way in his evidence to stress that rumours about Lancelot were untrue. He tries to intervene when it seems that his evidence is being misinterpreted. And yet everything he does and says seems to land Lancelot more deeply in trouble.’
‘Indeed. So it does. And, as you say, where was George all day?’
‘In Chichester, if Jane Taylor is to be believed.’
‘But is she to be believed?’ Tom opened his bag and took out an envelope from which he extracted a photograph. He passed it to me. Judging by the voluminous sleeves, the tight waist and the elaborately feathered hat, the picture dated from the last decade of the nineteenth century. The woman was, I judged, in her sixties. She was smartly dressed – clearly somebody who both cared for her appearance and had the money to buy the latest fashions. The clothes were dark – perhaps black – it was difficult to say. The sepia tones also did not reveal if her hair was blonde or grey, but not a strand was out of place. Her head was tilted slightly to one side. There was nothing in her face that constituted a smile, but her expression left you in no doubt that she was pleased with herself. Her gaze challenged the camera to do its worst.
‘Jane Taylor,’ said Tom. ‘There’s a note on the back saying that the picture was taken in 1895. She would have been sixty-four then. Her husband had died twenty years before.’
‘She looks quite … spirited.’
‘We’d probably say “feisty” these days. It’s a shame wedon’t have one of her in 1848. I bet she turned men’s heads then.’
‘How did you get the picture?’
‘From the family album. She’s my great-great-great-great-grandmother. She married George Gittings about four months after his brother’s death. George was by that time a prosperous farmer himself, having inherited everything from his murdered brother.’
‘Married within four months? Quick work for those days,’ I said.
‘Quick work by any standards.’
‘So, let’s get this right: after John’s death, George gets the girl, the money and the farm?’
‘Exactly. Cui bono? as the judge so rightly asked.’
CHAPTER NINE
Lancelot Pagham’s hanging was a disappointment to everyone. It lacked the drama of the trial and gave me no further insight into the murder, even if it did strengthen my respect for the purported murderer.
Large crowds had gathered outside Horsham gaol the night before and, by the time designated for the execution, the crush in the street threatened to occasion more deaths than Pagham’s alone. Enterprising citizens had rented out seats in any rooms they had overlooking the scaffold. There had been much singing and jollity up to the moment that Pagham had appeared. Sellers of cakes and ale had done a good trade. Then, according to reports, a ghastly hush had descended on the assembled multitude. Men and women gazed at the condemned man in awe. Pagham, conversely, had surveyed the crowd with something resembling contempt. He had been offered the chance to speak some last words, but declined with a shake of his head. The onlything that he was heard to say was an instruction to the executioner to get on with his task. A person in the crowd called out: ‘He is innocent!’ At that point Pagham turned and for a moment his eyes searched for somebody; then he went to his death ‘as bravely as any man could’. The crowd dispersed apparently with grave frowns. Whether those who had paid ‘upwards of five Guineas’ for their seats felt they had had value for money is unclear. It had all been mercifully quick. It was devoid of any confession or of a last protestation of innocence.
Was it George Gittings who had cried out at the last moment? There was no way that I or anyone else would ever know.
It took a moment for me to realise that the noise I could hear was my phone ringing. I hurried towards the exit, muttering apologies to everyone that I passed, struggling to extract the handset from my jacket pocket as I
‘Indeed. So it does. And, as you say, where was George all day?’
‘In Chichester, if Jane Taylor is to be believed.’
‘But is she to be believed?’ Tom opened his bag and took out an envelope from which he extracted a photograph. He passed it to me. Judging by the voluminous sleeves, the tight waist and the elaborately feathered hat, the picture dated from the last decade of the nineteenth century. The woman was, I judged, in her sixties. She was smartly dressed – clearly somebody who both cared for her appearance and had the money to buy the latest fashions. The clothes were dark – perhaps black – it was difficult to say. The sepia tones also did not reveal if her hair was blonde or grey, but not a strand was out of place. Her head was tilted slightly to one side. There was nothing in her face that constituted a smile, but her expression left you in no doubt that she was pleased with herself. Her gaze challenged the camera to do its worst.
‘Jane Taylor,’ said Tom. ‘There’s a note on the back saying that the picture was taken in 1895. She would have been sixty-four then. Her husband had died twenty years before.’
‘She looks quite … spirited.’
‘We’d probably say “feisty” these days. It’s a shame wedon’t have one of her in 1848. I bet she turned men’s heads then.’
‘How did you get the picture?’
‘From the family album. She’s my great-great-great-great-grandmother. She married George Gittings about four months after his brother’s death. George was by that time a prosperous farmer himself, having inherited everything from his murdered brother.’
‘Married within four months? Quick work for those days,’ I said.
‘Quick work by any standards.’
‘So, let’s get this right: after John’s death, George gets the girl, the money and the farm?’
‘Exactly. Cui bono? as the judge so rightly asked.’
CHAPTER NINE
Lancelot Pagham’s hanging was a disappointment to everyone. It lacked the drama of the trial and gave me no further insight into the murder, even if it did strengthen my respect for the purported murderer.
Large crowds had gathered outside Horsham gaol the night before and, by the time designated for the execution, the crush in the street threatened to occasion more deaths than Pagham’s alone. Enterprising citizens had rented out seats in any rooms they had overlooking the scaffold. There had been much singing and jollity up to the moment that Pagham had appeared. Sellers of cakes and ale had done a good trade. Then, according to reports, a ghastly hush had descended on the assembled multitude. Men and women gazed at the condemned man in awe. Pagham, conversely, had surveyed the crowd with something resembling contempt. He had been offered the chance to speak some last words, but declined with a shake of his head. The onlything that he was heard to say was an instruction to the executioner to get on with his task. A person in the crowd called out: ‘He is innocent!’ At that point Pagham turned and for a moment his eyes searched for somebody; then he went to his death ‘as bravely as any man could’. The crowd dispersed apparently with grave frowns. Whether those who had paid ‘upwards of five Guineas’ for their seats felt they had had value for money is unclear. It had all been mercifully quick. It was devoid of any confession or of a last protestation of innocence.
Was it George Gittings who had cried out at the last moment? There was no way that I or anyone else would ever know.
It took a moment for me to realise that the noise I could hear was my phone ringing. I hurried towards the exit, muttering apologies to everyone that I passed, struggling to extract the handset from my jacket pocket as I
Similar Books
