Chapter Twenty

‘I am entitled to a telephone call.’

‘You’re a prisoner and, as such, entitled to precisely nothing.’ The constable grabbed the chain that linked Harry’s handcuffs and yanked him out of the back of the van. Harry blinked and looked around. He barely had time to register the sign ‘Police Station’ before being shoved through the door of a grey, forbidding building.

A middle-aged, portly constable, who looked as though he was about to burst out of the uniform that strained over his chest, was sitting on a stool behind a high desk in the reception area, reading a copy of the Brecon and Radnor and dunking a jumble biscuit into a mug of tea.

‘One Harry Evans for the cells, Smith.’ The constable pushed Harry in front of the desk. ‘I’ve read him his rights and charged him with assault and battery on Mr Robert Pritchard. ‘

‘Bob the Gob?’ Constable Smith bit into the soggy jumble, spraying his chin and uniform collar with wet crumbs.

‘Yes. And seeing as how Mr Pritchard’s head is all bloodied and bandaged, he wants us to press charges,’ the officer confirmed.

‘Mr Pritchard’s an important man. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, Harry Evans.’ Smith rose to his feet. ‘Empty your pockets.’

‘This is ridiculous -’

‘Your pockets.’

‘How can I empty anything with these on?’ Harry held up his cuffed wrists.

‘He has a point,’ Constable Smith said. ‘I’ll get a truncheon in case he tries any funny business while you’re removing the cuffs, Constable Porter.’

Porter waited until Smith had set a wooden truncheon on the desk, before producing a key and unlocking the handcuffs. Harry reluctantly plunged his hands into his pockets and proceeded to remove the contents. Constable Smith took a large brown paper bag from a cupboard behind the desk, opened a book out on the counter, dipped a pen into an inkwell and proceeded to list Harry’s possessions.

‘Effects of Harry Evans.’ He picked up the first object Harry had placed on the counter and opened it. ‘One gold cigarette case, holding one … ten … fifteen … nineteen cigarettes. Engraved, “To Harry with love on your twenty-first birthday from Bella, Edyth, Maggie, Beth, Susie and Glyn” – that’s quite a harem of women you have there.’ He felt the weight of the case in his hand. ‘Is this real gold?’

‘It is,’ Harry replied tersely. ‘As is the lighter.’

The constable held it up to the electric light and read, ‘“To Harry with love from your parents on your twenty-first birthday.” Who was a lucky boy, then?’

‘Get on with it, Smith,’ Porter snapped. ‘You’ve had your tea break. I haven’t had a bite since breakfast. My stomach thinks my throat’s cut.’

‘One wallet, looks like crocodile skin stiffened by gold corners …’ He looked enquiringly at Harry.

‘Yes, they’re real gold,’ Harry confirmed brusquely.

Smith’s pen scratched over the page. The nib split, blotted the paper and scraped a small hole. ‘Wallet contains.’ He opened it and whistled. ‘Four five-pound notes, three one-pound notes, one ten-shilling note … you rob a bank, Harry Evans?’

‘That is my money and I’ll expect it to be there when I get my wallet back,’ Harry said tersely.

‘If you get it back,’ Smith corrected. ‘How did you earn it?’

Harry hesitated. The point was he hadn’t earned it, but the last thing he wanted to say was, ‘I’m idle rich.’ He settled for, ‘I’m a businessman.’

‘And what kind of business would that be?’ Constable Porter leaned over the counter and looked Harry in the eye.

‘I own property and shops.’

‘I can’t wait until the sergeant questions you, Harry Evans,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll bet a week’s wages on you getting ten years, and that’s just for what we know you’ve done.’

‘One card case – silver – the family let you down there.’ Constable Smith flicked it open. ‘Cards in the name of Harry Evans, Pontypridd address and telephone number.’ He tossed it to his colleague. ‘Name mean anything to you, Porter?’

Porter shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘One linen handkerchief monogrammed H.E. One fountain pen, bearing a gold hallmark.’ Smith pushed it into the bag.

‘That’s all I have apart from this.’ Harry dropped a handful of silver and copper coins on to the counter.

