Edward Kane, Advocate in The Hanged Man. Chapter 1: A Bump in the Road

A decent crowd – not enormous, maybe only three or four thousand – came to witness the demise of this criminal.

But was he, in fact, a criminal?

Maybe that was why the people had stayed away.

Dr John (‘Jack’) Balloch first consulting physician in Edinburgh and sometime lecturer in Anatomy at the University – if his account on the witness stand were to be believed – the good doctor had acted as an accidental angel of mercy when he administered that fatal dose of poison to his aged father.

Fly in the ointment – fifteen men of the jury hadn’t believed a word of it. The ‘accidental’ part, that is. Maybe the fact that there was a concurrence of the prospect of a large inheritance – conveniently, the bulk of which was in the name of the accused – coupled with a growing pile of urgent and unpaid debts.

The day itself had been unremarkable. The gallows erected across the road from Dr Balloch’s very house in the rural village of Morningside – to remind the public in general that genteel people – even doctors! – were not above The Law.

Balloch had made his way up the steps of the gallows, hugged his little brother, gave a cursory wave to some of his curious colleagues and former students down in the crowd, then offered the hangman a weary nod to indicate that he was ready. The crime was read out, the hood placed over his head, the noose applied and – as already noted – the whole thing appeared to go without a hitch.

The only noticeable difference that day was two-fold. First, the hangman – conspicuously the worse for wear and possibly still drunk from the night before – had forgotten to tie Dr Balloch’s hands at the back, so when the drop came, spectators were treated to the good doctor clawing around his neck. This did not last long before the trusty noose did its work. Second, it was unusually quiet crowd. Not the usual jeering at the condemned man. It was recorded that some stones were thrown – but these appeared to be directed at the hangman, not the convict.

Afterwards, the majority of the spectators, friends, colleagues, former students (some visibly upset) left well before the customary time had elapsed and so the malefactor was cut down early and placed on a waiting cart before another doctor pronounced Dr Jack Balloch dead at the scene. Dead as a door nail.

Edward Kane | Ross Macfarlane

The problem came later. In the horse-drawn cart. The remains of the hanged man were being ferried across the bumpy streets of Edinburgh. Towards the anatomy rooms of Edinburgh University for dissection. The good doctor had requested this in advance. No point wasting a perfectly good body, was there? Even if it was his own. Then the bump. A particularly big bump as the cart negotiated a large pothole in the road.

BUMP

And at that point – to the amazement of the driver – Dr Jack Balloch, recently hanged for the murder of his father, appeared to jolt awake, sat bolt upright in cart, licked his lips, began to pull at his neck and enquired of the driver: ‘Excuse me, my good man – but could I trouble you for a glass of water?’

****

Back in the cramped – but suitably cheap – set of rooms in the unfashionable Edinburgh Old Town, it was time to acknowledge it. That distant drum in Edward Kane’s head was just the warning of the massive, overpowering headache to come. The warnings were always the same. A dull beating at first as if some remote but exultant military tattoo was on its way. Then the battalions of drummers approached in formation, the intensity of the drumming unbearable, causing Kane to hold his head in both hands.

The Advocate’s Cockney manservant, Mr Horse, had (at least) a partial remedy: brown paper soaked in vinegar. Applied in strips to the forehead. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. Today it didn’t.

‘Hold still, sir…’

Kane was clutching both sides of his head as if it were some precious, brittle, fragile giant hollow eggshell.

The young Advocate held up his hand in resistance: ‘No, Mr Horse. The Battalions of Hell are too close now. I’m afraid that I shall require to lie down for the remainder of the day…’

The manservant shook his head: ‘With the greatest of respect sir…shut yer pie-hole! And here! Drink this…’

Kane’s attempt to reject these orders were met by a fluid move on the part of his man, which action involved grabbing Kane’s nose (in truth, grabbing and squeezing that legal proboscis), ensuring that the young Advocate’s mouth was wide open (in protest, it should be noted) and pouring a measure of foul-tasting medication down Kane’s throat. The whole thing reminded Kane of being a child, when his mother required to dose him with castor oil when his motions had become irregular.

