do so. They are bestial.’

‘I, too, have seen my share. More than my share.’

‘It is almost time.’ Mr Williamson looked at his pocket watch. ‘When the prisoner ascends, we will ascend with him and cast our eyes about the crowd. Nobody will give us a
second glance when Mr Bradford steps on to the trap, but our observation may prove productive.’

‘So you still imagine that he will attend?’

‘We will see.’

At that moment, the bell of the gaol began to toll eight.

A galvanic ripple went through the crowd: terror, awe and fascination equally mixed. As one, they removed their hats or bonnets and gazed fixedly upon the small door of the gaol. Where before
there had been a rumbling murmur of voices, silence now settled. Tens of thousands of gazes settled on that exit. The door opened and the prisoner emerged, followed by his attendants.

Mr Coggins stood up on his toes to see the man who had killed his Eliza-Beth. In the
mêlée
, his peruke had been knocked askew and his face shone with the
exertion of trying to maintain his place. Yes, that was the murderer! The facial scar was quite visible.

‘Murderer!’ screamed Mr Coggins. ‘Evil cur, you will burn in Hell, you d— —! You will swing for it now. Oh yes!’

Others around him looked askance at this bewigged vision of loathing and addressed him with the respect he deserved:

‘Show some restraint, sir. A man is to die here today.’

‘Quiet there! He might give some last words.’

To which the
impresario
answered with his usual delicacy: ‘I will not be quiet! That man killed my girl! He deprived me of my livelihood! I will shout if I—’

His words were halted by a vice-like grip on his upper arm that seemed to close around the very bone. Turning, he saw a tall man with familiar eyes whose lower face was partially covered with a
scarf, perhaps because of the early morning chill. On closer inspection, however, Mr Coggins recognized the man who had come to visit the house in Lambeth.

‘Why, Dr Cole! Fancy meeting you here. I heard you were in Edinburgh. Come down for the hanging, have you? I see you are wearing your scarf against the bad air. There is much of it about,
eh?’

‘Hush, Mr Coggins. We are drawing attention from the show,’ replied the man.

So many people! Bully Bradford blinked, flinched and stepped back at the vision of mass humanity before him. He felt himself weakening under the relentless stares. He stumbled
into the clergyman, who held his elbow in support. Fear stiffened his limbs and he felt his face freezing into an absurd rictus of embarrassment. His legs would not move.

Someone took his other elbow and they walked him somnambulistically to the steps leaned against the scaffold. Like an automaton, he climbed. His hands clasped and unclasped within their bonds.
Up on the platform, a veritable ocean of faces gazed upon him. He was vaguely aware of others there with him – Mr Calcraft, the clergyman, two policemen – but it was the restless masses
that mesmerized him. Under the weight of their relentless eyes, he felt himself stripped naked and reduced to nothing – no longer a man, but a spectacle. His name, his history, his
friendships and his voice were nothing to them. He tried to speak, to say that he had not meant to kill the girl, but his throat was constricted and dry. Only a rasp emerged. And now Mr Calcraft
was holding the hood.

Mr Williamson had been quite correct. Though the two of them stood upon the platform, they might have as well been invisible. All eyes were upon the bully and Mr Calcraft, the
only two performers. Even Mr Bradford was oblivious to their presence, being understandably distracted.

Noah reflected on the impossibility of their task. Ten faces might allow a degree of individual recognition; twenty would be more difficult – but here were thirty thousand or more. They
merged into one indistinguishable blur. As soon as he looked at one, it seemed to be absorbed by the others. Only a bald head or a flash of white hair provided any point of focus. Boyle could have
been standing within yards of them and remained unseen. It seemed hopeless.

Noah turned to look at the prisoner, who was now wearing the hood. It fitted quite tightly over his face so that the nose and chin pressed the material outwards. He was positioned beneath the
beam and Mr Calcraft was attaching the rope to the chain already in place there. Short, percussive breaths emanated through the black hood and the prisoner’s hands held each other, perhaps in
prayer.

‘Pay attention to the crowd, Mr Dyson,’ warned the sergeant.

And the people stared back, unblinking lest they miss the moment. An impossible quiet had stilled them – an eerie, unearthly silence from such a huge audience. Indeed, Mr Bradford’s
breathing seemed the loudest sound within that amphitheatre of expectation. He stood, unmoving, knees slightly bent in anticipation.

The mechanism was pulled free and the trap dropped. A soundless wave of attention fluttered through the tens of thousands, punctuated only by a single, distant shriek. Mr
Coggins’s eyes telescoped upon the hooded figure as it fell, hands still clasped in prayer or terror. The body jerked to a halt, neck twisted, and hung – a dead weight. Time stopped.
The legs gave a reflexive twitch and were still. Mr Calcraft’s infamous ‘short drop’ had been long enough to do its job.

The voice of Mr Coggins, raucous and gin-laden, fractured the moment:

‘Good — riddance!’

