The Unseeing Page 2

  As he opened the door to their rooms, Edmund saw an envelope on the floor on top of the mat. Stooping and taking the letter in his hand, he noticed that it bore a ministerial stamp. He cracked the wax and read the note within.

  The Right Honorable Lord Russell requests that Mr. Fleetwood call at his earliest convenience at the Minister’s office on Whitehall.

  Edmund’s heart jumped. Why on earth would the Home Secretary want to see him?

  He turned the letter over, but it gave nothing away.

  • • •

  Edmund set off shortly after eight o’clock the following morning, his hair combed, his boots freshly blackened. He walked through the Temple Gardens and left the relative quiet of the inn to meet the chaos and stench of Fleet Street. Omnibuses, hackney coaches, one-horse cabs, and carriages navigated the dung-filled road. At the dirtiest sections, young crossing sweepers ran nimbly between the vehicles to sweep the dirt into piles at the side of the road. Street sellers cried out their wares and steeple bells chimed together to make the noise of London that rose and fell but never stopped.

  He joined the stream of clerks pouring into Westminster: middle-aged men in white neckcloths and black coats, some turning a rusty brown with age; younger clerks with flashes of color like tropical birds—pea-green gloves, crimson suspenders, tall shining hats.

  As Edmund passed a baker’s shop he caught a whiff of the doughy air. He stopped to join the queue and bought a small cottage loaf and a pennyworth of milk.

  He paused at the point that marked the separation of the City and the West End, Temple Bar, and stood there to take his breakfast, thinking of the heads of traitors that were once impaled on its spikes and left to rot—a warning to the people. How much had things really changed in the past century? Four hundred death sentences had been handed down in the past year alone.

  Making his way down the Strand, he wondered, again, what the Home Secretary could possibly want with him.

  • • •

  Lord John Russell was a small angular man of five and forty. He sat behind a large walnut desk, covered with orderly bundles of paper tied with different colored ribbons. To his side was a tall, graying clerk with an unnerving face, misshapen like a reflection in a spoon. Edmund stood before the desk in his best waistcoat and a crisp linen shirt. There was a chair on his side of the desk, but he had not been invited to sit on it.

  “I have been sent a petition for mercy,” Lord Russell said to Edmund, picking up a letter from the table as though it were a dirty object. “It alleges that the prisoner Gale is innocent and that I should look into the matter. Your father tells me you are already well versed in the facts of the Edgeware Road murder.”

  “My lord, yes, fairly well. I’ve followed the case since the papers reported the discovery of the torso. I find it interesting professionally.”

  Professional interest. That was how he had justified to himself his visit to Paddington Workhouse to view the victim’s head, preserved in spirits. It was certainly a strange thing: a pale, swollen face suspended in solution, the dark-brown hair floating across it. A pickled head.

  “I receive hundreds of these petitions a week from all over the country,” Lord Russell continued. “Most of them are mere appeals ad misericordiam—‘Spare oh mercifully my husband,’ et cetera, et cetera. Unless there is some glaring anomaly or injustice in the case, we respond with a standard form saying that the law must take its course. We are, after all, a devilishly busy department. Is that not right, Mr. Spinks?”

  The graying clerk gave a slight bow.

  “But you are aware of the excitement this case has caused, Mr. Fleetwood?”

  “Indeed, my lord, yes.”

  Since Christmas, the newspapers and penny bloods had run red with details of the grisly treasure hunt for the body parts and the search for the killers. Every appearance of the suspects had been attended by a crowd of hundreds.

  “In addition to which, there are various names at the bottom of this petition: Miss Fraser; Mrs. Fry. Names that carry some weight.” Lord Russell’s mouth stretched into a thin smile. “I must therefore be seen to have considered the matter in earnest. This is where you come in. You are to look at the evidence that was before the court and make a recommendation as to whether the death sentence should be carried out. A month should be enough, I would think.”

