Sinistrari E-Book

Giles Ekins

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

London, 1888. After Satanist Edward Sinistrari is condemned to hang for ritual murder of four girls, he escapes from the gallows at Newgate Prison, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.

DCI Charles Collingwood is assigned to track Sinistrari down. But just as he is closing in on his quarry, Jack The Ripper begins his murderous rampage.

In a London awash with blood, Collingwood is about to discover the full force of Sinistrari's diabolic powers and vengeance. But who is he, and can he be stopped?

Leseprobe

SINISTRARI

A Dark Tale Of Victorian Horror And Murder

GILES EKINS

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

APPENDIX ONE: JACK THE RIPPER

APPENDIX TWO: FRANCIS TUMBELTY

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About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2020 Giles Ekins

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To Patricia, for everything, as always.

Chapter1

COURT NUMBER ONE, CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT, LONDON, ENGLAND

MAY 26th, 1888

PULLING OPEN THE STRINGS OF A BLACK VELVET BAG, THE JUDGE’S CLERK, withdrew a square of black silk from within and then took up station behind the chair of the judge, Mister Justice Knox-Porter. The crowded courtroom hushed in deadly expectation. Knox-Porter allowed the silence to deepen even further before addressing the prisoner at the Dock.

‘Edward James Sinistrari, this court has found you guilty of the most savage crimes, guilty beyond any shadow of doubt of the ritualistic and sadistic murders of Mary Margaret Hopwell, Alice Newton, Susan Siddons and Katherine Anne Pellew, crimes the foulness of which beggar the imagination. Do you have anything to say before the sentence of this court is passed upon you?’ His voice, strong with righteous conviction, echoed around the oak panelled courtroom.

Sinistrari contemptuously brushed at the lapels of his immaculately cut black frock coat and then consulted his heavy gold hunter pocket watch before speaking, barely deigning to look up at the judge, his voice heavy with arrogant scorn. ‘I do not recognise you. I do not recognise this court. I do not recognise the judgement of this court – whatever it may be.’

Sinistrari suddenly raised his left arm and gave the Judge the sign of the Hex, the Evil Eye, the middle and third fingers bent and held onto the palm by his thumb whilst the first and little fingers stretched out straight, pointing into the eyes of Mister Justice Knox-Porter. ‘Do your worst, pathetic fool,’ Sinistrari shouted in a ringing voice, ‘I shall see you in Hell.’

Women in the crowded balcony screamed, the high-pitched shrieks of terror searing at the nerves and many in the courtroom flinched and blanched. Another scream echoed the first. Sinistrari, his eyes flaring yellow with hate, turned to the police officer who had brought about his arrest, Detective Chief Inspector Charles Collingwood, who sat in the second row behind the lawyer’s benches and gave him the sign of the hex as well. ‘In Hell, Collingwood, I’ll see you in Hell.’

Collingwood gave no indication he had even heard Sinistrari as the Judge pounded the desk with his gavel, demanding silence as a startled buzz, tinged with fear and superstition, swept around the courtroom.

‘SILENCE! SILENCE! Silence or I shall have this courtroom cleared. SILENCE!’

A reluctant hush settled on the court, whispers dying out slowly in sibilant hisses that seemed louder than they were.

‘Silence,’ the Judge demanded again, holding up his hand as he glared around his courtroom, daring any to speak, cough, or even shuffle their feet. Sinistrari smirked in amused disdain, slowly peeling a grey kidskin glove from his hand to buff his fingernails against the lapels of his coat. Satisfied at last, Mister Justice Knox-Porter sat up straight and assumed a severe magisterial face as his clerk placed the square of black silk, the infamous Black Cap, upon his head.

‘Edward James Sinistrari, having justly been found guilty of wilful murder, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken from here to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution and there suffer death by hanging and that your body be buried in the grounds of the prison where you are held before your execution.’ Sinistrari gazed nonchalantly up at the ceiling as the sentence was passed and then yawned extravagantly, cupping a gloved hand over his mouth as he did so.

‘And may the Lord God have mercy upon your soul.’

‘I rather think not,’ Sinistrari answered languidly, ‘I do rather think not.’

‘Take him down,’ ordered Knox-Porter, crackles of anger and frustration resonant in his voice, incensed that the majesty of the law and judiciary could be dismissed so lightly, so arrogantly.

‘Rot in hell, Sinistrari,’ someone shouted from the galley. Sinistrari’s yellow tinged eyes raked the crowd for the source of the shout and he raised his hand as if to make the sign of the hex again before the duty policemen seized his arms, ready to drag him down to the cells below. Sinistrari shrugged off the restraining hands, straightened his coat and with a last baleful hate filled glance around the courtroom made his way imperiously down the stairs, down to the tiled underground passage that led to the Saltboxes, the condemned cells of Newgate Prison, and a date with the hangman.

Chapter2

NEWGATE PRISON, LONDON.

JUNE 16th, 1888

THICK SWIRLS OF FOG WREATHED AROUND THE LEGS OF THE HORSE and coiled between the wooden spokes of the wheels of the Hansom cab as it pulled up to the gates of the grimly foreboding prison. Although it was only mid-afternoon, the midsummer air was chill, the overcast light made gloomy by heavy mist and incessant drizzle. Jack Mawse, the cabby, huddled himself deeper into his coat and scarf as cold tendrils of rain trickled down his back. The sooty fog sat heavily into his chest, making him cough, racking him with a spasmodic hack that threatened to wrench loose his lungs and he spat a clot of raked up green phlegm out into the gutter where it nestled alongside the body of a dead rat like molten jade.

The cab lurched suddenly as his passengers, two sombrely dressed men, one tall and gaunt, the other short and thick set, disembarked. The thick set man passed up the fare to the cabby, a shilling only and no tip and with a muttered expletive the cabby spat once again into the gutter, close enough to make his point but not so close as to cause serious offence, especially since Mawse knew who the men were and what their business was.

The horse, as if in agreement with his master’s annoyance, lifted its tail and dropped a pile of steaming turds – expressing his own opinion of tight-fisted passengers. Mawse then lightly flicked his whip across the shoulder of the horse and snapped the reins, the iron shod hooves of the horse echoing metallically around the soot stained stone walls and cobbles of the street as the Hansom cab moved off, to be quickly hidden from view in the murky brume, leaving only the horse’s calling card to mark its passage.

