by Sarah Rayne
The warders were waiting for him. They would not remain in the cell during his visit – doctors and clergymen were allowed the small privilege of complete privacy with any condemned prisoner – but they would be just outside the door. Walter did not know their names because he was still getting to know the staff here, but he nodded his thanks as they opened the door and stood back to allow him to go in. As the door closed behind him, he heard the sound of a match striking, and then the faint scent of a cigarette. They were snatching a crafty smoke. But he was not paying attention to them; his whole attention was focused on the man seated at the table.
The first thing to strike him was that Neville Fremlin was considerably older than he had been expecting – probably nearer fifty than forty. He was seated at the table and turned his head to look at the visitor, exactly as Walter’s father had turned his head on that long-ago morning. For a moment the ghosts of the past crowded suffocatingly in, then Fremlin stood up, the ghosts receded and Walter took the chair on the other side of the table.
‘Good morning, Mr Fremlin. I’m Dr Kane – Walter Kane. I’ll be visiting you a couple of times a day.’
‘I know who you are, Dr Kane. Edgar Higneth told me you would be coming along. I believe we aren’t permitted to shake hands, so you’ll have to take that courtesy for granted. I’m glad to see you, although I could wish our surroundings were less austere.’
He had a rather soft voice, and his eyes, which were dark and intelligent, studied Walter with interest. He’s not in the least frightening, thought Walter, in fact he’s very nearly ordinary. He said, ‘Is there anything you would like? Anything that might make the days a bit easier for you?’
‘A few dancing girls, perhaps? A case of good Beaujolais?’ The words came out deadpan, but then he smiled and Walter saw at once that he was not at all ordinary. If he had smiled like that at his victims it was no wonder they had let themselves be cheated out of their life savings or their jewellery.
But he said, lightly, ‘We can’t manage either of those, I’m afraid. The best we can offer is prison-strength cocoa. But I can stir a mild sedative into it if that would help you to sleep.’
‘But it’ll be a case of “sleep perchance to dream”, won’t it?’ said Fremlin. ‘And there’s the rub, of course. But it’s considerate of you to offer and I’ll take you up on it. You’re very young to be a doctor, aren’t you?’
The sudden switch of subject and the direct question disconcerted Walter, but he remembered Edgar Higneth’s warnings, and said, ‘I promise you I’m fully qualified.’
‘I’m sure you are. A tough training though, isn’t it? My own was quite tough, but full-blown medicine is a rigorous road.’
Walter was determined not to be thrown off balance. He said, ‘Yes, it was tough, but I got through it. Did you enjoy pharmacy? There’s a good deal of studying to be done for that, isn’t there?’ Mentally, he crossed his fingers, hoping this might lead to Fremlin talking about his crimes.
If Fremlin saw through the ruse, he gave no indication, but only said, ‘Yes, a great deal, but I enjoyed it.’ He sent Walter the sudden blinding smile again. ‘Dr Kane, you mentioned helping the days along for me.’
‘Yes?’
‘Books,’ said Fremlin. ‘Could you get me books?’
‘I don’t see why not. Exactly what would you . . .’
‘Something light. H. G. Wells, maybe. He has a wonderful sense of irony. And perhaps some plays. I saw Noel Coward’s Hay Fever some years ago; I should like to read that and imagine myself in a London theatre for a first night again.’ His voice was suddenly warm. ‘Always such an occasion, a first night. One wore black tie, of course,’ said the man who had stabbed and strangled five women before burying their bodies in a forest. ‘There were drinks at the interval, and often a little supper afterwards.’
‘With friends? A lady?’
‘Sometimes. These things are always more enjoyable in the company of a friend.’ The dark eyes flickered, and Walter had the impression of a shutter being closed. Damn, I’ve pushed him too far. ‘And,’ said Fremlin, ‘could you get some poetry for me as well?’
‘I expect so. Any particular poet? Byron? Wordsworth?’
‘Either of those two. And Wilfred Owen, perhaps. Not Oscar Wilde. There might be a certain amount of style in walking to the gallows reading Byron’s poems,’ said Neville Fremlin thoughtfully, ‘but I’m damned if I’ll do so with “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”. But then of course,’ he said looking at Walter, ‘I daresay I’m damned anyway.’
