Untitled (19 page)

   "Then it seems I've had a wasted journey. Perhaps," Robert says to the secretary, "you would be good enough to present my compliments to Sir Jonathan. If he would still like to meet with me, then maybe he would be good enough to inform me."

   "I shall pass on your message, Mr. Bentley."

   The other man steps closer. "Bentley? Robert Bentley?"

   "Yes."

   "Well—of all the luck," he exclaims, "to meet you here. I am Sir Jonathan's colleague. Anthropometry has been my passion for years now, and I am familiar with your work with Monsieur Bertillon in Paris. Sir Jonathan will be most disappointed to have missed you. Now tell me, when are you presenting to the Troup Committee?"

   "In ten days."

   "Ah, and Sir Jonathan is leaving for Edinburgh this evening and won't be back for a week at least." He pauses for a moment, touching his lips with one finger. "I wonder," he says, "since you are here—" He looks down at his shoes, then back at Robert. "Would you be good enough to meet with me instead? It would be a great honor, and I would be able to pass on to Sir Jonathan the essence of our discussion."

   "Yes, of course, of course." Robert's smile is genuine, for now, at least, the morning is not entirely wasted, and this man—this Dr. Taylor—seems barely able to contain his excitement at having Robert Bentley all to himself.

Chapter 11

B
y the time the snow has fallen to the ground it has a grey tinge. Robert turns his gaze towards the prison gates. The guard carrying his equipment is a huge fellow but stooped, as though his own weight is almost more than he can bear, let alone that of Robert's anthropometric equipment. The snow doesn't help. It makes the steps slippery, and gathers thickly on the man's eyelashes so that, though he hates to touch him, Robert reaches out and guides him by the elbow.

   It is a miserable business, getting into a prison, no matter that he is known here now. The clang of the gates rings out unsettlingly loud, and the grate of the keys in each set of locks as they pass into the heart of the building sets his nerves on edge. How, Robert wonders, must it feel for a convicted felon? To have the freedoms of life shut off one by one as the doors swing closed? To know that inside is nothing but the dreariness of bare cells, overcooked food, and the treadmill? He pushes away such depressing thoughts by calling to mind the sight of Mina that morning as he rose above her in their bed, her hair glinting auburn in the light of the candle he'd lit to see her better, her nipples hardening to the touch of his fingers. She has a way of half closing her eyes with a gasp when he enters her, as though each time the feel of him is a surprise, and it is this that he sees instead of the guard stumbling along the corridors with his boxes: Mina—the lift of her chin, the hair that clings damply to her neck in delicate curls, her ribs hard against his own as he pulls her to him.

"Sir?"

They are at the door. "Yes?"

   "Flyte is waiting for you, sir. And the governor should be with you shortly."

   "Ah. Very good."

   After all the measurements they have taken so far it should be— indeed it
is
—possible to match a man against his record. And so, today, a test. Three prisoners to be brought in and identified by Jessop and Arthur by their measurements alone. Robert has seen Bertillon do it a hundred times. For these men it will be a different matter: Arthur still scratches his head over millimeters, and as for Jessop—Robert cannot rid himself of the sight of him about to measure a prisoner's foot in its shoe. If they fail him today, the case for anthropometry will be considerably weakened—for surely Governor Waite will not speak for it before the Troup Committee unless he can see proof of its efficacy here, today, in this room. Only fair, Robert reminds himself, because anthropometry will have to weather the confusions and inaccuracies of other Jessops and other Arthurs if it is to be adopted. Yet of all the men the governor could have given him, why these two?

   Flyte is busy setting up the equipment. "Good day, sir."

   "I hope it will be, Flyte, I certainly do."

   "As do I, sir." He gives a small smile. "This may be our last meeting within these walls—I will soon be a free man again, and shall be able to reestablish my reputation."

   "Good luck, then, Flyte." He nods encouragingly, though such hopes seem foolish—what reputation can an ex-convict have?

   "Thank you, sir." He leans a little closer, says softly, "I hope I have been of help to you, sir."