After a short, gurgly protest, Kane sat back in his chair staring at his manservant. Staring not just daggers, but a whole canteen of sharp implements. The servant continued to order the master around: “I’m going to leave you now for five minutes, Mr K – I’ll get on with the washing-up – and then we’ll see if that works, eh?’ Kane’s face, a petulant picture, nodded (ouch) and acceded to his man’s request.

Ten minutes later, Kane can only be described as stumbling through a waking dream as his manservant lifted the whistling kettle from fire, poured the water into the teapot, stirred the leaves and began to mash what was to to be a prodigiously strong pot of tea. Kane tapped himself on the forehead – with no adverse reaction: ‘Mr Horse – that concoction appears to have done the trick…’

The manservant smiled: ‘“Dovers Powder”, sir.’

‘It’s certainly most efficacious, Mr Horse.’

The manservant gave a confused scowl. This was a word he did not recognise. Kane smiled: ‘That is to say: the pain has gone – the concoction has worked!’

Horse smiled: ‘That’ll be the opium in it, sir. And I gave you a double dose.’

Edward Kane was giving this information (somewhat foggy) consideration when there was a knock on the door.

Now, some knocks are good (e.g. a coal-man delivering the bag of coal), and some knocks are bad (e.g. a landlady looking for the rent). This was a different kind of knock, as if uncertain whether or not that person knocking on the other side should be knocking at all.

Kane – fearing a ‘bad’ knock – whispered to his man: ‘Are we expecting company, Mr Horse?’

Horse leaned in: ‘I don’t remember sending out no invitations…”

More knocking. More assertive now (an ‘annoyed’ knock?). Then a piping, wee voice from the other side of the door: ‘Mr Kane? Mr Kane, the Advocate?’

Horse frowned: ‘Bloomin’ ‘eck, sir. No idea what this is. Let me see.’ He leapt up from his chair and darted to the door. Kane got up from the chair and stumbled away into his bedroom.

Horse opened the door and there stood a boy of ten years. Horse peered down at him: ‘What is it, son?’

The boy was holding a letter in his hand: ‘I’m looking for…’. He looked at writing on the face of the envelope ‘…Mr Kane, the Advocate.’ The boy then looked Horse up and down: ‘That’ll no’ be you, then…’

In that Mr Horse had not shaved that day, was standing in workman’s boots, had his sleeves rolled-up, had a coarse handkerchief tied around his neck and was wearing a (literally) moth-eaten waistcoat over his shabby shirt, the child’s summation of the situation was not entirely unfounded. Horse nodded towards the letter: ‘Who is it from?’

The boy drew himself up to his full (in truth, not very high) height: ‘Phipps and Phipps…’ he narrowed his eyes, basking in his exalted position as Message Boy in the rarified scheme of the Legal World. He swirled the next word like fine wine: ‘Solicitors.’

Horse held out his hand: “I’ll take that, son. I’m Mr Kane’s man.’

The lad clutched the letter to his chest: ‘I’m meant to give it to the ventriloquist…’ He stared at Horse: ‘…not the dummy.’

Horse nodded and gave the lad a kindly smile. Then smacked the boy hard on the ear. The lad staggered back. Horse snatched the letter from the messenger boy and waved him away. ‘Now be off with you, you cheeky little tyke.’

The boy held an aching ear with one hand and stretched out his other: ‘And what do I get for going?’

Horse leaned in: ‘How about a kick up the arse?’

Offer did not meet acceptance. The boy made his way down the tenement stairs.

The manservant took the letter into the sitting-room. No Edward Kane. Horse knocked on the door of his master’s bedroom: ‘Mr Kane?’ No answer. ‘Mr Kane, sir. A letter. Looks like work, sir. Paid work..’ No answer. ‘Mr K?’ Horse edged open the door and saw the young Advocate lying fully-clothed, stretched across the bed, fast asleep, mouth wide open with a little dribble of saliva running down the side of his face.

Horse scowled to himself: That toothache tincture. Maybe a bit too much opium?

Horse looked at his master. Looked at the envelope. Looked at his master. The young Advocate was snoring now. The manservant sighed. Then opened the envelope. He studied the contents of his letter, moving his lips as he read. He looked up: Cripes!

He went over to the bed and the manservant began to slap the Advocate’s face: ‘Mr K. Mr K. You’ve got to get up, sir. Wake up! This is an emergency…’

TOMORROW: Three Furrowed Brows