  “A month?” Edmund ran his fingers through his hair. “This is a very interesting commission, my lord. However, in order to do the matter full justice, might I not need a little longer?” He swallowed. “Two months, perhaps?”

  Lord Russell pushed his glasses farther down his nose and peered at Edmund over them. “Let us understand each other, Mr. Fleetwood. I am, as you know, attempting to reduce the number of offenses to which capital punishment applies, and I am willing to exercise discretion where there has been an obvious miscarriage of justice. However, this is a crime for which the great majority of the public (the abolitionist lunatics aside) would support a hanging. The jury took fifteen minutes to convict Miss Gale of aiding and abetting James Greenacre in the horrific murder of a blameless woman. You know the state the body was found in?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Edmund said, thinking of the mutilated face, the eye gone, the neck crudely sawn through, perhaps before she was dead.

  “Unlike most of those tried in this country, she was represented. She was given the opportunity to make a statement, but she chose to say virtually nothing at all. There is nothing I have seen,” the Home Secretary continued, “to suggest that she has not received a fair trial. However, there are different degrees and shades of guilt and it may be that the punishment here does not fit the crime. I must show that I have considered the matter on His Majesty’s behalf, and that is what I am asking you to do. You may have until the end of the first week in June, if you insist, but certainly no more. Mr. Spinks here will show you all you need to see. He will also discuss with you your remuneration. We shall ensure it is more than adequate.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And, of course, if you do well in this commission you may expect further such appointments in future.”

  For three years, Edmund had been struggling to make a name for himself at the criminal bar and now, at last, a high-profile case was being placed in his hands—a case that would provide at least a temporary solution to his financial difficulties. And yet, he felt a twinge of unease.

  “Would it,” he asked, “not be normal in these circumstances to ask the police, rather than a lawyer, to look at the matter afresh?”

  Again the thin smile. “Mr. Fleetwood, the police have already conducted a thorough investigation. The case has already been tried. Spinks will take you through the papers. Look again, Fleetwood. Look again.” He lifted his hand to indicate Edmund was dismissed.

  “Just one more question, my lord. Do I take it that it was my father who suggested me for the post?”

  “Yes. You know we were at Edinburgh together? He said you were already acquainted with the case, thought you would do a good job.”

  Edmund did his best to prevent his surprise from showing in his face. If that were true, it would be the first time in all his thirty-two years that his father had shown any faith in him.

  • • •

  The clerk led Edmund into an adjoining room and, from a large cabinet, removed a bundle of papers bound with a red ribbon.

  “This is the report from the inquest. These are the affidavits and notes of evidence from the magistrates’ court and the defendant’s subsequent appearances. You will see that Miss Gale has changed her account slightly on each occasion. Hardly the mark of an innocent soul.”

  Edmund did not reply. He would draw his own conclusions. “Are there any other papers?”

  “Here is a letter from the presiding judge, whom the Home Secretary asked to comment on the case. He considered that the verdict, although harsh, was
appropriate, given the jury’s findings that she helped to conceal the murder and that there is no need to interfere with it. Nevertheless, as Lord Russell said, in a case of such notoriety we must show we have done more than that. This is the petition, and here are the trial notes. You’ve said you are familiar with the case?”

  “I attended part of the trial,” Edmund said. In truth, he had sat through the full two days. He had stayed late into the evening, after the oil lamps were lit.

  “Did you form an opinion?”

  Edmund thought of Sarah Gale’s slight figure in the vast dock, the mirror above reflecting a ghostly light onto her expressionless face. “The prosecution did a very good job with the evidence they had,” he said carefully.

  “You may also wish to look at the various articles that have been published about the crime. Much has been said.”

  “Yes, most of it pure nonsense.” The papers had vied with one another to produce the most salacious and far-fetched stories about Greenacre and Gale. It was no wonder they had been convicted, given what the jury must have read about them.