‘There’s supposed to be some comfort in repentance,’ said Walter a bit awkwardly.
‘The payment of a debt? So the padre keeps telling me.’
‘The trial must have been a great ordeal,’ said Walter, choosing his words with care. ‘Waiting for the verdict – and then hearing the sentence pronounced.’
‘I expected the verdict. I expected the sentence, as well.’
‘The newspapers said you were perfectly calm throughout.’
‘Yes, I believe I was. It’s supposed to be one of the obligations of a gentleman,’ said Fremlin, but he said it with such irony that Walter found himself exchanging an appreciative smile with the man before he realized it.
‘Even so, one of the reports said you hardly seemed to notice the crowds.’ It was a fair bet that some of the victims’ families would have been in court on that last day, and Walter thought this might be a way of getting Fremlin to open up about Elizabeth Molland.
‘It was quite crowded now I think back. But I wasn’t playing to the gallery, at least not consciously. Most of the watchers were probably direct descendants of people who used to attend public hangings,’ said Fremlin. ‘All those crones who sat knitting at the foot of the guillotine and the Victorian ballad sellers who made up songs at Tyburn. They won’t make up ballads about me, I don’t suppose, but if they do they’ll have enough material to work with.’
‘The Silver-Tongued Murderer and his five victims?’
This time there was definitely a reaction. Fremlin looked at Walter very hard for a moment. But he only said, ‘It makes for a good title, doesn’t it? But I shouldn’t think there’d be many dance bands who’d want to play it. Thank you for offering to get the books for me, Dr Kane. That’s something I very much appreciate.’
‘I suppose I have to be convinced of his guilt,’ said Walter to Lewis Caradoc three nights later. ‘A jury found him guilty and a judge pronounced the death sentence.’
‘Juries aren’t infallible,’ said Lewis Caradoc. ‘More wine?’
‘Thank you, sir, yes please.’ Walter waited for the wine to be poured, and Lewis Caradoc thought that one of the nice things about this young man was his politeness. It was impossible to imagine him being discourteous in any situation. He’s the son I haven’t got, thought Lewis sadly, or perhaps he’s the son I lost . . . But this was not a thought to dwell on, and this informal dinner at his house was intended to be half friendly, half professional, so he said, ‘You’re not seriously doubting Fremlin’s guilt, are you?’
‘Not really,’ said Walter. ‘I suppose it’s natural to wonder a bit though, isn’t it? Or does it all become just part of the routine after a time?’
‘I never found it did,’ said Lewis. ‘Another cutlet?’
‘Yes, please.’ Walter had been rather flattered to be invited to Sir Lewis’s house, and after Calvary’s plain fare he was enjoying the food, which had been set out in covered dishes by a neat parlour maid who had then withdrawn leaving them to serve themselves. There was no sign of Lady Caradoc whom Walter had not met; when he arrived Sir Lewis had said briefly that she was away and had not referred to her again.
Sir Lewis served the cutlet, and said, ‘Have you discovered anything about the other girl yet? The one they never found?’ Walter looked up. ‘Higneth’s told me about the police request – it’s unusual but not entirely unknown. Higneth knew I intended to talk to you about Fremlin, so if you want to discuss it with me i
t will be all right. You can trust me not to gossip afterwards, of course. But if you’d rather talk about something else I’ll understand. I was curious, that’s all.’
‘I haven’t found out anything,’ said Walter. ‘It’s four days since Fremlin was brought to Calvary and I’ve seen him twice each day, but he hasn’t talked about the murders at all. He’ll discuss most things, apparently quite openly. Things he’s done in his life that he’s enjoyed: music, the theatre, books, studying for the pharmaceutical exams. But I’m wondering if he’s playing a game. Taunting me – letting me think I’m getting near to a confidence, and then shutting up shop, so to speak.’
‘Keep trying,’ said Lewis. ‘There have been gallows confessions.’
