CHAPTER 11

The Matron

By the time our hansom arrived at the north end of Islington, Holmes and I were both shivering, the wet snow having penetrated every small gap in our winter clothing. We alighted at the entrance to the women’s prison. Enormous iron gates separated the community from this dismal edifice. If the inside was anything like Pentonville, then the convicts ranging from petty thieves to the murderous were incarcerated in dank and freezing cells, many under forced labour sentences, toiling under great duress.

I assumed it would be difficult to gain entry to speak to any of the inmates. Yet, without delay, we were admitted to confer with the prisoner, Mrs Claudine Huron. Apparently, the director of the prison was another in Holmes’s network of allies.

We passed through a courtyard where thirty female prisoners were taking their brief exercise, silently walking in a circle as the snow whitened their drab prison garments. No trace of holiday cheer had leaked into these bleak surroundings.

If the inmates had been sentenced to hard labour, some may have been forced to spend hours on the treadmill or sitting in desolate rows, not allowed to speak. Others were set to pick oakum, working till their hands bled. Perhaps worse, some were obliged to turn a large metal crank, alone in their cells, until they collapsed in exhaustion. I did not know which of these dire punishments were given to women.

Hard labour was like a slow death sentence, as many perished from the physical strain, or were driven to fatal despair by the sheer pointlessness of the tasks to which they were assigned.

Soon we found ourselves in a small, cold room with several chairs, a high, barred window and one door. Seated rigidly on one of the chairs, her right hand handcuffed to the wooden armrest, was a large, pale creature of perhaps fifty, her thin grey hair loosely tied back from her forehead, then secured in a sparse knot. Her careworn face was that of a once handsome woman, now transformed into a forlorn, bloated version of her former self.

This was the notorious Mrs Claudine Huron, formerly matron in charge of the nursery at the Marylebone Workhouse.

Her grey prison uniform fitted her badly, but despite this, and her present shameful circumstance, the woman sat erect in her chair, proud and unwavering. Her pale green eyes burned with the righteousness of a missionary.

We sat down before her and Holmes introduced us both, mentioning his profession.

‘Mrs Huron,’ said he, ‘I am here to ask for your assistance.’

Her lips twisted into an angry shape that might have been a smile.

‘Assistance? How can a prisoner in my state help you?’

‘I am in the process of trying to protect a little boy. A child whom you, too, may once have tried to help.’

She barked a laugh. It came out more like a cough.

‘You may not believe me, Mrs Huron, but I am sympathetic to you,’ said Holmes. ‘I am familiar with the details of your trial.’

‘Ha! The newspapers were wrong!’

‘No, I read the full transcripts of the court proceedings. I do believe you,’ Holmes continued, ‘when you said that you were quite literally saving lives.’

‘They were all orphans. All of ’em,’ she said belligerently. ‘You’ll never hear otherwise from me.’

‘Mrs Huron, please. The solicitor, Mr Rudyard Click, proved beyond all doubt that in at least two cases you put up for adoption children who were born in the workhouse and whose mothers survived. The law did not take kindly to removing children from living parents without their knowledge or permission. You were playing God, as the courts saw it.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I have seen first-hand the conditions of the workhouse,’ said Holmes. ‘I have witnessed the desperation, addiction, despair, turpitude and even blatant criminal behaviour.’

Mrs Huron laughed, though without a trace of humour. ‘You have not seen it as I have.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The children in question were in danger of their very lives.’

‘I believe you, madam.’

She snorted. ‘You may well, in theory. Yet many more believe that the original parents deserve sovereignty in all cases. And thus … here I am.’

Holmes continued, undaunted. ‘I have come to help a specific child. He is four years old. He was adopted as an infant less than a month old from an agency called Bright Little Ones, and the adoptive parents were told he came from the Marylebone Workhouse.’

‘Adoption agencies frequently lie about their sources.’

‘I have reason to believe this child came from you. And I hope this is true.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then you can tell me what I need to know. An extremely violent man has attempted to abduct this boy from his adoptive parents. My theory is that he believes himself to be the real father and rightful guardian. I must find this man.’

While we were not sure of the content of those letters, I well understood Holmes’s need to press on with the theory.

She shrugged and stared resolutely at him.

‘He failed, I presume?’ she said. ‘And what if he is the real father? And this child was under my care—what if this is true? Might he not attempt to reopen this case through your interference?’

‘Mrs Huron, even if he does, you cannot be tried twice for the same crime,’ I offered.