  The clerk raised his eyebrows. “No doubt you know best. If I can be of further assistance…?”

  Edmund had the distinct feeling he was being mocked. “Has Greenacre himself not petitioned for mercy?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” the clerk said.

  “Then, am I not to investigate his petition also?”

  Spinks gave Edmund a look of mock surprise. “I thought you were already acquainted with the case, sir?”

  Edmund gave a curt nod.

  “Well, then you will know that the prisoner Greenacre admitted to having cut Hannah Brown’s body to pieces and distributed them around town. The man carried the head on his lap all the way to Stepney. Difficult to see how such a man can deny murder or, indeed, expect clemency.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to see his petition. On what basis does he say he is entitled to the King’s mercy?”

  The clerk gave a shrug. “I can arrange for you to be provided with a copy, but his lawyers merely say the same as they did at the trial: that their client returned to his house to find Hannah Brown already dead and that he decided in ‘a moment of temporary insanity’ to dismember her with a carpenter’s saw.” He smiled. “The Minister does not intend to appoint an investigator to consider his case. He is capable of making a decision on the papers.”

  “Yes, I suppose he is. And does the prisoner Greenacre continue to say that Sarah Gale knew nothing of the whole affair?”

  Spinks nodded. “Yes, same story. She was entirely ignorant and wholly innocent, apparently. Almost endearing, really, how they continue to cover up for one other.”

  Edmund ignored him. “And if I find that the death sentence is not warranted—”

  The clerk cut him off. “The Minister will make a decision as to the appropriate punishment, should you recommend commutation: full pardon, penal servitude, transportation for the appropriate term, and so on. But he is, as I’m sure you know, attempting to reduce the number of convicts sent to the colonies. Strangely enough, they don’t seem to want our society’s castoffs.”

  Edmund thanked him brusquely and asked to be shown out. As he descended the steps to the outer hall, Spinks called out, “Might I remind you, sir, of the usual rule in these matters? Take nothing on its looks; take everything on evidence. Even the things you think you know.”

  • • •

  The promise of money to come was enough for Edmund to command Flora, their maid, to buy a large joint of mutton for dinner. He opened a bottle of claret and brought it to the dinner table himself.

  “Well, Bessie, finally our luck appears to be turning.”

  His wife looked up from the candle she was lighting and fixed him with her clear blue eyes. “Why? What’s happened?”

  Edmund explained the commission, speaking hurriedly in his excitement. “It could turn out very well for us. The Home Secretary said that there may be more such work in future; and having my name associated with such a high-profile matter may lead others to seek me out.”

  Bessie was silent, looking down at her plate.

  Edmund coughed and filled his wife’s glass, then his own. “Aren’t you pleased, Bessie?”

  “It’s not that I’m not pleased. I’m sure it’s a great compliment to you that you should be asked to investigate such an important case.”

  “But, my love?” He pulled at his cravat.

  “Well, it’s just that it’s such a very awful case. I can’t help but think that simply by being involved with it, your name will be tainted.”

  “Bessie,” Edmund felt the blood rush to his cheeks, “you don’t lose your reputation in the law simply because the facts of a case are…unpalatable.” He lifted the lid on his leg of mutton, thinking momentarily of Hannah Brown’s legs as they were found, protruding from a sack.

  “Oh, I’m sure you understand it all far better than I do. I just don’t want you to be criticized in any way.”

  “And I will not be. I will look carefully at the evidence, I will ascertain the facts, and I will make the recommendation that I think is right. Remember: I have been appointed for the Crown, not for Sarah Gale herself.”

  He cut into his mutton. It was overcooked: tough and fibrous. “They don’t know your own views on capital punishment, I take it?” Her tone had an edge of sharpness.

  Edmund looked up. “No, Bessie, they don’t, but in any event they aren’t relevant. I’m looking at whether Sarah Gale did in fact know that Greenacre had murdered Hannah Brown—and whether the sentence was appropriate, given the law as it currently stands. My own views on capital punishment are immaterial.”

