20
We took the Metropolitan Railway at Aldgate. I wanted to talk to Rosie about Nora and Iain Sutherland, and what he might be hiding, but she shook her head and kept a firm hold of her seat, as anxious as Jonah waiting for the whale to cough him up. When the train burst on to the platform at Bishopsgate, the first station on the line, she gasped and grabbed my arm.
We all harbour fears of something.
We exited at King’s Cross and headed northwards through the slums and cheerless dollyhouses, where women lacking most of their teeth and all the lacing on their upper garments hung out of windows and called down to us. Rosie pointedly ignored them.
‘It’s quite common for a brother and sister both to go into the church,’ I said. ‘Children of the clergy, most likely.’
Sutherland’s fate might have been my own, if I’d been born into a man’s body. My father believed the only worthwhile vocations were the church or the army, and I could never have tolerated all that marching.
Rosie was walking at speed. ‘What secret is he keeping, do you suppose?’
She clearly didn’t like the idea that a Catholic deacon, a man in training to become a priest, might lie to save himself. And yet he’d as good as admitted it.
‘Something about Agnes Munro,’ I said. ‘Something that might see her set free.’
After that we continued in silence, eyes straight ahead, though we couldn’t help but catch glimpses of the alleys and doorways: dull-eyed fellows with restless fingers; mothers and children clutching each other in the cold; a young girl hugging a three-legged goat.
Having previously lived in Camden, I had known what to expect, but I thought Rosie might be shocked. She was not.
‘See that clock tower,’ she said eventually, pointing. ‘That’s where the market is. Albert and I go there for our meat. Or we did before he got sick.’
The market was closed on Saturdays so no one was crowding the lanes that led to it, but we could easily see the route they usually took by the piles of cow shit, split barrow wheels, screwed up paper bags and, most of all, sparkling trails of bottle glass.
We turned right at the main road, and not long afterwards, the City Prison loomed up in front of us.
‘Are you all right, Leo?’
‘Of course.’
In truth, I was experiencing a peculiar sensation. I didn’t consider myself to be a criminal, and yet, in the eyes of the law, I was one. Specifically, I was a fraud. I had gained my position at the Daily Chronicle and my lodging with Alfie as a man, which, as my friend Peregrine had informed me, would likely result in my incarceration, if I was ever caught.
I missed Peregrine considerably. According to the last postcard I’d received from him, his theatrical tour had now progressed to Morecambe and would remain there for the summer, but I dearly wished he was at home. I wanted to ask him whether this prison was the kind of place to which I would be consigned. I had a black vision of myself in a dress and mob cap, mending uniforms and picking oakum out of ropes with the women. Worse still, they might try to cure me using chemicals and electricity and holes drilled into my head. I was terrified of them trying, and even more so that they might succeed, after a fashion. What would be left of me then? A facsimile of a woman, skin pulled over bone with no mind or soul within.
A cold shiver ran through me and I wished I’d worn my coat. It was a masculine thing, that coat, with broad shoulders, thick lapels and a boxy shape, as though I had donned a coal scuttle. No one would think me other than a man in that coat.
Rosie didn’t wait for me but crossed over the street towards the prison gatehouse. Whoever had designed the monstrous building had modelled it, as far as I could tell, on the kind of toy castle my brother had played with as a child, with narrow windows for his tin bowmen to shoot through, and tall battlements from which imaginary oil could be flung.
We passed between the lamps guarding the entrance and I followed Rosie to the front door, half expecting it to lower as a drawbridge on two reels of string.
Before she could knock, a guard in uniform sprang from his hut and straightened his cap. He was holding a clipboard.
He was an earnest fellow in his fifties with a face made all of vertical lines running down in parallel from his eyes and mouth.
‘No. I’m from the Chronicle. I need to talk to one of your prisoners. I have reason to believe she’s innocent.’
‘Bit late for that.’
‘She hasn’t yet been convicted.’
He scratched his head, lifting his ill-fitting cap. ‘She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t convicted.’
‘She’s confessed,’ I conceded, earning a loud tut from Rosie. ‘But that doesn’t mean she did it.’
Even to my ears, that sounded feeble. I hadn’t considered that prisons didn’t commonly allow visitors to speak to their inmates. I pressed the heel of my hand against the sore point on my chest where Coffey’s boot had landed, feeling the flood of pain spread through me like lye through a sponge.
I shouldn’t have come here. I’d been blinded by my own righteousness, or perhaps, more accurately, by my impatience for redemption. Finding my culpability indigestible, I’d sought to retch it up at the earliest opportunity.
‘Sorry, mate.’ He tucked his clipboard under his arm and indicated the street. ‘No ’pointment, no entry.’
We walked back to the pavement just as a flat, atonal bell in the distance told us it was four o’clock.
