by Howard Engel
I salted away this sketch in my mind in order to carry the lurid impression back with me to my next meeting with Bell. To find the author of poor Lambert’s predicament, we would have to look into areas that are seldom penetrated, corridors of power that enjoy their privileges and guard them jealously.
ELEVEN
The New Gaol, which so intrigued my friend Stevenson when glimpsed from Arthur’s Seat, was less picturesque close up. In fact, it was chilling. The massive doors, the recurring themes of stone and iron, the wire-shielded gas lamps fixed high on the corridor walls, the crisp echo of my own footsteps as I was led from the office through a central courtyard to the cells, made a lasting impression upon me. In this cobblestone courtyard, with its echoes of distant clanging of iron on iron, the conducting officer pointed out the portable scaffold resting against a far wall. It was the familiar object of nightmare and penny dreadfuls, larger, perhaps, darker, certainly, but still the old acquaintance of my horrible imaginings.
“That’s it!” my guide said proudly, as though he had had some part in inventing it. “She’s brand new, this waeful woodie, never been used afore. But she’ll have a bridegroom before the month is out, sure as weans lap milk.” My guide was a well-proportioned, bewhiskered man with a manly, ruddy face that contrasted with his indoor employment. When quizzed about this, he confessed to being an inveterate Saturday fisherman. He did not stay long with the fishing; in another moment he was stomping on the steps of the new gallows, testing their firmness. He returned to me with the following information: “The man from Horncastle has booked a ticket and packed his budget with his wee belts and buckles. Mayhap he’s stretchin’ a length of rope too. They say he gives a fair drop, does this Marwood. Not like old Calcraft. Now he was a throttler after my own way of thinkin’. He couldna’ break a neck at all if he took the day. With him, there was show enough to warrant the journey. Now that the job is done behind closed doors, it’s only we warders gets to see. And the friends of Major Ross, the governor.
“I dinna ken why they fixed those wheels yonder. We don’t pull the woodie out into the street like we did. That’s what they call progress down among the Sassenachs. The glowrin’ crowd’ve had to do without their hanging-day frolics, and I don’t know that we’re all better for it. They like a proper thrawnin’, they do. I enjoy a kick o’heels m’sel’. They came from all over for the last public hanging. Near enough ten years agone. You couldna see if you dinna rent a window view, and that cost more than enough.”
I tried but failed to understand why this fellow thought I might be interested in seeing the gallows, since he was entrusted by the Head Keeper to show me to the warder of the condemned cells. Did he expect to elicit some expression of annoyance from me, have me clap him over the head with my stick perhaps? I pondered the man’s character as he led me past rows of iron and stone box-like cells with dirty hands gripping the bars. The place, for all its vaunted newness, had the smell of a field hospital in August.
Dr Bell had got me into this. He suggested that the time had come to interview our client face to face. Bell directed me to be his eyes and ears. Just as I had brought the trial to him, now I was to deliver his client. There were difficulties in making arrangements, but since Graeme Lambert hurriedly sent word to Alan’s solicitor, a successful conclusion was obtained and thus I found myself being led past the grim apparatus of death and into the presence of its “bridegroom.”
The condemned cell, as far as I could make out, resembled in most particulars all of the cells that I had walked past on my way thither. Apart from the fact that none of the prisoners in those hundreds of cells would willingly change places with my client, for the advantage of a deal table and a few more square feet of space, the occupant appeared to be indifferent to his surroundings when I first saw him in this setting.
Alan Lambert, his thatch of flaming hair undimmed by circumstances, was staring at the stone floor, or more precisely, the patch of sunlight the high, narrow window let into the tiny chamber. It made a distorted Gothic image which partly ran up the wall. He looked up as the turnkey opened the door.
“Dr Bell?” he asked.
“Much the same: Mr Doyle, his assistant,” I confessed, hating to add another disappointment to the others he had had to swallow. I smiled and explained my business. “You must tell me the names and positions of all of the official people you have spoken to since your arrest. Withhold nothing. Any omission may cost you your life.”
“I am well aware of my position, Mr Doyle,” he said with unexpected heat. “These bars remind me constantly of the shortness of time as well as the vanity of human wishes.” After this outburst, he seemed to recover control of his manners at least and offered me the single chair while he remained seated on the slab bed attached to the wall by steel bands.
“I am sorry for the inhospitable welcome, Mr Doyle. I have been acquainted for some time with my brother’s account of your activities on my behalf, for which I can never repay you. I have just had an interview with my solicitor, who has informed me that a petition has gone out to the Lord Advocate, who will present it with his recommendations to the Home Office. You know, there is no formal appeal process in Scotland apart from this.”
“So I have been informed. The process is slow and inefficient, but in capital cases the Home Secretary gets a hearing. And Disraeli has never been a hanging judge, if I may say so.”
“Nor has he been one to interfere with smooth-running institutions. He never reforms a clock that is still ticking. You see, I have become obsessed with time, sir. I can feel it running out on the floor as though from a severed vein.”
“You must keep up your spirits, man! Dr Bell is doing everything possible to bring the true state of affairs to the attention of the proper authorities.”
