Gallows Thief

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Sir Henry Forrest, banker and alderman of the City of London, almost gagged when he entered the Press Yard for the smell was terrible, worse than the reek of the sewer outflows where the Fleet Ditch oozed into the Thames. It was a stink from the cesspits of hell, an eye-watering stench that took a man's breath away and made Sir Henry take an involuntary step backwards, clap a handkerchief to his nose and hold his breath for fear that he was about to vomit.

Sir Henry's guide chuckled. 'I don't notice the smell no more, sir,' he said, 'but I suppose it's mortal bad in its way, mortal bad. Mind the steps here, sir, do mind 'em.'

Sir Henry gingerly took the handkerchief away and forced himself to speak. 'Why is it called the Press Yard?'

'In days gone by, sir, this is where the prisoners was pressed. They was squashed, sir. Weighed down by stones, sir, to persuade them to tell the truth. We don't do it any longer, sir, more's the pity, and as a consequence they lies like India rugs, sir, like India rugs.' The guide, one of the prison's turnkeys, was a fat man with leather breeches, a stained coat, and a stout billy club. He laughed. 'There ain't a guilty man or woman in here, sir, not if you asks them!'

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