He heard his name shouted by a multitude of voices, but his gaze remained riveted to the loop of rope swinging ever so slightly in the breeze. Those now on the platform behind him pushed him forwards, towards the noose. He shoved them back and cursed roundly.
His fellow prisoners muttered and one of the jailers poked him with his baton to move him on. Danny stumbled forward, his eyes not leaving the loop of rope.
From somewhere in the crowd a child called ‘Mother’. It seemed to be coming from a long way away. Danny’s head whipped around. About three rows back, being held on his father’s shoulders was a small boy, bright-faced with a mop of fair hair.
Danny stared at the child, seeing as if for the first time the innocence of a child’s smile. A noise started in his head as he noticed a red shawl to his left and the sweep of a feather in a woman’s hat. All around him colours came at him, startlingly vivid in the clear morning light. Then sounds collected in his ear. A laugh, the bark of a small dog, the cry of a street trader. Suddenly his whole head was full of sounds and colours. Then he noticed his hands. He clasped them together feeling the coarse skin and the raised veins on the backs. He raised both hands and ran them over the surface of his face and over his head. He felt the scrape of the bristles on his chin and the coarseness of his hair as if he had never felt them before. He looked back at his hands. The black square nails would carry on growing after he was dead, as would the fine hair that covered his knuckles. Suddenly his breath failed him. His hands went to his neck, his bare neck, while his eyes were dragged back to the rope hanging patiently for him.
Behind him someone was trying to move him forward towards that cursed noose. A dam of thoughts broke in his head. Why was he just standing here like a thick Paddy? He was Danny Donovan, not some gutter scum. Somehow he had regained his ability to breathe and now he was dragging in breath noisily. His head was roaring and his vision seemed to have a sharpness like never before.
He went from frozen to animated in a heartbeat and lurched forward. Strong hands caught him from both sides. He shook them off. At the end of the platform the parson who had bored the ears off them the day before stood, Bible open, reading passages in a uninterested voice.
He’ll show the fecking, Protestant bastard what he thought about repentance, damnation, sinners and fecking eternity.
Danny stumbled towards him, avoiding the outstretched hands trying to hold him back. A whistle sounded and a truncheon crashed across his shoulder. He barely felt the pain and continued towards the black-robed parson. Other blows followed, but after a lifetime of street fighting his body ignored them and let his mind pursue its goal.
Seeing Danny approach, the priest let the Bible drop from his hands. It fell like a wounded bird at his feet. Someone got their arm around Danny’s neck, choking off his air. With a swift backwards flick of his head, his skull connected with a sickening crunch against his assailant’s nose. The grip loosened and, crouching momentarily, Danny launched himself at the white-faced chaplain.
With all his senses bursting within him and competing for attention, Danny grasped the unfortunate man around the throat in a murderous hold. He tried to speak, but only guttural sounds came forth. No matter. The fear in the priest’s eyes showed he clearly understood Danny’s meaning. Something hit the side of Danny’s head. It resounded in his skull and his hands lost their strength. As he shook his head to clear the sudden fogginess that was gathering, another further blow descended. Danny staggered back, the fog swirling all around in his head now. Hands grabbed him and something rough passed over his face and tightened around his throat.
He looked around and through his darkening vision saw Black Mike sobbing like a baby. He wanted to say something to him but his mouth wouldn’t work. Something propelled him forward and the rope scraped painfully on his Adam’s apple. The mist in his head was almost complete now, all sounds and colours were slowly fading.
For one dreamlike moment an eerie silence descended, the sound of metal scraping metal carried over the stillness. Then Danny’s feet were without support, instinctively he failed, trying to find a footing. There was a sudden jolt, a loud crack and then an abrupt nothing.
There was a light rap on the door. Robert didn’t answer. There was another light tap and then the brass handle turned. Robert continued to gaze at the glass of brandy in his hand.
‘I’ve brought you the special edition,’ William Chafford said, slapping the newspaper down beside him.
Robert didn’t look at it.
