The Death Chamber

by Sarah Rayne

  Walter had been thinking about this, and about when and how he would join the medical corps, and Higneth’s entry into his room had startled him, his words had startled him even more.

  ‘Elizabeth Molland? You mean they’ve found her body?’

  ‘I don’t mean that at all,’ said Higneth drily. ‘The lady is still very much alive. She was living not far out of Knaresborough – a few miles west of Keighley in fact – and she was seen wearing a piece of jewellery that had belonged to one of Neville Fremlin’s victims – a local girl. That was what tripped her up. Odd how they do that, murderers, isn’t it? They take the most painstaking care to conceal their crimes, and then overlook some small detail that betrays them.’

  ‘Someone recognized the jewellery?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Yes. A friend of the dead girl was in a teashop and Molland was there as well. Taking afternoon tea. The friend recognized the locket Molland was wearing – apparently it had been a family heirloom and quite distinctive. She told the parents of the dead girl, and they kept watch on the teashop for the next few days, hoping Molland would go back there. She did go back, and, very sensibly, the parents didn’t approach her, but followed her at a distance to find out where she lived. Then they alerted the police.’

  ‘And?’ said Walter.

  ‘At that stage they had no idea of Molland’s identity,’ said Higneth. ‘They just knew that this was a girl who was wearing their dead daughter’s jewellery, and they thought it was suspicious.’

  ‘She might have bought it quite innocently from a jeweller’s shop,’ said Walter. ‘Fremlin presumably sold his victims’ things.’

  ‘Oh yes, and that was why they treated it so cautiously for a while. But then the police realized who it was they were watching, and that Elizabeth Molland, far from being dead at Neville Fremlin’s hands, was living in furnished rooms – quite smart and expensive furnished rooms from the sound of it. Normally they would probably have just gone along and tried to persuade her to return to her family, but—’

  ‘But the locket made them suspicious,’ said Walter.

  ‘Exactly. It was all too much of a coincidence. But at that point there was nothing definite they could fasten on, so they kept watch for a few more days, to see what she did. And sure enough, on the afternoon of the fourth day she took an omnibus out to Becks Forest – but this time the east side, rather than the north side where Fremlin had buried the victims. She led them straight to the cache of jewellery from the victims.’

  ‘The other burial ground,’ said Walter, half to himself. ‘So there really was one.’

  ‘Yes. There’s a bit of a lake there and there was an old boathouse. Very ramshackle – no one had bothered about it for years. The jewellery was under the floorboards.’

  ‘She must have known about the murders,’ said Walter, remembering the wide-eyed stare of the girl in the silver-framed photograph.

  ‘She more than knew about them,’ said Higneth. ‘They’ve just charged her with being an accomplice to them and with a murder on her own account in Lancaster in May. They’re still preparing the evidence, but it’s likely the trial will come on early in September.’

  ‘But she’s only a child,’ said Walter. ‘Nineteen or twenty.’

  ‘Walter, some of history’s most lethal killers have been under twenty-one. If Molland’s found guilty we’ll probably see her here.’

  ‘She’ll hang?’

  ‘Don’t sound so appalled. Yes, she’ll hang unless she can bat her eyelashes at the jury and the judge to let her off,’ said Higneth caustically and Walter thought, It’s all very well for you to sound critical; you didn’t see her photograph. ‘I’m not making any predictions about that, however,’ said Higneth. ‘I shan’t like it one bit if she does get the death sentence. I’ve never had to oversee the hanging of a woman.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  September 1939

  If it had not been for the outbreak of war, the trial of Elizabeth Molland would probably have attracted much more attention than it actually did. Walter, half guiltily driving to the courthouse at Lancaster, thought the newspapers would normally have had a field day with such a young and good-looking girl who was on trial for murder. It was an odd quirk of fate that because Hitler had marched into Poland and Britain was not going to let him get away with it, Elizabeth Molland looked like missing out on the circus normally surrounding a cause célèbre.