The two men picked up their luggage and walked over to the prison gates, set deep into the fifty feet high walls that surrounded Newgate Gaol. Each man carried a small overnight suitcase and the thickset man; the leader also carried a leather holdall, much like a doctors bag, only larger.

The thickset man was Ernest Dennison, hangman; the other his assistant, Alfred Jenkins.

The fog closed in behind them, a pea-soup thick London Particular, seemingly sealing them off from the rest of the shrouded city – the pale yellow shrouded sun unable to penetrate into the murk and shadow of Newgate’s forbidding walls. A sudden flurry of rain spattered against the men, causing them to quicken their steps. At the heavy gates, Dennison pulled the bell cord; muffled tinny chimes from the bell could be heard echoing from within the prison.

A man-sized wicket door was set within the heavy studded main gate. A six inch square hatch, set at eye level, slid open with a warped grating sound and a uniformed prison warder peered out into the shadow-light murk.

‘Ah, Mister Dennison, is it?’

‘Aye, so it is.’

‘Best come on in then, Mister Dennison,’ the warder said, opening the door, ‘we’d not want to keep your customer waiting longer than needs be.’

‘He’ll be waiting long enough in Hell, I’m thinking.’

‘That ’e will, that ’e will, God rot his foul soul.’

Dennison and Jenkins both took off their bowler hats, shook the rain off them and then stepped through the wicket into the prison, following on the heels of the warder into the gatehouse where they entered their names into the visitor’s ledger. ‘Would there be a char or two in there? Dennison, said, nodding towards a steaming teapot on the blackened hob. ‘To wet me whistle and cut away the taste of the bleedin’ fog?’

‘Aye, that there would, and, mebbes a tot o’rum to warm your cockles,’ replied Richard Jacquet, the warder on duty at the desk; a heavily-paunched man, bald as a billiard ball apart from a froth of grubby white hair that sprouted above his ears like balls of cotton waiting to be plucked from the twig. Jacquet waddled slowly over towards the hob snapping at his braces as he did so, the slapping of the elastic against his drum taut belly echoing around the guardhouse like gunshots. He lifted the teapot and was about to pour when another warder scurried anxiously into the guardhouse, nervously wringing his hands in agitation. He looked towards the hangmen and then glanced nervously up at the heavy mahogany framed clock on the wall. ‘Mister Dennison,’ he said, ‘the Guv’nor’s left instructions as that you to be taken straight up to him, soon as you arrive, so, I’ll take you up now. He’s in a foul temper, worsen than usual and it’s more than my job’s worth to keep him waiting.’

Dennison looked longingly at the fire that burned in the grate and at the half raised teapot in Jacquet’s hand – he would have liked the chance to sit down, have a warm and his cup of tea and tot of rum before going to see the Governor, but there was no way he could ignore a direct instruction. He shrugged. ‘Feeling extra bilious, is he, Billy Bilious? Best lead on then.’

Leaving their suitcases in the gatehouse the hangmen followed on behind the warder, although Dennison still carried his leather hold-all, at no time did that ever leave his possession when he was on a job. The warder hurried on ahead, constantly throwing anxious glances over his shoulder as if afraid that the two men might disappear into the clammy fog if he did not have them within his sight at all times. They crossed a narrow courtyard, the paving stones glistening with rain, through further heavily barred doors, down passages and up staircases, their footsteps ringing hollowly around the walls of the soot blackened stone walls of the prison. From within the depths of the prison came the heavy clash of closing doors and the shouts of guards and the rumbled muted response of prisoners.

They stopped outside a door on the second floor and the warder knocked deferentially, his hesitant taps barely audible.

‘Come,’ a voice shouted from within.

‘Mister Dennison’s here, sir,’ the warder mumbled as he opened the door a foot or so.

‘Dennison?’

‘Yes sir, Mister Dennison, the … er … he’s here to take … er, take care of Sinistrari.’

‘The hangman?’

‘Yes sir, the hangman.’

‘Well why the devil don’t you say so, man, mumbling like a fool in the door there?’

Sir William Billington, Governor of Newgate Goal was notorious for the vileness of his disposition; hence, his nickname, Billy Bilious, and Jack Dennison did not relish having to deal with him again. At the last execution he had carried out here, Billington had made him so nervous he had almost bungled the hanging, leaving the brass ring of the noose too close to the front of the jaw in his haste to get on with the job. It was only because he had also miscalculated the drop, giving him too much rope that the condemned man had died as quickly as he did.

‘Well then, man, don’t just stand there. Show him i, I’m not going to give him his instructions through the doorway. Am I?’

‘No sir.’

The warder gave Dennison and Jenkins a haunted look, nodded towards the door and scurried down the corridor, the ring of his boot heels resounding in diminishing echoes.

Dennison in turn knocked on the door, picked up his bag again and slowly pushed the door open with his foot.

‘Dennison, sir, here to carry out the due execution of Edward James Sinistrari.’

‘And about time too, Dennison. You should be here no later than 4pm on the day preceding an execution; don’t you know the standard procedures by now?’ Dennison looked up at the clock on the wall, it said 4.06 and he had been logged into the prison at 3.57, but he said nothing. He reached inside his jacket and passed papers over to the choleric Governor. ‘My Warrant of Execution from the office of the High Sheriff, sir.’

Billington barely glanced at the warrant before tossing it onto his desk. He was a big man, pot-bellied, with a scarlet nose the size and texture of a tangerine and hugely florid of face, although whether this was due to an excess of the port he was drinking or just to the general irascibility of his disposition, Dennison could not tell.

‘I must say, Dennison, I’m surprised that you have been entrusted to carry out an execution as important as this, I should have thought Berry would have taken it.’

James Berry was the chief hangman of England, but he was shortly due to retire and Dennison hoped to get the appointment as principle hangman himself. A good showing here would do his cause a lot of good. He knew however, that he could not afford another critical report from Billington and he tried to control his nervousness. ‘Mister Berry’s indisposed sir, last week when hanging Maynard Partridge at Chelmsford Gaol, ’e fell off the steps comin’ down from the scaffold and twisted his leg rather bad. ’e’s likely to be indisposed for another week or two.’

‘I see, well try not to bungle it this time, Dennison. I’ve never seen such a hash of a hanging as the last one you did. Damn near took the chap’s head clean off.’

