by Sarah Rayne
Michael rang off, and saw with some concern that it was ten-past five. All those nineteen offices probably closed at half-past, in which case it would probably be quicker to phone Nell and ask her to look the name up in the local paper.
He dialled the shop, which went to voicemail. Then he dialled her mobile, which did the same thing. Michael swore, realizing that at this time of the day Nell would be collecting Beth from school. She did not have a hands-free attachment for the phone in the car, so the mobile would be switched off. No matter, he would leave a message, explaining briefly what had happened, and asking her to call him as soon as possible. She would get back pretty soon; she was very good about returning calls.
Was there anyone else he could contact? What about the professor, who might know the name of the estate agents? But the professor’s phone also went to voicemail, and Michael remembered he was giving another of his lectures at the Radcliffe – one of a series on Philosophy.
It was twenty-past five, and he had better at least make a start on the nineteen estate agents. The first four on the list said no, they were not handling the Deadlight Hall flats. No, they were sorry, they did not know who was. The fifth firm said, rather sharply, that it was not the business of estate agents to give out information about other companies. Michael rang off, chastened, and ploughed on. But the seventh firm he rang answered with a recording saying they were closed until 9.a.m tomorrow. The eighth and ninth had similar messages.
Michael cursed, and thought he would simply have to sit here and wait for Nell to call back. She might have Jack Hurst’s address or a home phone number for him – she had mentioned contacting him for a quote for the shop. He hoped he would not end up phoning the police to get him out. If it came to it, he would have to break a ground-floor window and climb out.
Deadlight Hall was not the ideal place to be on your own, but it would not be for long. In the meantime, he remembered that he had what might be interesting company in the form of Maria Porringer. Positioning himself more comfortably on the window seat, checking to make sure his phone was still switched on, he opened the small book and began to read.
It appeared to be a kind of continuation of the notes he and Nell had found in Porringer’s shop, and it began with Maria’s record of the visit she made to the gaol to be with a condemned prisoner.
Tuesday 15th: 4.00 p.m.
A short while ago Mr Porringer and I arrived at the gaol, and were shown to a very pleasant bedroom in the governor’s own wing. (Glazed chintz curtains and very superior bedroom china.)
5.00 p.m.
Mr Glaister conducted a short interview with me, which I thought considerate of him. He is a most gentlemanly person (more so than I had expected, considering that he consorts with murderers and all manner of felons each day), and thanked me when I expressed my appreciation of our rooms. ‘Although we shall not be here for much longer, as you know,’ he said. ‘The remove to the new prison is imminent.’
He explained to me that I would be required to remain in the condemned cell with the prisoner through the night.
‘And to be present at the execution itself, if we think it would help her,’ he said.
When I did not speak, Mr Glaister said, ‘It is a swift method of death. We use what is called the long drop – the suspension drop – which is calculated very carefully and precisely. It is far preferable to the old “short drop”, which was often little better than slow strangulation. With this method complete unconsciousness occurs within a second or two, and actual death is some fifteen or twenty minutes after that. It is ugly, but surprisingly humane. And, of course, it is the law of the land.’
‘Also the law of God. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”’
‘Just so.’
I hesitated, then I put the question that had been in my mind for some time.
‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘there is no question as to her guilt?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said Mr Glaister at once. ‘The evidence was clear, and there can be no doubt.’
‘Thank you.’
6.00 p.m.
An hour ago I was taken to the condemned cell. It is one of a row of cells opening off a stone-walled passageway. All the doors are strong and fitted with heavy locks, and most have a small hatch near the top.
A male attendant conducted me there – a plump person with unattractive red pimples spattering across his face. Bad diet is my opinion of the cause of that, and I told the man so, recommending Mr Porringer’s compound of sulphur as an ointment. But he is a person of surly nature, for he only grunted, and unlocked the door of the cell.
It is a very terrible place, that condemned cell, and even though I trust I am not a fanciful woman I was aware of a feeling of such fear and despair that it was as if it lay on the air, like the stench of curdled milk.
At first I thought the prisoner did not recognize me, so I sat on the single hard chair provided and introduced myself, reminding her how we had met on several occasions when she came into the shop for purchases. (Mostly items of adornment they were: creams and lotions for the face, and softening ointments for hands. A vain creature I always thought her.)
She did not reply, and I was about to speak again when she turned her head very slowly and stared at me. As God is my judge, there was something very frightening in that blank, mad stare. I had been prepared to encounter madness though; there is surely no sanity in the mind of a woman who has killed – and the killing so shocking.
‘Mrs Porringer,’ she said at last, as if trying the words out, and seeing if they could be arranged in a recognizable pattern. Then, ‘Yes, I do remember you.’
She has a soft voice, educated I suppose it could be called, and although she did not actually say, ‘Oh, yes, you’re the shop-woman,’ I heard it in her tone, and charitable as I was resolved to be, a deep resentful anger churned up for a moment. I dare say we could all have nice gentle voices and money for creams and scented oils for smooth white skin if only we had been born into comfort and married into money.