  He had no idea why he had come to watch the winding up of the trial, unless it was simply that he was curious to see the girl whom everyone had thought of as another of Neville Fremlin’s victims, but who had apparently been more of a fellow murderer. Walter recognized Mr and Mrs Molland in the public gallery; when they saw him Mr Molland made a brief nod of acknowledgement. Returning the nod, Walter saw anguish in the man’s eyes. Was it worse to discover your beloved daughter was a killer instead of the poor butchered corpse you had thought? Mrs Molland was wearing a coat with a high collar which she had turned up to hide most of her face. They both looked modestly affluent but unremarkable and Walter hoped they would not be recognized and subjected to any kind of attack. It occurred to him that the families of the real victims might be here. He looked round the gallery, but although there were a number of people who had the right air of understated wealth, none of the faces held the same pain as that of the Mollands. Walter was sickened by the eagerness in most of the faces, then he thought, But I’m here as well. Am I any different?

  When Elizabeth Molland was brought up from the cells and put into the dock Walter forgot about victims and killers, because he could not believe – he simply could not believe – that this fair-haired, velvet-eyed waif was a murderess.

  It seemed as if he really had chosen the final day of the trial; the defence had finished putting forward the case for the prisoner’s acquittal, and the judge was pulling all the separate threads of evidence and statements together, making of them a neat, understandable bundle to hand to the jury. Walter listened carefully to this summary of the facts: how the friend of one of Fremlin’s victims had seen Molland in the teashop and how the police, alerted and moderately suspicious, had followed her, as Edgar Higneth had already said. They had kept watch and seen her take the jewellery from the hiding place in the old boathouse on the east side of Becks Forest – Neville Fremlin’s hiding place which had never been found and he had never disclosed.

  ‘It is not in question,’ said the judge, speaking directly to the jury, his severe old eyes sharp and bright, ‘that Neville Fremlin, who was justly executed almost a year ago, killed five females. Two were quite young girls, but two were older, rather lonely women. They were from all walks of life, but they had one thing in common and that was their wealth.’

  Walter thought, But none of this is evidence of Elizabeth’s guilt. She knew where the cache of jewellery was, but that doesn’t make her a killer. There must be more than this.

  And, of course, there was; a great deal more.

  The police, it seemed, had not immediately arrested Miss Molland, but had continued to observe her from a discreet distance. For the first time Walter heard that Elizabeth had not been alone in the teashop on that afternoon; she had been with another, much older, lady.

  ‘An unmarried lady in her sixties,’ said the judge. It was noticeable that although he had his notes before him, he hardly referred to them. Only twice did Walter see the thin well-shaped hand turn a page, and then it seemed to be to check a date or a place.

  ‘She was a lady recently returned to this country because of the worsening situation in Austria where she had been living,’ said the judge. ‘And she was a lady who must have thought herself fortunate to have got back to the safety of her home country after the turbulence of Europe. It was her tragedy that she fell into the malevolent clutches of the prisoner.’

  Walter saw a little stir of unease go through the jury at these last words. There were eight men and four women. The women don’t like her, he thought. But the men aren’t sure. Th
e judge is sure, though. He’s trying to guide them to a verdict of guilty. He glanced along the benches and saw Mrs Molland pressing a handkerchief to her lips. Pity for her twisted through him, and he remembered how she had wanted to be able to mourn properly; to put a memorial tablet in the local church for their lovely, lost girl.

  ‘Over the next week,’ said the judge, ‘it became apparent that the prisoner had befriended this lady. She visited her home on a number of occasions; she accompanied her to concerts and resorts – the jury will recall that this was during the month of May. The weather was hot and most people were relaxed after Mr Chamberlain’s return from Munich the previous autumn. There was no need to feel nervous of travelling – in this country at least – and the prisoner and her prey did travel. We can reasonably assume that the lady was rather flattered at the attentions of such a pretty, well-mannered girl.

