Two for Sorrow (35 page)

They looked bleak enough in the fading light of a November day, but Josephine could imagine how important the lawns and carefully arranged flower beds might be to these women; in the spring and early summer, if you could detach them from their surroundings, they might even be said to be beautiful. As she looked around, her eye was drawn to an oblong bed of neatly trimmed evergreens at one end of the grounds; it stood alone, and seemed out of place next to the general scheme of paths and plants that sat between the radiating arms of the cell blocks. Cicely followed her gaze, and said: ‘That's Edith Thompson's grave. She was the last prisoner to be hanged here. There's no stone or marker, but you don't need one: every woman in here knows what it is and what it means, and they'd find it hard to forget.'

‘Are there many women buried here?'

‘Too many, if you ask me.'

‘And Sach and Walters would be among them?' Cicely nodded. They stood in silence for a moment, looking over towards the trees. ‘What's that?' Josephine asked, pointing at a new building which was just visible over the top of a nearby wall.

‘That's the new execution chamber—and I mean brand new.' She shook her head. ‘All that trouble they've gone to to build it, and no one's had the decency to try it out yet. How ungrateful can you get?' Her sarcasm was blatant, but justified, in Josephine's opinion: there was something quietly horrifying about the close proximity of the scaffold to the victims of its predecessor. ‘They pulled the old chamber down after Thompson went,' Cicely explained. ‘They said she haunted it. A gang came in from one of the men's prisons to build this beauty—they arrived in a bus each day, like some sort of day trip. Do you want to see it?'

‘No, not if it's not the original.' Cicely seemed relieved, and Josephine remembered what Celia had said about the burden of being the warder at an execution; to go to the chamber at all must seem like tempting fate. ‘We'd better go back, anyway. I don't want to hold Inspector Penrose up.' She looked at her watch, realising suddenly how badly she wanted to leave Holloway behind.

‘Why do you do this?' she asked as they walked back to the main building. ‘I can't imagine it's for the money.'

‘You're right there, and it's not for the social life either.' She thought before answering, and then said: ‘The best way I can explain it is to tell you something about Miss Size. We had a woman in here who'd been caught shoplifting. She'd run up huge debts with her husband and she was in despair because she didn't know how he'd manage without her or what she'd do when she got out. Miss Size asked her for a list of her debts, and she wrote to each and every one of them personally, asking what they'd accept by way of payment. Everyone was paid out of money from the Prisoners' Aid Society, and that woman left prison with a clean slate, debt-free for the first time in her life.
That's just one story—I could have chosen a dozen more, but that's why I do it.'

One glance around the deputy governor's sitting room was enough to tell anyone how Mary Size spent what little free time she had: books lay everywhere, and Penrose noticed that she divided her loyalties equally between her countrymen—there was a good smattering of Joyce, Swift and Wilde—and the contemporary female writers who had been recruited into the movement for reform. Her taste for satire obviously extended to the visual: she was a keen collector of cartoons, and examples by Tom Webster and David Low lined the walls. ‘David's a friend,' she explained when she saw him looking at them, ‘although sometimes I wonder.' She drew his attention to a small framed drawing by the fireplace, in which a monstrous female figure towered over three caged and emaciated men, one labelled ‘discipline', one ‘punishment', and the third and weakest of the three, ‘justice'; like all the best cartoons, the image was at once grotesquely exaggerated and instantly recognisable as her.

Penrose smiled and took the chair he was offered. There were two folders on the table in front of him, one each for Marjorie Baker and Lucy Peters, and she pushed them across for him to read. He thanked her, but left them where they were; he had liked Mary Size instantly and was interested in hearing her personal opinion before he looked at any official records. ‘Tell me about Marjorie Baker,' he said.

