A Death Left Hanging Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Sally Spencer

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  A Note on Judicial Hanging

  Prologue – June 1934

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  By Sally Spencer

  The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

  THE SALTON KILLINGS

  MURDER AT SWANN’S LAKE

  DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

  THE DARK LADY

  THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

  DEAD ON CUE

  THE RED HERRING

  DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  A DEATH LEFT HANGING

  THE WITCH MAKER

  THE BUTCHER BEYOND

  DYING IN THE DARK

  STONE KILLER

  A LONG TIME DEAD

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  DEATH WATCH

  A DYING FALL

  FATAL QUEST

  The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

  THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

  THE RING OF DEATH

  ECHOES OF THE DEAD

  BACKLASH

  LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

  A DEATH LEFT

  HANGING

  A Charlie Woodend Mystery

  Sally Spencer

  For Sharon Payne

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2003 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Copyright © 2003 by Sally Spencer

  The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13 978-0-7278-5903-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13 978-1-4483-0086-0 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  A NOTE ON JUDICIAL HANGING

  Judicial hanging using the ‘long drop’ method is, if carried out properly, a rather precise art. Since the possible drop is always further than will be required, the actual drop is determined by the length of the rope, and given that the laws of physics dictate that a lighter person will need a longer fall than a heavier one, different lengths of rope are required in each individual case. Thus, a ten-stone prisoner will require a drop of nine feet eleven inches, while one who weighs thirteen stone will only need a fall of eight feet four. Once the calculation has been made, care must be taken to ensure that the rope is indeed of the right length. An error of a quarter of an inch either way is permissible, but a greater variation may well result in decapitation.

  On the day prior to the execution, a sandbag is ‘hanged’. It weighs fourteen pounds less than the intended victim (total body weight minus head weight), for whilst the body will continue to accelerate under the force of gravity, the head will be restrained by the noose. The sandbag is left hanging up until one hour before the execution. Once it is removed, the rope is examined for any signs of stretching, and if such stretching has occurred, another adjustment must be made to the length of the drop.

  The rope itself is normally Italian silk hemp, and the noose end is bound with chamois leather to avoid marking the skin. The noose is made by passing the rope through a brass eyelet. This eyelet must be positioned under the angle of the left side of the jaw, to ensure that the head is thrown backwards during the drop.

  It takes between a quarter and a third of a second for the prisoner to reach the end of the drop. Death, when it comes, is caused by comatose asphyxia. Brain death will normally occur after approximately six minutes, whole body death after ten to fifteen. The victim, however, is unaware of this process. In that first split second, he or she has suffered a dislocation of the cervical vertebrae and the crushing of the spinal cord, and though the body may twitch and the bowels open, the mind is in a state of deep unconsciousness.

  Prologue – June 1934

  The woman in the condemned cell was unaware of any of the technical intricacies involved in her imminent execution. She had, however, been assured by the prison authorities that her death – when it came – would be quick and painless. And she believed those assurances, because she had learned to trust the governor and his wardresses, and had come to accept that they genuinely wished to make things as easy for her as they possibly could.

  Even though the mechanics of the actual execution itself were kept from her, there were other matters on which she had already been briefed.

  ‘Because it’s better for you that you know the procedures in advance, Margaret, my dear,’ the governor said in a kindly tone. ‘That way, we can be sure they won’t come as a shock to you.’

  ‘What kind of procedures are we talking about?’ she wondered aloud.

  Well, for a start, the governor said, she would be wearing a white hood when she died.

  Why white? she asked. Why not black – the symbol of death?

  Even as she put the question, she knew it was a trifling and irrelevant thing to ask. And yet she somehow derived comfort from the fact that it was so mundane – that it avoided, or at least postponed, grappling with the bigger issues.

  Why was the hood white? the governor had repeated, as if he was as grateful as she herself to turn this macabre conversation into some kind of game or puzzle. Well, to be honest with her, nobody really knew the answer to that. It was simply tradition – for centuries the hood had been white, and no one had ever come up with a good reason for changing it.

  She pictured the hood as rather like a flour sack, and found that a new and terrible thought had come into her mind.

