Probably a case of wear and tear. He remembered references in the newspaper reports he had read the previous day to a limp. The defendant stood awkwardly, and there had been something wrong with his arm, which suggested a deforming Victorian malady such as rickets.
Nigel checked his watch and cursed under his breath. It was ten thirty and he had not yet called Foster.
By ten thirty Foster and Heather had covered a further two floors, more flats of the surly and unresponsive. One woman complained of her neighbour playing music at four a.m., waking up her small child. The neighbour explained he worked nights and was just unwinding when he got back in, claiming the woman next door was twitchy and neurotic. They nodded and smiled, not wanting to get drawn into petty conflicts. Each flat they visited was duly checked against the electoral roll; flats where they obtained no response would be visited later in case the inhabitants were at work. Any new tenants would have their backgrounds checked. Foster hoped their presence at the scene would flush out the killer, force him to do something that would draw their attention to him.
At the very moment when he was wondering whether he would ever get the smell of urine in the communal hallways out of his nostrils, his mobile rang. It was Nigel.
'Where have you been?' he asked, without greeting.
He could tell Nigel was taken aback, stuttering his response.
'Look, I asked you to get in touch with me first thing,' said Foster. 'It's ten thirty now.'
'Sorry,' the genealogist managed to mutter. 'I was at a museum,' he added.
'What for?'
'I've found the killer, the 1879 killer'
'Have you been drinking?'
'I mean that the museum I went to this morning had Eke Fairbairn's skeleton in a glass case on exhibition.'
'Why?'
'His body was given to medical science after his execution. There was a plaque on the case he's kept in. All it said was that he was a murderer, nothing we didn't know.'
'Can anyone see this?'
It occurred to Foster that if the killer was copying Fairbairn's spree, then he may well have gone to pay respects to his predecessor himself. Maybe even more than once. He would give this museum a call, see if they'd noticed anyone suspicious hanging around or, even better, whether they had CCTV footage of the displays.
'Listen, Nigel, I read the newspaper reports you faxed over. Very interesting. But what I want to see are the original records of the triaclass="underline" transcripts, descriptions of evidence, the judge's summing up. Is there anywhere I could find that sort of information?'
'The National Archives. We know he was tried at the Old Bailey, and the Proceedings of the Old Bailey give a verbatim report of everything that happened in court. But the newspapers were pretty exhaustive . . .'
'I just want to see it myself, how it happened, how it unfolded, without any interpretation whatsoever.'
They arranged to meet in a few hours at the National Archives. In the interim, Barnes said there was something he wanted to check out at the British Library.
'Whatever,' Foster said wearily. 'Just don't be late.'
Three hours later Foster arrived at the National Archives in Kew, half airy modern glasshouse, half monstrous pebble-dashed carbuncle. It reminded Foster of a modern university campus, though once inside he saw the student body was more mature.
There was an atmosphere of determination, of people purposefully going about serious research, congregating in small groups to whisper their findings, dead ends described, problems shared and solutions suggested.
Nigel met him at reception. They went to the cafe, the tables overflowing with people. Barnes told him he had ordered the Criminal Proceedings of the Old Bailey covering the session in which Fairbairn's trial had been held, and that it would take up to an hour for it to be ready. In the meantime, he had something for Foster to read.
From his case he produced three photocopied sheets. Not more newspaper reports, Foster thought.
When Nigel handed them over, he could see they were copies of pages from a book.
'What is it?'
'It's the memoir written by Norwood, Fairbairn's executioner. They all did it; people lapped up their experiences. Anyway, it turns out that Fairbairn was his first execution. There's a lengthy account of it in the book; here's an extract from that. You might find it useful.'
Foster began to read.
On my arrival at the prison, I was met by a warder, dressed in ordinary prison garb. He took my name and pulled on a large string, which rang the Governor's bell. In a few seconds I was met by the Governor himself, a very nice gentleman, of military bearing, and very well dressed. We passed time with the usual niceties. He said that I should make sure of taking a substantial tea this evening, what with all that was to follow the next day.
He passed me on to the Chief Warden, who kindly showed me to my quarters, a snug lodging at the back of the gaol. We shared a smoke together and I could see this gentleman was agitated by what was to happen. He said he felt quite upset about the fate of Fairbairn, that he hoped the man would get a reprieve. I asked why.
'Because, sir, I feel he is not guilty of the crimes for which you will hang him.'
I said nothing. It was not my position to question the workings of justice, merely carry out my work in the most expeditious manner possible. I admit now, as this was my first hanging, that I started to experience some unease at the prospect.
The next day I rose at 5 a.m. and, not being able to stomach the prospect of breakfast, I made my way to the scaffold, where I ensured it was clean and ready. Then, at 7.45 a.m., I returned with the group to play out the last scenes of the drama. We went to the doctor's room, to which the prisoner was brought. He was a man of enormous height, though the stoop of his body tried to cover for it.
He said not a word. He was taken to an adjoining room, where he and the minister conducted prayers.
When they returned, I was called to do my duty.
I approached Fairbairn. His mournful brown eyes looked up at me, a sight I will see in my mind's eye until the day I leave the earth. I still don't know why, but I patted his gigantic shoulder.
'Keep your pluck up,' I heard myself say, for my own benefit.
Fairbairn walked without assistance to the scaffold. For his last words he proclaimed only his innocence in a slow, sonorous voice. I placed the hood over his head, my hands only then showing signs of trembling. The noose was placed around his neck, and I made certain he was placed under the beam of the drop. Everything was in place and, as quick as lightning, the culprit was plunged into the hereafter.
Afterwards, once he was confirmed dead and left to hang for the necessary hour, I stepped out for some air. The Chief Warden was having a smoke.
'Is it done?' he said softly.
I nodded.
'God have mercy on us,' he said, tears brimming his eyes. 'God have mercy.'
Foster finished reading and looked at Nigel. It was becoming paramount for him to examine the trial testimonies. What had happened to so disturb the Chief Warden? No mention was made of any doubts harboured by the other officials.
Nigel checked a computer terminal by the side of the cafe. The material had been delivered to the reading room. Foster followed him upstairs to the collection area, through a room of silent reading and thought. From the counter they picked up a large cardboard box file and found an unoccupied table.
Nigel opened the box and Foster could see an enormous bound book, of more than a thousand pages in length. Nigel lifted it out and carefully placed it on the table. The writing on the front said 'Proceedings of the Old Bailey'.
Nigel leafed through quickly. 'Just one word of warning,' he said, turning to Foster. 'The pages are dry, but don't be tempted to lick your fingers to help turn them, not unless you want a security guard humiliating you in front of everyone.' Nigel went back to flicking through the volume. Eventually, he stopped. 'Here we go,' he said, and pushed it towards Foster.