Rosie stamped her foot irritably. ‘I never thought … damn. What a waste of time. I may as well go home. Mr Whitford said he’d collect me at six-thirty.’
‘Oh, is that today?’
She nodded, looking distractedly back the way we’d come. ‘It is, though now I wish it wasn’t. I’ve better things to do than swan around Kew Gardens with Mr Whitford.’
‘Then why did you agree to go?’
‘I don’t know.’ She drew in a long breath and lowered her chin so that, from where I was standing, her face was obscured by the brim of her bonnet. ‘It’s all right when you and I are out gallivanting and solving crimes, Leo, but most of the time I’m at home. And Alice is off to Hastings, so … it’ll just be me and the kids. I know I’m being silly, but … I don’t want to be lonely.’
I had never thought of her as being lonely. How could she be, when she harboured no secret that would for ever put a curtain between her and the rest of the world? And yet, she seemed so glum that I had the desperate urge to cheer her up. She’d heard all my jokes and was, inexplicably, impervious to my coin trick, so I had to settle for patting her on the shoulder.
At that moment, a cab drew up and, to my surprise, Mother Eugenie climbed out. She had changed her clothing; swapping the simple, greying habit she’d been wearing for a stark black and white one, creaseless and perfect, with a shiny cross on a chain around her neck.
‘I thought you might be here too,’ she said.
I noticed she didn’t pay the driver. Perhaps religious Sisters got free travel around London, much like actresses.
‘They won’t let us in.’
She gathered herself. ‘We’ll see about that.’
Barely taller than Rosie, she could nevertheless muster a regal bearing. She glided up to the entrance and waited for the guard to come to her. He hesitated and swiped off his cap.
‘Do you have a ’pointment, ma’am?’
‘No, and neither do I need one. I am the Mother Superior at the Convent of Mercy and one of my Sisters is locked up in this dreadful place. I will see her immediately.’
To his credit, he did not wilt. Many a man would have.
‘It don’t work that way.’
She surveyed him, her lips pressed hard together. ‘Were you by any chance in the army before your current employment?’
‘I was, ma’am. Sixteenth Regiment.’
‘Well then. When I was in the Crimea, I met a good many men like you. I salved their burns, changed their bandages and held their hands as they died. I prayed over them while bullets flew over our heads. I didn’t do all that so I could stand out here in the cold while one of my own is in there. I will enter this place.’ She made a shooing motion with her hands. ‘Fetch whoever you need to get permission from so we can all get on with it.’
When the poor fellow had gone, Mother Eugenie turned to Rosie and me. ‘And what’s your plan?’
I smiled as winningly as I could, though Rosie had once told me the expression resembled a crazed Labrador. ‘I want to write about the miscarriage of justice. If Sister Agnes is willing to tell the truth, I’ll put it in the newspaper.’
‘Will you know the truth when you hear it?’
‘I hope so.’
Before long, a woman appeared at the door. She was mature, sturdy in the foundations and broad in the belly, with a high, crenellated forehead.
‘I’m Mrs Jackman,’ she announced. ‘I’m in charge of the women’s wing. Follow me.’
As the door shut behind us, we were thrown into darkness before emerging into a courtyard on the other side. Ahead, another building rose up, even larger than the gatehouse, stretching its vulturous wings on either side, four storeys high, brutal and impregnable.
I clasped my fingers together and kept walking, feeling my heart pounding in my chest.
Mrs Jackman swept a hand across the buildings. ‘Boys on the left, mostly from the gangs. Girls and women on the right. Men in the blocks behind.’
Through the windows, dim faces were watching us. Hands reached out between the bars, not in some painful desperation but simply, it seemed to me, to feel the wind.
‘Don’t speak to anyone,’ Mrs Jackman instructed as we reached the main doorway.
‘What if they speak to us?’ asked Rosie.
‘They won’t. They know better.’
We followed her through a further heavy door and, as it clanged shut, I could feel my fingers prickling. Ahead of us was a long nave, the upper storeys accessible via stairs and galleries with nets strung between them. The arched ceiling was half lit by grubby skylights, lending the place an infernal air, not helped by the knowledge that it was crammed with prisoners, out of sight in the cells on either side, their soft feet shuffling on the floors and their fingers pressing needles through cloth. The only voice we could hear was a keening squeal from one of the upper cells which I took at first for a buzzard, until it sank and growled and fell to coughing. Rosie and I exchanged a glance.
‘I’m letting you see Miss Munro because she hasn’t been tried yet,’ said Mrs Jackman. ‘Also, because …’ she trailed off.
‘Because I’m a woman religious,’ said Mother Eugenie, finishing her sentence.
Mrs Jackman nodded, though I was almost certain that hadn’t been what she was going to say.
