The Death Chamber

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘What about a doctor?’ said Walter. ‘Because I think I could manage—’

  ‘Walter, do stop worrying about Calvary,’ said Lewis. ‘You’ve been in bed for nearly four days – your temperature’s been sky-high for most of those days, and you can’t possible attend a hanging. Higneth will get hold of a locum – there are any number of GPs in the area he can call on.’

  McNulty, thought Walter at once. He’ll call on McNulty. But it’s all right, because McNulty won’t have any hold over Higneth, and his wretched experiment will never happen. He felt a deep relief at this knowledge. And by the time the next condemned man was brought to Calvary, he, Walter, would probably be hundreds of miles away – perhaps in France, helping to fight the war.

  It was later that evening that he suddenly said to Lewis, ‘I’ve been thinking about my father being with Elizabeth. Those months they seemed to have lived together.’

  A spasm of pain crossed Lewis’s face. ‘I think about that as well,’ he said, and then, almost eagerly, ‘She was entirely under his influence, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter, and thought: but was she? What was really under that doe-eyed helplessness of Elizabeth Molland? She may have lived with my father, but she was virgo intacta. Most people had assumed there was a sexual relationship between those two – Lewis would certainly have assumed it. He tried to remember what had been said about that aspect of the relationship during Elizabeth’s trial, but could not.

  He said, carefully, ‘I wonder where she is now.’

  ‘She could be anywhere,’ said Lewis.

  ‘She could, couldn’t she? It depends on the driver of that car – he might have taken her anywhere. He got her into the car pretty quickly and drove off into the night, but I couldn’t see what direction he took,’ said Walter, watching Lewis closely.

  There was no doubt about his reaction. He flinched, and then said, ‘I didn’t know you had actually seen the driver? Did you tell the police you had?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ said Walter, looking at Lewis very directly, ‘all I saw was a figure in a long coat and a deep-brimmed hat. Whoever it was, I couldn’t have identified him.’

  ‘Yes, I see. You’re sure of that are you?’

  ‘Quite sure. I shouldn’t think,’ said Walter, ‘that it will ever be known who drove the car that night.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  As Edgar Higneth went through the snow-lit corridors on New Year’s Eve he found himself thinking that Calvary had never been so extremely quiet before an execution. Normally the place filled up with such anticipation and angry fear that it was very nearly possible to cut slices of it. But this was not the case today, and it seemed as if the execution of Violet Parsons would go almost unnoticed.

  The snowbound conditions were in some measure to blame for the curious atmosphere. The spiteful blizzard that had raged across Torven on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning had completely shrouded Thornbeck; the neighbouring villages and market towns were covered in a thick white blanket and Calvary itself seemed to be at the core of this cold whiteness, although they were not quite cut off from the world any longer.

  At least the assistant executioner had reached them, for which Higneth was deeply thankful. The man had arrived at the prison midway through the previous afternoon; Higneth thought him a bit young, but they did not have much choice in the matter. As Higneth had told the Home Office when finally the call got through to Calvary, they had nearly got to the stage of telling the prisoner they did not know when they could hang her. This would have been unbearable, especially as Higneth, during his years as governor, had striven to make all executions as humane as he possibly could.

  A doctor had reached them as well, which was another thing to give thanks for. Higneth would have preferred Walter Kane to be in attendance – he would have preferred Walter Kane always to be in attendance – but Kane was still confined to bed with a bad go of this wretched influenza. Higneth was glad to think that he was at Sir Lewis’s house, being properly looked after. Kane had rooms in Thornbeck, but he slept at Calvary more often than not. This worried Higneth at times because it was no life for a young man, but at least Walter was being ill in comfort. Lady Caradoc might be severe and a bit humourless (an odd wife for Sir Lewis, Higneth had often thought her), but she would make sure Walter was properly cared for.