   "Yes, indeed you have."

   "Then perhaps"—his grey eyes stare directly into Robert's—"you would be kind enough to be of help to me. To have a gentleman vouch for my ability to be of use, and so on—am I right in thinking that you have found me a resourceful man, sir?"

   "Yes, very resourceful." He steps away and wipes melted snow from the top of his boxes. He even glances at the guards, though one of them is yawning and the other picking at his nails.

   Flyte follows him, his shoulder almost touching Robert's. His voice is low and insistent as he says, "Just a brief letter as to my character, sir, if you wouldn't mind. I am a reformed man, and I—"

   Robert rests his hand on one of the boxes. He says a little too loudly, "Surely the governor would be a more sensible choice. He knows you far better than I do. Now really, that's the end of the matter." Is it his imagination, or does a sudden sharpness flash across Flyte's face? Out of the corner of his eye he catches a movement— the guards shifting, looking his way.

   Flyte has seen them too. He says, "Very good, sir. I'm sorry to have troubled you." He turns away, back to his work.

   Robert rubs his hands together, as though he is still cold. Men like Flyte—they do not let a chance go by. No wonder, he thinks, they end up in prison.

   Flyte is precise in his movements, like a doll that has been wound up to perform the same tasks over and over again. Already, then, Robert's visits, and this routine of measuring the prisoners, have been absorbed into the repetitions of his life. As for the guards, they look bored again. None of the days that they have stood here watching have been rewarded with prisoner misbehavior. No attempts to flee this room, no sudden attacks on the visiting expert in anthropometry. Not even any serious attempt to refuse to be measured.

   Flyte has set out chairs for the observers, and now rubs the top of the small cabinet containing the anthropometric cards with his sleeve. Then he sighs and looks about him. There's a knock at the door, and one of the guards steps over to open it. A trolley with a tea urn, cups and saucers, and—no doubt because of the importance of the day—small cakes. The man who pushes it in has a gaunt face and massive hands, yet he sets out everything quietly and in order, as a woman would.

   Flyte is at Robert's side, and he puts a slip of paper in his hand. "I thought you might need this."

   Robert barely has time to glance at what he is holding before Governor Waite comes in with his secretary and Foley, the Inspector of Prisons, Jessop and Arthur right behind them. Instinctively Robert reads what is on the paper, but it takes a moment for his mind to register what it is: written in small letters are three names. The names of the men who will be brought in, and whom it is Jessop and Arthur's job to identify. Names he should not know if the test is to have any validity.

   "Ah, Mr. Bentley." The governor stretches out a hand.

   Robert stuffs the paper into his pocket. With a quick smile he takes the governor's hand, then Foley's, squeezing both a little too hard. In his chest his heart is frantic.

   Maybe Arthur and Jessop have the names too, he thinks. Maybe this test of the Bertillon system is nothing but a charade. It is too late to protest. So he sits and watches, and when Flyte comes close with a cup of tea he can barely bring himself to take it from him.

        
I
t's dinnertime, and he wishes that the widow would excuse herself with a headache or whatever other maladies a lady can summon up, but she doesn't. He'd come home thrilled with success—in those few hours out of the house he'd let the fact of Henry's death slip away from him. Striding into the drawing room he'd barely acknowledged Henry's widow sitting by the fire with her fingers twisted together in her lap, had barely seen her, to tell the truth. She'd kept her head down and said not a single word, as though she'd been taught to efface herself. Mina had lifted a finger to her lips, and she was right: it would have been wrong to have crowed about how splendidly the test had gone, even if it was not all it seemed to be.

   As for dinner, it lasts an eternity. The three of them would hardly have had a thing to say to one another if it were not for Mina asking about India, and the climate, and the servants there, and the customs of the Indian people, leading the widow's quiet voice through explanations and descriptions and, when it trails off, talking about France and the French way of life, and how in Paris servants are not so closely guarded as here—indeed, since the Parisians live in apartments, servants share quarters together at the top of the building. Whenever Mina pauses, the widow's eyes slide down to her plate, but his wife does not give up. How can she when Cartwright and Sarah are standing at the sideboard, watching?

