In addition to the persistent rumbling vibration, there was now a low clank-clank sound from the cells along the five corridors.
A sharp-nosed guard stepped from a room on the right in which truncheons and manacles hung from pegs. Rare among prison guards, he had a mustache, perhaps a sign that he felt entitled to his own rules.
“Which one’s the lodger? I met Ryan before. It’s obviously not the lady. So it’s either of these two gents, but I’m guessing it’s you,” he said to Becker.
“Actually I’m a constable.”
“But not in uniform?”
“A detective in training.”
“Cushy. So it’s the little man here.”
“The Opium-Eater,” the governor said.
“I love locking up the famous. Brings ’em down to our level. I’ll take your suspenders and neckerchief for starters, gent. Wouldn’t want you to hang yourself. Wouldn’t want you bringing in knives or other unfriendly objects either.”
“The only knife I use is for cutting book pages,” De Quincey said as the jailer felt along his clothes.
“And here it is,” the jailer said, removing the folded knife from De Quincey’s coat. “Ridiculous little thing. Here, what’s this?”
“My medicine.” De Quincey removed his flask from his coat, finished the last few swallows, and gave it to Emily.
“Medicine.” The jailer chuckled. “That’s a good one.”
“Please refill it, Emily.”
“But don’t be in a hurry to bring it back,” the jailer advised. “He won’t be drinking it here.”
The clank-clank sounds continued from the radiating corridors of cells.
“Jeremy Bentham,” Emily said to the governor.
“Yes, you mentioned Mr. Bentham.” The governor wrinkled his brow in concentration. “I can’t seem to…”
“The greatest good for the greatest number. Prisoners who are well nourished, made healthy, and taught a trade can become assets to society when they’re released.”
“We don’t see many assets here,” the jailer said before the governor could respond.
“The theory is that correction is more productive than punishment,” Emily told them.
“As for that,” the jailer replied, again speaking for the governor, “punishment makes them correct their ways, I guarantee it.”
“There are cockroaches on the floor.”
“Indeed. If they weren’t already in residence, we would need to import them to make things even more disagreeable for the prisoners.”
“I saw a rat scurry down a hallway.”
“If you stay here long enough, you’ll see many more,” the governor interrupted, trying to regain control of the conversation, “which isn’t likely to happen because it’s time for you to be escorted to—”
“Through the bars to the corridor straight ahead, I saw a man with a hood,” Emily said. “In fact, several men with hoods. Guards were pulling them on a rope.”
“Your Jeremy Bentham might call it guiding them rather than pulling them,” the governor said, appearing pleased for attempting a joke. “We practice the separate system here.”
“Good. You promised to explain your theories. I’m eager to hear them.”
“The purpose of a prison is to isolate the offender and force him to meditate on his transgressions.”
“Isolate?” Emily asked.
“Each cell has a size that is adequate for only one prisoner. He eats alone. When he is taken out for exercise or work, he wears a hood that allows him to see only toward his feet.”
“What sort of exercise?”
“He and other prisoners walk outside each day for a half hour in a walled yard.”
“I’m such a dunce that I’m sure I’m missing something,” Emily said. “If the prisoners can see only their feet while they wear the hood, how do they stop from bumping into one another?”
“They clutch a rope that has knots tied twenty-four inches apart. A guard supervises them while the line of prisoners walks in a circle.”
“And while they walk, they never see the other prisoners nor, I assume, can speak with them.”
“That’s correct,” the governor said. “The same applies when they are removed from or returned to their cells. The hoods allow us to use fewer guards than we might otherwise be forced to.”
“May the prisoners speak with the guards at least?”
“Good heavens, no.”
“But if the prisoner can never speak to another person, wouldn’t this lead to severe mental stress?”
“Some prisoners do go insane or commit suicide,” the governor admitted. “The point is that we wish them to occupy their minds with thoughts about the crimes that brought them here. As for their souls, each prisoner is provided with a Bible.”
“You say they are removed from their cells in order to work.” Emily made the statement sound like a question.
“In the treadwheel house,” the governor acknowledged.
“That sounds fascinating.” Emily’s tone invited him to explain.
“The prison has a laundry, a carpenter shop, a flour mill, a kitchen, and various other units that make us nearly self-sufficient. All the machines are linked to and turned by a large treadwheel, fifty feet wide, with grooves in it onto which prisoners step, as if they are walking up stairs. But of course, the wheel keeps turning, so the prisoners never actually rise.”
“Is that the source of the vibration I’ve been hearing?”
“Indeed.”
“The noise is wearing on the nerves.”
“The prisoners learn to dislike it, yes. The guards in the treadwheel room put cotton balls in their ears. If the prisoners are unruly, the guards tighten the screws on the wheel, making it more difficult to turn. That is why the guards are sometimes referred to as ‘screws.’ ”
“I have heard the expression. Thank you for explaining it. How many prisoners are on the wheel?”
“As many as necessary to keep the wheel turning so that the various smaller machines linked to it in the bakery, the laundry, and so forth keep turning as well.”