Billington took another large swallow of port and refilled the glass to the brim again from a cut glass decanter on his desk. He did not offer any to Dennison or Jenkins. ‘I want this execution carried out properly this time, Dennison, after all, despite what crimes he is alleged to have carried out, Sinistrari is a gentleman, something which the likes of you probably don’t appreciate. Damn it, the man was even a member of my club.’

‘Just goes to show, sir, they’ll let anyone in these days,’ Dennison answered without a trace of irony or mockery in his voice.

‘Harrumph? What? Yes, well, not that I was on the election committee myself at the time, I would have seen through the blackguard and blackballed him and no mistake.’

‘Yes, of course, sir. And we’ll do our best to accommodate Mister Sinistrari in a gentlemanly fashion, sir. You have my word on that.’

‘I rather doubt that the word of a public hangman carries much weight, Dennison,’ snapped Billington rudely.

‘No sir.’

Sir William shuffled around at the pile of papers on his desk. ‘Where’s the letter from the Home Secretary?’ he barked towards Ellsworth, his perpetually harassed clerk, who came scurrying in from the office next door and took the uppermost letter from the pile.

‘Here sir!’

‘Damn it, man, what’s it doing hidden away there where nobody can see it. Blasted incompetence!’

‘Yes sir,’ mumbled Ellsworth and scuttled away again like a startled mouse.

‘The thing is, Dennison,’ Billington said, waving the letter in the hangman’s direction, ‘the Home Secretary, Mister Henry Matthews, has ordered that the execution of Sinistrari be brought forward to midnight. Midnight tonight.’

‘Midnight?’

‘Yes, damned inconvenient, but the Home Secretary feels that there is so much unhealthy interest from the general populace about this case that there might be unpleasant scenes if the hanging were to take place at eight o’clock as is per usual. He wishes to avoid unnecessary prurient interest from the commonality.’

Dennison shook his head and grimaced, sucking at his yellow-brown teeth, his moustache quivering as he did so. ‘Midnight?’

‘Yes, man, midnight. Are you deaf, repeating everything like a performing parrot? Midnight!’

‘Don’t give us too much time, I mean, we ’as to test the drop, observe the gentleman at exercise so as to h’ascertain his physique, get his weight…stretch the rope. By rights the rope should be stretched all night with a heavy bag weighing the same as the prisoner.’

‘Don’t give me excuses man, can you do it or not?’

‘Yes sir, of course. Professionals we are at our trade. Professionals!’

‘Tradesmen, especially common hangmen, do not qualify for the professional classes, Dennison,’ Billington sneered.

‘No sir, course not, what I meant was that we would do our job in a professional manner, like.’

‘You damn well better, it’s what you get paid for isn’t it? To do your job properly – you’ll get no plaudits from me for simply doing what you should in the way it ought.’

‘No, sir.’

‘One other thing, Dennison,’ Billington said, waving the Home Secretary’s letter in the hangman’s direction, ‘after the execution, the effects of the condemned man are to be burned, together with the rope.’

‘But sir, hangmen always gets to get the effects of the condemned, ’is clothes an’ that. Traditional perky-squite is that, ’as been since time immemorable.’

‘Not in this case, the Home Secretary states, and I fully agree, that there is too much ghoulish interest being shown in this case and that the common mob will only take an unhealthy curiosity in Sinistrari’ s effects. Damn it man, you would only sell the clothes to a carnival sideshow or vulgar waxworks, now wouldn’t you, hoping to make a few shillings from macabre sensationalism.’

‘No sir, ’course not,’ Dennison declared indignantly, even though he had done just that, negotiating a deal with Fred Covey, carnival and freak show owner for the sale of Sinistrari’s effects. Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Museum had been also been after the clothes and rope for their Chamber of Horrors exhibit and Dennison had thought about trading one of against the other but Fred Cavey was not a man to be crossed and Dennison decided against it. Even now he was going to have a job explaining why the effects were not available – and repay the ten guineas advance he’d already received – and spent.

‘Don’t give me that lie, man, I know your sort, Dennison, you’d sell your own mother for a tuppence and throw in your grandmother for another farthing,’ Billington then belched, suddenly and loudly and patted his stomach in appreciation. Billington refilled his glass’

‘All right man, all right, be gone and on your way. If the preparations for your profession mean you have much to do, why are you wasting my time with your idle chatter?’ ‘Go on then man, be about your business.’

‘Right sir,’ answered Dennison, barely able to keep the outraged indignation out of his voice.

‘And for goodness sake man; get it right. Get it right.’

THE THREE-INCH THICK OAK DOORS OF THE SCAFFOLD DROP opened and instantly fell away as Dennison threw the lever that operated the release mechanism. The crash as the doors hit the side of the pit echoed like distant thunder through the bricks and stone fabric of the prison. The hempen rope suspended from the hook in the crossbeam above quivered under the load that had plummeted into the pit eight feet below. In the exercise yard, Edward Sinistrari looked up and stopped his steady pacing as the sound boomed dully across the narrow court. A slow smile of satisfaction crossed his face.

‘Keep on moving Mister Sinistrari, if you please,’ called Bartholomew Binns, one of the prison officers on death-watch duty, ‘We wouldn’t want you to take on a chill and catch your death of cold, now would we?’

Sinistrari turned to Binns, his eyes flaring with anger, as if about to say something. Binns reached for his truncheon, ready to subdue Sinistrari if he turned violent, but then Sinistrari bared his teeth in a grimace and hissed, like an angry cobra and Binns felt a chill of horror down his spine. ‘Right, well. Move on,’ he mumbled but without conviction.

Some minutes earlier, Dennison and Jenkins had watched Sinistrari from a window above the exercise yard. He had been the only prisoner in the yard, briskly pacing around the well beaten circle as though out on his morning constitutional across Regents Park instead of a condemned man taking his final exercise before execution. Dennison was gauging the condemned man’s height and physique, his general demeanour and stature, essential if he were to calculate the drop correctly and ensure that death occurred instantly from dislocation of the vertebrae. Too little drop and Sinistrari would slowly strangle at the end of the rope, too much drop and they risked tearing off his head, a messy business, but not unknown. Only three years previously, in 1885, the head of Robert Goodale, executed by James Berry at Norwich Castle, had been ripped clean off his shoulders.

‘Wotcha fink, Jenks?’ Dennison asked his assistant, making notes in a small pocket notebook.

‘He’s tall, very tall, six foot four or so and well built. But slender necked, should be easy to snap on a regular drop.’