‘Fremlin’s perfectly polite when he closes that mental door,’ said Walter, ‘but once he’s done it, he’s unreachable.’ He paused, his mind on the man in the condemned cell: the man who had said there would be style in going to the gallows reading Byron’s poems. ‘Sir Lewis, how usual is it for a man on the brink of being executed to play games of that kind?’
‘Very unusual indeed in my experience,’ said Lewis. ‘It may simply be bravado and, if it is, Fremlin will probably crack near the end. But it’s possible he’s got a murderer’s vanity and believes he’ll find a way to slide out of this.’ He glanced at Walter. ‘I shouldn’t think there’s any danger of that, should you, Walter?’
‘No,’ said Walter at once. ‘No danger at all.’
After Walter had left, chugging down the driveway in his little car, Lewis poured himself another glass of brandy, and sat by the fire with it. It was extraordinary how talking to Kane had sent his own mind scudding back across the years – it was the eagerness, of course that was so reminiscent of his son, and the idealism. Caspar had had exactly the same qualities – several times, talking to Walter, Lewis had thought it might almost be his son who sat there.
The idealism and eagerness had never been more apparent than on the late-spring day in 1915 when Caspar left for France with his regiment. Off to beat the Hun, he had said, with the light glowing in his eyes and the smile that people said was the very print of Lewis’s own smile. Off to give the Kaiser a pasting. But he would be back before they knew it: the war would not last long – everyone said so – and they must keep the home fires burning for his return and have a hero’s welcome ready.
Lewis had loved his son undemonstratively but very deeply, even though he had never cared much for the name Clara had insisted on. Surely they were not going to saddle the child with a name like Caspar Caradoc? he had said at the birth, half amused, half annoyed – but Clara had refused to give way. A romantic name, she had said. Names shaped people, she had always believed that, and this was a name that might lead their son to do great things. In those days it had been easier to give way to Clara and so he had agreed, thinking he would shorten it to Cas, which was a not unattractive diminutive, and which should not cause the boy too many problems during his school years. Clara had persistently called him Caspar, but to most people he had been Cas and Lewis had always thought of him as that, so much so that when the telegram arrived there had been a moment when he had not recognized it as referring to his son at all. Not my boy after all! he had thought. Thank God!
‘Deeply regret to inform you . . . Lieutenant Caspar Caradoc killed in action, 23 March, 1916, at Verdun. A heroic death, fighting to save several of his comrades . . . Our deepest condolences . . .’
The fact that Cas’s death had been heroic had not made losing him any easier. Lewis had been in agony at his son’s death, and although he had done his best to comfort Clara she had shut him out. Months later, when Lewis was beginning to reach some degree of acceptance, she had seized on a mawkish custom of the long-gone Victorian era. She was already wearing black for Cas, of course, but now she had a lock of his soft baby hair made into one of the old-fashioned mourning brooches. She commissioned a large, elaborate marble stone for their local church and visited it every day, sitting in front of it, sometimes until it was dark, murmuring the engraved words over and over to herself. When this wretched war was over she would travel to France to find Caspar’s burial place; no, she did not want Lewis to accompany her, thank you; she would prefer to be on her own to find her beloved boy. Lewis had been trying to hold on to the good things about Cas – his vivid enthusiasm and bright intelligence – but Clara’s grief had become bound up with graves and cold stone memorials and worm-nibbled coffins in lonely foreign soil.
After a time he consulted Dr McNulty, Calvary’s new doctor, who said that people dealt with grief in different ways, but that he would very gladly come to dinner to observe Lady Caradoc. Lewis did not much care for the man, but since 1914 so many doctors had joined the medical corps that Calvary had had to take what it could get, and what it had got was Denzil McNulty.
McNulty watched Clara intently throughout the meal: Lewis tried not to think there was a greediness in his eyes as he did so. After dinner, seated in Lewis’s study, McNulty said the healing process progressed in stages, and he thought Lady Caradoc’s present melancholy was one of those stages. The bereaved person repudiated the reality of death, he said, and sought to call back the spirit who had gone ahead. Whether it was conscious or unconscious, this was what Lady Caradoc was doing now; it was the reason for the visits to her son’s memorial and her insistence on finding his grave after the war ended. It was not unusual to encounter such behaviour and there might be ways that he, McNulty, could help. Seeing Lewis’s slight frown, he said smoothly that he had colleagues who might guide her thoughts onto more positive paths.