(I had intended this to be a formal account of the event, but do not see why I should not incorporate a few thoughts and opinions of my own, since it is unlikely anyone will ever read it, aside from Mr Porringer, who does not count and knows better than to gossip anyway.)
As for gossip – I do not, myself, listen to it, but it is not always possible to avoid it, and the word is that this woman came from a good, but impoverished family, and that the marriage to Mr Breadspear was arranged to mend the family fortunes.
So the prisoner whom Maria had been summoned to care for had been Augustus Breadspear’s wife. Michael had not expected this; there had been no mention in any of the letters of Breadspear having a wife – although that was probably not surprising, if she had been hanged for murder.
But the murder of whom? He continued reading.
The pimpled man remained outside the cell, but he did not close the door completely, and he watched as I gave Esther Breadspear the draught Mr Porringer had mixed. A tincture of opium it was, as detailed in the Poison Book kept at Mr Porringer’s shop. Mr Porringer had added a spoonful of honey to sweeten it a little. Myself, I should not have bothered with such a refinement (and honey so expensive), but he was ever susceptible to a soft manner and a doe-eyed prettiness. If I did not keep a firm eye on Mr Porringer, he would certainly be handing out credit to all and sundry, and plunging us into poverty.
7.30 p.m.
Supper in governor’s private dining room. He has rooms adjoining the gaol, and he is an unmarried man which is a pity, although I suppose there are very few women who would care to have their home within prison walls. Perhaps, though, he will have more conventional quarters in the new gaol building. And as it is, he seems well served by his household.
The prison chaplain was there, and Mr Porringer had thought that the hangman himself might also be present, which was not something I viewed with equanimity. To sit at table with the hangman cannot be regarded as a comfortable situation
for anyone. Also, Mr Porringer is apt to suffer from acidity if he is upset, and if dining with the Queen’s executioner is not upsetting I do not know what is. (I discovered shortly before supper that Mr Porringer had not brought his bismuth mixture. I was not best pleased, for I had reminded him of it before leaving, but it is typical of him to forget despite the reminder.)
However, the hangman did not appear and the chaplain murmured something about there being a tradition of him, along with his assistant, taking his supper at some local pub.
The meal was most agreeable, with linen table napkins, and four courses – soup, roast chicken, a dessert of syllabub, and sardines on toast for the savoury. Mr Porringer, after a warning frown from me, declined the syllabub, but partook of everything else.
9.00 p.m.
I am about to go along to the condemned cell, where I am to spend the greater part of the night.
I am unhappy about Esther Breadspear’s behaviour in the coming hours, but I cannot think I shall have to deal with any actual violence – she can have no animosity towards me personally. When I put this point to Mr Glaister, he said that condemned prisoners generally have animosity towards the whole world in their final hours, and I must be prepared for all eventualities.
However, the pimpled man will be immediately outside the door, the chaplain will be nearby, and I have more of Mr Porringer’s opium draught if needed.
It will be difficult to fill the hours until the morning. Sleep is clearly impossible, except perhaps in short snatches. The chaplain will visit us during the night, and has promised to leave a Bible with us. I feel, though, that we should not read any of that, for it will be read aloud in the morning, as the woman is taken to the execution shed. There is a door from this part of the prison leading on to a small courtyard, in which is situated the execution shed.
I had thought I might take in my needlework, but of course needles or anything sharp cannot be allowed. However, I believe we are permitted to play simple games – backgammon and perhaps piquet.
I shall also take writing paper with me, in case the woman wishes to record any last thoughts. A pen and inkstand will not be allowed, but several charcoal sticks, of the kind used by artists for sketching, have been brought, which will do perfectly well, and I shall make some entries in this book.
10.00 p.m.
I should like to record that everywhere is quiet and calm, but it is not. As I write this there is a kind of uneasy murmuring – almost as the very stones and bricks are humming with anger and resentment at what lies ahead.
They have kept the oil lights burning in the passage outside – a very low light it is, and it casts strange shadows everywhere.
Mr Glaister told me earlier that the other prisoners will know of the forthcoming hanging – they try to keep executions a secret, but the information always leaks out.
‘They become restless on the night beforehand,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they begin banging on their cell walls, or chanting protests. Occasionally prayers or hymns. It is accepted by anyone who has worked in this kind of gaol that the night before a hanging is always a strange one. And it may be particularly so tonight, since this is probably the last hanging that will take place here.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I cannot explain it to you, that strangeness, but it is a feeling of dark suffocation.’
I had thought this a fanciful remark for a man in his position to make, but as I sit here I understand what he meant.
Mr Glaister said something else to me over supper, and I could wish he had not done so, for with night closing around the prison, his words keep whispering in my brain.
