Ben Shaw hadn’t been arrogant. Murder hadn’t set well on his conscience. Hanging might come as a relief, an end to nightmares. Who could say?
Certainly not Rutledge himself-he had never taken a life. Would that alter his view of murder, would it in any way change his ability to understand a crime, or his attitude toward the killer? He thought not. It was the victim who had always called out to him, the voiceless dead, so often forgotten in the tumultuous courtroom battle of guilt versus innocence.
It was said that Justice prevented Anarchy. Law established Order.
Cold comfort to the elderly women Ben Shaw had strangled in their beds.
Still, the silenced victims had not gone unheard in this courtroom…
2
5 NOVEMBER, 1919 MARLING, KENT
The bonfire had been piled high with the debris from a dozen gardens and enough twigs and dead boughs to outlast the Guy. The celebrants were gathered about the square, talking and laughing as if the gruesome spectacle they were about to witness was far more exciting than frightening. The match had yet to be tossed into the pyre, but two men in flowing wigs and faded satin coats awaited the signal. Their sober faces were flushed with wine and duty. The taller leaned toward his companion and said in a low voice, “All this hair itches like the very devil!”
“Yes, well, at least your shirt fits! This lace will end up strangling me, wait and see! I’m ready to kill whoever thought up this charade.”
“Won’t be long now.”
It was the close of Guy Fawkes Day, and tonight the stuffed effigy of a traitor was about to be paraded around the village square and then thrown into the flames.