(From the) Foreword

     The Hangman is a fable about a public executioner in the late Victorian era. It is also a story of criminal investigation and how early forensic science could have been used to secure criminal convictions. . . .

     The murders recounted in this book never happened, although most were inspired by accounts of true crime.

    The Hangman recalls the interplay of early modern forensic science and psychiatry at the beginning of the 20^th century and it poses questions that are still being argued today.

Prologue

   Hertfordshire was the center of the East Anglian malting industry. Every maltster preferred the white, thin-skinned barley that thrived in the area. The grain was brought in from the fields, soaked and heated. Pale and dark malts were brewed by adjusting the temperature of the malting vats. The finished products went on barges to the brew pubs of London by way of the River Lea, which ran straight to the heart of the city to join the River Thames.     

   Born in 1865 to a maltster and a laundress, Albert Henry Godfrin earned his living at the McMullens Brewery in Hertford. It was what he knew. It was what his father had taught him. It was not enough. In December of 1900 Albert Henry Godfrin made application to the Sheriffs of London and Middlesex for the position of Public Executioner. He was selected four months later from among 1400 applicants to occupy the office of hangman at an annual retainer of £25. He left behind his job at the brewery. He became the Crown’s professional killer.

       Chapter One          

 “We’re going to settle this nigger question once and for all.”

     Members of the board of directors of the West Indian Trading Company squirmed in their seats. Sir Timothy Westburn leaned into the table and spiked the air with his index finger. “He’s the liaison officer, and he does his job.”

      Sir Robert Grissom yelled back, “You know he’s nothing but an uppity nigger, and he has to go.”

    “All right gentlemen and I use that term advisedly. Cool your tempers,” cautioned the chairman.

   “And just how do you propose to fill his position?” said Sir Timothy. “It wouldn’t be with that, uh, nephew of yours now would it?”

    “You know how Jamaicans are with their ‘Yeh, mon,’ and ‘Mi belly ah gripe me.’ They can’t even speak English.”

     “Dunham speaks perfect English, and you know that.”

     “All right, Westburn. This is how it is. He goes or I go. If I go, my holdings go with me. It is your choice: temporarily undermanned or permanently deprived of funds. If you do not like my nephew who, by the way, is a talented man of unimpeachable integrity, find some one else. A white man.”     

   Leroy Dunham retired to his office at the headquarters of the West Indian Trading Company. He sat down before a large mahogany desk with a polished leather top, a telephone to his left and a pen holder to his right. Removing a key from his vest pocket, he opened the center drawer and took out a blank sheet of paper.

     My dearest Tillie, Sir Robert delivered an ultimatum to the board today calling for my dismissal. It seems that his hatred for dark-skinned people has finally boiled over. I have struggled mightily with the burdens of my position, burdens aggravated by the rancorous division between the Jamaicans and their supporters and those who would follow in the footsteps of Paul Kruger and Cecil Rhodes, men who would prefer that all the brutes be exterminated. Rhodes has said, I contend that we are the finest race in the world, and that the more of the world we inhabit, the better it is for the human race. Just fancy those parts of the world that are at present inhabited by the most despicable specimens of human beings. Dark places sully the hearts of men. Surely, this is one of them.

    What I do today is for you and the children. The reason may not be clear to you as you read this and perhaps never will. Some things are for the best. With sorrow and a prayer for forgiveness I say goodbye. Your loving husband, Lee.

    The dark man of impeccable manners and dress placed the letter before him, the edges centered and squared in conformity to the geometry of the desk. He replaced the pen in its holder. Opening the lower right desk drawer, he withdrew a bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon. He rose from his chair, strode to the grate, and introduced the bundle to the orange flames.

     Returning to his seat he determined that everything was in order, whereupon he opened the lower left hand drawer and withdrew a pistol from beneath a pile of papers. He closed the drawer, leaned back in his chair, placed the muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger.