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Authors: John MacLachlan Gray

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The Grove of the Evangelist
Seated opposite at the tea-table, manifestly debilitated by loss of blood (and open to death by blood-poisoning), William Ryan presides over the meeting by virtue of his pistol, a .44 calibre by Nock if Whitty is not mistaken, of the type known as an ‘overcoat pistol’ and common to officers in the Royal Navy.
‘I did not know you served in the Navy, Mr Ryan.’
‘Another example of your clairvoyant powers, Mr Whitty?’
‘No. Your pistol is Navy issue.’
‘Is it, now? Pure luck, in actual fact. I borrowed a coat from a party, stuck my hand in the pocket, and there it was.’
Whitty remains unperturbed by the pistol, reasoning that if he has not been poisoned then he is unlikely to be shot. ‘The existence of an advantage depends not upon what is present, but upon what will come next. While the machine at your disposal confers an unassailable advantage at present, other machines mean certain doom later on.’
‘How so?’ asks Mr Ryan, picking up the pistol and if to examine it.
Says Mrs Marlowe, ‘I am curious about those other machines.’
‘As an example, the electric telegraph.’
‘I had thought the electric telegraph an instrument of communication, not a weapon.’
‘And yet, what communication it offers! Since the beginning of time, the maximum distance anything might cover – whether a man or a word – was that which could be accomplished on horseback. A fugitive on a fast horse – or, better yet, a fast train – could flee his pursuers indefinitely. But with the telegraph, information is instantaneous and the world is the size of London.’ So says Whitty, striving to recall Sala’s excellent rhetoric on the topic. ‘As a fugitive you will never outrun your name, Sir. Wherever you go, your past will await you, in every station, every dockyard, every constabulary in Britain.’
Whitty can discern Ryan’s quick breathing, the rattle within; clearly the man is not getting his health at all. Desire, not biology, is keeping him in the game. But desire for what? For vindication? Revenge? Mrs Marlowe?
The latter, in all probability. The correspondent discerns an
uncommon heat in the way they gaze at one another.
‘I had not thought of fearing that, Sir.’
‘But you must, Mr Ryan, include it in your plans. Assuming that you recover; assuming that you venture farther than the back garden …’
Mrs Marlowe interrupts: ‘What is your reason for relating this information, Sir? I had not taken you for a scientist. Surely you have something in mind, other than to provide a reason for it to be Mr Whitty who remains in the back garden.’
She sits back, exchanging with Mr Ryan a smile of mutual understanding. Whitty feels an unwelcome chill. That was not the understanding he sought.
‘Let us be candid: I am not suicidal. I notified a colleague of my intended destination, with the proviso that he should contact the police should I fail to return. But even absent that precaution, surely such precipitous action is against your own interests: why should I have placed myself in the present position, were I not confident that I can be of use to you? Before you embark upon your brief, doomed elopement, will you entertain an alternate course of action?’
‘What be your suggestion?’ Ryan places the pistol upon the table.
‘Give yourself up to the police. Reassert your innocence, with the support of
The Falcon
.’
‘In a pig’s eye, Sir. Go to Hell.’
‘How predictable, Mr Ryan. You would rather drown than accept a life-line.’
After a tactical pause, the correspondent performs his standard speech in overcoming the reluctance of a potential source: the power of the press, etc., its capacity to right wrongs, exculpate the wrongfully accused, etc., etc., the moral weight of posterity, etc., etc., etc …
‘Mr Ryan, in your cell at Coldbath Fields you declared an overriding intention to protect a certain lady from harm, that your lack of a defence in determining your guilt or innocence had a chivalrous origin. May I be so bold as to assume the lady in question to be present in this room?’
‘You may, Sir. Die for her I would, and without regret.’
Mrs Marlowe’s cheeks flush slightly as he covers her hand with his.
Mrs Button has appeared with hot water to add to the tea; having witnessed the previous exchange, she raises one eyebrow approximately a quarter of an inch.
‘What harm might come to me, my dear, that has not happened already?’ enquires Mrs Marlowe.
‘My love, I wonder if you might leave Mr Whitty and me for a moment, to discuss this delicate matter. Only a moment, I promise you.’
‘Very well, William, but if there’s something I ought to know …’ At a warning look from Ryan she stops in mid-sentence. ‘Excuse me please, Gentlemen.’
Mrs Marlowe exits the room with a troubled aspect; her little woman like a shadow, following close behind.
Whitty takes a sip of his cold tea. ‘I assume, Mr Ryan, that the lady views you as something other than a murderer evading the just outcome of his misdeeds, or a coward who permits others to die while he savours his dubious freedom.’
‘No, Sir, for I am nothing of the kind. No woman has ever died by my hand.’
‘And Mrs Marlowe believes you? You are a charming and persuasive man if I may say so, Sir.’
‘To this I swear on my honour and before God.’
‘Quite. Allow me to appeal to your honour then, such as it is. Have you given any thought to the notion that, if you are not Chokee Bill, someone else is?’
‘Indeed I have, Mr Whitty. It is the police who have placed innocent women in peril by pegging me for it.’
‘But now, Sir, you are not without influence in this. Mr Ryan, do not underestimate the power of the Fourth Estate. Your escape, while a doomed prospect in itself, provides you with an opportunity of public vindication, and all that follows. The opportunity to live in freedom, with the woman you claim to love. I suggest to you that a man who would refuse such an offer is a liar, a coward, a murderer, or all three.’
Ryan grows thoughtful. Weariness overtakes him. His handsome features have turned the colour of stucco. ‘I shall think upon what you say, Sir. I shall give you an answer presently. I am not yet fit for a stay in Newgate I am afraid.’
Indeed, thinks the correspondent, you would not last a night in that fine institution.
