The Death Chamber Read online

  It had turned out to be rather a snappy little piece, but then he had always had a knack with words. Mother often used to say so. ‘I don’t know why you don’t do something with your writing, Vincent,’ she would say. ‘All those compositions you did at school.’

  It would be very gratifying if the TV people used his article, although he would insist on a proper credit. “Our thanks are due to Vincent N. Meade who gave so generously of his time and knowledge during the making of this programme.” Something on those lines would look well.

  He had given the article to the female assistant – Drusilla somebody she was called – and she had said they would be extremely interested in reading it, and yes, certainly he should give her his phone number so they could contact him. Vincent thought they would have studied it properly by now, which meant they might be looking to talk to him. So he would go along to the King’s Head later, but he would go alone so as to be free if they wanted him. His appearance in the bar would not be thought strange: he sometimes looked in for a glass of sherry of an evening. He rather thought they kept the sherry especially for him and he visualized the barman saying to the landlord, ‘Goodness me, we must order another bottle or two of Mr Meade’s sherry this week: it won’t do to run out of that.’

  In any case, Miss Grey – Georgina – had indicated that she wanted to spend the evening on her own. Probably she was tired after the long drive; ladies never had as much stamina as men. Vincent’s mother often used to say so. ‘Poor fragile creatures that we are,’ she would say, lying back in her chair, smiling as everyone ran around waiting on her. Vincent had been one of the people who had waited on her most often, but he had never minded.

  Girls today were nothing like Vincent’s mother. They were brisk and efficient like Georgina Grey seemed to be, and they were casual about long drives to unfamiliar places and about dining with strange men. Vincent’s mother, if she was alive, would not have cared for that – not ladylike, she would have said – and she would not have approved of Georgina. One of these flippant modern girls, she would have called her. Hard. And what is it she does for a living? Oh, an interior designer? Well, she may call it that if she wishes, but a wallpaper shop with a curtain-making service is my guess. I shan’t be impressed by that, thank you very much.

  Vincent would not be impressed by it either. He was glad, though, that he had mentioned his work for the Society to Georgina and the articles he had written about its work – not boasting, just mentioning the fact en passant as you might say. He was also glad he had worn the velvet jacket for the meeting; it had cost a shocking amount of money but he fancied it gave him a slightly Bohemian look. The cravat was a recent touch; Vincent had been rather pleased with it so it had been annoying, when he got home, to find that the fringe had inadvertently trailed itself in the teapot. He would try soaking it in a solution of lemon juice; his mother had sworn by lemon juice for getting rid of tea stains.

  Mother would not have wanted him to ask Georgina Grey out to dinner. Not a suitable thing to have done, she would have said – there are standards that have to be upheld, Vincent. Standards are very important, you must never forget that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  October 1938

  ‘Standards are important,’ said Edgar Higneth to Walter on the day Neville Fremlin was brought to Calvary. ‘When I took over as governor here I was determined to follow as many of Sir Lewis Caradoc’s standards as I could.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Fremlin is a cold-blooded killer – he’s murdered five women for their money. But he has only three weeks of life left to him – two weeks and five days now – and we have to treat him with as much humanity as possible.’

  Walter said he understood this.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ll have an execution to deal with so soon after your arrival,’ said Higneth. ‘It might have been months – a year or more – before one happened. But it can’t be helped. You’ll be required to attend the hanging, of course, and to pronounce death. I’ll make sure you meet Mr Pierrepoint beforehand.’

  ‘Pierrepoint? Oh, the executioner.’

  ‘Yes. He and his assistant will spend the night here before the execution.’ Higneth glanced at the thin-faced young man seated in his office and wished Dr Kane was not so extremely young. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?

  Choosing his words with care, he said, ‘Dr Kane, there are often certain unpleasant aspects to a hanging. Men – and women – faced with the gallows suffer the extremes of terror. Sometimes they fight and we have to restrain them. If they faint they have to be strapped to a chair on the gallows itself. Sometimes they’re physically sick or their bowels turn to water.’ Higneth knew he should be hardened to the squalid side of human nature after being Calvary’s governor for more than ten years but he was not. Although he knew the men who passed through his hands were killers, he had never got used to seeing them led to their deaths.

  Kane said, ‘Mr Higneth, I’m perfectly used to the involuntary reactions of the human body in its death throes. I trained at Bart’s Hospital which is close to one of the poorest parts of London, so I’m entirely accustomed to the rougher sorts of men and women as well.’

  ‘Fremlin isn’t rough,’ said Higneth at once. ‘The papers called him the Silver-Tongued Murderer, and having talked to him this morning I’m bound to agree with them. He’s extremely charming, highly intelligent and very widely read, and, frankly, I find it difficult to think of him as a man who has killed five women—’

  He broke off, and Walter said, ‘But there’s no doubt about his guilt, is there?’

  ‘None whatsoever. They’d been suspicious of him for some time. In the end they caught him actually in the act of burying his last victim – the inspector in charge of the case was beside himself that they hadn’t been in time to save that woman’s life, but they hadn’t. All the corpses they eventually found were naked – he’d burned all the clothes – obviously thinking the victims wouldn’t be identified. But they did identify them, of course – two of them at any rate.’