The openness of the question seemed to throw her for a second, and she considered it carefully. ‘When I first met Marjorie, she was sullen, resentful and aggressive. She showed no interest in her fellow prisoners and rejected any offer of
friendship; she regarded prison officers as her deadly enemies. To prove that she wasn't afraid of anyone, she was always ready to strike the first blow, be it verbal or physical. The last time I saw her, which was only yesterday, she was in command of a responsible job where she was admired for her talent and valued for her hard work; she obviously got on well with her employers and colleagues, and was happy and excited about her future. It takes considerable courage and strength to make those changes without losing the essence of who you are, and that's probably the most important thing that I can tell you about Marjorie.'

‘What do you put those changes down to?' He smiled. ‘Apart from prison rehabilitation, I mean—it sounds like she benefited from her time with you.'

‘Yes, she did. Her earlier behaviour was entirely down to frustration and despair, and she was terrified that she would never amount to anything. Once she could believe that she had a future other than as an outcast, she found she could look people in the eye again. It sounds terribly sentimental when I put it like that,' she added, sensing his scepticism, ‘and of course there were some setbacks along the way—I can see you're about to remind me that Marjorie needed more than a second chance—but it came right for her eventually. Call it third time lucky if you're a man who believes in luck.'

‘And do you genuinely believe that she wouldn't have done anything to bring her back to prison?'

‘I've been in the service for thirty years now, and I've learned not to make claims which are quite as definite as that. But contrary to what some of my older officers will tell you, they
don't
always come back, and Marjorie had something to lose at last. That's the most powerful incentive I can think of.'

‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her? Any prisoners who had a grudge against her or someone recently released who had a score to settle? You said that she didn't make friends at the beginning of her sentence.'

‘No, she didn't, but that's the sort of behaviour which might bring instant retaliation: it hardly warrants the sort of violence you're talking about. I have to admit, when your sergeant telephoned and told me that her father was found dead as well, I assumed that her death had something to do with him, but, from your questions, that's obviously not the case. Can I ask how she was killed?'

Penrose outlined the barest details of the murder, and Mary Size looked both saddened and horrified. It was a long time before she spoke again. ‘I honestly can't think of anything that's happened here which would make someone react like that,' she said. ‘I'm not aware of everything that goes on, of course, but people will tell you that I miss very little—and I
would
tell you if there had been something, no matter how badly it reflected on the prison.' Penrose believed her and appreciated her frankness; it was refreshing after Celia Bannerman's cautious responses to his questions about the Cowdray Club, although it seemed to him that the reputation of an organisation like Holloway was much more worthy of defence than a society for privileged women. He could only suppose that the deputy governor's personal affection for the victim had influenced her desire to help, and he liked her all the more for it. ‘I suppose the manner of Marjorie's death encouraged you to think of her time in prison,' she added.

‘Yes, in part,' he said, surprised. ‘I gather that the type of needle in question is the sort traditionally used for heavier work like sacking and mailbags.'

‘I was thinking more of the glass in her mouth. It's one of the nastier forms of prison violence, and I'm pleased to say that it's never happened on my watch, but it's not unknown for glass to find its way into a prisoner's food.' That hadn't occurred to Penrose, but it made sense. ‘As I say, though, I can't think why Marjorie would have been subjected to something like that.'

‘When you saw her at Motley yesterday afternoon, was there anything different about her? Did she seem troubled or did she confide in you about anything?'

‘I'm not sure I'd go as far as troubled, but she told me that her father had been hanging around again, making a nuisance of himself while she was at work. She was worried that he'd jeopardise her job and I think she wanted me to put in a good word for her, but there was no need; everyone at Motley was more than pleased with her, and I told her as much.' There was no new information here, and Penrose was about to move on when she added: ‘She did mention one thing, though. She said that her father had told her something which she hadn't believed at the time, but which had turned out to be true.'

‘Oh? Did she say what it was?'

‘No. I asked her, and she seemed to be weighing up whether to say more or not, but in the end she brushed it aside.'

