Paul Doherty - The Gallows Murders

'So they can't arrest us,' Vetch muttered, once we'd announced what had happened. He got up and shakily filled two goblets, brought them back to the table and pushed them towards us.

'Someone will hang for all this,' Spurge squeaked. He looked slyly at me. 'And it won't be us.' ‘What happened?' Kemble asked. Benjamin told him in quick, clipped tones. The constable leaned back in his chair, whispering under his breath and shaking his head. 'And you have no suspicions?' he asked.

Two villains are at work here,' Benjamin explained. 'One in the Tower and another outside. However, I have not any evidence to point the finger of accusation.' ‘Did anyone leave the Tower?' I asked.

Kemble shook his head. ‘You saw for yourself Master Shallot, all doorways were barred and bolted. Men patrol the ramparts and towers, two soldiers guard each postern-gate.' 'And the hangmen?' I asked.

They are in their quarters. Every hour, on the hour, at least until noon, Vetch went round and checked.' My master sipped at the wine cup. ‘What do you think, Master Daunbey?' Vetch asked.

'I am wondering where the rogue is who took the two thousand pounds' worth of gold,' Benjamin replied. 'And will he be satisfied with that or strike again?' He put his cup down on the table. 'Sir Edward, how long have you been constable of the Tower?' 'About two years this Michaelmas,' Kemble replied.

'And you have heard no legends or stories about the Princes?'

The constable shook his head. ‘I have told you, as I have told others, their fate is a complete mystery.' ‘But you know the story of Tyrrell?' Benjamin insisted.

Aye, he was alleged to have been involved in smothering the Princes, but the King's father made a careful search. No remains were ever found.'

Suddenly there was a drumming of feet on the stairs outside and Mallow burst into the room, his face white as a sheet. For a while he just stood there trembling, then he came forward like a dream-walker. 'Sir Edward,' he muttered, 'you'd best come. All of you!'

Benjamin sprang to his feet and grasped Mallow's hand. 'It's as cold as ice!' he exclaimed. He forced the man to sit down on the chair and thrust the wine cup to his lips. 'Drink, man!' Mallow blinked.

'Come on, drink!' Benjamin fairly poured the wine into the fellow's mouth.

Mallow coughed and shook himself. 'It's Horehound,' he whispered. He stood up, swaying slightly. ‘You must come!'

‘Well never make sense out of him!' Vetch snapped. He grasped Mallow by the jerkin. 'Where is Horehound?'

The cellar,' Mallow muttered. The death cellar in Beauchamp Tower.'

'It's where the execution block and axe are kept,' Vetch explained.

And, leaving Mallow, we all left the room. Outside, on the green, the news of something dreadful had already spread. Soldiers, servants, even masons who were preparing a stretch of the inner wall, were hurrying towards the huge, forbidding Beauchamp Tower. When we reached it, the rest of the executioners were gathered round the door; a royal Serjeant was trying to hold the people back. The fellow was pallid-faced, slack-jawed, his mouth still stained with vomit. He glimpsed Sir Edward and pointed with his thumb towards the half-open door.

'Sir Edward,' he exclaimed, 'there's a demon in the Tower!'

Kemble led us into the stairwell and down to the basement. Someone had lit the sconce-torches on the wall. The shadows flickered and danced as if ghosts had come to plague us. At the bottom was a small cellar or cavern. In one corner stood a huge block, cut from some massive oak, with an axe in it. I also glimpsed in the poor light a massive, metal-studded door, almost covering the floor. What's all the fuss about?' I asked. Benjamin pointed. I grabbed a torch from the wall and stared; on either side of the door a hand stuck out and, at the far end of the door, the top of Horehound's head. I took a step nearer. My boots squelched in the blood and I became aware of a fetid smell. Benjamin remained, but Kemble and his two officers had already gone out to vomit in the small privy chamber.

‘Lord have mercy!' Benjamin breathed. The poor bastard's been pressed!'

Now I shall spare your sensibilities, but pressing is the most terrible of deaths. It is carried out in three places in London: the yards of Fleet and Newgate prisons, or in the Tower. It’s not a torture but a special punishment reserved for those who refuse to plead either guilty or not guilty. In my long and troubled life I have been in many a scrape but, when taken before the justices, I would never refuse to plead. Once you do that, you have very little chance. Sometimes the press can be heavy boards which are weighted with bricks on top, but the pressing door in the Tower was of a special kind. Small wheels were fixed on the bottom, and a rope fixed to the top. This ran through a pulley system, so it could be lowered gently on to the victim who would lie spread-eagled on the ground. No such delicacy had been shown to Horehound.

Benjamin pointed to the pulley hanging from the ceiling, and explained. Horehound must have been laid out on the ground. The door was tipped and the rope cut till finally it slammed down, reducing his body to a bloody pulp.'

Kemble and his two officers returned, accompanied by Mallow, who looked as if he had drunk the wine jug dry. Toadflax, Snakeroot and Wormwood, under Kemble's direction, slowly lifted the door, pushing it back on its wheels and leaning it against the far wall. On the inside of the door were small arrow points of sharpened steel; these had turned Horehound's body to a tangled, gory mess. Once the corpse was exposed, all stood away: even the hangmen, experienced as they were in death, could not bear the sight. My stomach heaved, though, I'll be honest, at that moment in time, I was more terrified of the Great Beast than the pulpy remains of one of London's hangmen. Benjamin showed no fear but crouched down, ignoring the mess: he carefully examined Horehound's wrists and ankles.

'He wasn't fastened down, was he?' Wormwood came forward.

'No, he wasn't,' Benjamin replied. There are no marks round his wrists or ankles.' He pointed to the iron chain hanging on a wall which would be used to secure a prisoner about to be pressed.

Then how was it done?' Kemble's voice was muffled behind a pomander he held to his nose.

'I don't know' Benjamin replied. 'But Horehound was a man capable of taking care of himself, yes?'

Wormwood nodded. Snakeroot and Toadflax also agreed.

'So how could the killer lie him out on the ground?' Benjamin sounded puzzled. 'Horehound must have made no objection or tried to get away.'

'Perhaps he was already unconscious,' Vetch remarked from where he stood in the doorway. 'A knock on the head or a dagger in the back. His corpse is so torn we cannot tell.'

Benjamin got to his feet and, taking a sconce-torch from the wall, carefully walked round the chamber. He shook his head. There's nothing here.'

‘Well seal the chamber,' Kemble announced. He took a coin from his purse and tossed it at Wormwood. 'He was your friend. Bury him!'

'He was no friend of mine,' Wormwood snapped. He looked coolly at Sir Edward. 'Don't you know, Master Constable, hangmen don't have friends?' 'Well, he was in your guild!' Kemble snapped.

‘Don't worry, don't worry.' Mallow came forward, hands flailing. 'I’ll take care of poor Horehound.'

We left the Tower. I was grateful to be out, breathing God's fresh air. The guards had driven off the curious onlookers. Benjamin pointed across to the church of St Peter ad Vincula.

‘I have further questions to ask,' he declared. He stared round. 'Of all of you!'

No one objected, and we walked into the church as dutifully as a congregation on a Sunday morning. Benjamin led us into the sanctuary, indicating the stalls on either side. We sat down. If I wasn't so frightened, I would have burst out laughing. There we were, Constable and officers of the Tower, the hangmen of London and Old Shallot, the greatest rogue in Ipswich, sitting in benches facing each other like a hanging jury ready to deliver its verdict.