‘At some time during the night you may have the impression that someone is creeping along the corridor outside the cell,’ he said. ‘And you may think someone has come to stand outside the condemned cell and is looking in at you through the hatch. If you should hear such a sound, do not let it alarm you, for it will be the hangman.’
We had reached the savoury course, and I was about to accept a helping of sardines, but at this I paused.
‘The hangman?’
‘Yes. He will have to study the prisoner in advance of the morning,’ said Mr Glaister. ‘To assess how best – how smoothly – to carry out his work. To make his calculations for the drop. But he always makes such an inspection discreetly, so as not to cause undue distress.’
Beside me, Mr Porringer gulped down his glass of port with a speed that will certainly provoke one of his acidity attacks.
‘So if you should hear such sounds,’ went on Mr Glaister, ‘you should try to ignore them. In no circumstances draw the prisoner’s attention to them.’
And now I am indeed hearing stealthy footsteps beyond the door of the cell. It will be the hangman, of course, making his quiet inspection, and yet …
And yet I would have thought the hangman would have known his way around this place – indeed, around many such places – and I would certainly have thought he would know the way to the condemned cell, even along the dimly lit passages …
I find I constantly look towards the door. The small hatch near the top is not quite closed; I can see the dull faint glow of the oil lights in the passage beyond. They have just flickered wildly as if a current of air has disturbed them, or as if someone has walked past. Is it the hangman? Does he stand there now, even as I write this? Will he have the noose already in his hands? They say he wears gloves to do his deed – I visualize them as thick and black. How would it feel to have those thick black hands slide the rope around your neck?
‘The long drop,’ Mr Glaister called it. ‘The victim stands on the trapdoor, the bolt is drawn, and in the abrupt descent, the neck is broken. It is a quick death.’
A quick death.
It was not a very quick death that Esther Breadspear gave her two children. They were eight and six years old when she butchered them, slitting their throats. They found her, crouched over their bodies, still clutching the dripping knife, her nightgown wet with their blood. There can be no doubt about her guilt, of course. But does anyone know why she killed them? Could she give a sane answer to the question? When they tried to restrain her (for Mr Breadspear had called for Dr Maguire), she broke away from them, and ran through the house, sobbing and screaming, calling for the children to come back to her, opening doors of rooms as if trying to find them. Mr Breadspear and the doctor eventually cornered her in the dark gardens, and Dr Maguire administered a bromide.
If Esther Breadspear was not insane that night, I believe she is certainly insane now.
11.00 p.m.
Earlier I had perforce to help Esther to the commode – she has vomited profusely and there are other bodily functions she now seems unable to control. Mr Glaister, a gentleman, had not mentioned that likelihood, but the pimpled warder, called to assist, said it was a common occurrence.
‘It’s the fear,’ he said. ‘Turns their bowels to water, the fear.’
I told him I was not accustomed to hearing such terms used so casually, and he was please to empty the receptacle, and sluice and replace it. He has done so, but the small enclosed room still stinks.
Esther is huddled on the narrow bed, and is pressing herself against the wall behind it. Her hair hangs down over her face, and she presents an unkempt appearance. Earlier I tried to tie back her hair and button up her gown, but she threw me off, and she has surprising and rather frightening strength for all she is such a thin frail creature.
A few moments ago she began calling out for her children, exactly as she is said to have done on the night she murdered them. I do not think I have ever heard anything quite so eerie as that cracked, faltering voice, calling for her children.
11.30 p.m.
Esther has sunk into an uneasy slumber, having had a further dose of Mr Porringer’s opium mixture, which he brought to the door of the cell. Even so, there is a line of white under her eyelids, as if she is still watching everything.
I heard the fumbling footsteps outside again a short time ago, and when I looked towards
the door, I believe a shadow showed through the small hatch, as if someone stood there.
The hangman, peering in at his prey …
TWENTY
Michael came out of Maria’s journal to the realization that Deadlight Hall was no longer as silent as it had been. Soft footsteps were walking about overhead – slow, dragging steps, as if their owner was crippled. He looked across at the stairs, trying to quell his racing heartbeat. Had something moved there – had something shuffled in an ungainly way across the top landing, casting a blurred, misshapen shadow as it went? Surely it was only the shifting light outside? His watch showed it to be six o’clock. He dialled Nell’s numbers again, but both were still on voicemail. But he would give it until half-past, then he would see if there was another way out. There was sure to be a kitchen door – a former tradesman’s entrance. The conscientious Jack Hurst would no doubt have locked that as well, but it would be worth trying. But Nell would have phoned back long before then. In the meantime, there was the rest of Maria’s journal.
Wednesday 15th
3.00 a.m. Remarkably I have slept for a brief time. Esther does not seem to have stirred. She has six hours of life left.
5.00 a.m. A grey light is trickling in, and there are sounds beyond the room, suggesting people are abroad. Even so, they are moving quietly, and I remember that Mr Glaister said they try to keep an execution secret from the other prisoners.