“And how long is each prisoner required to keep stepping on the treadwheel?”
“Eight thousand steps,” the jailer said before the governor could.
Until that moment, Emily’s questions had been rapid, but now she seemed unable to say anything further.
“They climb eight thousand feet each day?” she finally managed to ask.
“Yes.”
“Day after day?”
“It’s like Sisyphus rolling his rock,” De Quincey said, the first time in a while. His tone suggested emotion held rigidly under control as he peered along the corridor.
“I don’t know anything about Mr. Sisyphus any more than I do about Mr. Bentham,” the governor said. “But I do know how to make prisoners regret their crimes.”
“It’s time to show Mr. Opium-Eater his quarters.” The jailer pulled a ring of large keys from his belt.
“May I remind you that Mr. De Quincey is not here as a convicted criminal or even as a suspect,” Ryan said. “He is a police consultant about whose safety we have reason to be concerned. Please treat him accordingly.”
“All I know is, Lord Palmerston wants him locked away, and the home secretary gets what he wants. If there’s anything in the country he doesn’t control, I’d like to know what it is.” The governor motioned for the jailer to open the barred door in the middle corridor. “Stay here, miss.”
“I intend to see where my father will spend the night.”
“And probably a lot more nights after that,” the governor said. “If you’re determined to view what a lady’s eyes were never meant to, very well, come along. We’re understaffed, and I don’t have anyone to watch you.”
Their footsteps echoed as they proceeded along a dank corridor. The cell doors were made of rusted metal, with a peephole and a slot through which objects could be passed. The clank-clank sound kept emanating from each of them.
“What causes that dreadful noise?” Emily asked.
The corridor was filled with it.
“It’s easier to show you than to explain it,” the jailer said.
When he pulled a door open, a clammy smell drifted out.
Emily and De Quincey entered warily, finding there was space barely for the two of them.
The cell was seven feet wide, nine feet high, and thirteen feet long. A tall man, such as Becker, could have raised his arms to touch the ceiling and spread them to touch the walls. For him, pacing the cell would have been impossible. For a short man, such as De Quincey, the room was only slightly less confining.
The cell had shadows, its light provided by a small, barred, grimy window high in a wall. With the fog thickening, afternoon seemed like evening.
The window was at one of the narrow ends, the cell’s other narrow end occupied by the door. Beneath the window, a hammock was folded and attached to a ring on the wall. A blanket and a thin mattress hung inside it.
De Quincey stared at the ceiling. “No pipes.”
“Of course there aren’t any pipes,” the jailer said from the corridor. “Why would there be pipes?”
“In eighteen eleven, there was a pipe across the ceiling. Perhaps in this very cell.”
“What are you talking about?” the jailer demanded. “Were you a guest here in eighteen eleven?”
“Only in my nightmares.”
“Well, you’ll have many more nightmares here.”
The only other objects in the small room were a pail for body wastes, an old chair, a table upon which sat a Bible, and…
“Why is there a wooden box attached to the wall?” Emily asked. “Why does it have a handle?”
In the corridor, the clank-clank sounds echoed from the other cells.
“This is more of the prisoners’ work,” the governor answered from outside.
“Work?” The cell was so narrow that Emily required only a short step to reach the box. “What sort of work is this?”
“Work for the privilege of eating,” the governor replied from the corridor, his voice echoing. “The box is half filled with sand. When the prisoner turns the handle, a cup inside scoops up some of the sand. When the cup reaches the top of the box, it releases the sand. When the cup reaches the bottom, it scoops up more sand.”
“And releases it and scoops up more sand as the handle is turned,” Emily said.
“Exactly.”
“Is there effort involved?”
“The crank is stiff. The sand is heavy.”
“But…”
“Continue, miss. I am happy to answer your questions.”
“I confess to being confused. What does the box accomplish?”
“The work occupies the prisoner’s time.”
“You call it work? But nothing is produced,” Emily said. “At least the treadwheel produces energy for the machines in the laundry and the kitchen.”
“The box produces an incentive to avoid crime when the prisoner is released.”
“Surely, if the prisoners were taught to make their own clothes, that would be more productive and equally time-consuming. In addition, they would be equipped with a trade by which to earn a living when they are released from their bondage.”
“Are these the sort of ideas that your Jeremy Bentham proposes? Teaching prisoners to make clothes? How strange.” The governor looked truly perplexed. “I wonder if these wretches can even be taught.”
“Are boxes like this the cause of the sounds in the corridor?” Emily asked.
“Indeed. In every cell.”
“You say they do this for the privilege of eating. How many times must each prisoner turn the handle each day?”
“Ten thousand times.”
Emily inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the immensity of the number that the governor had told her.
“Do you have any other questions?”
Emily couldn’t voice them.
“In that case, I’ll bring Mr. Opium-Eater his prison clothes,” the jailer said from the doorway.
“No need,” Ryan told him. “Mr. De Quincey is here for protection. He is not a prisoner and can keep his clothes.”
“Perhaps Lord Palmerston has other ideas,” the governor decided. “I’ll make inquiries.”