Smith started counting it, making notes as he went along. ‘Two half-crowns, three florins, one shilling, four silver sixpences, two silver joeys, three pennies, three halfpennies, a farthing.’

‘Happy now you have everything?’ Harry demanded caustically.

‘Not everything.’ Porter lifted his wrist. ‘Your watch, tiepin, collar studs and cufflinks.’

Harry reluctantly unbuckled his wristwatch and removed the jewellery the officer had listed.

‘Shoelaces, sock suspenders, braces and belt,’ Porter demanded.

‘I’m hardly likely to hang myself.’

‘Regulations, Mr Evans.’

‘We’ve a real dandy here; I take it they’re all real gold?’ Smith dropped Harry’s studs and cufflinks into the bag, and glanced down at Harry, who was pulling his laces from his shoes.

Harry finally lost his temper. ‘You clearly don’t recognize quality when you see it, Constable.’

‘Not on what I earn. In my experience, it’s only criminals who can afford gee-gaws like this. One pair of laces,’ he wrote when Harry laid them on the counter, ‘one belt, one pair of sock suspenders and one pair of braces.’

‘Arms and legs out so I can check if you have anything else on you.’ Porter patted Harry down professionally. ‘And what have we here?’ He pulled another handkerchief from Harry’s back pocket and a pocket watch.

‘I forgot they were there, I don’t usually keep anything in my back pocket. It spoils the hang of the trousers.’

‘Does it now?’ Porter enquired sceptically. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Second handkerchief, linen, monogrammed H.E… . and one pocket watch, silver. Nice, expensive-looking workmanship.’ Smith eyed his colleague quizzically. ‘Now why do you suppose a man would need a pocket watch and a wristwatch?’

‘That is Robert Pritchard’s watch,’ Harry explained, realizing instantly that possession of it would appear suspicious. ‘I picked it up from the floor of the Ellises’ stables. He must have dropped it when he attacked Mary Ellis.’

Smith opened the watch. ‘It’s Mr Pritchard’s all right.’ He continued to write. ‘One pocket watch, silver, engraved “For Robert Pritchard in return for ten years of faithful and loyal service, E&G Estates” Tell me again, Harry Evans: how did you come by this?’

‘I told you. I picked it up from the floor of the stable. Robert Pritchard must have dropped it when he attacked Mary Ellis.’

‘And you expect us to believe that cock and bull story?’ Smith looked at Porter.

‘It’s the truth.’

‘And I’m Tinkerbell.’ Porter pushed Harry past the desk towards a door in the back wall. ‘Now I’m taking you down for a nice little rest in the cells until the sergeant comes in to question you.’ He opened the door. ‘After you, Harry Evans.’

‘It’s dark.’

‘Go on, I’ll put the light on.’

Unable to see where he was going, Harry moved forward tentatively. He stumbled, and tried to regain his balance, but his feet twisted awkwardly in his unlaced shoes, and as he was more concerned with trying to hold up his trousers than saving himself it took him a few seconds to straighten upright. Just as he did, a blow to the back of his knees sent him tumbling down the steep flight of stone steps. He slammed face first into a metal door. Light flooded down the stairs after him. He heard Constable Porter descend the steps.

‘Are you all right, Mr Evans?’

‘I’ll live.’ Harry struggled to his feet only to be pushed forward a second time. His face collided with the door again, and when he looked at it, he saw blood on the steel panels.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the boys’ ward in the workhouse. Gripping the bars in front of the window, David lowered himself swiftly to the floor, ran to his bed and pulled the single blanket over himself just before the door opened. He wrapped both arms around his head, and opened his eyes a fraction beneath the cover of his fingers.

Sir walked in and headed straight for his bed. He closed his eyes tightly and pretended to be asleep.

‘David Ellis?’ Sir shook him by the shoulder.

David opened his eyes warily.

‘You’re wanted downstairs.’

‘Why?’ David didn’t bother to lower his voice.

‘Quiet!’ The man yanked back the blanket and pulled it off him.

‘Why?’ David repeated, earning himself a clout on the ear.

‘You’ll find out. Get dressed. Quickly!’