‘The medical officer said ’e weighs twelve and half stone, give or take a pound or two.’

‘He’ll not ’ave fattened up a deal while he’s been in here.’ ‘Right, twelve and a half stone, tall but slender necked,’

Dennison muttered as he consulted his ‘drop tables’ in a battered leather bound notebook. ‘That’s ’ow many pounds, twelve and half stone? Fourteen times twelve is?’ He scribbled the calculation at the edge of his notebook. ‘Two times four is eight; four times one is four, making forty-eight. Carry over the nought, one times twelve is twelve, so that’s 120 plus 48 is … 168. Add another seven for the ’alf stone gives

175 pounds. Right?’

‘If’n you say so.’

There was a formula devised to ensure the fracture and dislocation of the neck, but it was too complicated for Jenkins who had difficulty counting anything at all once he had run out of fingers and toes.1

Dennison studied his tables again, chewing on the end of his pencil as he did so. ‘175 pounds? For 175 pounds it says five foot two inches ’ere. Not enough by bleedin’ alf, ’cos ’e’s tall an’ all. We got to add a bit more for his height so let’s give ’im five foot ten inches. Or should it be less for ’is height?’

‘Has to be more – stands to reason ‘cos he’s closer to the crossbeam.’

‘Aye, let’s give him a drop of five foot eleven?’

Jenkins shrugged, not committing himself. If the hanging went wrong and the drop found to be incorrect, he wanted to be sure that no blame could be attached to him. Dennison was the number one on this job; let him take the responsibility. That’s what he got paid for.

‘Five foot fucking eleven it is then,’ muttered Dennison, aggrieved that Jenkins had been so unhelpful and made his way back to the execution shed.

From his brown leather hold-all Dennison took out the rope with which he would hang Sinistrari. Thirteen feet long and three-quarters of an inch thick, the rope was made from the finest Italian hemp. A stout brass ring, about the size of a thumb and forefinger held to form an ‘O’, was sliced into one end of the rope. Dennison threaded the other end of the rope through the ring to form a nooses and slid a leather washer up behind the brass ring to hold the noose in place. He then fastened the rope to the cross beam, carefully measuring out the length of the drop with a tape measure. Meanwhile Jenkins placed two heavy sandbags into a heavy canvas sack on the trap doors of the scaffold. When Dennison had secured the rope to the hook on the crossbeam Jenkins secured the canvas bag of sand onto the noose and opened the drop. The doors crashed down and the hempen rope quivered under the strain of the sudden load.

Satisfied that the drop mechanism was working satisfactorily, Dennison and Jenkins left the scaffold house and went for dinner in the warder’s dining room, Dennison liked to hang a man on a full stomach, another man’s dying made his gastric juices flow all the sweeter. The bags of sand would hang from the noose until about an hour before the appointed hour for the execution, to stretch the rope and make it more pliable – in hangman’s terms more ‘fit’.

Sinistrari was taken back to the condemned cell from the exercise yard, ready to take his final meal.

At eleven, Dennison and Jenkins returned to the scaffold house. Jenkins went down into the pit and unhooked the bags of sand. Dennison pulled the rope back up, re-measured the drop and made adjustments to allow for the two or three inches that the rope had stretched. He then re-set the noose and leather washer and then lightly coiled the rope so that the noose hung at head height, tying up the coils with white cotton thread.

Together two men reset the heavy trap doors and oiled the hinges again – just to be sure. Dennison then checked that he had the white hood in and pinioning straps ready to hand. Everything was now ready for the execution of Edward James Sinistrari.

Shortly after 11.00pm, the Under Sheriff, James Botting, arrived to witness the execution. He went straight up to see the governor, Sir William Billington, who offered him a glass of port or brandy. Sir William’s florid complexion bloomed ruddy in the yellowing gas light that puttered from the softly hissing globes on the wall. He swayed slightly on his feet as he passed the glass over to Botting, wishing the execution were over. It was not that he disliked like hangings, far from it, a hanging normally set him up in fine fettle and he had on occasion ejaculated when hanging a woman; he enjoyed a good flogging even more so but setting the execution for midnight upset his routine and Sir William lived by routine. By now he should have been leaving his club to venture to a discreet house of ill repute he frequented in Mayfair where the girls understood his special needs. Lady Billington did not live in town, thank goodness – she hated the dark and gloomy Governor’s residence attached to the prison and these days rarely left their heavily mortgaged home in Gloucestershire to make the journey up to London – for which Billington was profoundly grateful.

Doctor Pasha Rose, who would also witness the execution, pronounce death and then perform the post-mortem, arrived soon after Botting. He too partook of a generous measure of brandy – and likewise cursed the Hon. Henry Matthews, the Home Secretary; not only had the execution been brought forward from eight AM to midnight the Home Secretary had also given instructions that the autopsy was to take place ‘as soon as practicable after the execution but no later than two hours thereafter.’

Burial of Sinistrari’s corpse was to take place in the prison grounds as soon as it was light enough to do so, the grave already dug earlier that day by three prisoners on punishment duty. The grave would not be marked in any way. The Home Secretary was anxious, very anxious, that the entire unpleasant matter of Edward Sinistrari be dealt with and buried away out of public perception as quickly as possible. The case, with its ritual killings, mutilated victims and other vile practices had been taken all too readily to heart by ‘the common masses’, unhealthily so in the Home Secretary’s opinion, hence his urgent desire for haste, ‘to put the matter out of the minds of the lower orders and labouring classes.’

‘Time for another, I think gentlemen,’ Billington said, his speech surprisingly clear considering he had already that day drunk more than two and half bottles of port, a bottle of claret with his meal and was now onto his third full glass of brandy.

The Under Sheriff eagerly accepted another large brandy, as did Doctor Rose. Rose did not need a particularly steady hand to open up Sinistrari for post-mortem, after all it was not as if Sinistrari was going to be in a position to complain if the post mortem stitches weren’t straight. Billington swiftly drained his glass, licked his lips in appreciation and then checked the time by his pocket watch.

‘Gentlemen, we have an archfiend to hang.’

‘Never a man I ever heard tell of deserves it more than he,’ Botting said, his tongue convoluted by generous measures of Sir William’s third best brandy.

‘The bounder actually wheedled his way into my club, the very gall of the fellow,’ harrumphed Billington, probably believing this to be a more heinous crime than his string of horrendous murders.