  ‘And then came the final day, when the police followed them here to Lancaster,’ said the judge. ‘A day’s outing for shopping was how it seemed: an entirely ordinary thing for two ladies. Molland was attentive, carrying parcels, helping her companion across busy streets. The streets were very busy indeed,’ he said, ‘there were omnibuses and trams and a great many cars. But despite the heavy traffic, the police officers had a very clear view of what happened. They saw Elizabeth Molland deliberately and calculatedly push her unsuspecting companion under a tram.’

  The court and the jury already knew this, but it was like a blow across the eyes to Walter. He stared at Elizabeth, totally unable to imagine the soft white little hands giving that spiteful push, or to visualize the doe-like eyes hard and shrewd.

  ‘Having listened to the evidence of the police officers in question,’ said the judge, ‘and also to the separate accounts given by three bystanders, I think, members of the jury, that you will already have accepted the evidence that Molland did indeed send this unfortunate lady to her death. As to the benefits Molland might have expected to get from that death – well, they are a little less clear. We cannot know what her intentions might have been; she has pleaded not guilty to the charges and defence counsel has not called her to give evidence. But we have the testimony that the victim possessed some very valuable jewellery: jewellery which it would have been fairly easy to sell.’ He paused as if choosing his next words carefully, and then said, ‘You should perhaps bear in mind that Neville Fremlin’s victims were all apparently killed for their money. In three cases large sums had actually passed into Fremlin’s bank account, and in another case some share certificates had been transferred. As well as that, jewellery is known to have been sold. So you will see the similarity. Elizabeth Molland does not have a bank account of her own, but jewellery – gold and precious stones – are universal currency.’

  He’s saying she learned from Fremlin, thought Walter. He’s saying she learned about killing for money and turning jewellery into cash. But how well did she know Fremlin? He remembered her parents telling him Elizabeth used to go into the shop in Knaresborough, but surely it had only been as an occasional customer? He looked across at them again, remembering that curious flicker of unease he had picked up when he had asked them about her childhood. There’s something there, thought Walter. Something they want kept secret. Could it be something to do with her knowing Fremlin?

  The judge was saying, ‘You will also want to keep in mind, members of the jury, the testimony we have heard from certain hotel staff where the couple stayed once or twice, or lunched. From those testimonies, it’s clear that Molland and Fremlin knew one another very well indeed. It saddens me greatly to say this, and it must cause the parents deep grief to hear it, but there seems little doubt that these two had an intimate and immoral relationship.’

  An intimate and immoral relationship. Walter stared at the smooth features of the girl in the dock. She looked as if the only thing she had ever taken to bed with her was a doll or a teddy bear. Could she really have had what the judge called an immoral relationship with the urbane man whom Walter had seen die a year ago? What was the age difference between them? Twenty-five years? Thirty?

  ‘Molland’s counsel,’ said the judge, ‘has very eloquently painted for us the picture of an impressionable young girl in thrall to an attractive older man – so completely under his spell that she came to believe killing people for money was acceptable. That is certainly one way of viewing this relationship and of viewing Elizabeth Molland’s behaviour, and you must take it into account. But I will remind you that this is a girl from a loving and happy home. She has been properly brought up by respectable parents who taught her the difference between right and wrong. She knew – as we all know, I hope, members of the jury – that to live with a man in a marital relationship without the blessing of the church, is very wrong indeed.’

  Walter thought one or two of the jury looked a bit sheepish at this. A thin-faced acidulated spinster seated at the end of the jury bench compressed her lips, and made a note on a small pad.

  ‘And she knew,’ said the judge, ‘that murder is the greatest and most evil sin that can be committed. And now the court will rise, and the jury will retire and consider its verdict.’

  Walter knew he should speak to the Mollands. At the very least he should exchange a word of friendship with them.

  He could not do it. He could only see the fragile beautiful face of the girl in the dock, and the sudden blinding smile of Neville Fremlin, who had possessed such charisma and subtle magnetism. He heard again Fremlin’s words in the condemned cell; Fremlin had talked about good wine and first nights in London theatres, and whether he might walk to the gallows with a book of Byron’s poetry. He had not mentioned any relationships with females, other than a single oblique reference to the fact that supper after the theatre had always been more enjoyable in the company of a friend.