   After dinner the widow says she is tired, and Mina gently kisses her good night. It is enough to make him uncomfortable, the ease with which she presses her lips against the cheek of this woman, then, once the door is closed, says, "Well, at least we can be reasonably sure she has come from India."

   He gets to his feet. "Mina!"

   Her skirts rustle as she comes over to him, and the suggestion of what lies beneath is almost more than he can stand. He reaches for her, pulls her hard against him; there is fabric between his skin and hers, and a corset. "Come," he whispers to her, "come upstairs with me now."

   He expects her to refuse—the widow has only just left the room, the servants are about, tomorrow is the funeral. But no—she turns his face slightly with hers and opens her mouth full on his while her hand slides down his belly, so far down that he grabs her hand and pulls her towards the door.

   In the hallway they come across the new maid and sing out, "Good night, Jane." They are close to laughter, running upstairs like a couple of newlyweds when Henry's widow has barely closed the door to her room—what has got into them? They lock the bedroom door and undress each other, slowly, for Mina has layer upon layer to remove and he wants her naked beneath him, utterly naked. Then he lays her back onto the pillows and parts her knees. She is so soft, her skin so warm in the light of the fire, the hair between her legs opening to reveal glistening pinkness. He pushes himself hard into her until she starts to bend away, then with a hoarse cry she grabs his buttocks and lifts herself so he can enter her more fully.

   Afterwards he rolls to his side, still inside her, his arms around her, the stickiness of their bodies between them. "Poor Henry," he whispers.

   "Yes," she says, "poor Henry."

   "Mother tried to persuade him not to leave. She thought India was too dangerous. She even invited the new neighbors around for dinner in the hope that he'd fall in love with their daughter."

   "But he didn't?"

   "He told me that Miss Pritchard had
a most unfortunate laugh."

   "And did she?"

   "She brayed like a donkey."

   Mina strokes his cheek with one finger. "Poor Miss Pritchard."

   "In the end she married the deputy governor of Dartmoor Prison." He feels Mina shift her shoulders. "Can you imagine? Your whole life spent in sight of a place like that? Even after a few hours, I have to get it out of me. To be locked up—it must be a living death."

   "It's supposed to be, isn't it?"

   "Can you imagine how it must be to work there? I don't know how those men bear it." He rubs his nose against the delicate skin between her collarbone and her neck. "As you go through the gates you feel all the joy in life drain away, and you wonder whether it will be there for you when you come back out."

   "But it went well? The test?"

   "Oh, a great success! I had my doubts about Jessop and Arthur. Of all the men the governor could have chosen for me to train—"

   "Maybe"—she shifts slightly—"maybe he thought that if you could train them, you could train any men."

   He nips at her skin. "You are too clever for your own good." Then he sighs. "But it went well. I'd had nightmares of Jessop measuring the men with their shoes on, but he managed. Not quite as well as I would have liked, but close enough."

   "They got all three of them?"

   "Each one in a matter of minutes. The governor and the inspector were impressed, I could tell. I don't think either of them quite believed anthropometry could do it."

   "That's wonderful! Will they both speak to the committee? Surely they will now."

   "Foley's
on
the committee, but he was adamant that anthropome try is nothing more than a means of negative proof; it can distinguish between two men but not conclusively match a man to his identity."

   "Oh, but he's wrong, isn't he?"

   He shrugs. "The chance of two men sharing precisely the same measurements exists, but it's infinitely small. Besides, what better method is there? At least Governor Waite understood that. As I was leaving he said he'd have a word with Foley."

   "That's wonderful." She runs her fingertips along the ridge of his shoulder. "And yet?"

   "And yet, my darling, I'm the one who's unsettled now." She pulls back to look at him and he feels himself slipping out of her.

   "By the test?"

   "Just beforehand, something odd happened. They were bringing in the tea, and the prisoner who helps out came over to me. He's a quiet sort, a forger or the like, I imagine, whose time is nearly up."