The Governor in the lead, the procession made its way down to the condemned cell. Dennison and Jenkins were waiting outside the cell; they would not enter until called for by Botting, the Under Sheriff. The Chief Officer, William Brunskill, together with William Calcraft and Bartholomew Binns, the warders assigned to conduct Sinistrari to the gallows shed were already in the cell as Billington, Botting, and Doctor Rose entered.

The time was 11.56.

The Prison Chaplain, the Reverend John Thrift, joined them in the cell; normally he would spend the final hour with a condemned prisoner, praying with him. Taking his confession if necessary but every time he had entered the death cell, Sinistrari had abused him and refused his ministry. Even so, Thrift could not allow a man to go to his death without his presence; convinced that at the very end Sinistrari would call for him and make his final peace with God.

Sinistrari sat at his table, immaculately dressed as usual, sipping delicately at the last of a bottle of claret that had been sent to his cell to accompany his last supper. A half-smoked Havana cigar wreathed blue smoke into the dank air. He looked up and glared malevolently at the chaplain.

‘I told you priest, I want no prattling prayer over me. Save your worthless piety for the nuns and parish orphans. I spit on you and piss on your Bible. Get out now and take my curse with you.’

‘For God’s man,’ snapped Billington, ‘He’s a man of the cloth, show some decorum.’

‘Decorum?’ Sinistrari sneered, ‘You propose to suspend me by the neck from a length of rope and you talk to me of decorum. You’re a buffoon, sir.’

‘What? What?’ blustered Billington, his face turning ever more flushed, ‘I am the Governor here By God, sir, show some me respect else I’ll have you flogged, just see if I don’t.’

‘Before or after you hang me? As I say, sir, you are a buffoon.’

Botting coughed discreetly. ‘Perhaps, we ought to proceed?’

‘At least someone here shows some sense,’ Sinistrari said, getting to his feet. He took another pull from the cigar, blowing out the smoke into the face of the Governor who spluttered with indignation, smoke inhalation and wounded dignity all at the same time. ‘Now, if we can get on with this farce as soon as possible, I do have other matters to attend to.’

He stood up straight and faced the Under Sheriff, gesturing for him to proceed with a short impatient jerk of his head. Botting gestured to Dennison, ‘Your prisoner, sir.’

Dennison and Jenkins entered the cell and moved swiftly over to Sinistrari ‘Come wi’ me, sir, if you would. Follow my instructions and everything will go just fine and dandy. This way sir,’ Dennison said, taking his arm. Jenkins and the other guards took up station alongside, ready to subdue the prisoner if he turned violent.

John Thrift, the chaplain hurried forward to lead the procession to the gallows as usual but Sinistrari snarled at him, ‘Get back, prattle merchant, I told you, no canting priest, so get out of my way.’ Chastened, blushing deeply with embarrassment at his own incompetence and indecisiveness, the Chaplain fell back as the hangmen led Sinistrari across the damp dark yard to the execution shed, orange reflections from his glowing cigar casting an eerie processional glint across the rain-slicked stonework of the walls.

‘Rot in hell, Sinistrari,’ an anonymous voice shouted from a darkened cell window above. Footsteps echoed like muffled drumbeats, a slow drum of death.

As they approached the execution shed Sinistrari took on last pull on his cigar, sighed with a deep satisfaction and handed the remainder to one of the guards. ‘Thank you for your good attention, Mister Calcraft,’ he said and walked swiftly on, as if anxious to conclude a matter of some particular importance before going on elsewhere for more personal diversions.

Dennison led Sinistrari up the steps into the hanging shed escorted by Binns and Calcraft. Calcraft hastily trod out the remnants of Sinistrari’s cigar, coughing sharply as he took one last deep puff. John Thrift, the Chaplain, nervously rang a finger around his twice-about clerical collar and hovered by the door of the hanging chamber like a white robed ghost, unsure what to do. Unwilling to send a soul to perdition unshriven he wanted to offer his prayers but was deeply hesitant to risk the wrath of Sinistrari once again. In the end, he silently mouthed prayers to himself, mumbling into his Bible as he did so.

The Governor, Under Sheriff and Medical Officer lined themselves up along the walls of the chamber as Dennison expertly pinioned Sinistrari’s upper arms about his chest with a leather strap and bound his hands to the front. He then placed the condemned man on chalk marks over the centre of the trap doors. ‘Just keep on looking over my shoulder,’ he instructed and placed the white hood over Sinistrari’s head and swiftly looped the noose into place and tightened it – making sure that the brass ring of the noose was squarely placed under the angle Sinistrari’s left jaw and held in place by the leather washer. Meanwhile Jenkins pinioned Sinistrari’s legs just below the knees.

The warders, Binns and Calcraft, stood either side of Sinistrari on planks laid across the trap in case the condemned man needed support; it was not uncommon for those about to die to feel faint and the warders were placed either side to offer support if needed. Ropes hung down from the gallows beam for them to hold on to as the trap sprung open. However, Sinistrari stood tall and straight, contemptuously shrugging off the warder’s hands.

Barely twenty seconds after entering the scaffold house Dennison was ready and took his place by the drop lever as Billington angrily beckoned Thrift further into the cell, officially, no execution could take place without the presence of a Chaplain and the now hooded Sinistrari was unable to see him.

‘Anything to say, Sinistrari? Any final words?’ Billington asked.

‘Not at the moment but thank you for askin. No doubt something apposite will occur to me later and we can discuss it then at greater length.’

At that, Billington gave Dennison the nod. The hangman threw the lever that slid the drawbar across so that the ends of the supporting hinges fell away. The trap doors swung open, Sinistrari plummeted down into the pit, and then the rope jerked taut, zinging like the angry plucked string of a double bass. The heavy oak doors of the trap slammed into the restraining catches and the ponderous timbered crash of the impact echoed like the thunderclap of doom but high above the booming echoes, a sharp crack like the cracking of a whip or the snapping of sun dried twig beneath the feet in the stillness of dawn was heard as Sinistrari’s neck broke. The rope swung from side to side under the weight of the body, spinning slowly like a mason’s plumb bob. A collective sigh of pent up breath hissed around the walls of the scaffold house like escaping steam. The rope creaked rhythmically against the crossbeam, squeaking loudly in the stillness of the chamber.