  So taking things all in all, Higneth had been glad when Denzil McNulty made his way up the slope and offered his services as attendant doctor at Violet Parsons’ execution. He had heard of Dr Kane’s illness, he said – a miserable thing, influenza – and so if they needed anyone to take Kane’s place for this execution? Ah, they did. Then, he would be more than happy to attend. As it happened he knew the prisoner – Higneth had probably heard that, had he? – and it might help her a little to have a friend there with her at the end.

  Higneth did not know McNulty very well and thought him a bit of an odd one – all that delving into psychic phenomena, and his involvement with the Caradoc Society – but he had been glad to have this particular problem solved, and to know that a properly experienced doctor would attend the hanging. When he expressed his concern about the hangman, McNulty said, ‘I don’t think you need worry. You and I will be present, and we’re both old hands at this.’ He paused, and then said, ‘I believe there’s no need for this fledgling hangman to be part of the cutting down of the body afterwards.’

  ‘No?’ said Higneth, looking up in surprise.

  ‘I believe we can come to a far more beneficial arrangement.’

  ‘Beneficial? Beneficial to whom?’

  ‘Why, to both of us,’ said Denzil McNulty. He leaned forward. ‘A little matter of a packet of mustard that found its way into Elizabeth Molland’s cell last September. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your masters at the Home Office – or anyone else – to hear about that.’

  Edgar Higneth had always had a weak spot in his make-up, and this weakness was for young ladies. Not in any distasteful way: the desires of the flesh had never particularly bothered him. He had never wanted to marry – he had certainly never found any lady with whom he would have wanted to share that kind of intimacy, either mental, physical or emotional. One or two congenial female friends, perhaps, whom one might invite to accompany one to the occasional formal function. His position as governor required attendance at these things, and it was acceptable and pleasant to have a lady on one’s arm for the evening.

  But he had always had a strong and secret wish for a daughter. A young, pretty little girl whom he could take about and whom he could be proud of. A daughter who would admire him and think him wonderful, and who, when she was older, would be tolerant and indulgent and affectionate. Occasionally he had amused himself by imagining how she would look, this mythical daughter. Small and fair and kitten-faced, thought Edgar Higneth, allowing himself the odd moment or two of daydream. Nicely mannered – he would have made sure of that – but fragile – needing to be protected. He had never expected to meet this mythical figure; he had been perfectly content with his occasional dream.

  And then Elizabeth Molland came to Calvary to be hanged, and Elizabeth Molland was the embodiment of Edgar Higneth’s dream.

  At first he had not entirely taken in what Sir Lewis Caradoc had said that day – the day he had come to see the prisoner.

  ‘I can’t let her hang,’ Lewis said, facing Higneth in the governor’s office after his visit to Molland.

  ‘She’s been found guilty—’

  ‘Higneth, she’s my daughter.’

  A daughter. The old dream had come uppermost in Higneth’s mind at once. He stared at the older man, his mind in turmoil. Caradoc had not said, ‘She’s innocent and I can’t let her hang.’ He had said, ‘She’s my daughter and I can’t let her hang.’ Did the words matter?

  Who had Elizabeth Molland’s mother been? Higneth wondered briefly, but he did not see how he could ask such an impertinent question; he did not see i
t mattered in this situation.

  ‘Well, Higneth? Will you help me?’

  Edgar Higneth, solid upright citizen, upholder of law and order, and overseer of the health and security of convicted murderers, had struggled with his conscience. But at last, he said, ‘I’m not sure. No, I can’t. It’s too much of a risk.’

  ‘I understand. And we have never had this conversation – I can trust you for that, can’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Sir Lewis was already opening door. ‘No, wait.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell me what it is you want me to do.’

  ‘Very little. Simply give her this later today.’ Lewis produced a small envelope containing yellow powder.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ordinary dry mustard. Perfectly innocuous in a small quantity. But this is not a small quantity – it’s a very large quantity and if it’s stirred into warm water it should make her sick. She’ll do the rest – she knows what to do – how to produce the signs of a fever and so on.’