“Also Mr. De Quincey will not be required to turn the handle on the box in order to receive food.”
“Again, Lord Palmerston might have other ideas. In any case, the Opium-Eater will find his menu limiting.” The governor still referred to De Quincey as if he weren’t present. “Tonight he’ll receive a boiled potato with some of the water in which it was boiled.”
“My father’s stomach problems prevent him from eating anything more complicated, unless it’s boiled rice or bread soaked in warm milk,” Emily said.
“And if beef is served, it must be thinly sliced diagonally rather than longitudinally,” De Quincey added.
“Longitudinally? What in blazes is he talking about?” the jailer demanded.
“You’ll become accustomed to his method of speaking,” Becker assured him.
“No, you won’t,” Ryan said.
“This is wrong.” De Quincey turned toward Ryan. “Were you able to determine how the killer obtained the mallet that was used in the original murders?”
“It was in what we call our evidence room as an object of historical interest.”
“And yet the killer was able to get his hands on it. If he can do that, what other places does he have access to? We know the killer follows me. I’m not safe here.”
“Tonight, with you in custody, this is the safest place in London,” the governor vowed.
“No,” De Quincey objected. “John Williams, the man accused of the original Ratcliffe Highway murders, died in this prison. Perhaps in this very cell. Supposedly he committed suicide, hanging himself from a bar in the ceiling. But there are theories that he had an accomplice who arranged for him to be murdered, lest Williams attempt to bargain for his life by identifying the accomplice.”
“You’re suggesting that the killer might try to do the same to you here tonight?” the jailer asked, as if he considered the idea preposterous.
“The killer is obsessed with the murders forty-three years ago. And obsessed with me. Inspector Ryan, don’t leave me here.”
“Lord Palmerston himself gave the order,” Ryan pointed out. “There’s no alternative.”
“I beg you. Prisons are designed to keep people inside, not the other way around. It might be a lot easier to break into this place than to break out of it.”
“Well, for certain, you’re not breaking out,” the jailer said.
Emily took charge. “Father, I’ll do my best to make this place comfortable for you.”
She needed only two steps to reach the narrow back wall, where she removed the blanket and thin mattress from the folded hammock. Then she reached up to unhook the hammock and stretched it across the back wall, anchoring it on another hook. Finally, she put the mattress and the blanket on the hammock.
“Good night, Father.” She embraced him, holding him for a long time. She whispered something in his ear. Then she pulled back, her voice unsteady. “Rest as well as you can. I shall see you in the morning.”
“Maybe not,” the governor cautioned. “We’ll find out what Lord Palmerston has in mind. Maybe the Opium-Eater won’t be allowed visitors.”
“Miss De Quincey, I’ll escort you back to your lodgings,” Becker told her.
“I do not think so,” Emily responded.
“I’m sorry. If I did anything to offend…”
“The last place in the world I plan to go is the house where we’re staying. Has it slipped your mind that the killer rented it for Father and me?”
The implications had a solemn effect.
“If Father is in danger, so am I. The killer might decide to torment me as a way of tormenting Father. Inspector Ryan, are you prepared to post guards at the house? How many would be
required? Is there any guarantee that the guards would be effective?”
Ryan didn’t have an answer.
“Very well,” Emily concluded, “since we know that the killer has been following Father and me and since the governor assures me that this prison is the safest place in London, I shall remain here.”
BEYOND COLDBATH FIELDS PRISON, the smoke from London’s half-million chimneys mingled with the yellow fog spreading from the Thames, obscuring the city. Ash drifted down. But even without the concealing presence of the fog, the artist of death would not have attracted suspicion. The few people he encountered—unavoidable business forcing them to muster their bravery and hurry along the otherwise deserted streets—gave him a look of gratitude. He nodded reassuringly in return.
He carried a ripping chisel concealed up the sleeve of his coat. Eighteen inches long, it had a sharp edge on one end and a hook on the other, it too possessing a sharp edge. The tool was favored by demolition workers, who swung the hook into walls and then yanked down, tearing out chunks of wood or plaster.
A ripping chisel had been employed in the second Ratcliffe Highway murders forty-three years earlier. Those murders had occurred in a tavern near the shop where the first murders had been committed twelve days previously. Three people had died in the second attack while there’d been four victims in the first, one of them an infant. Already the artist had improved on those events by slaughtering five people, two of them children. But while he intended to demonstrate his talents in a tavern tonight, just as the killer had done forty-three years earlier, this tavern would not be near the shop in which he had performed his skills on Saturday night. No, a great artist needed to expand his horizons, just as he needed to compress the time in which he showed his creations to his public. Twelve days between masterpieces was too long. A space of a mere two days would achieve a greater effect.
A man scurrying through the fog looked frightened when he almost bumped into the artist, but then the man’s tense expression relaxed. Nodding with relief, the man hurried on while the artist walked with a confident, easy, assuring manner. Gas lamps provided only slight halos. Except for the clatter of a few distant carriages, the night was silent.
Murder as a Fine Art Page 17