After a minute or two of silence Doctor Pasha Rose picked up his bag and followed Dennison and Jenkins down the steps into the hanging pit, their footsteps rebounding from the brickwork in harsh echoing crackles that scraped on Chaplain Thrift’s ears like sharply spoken accusations of failure as he flustered about near the door of the execution chamber. He had allowed a man to go to his death unrepentant, damned to perdition for all eternity. He hurried into the scaffold and quickly made the sign of the cross over the open scaffold, muttering prayers as he did so.

Dennison grasped Sinistrari’s legs to stop the swinging of the body as Rose hooked his stethoscope into his ears, climbed onto a step stool that Jenkins placed for him by the body and then carefully checked for any signs of life in the hanging man.

‘The prisoner is dead,’ he called up after a long drawn minute. ‘All signs of life are extinct and death was almost certainly instantaneous. The prisoner Edward James Sinistrari is pronounced dead as of …’ He consulted his pocket watch, ‘12.07AM on Monday, 2nd June 1888. The cause of death will be confirmed by autopsy and my report will be made available for the inquest tomorrow.’

‘A fair hanging, Dennison,’ Billington declared, ‘Very fair indeed. My official report will reflect that.’

‘Thank you sir, ’e’ went well, went as a gentleman should.’

‘But you should have made more allowance in the drop, Dennison, to take into account the prisoner’s height; you could have easily botched it again, left him choking in the wind. Bear that in mind in future. My report, of course, will also mention that fact.’

‘Yes sir, of course sir, thank you, sir. Bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Gentlemen, I think that this calls for a drink. Botting? Rose?’ Billington asked, wondering whether he would still have time afterwards to visit Madam Martine’s as usual. The hanging had aroused him and he was eager to have his buttocks paddled, preferably by Suzette, a French farm girl built like a Percheron mare who really knew how to lay it on and who would then ride him like a horse before bringing him to a juddering climax. He surreptitiously squeezed his blossoming erection before leading the way back to his office and the brandy bottle. Naturally, Dennison and Jenkins were not included in Billington’s invitation and after locking the scaffold pit the two men made their way down to the warder’s rest room and took a glass or two of rum with Binns and Calcraft and some of the other off duty warders in celebration of Sinistrari’s execution.

IT WAS TWO HOURS LATER WHEN THE HANGMEN RE-ENTERED THE PIT, ready to take Sinistrari down from the gallows and prepare his corpse for post mortem by Doctor Pasha Rose. After they had stripped him, they would wheel his body on a trolley into the mortuary that was next door to the execution chamber. Then their duties were finished and they could go back to the warder’s rest room and take another glass of rum. Or two.

JENKINS TURNED THE KNURLED KNOB OF THE VALVE AND LIT THE GAS GLOBES. In the deathly silence of the hanging pit the soft hiss of the flaring gas seemed extra loud in the hangmen’s’ ears, neither man was fanciful, the brutality of their trade saw to that, but the sound of the hissing gas seemed menacing somehow, almost as if there were some fell serpent in the room with them, waiting to pounce. The light from the gas lamps only served to harden the shadows in the corner of the room and both men looked around nervously, anxious to get the task done and get on their way. The menace within the hanging pit was palpable and the hangmen busied themselves to their tasks, anxious to be away.

Jenkins hurriedly brought the medical trolley through from the mortuary next door, ready to transport Sinistrari’s corpse back there for post mortem. One of the rear wheels of the trolley wobbled and squeaked, grating further on Jenkins’ stretched nerves.

The easiest way to strip a hanged man is whilst he is still hanging from the gallows and so after removing the pinioning straps Jenkins took off Sinistrari shoes and socks as Dennison eased the costly worsted frockcoat and white silk waistcoat away from his torso, clucking his tongue in frustrated anger at the loss of the money he would have made from the sale. And as for the hanging rope, that was another waste in Dennison’s eyes, if not sold, a good rope could be used for a dozen hangings or more.

‘Fancy bit of stuff this, Jenks, I mean, look at the quality o’ this bend,2 and ’is shirt, finest China silk, I reckons, none of this Macclesfield stuff for us lordship here. We should ’a’ made a few bob out of this clobber and no mistake,’ Dennison said, fingering the quality of the cloth. Jenkins had not been party to the sale of the effects to Fred Cavey and Dennison saw no reason to enlighten him now.

‘These shoes ain’t no bad bit of stuff, neither, handmade to measure, I reckon. Wouldn’t mind a pair like this me self, they’re ’bout my size,’ Jenkins added meaningfully, and then wondered why he was whispering.

‘More than our jobs is worf, Jenks, me old son. Sir Bully Boy Bilious finds out you nicked ’em, it’ll be you be ’anging here next, you mark my words, s’not like this was any old geezer we crapped, s’not like you could do a quick swap and nobody notice no different. Stick your old ’ob nails in with the rest o’ his stuff and they’d stand out like a couple of boils on the Bishop’s arse come Sunday buggering time.’

‘Bleedin’ criminal you ask me, not allowing us to have his goods an’ that, robbing the working man of ’is just rewards, that’s what it is. Criminal – and ’im as what ordered it, Maffews, ’Ome bleedin’ Secretary, ’e ought to be locked up in ’ere an’ all and no mistake. Barstid!’’

Together the hangmen continued to strip off the remainder of Sinistrari’s elegant clothes, still grumbling about the loss of their traditional perk, tossing the garments to one side where they lay in a crumpled heap. As the clothing was not coming to them, the executioners saw no particular reason to take care of it.

Dennison was about to remove Sinistrari’s silken long johns when he stopped and sniffed loudly, three or four times. ‘Notice something, Jenks?’ Jenkins stopped and sniffed noisily as well, rumpling up the pitted skin of his big nose into crinkled creases.

‘Nah,’ he said and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘That’s it, there ain’t nothing.’ ‘So?’

‘He ain’t shit his self. Nor pissed. They allus piss and shit their selves. Never done one yet that didn’t.’

‘Well, ’e was a nob, weren’t he, gentrified and all that, p’raps the upper classes don’t shit. In case it offends their long snooty noses.’

‘Aye, they prob’ly get the fucking butler to do it for ’em.’

‘And carry it out on a silver tray.’

‘Still, it’s strange an’ all make no mistake, they always shit and piss their selves, even the ladies.’

‘Specially the ladies.’

‘So why h’ant this bugger?’ Dennison asked as he began to strip off Sinistrari’s underwear.

‘Perhaps he didn’t ’ave no dinner or nothing, nothing inside of ’im to come out?’

