And so poor Helen Orme was no more. In my shock and sorrow, I thought of the milkmaid in the old song – ‘“My face is my fortune, sir,” she said.’ Helen’s lovely face had been her fortune, and probably her misfortune too.
‘I can’t get away from the feeling that I might have prevented this,’ I told Mrs Bentley later. ‘I don’t know how – but if I had only dug about a little more, and in different places!’
‘Now, you stop that – it doesn’t help nobody if you go blaming yourself, so drink up.’
Mrs Bentley had returned from her son’s house to find me weeping beside the embers of the kitchen fire. Flapping away my protests, she had rebuilt the fire and made a jug of her cure-all hot brandy and water.
‘She was a good woman, Mary; as the Lord said, her only crime was that she “loved much”. And poor Miss Winifred is as kind a soul as I’ve ever met in my life.’
‘Do you think the young fellow did it?’
‘No. The facts may be against him, but my every instinct tells me Charles Calderstone is innocent. I said as much to my brother, and he immediately agreed to defend him – much to the relief of Mr Filey. My brother knows I’ve never been wrong in cases like this.’
‘No more you have – I daresay Sir James wants your services again.’
‘He does indeed; he’s offered to pay me any sum I care to mention.’
‘So when did it happen?’
‘Three days ago; the old charwoman let herself into the cottage and found Mrs Orme’s dead body stretched across the sofa. She had been killed with a blow – or several blows – to the head, like Mlle Thérèse.’
Mrs Bentley’s pale eyes were piercing bright above the rim of her glass. ‘Where was the sister-in-law?’
‘The old woman heard moaning from the back of the cottage,’ I said, ‘and found Miss Winifred lying outside the scullery door, horribly injured and unable to speak.’ The tears rushed into my eyes. ‘She’s not expected to live; Sir James would have taken her into his house, but she was not fit to be moved so far; they carried her to the vicarage, a mile or so down the road, to be cared for by Mr Fitzwarren and his mother.’
‘They’d better watch out,’ Mrs Bentley said. ‘That murderer thought he’d killed her; if it wasn’t Mr Charles, he might come back for another go.’
‘I quite agree – but everyone seems utterly convinced of Mr Charles’s guilt. Unfortunately, there’s a reliable witness who saw him at the cottage on the morning of the murder.’
‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Bentley shook her head. ‘That looks bad.’
‘A farm labourer named Turner was hedging and ditching in the field across the lane. He claims he heard angry voices – or one angry voice – though he was too far off to make out exactly what was being said. As you say, it looks as bad as possible. The inquest was held the following day, the verdict was “wilful murder”, and Mr Charles was duly taken up. But I’m convinced this is the work of the same person who killed Mlle Thérèse – and I can’t imagine why Mr Charles would want to do that. You’ve brought up five boys, Mary, and you’d know it as well as I do if you met him; he’s hot-headed and impulsive, but he’s not a killer.’
‘So you think Mrs Orme was attacked after Mr Charles had left her?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There was plenty of time. Unfortunately, the whole countryside knew about the young man’s infatuation with Mrs Orme – and there’s apparently a lot of local feeling against him, due to the manner in which she was discovered.’ I did not need to mince my words with Mrs Bentley. ‘Her skirts were pulled up, exposing her in the most merciless manner, and there was every sign that she had been violated – either shortly before or shortly after death.’
We were silent for a moment, letting the horror sink in.
‘Dear me!’ Mrs Bentley sighed and shook her head again. ‘You’ve got your work cut out this time, ma’am.’
The walls of Newgate Prison, which squatted just south of the Old Bailey, were blank and blackened with soot. Inside this sorrowful place, the condemned waited to be hanged and the suspected waited to be tried. The cells were built to overlook a central yard – the poor locked up on one side, and those who could afford better accommodation on the other. So justice is tempered with money, if not with mercy.