  He’s worked something out with her, thought Higneth. Am I really going along with this?

  Lewis was saying, ‘Can you manage it? Perhaps offer to sit with the prisoner while the duty warders have their supper?’

  It would be an unusual thing to do, but it would not be entirely out of pattern with a prisoner under the death sentence. Higneth knew this, and Lewis knew it as well.

  ‘Is that all you want me to do?’

  ‘Yes. Just do this, and then afterwards know absolutely nothing.’

  Higneth had waited until the time for the warders’ supper break, and then had found a task for the relief warder – an important letter that must catch the evening post, he said, and there was no one else free to take it down to the village. The prisoner? That was easily dealt with: he would sit with her himself for an hour. Had they served the evening drink to her yet? No? Then perhaps they would bring along two mugs.

  It was a little unconventional, but Edgar Higneth was by this time known for his humane treatment of condemned prisoners. For him to elect to drink his own mid-evening mug of cocoa with Elizabeth Molland was not so very remarkable.

  As he went into the execution suite he still had no idea if he was going to do this. If he did, how would the plan unfold? Clearly Sir Lewis intended Elizabeth to be ill – presumably to require hospital treatment. Then was Walter Kane part of it all? Higneth was inclined to think not, but he had better not make any assumptions.

  Seated opposite Molland, he thought again how difficult it was to believe this fair frail creature could have killed anyone.

  She seemed unaware that there might be a plan to free her. She thanked him for coming and the conversation turned to Neville Fremlin. The tears welled up in her eyes almost at once.

  ‘I trusted him so much,’ she said. ‘He spun magic. Like an enchanter in a story. He bound me with a spell. But it was a monstrous magic. He destroyed me.’

  She said it so wistfully and Higneth thought: the words, the sentiments of an innocent child, surely. A guileless young girl, still half in childhood, still seeing magic in people. But as she had said, it had been a monstrous magic that had trapped her.

  He thought he was still unsure what to do, but he realized the decision had already been made. Not saying anything, he handed over the envelope Lewis Caradoc had given him. She took it without speaking, but Higneth saw her eyes go to the small washbasin behind the screen. Warm water from the tap. The tin mug which had contained her cocoa. The warders would return soon, but she would find a way to mix the drink that would make her sick, and she would find a way to tamper with the thermometer so it would appear that she had a fever – perhaps she would manage to take a mouthful of hot water, or furtively put the thermometer itself in a mug of hot water. Whatever she did, it would set in motion Lewis Caradoc’s plan to save his daughter from the gallows.

  Edgar Higneth thought they had got away with it. He thought no one had known, or would ever know. Until, three months later, Dr McNulty sat in his office, and put forth the most preposterous request Higneth had ever heard.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Certainly not. Good God man, even if I were to agree – the soul isn’t a thing that can be measured!’

  ‘That’s what I intend to find out,’ said McNulty. ‘And I think you will agree in the end. It’s a small, very swift, procedure – it can’t possibly make any difference to the prisoner – but it will contribute greatly to our knowledge.’

  Higneth thought Denzil McNulty was probably more interested in contributing to his own reputation in the peculiar world of psychic investigation, but he did not say so. He tried to think how best to handle this.

  ‘It is such a censorious world, isn’t it?’ McNulty said before he could speak. ‘A prurient world, as well. If I were to tell people what I knew – what had been found in the condemned cell – What Saul Ketch saw the night Molland was taken—’

  ‘What did he see?’ The question came out too sharply, and McNulty smiled.

  ‘Oh, merely the prisoner being taken from the ambulance to a car.’

  ‘Then he should have said so at the time.’

  ‘But it’s as well for you he didn’t, isn’t it?’ said McNulty, and Higneth was unable to tell if Ketch really had seen something that night and told McNulty about it, or if McNulty was making it up to lend weight to his polite threat.