The cell doors were heavy iron, with a barred window on each one. Most of them were empty, their doors open, sacking and chaff strewn on the ground. A few were shut, the inmates lying on their cot or, in one case, standing at the bars, observing me and sucking in air through her teeth. Mrs Jackman shot the woman a look, and she pushed away into darkness.
At the next cell, Mrs Jackman fumbled with her keys and threw open the door, revealing Sister Agnes kneeling on the ground.
I was struck by how little had changed. Another small room, another bible on the shelf, another cross hung on the wall. She smiled, indicating to Mother Eugenie and Rosie that they should sit on the bed beside her, which they did, resembling two small prayer books either side of a hefty concordance.
The warden turned to leave, and I followed her out. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Jackman. Agnes seems to have been given everything she needs. The books and cross and so forth.’
She narrowed her eyes, unsure if I was complimenting her.
‘So?’
‘I was wondering why. It seems like a lot of trouble for one prisoner on her first day. Have you done it because of what she is?’
I only had half of her attention. The other half was hearing, feeling, smelling this place like a gamekeeper attuned to his land. Such a strange position to hold, I thought, guarding all these women. How they must hate her. When she went home to her family in the evening or spent a carefree Sunday picnicking with friends, did they ask her whom she had punished that week?
‘We have all kinds here,’ she said. ‘I treat them the same no matter who they were before.’
‘Then why?’
She leaned towards me and spoke in a low tone. ‘I read the newspapers. I know what she did. And from what I can see, the swine had it coming. We’ve all wished we could do the same.’
Upstairs, the thin cry had started up again, sounding even more inhuman, a product of madness or agony. No one seemed to be attending to the woman or comforting her. I supposed they had got used to the noise, an accompaniment to their daily lives.
I waited for the three women in the cell to finish praying. I had no objection to others talking to God if it made them happy, but I could have told them He wouldn’t be answering. They might as well be talking to one of the jackdaws presently defiling the skylights.
When Mother Eugenie had said her amen, I came straight to the point.
‘Why did you change your mind?’ I asked Agnes. ‘Why did you claim you were guilty after so vehemently protesting your innocence?’
Mother Eugenie took the hand of her subordinate. ‘Is it because of that girl? The one you … the one who died?’
Sister Agnes looked nonplussed. ‘Do you mean Peggy?’
It was Rosie who answered. ‘Sister Nora said you took pity on the girl.’
‘She was piteous. Cruelly used by that …’ She stopped herself before she used an unwomanly epithet. ‘That man Drake. Of course I took pity.’
Rosie looked at me and then back at Sister Agnes. ‘Sister Nora said the girl was due to die a horrible death. She said you chose to end her suffering. An act of mercy.’
Sister Agnes stood and began pacing up and down the little cell. ‘That’s not true. I prayed for the Lord to take Peggy, but He wouldn’t.’ She looked up at the cross with a fleeting expression of anger. ‘I stayed by her bedside, waiting as her breath slowed and slowed. On the fifth day she stirred, and I thought she was going to wake. I should’ve taken her life then. She was far too weak to birth a child already dead, and I had no doubt she wouldn’t survive. But I couldn’t do it. I was a coward.’ Her tears were falling on to the flagstones, scuffed into damp smears by her slippers. ‘On the sixth day, she tried to scream, but couldn’t raise her voice loud enough to be heard by anyone outside the room. Her throat was parched. An hour later, she died, but not at my hand. The Lord finally took her.’ She slammed her fist into her other hand, shuddering with the pain. ‘But it was Oswald Drake who was responsible, as certainly as if he’d put a knife into her heart. He was the one who deserved to die, not Peggy.’
Mother Eugenie gasped, but I’d heard such abstractions before and knew not to trust them. ‘When you first went to the penny gaff, was it with the intention of killing him?’
Sister Agnes sighed. ‘I watched him on the stage, preening and boasting. At the end of the evening, he invited members of the audience to come up and have a go in the ring. I’d spent my childhood fighting my brothers, so I accepted. I didn’t think they’d allow me to take part as I am, so I fibbed a bit. Irina was my mother’s name. She was Hungarian, from Szeged.’ She glanced in Mother Eugenie’s direction. ‘I normally value the truth, of course. But Mr Drake was … undeserving. When I won, he invited me to come back the following Tuesday. One week became two and then three. I even enjoyed it.’ The corners of her mouth pulled back a fraction. ‘Perhaps I was never suited to the convent.’
Rosie nodded and took the Sister’s hand. ‘I understand. You wanted him dead, but to actually kill him? That’s a difficult decision to take.’
Sister Agnes frowned at Rosie as if rethinking her initial assessment. ‘I would hope so. Murder would be a terrible burden to bear.’
