John returned to the Hole in the Wall at 5:45 p.m. Shortly after seven, a short, stocky man with a heavily receding hairline entered the bar and took a table in a dimly lit corner, his back to the wall. Long sideburns and a neat beard framed his narrow face. He had a straight Roman nose and a heavily waxed moustache, similar to John’s own, that hid his top lip. John thought he looked regal, though older than the likenesses that appeared in the newspapers. He knew Marwood had begun his career in his mid-fifties, but he’d still expected a younger-looking man.

John waited until Marwood had a beer in his fist before he approached him, gathering himself and clearing his throat. “You’re Mr. Marwood.” It was a statement, not a question.

Marwood turned dark, recessed eyes on the intruder. He looked fierce but in a grandfatherly way. John took a big breath, gathered his courage and stuck out his hand. “My name is John Radcliff. I’ve come from Devonport this morning, intending to meet you, sir.”

Marwood took John’s hand and shook it briefly. “If you’re here to argue morals or ethics, go away.”

“On the contrary,” said John. “I’m curious about your methods.”

Marwood gestured for John to join him and handed him a card.

Wm Marwood

Executioner

Church Lane, Horncastle

Lincolnshire, England

John relaxed. “May I buy you a drink?

“Beer,” Marwood said, rather arrogantly, John thought.

Still, he hurried to the bar, returning with two beers. He began to talk before he sat down. “I’ve read all about you, and about the long drop. I admire your work.” He babbled, the words tumbling out of his mouth, afraid Marwood might stop him before he heard him out. “I hanged men when I was in the Royal Navy, and I’m not proud of the way most of them died. I want to learn from you. Learn your methods. I would gladly work for a low wage.”

John paused and considered his next words with care. “Criminals have to pay for their sins, but their death should not be torture.”

“My method, the long drop,” Marwood replied, “requires detailed calculations. Even the smallest mistake can mean disaster. It’s not something I explain to every curious man I meet in a pub.”

John bit his tongue, refusing to rise to the insult. He needed this man on his side.

Marwood eyed John from head to foot. “In my experience, most men don’t have a good head for figures, nor do they have the intelligence or patience to learn my method. It takes skill to place the knot of the noose in such a way that the person’s head jerks back and breaks the neck, as opposed to stretching it.”

“Ingenious,” John said. “Brilliant.”

“There can’t be many with the brains or the skill required. Hardly any, I imagine.” Marwood sipped his beer. “A fact few people appreciate. You know what they call me?”

John shook his head.

“They call me the Hangman of Great Britain. That is not how I want to be known.” His face darkened. “Calcraft was a hangman, one with no finesse and a heart of stone.”

John almost pretended to know who Marwood was talking about. Then, not wanting to be caught in a lie, he thought the better of it. “I’m not familiar with that name.”

“You would have been just a lad. William Calcraft was twenty-nine in ’29 when he became a hangman, and that was his work for forty-five years. During that time, he hanged over four hundred and fifty men, women and children, some simply for stealing a crust of bread.”

John whistled, genuinely impressed. “Four hundred and fifty!”

Marwood nodded. “Calcraft could draw crowds of thirty thousand or more to his executions. He had a mean streak that made the Devil look like Father Christmas.”

Since Marwood looked a bit like Father Christmas himself, John thought this an odd description but kept silent.

“He used the short drop because I hadn’t come along to perfect the long drop. Though I don’t suppose you know the difference between the two?”

John saw an opportunity. “I do indeed. I also know it’s important to place the knot correctly on the neck.”

Marwood paused but didn’t comment. “William Calcraft wasn’t interested in improving how his victims died. He was a cruel man who enjoyed seeing a person suffer. He drew out the dance of death, turning it into a stage show. Audiences delighted in his antics.”

“Antics?” John sipped his beer, feeling nonplussed. “What antics?”

“He’d sit on the shoulders of his victims or he’d stand under the scaffold and swing on their dangling feet. Anything for a laugh. He was a cobbler, like me, but that’s where the similarity ends.”

Before John could comment, Marwood beckoned him closer with his finger. John noticed how yellow his nails were. From handling leather goods? When their heads were almost touching, Marwood said, “Do you know how I want to be remembered?”

John did and he answered quickly, knowing the man would be content. “You are not a hangman. Anyone with a strong stomach and a cruel streak can hang a man. If you hang a man, and you do it right, and you have a heart. You are an executioner. That’s who I want to be, and you are the only man who can teach me.”

Marwood sat back. “You’ve studied my work, and that pleases me.” He folded his arms across his wide chest. “John, what did you say your last name was?”

“Radcliff,” John replied, disappointed Marwood had forgotten so quickly.

“Well, young Mr. Radcliff, you’re not the first to ask to work with me, and I don’t think you’ll be the last, but I’ve only ever said yes to one.”