  ‘They traced the dental records, didn’t they?’ said Walter. ‘They use that quite a lot for identification these days. I remember thinking it was odd that Fremlin went to all that trouble – burying them in that remote forest outside Knaresborough, burning their clothes and all the rest of it – but that he hadn’t thought of dental identification. As a chemist, you’d think he’d be aware of something like that.’

  ‘They always miss something.’ Higneth paused, because what he had to say next would not be easy. ‘You’ll be seeing Fremlin sometime today?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve set aside half an hour each afternoon and evening.’ This was part of Walter’s duties, and he hoped there would be ways of smoothing out what was left of the condemned prisoners’ lives. How he did that would depend a great deal on the individual, but for Fremlin he had prepared a laudanum-based sedative which would help the man sleep. He thought that explaining the sedative’s compounds to this former chemist might create a tenuous link of friendship.

  ‘Yes, good,’ said Higneth when Walter explained this. ‘But see now, the Yorkshire police have asked me—’ Dammit, this was an impossible position for a man to be put in! Higneth abandoned the sideways approach, and said bluntly, ‘They want to find out about the girl whose body was never found.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She lived in the Knaresborough area and she vanished at the start of Fremlin’s killings. The police couldn’t add her name to the charges, because they never found any evidence that he killed her. But she’s known to have frequented his chemist’s shop – there was a little section for hand lotions and scented soaps and fancy notepaper and so on – and they believe Fremlin killed her.’

  ‘Giving him the round half dozen,’ said Walter thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes. She was only eighteen or nineteen, and quite sheltered. She came from a prosperous middle-class home – Fremlin would have seen that at once – and she would have been ideal prey for him.’

  ‘But even if he kille
d her, there wouldn’t have been any way he could have got at any money, would there?’ said Walter. ‘Weren’t most of the victims older ladies? Lonely widows?’

  ‘They were, but this girl – her name was Elizabeth Molland – was wearing jewellery when she disappeared,’ said Higneth. ‘Quite valuable stuff, apparently. Necklace, earrings, bracelet. She had been to a big formal reception with her parents – some kind of musical society. That was just the kind of hunting ground Fremlin liked, of course, although it was never established if he had actually been present. Elizabeth vanished at the end of the evening; you know how confused it can be at those affairs – people milling in and out of cloakrooms, collecting wraps, waiting for cabs. When her parents realized she had gone they called the police, but the girl was never found.’

  ‘And then Fremlin was arrested for the other murders in the same area,’ said Walter.

  ‘Yes. The Mollands followed the trial closely hoping for some clue, but there was nothing. They want to know the truth about what happened to their daughter.’

  ‘Even if the truth is that Fremlin killed her?’

  ‘Yes. That may sound strange but I can only liken it to the telegrams that used to be delivered to families in the war. “Missing, believed killed”, that was the wording used. People who were sent those telegrams always said that not knowing was the worst part – that they would rather have a clean grief to cope with. You’re too young to remember the war, of course, but—’

  ‘Sir, are you trying to ask me if I’ll question Fremlin about this girl, this Elizabeth Molland? In the hope that he’ll – what? Confess?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Higneth thankful to have it in the open. ‘Not question precisely, but probe a little. The inspector in charge of the case has made a private request to me that we do all we can to find out.’

  ‘Why me?’ said Walter. ‘Why not you?’

  ‘It’s unlikely Fremlin will talk to me,’ said Higneth. ‘Although I shall try, of course. But he’ll see me as an authority figure – an enemy, even, and he’ll close down.’

  ‘What about the chaplain?’

  ‘The chaplain,’ said Higneth sourly, ‘feels it would not be right for him to quiz a man under sentence of death, or to make use of any subterfuge. In any case, he will apparently feel obliged to regard anything Fremlin tells him as under the seal of the confessional.’

  ‘Fremlin’s not a Catholic, is he?’ said Walter.

  ‘No, but the chaplain considers the same rules apply. Dr Kane, if you do this you must be very careful.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Higneth made an impatient gesture. ‘I don’t mean physically. I mean during conversations with him. He’s a clever devil and extremely charming. He’ll assess your weak spots and make use of them. He’ll find out about you – who you are, what your hopes and ambitions are, details about your family. He’ll slide under your skin and you won’t even realize he’s doing it. That’s how he’ll have got the confidence of all those women, and charm’s a thing that works on men as well as females, Dr Kane. So you must be very wary of giving away any information about yourself.’

  ‘Would he use information to get sympathy?’

  ‘He might try coaxing you into some kind of mad escape plan,’ said Higneth. ‘It wouldn’t succeed – he’ll be well guarded – but that mightn’t stop him trying. And if he decides he can’t charm you into helping him, he might try blackmailing you.’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘He’s got three weeks to live,’ said Higneth drily. ‘He’s got nothing to lose.’

  Walter considered for a moment. ‘I won’t force anything with Fremlin,’ he said at last. ‘And I won’t use subterfuge.’