It was early in the afternoon on the day after Christmas but the light was already fading; a dirty yellow fog had descended upon the city, blotting out the struggling winter sun. A heavy door swallowed us into brick-lined darkness, and as I listened to the grind of keys turning and bolts sliding, I felt the dreadful sadness that had soaked into these walls over so many years. The Prayer Book exhorts us to pray for ‘prisoners and captives’. The Lord said, ‘I was in prison and you visited me.’ Matt had great compassion for prisoners, and spent more than one night sitting up with a condemned man; he prayed with them up to the very gallows if he could. ‘It’s the duty of any half-decent clergyman to walk into Hell itself,’ he used to say. ‘We’re needed most where God is least.’
My brother was extremely familiar with Newgate Prison; he often said he spent more time in here than in his chambers, consulting with his clients or (less often) taking leave of them before they were hanged. The sour-looking gaoler who admitted us broke into smiles as soon as he saw him.
‘Mr Tyson – compliments of the season to you, sir!’
‘And to you, Mason. How’s my godson?’
‘Flourishing, sir, thank you – coming up to six now, if you can believe it.’
‘Good grief, where does the time go?’ Fred dug into his pocket, found a florin and pressed it into the man’s hand. ‘Buy him something for Christmas.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘This is my sister, Mrs Rodd. We’re here to see young Calderstone.’
‘Ah,’ Mason said, ‘I had a bet with myself that it’d be you.’ He added, apologetically, ‘I’m afraid he’s a special-permission case.’
‘I have a letter from the governor.’ Fred handed over the unsealed sheet of paper.
The gaoler held it up to the light of the lantern he was carrying, and there was a long silence while he worked his way through the few lines. He then returned the letter to Fred. ‘I’d better take a look in that basket now, sir – not that I’m suspecting you of smuggling in a file, but rules is rules.’
We had brought a large basket of food and wine, writing paper, ink, candles and other comforts for the prisoner; Mason took a quick glance inside and handed it back to Fred. Then he lifted the lantern to lead us along the maze of whitewashed passages, to Charles Calderstone’s prison cell.
It was a bare, cold, pitiless space, furnished with a hard bed, a small table and one chair. The only light came from the lamp that bled in from the corridor, and one fat, slow-burning candle. We found Mr Charles sitting at the table with his head buried in his arms; when he raised his head, I was shocked to see his swollen eyes and unshaven cheeks.
‘Chin up, you lucky lad,’ the gaoler said. ‘Look who your pa’s got to defend you!’
The poor young man blinked at us and tried to stand up.
I laid a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back into the chair. ‘We’ve come to help you, Mr Charles; this is my brother, Frederick Tyson.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘I’m as good as dead and buried already.’
‘Now then,’ Mason admonished sharply. ‘Mr Tyson’s defended worse sinners than you. Show some manners.’
Fred sat down on the bed. ‘Ouch – I never can remember to bring in a cushion! You may leave the door open, Mason, and wait outside.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man stepped out of the cell, which gave me room to sit down beside my brother; the space was so confined that our knees touched and I could take hold of Mr Charles’s cold hand. My every instinct told me that he was not in a state of guilt, but of grief; he was breaking his heart for the woman he had loved.
‘Let’s have something to drink.’ Fred reached to open the basket, which he had placed on the table. ‘We need to keep out the cold, and you look half-dead, Mr Charles; I never forget to bring glasses.’
‘He won’t be allowed to keep those glasses.’ Mason’s voice floated in from the passage.
Fred shot a grin at me. ‘I hope you’ll join us, Mason.’
‘That’s very civil of you, sir.’ The gaoler briefly loomed in the doorway, blotting out half the light and making our shadows leap like demons, to accept a generous glass of brandy. ‘I’ll drink to your health, sir.’
Fred poured large measures for himself and Mr Charles (I declined) and got down to business. ‘You know why I’m here, Mr Charles; to make the case that you did not kill Helen Orme.’
‘Of course I didn’t kill her.’ Mr Charles’s bloodshot eyes filled. ‘I loved her more than anything. I wouldn’t hurt her for the world!’