‘I speak not for myself. In any case, the law has seen fit to call me a criminal. I will die in this place. Meanwhile a violent man wants a child he claims is his. Where is the justice in all of this?’

‘Mrs Huron, I agree,’ said Holmes. ‘But the issue of justice for the child, for the birth parents, and for the adoptive parents, is indeed a complex one. Surely you can provide evidence?’

‘I have already tried. In many cases I was the only witness to the threats against these helpless babes. Very young children and their mothers were isolated at the workhouse and placed directly under my supervision. One sweet infant, only days old, nearly died when the mother left him on the cold floor of her cell as she slumbered in an opiate-induced stupor nearby. I was barely able to stop another mother from beating her toddler to death over a crust of bread. The court would not hear me in full.’

Holmes nodded. ‘It is truly shameful that they did not. I may have some influence to re-open your case.’

The woman started and glared at Holmes. ‘Do not dare to do so!’

‘It can hardly go worse for you, madam,’ said I.

‘Oh, yes it can,’ said the woman, and fear darkened her face for just a moment.

‘She is right, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘And yet, madam, I think not, if your full testimony could be heard.’

‘Understand this, Mr Holmes. I would never have stolen an infant from a fit mother. But I have been pilloried in the newspapers as having acted out of sheer prejudice because the parents were “disadvantaged”. Popular opinion falls on the side of the original parents and I’ve been accused of discrimination.’

‘The truth is often nuanced,’ said Holmes.

‘Nuanced? Don’t be a fool. Those children would have perished!’

Holmes and I sat silent.

‘Go away. I am resigned to my fate. I will die here in this place, but in the highest court I will be redeemed.’ Once again, that strange light shone from her eyes.

‘Madam, please hear me out,’ said Holmes. ‘The child in question was adopted by a very wealthy couple here in London, Lord and Lady Endicott. The boy is much loved by them and happy in his new home. He is thriving. I believe he was one of your special cases.’

‘If it be so, then finis coronat opus,’ said the prisoner with a shrug. She smiled to herself.

My schoolboy Latin surfaced murkily in my brain. The phrase meant ‘the end crowns the work’, or better, ‘justifies the means’.

‘Ovid. Yes, Mrs Huron, but as I said, the truth is nuanced. However, in this case, perhaps not,’ said Holmes with a quick glance to me. ‘The adoptive mother, Lady Endicott, and her maid were knocked to the ground in broad daylight in Oxford Street two days ago in a violent attack. The man wrested this same adopted child from her arms and nearly escaped with him.’

‘Surely not?’

‘I was there. The attacker escaped in the crowd.’

‘It was Mr Holmes who saved the child,’ I pointed out.

‘This action in Oxford Street is only the most recent in this man’s attempts to steal the boy,’ said Holmes.

Mrs Huron shifted in her chair. ‘Children are regularly stolen and sold. Kidnapping is a more likely explanation. You cannot connect this villain to me.’

‘Oh, but I can,’ said Holmes. ‘The timing indicates that it is precisely tied to you. The papers made a meal of your story, as you know. Two nights after this story broke, a man fitting the description of the Oxford Street attacker visited the Little Bright Ones adoption agency and asked after this adoption but was turned away. That night there was a break-in and their files were ransacked. This man thus found the Endicotts.’

Mrs Huron looked away, desperation in her eyes.

‘Letters greatly upsetting to the Endicotts followed, presumably from this man.’

‘Where posted?’ asked Mrs Huron.

‘Both letters had post offices as their return connection. That lead is now gone. In any case, Lord Endicott did not notify the police. Two nights after the last letter, the Endicotts suffered a break-in by a masked man of my height, but heavier. Pale blue eyes, a small scar over the right eyebrow. Thankfully he was repelled by the servants.’

The woman frowned as if trying to pull an image from memory.

‘You know him, madam? He will stop at nothing, and it is only a matter of time. If my theory is correct, this man either is, or believes he is, the father of the child in question. I need a name.’

‘You seem resourceful yourself. Why not find a way to entrap him?’

‘Use the child as the lamb to draw the tiger, Mrs Huron? Never. I will seek the tiger in his lair.’

‘To what end?’

‘Obvious. To ensure the safety of the boy.’

‘Then you, too, play God. What if the man is the father? Consider how the courts may view this desperate man. He feels justice is on his side. Have you never committed violence in the name of justice?’

Holmes was silent.

He had, I knew, committed violence to protect others. And at least twice that I knew of, he allowed violence to take place without stopping it. Baron Gruner and Charles Augustus Milverton came to mind. In each case I could not fault his logic, nor the correctness of his decision.

