Imogen Robertson: Island of Bones

The following day, Tyburn on the edges of London

Thomas Goffe, a rather nervous gentleman in a bad wig, shot to his feet.

‘Carmichael! Over here, man!’

Such was the crush on the stands that Goffe had to resort to standing on the rickety bench and waving his hat to attract the attention of his friend.

He was spotted, acknowledged, and soon joined by an extremely handsome man who carried himself with such an air of superiority that his neighbours almost climbed on top of each other to give him all the room they could.

The open fields below them were thronged with a great mass of people. Here in the stands a considerable number of gentlemen sat tightly together and chattered with a slightly feverish excitement, but those who could not afford this elevated view joined the swarm of people below, churning the field to a mud bath. Hawkers wandered through the crowd selling chap-books of the most popular last confessions for a penny, others offered filled pastries from covered baskets. All around, a competing chorus of street singers declared their territory with their damp lungs like cockerels and stamped their feet against the cold as they sang. Jugglers and fire-eaters sweated for pennies at the edges of the crowd and a little army of pickpockets danced among the unwary for handkerchieves and shillings.

It was carnival.

‘Where did you get that monstrosity?’ Carmichael asked. Goffe was confused. He touched his hat; Carmichael gave a tiny shake of his head. Goffe then touched the white curls of his wig, and with his face falling into childlike dismay, watched Carmichael raise an eyebrow.

‘Thompsons on the Strand, Carmichael. You recommended them yourself.’

‘Did I? Their standards have declined considerably.’ Goffe dropped his chin into his collar. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Lord, an hour at least, or I should never have found a place.’ The pride of having done so brightened Goffe. He dragged out from between his feet a basket, which he uncovered with a flourish to show three promising-looking bottles and a number of cold pies. Carmichael smiled, and Goffe went a little pink as he handed one of each to his friend. Carmichael was an easy man to disappoint. ‘So, did you see him?’

Carmichael drank deeply from the bottle before replying. ‘A glimpse, no more. What’s to see? A landau getting more and more covered with the muck the people throw at it, a dozen men-in-arms, and a coffin. I came the back way. The crowd is pressing all along the route from the Tower. He’ll be here in half an hour.’

Goffe gave a little high-pitched giggle and bit into his pie. ‘How will he take it, you think, Carmichael? You must be willing to guess, having been his friend so long.’

Carmichael brushed flakes of pastry from his sleeve. ‘Yes, poor Lucius Adair. I once met his father, you know. Lord Keswick was a clever man with money perhaps, but brutalised by all those years spent beyond the reach of civilisation. If he had been my father, I might have killed him.’

Goffe slapped his thigh so hard, gentlemen on the bench above heard the vibration. ‘Oh, oh Carmichael! You could teach the Devil himself new tricks!’ He slid his eyes over Carmichael’s fine blue coat and wished he had one like it. ‘You’ll miss Adair’s pockets though,’ he added quietly.

Carmichael shrugged and sucked at the bottle again before looking up and becoming suddenly still. Goffe noticed the fixity of his attention. He craned his neck to look the same way, swallowing once or twice. ‘What is it? Are they coming?’

‘No, not yet. See that man on the end of the bench, three below with his back to us?’

Goffe wiped his mouth and peered. ‘What, thin fella? Looks like a parson? He’ll get no kind of view from there.’

‘That man, my dear Goffe,’ drawled Carmichael, ‘is Charles Penhaligon now, and will be the new Lord Keswick before I have finished this pie.’

‘No!’ Goffe said in delight. ‘The brother! Did you ever meet him then?’

‘Once or twice. An odd sort of creature. He can play the gentleman, but always seemed a little touched to me. Cuts up dead animals and calls it natural philosophy.’

Goffe shuddered. ‘Disgusting — the whole bunch of them. Oh look! They’ve spotted the carriage. Not long now till we see how nicely Adair dances the Tyburn jig.’

The excitement of the crowd had deepened, and as the first of the spectators caught sight of the soldiers leading the procession from the Tower a wave of jeers and whistles broke and rolled over them. The jugglers and singers paused in their work and struggled for a view with the rest. Goffe noticed a pretty, hard-eyed woman near the bottom of the stands, her skirts tucked up. Her hands were clenched into fists and her red mouth was open and snarling. Goffe licked his lips.

‘It does bring out the whores, doesn’t it?’

Carmichael nodded. ‘The hanging of a nobleman? Why, of course. High holiday for us all.’

Charles did have something of the parson in his manner. It was his dark-coloured clothing and the severe planes of his face, his cold eyes that made even those passing him in the street feel examined, judged, and keen to pass on. A woman, swinging her fat hips down from the highest benches, also noticed him, his hands lying empty on his lap before him, and took the chance, as she reached the lower level on which he sat, to thrust one of her pamphlets between them.

‘That’s a penny, lover.’ He looked up at her, and she was struck by the bright blue of his eyes in his pale face. A firm chin, dusted with dark stubble. Sharp bones in his cheeks, a young man. ‘Every word gospel — all writ down at the trial. Horrid murder! He sliced up the maid too, you know. Near killed her.’ She tried a wink.

‘I do not want it,’ he said.

‘Come on, sweetheart. Only a penny.’ She touched her hair.

He turned his eyes towards her again and something in them made her step back; they had a violent glitter to them. ‘I do not want it.’

‘All right, lover,’ she said, plucking it from between his fingertips and hurrying over to a red-faced countryman who held his coin in the air as summons. She couldn’t help looking back at him though. His stillness was so strange in the fevered flurry of the crowd.

The thin man folded his hands on his lap again and studied his cuffs. The roar of the crowd told him that the coach was approaching. There were jeers and laughter flowing from every side. Then a hush fell, spreading out from the gallows like a wind. Charles lifted his chin.

His brother Lucius Adair stood on the back of the hangman’s cart, looking small at this distance. In front of him stood the priest from the jail. Addie’s lips were moving as if in continual prayer, then he lifted his voice.

‘Good people. .’ he began. Charles wondered if Addie had spotted him in the crowd. No matter. He had said he would attend and he had kept his promise. His eyes were fixed on the little figure. Addie had always liked to be looked at. Well, he had his wish now. ‘I go to my death a guilty man.’ There was a great roar, and Adair had to strain to make himself heard again. ‘But not of the crime of which I am accused.’ Stamping and swearing from all quarters. Charles had not expected him to admit it now. The crowd hallooed and mocked. Charles’s contempt for his brother was absolute. He had made their family an entertainment, like a chained bear. There had been a woman playing a hurdy-gurdy in the crowd as Charles found his seat. He thought now that fairground music would follow him for his whole life.

His brother continued: ‘I have sinned. I blame no man but myself, and so may God have mercy on my soul!’

Only at the last did his voice quaver and rise. The crowd was divided between cheers and curses. Loud laughter rocked and swayed over the people in places. Addie offered his hands to be tied and seemed to stumble a little. Charles swallowed. There was a man in the crowd who kept looking at him. Escape was impossible for Adair now, but might it be possible for Charles to flee? He could abandon the title that would fall on him when the hangman had done his work, and choose another name. Yes, it was possible.