Read Online The Hangman's Child by Francis Selwyn - Free Book Online
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Mystery, Historical Novel
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gentleman. But such women knew Verity's type as well as he knew them. None approached him. A few shuffled further away. His threadbare 'private-clothes', his lumbering gait with hands clasped under his coat-tails, his habit of talking to himself alone on the night-beat, marked him out for what he was to the greenest bunter in the game.
A young girl on the opposite pavement called out, 'Ain't yer feeling frisky then, old crow?'
A shrivelled woman screamed with delight. Laughter rippled along the length of the pavement. Verity walked on. The sluggish flow of the river stank in the summer dusk, he could smell it a street's length away. Elegant folk rode over it, handkerchiefs to noses. A policeman's duty, he told himself, was to trudge through the miasma with the determination of the soldier he had once been. Wagons drawn by heavy ungroomed horses rattled past him as he reached the Surrey shore. Its blackened houses of London brick were painted with advertisements for the pleasures of the Big Ben Cigar Stores and Lumley's English Confectionery.
'You do not fit a murder to a man like Jack Rann unless there is a mighty tale he can tell, sir! Supposing you are Bully Bragg, which you ain't, sir!' Verity addressed the wraith of Inspector Croaker who rose mute and abashed against the darkening sky. 'No, sir! And you do not send a man to his death when he had nothing in his hand that could have coopered Pandy Quinn. And as for Handsome Jack having done Pandy Quinn and then dropped his cutter down a drain most convenient for Flash Fowler to find .... Just ask yourself, Mr Croaker, sir, how many murderers can you count who did their victims, went off to hide the weapon, and then came back special so's they could be found standing beside the body of the deceased?'
On the high brick viaduct over Westminster Bridge Road, the engine and carriages of a Waterloo train were stationary during the collection of tickets.
'Not one!' said Verity furiously, having given the ghostly chief inspector time to answer.
Faces at the carriage windows stared down into the deep canyon of the street with its public house and the long plate-glass windows of the monster linen draper's.
'Not bloody one!' said Verity, warm with indignation.
He emerged from the New Cut into the gaudy traffic of the Waterloo Road, fiery pillars of steam rising from the terminus of the South Western Railway. As he waited to cross the long thoroughfare towards the river again, tarpaulined drays and hansom cabs from the terminus jostled against horse-buses placarded with garish advertisements for Holloway's Pills and Reid's India Pale.
A boy of nine or ten with torn trousers and soiled shirt, clutching a broom taller than himself, waited to whisk a path for frock-coated or crinolined pedestrians through the horse-dung and the vegetable refuse of coster-barrows. Verity conveyed a coin in his open hand, a periodic transaction for information received. The little crossing-sweeper spoke from the corner of his mouth.
'Soapy Samuel gone, Mr Verity. Clean gone, sir. Folks think he might have took the same boat as Pandy Quinn. Mr Sam being of much that family. And Mag Fashion got a frightened look since Handsome Rann went down. She and that little wriggler, Miss Jolly the penny-dancer, rented a two-pair back off some widow in Houndsditch. Bully been askin' after 'em.'
It was unlikely that Bragg or his 'watchmen' could follow the boy in such a crowd as this but when the coin passed from Verity's hand, the child gave no sign of gratitude or receipt. He skipped out into an opening between the traffic at the road's centre, daring the cab-drivers and draymen to run him down. He whisked with his broom, eyes shielded by a greasy cap picked up from an old-clothes yard.
'Copper for a crossing, gents! Here's your chance and never say die! Copper for the orphans of the fleet!'
Under the midnight shadow of Southwark's square cathedral tower, Verity crossed the piazza of London Bridge station.
A young girl on the opposite pavement called out, 'Ain't yer feeling frisky then, old crow?'
A shrivelled woman screamed with delight. Laughter rippled along the length of the pavement. Verity walked on. The sluggish flow of the river stank in the summer dusk, he could smell it a street's length away. Elegant folk rode over it, handkerchiefs to noses. A policeman's duty, he told himself, was to trudge through the miasma with the determination of the soldier he had once been. Wagons drawn by heavy ungroomed horses rattled past him as he reached the Surrey shore. Its blackened houses of London brick were painted with advertisements for the pleasures of the Big Ben Cigar Stores and Lumley's English Confectionery.
'You do not fit a murder to a man like Jack Rann unless there is a mighty tale he can tell, sir! Supposing you are Bully Bragg, which you ain't, sir!' Verity addressed the wraith of Inspector Croaker who rose mute and abashed against the darkening sky. 'No, sir! And you do not send a man to his death when he had nothing in his hand that could have coopered Pandy Quinn. And as for Handsome Jack having done Pandy Quinn and then dropped his cutter down a drain most convenient for Flash Fowler to find .... Just ask yourself, Mr Croaker, sir, how many murderers can you count who did their victims, went off to hide the weapon, and then came back special so's they could be found standing beside the body of the deceased?'
On the high brick viaduct over Westminster Bridge Road, the engine and carriages of a Waterloo train were stationary during the collection of tickets.
'Not one!' said Verity furiously, having given the ghostly chief inspector time to answer.
Faces at the carriage windows stared down into the deep canyon of the street with its public house and the long plate-glass windows of the monster linen draper's.
'Not bloody one!' said Verity, warm with indignation.
He emerged from the New Cut into the gaudy traffic of the Waterloo Road, fiery pillars of steam rising from the terminus of the South Western Railway. As he waited to cross the long thoroughfare towards the river again, tarpaulined drays and hansom cabs from the terminus jostled against horse-buses placarded with garish advertisements for Holloway's Pills and Reid's India Pale.
A boy of nine or ten with torn trousers and soiled shirt, clutching a broom taller than himself, waited to whisk a path for frock-coated or crinolined pedestrians through the horse-dung and the vegetable refuse of coster-barrows. Verity conveyed a coin in his open hand, a periodic transaction for information received. The little crossing-sweeper spoke from the corner of his mouth.
'Soapy Samuel gone, Mr Verity. Clean gone, sir. Folks think he might have took the same boat as Pandy Quinn. Mr Sam being of much that family. And Mag Fashion got a frightened look since Handsome Rann went down. She and that little wriggler, Miss Jolly the penny-dancer, rented a two-pair back off some widow in Houndsditch. Bully been askin' after 'em.'
It was unlikely that Bragg or his 'watchmen' could follow the boy in such a crowd as this but when the coin passed from Verity's hand, the child gave no sign of gratitude or receipt. He skipped out into an opening between the traffic at the road's centre, daring the cab-drivers and draymen to run him down. He whisked with his broom, eyes shielded by a greasy cap picked up from an old-clothes yard.
'Copper for a crossing, gents! Here's your chance and never say die! Copper for the orphans of the fleet!'
Under the midnight shadow of Southwark's square cathedral tower, Verity crossed the piazza of London Bridge station.
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