‘The report makes chilling reading. Donovan nearly killed Newgate’s senior chaplain on the gallows before they managed to bundle the noose around his neck and loose the trapdoor. It was a mercy there wasn’t a riot.’
Robert took another long sip of brandy as William settled in the chair opposite him.
‘No news then?’
Placing the glass on the table beside him, Robert leant forward and hung his head in his hands.
‘But it’s been two weeks, Robert. Surely someone knows where she is,’ William said.
Robert’s haggard face formed into a painful half-smile. ‘I’m sure they do. But no one will tell me.’
Looking up, he could see William’s face was etched with concern. He couldn’t blame him. If he looked as bad as he felt, he must be a dreadful sight.
He hadn’t slept properly for days and, when he did, he dreamed the nightmare of arriving at Cooper’s house and finding Ellen gone. For a few seconds Robert watched as the red and orange flames of his fire formed into pictures of Ellen. He spun around and gave a hard laugh.
‘I stupidly thought that I would find her. She couldn’t have gone far,’ Robert said, thinking of the hours spent walking through the streets and markets of East London looking for her. He snatched up a newspaper and flourished it in the air. ‘After this rag had thoroughly dragged Ellen through the mire I couldn’t even get a “good morning” from most of her neighbours,’ he said, screwing the newspaper up and hurling it into the fire. ‘I should have married her before the trial.’
‘You’ll find her, Robert,’ William said.
Robert dragged his eyes from the jumping flames in the grate. ‘I have to, but Ellen has brothers in Ireland and America and cousins in Liverpool, Manchester, Bristol
and
Ireland. And there have been ships leaving the docks for each destination over the past two weeks.’
Only the crackle from the fire sounded in the quiet study for a few moments, then William spoke again.
‘What will you do?’ he asked.
‘Continue to search for her until I find her,’ Robert replied, remembering how only two nights ago he had come as near to ending his life as he had ever wanted to by throwing himself into the fast-moving Thames. ‘I have also booked a seat at the Black Swan on the Edinburgh coach next week.’
‘A trip home is just what you need.’ William gave a forced laugh. ‘Time in the bosom of your family will help you, I am sure.’
Making a monumental effort at good cheer, Robert stood up. ‘Another brandy?’
‘Thank you, no. I’m my way to supper at the Saracen’s Head with Benthan,’ William said, also standing. ‘Why don’t you join us?’
Robert shook his head.
William hesitated for a few moments then retrieved his hat from the hatstand. ‘Give your mother my regards, won’t you.’
Robert watched the door close, then turned back to the window. He stared unseeing over the scrubland at the back of the hospital.
The emptiness of his life without Ellen swept over him. He needed her like he needed breath. Without her love surrounding him, he was an empty shell, a husk of a man. But he would find her. Ireland? Liverpool? America? Wherever she was, even if it took him a lifetime, he
would
find her - and make her his wife.
Twenty-Three
The clock on the mantelshelf struck the melodious quarter of the hour as Robert joined his parents in the drawing room. It was as if he had last entered the room only the day before. Nothing whatsoever had changed. The old dark-oak dresser, the tables and the wheelback chairs that had been crafted at least two generations ago still dominated the room. Even the light from the sash windows still struggled to illuminate the sombrely furnished interior where the same paintings hung on the walls. Silhouette sketches of deceased relatives from both sides of the family faced each other in their oval ebony frames. An oil painting of a Highland house with shaggy cattle in the foreground was of his mother’s ancestral home in Huntly; and on its usual wall, opposite the fireplace, standing alone in his bright red captain’s uniform, was Captain Robert Fraser, his long dead uncle whom he resembled so strongly.
The leather-bound Munroe family Bible lay open on its table. It had been there for as long as Robert could remember. His father would solemnly turn a gold-leafed page each evening and read the text to the children before they were put to bed by their nursemaid. He wondered idly if his father still turned the pages each night, or if the Bible had remained open at the same page since the last of them left the nursery.