‘Aye, maybes.’

Sinistrari’s body was now naked, swinging slowly at the end of the rope, the movement caused by the manhandling of the executioners as they removed his clothes. Above them, the hempen rope creaked against the cross bar, a slow rhythmic creaking back and forth that got on the hangmen’s nerves, heightening the sense of unease that they still felt.

‘Let’s get this bastard down sharpish, Jenks, this place is giving me the bleedin’ creeps and I ain’t ashamed to admit it. Though you ever tell a soul and I’ll call you out for a fucking liar, so help me, you hear?’

‘Fine by me, Jack, I don’t mind admitting I’ll be glad when we’ve done and out of here. T’aint natural in ’ere somehow.’

‘Right, I’ll hoist him and you get the rope off of around his neck.’

‘You was dead right about the drop, Jack, wiv’ his slender neck, I mean,’ Jenkins said, still hoping to sweeten a tip out of the notoriously tight fisted Dennison, but that seemed unlikely now that they could not sell the dead man’s clothes.

‘It’ll be a bit slenderer now, I should think, his slender neck,’ Dennison answered, ignoring the compliment – he was well out of pocket already and there was no way Jenkins was getting a tip, however much flattery he tried

‘Aye, you’re right; ’e’ll have a neck like a fucking giraffe by now.’

‘Don’t know about the neck of a fucking giraffe, Jenks, but ’e’s got a prong on him like a giraffe all right, come look at the size of his knob!’

‘Strewth, it’s pointed ’an all, look, it comes to a sharp point at the end.’

‘P’raps that’s what he stabbed them poor lasses with weren’t a knife at all.’

‘Aye! Poked ’em to death with his pointy poker.’

The hangmen continued to joke, hiding their disquiet behind a thin mask of ribaldry, but anxious glances cast around the damp chill brick walls of the execution pit betrayed their nervousness. Dennison took the folded shroud sheet from the trolley and wrapped it around Sinistrari’s body, reluctant to touch his cold flesh and then bent his knees, grasped the swaying corpse and lifted it high enough to release the weight on the noose so that Jenkins could release it. Panting with their efforts the hangmen laid Sinistrari’s flaccid body on the trolley, placing his arms down by his sides. Behind them, the gas lighting in the globes on the wall hissed ominously and flickering shadows danced across the walls like writhing black ghosts.

Dennison removed the white hood from the head of the corpse. Sinistrari’s head lay awkwardly to one side, sure sign of a broken neck. Around his throat, a vivid weal completely encircled his neck like the scarlet collar stock of a guardsman’s uniform, the marks of the rope so clear in the stretched flesh of the neck that the imprints of the individual strands of rope were clearly visible.

‘Ugly bastard, weren’t he?’ Dennison said.

‘No bugger looks pretty after an hour or two on the gallows.’

‘Too fuckin’ good for ’im, a nice quick ’anging, they should’ve hung, drawn and quartered ’im like they used to in the old days. Strangle him real slow, but not to death. Then chop off ’is donkey prong and bollocks and pull ’is rotten guts out through his arse with a red-hot corkscrew, all done before his very eyes while ’e’s alive and then burn his heart. Then nail bits of him to the city wall so’s all could see ’e’s got his just deserts. That’s what they should’ve done, not a quick ’anging like this, not after what ’e did to them girls an’ that.’

‘And ’e gets to get a Christian burial now, an’ all, s’not like ’is body gets sent to the surgeons to practice on, like they used to, an’ all. T’ain’t right. Surely to God that ain’t right?’

‘Noffin’s right in this world for the likes of us, Jenks, noffin. Nor ever will be. So let’s cover the ugly barstid up, wheel ’im next door for the doc and let’s get out of here.’

As Jenkins moved to cover Sinistrari’s torso and face with the shroud, the eyes of the corpse suddenly opened wide, the eyes flaring hideously yellow in the gas light, feral and slitted, like those of a wild beast trapped in torchlight.

‘I think not hangman, I think not,’ Sinistrari hissed with a vile grate, his long pale tongue flicking across his blue lips like a swollen maggot. His arm shot out from under the sheet and he seized Jenkins with one hand around the throat, raising himself to a sitting position as he did so, and his strength enormous. ‘Just deserts hangman, now feel how it is to choke out your miserable life gasping for breath.’ Still holding Jenkins by the throat Sinistrari swung round his legs and got to his feet.

Dennison yelped like a beaten dog, all colour drained from his face and his legs turned to rubber, refusing to work. He stumbled and fell back into the corner, cowering and gibbering, rigid with shock and fright; thin snakes of yellow urine wriggling in delta tracks across the cell floor where he had pissed himself in fear, his gullet working frantically, trying to recover the power of speech, unable even to scream in his terror.

Jenkins gurgled deep in his throat as Sinistrari lifted him bodily from the floor and pinned him to the wall like an exhibit in a museum, the heels of his hob-nailed boots drumming against the brickwork, echoing like gunshots around the walls of the hanging pit. His eyes popped, bulging wide as though thrust out from their sockets from within, hands scrabbling at Sinistrari’s wrist and fingers in a vain effort to ease the pressure swelling inside his brain, choking, fighting for life. Sinistrari lifted him even higher, still holding him only with one hand. The stench that clogged the pit as Jenkins voided his bowels was noxious and foul, trickles of urine splashed down from the tips of his boots and splattered against the wall as Jenkins still feebly kicked and struggled.

‘See, they always shit and piss,’ Sinistrari said conversationally. ‘Never done one yet that didn’t.’ A final convulsive heave in a vain effort to draw air into his bursting lungs and Jenkins was dead. Sinistrari tossed him aside like a petulant child with a rag doll. Jenkins’ head hit the brick wall with a sickening thud that reverberated in dull crumps like that of distant artillery fire.

In the corner, Dennison still whimpered; frantically crossing himself before scrabbling across the stone-flagged floor of the hanging pit towards the locked door; his eyes staring in terror as Sinistrari approached, looming large over him. The fiend was naked-his erection huge and swollen, curving and aciculate, jutting out before him like the horn of a fighting bull about to hook into the body of a matador.

‘Blood will have blood, hangman,’ Sinistrari spat, his voice deeply sibilant, frighteningly reptilian.

‘No, please. Please,’ Dennison begged, finding his voice at last, scuttling backwards on his hands and feet like a broken legged spider. ‘I meant nothink by it, just doing a job, is all. A job. Please, guv’, I’ve a wife and kids, Jenny she is. Jenny. And little Jack. PLEASE NO,’ he screamed as Sinistrari reached for him.