Penrose would have put money on the fact Marjorie had come close to telling Mary Size about her family history. It looked as though Celia Bannerman was right—the information must have come from Jacob Sach himself, and been verified by Marjorie's own investigations. If Josephine's suspicions were correct, that must have been quite a blow to Nora Edwards and he wondered if she were safely in custody yet; if his oversight had given her time to disappear again, he might as well
draft his resignation letter now. ‘Do you know anything about Marjorie's mother?' he asked.

‘I know that neither of her parents impressed her much. From what she said, there was no love lost between any of them.'

He decided that there was nothing to lose by telling Mary Size what he knew about the Baker family history, although he stopped short of revealing where the information had come from. Her astonishment was obvious and he could tell from her face that there were hundreds of questions which she would have liked to ask, but she also had the sense to realise that this wasn't the moment to indulge her own curiosity. In the end, all she said was: ‘So your investigations and Miss Tey's aren't as separate as I imagined. How strange that those paths should cross.'

‘Yes. Can you think of anyone here—staff or inmate—who might know of the connection between the Bakers and the Sachs?'

‘Not unless it had been handed on as gossip. When I got Miss Tey's request, I checked very carefully in case there was someone here who could help her, but I drew a blank. Celia might know—but she probably gave you the information in the first place?' He nodded. ‘You're welcome to talk to anyone here, of course, but I'm afraid I can't give you a shortcut. You obviously think that her death is connected to who her family was?' Again, he confirmed with a nod. ‘Well, I'm sure you're right, but I will say one thing: I would have thought it highly unlikely that Marjorie would be any keener than her mother or father for the truth to come out. Unfortunately, a shame like that spreads and Marjorie was more aware than most of how difficult it is to distance yourself from the mistakes of the
past.' Penrose agreed with her, but he also thought that panic could have driven any possibility of careful reasoning from Nora Edwards's mind. ‘This really was a new start for Marjorie,' she emphasised.

‘At Motley?'

‘Yes. Ironically, the most important thing for me is what happens to these women when they leave Holloway. We prepare them as best we can for the outside world, offer them tuition in cookery or childcare or home management, but it's organisations like Motley which really allow us to make a difference.' He smiled. ‘You know Lettice and Ronnie?'

‘We're cousins, for my sins.'

‘Are you? Then I'm glad they have someone who can help them at a time like this—after I'd got over the shock of Marjorie, I thought of them. It must be a devastating thing to have to come to terms with—a death like that on your watch.' She spoke of Lettice and Ronnie as if they were custodians of Marjorie's welfare and in some ways, he supposed, they had been. She carried on, unconsciously echoing the sentiments expressed by Celia Bannerman. ‘But what I was going to say was that it's a worthless existence without some kind of meaningful work, without a way to support yourself and make your own way in the world, and that's hard for ex-prisoners, particularly the younger ones. Employers actively discriminate against them, and they're hounded by fellow workers or exposed by policemen with a grudge. No offence meant.'

‘None taken. I know it goes on.'

‘We used to bang our heads against the problem, but now we concentrate on a few forward-thinking organisations who genuinely want to do some good and it's paying off: just after the war, we placed an average of 150 prisoners in employment;
this year, it's 250. It's people like your cousins and Celia at the Cowdray Club who have made that possible.'

‘How do you find the club? I wouldn't have thought you had much spare time.'

‘For another claustrophobic female institution, you mean?' He was treated to the laugh again. ‘I don't, really, although I can't deny that a change of surroundings is welcome, but it's a valuable contact so I sit on the committee. Some of our nurses come from the college, and lots of the ladies on the Discharged Prisoners' Aid Society are members. Cynically speaking, the Cowdray Club is a rich recruiting ground for ladies with time and money on their hands, and Celia helps tremendously—one of us, gone over to the other side; the volunteers adore that. And of course the food's excellent.' She looked down at herself good-humouredly. ‘As you can see, a good dinner is a splendid antidote to incarceration.'