Mrs Huron regarded us closely. ‘I recognize a fellow crusader, Mr Holmes. But it can all go so terribly wrong. The birth father—with the help of someone like that “do-gooder” solicitor Rudyard Click—may be able to sway public opinion with the argument of rightful paternity. Do not underestimate the willingness of the courts or the public to decide a child’s fate without all the facts.’ Her eyes burned into Holmes’s own.

‘But they must decide in favour of the Endicotts!’ I exclaimed. ‘Jonathan is so happy, so loved.’

Mrs Huron tore herself away from staring at Holmes and turned to me. Her face softened. ‘Tell me more of this child, Jonathan,’ said she. ‘Four years old, you say?’

Holmes sat silent. He gestured to me to supply the description.

‘His parents dote on him,’ I offered. ‘He is a sunny little boy, as all four-year-olds are, but something more. It is as though he brings light into every room he enters. His mother, unlike others of her class, includes him completely in family life. He is filled with laughter, with joy. A birthday celebration is being planned for him next week. He was born on Christmas Day. There is to be a party on the eve—’

‘Christmas Day?’ Mrs Huron sat forward in her chair, her eyes burning once more. ‘Tell me, does this child have a port-wine stain on the back of his neck?’

‘Why, yes,’ I said. ‘In the shape of a star.’

Mrs Huron gasped and raised her free hand to cover her mouth. We waited. I was about to speak, but Holmes held up a hand to stop me. The woman’s composure had been breached at last. She breathed heavily, struggling to control her reaction, and her eyes glistened with tears.

‘I know this child. Christopher is his name. His birth name,’ she said. ‘When you described the father, I was not sure, but … oh, dear God. It is Christopher.’ A tear coursed down her cheek and she rubbed it away.

Holmes and I exchanged a glance.

She paused, finding the words difficult. ‘Christopher was … he was a special one. Even as a newborn. Something about him. He had an almost angelic quality. The other children cried constantly. But when I put Christopher in the cot next to them, they quietened instantly. He …’ She drifted off, awash in memories. The tears now flowed freely down her face. I handed her my handkerchief, which she took it gratefully. ‘Sweet. So incredibly sweet. We only had him a matter of weeks.’

‘Did you name him, Mrs Huron?’ I asked.

‘No, his mother did. He was born on Christmas Day. Therefore … Christopher.’

Holmes glanced at me. Confirmation at last.

‘The mother’s name?’ asked Holmes.

Mrs Huron shook her head. ‘Clarice. A child herself. Barely fifteen, I think. She was very possessive, but a danger to her infant. Addicted to opium. She defied regulations and secretly took him from the nursery to her own quarters. Christopher was the child left on the cold floor by his mother. He was nearly dead when he was found.’

‘My God,’ I said, picturing the happy, well-fed little one now.

‘What of the father?’ pursued Holmes.

‘The father … They were kept separated, as the workhouse does. Strange fellow. I remember him vaguely … he was a once a successful man. Formerly some kind of engineer, having to do with ships, I think. From up north. He could not tolerate being separated from his wife in the workhouse. He pined for her, insisted he saw the good in her, and hoped to cure her. As I recall, he kept getting work and then losing his position. His temper was legendary. Alcohol was his demon. And now that you mention it, yes, he had a scar on one eyebrow.’

‘A name, Mrs Huron!’ cried Holmes.

There followed a long silence. Somewhere in the cell, or perhaps within the wall, was a steady drip. The cold floor sent shafts of ice up our legs.

‘Findlay,’ she said at last. ‘His name was Peter Findlay.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Huron.’ Holmes sprang to his feet and rapped on the barred door to summon the guard.

Mrs Huron slumped in her chair. For a moment I thought she had passed out—or worse.

‘Mrs Huron?’ I said, crouching down beside her and placing a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up at me, and her tear-stained eyes burned into mine. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘tell me I did not make a mistake in giving you the name. Tell me that, above all, you will keep the boy safe.’

‘That is precisely what I intend to do, Mrs Huron,’ said Holmes. I heard the scrape of metal on metal as the door was unlocked by the guard.

I took one of her hands in mine. ‘Sherlock Holmes is a man of his word,’ I whispered. ‘He will do right by this boy.’

Mrs Huron nodded and closed her eyes.

In the cab en route to Baker Street, I wondered how, precisely, Holmes would manage to protect the boy, now knowing the truth. Would the law—would public opinion—support what was best for the child?

And what was best for Jonathan?