David sat up and pulled off the sackcloth nightshirt. He thrust his legs into the grey institution pants and trousers. The woollen underclothes were too tight, the trousers and shirt too short, the socks too large.

Sir watched him dress. ‘Carry the clogs. You don’t want to go waking any of the other boys.’

Matthew sat up. ‘Where you taking my brother?’ he cried out in alarm. Like David he didn’t bother to lower his voice.

‘That, young man, is none of your business. But if you don’t want a beating you’d better close your eyes and get to sleep. And the same goes for the rest of you boys,’ he ordered sternly as they started turning restlessly in their beds.

‘Davy,’ Matthew wailed.

‘I’ll be fine, Matthew. And I’ll get you, Mary, Martha and Luke out of here, I swear it. No matter how long it takes me, I will get you out.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’ David considered the extra thump he received a small price to pay to be able to reassure Matthew. He only wished he could believe what he’d said himself. ‘If I’m not here in the morning, don’t worry about me, just look after Martha and Luke if you can,’ he added before Sir slammed the door.

‘You don’t give up, do you, boy?’ Sir shoved David ahead of him down the stairs. David clutched at the banister and held on tight as he received another blow in the small of his back.

‘Into the office.’ He pushed David into a small cosy room.

A fire burned in the grate, books lined the walls, and a folded newspaper, a cup of tea and plate of shop-bought biscuits lay on the desk. The workhouse master who had been at their eviction, now minus his bowler hat, sat behind it, smoking a cigarette and talking to someone sitting in front of him in a high-backed chair.

‘This the boy you want, master?’

‘You’d better ask our guest that question,’ the master replied.

Ianto Williams, cup of tea in hand and also smoking a cigarette, turned and looked at David standing in the doorway. ‘That’s the boy.’

‘You sure, Mr Williams? He’s a defiant, insubordinate creature. He’ll need a firm hand.’ Sir yanked David forward.

‘Then it’s just as well I have one.’ Ianto Williams smiled coldly.

‘You are fortunate, Ellis.’ The workhouse master squashed his cigarette stub in an ash tray. ‘Mr Williams has offered you a home in exchange for your help around his farm.’

‘I want to stay here with my brother and sister,’ David protested.

‘You want?’ the master repeated scornfully. ‘What you want is of absolutely no concern to the parish, me or Mr Williams, Ellis. You are a lucky boy to find someone willing to put a roof over your head and food on your plate. And the parish is grateful that there’s one less useless Ellis to be housed and fed.’

‘I won’t go …’ David gasped, Sir twisted his ear.

‘See what I mean, Mr Williams,’ Sir said flatly.

‘You’ll have to watch that he doesn’t run off, Mr Williams,’ the master warned. ‘Especially at night.’

‘I have a cellar that I can lock him into.’ Ianto Williams tossed his cigarette end into the fire, placed his empty cup on the desk and rose from his chair.

‘Ellis,’ the master looked David in the eye, ‘this could be a chance for you to make something of yourself. But be warned, if you run away from Mr Williams, or don’t do exactly as he tells you, your brothers and sisters will be punished for your crimes. Do I make myself clear?’

Sickened by pain and humiliation, David nodded sullenly.

‘If we have to beat it into you, Ellis, you will learn that you and your family owe a debt of gratitude to the charitable people who have been forced to hand over taxes from their hard-earned money to pay for your feckless family’s board and keep.’ The master held out his hand to Ianto Williams. ‘I wish you luck with him. Any problems, bring him back.’

‘There won’t be any.’ Ianto Williams prodded David with the end of his riding whip. ‘Outside and untether my horse; you can walk alongside it back to my farm.’

‘Stay still, girl,’ the staff nurse ordered abruptly.

Mary tensed her muscles and sat rigidly upright on the wooden stool. The shears the nurse wielded snapped loudly and she was aware of a cool draught blowing across her neck as her long curls fell in great clumps to the floor. She glanced down without moving her head and watched the pile of black hair at her feet grow steadily higher.