  ‘But you will do it?’

  ‘Yes, I will. I’ll talk to him.’

  November 1917

  ‘Talk to him, Walter,’ his mother had said on that long-ago day. ‘Tell him what you’re going to do with your life.’

  ‘Will he want to know?’ The small Walter had not really understood what this was all about – he did not understand why his father had to be in this place or why they were going to see him like this – but he did not like to ask questions. His mother had been crying and he had never seen her cry before, so he would have promised her anything in the world. He had said, yes, he would tell about what he wanted to do when he was grown-up, and when finally they sat in the terrible room he had done as she had asked. The room had a smell to it that his seven-year-old self had not recognized, but which his grown-up self later knew for human despair and misery. The dark-haired man seated at the table had not seemed to care about it or even, thought Walter, to notice. It was difficult to think of him as his father because Walter did not really know him – he was always away fighting people it seemed.

  But he explained about wanting to be a doctor when he grew up, so he could make people better.

  ‘That’s a very praiseworthy ambition, Walter.’

  Walter had not known what praiseworthy meant nor what an ambition was, but his father seemed pleased, which was good.

  ‘There’ll be some money,’ he said, looking at Walter’s mother. ‘You understand that, don’t you? More than enough money to pay for his training – university – whatever he ends up wanting.’

  At the mention of money Walter’s mother had glanced at the other two people in the room, which Walter knew was because you did not talk about private things in front of strangers. The two people were standing just inside the door, not speaking and not looking at anything; one was quite a young man with skin like lumpy porridge and little squinty eyes like a pig, but the other was a lady, with fair hair and a face that slanted upwards like one of the pictures in Peter Pan, which was Walter’s most favourite book in the world. He had not expected to find a naughty fairy like Tinkerbell in this bad-smelling place, and he had wanted to go on looking at her. He had not done so because it was rude to stare at people.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Walter’s father. ‘They hear everything I say. These two – or two like them are with me all the time.’ He paused, and then said softly, ‘It’s to make sure I don’t die too early. Death watch, they call it.’

  At this, Walter’s mother pressed her handkerchief to her lips as if she might be sick which worried Walter greatly. She said, ‘The money – I don’t want the money. Every time I used it I should see the drowned faces of all those young men you betrayed.’

  ‘That’s being melodramatic. See now—’

  ‘It’s the money they gave you for what you did, isn’t it?’

  There was a pause then he said, ‘It is not,’ but Walter knew from his voice his father was lying.

  Walter’s mother knew as well. She said, ‘It’s tainted. I’d rather give it away.’

  ‘Then give it to Walter. Let it help him when he needs it – sometime in the future.’ He made an impatient gesture, and said, ‘I never wanted paying, you know. I believed in what I did – I thought I was serving a cause.’ A brief shrug. ‘All wrong, of course. I was angry with the British – you never saw what they did in Ireland, did you? And we had a dream – Irish Independence.’ He frowned, and then said, ‘Remember, Walter, that it’s a marvellous thing to have a dream, an ideal. But you have to make sure it’s the right dream.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Walter, who had no idea what they were talking about but was trying to store the words in his mind. He thought one day he might understand; so it was important to remember as much as he could.

  ‘I had the wrong dream, you see. Dying in a war – for a cause you believe in – that’s romantic. It’s very nearly noble. But if it turns to hatred, that’s a bad thing.

  ‘The Easter Rising was meant to achieve so much. But it achieved nothing except failure. Dublin fell, and they executed the rebels in Kilmainham Gaol . . . De Valera’s in gaol, and the sovereignty they promised Ireland isn’t likely to happen – remember I said that, will you? We all expected to die,’ he said. ‘Patrick Pearse, Michael Collins a
nd all the rest. Everyone who signed the Proclamation of an Irish Republic knew there was about a thousand to one chance of surviving.’ He blinked, and then seemed to realize where he was. ‘But I never expected to die like this, in a squalid death cell, counting the hours away until the day after tomorrow.’ A look passed between them at that point; as if, Walter thought, they had clasped their hands together. ‘You know it will happen the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Sir Lewis Caradoc told me.’

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ said Walter’s father. ‘I understand they’re always punctual. They’ve got extra guards on, I think.’

  ‘In case you fight to get free?’ It came out on another of the stifled sobs.

  ‘I shan’t fight my love. But they’re worried in case a rescue’s tried.’

  ‘Will it be?’

  ‘I don’t think so. No. You mustn’t even think it.’ He looked back at Walter. ‘Walter, there’s a piece of writing I want you to have. Part of a poem. You won’t understand it now, but one day – perhaps when you’re that doctor you’d like to be and you’re helping to make people better – then you will understand it.’ He held a sheet of paper up for the two people at the door to see, and the mischievous-fairy lady nodded, and he said, ‘Thank you, Belinda,’ and gave it to Walter.

  Walter was not sure if he was meant to read it at once, and when he looked at the words, he did not think he could manage them anyway. He looked at his mother in sudden panic, but then his father said, very softly, ‘Walter, this is what it says.