Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(63)
There was still no need to panic. Estate agents were handling the actual selling of the flats, and they would certainly have a key – or they would know where one could be reached. Michael tried to remember who the agents were. There had certainly been a large For Sale board at the head of the drive, by the turning to the main road. He peered through both windows, and although he could just see the board, it was turned towards the road, and there was nothing on the back of it. But phone numbers could be obtained, and he rang one of the directory enquiry services. They were helpful and efficient, and said there were nineteen estate agents in the immediate vicinity. Michael wrote them all down, then asked if they had a number for Hurst’s Builders. They had, but it was the mobile number he had already tried. How about a home number? They were very sorry, but no other number was listed.
Michael rang off, and saw with some concern that it was ten-past five. All those nineteen offices probably closed at half-past, in which case it would probably be quicker to phone Nell and ask her to look the name up in the local paper.
He dialled the shop, which went to voicemail. Then he dialled her mobile, which did the same thing. Michael swore, realizing that at this time of the day Nell would be collecting Beth from school. She did not have a hands-free attachment for the phone in the car, so the mobile would be switched off. No matter, he would leave a message, explaining briefly what had happened, and asking her to call him as soon as possible. She would get back pretty soon; she was very good about returning calls.
Was there anyone else he could contact? What about the professor, who might know the name of the estate agents? But the professor’s phone also went to voicemail, and Michael remembered he was giving another of his lectures at the Radcliffe – one of a series on Philosophy.
It was twenty-past five, and he had better at least make a start on the nineteen estate agents. The first four on the list said no, they were not handling the Deadlight Hall flats. No, they were sorry, they did not know who was. The fifth firm said, rather sharply, that it was not the business of estate agents to give out information about other companies. Michael rang off, chastened, and ploughed on. But the seventh firm he rang answered with a recording saying they were closed until 9.a.m tomorrow. The eighth and ninth had similar messages.
Michael cursed, and thought he would simply have to sit here and wait for Nell to call back. She might have Jack Hurst’s address or a home phone number for him – she had mentioned contacting him for a quote for the shop. He hoped he would not end up phoning the police to get him out. If it came to it, he would have to break a ground-floor window and climb out.
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.