  ‘Will I have to wear it for long?’ she had asked in a sudden panic, as she pictured spending her last few minutes – perhaps even her last few hours – in total darkness. ‘Will they put the hood on while I�
��m still in this cell. I don’t think I could bear that. I . . . don’t . . . think . . . I could bear it!’

  ‘I know that, Margaret,’ the governor said soothingly. ‘I know just how you feel.’

  ‘How can you know?’ she demanded, her fear being replaced by a sudden anger. ‘Are you going to be hanged, Governor?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not. But . . .’

  ‘Because if you’re not – if you can’t already feel that rope around your neck – then you can’t possibly read my mind.’

  The governor smiled sadly. ‘You see this situation as something unique to yourself, Margaret,’ he said softly. ‘That’s perfectly understandable, but it simply isn’t the case. Others have trodden the same path you are soon to tread, and they have felt the same concerns as trouble you now. We have watched them, and we have learned from them. We understand your fears, and we sympathize with them. You do not wish to go to your death blinded, and nor will you. The hood will not be put over your head until you reach the chamber.’

  ‘And where is the chamber? Is it far from here?’

  The governor shook his head. ‘No, not far,’ he said vaguely. ‘Not far at all.’

  It was an hour since she had last seen the governor. She was lying down on her bed. Her eyes were closed and her body was still, but her mind was roving far and wide. She was thinking, at that moment, of the parsonage in which she had been brought up. It had been a big, rambling place. The rooms inside it had been large, yet filled as they were with the heavy ugly furniture that previous generations of departed vicars had left behind them, they somehow managed to appear cluttered. Her room in this prison was a complete contrast, containing only a table, a bed and a wardrobe, all of them made of a lighter – more cheerful – wood than the sombre mahogany she had grown up surrounded by.

  Next to her cell was her bathroom, and beyond that a third room in which she could see her visitors. See – but not touch. Because though her ex-sister-in-law, whom she loved dearly, had been only inches away from her, the glass partition between them had been as effective as any high stone wall in keeping them apart.

  ‘Don’t you worry about Jane,’ Helen Hartley had told her. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll bring her up as if she was my own.’

  ‘I know you will,’ Margaret said gratefully.

  ‘But it doesn’t have to come to the worst, you know. I’ve been talking to a lawyer. A good one. He says your barrister made a real hash of your defence. He says there are strong grounds for a mis-trial.’

  ‘We’ve been over this so many times before,’ Margaret said wearily.

  ‘I know. But this is your last chance. If you’ll only––’

  ‘Put your palm against the glass!’ Margaret said, so fiercely that there was no doubt it was an order.

  ‘Margaret––’

  ‘Put it against the glass!’

  Helen had done as she’d been told, and Margaret raised her own hand to cover it.

  ‘We must leave things as they are!’ Margaret urged. ‘If you say so much as a word I don’t want you to, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll save my dying breath to curse you with. Do you understand?!’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen had replied, defeated. ‘Yes, I understand.’

  There were two female wardresses permanently in her cell, and though they were willing enough to talk when that was what she wished, they seemed equally content to remain silent when she wanted to let her mind roam as it was doing now.

  She was thinking about her two marriages, the first one to Robert and the second one to Fred. If only Robert hadn’t died and she hadn’t met Fred, then she might have lived another thirty years. But it had not been meant to be. Instead, Fate had decided that she should meet her death.

  No, not Fate! she told herself angrily. Not Fate at all. Her destiny had been in her own hands – was still in her own hands if only she chose to . . .

  She was straying towards dangerous ground, she realized. Better not to let that happen. Better, as with the white hood, to concentrate on the mundane.

  She did not open her eyes again, but instead strived to visualize her cell. The wardrobe – on the mundane level she was seeking – bothered her. It was so large. Why did she need such a big wardrobe, when the only thing hanging in it was the dress she would wear when they led her down that final walk to oblivion?

  Her thoughts were becoming fuzzy, and she realized that she must be falling asleep. She wondered briefly how many more nights’ sleep she would have before the end came. And then the drowsiness overtook her and she was thinking of nothing at all.

  The condemned prisoner was never informed of the date of execution until the actual day arrived. But those out in the wider world suffered from no such limitations, and as dawn broke the following morning, a small crowd had already begun to gather outside Strangeways Prison.

