Deadlight-Hall(77)

I had thought this a fanciful remark for a man in his position to make, but as I sit here I understand what he meant.

Mr Glaister said something else to me over supper, and I could wish he had not done so, for with night closing around the prison, his words keep whispering in my brain.

‘At some time during the night you may have the impression that someone is creeping along the corridor outside the cell,’ he said. ‘And you may think someone has come to stand outside the condemned cell and is looking in at you through the hatch. If you should hear such a sound, do not let it alarm you, for it will be the hangman.’

We had reached the savoury course, and I was about to accept a helping of sardines, but at this I paused.

‘The hangman?’

‘Yes. He will have to study the prisoner in advance of the morning,’ said Mr Glaister. ‘To assess how best – how smoothly – to carry out his work. To make his calculations for the drop. But he always makes such an inspection discreetly, so as not to cause undue distress.’

Beside me, Mr Porringer gulped down his glass of port with a speed that will certainly provoke one of his acidity attacks.

‘So if you should hear such sounds,’ went on Mr Glaister, ‘you should try to ignore them. In no circumstances draw the prisoner’s attention to them.’

And now I am indeed hearing stealthy footsteps beyond the door of the cell. It will be the hangman, of course, making his quiet inspection, and yet …

And yet I would have thought the hangman would have known his way around this place – indeed, around many such places – and I would certainly have thought he would know the way to the condemned cell, even along the dimly lit passages …

I find I constantly look towards the door. The small hatch near the top is not quite closed; I can see the dull faint glow of the oil lights in the passage beyond. They have just flickered wildly as if a current of air has disturbed them, or as if someone has walked past. Is it the hangman? Does he stand there now, even as I write this? Will he have the noose already in his hands? They say he wears gloves to do his deed – I visualize them as thick and black. How would it feel to have those thick black hands slide the rope around your neck?

‘The long drop,’ Mr Glaister called it. ‘The victim stands on the trapdoor, the bolt is drawn, and in the abrupt descent, the neck is broken. It is a quick death.’

A quick death.

It was not a very quick death that Esther Breadspear gave her two children. They were eight and six years old when she butchered them, slitting their throats. They found her, crouched over their bodies, still clutching the dripping knife, her nightgown wet with their blood. There can be no doubt about her guilt, of course. But does anyone know why she killed them? Could she give a sane answer to the question? When they tried to restrain her (for Mr Breadspear had called for Dr Maguire), she broke away from them, and ran through the house, sobbing and screaming, calling for the children to come back to her, opening doors of rooms as if trying to find them. Mr Breadspear and the doctor eventually cornered her in the dark gardens, and Dr Maguire administered a bromide.

If Esther Breadspear was not insane that night, I believe she is certainly insane now.

11.00 p.m.

Earlier I had perforce to help Esther to the commode – she has vomited profusely and there are other bodily functions she now seems unable to control. Mr Glaister, a gentleman, had not mentioned that likelihood, but the pimpled warder, called to assist, said it was a common occurrence.

‘It’s the fear,’ he said. ‘Turns their bowels to water, the fear.’

I told him I was not accustomed to hearing such terms used so casually, and he was please to empty the receptacle, and sluice and replace it. He has done so, but the small enclosed room still stinks.

Esther is huddled on the narrow bed, and is pressing herself against the wall behind it. Her hair hangs down over her face, and she presents an unkempt appearance. Earlier I tried to tie back her hair and button up her gown, but she threw me off, and she has surprising and rather frightening strength for all she is such a thin frail creature.

A few moments ago she began calling out for her children, exactly as she is said to have done on the night she murdered them. I do not think I have ever heard anything quite so eerie as that cracked, faltering voice, calling for her children.

11.30 p.m.

Esther has sunk into an uneasy slumber, having had a further dose of Mr Porringer’s opium mixture, which he brought to the door of the cell. Even so, there is a line of white under her eyelids, as if she is still watching everything.