Both Noah and Sergeant Williamson looked instinctively in the direction of the lone voice. The latter squinted over the rows of heads and pinpointed the ludicrous blond peruke
of Mr Coggins as the source of the cry. Other people, too, were looking towards the source of the disrespectful yell. The spectacle they had come to see was over and yet their hunger to see a show
was as yet unsated. Some turned away from the scaffold and looked towards Mr Coggins.

And Noah felt the jolt of recognition. Beside the risible figure of ‘Dr Zwigoff’ was a man wearing a scarf about his lower face. As if drawn by magnetism, the be-scarfed man caught
the glare of his nemesis, noticing this anonymous ‘policeman’s’ face for the first time. Their stares met. Boyle’s smoke-grey eyes widened at the same instant that
Noah’s arm raised and pointed across the crowd:

‘Seize that man!’

Sergeant Williamson looked confusedly at Noah and then again at the focus of his gaze, perceiving for the first time the man with the scarf. His recognition of Mr Coggins had blinded him to the
peripheral faces. In a burst of uncharacteristic excitement, he shouted to a constable standing on duty just a few yards from Coggins and Boyle:

‘You there! Yes, you, constable! Seize the man in the scarf beside the bewigged blond man. Take him – now!’

A phrensy of sensation animated the crowd and all eyes sought the new show. Murmurs and shouts transmitted the news to distant fringes where people could not see. A space began to form around
Coggins and Boyle as the constable shouldered his way through towards them.

Mr Coggins blinked in bewilderment at the sudden turn of events and dimly perceived that the focus of the attention was not he but ‘Dr Cole’, whom the police were attempting to
arrest. His prime instinct – the prospect of financial gain – pierced the dull alcohol fug of his mind and he turned to grasp Boyle’s arm:

‘If you are a criminal, I apprehend you in the name of the law.’

At this, Boyle struck Mr Coggins in the stomach with a formidable blow, but the drunken
impresario
was too stubborn to fall. They struggled with a flurry of arms and the scarf was pulled
free, revealing Boyle’s empurpled jaw. A collective exclamation went up from the surrounding observers. Consternation showed in the whites of the incendiary’s eyes.

From the platform, Noah watched in frustration. Even if he had wanted to, he could not have penetrated the density of people to reach the fighting pair before the constable. The object of his
sleepless, ceaseless searches stood before him now, inaccessible even within sight.

The constable had almost reached them when Boyle reached left-handed into the folds of his coat and – unperceived by his assailant – produced a dark-handled pistol with a short
barrel. He pressed it into the soft skin under Mr Coggins’s jaw.

The muffled explosion was heard only by those closest, but everyone within sight saw the peruke leap vertically from the blond man’s head and the geyser of thick red matter that erupted
forth immediately thereafter. The pistol was withdrawn as the
impresario
collapsed, and the circle around the two men widened suddenly at the sight of the weapon, people pushing maniacally
backwards to flee danger. A woman wailed and a strangled cry of ‘
Murder!
’ went up. The news spread like fire through the vast congregation, a murmur erupting outwards to those
who could not see.

Lucius Boyle brandished the weapon at the constable arriving out of breath at the edge of that horrifyingly silent circumference. Its single shot was spent, but a gun is a gun to the
non-military man and its lethality infinite. Was not Mr Coggins proof of that, lying there with a spreading pool of coagulate about his splintered scull?

‘Seize him! The weapon is empty!’ shouted Noah from the platform, but his words were dissipated like smoke amid the growing clamour. Sergeant Williamson shouted orders to the
constables around the platform who could see little of what was happening.

The constable looked at the pistol and at the demoniacal countenance of the man who held it. He looked at the prone body of Mr Coggins and felt the circle receding behind him so that he faced
the gunman alone within it.

‘I will kill you with as little compunction as I would kill a fly,’ said the red-jawed man with cold imperiousness. And he began to back away from the policeman, who stood frozen to
the spot. The crowd parted around Boyle, transfixed by the gun and by the man. As he moved, they parted silently before him and closed around him again so that he walked as in a bubble. Any one of
them could have struck him, but his status as a murderer seemed almost supernatural to them. Murders happened in the dark, unseen – not in plain sight amid a crowd of thousands on a Monday
morning at Newgate. The enormity of it was too much to conceive. The space around him was as uncrossable as a castle moat, a force that emanated from him. This man was not a mortal. This occurrence
could not be real. His fearsome appearance struck terror into the witnesses as if he were the very Devil himself, turning and turning again within his circle to touch all with his baleful
glare.

And as Noah watched futilely from his balcony seat, Boyle moved spectrally unmolested through the buzzing crowds towards the alleys north of Paternoster-row, the distance between them stretching
and stretching until the receding figure passed suddenly out of sight and down into those narrow passages. Constables from different parts of the crowd pushed in multiple paths towards that spot,
but too late. Too late. Before they arrived there, Lucius Boyle had become – out of sight – just another body on the city streets, his gun, jaw and identity once again concealed.