Lewis, thinking McNulty referred to psychiatrists, and disliking the rather flowery references to souls and spirits going ahead, said, non-committally, that he was most grateful for the advice and he would think it over.
It had not, of course, been possible to tell McNulty that one of the stages in Clara’s mourning appeared to be an inflexible chastity. After an enforced celibacy of almost six months Lewis had made a tentative move to share his wife’s bed again, only to be met with flat rejection. Her life was devoted now to the memory of her beloved boy, said Clara, and she was surprised and rather saddened to discover that Lewis could contemplate anything of such an earthy nature. This was said with a delicate shudder and the implication that it was insensitive and even rather coarse of him to have made such an approach. Intimacy, said Clara, with her maddening air of closing a subject, was quite out of the question; Lewis must understand that.
What Lewis understood was that Clara – never overly impressed by the physicality of marriage was locking her bedroom door for good. It did not come as much of a surprise; the marriage had been lukewarm from the start, but it had been entered into in the days when such things were still as much a matter of business as anything else. The young people of today would express incredulity and derision at such an outlook – Cas, if he had lived, would probably have done so, and so, Lewis thought, would Walter Kane – but in the closing years of the nineteenth century it was how people had behaved: your money, my title. Clara had been very pleased to become Lady Caradoc, and Lewis had been very pleased with the marriage settlement made by her wealthy merchant banker family.
He supposed he would have to accept Clara’s embargo – he was damned if he was going to knock humbly on his own wife’s bedroom door again, especially when there were other bedroom doors he might knock on and be reasonably sure of finding them unlocked. There were probably not many possibilities for that in Thornbeck, but despite his work at Calvary he was in London quite often; Clara’s money made that possible, of course, just as it made the upkeep of the small elegant house in Cheyne Walk possible.
He had begun to consider which bedroom doors he would try, when the next stage of Clara’s mourning presented itself. It was a stage that startled Lewis very much indeed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
November 1917
‘Lewis,’ Clara said, ‘the most remarkable thing has happened.’
I
t must be very remarkable indeed because it had brought Clara into Lewis’s study, a room whose existence she normally ignored, apart from regularly asking when he was going to discard the disreputable leather chairs and the battered desk because guests would think they could not afford good furniture. A nice chintz from Liberty’s, and one of those fumed oak desks with a leatherette top, said Clara. It would be much easier to clean. She did not, of course, do any cleaning of the house herself but she was strict with the two housemaids and could not abide an undusted surface or a badly swept carpet. Lewis had given up saying he liked his study as it was; the chairs and the desk had belonged to his father and been part of the library. The desk still bore the inkstain where his father had knocked over the inkpot. Cas, when he was very small, had said the mark was the shape of an elephant, and had made up a story about a miniature elephant that lived in the desk and had built itself a house from pens and inkpots and writing paper.
Two weeks earlier Dr McNulty had persuaded Clara to leave Thornbeck and the sad stone monument in the churchyard for the livelier environs of London and the Cheyne Walk house. Lewis was guiltily grateful for her absence which allowed him to concentrate on drafting a report for the Home Office on the rehabilitation of long-term prisoners before their release. This was a subject on which he felt quite strongly: he believed it was wrong to turn unprepared men and women into the world after several decades behind prison walls, and he thought he might one day want to focus on it more fully. He had been delighted to be asked to form part of an official inquiry into the subject.
Clara returned in the middle of the afternoon, and when she came into the study Lewis saw at once that something had wrought a massive change in her. Not only had she entered without her normal polite tap on the door (‘I know that gentlemen, when engaged in business, do not like to be disturbed.’), she seated herself in one of the despised chairs. Her hands were clasped, her bosom was heaving with some suppressed emotion, and her rather large face was flushed. For a wild moment Lewis wondered if she had been drinking or taking drugs; this particular exalted well-being was something he had occasionally seen in prisoners who had managed to get their hands on a few grains of cocaine.
