Today my carriage passed through the gates just as a Black Maria trundled to a halt in front of the prison. I reached to put down the window and tell Graymarsh to slow his pace, but he anticipated me. Our horses broke their trot and settled into a walk.
Police transportation is seldom pretty. Beneath the ecstatic blue of the morning sky, the Black Maria and its dark pair of horses looked positively funereal. I noted gouges on the body of the coach and great scratches that might have been made with fingernails. I attempted to imagine a violence as rabid as that: a force that cannot be contained.
Staff had gathered on the steps of the prison. Not merely the matrons but burly men with very little neck. This one was a fighter.
Policemen unbolted the doors. David would not be out on such an errand, yet still I searched for his whiskers amongst the blue-coated men as they pulled a faceless, shapeless mass from the vehicle. It stumbled, unsteady on its legs. Only the ripped skirt dragging on the gravel suggested it was female.
Little by little, she unfolded. A wild tangle of hair, grey with dirt, and a sharp face. I did not like the eyes.
I knew she would lunge and she did, just as the prison bell tolled. It was futile. Masses of policemen and hordes of staff were prepared to restrain her flailing limbs. She could not seriously have expected to escape. Perhaps she just wanted to claw and inflict injury while she still could? Her shrieks and curses joined with the bell in a terrible evensong.
‘I think I shall leave off visiting that prisoner,’ I told Tilda. ‘At least for the present.’
By contrast, Ruth Butterham’s cell seemed a haven of peace when Matron shuffled me inside. Jaundiced light fell through the circular window of yellow glass and wire, touching the top of Ruth’s unkempt head. I narrowed my eyes, hoping to discern the lineaments of the skull, but her hair was impenetrable.
The prisoner tilted her chin up as I entered, and I saw with relief that she was not picking that awful oakum. A Bible lay spread on her lap. Her hands, though stained, were motionless.
‘Good morning, Ruth. How pleased I am to see you so employed.’
‘Oh, it’s you, miss.’ She did not speak with much enthusiasm.
‘Yes. I told you I would come.’
Matron clanged the door shut. I felt it with my body. She did not say anything this time about keeping a watch on us. I pushed down my sense of foreboding and took a seat.
Ruth’s dark eyes studied me. Up and down, pausing at my cuffs, my hem and my waist. Her mother had been a seamstress, of course – she would be noting every detail of my dress.
‘Tell me what you have read today, Ruth.’
Ruth sighed and closed the Bible softly. ‘People are always asking me that. They think, because I did bad things, that I never read the Bible or went to church. But I always did.’
‘Well, perhaps you have never really understood the Gospel? It may not have been explained to you properly.’
Her brow furrowed. It made her eyes look even farther apart. ‘Maybe it hasn’t. But I know enough. I think people know when a thing is wrong, but they do it anyway. They do it because they want to.’
I shifted on my chair. ‘But if that were true, Ruth, if we all acted on our baser instincts, we should all be in prison.’
‘Why, miss!’ A smile crept up her cheek. ‘You don’t mean to say that you have bad thoughts, too?’
Sauce and impudence! A blush hit my face like scalding water. I checked over my shoulder to see if Matron was hovering at the hatch. It was shut. ‘No one is perfect, Ruth. For myself, I belong to the Roman Catholic Church. If I am ashamed of any thought, I confess it to the priest and ask him to absolve me.’
‘I gave my confession to the bluebottles, but I don’t think they’ll let me off, do you?’
‘But that is not the same. Surely you see? You only signed a paper saying you had killed your mistress. You did not explain what was in your heart at the time.’ She turned her head away; a typical, childish gesture. ‘And then when you spoke to me the other day, you mentioned others. People you had killed by accident. What about them? Were you in earnest, or was that an invention?’
She did not answer. Closing the Bible, she held it in one hand, drumming her fingertips upon the cover. Raw. Black-tipped. What had those fingers done?
‘You could tell me.’ My voice came out strained. ‘You have started to talk about your life at home with your family. Why not confide in me further? You might find it a purgative, Ruth.’
‘Ah! So you’re a gossip, are you? That makes sense.’
‘I am not a gossip!’ I flared. Too loud. Matron’s steps echoed in the corridor, coming our way.
Ruth closed her eyes. Her lips compressed. ‘You want a story. Something you can tell your friends over tea. Well, I’ve had enough of people talking behind my back.’
‘People will talk, whatever happens. There will be newspaper accounts … Maybe even ballads. Only you can reveal the truth.’
She smiled. Not a pleasant smile. It chilled me. ‘Happen I will tell you, miss. But don’t pretend it’s for me. It’s about you.’
Before I could respond, the door screeched open. Matron banged in, her keys tinkling like rain. ‘Everything all right, Miss Truelove?’
I stood. To my mortification, one of my legs trembled beneath my skirts. I did not like to appear discomposed before Matron.
‘Yes, thank you, Matron. Everything is in order. I was just moving on to visit Jenny Hill.’ I looked at Ruth. Usually I would extend a hand for her to shake, but I blanched at the idea of those fingers upon my gloves. Instead, I nodded. ‘I will come again next week, Ruth. We can talk at greater length.’
She stuck out her chin. ‘You won’t like it, miss.’
I fear that perhaps she is right.