  An intimate and immoral relationship. Which way round had it been? A dazzled young girl, bewitched, mesmerized or bullied, Eliza Doolittle-style or Svengali-style? Or an ageing man, boosting his ego and recapturing his youth by taking a mistress thirty years his junior? Never that, thought Walter angrily, whatever else Neville Fremlin was, he was no ageing roué with a pathetic gratitude for a young girl’s flattery. But let’s not forget that these two killed – not out of defence of a cause or a loved one, or out of pity – they killed out of simple greed.

  He thought he would not return to the court for the jury’s verdict, but found himself remaining in the precincts of the court until late that afternoon. It was ridiculous; the jury would not return their verdict today.

  But they did return it that afternoon, and Walter went back to hear it. He saw the jury return, saw Elizabeth Molland stare at them with pleading in her eyes and thought they could not possibly pronounce her guilty. And even if they did – even if the evidence had been overwhelmingly against her during this past two weeks – then the judge would give her the lightest of light sentences.

  The jury did pronounce her guilty. It was, said the foreman solemnly, the verdict of them all. A unanimous verdict.

  The judge did not give her a light sentence. He reached out his thin old scholar’s hand and placed the square of black silk on his head, and spoke the dreadful words.

  ‘Elizabeth Molland, you have been found guilty by this court of wilful murder, and that is a verdict with which I entirely agree. I would earnestly urge you to seek for your soul the only refuge left for you, in the mercy of God through the atonement of our Lord, Jesus Christ. It only remains for me to pass upon you the sentence of the law, which is that you be taken from here to the place from whence you came and from there to a place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body to be afterwards buried within the precincts of the gaol. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.’

  Behind him, Walter was aware of Mrs Molland crying out, ‘Oh, no. Oh, no,’ then fainting and being carried out.

  ‘She may well get a reprieve,’ said Edgar Higneth, listening to Walter’s account of the trial and the sen
tence the following morning. ‘Or they may commute the death penalty.’

  ‘To a life sentence? I should think that would kill her,’ said Walter.

  ‘Better than being hanged, though.’

  ‘I wonder if she’d think so.’

  Higneth looked at him sharply. ‘Walter, I hope you aren’t in any danger of losing your detachment over this.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Walter, ‘but I think she’ll be a difficult prisoner.’

  ‘Hysterics and pleas for freedom, you think? Ah well, that’s probably to be expected.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, exactly’ said Walter. ‘I think she’ll be more subtle.’ Doe-eyed sorrow, that appealing fragility. What had Mrs Molland said? ‘She’d wrap her dad round her little finger.’ And Molland, proud and indulgent, had said it was a sad man who could not let his daughter coax him. But Elizabeth had not been able to coax the judge or jury.

  ‘But you think she’ll cause us problems?’ Higneth was saying, and Walter dragged his mind back to his surroundings.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Only they won’t be quite the problems you’ll be expecting, he thought and wondered if Elizabeth would wrap Edgar Higneth, this good, rather stolid man, around her little finger. Then he remembered she would only have three weeks to do so.

  ‘If you really do think that,’ said Higneth, sounding harried, ‘I’d better draft in extra warders for the death watch. We’re in a thin situation at the moment, with half the men going off to war. You know we’ve lost four more of the warders to the army?’

  ‘Yes.’ Walter did not say that Calvary might shortly lose its doctor as well.

  ‘Still, I’ll see if there are any females in Thornbeck who might come up for the evening watches. Sir Lewis quite often employed female warders here, but I’ve always been hesitant, as you know. I have taken on one man, though; someone from Thornbeck village. He’s just too old to be called up – about forty I think – but he was a warder here some years ago, so he’ll know the ropes. I think he’s a bit of a fly one though, and I don’t know that I entirely trust him, but needs must. I’d be glad if you’d keep a discreet eye on him, Walter.’