  McNulty said, ‘If I were to tell what I know, no matter how strong your denials, there would be extremely unpleasant talk. People would wonder and speculate. You might not care about your own skin, Higneth, but Walter Kane’s career would be irreparably damaged.’

  ‘Dr Kane has nothing to do with any of this,’ said Higneth at once.

  ‘Hasn’t he? Are you absolutely sure of that?’

  This was the real difficulty; Higneth was not absolutely sure. He thought he would probably have sacrificed Lewis Caradoc (what had Saul Ketch seen that night?), but he did not think he could risk sacrificing Walter. A treacherous little voice in his mind asked whether the small experiment McNulty was proposing could really matter to this woman, this Violet Parsons, who had sent an unwanted husband to a painful death? What could it matter to her that she was asked to undergo a brief, extra weighing procedure on the morning of her execution? The prisoners were weighed each day in any case for the executioner to calculate the precise drop needed.

  Higneth knew perfectly well that this reasoning was akin to what Catholics called casuistry – finding acceptable reasons for an unacceptable or a sinful action – but it was a thought that gave him some small comfort. He looked at McNulty and saw the man was smiling and nodding, as if he had followed these thoughts with disturbing ease. Unpleasant little weasel. Higneth would make very sure the man was not employed at Calvary in any respect whatsoever after this. He would find a way to dismiss Saul Ketch as well, and be damned to the shortage of men!

  But when McNulty said, ‘Well? You’ll do it?’ Higneth heard his own voice say, quite calmly, ‘Yes, I’ll do it.’

  When the grey morning of the first of January 1940 finally dawned, Edgar Higneth was glad to know that at least he had made the whole execution process so much swifter. There was no longer the almost ceremonious walk out of the condemned cell into the execution chamber: no longer the solemn intoning of the funeral service during the procession. Calvary was an old and stubborn building and its modernization had been difficult and costly, but Higneth had stuck to his guns and finally the changes had been made. Violet Parsons would barely have time to realize that she was being taken to the scaffold before the noose was round her neck, and the trap was being dropped.

  When Higneth entered the condemned cell shortly before eight o’clock, McNulty eagerly in his wake, the chaplain waiting outside, he was relieved to see that Parsons seemed perfectly calm. She appeared grateful for McNulty’s presence; she took his hand, and said she was glad to have a dear friend to help her to the Other Side. Higneth remembered the stories of how Parsons and the husband she had poisone
d, had held seances in London during and immediately after the Great War. It had not been much mentioned in the trial, but he thought there had been a suggestion somewhere that the seances had been full of tricks and devices to cheat the vulnerable bereaved clients who attended. But fraudster or not, faced with death it certainly seemed Parsons’ own belief was genuine. Higneth hoped it would help her through the final moments.

  The two duty warders did not seem especially curious about the weighing machine which McNulty had told them to carry in. Probably they thought it was part of the new methods which Higneth had introduced. It was an unwieldy machine with an unusually large platform – Higneth wondered if McNulty had had it specially constructed – and horizontal brass rods with what looked like dozens of tiny squares attached to them, each one a different size, each one marked as being pounds or ounces. The ounces were divided into sections, so that it would be possible to take the minutest fraction of an ounce into consideration.

  ‘I am using ounces troy, not ounces avoirdupois,’ said McNulty seeing Higneth’s look. ‘Troy allows for a little more precision – four hundred and eighty grains to the ounce.’

  Violet Parsons weighed fourteen stone, five pound, four ounces and two hundred grains. McNulty wrote this down, and Violet said, ‘I am glad to know I am contributing to our work. You will write this up, of course.’

  ‘I shall, and it shall always be known as the Parsons’ Experiment,’ said McNulty. ‘You will live on in our work, my dear Vita. But in two or three minutes you will be with the loved ones we have so often spoken with.’ He stepped back, nodding to the waiting warders to indicate that he had finished his work.