The Touch of Hemp

The touch of hemp

  By Adam Patterson

  Copyright 2012 Adam Patterson

  Cover design by Ping Pictures

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  July 6th 1897

  Dear Arthur,

  My dearest brother, I do feel great woe due to our long period of silence, since your business duties abroad in the United States and my tight scheduled working life had rendered it almost impossible for any meaningful contact.

  Please forgive my delay in returning this letter to you, as these last few weeks have been a nightmare for me, as you may well understand.

  As I write this letter now, I am waiting for an old friend who can hopefully help to end this nightmare. He is my only hope to solve this matter, and I do so long for it to be at an end.

  Please do not worry about me now, my dear Arthur, as by the time you read this, my torment should be over and my new life would thus be beginning.

  I feel I have a duty to explain everything to you, so I will delay no further in enlightening you of the dreadful sequence of events that befell me not three months before.

  As you are now fully aware, apart from my regular job as a baker, my second – and most lucrative – profession is chief hangman in the service of Her Majesty. I have held this position for the good part of three years now, and have conducted 32 executions and, in years previous, have assisted in 43 more. In addition, I have been praised on numerous occasions by the under sheriff and governor of many prisons up and down the country for my expeditious professionalism.

  All was going well until the morning I came to hang Conrad Edgar Stubbs for the murder of an ex-business partner from whom he was attempting to extort money. I had read only little about the sorrowful case in the newspapers during his trial, and had not paid any fair attention to the details of the crime.

  Richard Palmer, my young assistant, accompanied me when I travelled by train the morning before his execution to arrive at Bodmin Prison before the appointed time of 4 o'clock p.m. It was a dismal day if ever I saw one, and being on the bleak moors made the weather conditions almost intolerable. However, the coach we travelled in from the station to the gaol saw us safely to our destination, and once inside we were shown our quarters and given a splendid hot meal.

  That evening, while the prisoner was taking his final stroll in the exercise yard, I took the opportunity to spy upon him so I could estimate the length of the drop needed to break his neck in an instant. He looked to me a rather pitiful, insignificant man, although his composure told me that he was facing death bravely, or was hiding his fear remarkably well. After setting the gallows for the morning's event, my assistant and I retired to our quarters to play cards until deciding to get some sleep for our early rise.

  Alfred Hamilton looked up from the letter on the table before him when he heard a noise outside the door. He checked the time and learnt that he had just under an hour before his friend was due to arrive. Yes, he had time to complete this letter – a letter until only a few moments ago he had only dared to think about writing. His heart dropped back to its steady rhythm and he took the opportunity of his interruption to take a sip of water. Even though it was a hot summer's day outside, Alfred felt a chill run through his body and he pulled the collar of his shirt higher around his neck. After reading the last few lines back to himself in silence, he dipped his pen into the inkwell, returned its tip to the paper and resumed writing.

  We were up at six o'clock prompt. Before breakfast, my assistant aided me in the final arrangements within the execution shed, coiling the rope that had been stretching overnight and resetting the trapdoors. At a few minutes to 8 o'clock that morning, I joined the small crowd of officials and guards outside the condemned's cell, waiting for the chime of the hour to strike. When the time came, a guard opened the door and I followed him inside.

  However, when I entered, Conrad Stubbs was standing calmly before me with a wan smile upon his face. As I approached, intending to turn him round so that I could pinion his arms, he held an envelope out before me. Then, to my uttermost surprise, he dropped to his knees and begged me to deliver this letter in person to his sister, whose address he had neatly written upon the envelope. It was an unusual request – one that is normally fulfilled by the condemned's solicitor – but he was determined that I should be the one to deliver his message.

  Taken aback by this sudden, piteous spectacle, and feeling somewhat conscientious under the holy words spoken by the clergyman delivering the last rites, I agreed to his demand. I took the letter, put it in my pocket then hastily tied his hands and led him to the execution shed. He followed me to the gallows bravely, and I noticed that there was even a smile upon his lips as he walked to his death.

  After I hooded and noosed him and my assistant strapped his ankles together, I reached for the lever. Just before the trapdoors swung open, ending the life of Conrad Edgar Stubbs, I clearly heard him mutter the words "please fulfil my wishes".

  It was just before midday when Richard Palmer and I left the prison to return to the station, and I still had the letter for Stubbs' sister within my pocket. Learning that the address where I must deliver it was within only a few miles upon the moors, I decided to proceed with the man's final request, even under advice to surrender the envelope into the trust of his solicitor.

  As you well know, my dear Arthur, I am a dedicated man of the church, and I solemnly believe that a promise should be fulfilled. Therefore, at the station my assistant and I said our farewells before going our separate ways.

  However, if I had known beforehand the treacherous journey ahead, I would surely have placed the onus into the hands of his solicitor. The house where the coach took me was far across the moors, and by this time the weather had turned to a thick fog. I turned the letter within my hand over and over again, wondering why he had appointed me, his executioner, as his messenger. I was beginning to have second thoughts about this, and even after the coach arrived outside the gates of the rambling house of Stubbs' sister, I was considering turning back. However, I ordered the coachman to wait kindly behind whilst I completed my business at the house.

  Please forgive me for saying that it felt as though the devil himself was watching me as I approached the door. It was barely past one o'clock in the afternoon, but the gloom of the day made it feel as though it was midnight. Also, it was bitterly cold, my dear brother – as ever a tomb was cold.

  After looking behind me to ensure the coach was still there, I knocked upon the door and waited.

  I learnt from the title upon the envelope that Conrad's sister was a spinster, so I addressed her as Miss Stubbs when she opened the door. She was a tall, slender but rather gaunt-looking woman, immaculately dressed and had an air of elegance about her. I removed my top hat in politeness and respect before telling her my name and purpose of the visit.

  After looking me up and down she smiled warmly and offered me to step inside. I followed her through the vast hallway and into the parlour, where a blazing fire glowed. Adorning the walls were many artefacts and ornaments of curiosity, all appearing to be from another continent and another age. It appeared that she lived alone within this sizable house, as I saw no sign of relatives, servants or the like.

  "Can I bring you a drink for your troubles, Mr. Hamilton?" she offered. "A cognac, perhaps?"

  I thanked her but declined her offer. When I presented Miss Stubbs the letter from her deceased brother, she took it and held it within her hands, never taking her eyes from me. "Are you the gentleman who put my brother to death?" she
asked.

  I was taken aback by her sudden question, and although I had prepared for this moment, I found myself momentarily speechless. However, when she smiled warmly at me, making me feel more at ease, I confessed that I was indeed the man who put her brother to death.

  "Did he die bravely?" she asked further, and I told her that he did. She continued to stare upon my person, seemingly searching me up and down with her eyes, and I must confess that I felt rather uncomfortable. Finally, she turned away towards the fireplace and, with her back towards me, opened the envelope. I waited in respectful silence while she read the letter, but I was shocked further when, only mere seconds later, she crumpled the paper within her hands and tossed it into the blazing fire.

  When she withdrew from the fireplace, there was not a hint of any emotion upon her face.