Deadlight-Hall(75)

Deadlight Hall was not the ideal place to be on your own, but it would not be for long. In the meantime, he remembered that he had what might be interesting company in the form of Maria Porringer. Positioning himself more comfortably on the window seat, checking to make sure his phone was still switched on, he opened the small book and began to read.

It appeared to be a kind of continuation of the notes he and Nell had found in Porringer’s shop, and it began with Maria’s record of the visit she made to the gaol to be with a condemned prisoner.

Tuesday 15th: 4.00 p.m.

A short while ago Mr Porringer and I arrived at the gaol, and were shown to a very pleasant bedroom in the governor’s own wing. (Glazed chintz curtains and very superior bedroom china.)

5.00 p.m.

Mr Glaister conducted a short interview with me, which I thought considerate of him. He is a most gentlemanly person (more so than I had expected, considering that he consorts with murderers and all manner of felons each day), and thanked me when I expressed my appreciation of our rooms. ‘Although we shall not be here for much longer, as you know,’ he said. ‘The remove to the new prison is imminent.’

He explained to me that I would be required to remain in the condemned cell with the prisoner through the night.

‘And to be present at the execution itself, if we think it would help her,’ he said.

When I did not speak, Mr Glaister said, ‘It is a swift method of death. We use what is called the long drop – the suspension drop – which is calculated very carefully and precisely. It is far preferable to the old “short drop”, which was often little better than slow strangulation. With this method complete unconsciousness occurs within a second or two, and actual death is some fifteen or twenty minutes after that. It is ugly, but surprisingly humane. And, of course, it is the law of the land.’

‘Also the law of God. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”’

‘Just so.’

I hesitated, then I put the question that had been in my mind for some time.

‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘there is no question as to her guilt?’

‘None whatsoever,’ said Mr Glaister at once. ‘The evidence was clear, and there can be no doubt.’

‘Thank you.’

6.00 p.m.

An hour ago I was taken to the condemned cell. It is one of a row of cells opening off a stone-walled passageway. All the doors are strong and fitted with heavy locks, and most have a small hatch near the top.

A male attendant conducted me there – a plump person with unattractive red pimples spattering across his face. Bad diet is my opinion of the cause of that, and I told the man so, recommending Mr Porringer’s compound of sulphur as an ointment. But he is a person of surly nature, for he only grunted, and unlocked the door of the cell.

It is a very terrible place, that condemned cell, and even though I trust I am not a fanciful woman I was aware of a feeling of such fear and despair that it was as if it lay on the air, like the stench of curdled milk.

At first I thought the prisoner did not recognize me, so I sat on the single hard chair provided and introduced myself, reminding her how we had met on several occasions when she came into the shop for purchases. (Mostly items of adornment they were: creams and lotions for the face, and softening ointments for hands. A vain creature I always thought her.)

She did not reply, and I was about to speak again when she turned her head very slowly and stared at me. As God is my judge, there was something very frightening in that blank, mad stare. I had been prepared to encounter madness though; there is surely no sanity in the mind of a woman who has killed – and the killing so shocking.

‘Mrs Porringer,’ she said at last, as if trying the words out, and seeing if they could be arranged in a recognizable pattern. Then, ‘Yes, I do remember you.’

She has a soft voice, educated I suppose it could be called, and although she did not actually say, ‘Oh, yes, you’re the shop-woman,’ I heard it in her tone, and charitable as I was resolved to be, a deep resentful anger churned up for a moment. I dare say we could all have nice gentle voices and money for creams and scented oils for smooth white skin if only we had been born into comfort and married into money.

(I had intended this to be a formal account of the event, but do not see why I should not incorporate a few thoughts and opinions of my own, since it is unlikely anyone will ever read it, aside from Mr Porringer, who does not count and knows better than to gossip anyway.)