I leaned forward. ‘If you didn’t kill Drake, then why did you change your mind and tell the police you did? Why did you confess?’
She sat down, her elbows on her knees, and closed her eyes.
‘Didn’t you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘The singing. Those women outside my cell, they were singing. They sounded like angels, wouldn’t you say? It was the beginning.’
Her face was lit up like a painting of the Madonna.
‘The beginning of what?’
She opened her eyes and they were shining with tears, a product of joy now, rather than misery. ‘Don’t you understand? Men like Oswald Drake think they can do anything, hurt anyone, and get away with it. But those women marched into the street and stood up for their rights. They stood up for me. They were a little flame that could become a blaze and then a conflagration.’
I tried not to wince at the thought. ‘And you were the … the spark for that conflagration, is that what you mean?’
‘Of course. And if I claim my innocence now, that flame will go out. It will be a simple legal matter and the trial will be over in no time. I’ll be a woman who claimed innocence but was found guilty, and Mr Drake’s crimes will be ignored. The newspapers will move on and everyone will forget.’
She was right, of course. J. T. would put her execution on page four and never think of her again.
‘What if you’re found innocent? It is possible.’
‘I know. And then the police will be accused of incompetence and, again, everyone will forget about Mr Drake.’ She smiled with genuine warmth, even in this place. ‘But if I say I’m guilty and I killed him because he deserved to die, then I become a quandary, don’t I? People will have opinions. Questions will be asked. I will be remembered as a symbol of freedom from men like him and the singing will continue for ever.’
Mother Eugenie, who’d been listening to all of this with her mouth hanging open, shook her head vigorously. ‘You can’t mean you intend to become a martyr, my dear.’
Sister Agnes lowered her face. ‘It’s why all of this happened. I finally understand God’s purpose for me.’
I couldn’t fathom what I was hearing. This woman, this powerful, fearsome woman, was claiming that God wished her to be hanged. My dislike of Him burned newly hot.
‘But I put you in this position. It was my article that—’
She waved aside my protestation. ‘It’s not your fault, Mr Stanhope, if that’s what concerns you. I whole-heartedly absolve you of any blame.’
‘You cannot.’
‘Because I’m a woman?’
I steadied myself to keep from spinning on the spot.
‘Because I am to blame.’ For this and so many other things.
She gave me a gentle nod. ‘You don’t understand. Without you, this wouldn’t have been possible. I should thank you. You were His instrument, as unlikely as that may seem.’
Rosie, having said little so far, stirred. ‘I don’t know much about these things,’ she began. ‘I’m just a pie maker. But I do know that sometimes I have an idea about a filling and I’m certain it’ll be delicious. I mix it up and bake it. But when I eat the pie, it tastes terrible. The ingredients don’t go together at all. You can’t always be sure.’ She took Sister Agnes’s hand again. ‘Is it possible that you’ve misunderstood what the Lord wants?’
I didn’t think anyone could possibly be swayed by an anecdote about baking, especially as it was clearly nonsense; Rosie had never cooked a foul-tasting pie in her life. But Sister Agnes seemed oddly moved.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I am certain.’
I tried to steer the conversation towards more rational ground. ‘Surely you can do more good for womankind out there than locked up in here.’
‘Others will do that work; the good Mother here and all the Sisters of the convent. Only I can do this, and I intend to see it through to the end.’ She bowed her head. ‘You should leave me now. I wish to pray.’
Outside on the pavement, we bade farewell to Mother Eugenie. Her face was the colour of chalk.
‘Our faith is built on the bones of martyrs, and yet when one presents herself in the here and now, it’s unexpected. I can’t see how this will end well, and yet I pray it will. Goodbye, Mrs Flowers. Mr Stanhope.’
She bit her lip, not able to continue without weeping.
Rosie put her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. ‘It’s different when it’s someone you know.’
We watched Mother Eugenie go, a small black shape among the other pedestrians, who parted either side of her and then came together again, obscuring her from view.
Rosie was shivering. ‘The police will stop looking now, you know that,’ she said, more to herself than me. ‘They’ll rush Sister Agnes into court as fast as they can and call it a victory. We have to find out who really killed Drake before they hang an innocent woman.’
She was still talking as we walked south towards the city, maintaining a brisk pace. She was going to be late for Harry. I replied with ‘yes’ and ‘I agree’ at what seemed like appropriate moments, but I wasn’t really listening.
A plan was slowly taking shape in my head.
I almost told her what it was. I wanted to, but … she would try to stop me and, when I wouldn’t be dissuaded, she would insist on coming too. She was loyal and brave and foolish. I couldn’t put her in that much danger. Better she went out with Harry for the evening and returned to her children and never knew what I had done.