  His wife did not reply but worried a strand of her fair hair.

  “Bessie, quite apart from anything else, it is good money.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “You’ll be able to buy those things you’ve wanted for so long. A new gown. Books for Clem.”

  Bessie nodded, thoughtful. “Yes. He does need some books.” She paused. “Your father didn’t feel able to assist us, then?”

  Edmund withdrew his hand. “He has assisted us: it was my father who recommended me to this post.”

  A shadow seemed to pass over Bessie’s face, but she smiled. “Well, then he must believe it would benefit your career.”

  “Yes. I suppose he must.”

  Or was it a test, Edmund wondered. Was he setting him up to fail?

  Bessie drew up her shoulders and raised her glass. “A toast,” she said. “To the Edgeware Road case and to my clever, clever husband.”

  Edmund brought his glass to meet hers and took a long gulp of wine, trying to swallow down the anxiety rising within him. The more he thought about it, the more curious it seemed that the Home Secretary should have appointed him to such a complex case. He was known as a good advocate, but he was still junior. And he was no investigator. Edmund turned his glass in his hand, the wine showing dark red in the candlelight.

  What had his father told Lord Russell?

  3

  On Thursday morning, as two laborers were employed in cutting osiers in a marshy piece of ground, situated close to Coldharbour Lane, Camberwell, they observed something tied up in a piece of coarse sacking and concealed amid a heap of weeds and rushes. One of them lifted the bundle, and called his companion to witness the discovery. He then cut the cord which was tied round the bundle and, to the horror and consternation of himself and his companion, the legs and thighs of a human body dropped from the sacking.

  —CHAMPION, 6 FEBRUARY 1837

  24 April 1837

  At six o’clock, the machinery of the prison rattled into action: the strident note of the bell, the thud of boots on corridor floors, the rasp of keys in locks, of bolts being drawn back, and the clank, clank, clank of door after door opening, like a train leaving the station. The only voices
audible were those of the warders, shouting orders or rebukes.

  When her cell door was thrown open, Sarah took her bucket to the taproom to fill at the pump. For a few seconds, she saw the outline of her face reflected in the water: dark eyes, a slit of a mouth. She broke the surface of the water with her fingers and the image disintegrated into fragments.

  Once back in her cell, Sarah set to work rolling her bed linen—a core of white sheets, a crust of yellow blankets. Then she scrubbed the floor and rearranged the items that had been allocated to her: a Bible, a Prayer Book, a wooden platter and a spoon, a wooden salt box, a tin pint mug, a chamber pot, a wooden bucket, a short-handled brush, a blue pocket handkerchief, a piece of soap, and a towel as coarse as a nutmeg grater. She had been at Newgate for nearly a month now (two weeks awaiting trial, two weeks recovering from it), and this was how she got through each day, focusing on her routine. Sometimes, however, a chink in her thoughts let in the wider reality like a piercing beam of white light. If she did not work out a way to escape from this wretched place, she would die here—hanged before a baying crowd outside the Debtors’ Door and buried within the prison’s walls.

  The bolt drew back and her door was flung open again. Miss Groves. She was a heavily built woman with a wide, flat face and skin the color of sausage meat. Groves surveyed the room briefly, ran her finger over the bedding, and then turned her attention to Sarah.

  “Rubdown. Shawl off.”

  She passed her large hands firmly down Sarah’s body and legs, feeling every rib bone, every inch of flesh.

  She took Sarah’s chin in her rough palm. “Open your mouth wide, so I can see inside it.” Sarah could smell the other woman’s breath, a mixture of peppermint and decay.

  “You’ll do. You may dress.”

  The words triggered a fragment of memory—an elderly gentleman with white powdered hair and dry, papery fingers. Images flashed, uninvited: panting in the darkness, cold limbs, hot breath. James had saved her from that, at least, whatever else he had put her through.