‘Finished.’ The staff nurse removed the towel she had placed around Mary’s shoulders and shook it over the heap at her feet. ‘You have five minutes to clear that mess, wash the floor and clean out the bath. There’s a brush, scrubbing brush, bucket, powdered bath brick and bin under the sink. I will return in five minutes to inspect what you’ve done. If it’s satisfactory I’ll take you to the dormitory. You’re too late for supper.’

Mary rose to her feet.

‘When you’re spoken to, Ellis, you answer, “Yes, Nurse or Sister,” or “No, Nurse or Sister,” as appropriate. Understood? ‘

‘Yes, Nurse.’

‘Five minutes.’ The woman left, closing the door behind her.

Mary went to the sink and found everything just as the nurse said she would. She carried the bin over to the heap of hair on the floor and knelt beside it. Unable to resist the impulse, although she knew it would upset her, she ran her fingers gingerly over her head. The nurse had shorn her, as completely as David did the sheep in shearing season.

Grateful there was no mirror so she didn’t have to look at herself, she grabbed handfuls of hair and dropped them into the bin. When she had picked up as much as she could with her fingers, she tried to sweep up the rest with the brush, but it was hopeless. The strands became entwined in the coarse bristles, and it was almost impossible to pull them out.

She returned to the sink, filled the bucket, threw in an evil-smelling floor cloth and carried it over to the mess. Trying not to think what the cloth might have mopped up the last time it had been used, she wiped up the last vestiges of hair. She gritted her teeth and fought back tears, determined not to give the nurse the pleasure of seeing her cry when she returned.

She had lost her family and control of their lives as well as her own. The authorities had humiliated her by sending men in to strip her and scrub her in filthy water. Her hair had been shaved off, and the sister had threatened to starve her, but she was determined not to be broken.

She would cling to her memories of the good times when her father and mother had been alive. She would think of her brothers and sister every minute of every day. And she would never – never – allow the nurses or the sister to see just how much they had hurt her. Above all, she would try to find a way that would enable her to bring what was left of her family together again.

Just not now. She was too tired to think, let alone make plans. She carried on picking up every single hair from the floor then started on the bath. It had looked shabby when it was full, empty it was worse. The porcelain had worn away in places allowing the black cast iron to show through. But she smeared bath brick over every speck of dirt and scrubbed and scrubbed, working herself into a frenzy, as though her life depended on the degree of cleanliness she could achieve. She would show them that she wasn’t lazy. She would scrub and clean and …

An image of David and the others as she had last seen them flooded her mind. She could bear any amount of shame and humiliation if only she knew for certain that they were safe and being cared for. If they tried to treat David as they had treated her he would fight back and …

She couldn’t stand the thought of him – of any of the little ones – being beaten, shorn and ill-treated. And Luke? She could still hear his cries, piercing and heartbreaking. Matthew, Martha …

She uttered a silent prayer for all four of them. Then, afraid of driving herself insane with worry, she deliberately shut her mind and concentrated every ounce of energy that she could summon on scraping the dirt from the bath.

Harry’s hands and face were burning. He was loath to open his eyes because he suspected that the pain would be intolerable. He couldn’t even recall where he was. There was a peculiarly unpleasant smell, a mix of institution disinfectant, male changing room and dirty lavatories. And although his exposed skin was on fire, his limbs were freezing. Just as they had been the winter the heating had broken down in his rooms in college.

He couldn’t hear a sound. Steeling himself for pain, he tried to force his eyes open but his eyelids were glued shut. He moved his hand over them, rubbing at the crust that gummed his lashes, and caught a glimpse of a shadowy, unfocused world. He ran his fingers over the surface he was lying on. It was rough stone – flagstone. Then he remembered.

He was in the police station in Brecon, and Constable Porter had thrown him into a cell. The only light was fading fast. It came from a tiny sliver of skylight bordering the high ceiling, and even that was grated by iron bars. He moved tentatively. His back, arms and legs hurt, but not as much as his face, especially his nose and eyes. He crawled to the steel door and banged on it, but the sound echoed into silence.

