"Stand and deliver," shouts the masked highwayman while blazing flintlocks shatter the summer night. TYBURN begins on the quiet London Road west of Canterbury. The Dover Stagecoach blocks the lane, its hitch of four horses cut loose. The driver, mail guards, and passengers lie dead or wounded. The chained strongbox, containing 50,000£ in gold and banknotes, is missing. Hours later, a band of armed riders clatters to a halt, horses steaming from the ten mile gallop. One horseman trots forward. “Black deeds afoot, Sir Nicodemus,” Constable Rakestraw calls to the Lord High Sheriff of Kent, “The survivor swears it was that Irish devil Captain Fitzgibbon who caused this wicked mischief.” Nicodemus Skellington slides a half-cocked dragoon pistol back into a saddle holster. Turning, he orders his mounted deputies to continue the pursuit. The tall Sheriff winces as he dismounts. Skellington, cane in hand, approaches the stagecoach.Treading among the bloody corpses, he jabs the walking stick about in the high grass. He finds a woman’s yellow straw hat splattered in gore. “Murdering jackals,” vows Skellington, “they will rue this day they prowled in Kent.” TYBURN follows Sir Nicodemus Skellington, and his mysterious associates, The Shadows, as they pick up the trail of the fleeing outlaws. Skellington is closing in.TYBURN whisks you through the sounds, smells, and tastes of 18th century England. You enter the country inns, brothels, abbeys, prize rings, gaming dens, theaters, and coffee houses. You hear the whores, thugs, boxers, gamblers, actors, publicans, outlaws, and clergy as they tell the story in speech and in letters. TYBURN places you amidst the crowds on Hanging Day in London. In Newgate, the condemned, nooses round their necks, are loaded into carts. The throngs are massing at the gallows.Time is running out. At TYBURN, Jack Ketch, the hangman, awaits.
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