‘Remember Genesis, hangman, Chapter IX, verse 6, “Who so sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed”.’ No one heard Dennison’s solitary scream as Sinistrari lifted him up, forced open his jaws and then tore out his tongue with his fingers. ‘Welcome to Hell, hangman. Welcome to Hell.’

Chapter3

NEWGATE PRISON

LATER THAT NIGHT

HUMMING TUNELESSLY AND SWAYING SLIGHTLY AS HE WALKED, DOCTOR PASHA ROSE made his way down the ill-lit corridor towards the prison mortuary. He leaned forwards to try to keep his balance with the result that his head and body preceded well in advance of his feet that were constantly hurrying on to try and catch up with the rest of his body. ‘Shuddled have had another brandy,’ he told himself, unaware that he was speaking aloud. ‘Good stuff, though. Damn fine brandy Billington keeps. Damn fine.’

He lurched forward rather more than usual, tried to get balance again and caromed sideways into the wall, banging his elbow and dropping his bag. ‘Whoops,’ he said aloud again, ‘Solly, I mean, sorry.’ He picked up his bag, not without difficulty and then giggled to himself, stopping to take his bearings.

The walls of the prison around him were quiet and for a minute or two he was quite disorientated, he should have waited for a warder to escort him down to the mortuary, but normally he knew his way round well enough, just a bit brandy befuddled that’s all. Damn good brandy at that.

The Governor had been anxious to get away after the hanging, kept on rubbing at his crotch when he thought no one was looking, ‘Cunning swine, he’s got some little dolly mop doxie lined up somewhere I shouldn’t wonder,’ Rose mumbled to himself. ‘S’all right for shome. But shome of us ’as to work. Got to autopsy Mister Sinis … Sinis … Sinistrari. Damn silly time to hold an autopsy. What?’ he swirled around, as if he had heard something behind him. ‘What? Who’s there? Sir William?’ Even though Billington had left after only one more brandy, leaving Rose to kick his heels for an hour or more before he could think about performing the autopsy.

The cold glazed tiles of the corridor walls echoed his mumbled words back at him.

‘Rats,’ he told himself. ‘Damn great rats. Vermin everywhere in this damn place. Most of ’em human.’ He giggled away to himself and carried on weaving towards the mortuary.

Doctor Pasha Rose had carried out the post mortems on dozens and dozens of executed criminals at Newgate, and at Brixton and Wandsworth goals. As a young boy, aged no more than eleven or thirteen, many more years ago than he cared to remember, his uncle Cartwright had taken Rose to attend the public hangings outside Newgate1 and to the public dissections of the executed criminals at the now demolished Surgeons Hall, adjoining Newgate, also at the public dissecting rooms at Hicks Hall, the Clerkenwell Sessions House. The excursions had been intended as salutary lessons as to the consequences of criminality, but Rose had been fascinated by the sight of blood and gory strings of internal organs and so found his vocation in life.

He had lost count of the autopsies he had performed throughout his career, many hundreds to be sure – thousands. In fact, Rose been responsible for popularising the use of a V-shaped incision so that the front of the neck could be taken out and the larynx removed for separate examination; a procedure still used today in the autopsies of strangulation suspects.

He sometimes carried out autopsies with the aid of an assistant, usually Richard Brandon, but Brandon was today ill with the fever and so Rose would carry out the autopsy on his own. Not a problem, in fact he preferred to work alone. Brandon was such an inveterate chatterer, usually about nothing of any great interest that Rose often felt like sewing up his lips with the needle and thread such as he used to stitch a corpse together after autopsy. No, even working on his own, it would not take long to conclude that the death of Edward James Sinistrari had been caused by the dislocation of the vertebrae, i.e. the breaking through of the odontoid process at the base of the skull into its ligament and the crushing of the vital centres in the medulla oblongata, such effect brought about by judicial hanging by the neck. ‘And damn good riddance,’ he muttered.

He stopped and peered up at the small sign, hand painted letters on a piece of wood screwed to a green painted door. The sign was fixed above eye level and in the dim light it was difficult to read, but by standing on tip toe, not easy in his condition, and pressing his face to within six inches of the lettering Rose was able to make out the words ‘Mortuary’ and ‘Restricted Access’.

‘Good,’ he said and fished about in his jacket pocket for the keys that Chief Warden Brunskill had given him. ‘Mister Sinistrari, may you rot in Hell, here we come. Time to meet the knife.’

After some fumbling at the keyhole, Rose finally got the door of the mortuary open and staggered inside. The mortuary was dimly lit, not all the gas lights had been lit, something the hangmen were supposed to do before they left, but by what light there was, Rose was able to see that a shrouded corpse lay on the porcelain mortuary table.

‘Ho hum, beeladle dum,’ he sang as he peeled off his jacket, managing to get the sleeves inside out in the process and made to hang up it one on the coat rack, but missed, depositing the coat onto the floor instead. He tried to bend down to pick it up, but a wave of giddiness swept over him and he had to stand upright again and swallow down the rush of vomit that scalded into his gorge.

‘Goodness gracious almighty.’ he swore, hanging onto the coat rack for support, breathing heavily. ‘Damn fine brandy, what?’ His jacket momentarily forgotten, Rose took down a filthy apron from a peg beside the coat rack. The apron had once been white in colour but was now stained with a thick coating of dried blood and corpse detritus, desiccated pieces of flesh stuck to the fabric as if they had been glued in place and the entire garment stank of old blood and decaying flesh.

Rose was a doctor of the old school and did not subscribe to new-fangled notions about cleanliness and sterility. A corpse was a corpse was a corpse and no amount of filth and germs were going to harm it now. The fact that Rose might have used the same filthy garments whilst treating live patients never occurred to him and in the past, on many occasions in the past he had gone directly from an autopsy with the blood of a cadaver still on his hands to treat and operate on the living. Dr Rose had a high incident of post operation mortality, but never once in his career had he wondered why. Patients died under the knife on the operating theatre, and that was that.

It was a fact of life, or death, and nobody could ever convince him that sepsis, introduced by Rose, and might be the cause. Stuff and nonsense.

The gore-stiffened apron crackled like the thin skin of ice on a puddle as Rose approached the mortuary table and the shrouded corpse.