“Well said. I must remember to keep my pluck up. But it has already been demonstrated that the proper authorities have no interest in revising their original findings.”
“We must make them do that. Remember, the Bard of Avon said: ‘Thrice is he armed that has his quarrel just…’”
Again I asked him to tell me the names of the officers and officials who had dealt with him since he was arrested in New York. I marked the names, circumstances and other facts as he remembered them in my notebook. He spoke well of Detective-Lieutenant Bryce, but surprisingly had had few interviews with him. He spoke also of witnesses who had come forward, but whose evidence was not called at the trial. I made note of this as well.
“We are also concerned to learn the names of the people who knew of your intention to leave Edinburgh for America.”
“But I told them that months ago, long before the trial!”
“Why were they not called?”
“This is one of the matters I ponder through the night, Mr Doyle. I suspect that my counsel was not informed of their existence. I am to blame. You see, I believed that the case against me was so absurd that the court would quickly discharge me for lack of evidence. Since I knew the charges were false, I thought others would see them in the same light. How could I know that people would invent facts in order to share in the police reward for information?”
“Is that why they did it? There was little enough to share: only two hundred pounds divided among how many? I will tell you how it was divided when I see you again.”
“They’re weaving the rope, sir, you’d better make haste.”
TWELVE
As I walked back through the cell-block to the courtyard, I thought of how the Roman soldiers cast lots for Christ’s clothing and parted his garments among them. It was, perhaps, a sentimental similitude—unforgivable in someone of my years and professed religious doubts. Moreover, as Bell would have said had he been privy to my thoughts, they were a waste of time. I had no leisure for romantic comparisons or other unproductive sentimentality.
There was someone standing in the dark doorway leading to the room of the gaol governor. The form was indistinct at first, but the shape moved from the shadows and b
ecame the familiar figure of the deputy chief constable. He was enveloped in a dark green ulster against the chill, although the sun made some rash attempts to seek out and warm the dark and rot-filled chinks and crannies along the wall. I decided to be audacious and greeted the man by name: “Mr M’Sween, I believe. A very good morning to you.” He regarded me without returning my greeting, I began to feel the awkwardness of my position. He moved towards me, fastening the belt of his flowing coat.
“You would be well advised, Mr Doyle, to make this your last visit to Alan Lambert. You are unwelcome here, sir. You and your colleague are measuring the drop for the prisoner. Have you no’ been told that before?”
“Are you speaking of threats from the university authorities levelled at Dr Bell and ruffians in a four-wheeler near the Cowgate? You carry a great staff, Mr M’Sween. Are you so certain you are in the right that you abuse honest folk with your power?”
“When I choose to display my power, Mr Doyle, you will not see it coming. In the meanwhile, I suggest in all friendliness that you desist from aiding and abetting Dr Bell in his contumacy. It will kill him one day. Mark my words.” Before I could answer, indeed, before I could begin to form an answer, M’Sween had swept by me and out, through the gate, into the street.
As I crossed the cobblestones of the courtyard, the deputy chief’s words hammering on my head, I heard my name pronounced. Shouted, in fact. On finding the source to be a tall, redheaded woman with a striking resemblance to the man I had just left in the condemned cell, I responded with less apprehension than might otherwise have been the case. “Miss Lambert,” I called out, “I have just come from your brother.” She coloured delicately on being so informally addressed by a stranger, but quickly recovered. She was wearing a tweed skirt and jacket over a taupe blouse with a cameo at her throat, her only artificial embellishment. As she approached I could see more clearly that she had no need of them.
“Indeed, sir, and I am on my way to see him. You left him well?”
“As can be expected,” I said in my best medical manner. “He is endeavouring to keep his spirits up.”
“It is exactly about that, Mr Doyle, that I wish to speak to you.” She stopped a few paces from me and smiled shyly, as though to acknowledge the unusual circumstances of her addressing me on the chance that I was who I was and perhaps to shake off the curse of our doleful surroundings. I was well aware of the sight that greeted her over my shoulder, and made shift to move so that she might see me without seeing the object that dominated the courtyard.
“I am intrigued,” I said. “Pray go on.”
“Graeme has informed all of us of the work you and Dr Bell have been doing to help Alan. For this you have our deepest thanks. It is a debt we can never repay.” I made a motion with my hand to suggest that, even without consulting my friend, payment was the last thing on our minds. She hurried on:
“After consulting Mr Veitch, my brother’s counsel, the family wishes to ask you to stop your activities on Alan’s behalf.” She said it so simply that at first I missed her meaning. I asked her to repeat what she had said, which she did with the same bewildering effect.
“My dear young lady, may I ask you what put such a notion into being? Is this the advice of counsel?”
“I knew you would quiz me about this, although I should have preferred not to be interrogated by you. We have our reasons.” In speaking she threw her hands about her ears as though to protect them from my questions. I discovered that I was most disinclined to vex this young woman in any way. I tried to remember whether Graeme had told us what her Christian name was. I recalled from somewhere, from the papers perhaps, that it was Louise. She went on speaking: “Mr Veitch has written to the Lord Advocate and the matter will be reviewed by the Home Office in Westminster.”
