Philip Gooden - The Durham Deception

While William Marcraft was eating his pie, Anthony Smight was taking his last supper. He turned in at ten o’clock and, to those who inspected him throughout the night, he appeared to sleep soundly. So soundly that he had to be roused the next morning when the chaplain slipped into the cell, together with two warders. Smight had already rejected the chaplain’s overtures on earlier visits and he proceeded to ignore the man as he tried a mixture of prayer, consolation and conversation while the doctor ate his breakfast. Smight did not eat much but he chewed and swallowed composedly.

Shortly before eight William Marcraft entered the cell, with the governor and another pair of warders. The hangman shook Smight’s hand, a gesture that wasn’t entirely courteous since it enabled him to half immobilize the condemned man as well as to gauge his nervousness by feeling him, palm to palm. But Anthony Smight’s hand was dry as dust and he offered no struggle as his arms and hands were pinioned by two of the warders.

Then, with the neatness of a long-practised military drill, Smight was half-marched, half-escorted out of the cell and into the yard. It was already a fine morning, just past midsummer though no sun had yet reached the yard. Smight was placed between the posts of the scaffold and over the trapdoors which opened into the pit. He was permitted one final glimpse around, at the high walls, at the half dozen warders, the doleful-looking chaplain, the brisk-faced governor, the prison doctor, and William Marcraft himself.

Then the hangman drew the hood of coarse cloth over the doctor’s face and adjusted the rope about his neck. Smight was left standing alone. There was the grating sound of a lever and the abrupt swing of the trapdoors. Smight dropped soundlessly. The rope jerked to a halt after what seemed an eternity but was scarcely a second. It quivered. What happened next was the real test of the hangman’s skill. It might take minutes, even a whole quarter of an hour, for a man to die if the executioner had botched his job, signified by the continued shivering of the rope. But Marcraft was as careful in his preparations as he was restrained in his drinking habits. The rope trembled for a few instants only, and then fell still.

The witnesses crowded to the edge of the pit. Doctor Anthony Smight was dead, no question. He had died as silently as he had lived his last weeks in the condemned cell.

By half past eight the black flag had been raised above the gaol and a notice testifying to Smight’s lawful execution posted on the main gate. A crowd of people quickly gathered to read it to each other and to conclude that justice had been done.

And what about the other participants in this story — or some of them at any rate? None met so grisly a fate as Doctor Smight, who after being hanged was buried by the wall of the hospital prison, to join the rest of the executed men and women. If you go to search, you will find no name to mark his grave, only the date of his execution (27th July, 1874) inscribed over a downward-pointing arrow.

Eustace Flask fared rather better, one might say. After the arrest of Smight but before his trial, the medium was interred at a quiet ceremony in a quiet church on the fringe of the city. There were several mourners, including Julia Howlett and Septimus Sheridan, with Tom and Helen Ansell to keep them company. In addition there was a small turnout of constables and Inspector Traynor. Also present was Frank Harcourt’s widow, Rhoda, who had prevailed on Traynor to escort her. She had fond memories of the deceased — all those little gifts! — and was willing to overlook the normal conventions of being in mourning for her husband to pay her respects to Flask. Then there were a few curious passers-by and droppers-in. Someone quietly but irreverently enquired, as the coffin was being borne in, whether Eustace was flinging around handfuls of flour and tambourines on the inside.

Aunt Julia had to use her influence to find a clergyman to officiate at the funeral and a cemetery willing to take Eustace’s remains. His spiritualism was not approved of by the ecclesiastical authorities in Durham and the first three clergy Julia approached had, politely, declined. But Julia was persistent, even relentless, and she eventually found a broad-minded cleric who would send Eustace packing in plain, low-church style. The oddest feature of the ceremony was the presence of a batch of paid mourners, with their professional long faces and black crepe accessories. Aunt Julia denied that she had paid for them but no one else owned up.

Kitty Partout and Ambrose Barker did not attend Eustace’s funeral. They were afraid of provoking more interest from the police. They did not stay in Durham to read about the execution of Anthony Smight in the Advertiser. They did not even wait for the outcome of the trial. Some instinct warned them to put a distance between themselves and this city. Besides, the rent on their house in Old Elvet had run out and so they decided to try their luck elsewhere. Not in the desperate business of enticement and robbery but by using the skills which they had acquired from Eustace Flask. Kitty had enjoyed playing the part of the Indian maid, Running Brook, and believed it would be no great step to turn herself into a fully-fledged medium. She had, almost unawares, absorbed plenty of Uncle Eustace’s patter and knew the workings of the props such as the writing slate. Ambrose, glad to be reconciled with Kitty, was willing to take the more menial role of protector, carpenter and general handyman.

So Kitty and Ambrose took the train across the Pennines with their spirit cabinet and other gear stowed in the guard’s van. They arrived in Carlisle. There Kitty developed her French strain. She became Mademoiselle Kitty Partout (always pronounced Partoo) and, once she had done a little research and felt confident enough, she claimed to be in touch with the spirit of Mary Queen of Scots who was Carlisle’s most famous prisoner as well as being a French speaker. There are not many mediums who can claim to be inspired by a dead queen and she has met with some success.

Julia Howlett did not spend long in regret for the violent death of Eustace Flask but swiftly turned her attention to another object of interest. She and Septimus Sheridan were sitting quietly in the drawing-room of Colt House. Septimus was reading The Durham Advertiser while Julia Howlett was turning the pages of a quarterly called The Spiritualist Adviser.

‘Septimus, I have been thinking.’

Septimus put down his paper and looked benignly at his landlady.

‘Yes, Miss Howlett?’

‘We have known each other these many years now.’

‘Indeed we have.’

‘There was a time when our friendship — I hope I may call it a friendship — threatened to turn into something different.’

Septimus noted her use of ‘threatened’. But this was the first time she had raised the subject of their engagement since his arrival in Colt House as her lodger. His heart beating fast, he wondered whether he had the nerve to say what he wanted to say.

‘Miss Howlett, all that is so long ago I can scarcely remember the reasons why it did not, in your apt expression, “turn into something different”. But I do know that, whatever happened, it was my own fault.’

And I have regretted it ever since, he might have added.

‘Let us not talk of faults or blame, Septimus,’ she said. ‘I think the time has come to turn over a new leaf.’

Septimus Sheridan’s mouth was suddenly dry. His hands tightened on the newspaper. He could say no more than, ‘It has?’

‘Yes. I think it absurd that we should go on as we have been going on.’

Septimus made no reply. He was half afraid of what she might say next.