‘Mr Whitty, assuming we enter into some sort of arrangement – and I do not admit to this – I insist that anything you write or do on my behalf must exclude any mention of Mrs Marlowe’s name, history, or current employment.’
Whitty agrees to this easily, for few of Mrs Marlowe’s particulars would pass the Lord Chamberlain.
‘Nor may you inform Mrs Marlowe of our arrangement, for she is a proud woman.’
‘You have my word of honour. In return, may I invite you to reveal the name of the gentleman you and your murdered accomplice attempted to swindle.’
‘I shall not.’
‘For the protection of a lady, no doubt.’
‘Because I have reason to believe that the gentleman in question is the Fiend in Human Form.’
‘Quite.’
Whitty can hardly contain his excitement at the emerging outline, an assembly of narrative fragments which combine into a stunner of the first water.
A condemned murderer executes a daring escape from the most modern prison in England. Metropolitan Police are at a loss. After a period of public alarm and at the daring behest of a prominent member of the press, our man surrenders, still resolutely proclaiming his innocence – which claim gains weight by his surrender. The correspondent eloquently takes up the challenge, sowing doubt as to the guilt of the condemned man, together with hints of a conspiracy to conceal the Fiend’s true identity. Editorials appear. Questions in Parliament. London is a-twitter.
As the execution date approaches, the public devours each successive report on the case. The correspondent is the focus of a
cause célèbre
which reaches a shuddering climax on the day of the hanging.
At which point the true Fiend is brought forward. Or not, as the case may be.
Most likely, Ryan is hanged. Whitty has not forgotten Mr Hollow’s description of Ryan (over the most dreadful meal he has ever eaten) as an unregenerate scoundrel who should have been hanged a dozen times already had justice prevailed.
Any journal in London would pay a considerable sum for this. Prepare the presses, Sala! Open the coffers, Dinsmore! Look upon your rival, Fraser, and weep!
Having accomplished that which he set out to achieve, Whitty takes his leave of William Ryan and proceeds down the hall, there to encounter his hostess as she emerges from a room whose door is ajar just enough to afford the correspondent a momentary, unwelcome glimpse of an elderly gentleman in a woman’s corset.
After a murmured good-day from Mrs Marlowe and an inscrutable nod from the widow at her elbow, then having retrieved his hat and stick from the liveried footman, Whitty rejoins Owler across the road, positioned as Whitty left him over an hour ago, his sandwich-board proclaiming a Most Sanguinary Outrage of the Laws of Humanity.
Despite the damp and chill of late afternoon (it is raining again), despite the weight of the murderous menu he carries, Owler has remained as watchful as a Beefeater on duty. Not for the first time is the correspondent struck by the man’s tolerance of discomfort.
Whitty, for his part, is in a state of preoccupation. Notwithstanding the heady elation that accompanies a potential triumph, he is bothered by the same curious unease that disturbed his equanimity upon entering the Grove of the Evangelist: that somebody’s plan is proceeding perfectly; that somehow he is performing as somebody expects.
‘And what were the situation as to the fugitive, Sir?’
‘Though I don’t quite have the particulars, fundamentally it is as suspected: Mr Owler, our man is within.’
‘Lord dismiss us. We must go to the constabulary at once.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ With a cigar and a lit lucifer poised in mid-air, Whitty watches in astonishment as Owler makes for the corner. ‘Where are you going, Sir? What the deuce do you intend to do?’
Owler turns at the corner of Foley Street; in his sandwich-board he resembles a walking door: ‘Sir, is there any question? There is a murderer in that house!’
Whitty catches up to the patterer near Langham Place and what remains of Lord Foley’s gardens, there to restrain Owler with the crook of his walking-stick, for our man must be set right at once.
‘Mr Owler, I insist: contrary to what you propose, we must leave Mr Ryan exactly where he is.’
‘But Mr Whitty, Sir, to harbour a murderer is akin to the act itself.’
‘Oh, the deuce, Owler! Are you an aspiring clergyman? Your life is awash in petty crime. You and your charges should not survive but for fraud and theft.’
‘That is a sin we commit to live, not out of greed.’
‘Surely you are not serious.’
‘I wonder the same of you, Sir. A man has naught without his honour.’
Whitty removes his flask from his pocket and drinks, unprepared to discuss honour with one of the costermonger class. From their position on the corner, the two men watch while a running footman appears
from the direction of Great Portland Street at full tilt and proceeds to the Grove of the Evangelist, whose door he raps with the end of his long stick. Mrs Marlowe’s formidable servant opens the door and the two footmen compare livery while a mustard-coloured chariot with a trail of liveried servants comes to a stop at the kerb, another footman opens the carriage door, and none other than the Earl of Claremont enters the establishment.
In the meanwhile, Whitty attempts another line of reasoning. ‘There is one other particular that you should know: as you are aware, our man claims innocence. And there are facts which support his claim.’
‘What facts might those be, Sir?’
‘I am not permitted to reveal them at this time. It is a major scandal, I assure you.’ Whitty sighs inwardly: how he wishes he were able to lie, comfortably! His colleagues do it without a qualm – indeed, with pleasure!
On the other hand, thinks Whitty: well at least it has brought Owler to heel.
‘And you give credit to such a thing, Mr Whitty, Sir?’
‘Indeed, I view it extremely seriously. New information has surfaced which casts doubt on the validity of his conviction. If he returns to prison now, England might hang an innocent man.’
‘I am thunderstruck at this.’
‘So am I, Mr Owler. In the meanwhile, Mr Ryan has sworn on his honour to remain on the premises. Upon his recovery he has agreed to permit
The Falcon
to escort him to the Metropolitan Police for a scene of unexampled drama.’
‘Mr Whitty, I have in my time dealt with over two dozen condemned men; and hardly one went to the scaffold believing he killed a soul – even after confessing it.’

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