‘But you were seen entering her house on the morning of the murder, and heard shouting at her angrily. There’s a witness who’ll swear to it. Were you aware of that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Why were you angry?’
Mr Charles tugged his hand from mine, and made an attempt to muster his pride. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Let me be frank with you.’ My brother had a way of suddenly hardening to steel, though his demeanour remained outwardly genial. ‘The only reason I’ve agreed to take this case is that my sister believes you are innocent. Otherwise I wouldn’t have touched it with a bargepole. I can tell you about this witness, though I’ve never laid eyes on him. He’s a reliable yokel, of the type that juries invariably trust, because they assume he lacks the wits to make anything up. He saw you storming into the cottage and heard your voice raised in anger. It couldn’t look much worse, could it? I can sometimes heal the sick, Mr Charles, but I can’t raise the dead – and I can’t do a thing for you unless you tell me the whole truth.’
Fred doesn’t like me to interfere with his lines of questioning, but I couldn’t help interrupting here. ‘Mr Charles, you cannot protect her reputation now.’ (I was certain this was what he was doing – but what foolish chivalry, when she was dead and beyond all harm and he was facing the gallows.)
Pain raked across the young man’s face, and blood rushed into his pale cheeks. I felt very sorry for him; his idol had confessed to the sin that so many men find impossible to forgive.
He murmured, very low, ‘I called her things I would take back a thousand times.’
‘So she told you her history, and you were angry with her,’ Fred said.
‘Yes.’
‘Every man on the jury will understand that – and there’s our problem. They’re also highly likely to regard it as a fine motive for murdering the woman. Can you recall what you said?’
‘That’s not good enough; our reliable yokel will swear he heard the word “whore”. Did you use that word?’
‘Yes.’ This was almost inaudible.
‘So she confessed her history, and you reacted by calling her a whore.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ Mr Charles said shakily. ‘I can’t bear to think about it now.’
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to bear it, and a lot more,’ Fred said. ‘I have a case to build. Was the shouting the end of it, or did you do anything else? Did you strike her, or push her?’
‘No!’
‘Did you touch Mrs Orme in any way?’
‘No –’
‘By which I mean, did you force your attentions upon her, disarrange her clothing –?’
‘No!’ Mr Charles snapped this furiously, his face turning brick-red. ‘How dare you?’
I took his hand again, fearful that he would make my brother change his mind about defending him. ‘You must try to answer the questions calmly; you will have to face far worse in court. Do you know how she was found?’
He nodded.
Fred sighed and helped himself to a small mutton pie from the basket, giving me a reproachful look – I knew he was thinking of his warm fireside and hot dinner. ‘She was violated. Was that your doing?’
‘No – I swear! You must believe me!’ The young man took a gulp of brandy and made a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘I was there because Helen wrote to me that she wanted to talk to me. I still have the letter. She wrote that she wanted to tell me, once and for all, why – why I should forget her. Nothing more than that.’
‘Where were you when you received the letter?’ I asked.
‘At Wishtide – my quarrel with my father can’t keep me away from Mamma and the girls. And in any case, my father wasn’t there. He was back in town, with that woman of his.’
‘Hmmm, no wonder you’re angry with him,’ Fred said, with his mouth full. ‘He wouldn’t have turned a hair, I daresay, if you had simply copied him and set Mrs Orme up as your mistress.’
‘Fred!’ I murmured.
‘You’re quite right.’ Mr Charles frowned, and suddenly looked older. ‘He’s a hypocrite; he only cares about appearances.’
‘So what did you do when you got Mrs Orme’s letter?’ Fred asked.
‘I ordered my horse and rode over at once – I still didn’t believe there was anything she could tell me that could stand in the way of our marriage.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Between eight and nine in the morning.’
Fred said ‘Hmm’ again; he seldom wrote anything down, but I knew he was listening intently. ‘Did you find her alone?’
‘No, Miss Winifred was there – but she knew why I had come and she withdrew to the kitchen to leave us alone together.’