The police had been hostile, but logic told him that they wouldn’t have left him to starve to death. It was a Saturday night – the traditional night for drinking and drunks in every Welsh town. They were probably out on patrol. It was the most likely explanation, but it didn’t stop him from feeling any the less vulnerable and abandoned.

Something warm and sticky slunk down his face. He hit it and when he looked at his fingers they were dark with clotted blood. A lidded bucket stood in the corner of the cell. No need to guess what that was for.

Above it and to the side was a metal shelf. He crawled towards it, stretched up, gripped the sides and used it to haul himself upright. His trousers slipped and he recalled handing over his belt and braces. He grabbed the waistband. The shelf held an enamel jug of water and a small tin cup. He filled the cup and fumbled in his pockets. He didn’t even have a handkerchief left to wipe his face with and there was no sign of a cloth.

Leaning heavily with one arm, he managed to pull the other out of the sleeve of his jacket. He dipped the cuff in the water and gently sponged his face. His skin felt stiff when he tried to move his muscles, and he realized that his bruises were caked with dried blood. Judging by the light, he must have been lying on the floor for hours.

Dizzy and faint, he continued to cling to the shelf. He felt as though a herd of miniature bullocks was pounding through his head. A tide of bile rose from his stomach. He looked for something other than the cold floor that he could lie on. A long metal shelf, reinforced by two chains, was bolted to the wall behind him, a blanket folded at one end. Even in the receding light he could see that some parts of it were stained darker than others. He swept the blanket to the floor with his forearm. Shrugging his other arm out of his jacket, he folded the damp part inside and made a pillow for his head. Clutching it, he sat on the bunk, lifted up his legs, lay back and waited for someone to come.

When he next opened his eyes, he found himself in darkness as unrelenting as the coal store in Ynysangharad House, which, to Mari’s annoyance, he and Bella had occasionally used as a hiding place when they’d been children. He touched the sheet of steel beneath him and recalled where he was before slipping back into unconsciousness.

A loud clatter woke him some time later, he had no way of knowing whether it was hours or minutes, and later still he heard a drunk belting out ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ at the top of his voice.

He considered banging the door of his cell to attract attention. He was thirsty and in pain. But it hurt to move and it was easier to close his eyes. The next time he opened them, the thin grey light of dawn had lightened the skylight above his head. A key turned in the lock, the door opened and Constable Smith, freshly shaved and smelling of soap, stood, steaming mug in one hand and a plate holding a sandwich the size of a doorstep in the other. His eyes rounded when he saw Harry.

‘You all right?’

‘Do I look all right?’ Harry swung his legs over the side of the bunk, sat forward and cradled his head. ‘I need a doctor.’

‘You hurt yourself in the night?’

Harry sensed it wasn’t so much a question as a plea for reassurance that his injuries were self-inflicted. ‘Didn’t your colleague tell you?’

‘He said you fell against the door, but that happens quite often here. Well, it would, wouldn’t it?’ Smith muttered defensively. ‘It’s difficult to walk down a flight of steps when you have to hold up your trousers and keep your shoes on without laces.’

‘It’s even more difficult when you’re pushed from behind.’

‘You making an accusation?’

‘Do you really think that I fell, Constable Smith?’ Harry enquired heavily.

‘That’s what Constable Porter said, and I’ve never known him tell a lie.’

‘Well, I suppose you could say I did fall, in a manner of speaking.’ Harry took the mug of tea Smith handed him, and wrapped his hands around it.

‘There you are, then.’ Constable Smith was clearly relieved.

‘But I wouldn’t have if Constable Porter hadn’t put his boot behind my knees.’

‘That’s slander, and I wouldn’t repeat it if I were you. You could face even more charges -’

‘Can I or can I not see a doctor?’ Harry repeated, suffering too much pain from what he suspected was a broken nose to be diplomatic.

‘I’ll ask the sergeant when he comes in.’

‘And when will that be?’ Harry enquired testily.

‘It’s Sunday. His wife likes to go to morning mass – she’s Catholic, he’s not, but sometimes he goes with her. It’s difficult to know when he’ll be in because we don’t have what you might call a regular routine on Sundays, but he usually calls here during the afternoon.’