“I am aware of this, Miss Lambert. But how do our efforts compromise these parallel attempts to save Alan?”
“Sir, we have been informed that the clamour of well-meaning amateurs will only confuse the issue, create factions, turn my poor brother’s fate into politics where his life will be made into a rough-and-tumble game for schoolboys. Like a test match! Far better to let Mr Veitch and his friends, who, I am informed, are not without influence, have a clear shot at the goal without encumbrances.” She argued with style and pluck. I found that I was quite taken by her manner in spite of the direction her speech was leading.
“I am sorry if your family believes that Dr Bell’s efforts to save Alan from death encumber Mr Veitch’s chances. I shall tell Dr Bell at once. He has already gone to some little trouble—”
“There! I’ve made you angry. That was the last thing I wished to do.”
“Your brother is facing a deal more than hurt feelings, Miss Lambert. I wouldn’t concern yourself with Dr Bell or me. It is Alan who will ultimately bear the weight of everything that you do or leave undone.”
“I am sorry, Mr Doyle. I put it badly. My father has quite made up his mind. He has forbidden us to discuss it outside the family. He will not speak of it further.”
“He never approved of Alan before his arrest. Now he wants to let him die with as little fuss as possible.”
“Do you imagine that this has been easy for him? For any of us?” A blue vein at her temple throbbed with anger.
“Only Alan is faced with the prospect of climbing the steps to the gallows you are trying so hard not to look at, Miss Lambert!” Louise Lambert’s face coloured. Her hand touched her breast as she forced herself to see the deadly machine in the shadows. I took her arm, when I saw her tremble, but continued my harangue: “When it is over, will you never question yourself? Will you never ask: Did I do enough to save him? And what if that answer is ‘no,’ how will you live with yourself? How will the inconvenience of having a hanged felon in the family weigh against the steps you failed to take to save him?”
“Inveigh against us all you like. You have no conception of my father’s need for decorum in all things. He will even find a way to live this down.”
“Ah hah! He has already surrendered Alan to the gibbet.”
“Never! He has done no such thing!” Again her hands covered her ears.
“If I misrepresented him, I am sorry and ask your indulgence. But, my dear young lady, this is no time for nice manners. It seems clear that your father fears that any further fuss on your brother’s behalf merely adds insult to injury. And, I conclude, your father is rather prone to see injury and insult.”
“Mr Doyle, this is all very confusing. Of course we would like to see Alan spared. Of course we want to do the right thing. But, are you suggesting that we ignore professional advice? Are you implying that Mr Veitch is part of a plot to murder my brother?”
“Miss Lambert, in the few days we have spent looking into the matter, we have discovered gross errors and distortions in the legal process. I am suggesting that you should be suspicious of anyone having to do with that process. There is a scandal here in the persecution of your brother. A scandal that no one connected to that system would wish to read about in the papers. There are reputations at stake, careers, and what it may lead to I cannot say, but know this: they will let your brother die rather than let this truth become known. Oh, when hasn’t the state been prepared to sacrifice an individual to protect the good name of a corrupt system!” I stopped, somewhat overwhelmed by the fury of my oratory. I had not intended to lecture, or to accuse. I am not sure what I had hoped to accomplish.
“Mr Doyle, I had no idea… Are you quite well, sir?” Her eyes were large, blue and luminous and her attention undivided as she came closer.
“I am sorry, Miss Lambert. You have enough troubles without my adding to them. You must do, of course, what you think is right.” I was still not sufficiently master of myself to continue, so I took off my hat and bade the young woman good morning.
THIRTEEN
Bell was standing in the bow-window looking down into the street, punctuating my tale of the visit to the condemned cell and my unexpected encou
nter with Miss Lambert with his hearty noiseless laugh as he pulled the roasted chestnuts of significance from the red coals of my narrative. From time to time he touched his fingertips together and sometimes applied them to the windowpane. “This is a singular story, Doyle. Alarums and excursions couldn’t be more pointed. If you would like to proceed no further in this business, I would say it was the judgment of a prudent man. As it is, you are borrowing time from your studies well beyond your means. What do you say?”
“And let you see things through to the end? By yourself? If you don’t mind my saying so, Dr Bell, you have had better ideas. No, by all means, let the right be done. It may take the two of us to do it.”
“I see that the shower of speeches inspired by Miss Lambert has not altogether abated. Would you alter your decision if I told you that this house is being watched?”
“What? I don’t believe it!” Bell was looking out the window into the darkness. I got up and rushed to the window. Bell held me back.
“One head at the window indicates very little to a lookout except that the suspect is at home. Two might put the wind up. I like to keep spies where they can be seen. You never know when they might prove useful.” Bell returned to the armchair and retrieved his clay pipe from where he had abandoned it some minutes before. When he had cleaned and lighted it afresh, he directed several questions to me about the Lamberts, and other details mentioned at the trial. I spoke for some time, then came to a sudden stop when I remembered the spy across the street. Again, I suggested action. Again, he instructed me.
