It was the cruellest goodbye.
Standing in the airless prison visiting room, with Harry sobbing at her side, Kitty ached to feel her father’s embrace one last time.
But he was separated from them by iron bars, with warders at his side. There would be no farewell hugs or kisses, the authorities insisted on that, no matter how hard Mum begged for a final farewell together.
‘Don’t be afraid for me because I love you so much,’ he said, smiling weakly at them all through the grille. ‘I will face what comes with dignity, I won’t let you down.’
At that, Mum let out a sob.
He went on: ‘I feel certain that one day, someone will clear my name. Live your lives with your heads held high in the knowledge that I am innocent, but what’s done is done and we cannot change it.
‘You are a brave young woman, Kitty. Now it’s time to be strong and always speak your truth. If you ever doubt yourself in this life, I will be walking beside you.’
Dad told Harry to strive to be honest and to lead a good life, and Kitty watched as her brother nodded, understanding that these would be the last words he would hear from the man who had raised him. He crumpled in her arms, like a broken doll.
To Mum, he said, ‘I will burn your letters and make an end of it all, just as I promised. I love you, always.’
After just half an hour, they were told their time was up and they had to leave. Dad waved at them and blew kisses, with tears running down his face, as they were ushered out of the room and that was the last Kitty saw of her father.
The clock on the mantelpiece hadn’t been wound for over a week, so it couldn’t strike the hour of the execution at eight o’clock the following morning.
It seemed almost unfathomable that five months ago they were just a family from Newcastle. Now they were notorious, and Dad would meet his fate at the end of the hangman’s noose.
Time passed.
THE NORTHERN ECHO
Wednesday, 10th August 1910
Alternate light and shadow prevailed yesterday when morning dawned on the day of John Alexander Dickman’s execution and for some it seemed uncertain whether the day would be fine or wet.
The air was cold and raw, but this did not deter people from assembling at a very early hour in Carliol Square to gaze at the gaunt walls of the prison. Policemen were on duty and the front of the prison was kept clear, although at other points people were allowed to assemble and, fully, a thousand were present at the appointed hour.
Extraordinary precautions had been taken to ensure privacy and in front of the scaffold a huge canvas screen had been stretched to shut out the view from an adjacent school roof once used by an enterprising reporter. Even the doors of the trap had been padded so that in falling they would not make a noise loud enough to be heard outside the walls, although in this the authorities were not absolutely successful.
There had been nothing to see for a long time so the arrival on foot of the prison governor and prison doctor was itself quite an event.
The clock in St Anne’s steeple, with its harsh bells, began first to chime the hour and before it had concluded the prison clock struck eight with a haste that was almost unseemly. St Nicholas was the last to take up the chorus, the Canterbury chime preluding Big Ben’s solemn striking of the hour. Hardly had the last gong sounded before a slight thud was distinctly heard by several assembled outside. There was some doubt as to whether this was actually the noise of the falling trap, but corroboration was afterwards forthcoming in the fact that the execution was really about half a minute late.
People began to parade in front of the prison and took increasing interest in a placard posted there, headed ‘Capital Punishment Amendment Act, 1868’ and declaring that the sentence of the law passed on John Alexander Dickman, found guilty of wilful murder, would be carried into execution at eight o’clock.
At 8.30, a warder removed the notice and substituted ten minutes later two others. One issued by the governor, who certified that ‘judgement of death was this day executed on John Alexander Dickman at His Majesty’s Prison in Newcastle and the other by the surgeon, stated that he had examined the body and certified that the man was dead.
It is understood that the prisoner slept well and arose from his bed before seven o’clock. He had bread and butter for breakfast. The prison chaplain waited on him and urged him to confess the truth but to this request, the prisoner made no reply. He did not, as expected, declare his innocence on the scaffold and from the moment his cell was opened for the executioner, Ellis, and his assistant, Dickman never spoke a word. He braced himself up to meet the executioners and arose to his feet on their entrance. He was apparently calmly awaiting the end and submitted passively to the process of having his arms pinned behind his back.
The chaplain, reading the burial service, headed the procession to the scaffold, where Dickman met his death unflinchingly and calmly.
It is stated that in his last letter to his wife, Dickman repeated his statement to her that he felt certain that some day all would be made clear.
‘I can only repeat that I am innocent,’ he concluded.