He had arrived at Trinity Church manse yesterday and been welcomed into the bosom of his family, as William put it. In fact his welcome was warmer than he’d expected, mainly because his sisters Hermione and Margot were there. After greeting him formally under the watchful eye of their mother, they drew him aside into the old nursery and quizzed him at length about what the fashionable hostesses in London were wearing. He gathered that since neither of his sisters mentioned the court case, his mother had been her usual vigilant self and kept the scandal outside the manse.
His mother and father were not quite as delighted at his return. Since his arrival, the Reverend George Munroe had been shut away almost continuously in his study, writing his treatise on Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, and his mother had been involved with the local Temperance Trust committee all morning. Even in the brief conversation over breakfast there had been no mention of his role in Danny Donovan’s trial or of his relationship to Ellen. That was why he was going to grasp the opportunity of his parents’ afternoon tea ritual to talk to them. Thankfully his sisters were engaged with their music tutor and would not interrupt what was likely to be a difficult conversation.
Unusually, his mother and father sat next to each other on the button-backed sofa. Robert took his place on the chair opposite and crossed one leg casually over the other. As they waited for Mrs Manners to bring in the tray, Robert studied them.
His mother was much the same as when he’d seen her in the summer, but her usual calm exterior was disturbed now and then by a sudden nervous twitch of her fingers as they lay across her charcoal grey skirt.
His father, in contrast, looked even more sombre than when Robert had last seen him. Although he had always been a solemn individual, Robert couldn’t remember the lines tracking down his cheeks ever being so deep or the bones of his face so prominent. He was dressed in his black clerical garb, the white flaps of his collar making a stark contrast with his sinewy neck.
Mrs Manners came in and left the tea tray beside his mother. As she started to pour the tea, Robert decided to speak.
‘I understand Danny Donovan’s trial was reported at some length in
The Scotsman.
’
His father fixed him with a granite stare.
‘It was,’ he said, in a voice that sounded like a tolling bell. He patted his wife’s hand in a rare show of affection. ‘And it made terrible reading for your family and your Kirk.’
This interview had all the signs of being even bleaker that Robert had imagined.
‘You realise that there was a great deal of exaggeration in the reporting of the trial.’
‘Did it exaggerate your liaison with an
actress
?’ his father asked, sounding the word ‘actress’ as one would say dog excrement.
‘Mrs O’Casey is not an actress. She is a singer,’ Robert answered, taking the cup of tea his mother handed him.
His father’s face formed itself into a sneer. ‘I understand that both terms are used in London and elsewhere in the realm as an alternative word for a woman of loose morals.’
‘If you knew Mrs O’Casey, you would know that is not the case,’ he replied in an even tone.
His father blinked rapidly. ‘I ... I say it is the case.’ He put his cup in the saucer and it started to jiggle in his hand. ‘I am astonished that you see fit to dispute this matter. Have you forgotten the fifth commandment?’
‘Mrs O’Casey is not as you describe her,’ Robert replied simply, refusing to debate further.
A flush splashed up his father’s neck, then he turned his head and stared blankly at the wall.
Robert continued. ‘Mrs O’Casey is a brave woman and a respectable widow, and I have great affection for her,’ he said in a firm tone.
‘So all of Edinburgh read,’ his father replied, not turning his head.
‘Now, husband,’ his mother said. ‘If Robert tells us that this Mrs... Casey is a respectable widow, then I for one believe my own son over some sensationalist newspaper report.’
His father left his contemplation of the dull wallpaper and looked at his wife. ‘I’d hardly call
The Scotsman
sensationalist.’
‘Mr Munroe!’ his mother said in a rare show of annoyance. The stain on his father’s neck deepened as he slammed his cup down on the table beside him.
‘Very well.’ He fixed Robert with a razor-sharp stare. ‘But, respectable or not, your liaison with this woman was of an intimate nature and now all of London and Edinburgh and beyond knows it.’
He resumed his study of the wall.
‘I am not ashamed of my association with Ellen O’Casey,’ Robert said calmly to his father’s averted face.
‘You should be,’ his father retorted, sending his son a contemptuous look. ‘What kind of example do you set the lesser orders, cavorting with a woman who earns her living displaying herself for all who have a penny or two to see?’