‘Can I at least have my handkerchief?’ Harry lifted his jacket and unfolded it. The right sleeve was crimson with blood.

‘It’s against regulations. A man can hang himself with a handkerchief.’

‘Not this man. That is unless Constable Porter chooses to join me in this cell,’ Harry added acerbically.

‘I’ve warned you before. It’s slander to make accusations against an officer of the law.’

Harry held up his blood-stained jacket. ‘Do you want me to bleed to death?’ When Smith didn’t move, he said, ‘If it helps, you have my permission to cut my handkerchief into four quarters. And I’d like some fresh water, if it’s not too much trouble. To wash with as well as drink,’ he shouted as Smith finally retreated and locked the door.

Smith returned a few minutes later with Constable Porter. He set Harry’s handkerchief, which had been duly quartered, and a fresh jug of water next to the sandwich on the narrow shelf.

‘Can I see a doctor?’ Harry raised his eyes to Porter’s.

‘I’ve no authority to call one on Sunday. They charge more.’

‘I’ll pay.’

‘We have to return your money to you, intact.’

‘I’ll sign a waiver,’ Harry offered.

‘Not allowed,’ Porter snapped officiously.

‘If you’re hoping the cuts and bruises will fade by tomorrow, forget it,’ Harry advised. ‘The way they feel right now they will be there for months and I’ll take care to tell your superiors that they are entirely your work, Constable Porter.’

‘The blood under his nose is bright red; that means it’s still bleeding,’ Smith observed timidly.

‘Only because he’s been picking it,’ Porter retorted touchily. ‘You been picking at your nose?’ he demanded of Harry.

‘Of course. I love pain so much I can’t stop inflicting it on myself,’ Harry retorted flippantly.

Smith laughed nervously.

‘What’s funny?’ Porter turned on his colleague.

‘Nothing,’ Smith muttered, very much Porter’s second-in-command although they were the same rank.

‘We’ll see what the sergeant says when he comes in.’ Porter backed out of the door. ‘And when he does, the first things he’ll see on his desk are Mr Pritchard’s stolen watch and his sworn statements.’

‘I found the watch.’ Harry felt as though he were talking to a deaf man.

‘Even if you did, you didn’t turn it in. And for that you’ll be charged with stealing by finding. The sergeant thinks very highly of Mr Pritchard, Harry Evans,’ Porter warned.

‘Can I make a telephone call?’ Harry leaned weakly against the wall. ‘This situation is new to me but I believe that I’m entitled to one.’

‘Who would you want to telephone?’ Porter demanded aggressively.

It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to correct Porter’s grammar and say ‘Whom would you wish to telephone?’ but he’d lost the will to fight. Locked in a cell with a bloody nose and thumping head, he felt powerless. And what was worse, he didn’t even know whether Toby had managed to speak to his stepfather the night before. It would have depended on what time his parents reached Pontypridd. And his Uncle Joey’s house was closest to the station. Knowing his father and uncles, they could have sat up half the night talking.

Mari and the rest of his sisters would have been at home to take a message, but his father’s workload was heavy, even more so since the miners’ strike. However much Lloyd would have wanted to drop everything to help him, he knew that his stepfather might not be in a position to do so.

‘I would like to let my family know where I am. They will be worried about me.’

‘You said you were staying at an inn,’ Porter prompted.

‘I telephone them every night.’

‘Proper mammy’s boy sissy, aren’t you?’

‘You can’t keep me here another day.’

‘I’m the officer of the day and I can do exactly that,’ Porter contradicted. ‘You’ve been formally arrested so we can keep you here until you go before the magistrates’ court. And there won’t be one of those until Monday morning.’

‘I’m entitled to legal representation.’

‘Not on a Sunday in Brecon you’re not. It’s my guess that the sergeant will keep you on ice for another twenty-four hours. He’ll want to talk to you before you go to court, but there’s plenty of time. All day, in fact. Not that you’ll be able to add much of any interest to Mr Pritchard’s sworn statements. We’ve all the evidence we need to send you down. The only thing left for the magistrate to do is sentence you. And my money’s on five to ten years’ hard labour.’