‘And then Mrs Orme told you her true history.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Charles, ‘and I have to say I was angry – of course I was angry.’ He drained the rest of the brandy; it had put heart into him, and his expression was no longer lost and pitiful. In the shifting candlelight the determined glint in his eyes reminded me strongly of his father. At last he was making a real effort to remember. ‘I don’t know what I thought she was about to tell me. I was so certain of her purity. It was the light I lived by. I know everyone will laugh at me now – but I was preparing myself for a high-minded argument – I’d got it into my head that she was making one of her noble sacrifices. I most certainly did not expect her to tell me she was another man’s discarded harlot.’
‘Please –’ I could not help interrupting; the poor woman was dead.
But Fred said, ‘Sorry, Letty – that’s what the jury will be thinking, and we mustn’t be shy about it. I’ll find some way of using it to get them on our side. Your idol revealed her feet of clay but you were more sorrowful than angry – the duped innocent – yes, that’s probably how I’ll play it. She made a damned fool of you and you scuttled off with your tail between your legs –’
‘Fred!’ I was shocked.
For the first time a shadow of a smile crossed the young man’s face. ‘That’s pretty much how it was.’ (He liked my brother, I was glad to see.) ‘She smashed me to smithereens with a couple of short sentences. At first I begged her to say it wasn’t true – and then I was in agonies – I would happily have killed that blackguard if he hadn’t been dead already – but I couldn’t have hurt Helen. I shouted at her and stormed away. That’s all.’
‘What time was this?’ asked Fred.
‘Between nine and ten; I couldn’t face going home and made straight for town – I left my horse at the inn, as Hinton will tell you. And the following night I was arrested at my rooms in Half Moon Street.’
‘They told you of the murder,’ Fred said, ‘at which you fainted – oh, don’t be ashamed, my boy – fainting was the best possible thing you could have done. The jurors might think you’re rather a daisy, but they’ll be less likely to believe you had the spunk to kill her.’
From the other side of the door, the gaoler said, ‘Time’s up, Mr Tyson!’
‘Hmm.’ Fred brushed away pie-crumbs with a satisfied air. ‘We’ll have to leave it at that – but it’s a pretty good start.’
Mr Charles touched his arm. ‘Do you believe I killed her?’
‘No,’ Fred said. ‘I don’t.’
‘Do I – do I have a chance?’
‘More than a chance,’ my brother said cheerfully. ‘It’s my belief you couldn’t kill a fly – and by the time I’ve finished with them, the jury will agree with me. So take heart, Mr Charles; eat and drink, and feel free to ignore the Bible my sister insisted upon bringing you.’
‘Fred – really!’ I couldn’t let this pass; he was wicked to speak in that way about the only source of true light in this dark place.
The young man, however, actually smiled for the first time. ‘I’m very grateful, Mrs Rodd; the time hangs so heavy here.’
‘Do read it and be comforted.’ I took his cold hand. ‘Remember that your friends will move heaven and earth to help you. And I also brought you Robinson Crusoe and The Vicar of Wakefield.’
Fred groaned rudely. ‘You poor boy, I’d better get you out of here before you die of boredom.’
Mr Charles smiled outright at this and when we left his cell, I was very glad to see that his brow had cleared, and his red eyes had a spark of hope in them.
Outside the prison I gulped at the dirty air, as if it were as pure as air on top of a mountain, as if a weight had been lifted from my chest.
‘Hmm, a good beginning.’ Fred checked his gold watch by the carriage-lamp. ‘And we’ll be back in time for dinner if the roads aren’t too bad. When do you go down to Lincolnshire?’
‘Very soon, I should think.’ (I was not looking forward to the long, cold, sooty journey.)
‘They’re sending a man down from Great Scotland Yard; you’d better not tread on his toes.’
‘Oh, that’ll be a simple enough matter,’ I said. ‘The police never seem to ask the right questions.’
‘Question every single person you can think of,’ Fred replied. ‘Someone has seen Mrs Orme’s killer. Someone has fed him, sheltered him, hired him a horse, sold him a pint of ale. It’s not the kind of place where strangers go unnoticed.’