The House Of Smoke by Sam Christer Read Free Book Online Page B

to trying it again. Maybe I wouldn’t. If I did, then it would be solely to please Elizabeth and have her think kindly of me.

15 Days to Execution
Newgate, 3 January 1900
    ‘Open door, cell five!’
    The alarming cry from the guard set off a stampede of heavy-footed gaolers down the corridors of the condemned wing. Whistles blew. Gates to the rest of the prison clanked shut and were locked down.
    At first, they thought I had escaped then when a young screw poked his head into my cell he saw only the crumpled body of my attacker on the floor and shouted, ‘He’s dead! Lynch is dead. Someone’s offed him!’
    The poor fool almost died of shock when I spoke from the depths of the shadows that covered my bunk. ‘Actually, I am very much alive. That corpse is someone else.’
    The gaoler fled in terror. I should have guessed the next wrong assumption would be that the death had occurred as the result of some bold escape plan I had hatched and bungled. Older and meatier screws rushed in, brandishing sticks and fists but little intelligence.
    ‘I am chained!’ I shouted, raising my hands so they could see the manacles.
    The action spared me a beating but still they bundled me face down onto the floor and pinned me with knees while they checked my restraints were secure and satisfied themselves that I was no danger to them. For once it was a relief to hear Johncock’s voice.
    ‘Boardman, Baker, get off him! Sit the bastard prisoner up so he can explain himself.’
    Weight shifted off my shoulders and legs. Boardman, a screw in his late thirties, face ablaze with untrimmed red whiskers, turned me over and sat me up. He had hands as hairy as a chimp and I recognised him as one of the men who had previously beaten me. I also recognised the younger screw, Baker. He was a leathery strap of a lad, with the eyes of a rat and the smell of a skunk. He pulled at my chains and told Johncock, ‘The manacles are intact, sir. They’ve not been unlocked.’
    Johncock raised his boot and inspected the sole. ‘Messy,’ he declared, pulling a sour face. ‘Messy, messy, messy.’ He rubbed his boot on the floor and then on my blanket. ‘Show me the dead man’s face, Baker.’
    The younger turnkey angled the corpse’s head for the assistant keeper, but I could not see it, nor did I hear Johncock mention a name. All I could discern was that he wore no wrist or ankle restraints, meaning he was a trustee, a class of prisoner used by the gaolers for cleaning work, slopping out and any other chores they were too lazy to do themselves.
    Finally, Johncock turned to me. ‘Why was this fellow in your room, Lynch? What happened here?’
    ‘I don’t know. I woke and he and another man were near my bunk.’ I nodded to the corpse. ‘That one attacked me. I held onto him to protect myself and I surmise his runaway friend stabbed him by accident.’
    ‘Oh, you
surmise
do you?’ He laughed at me. ‘Proper gentleman you think you are with your
surmising
.’ He stepped over the blood and kicked my leg. ‘Well, I
surmise
there was no other man. There was only you. You, this dead fellow and some ill-conceived notion to escape that went fatally wrong.’ He put his boot up on my bruised ribs and pressed. ‘Now, speak with honesty, Lynch, or so help me God, I will kick the words out of you a syllable at a time.’
    ‘Do you really think I would still be in this stinking hole if another convict had been able to open the door for me?’ I winced through a sharp pang of pain and added, ‘Had I been in possession of that shank and been fit and able to spring to my feet, then I promise you it would be sunk in one of your men’s chests, not that dead imbecile’s, and I would be free by now.’
    Johncock glowered at me. He knew I was telling the truth. If I had been stronger and that passing turnkey had come five minutes later, there would have been a lot more blood on the cell floor than the spatter he had walked in.
    ‘Get him out of here.’ The