‘Doesn’t “innocent until proven guilty” apply in Brecon?’ Harry closed his eyes momentarily against the pain.

‘We have the crache, we have hardworking ordinary people, we have layabouts and, at the bottom of the pile, we have incoming thieving scum who strut around wearing gold cufflinks and tiepins.’ Porter nodded to the tea and sandwich. ‘Eat your breakfast.’

Constable Smith murmured, ‘Perhaps we should -’

‘Eat our own breakfast, Smith,’ Porter interrupted. ‘Good idea. Lock him in.’

Harry shuddered when he heard the key grate in the lock again. He jumped down from the bunk and leaned unsteadily against the small shelf. He tipped the bloodstained water from the cup into the bucket, rinsed it out and filled it with clean from the jug. Dipping a square of handkerchief in, he bathed his face again. The water was tepid, and soon it was as red as the water he had discarded.

Holding a dry piece of handkerchief over his nostrils, he pinched them in an effort to stop the blood from flowing. He wasn’t hungry but he was thirsty. His cup of tea had cooled, and there were greenish lumps of discoloured milk floating on the surface. He placed it back, untouched, on the saucer and poked the sandwich. It was hard and stale. He opened the enormous slices. A thin layer of peculiar pink meat lay between the pieces; there was no butter.

He returned to the steel shelf, bundled his jacket back into a makeshift pillow again, lay down and, having nothing better to do, tried to formulate a plan of action.

Top of the list was to get himself out of the cell, he reflected grimly. Then he would find Brecon Workhouse, and get the Ellises released, if not into his care, then into his parents’.

And once he’d taken them out? What then? Find out who owned the Ellis Estate and employed Bob Pritchard, and take them to task. He wondered what kind of unprincipled individual or organization would employ a criminal so devoid of principles that he’d rape and steal from defenceless people.

If he could track down enough current or past tenants to speak out against the agent, he’d ask his solicitors to make a case against the man. But would any of the women admit to being raped when it would be their reputations that would suffer, not Bob Pritchard’s?

He didn’t doubt that his mother would help him to get Mary out of the workhouse and the children out of the orphanage wing, but even if he paid all their debts he might not be able to get the Ellis Estate back for them, and that left him with the problem of finding somewhere for the family to live and some way for them to earn their keep.

He imagined Mary Ellis in the grey uniform dress and wooden clogs he had seen the inmates wearing in Pontypridd Workhouse. She was used to hard work but not the mind-destroying scrubbing of outside yards and paving, which he had seen the female inmates being forced to do on the rare occasions when the huge double doors at the side of the building had been left open. And he could only imagine how desperate she felt at being separated from her brothers and sister.

His nose hurt and his head ached, but he was too restless to continue lying on the bunk. He started pacing the cell. Seven steps one way, three the other, and they weren’t big steps. He looked up at the narrow window. The sill began about a foot above his head. He reached up, locked his fingers around the bars and pulled himself up. The pavement was at eye level.

‘What a way to spend a Sunday morning,’ he muttered. He lowered himself to the floor and pulled himself up again – and again and again – in an effort to work off the frustration and the anger he felt towards Porter for pushing him downstairs, the authorities for allowing a hardworking family like the Ellises to be separated and destroyed, but most of all towards Robert Pritchard, who had abused the power with which he’d been entrusted.

He started counting the number of times he pulled himself up – one, two – and when he reached sixty the key turned in the lock. He dropped to the floor.

Constable Smith coughed in embarrassment. ‘Your solicitor and your father are here. Why didn’t you tell us that your father is an MP?’

‘Because it shouldn’t have made any difference. Every man is innocent until proven guilty – that is the law of this country, isn’t it? The one you swore to uphold.’ Harry walked to the bunk and picked up his jacket.

The officer shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘The sergeant’s with them. They’re waiting in his office.’ He held out Harry’s belt, braces, sock suspenders and shoelaces. ‘Do you want me to help you to put them on?’

Harry took them from him and handed him the jug. ‘I can manage but I’d appreciate some clean water and a towel so I can clean up my face. A mirror might be useful as well,’ he called after Smith.