  Those who had chosen to come had done so for a mixture of motives. One group was made up of well-meaning Christians and humanists. They burned candles and held up placards, which announced, ‘Capital Punishment is a Sin’, and ‘Only God can take a life’.

  A second group, keeping themselves well apart from the first, took exactly the opposite view. They knew their Bible. They recognized a godly command when they heard one. And they were there to witness that an eye was paid for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

  It was the third group gathered in front of the prison that was the largest, the most amorphous and – probably – the least able to explain its reasons for being there.

  They’re like iron filings close to a magnet, thought the big young man who was standing at the edge of the crowd. ‘They can feel the pull, but they’ve no idea what’s causin’ it.’

  They certainly didn’t expect to see anything, he mused. Executions had ceased to be public nearly seventy years earlier, and the brick walls they were gazing up at would look exactly the same at one minute past eight as they had at one minute to. Yet perhaps it was enough for them to know that the lever would be pulled as the clock struck the hour – and that in this confused and disorganized world there was at least one life which was being ending according to plan.

  For a tackler’s son from Whitebridge, you’re doin’ a lot of philosophizin’, Charlie, the big young man told himself.

  Though her wardresses normally let her sleep as long as she wished, that was not the case this morning, and in her first conscious moment she became aware that she was being gently shaken.

  So this was to be the day! she thought.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked aloud.

  ‘Don’t go worrying about that,’ said the senior wardress, a plump woman with a tight blonde perm. ‘There’s no rush yet.’ She helped Margaret out of bed, though the prisoner needed no such assistance. ‘Would you like to have a bit of a wash?’

  ‘Yes, I think I would,’ Margaret replied.

  The other wardress – a tall, angular woman – opened the wardrobe and took out the dress. ‘And would you like to put this on while you’re in the bathroom?’ she asked, as if it were no more than a suggestion.

  Margaret nodded. This particular dress had not been her first choice to die in. The one she had originally selected had been newer and shorter, but the plump wardress had told her that she should think again.

  ‘I thought I could wear what I liked,’ she’d protested.

  ‘You can, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  The wardress had hesitated before speaking again. ‘It’s just that if you wear that dress, they’ll have to use an extra strap. Around your lower thighs. You don’t want that, do you?’

  It had taken Margaret a second to realize what the wardress meant, and when she did understand, she laughed out loud.

  ‘They’ll have to use an extra strap because they’ll be worried that my skirt will blow up above my waist when the trapdoor opens!’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ the wardress agreed neutrally.

  ‘Do they really think that what I’ll be most worried
about at that moment is showing them my knickers?’ Margaret asked, her laugh now slightly tinged with hysteria.

  ‘They want you to die with dignity,’ the wardress had explained.

  And seeing the sense in that, she had chosen the long dress she was now holding in her hands.

  ‘What would you like for your breakfast?’ the plump wardress asked.

  ‘What do they normally have?’ Margaret wondered.

  ‘You shouldn’t go thinking about things like that,’ the wardress admonished her. ‘You can have anything you like, you know. A fry-up, a steak – whatever happens to take your fancy.’

  What! And throw it up on the way to the gallows! Now that would be a loss of dignity.

  ‘I’ll just have a cup of tea,’ Margaret said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘And perhaps a round of dry toast.’

  The wardress nodded. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said. ‘You won’t let yourself down.’

  It was nearly five to eight. A slight drizzle had begun to fall, but it had done nothing to dampen down the tension within the crowd outside the prison. Far from it – the excitement was growing perceptibly with every second that passed.

  Charlie Woodend, still at the edge of the group, felt like a complete outsider – almost a voyeur on other people’s voyeurism. He had never planned to be there – would never even have considered being there, if his dad’s boss hadn’t asked him to do it as a favour.

  ‘But I don’t see the point, Mr Earnshaw,’ he’d protested.

  ‘Neither do I, exactly,’ the mill manager had confessed, looking both sad and distressed. ‘I just want to know what it feels like. I want to know if you get any sense of what it’s like to be inside.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go yourself?’ Woodend had asked.

  ‘I can’t,’ the manager had said, in the irritated offhand tone of a man not used to being questioned by people who lived in terraced houses on the wrong side of the canal.

  ‘I can trust you, Charlie,’ he’d continued, much less brusquely, much more persuasively. ‘You’re not like most of the young lads in this town.’