by Valerie Wood
Chapter Eighteen
The servants were questioned by the police, but they knew nothing, not even that Emily was expecting a child. ‘She kept it well hidden,’ Dolly muttered, ‘though of course she was a well-made lass so we wouldn’t notice.’ She was rather annoyed that she hadn’t known. Mrs Anderson admitted that she had known but hadn’t told Mrs Purnell, though she had intended to.
Hugo was closeted in the study with the police and it was he who had made the charge.
‘She doesn’t seem ’usual type, sir,’ said the constable. ‘I was the one who made ’arrest and she seemed quite innocent to me, not like some of ’harpies I see. And I don’t know much about babbies, that’s women’s business, but it could have been born dead.’
‘Ha! Don’t be misled by her.’ Hugo pointed a finger at him. ‘She might look like an angel but believe me, had I not been happily married I might well have succumbed to her advances and she’s not the sort to want children hanging around her skirts! And then there’s the destruction of the painting,’ he added. ‘She is obviously vicious to do a thing like that.’ He sighed. ‘It was a particular favourite of my wife’s.’
The constable raised his eyebrows. ‘Really, sir.’
Hugo gave a small smile. ‘Indeed. My wife is a lover of art. She is devastated by the loss.’
‘Could I speak to your wife, sir? See if she can shed some light on what has happened?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Hugo rose to his feet, summarily dismissing him. ‘She is in delicate health and this dreadful event has upset her greatly. She has taken to her bed in some distress.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Then I’ll wish you good day. You will, of course, be called as a witness at the hearing. But not yet.’ He shook his head. ‘These cases take weeks to come to court.’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose there’s no-one who would stand surety for ’young woman? She’d not be a danger to anybody.’
Hugo drew in a breath of horror. ‘Certainly not! Think of the effect on my wife and mother if they thought she was roaming the streets. No, keep her where she is. Let her repent on her sins at leisure.’
Mrs Purnell sat in her sitting room with the curtains closed and her smelling salts clutched to her bosom. She had thought long and hard on this terrible situation and had come to the only conclusion possible. But Hugo was her son and she must stand by him.
‘Sit down, Hugo. I want to talk to you. I am very upset over all this business. Very upset indeed.’
‘And so you might be, Mother,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s a dreadful affair. Of course we realize now why Roger Francis wanted rid of her; she was obviously trouble right from the start.’
Mrs Purnell looked startled. ‘Surely not. She was so young when she came, and so pretty,’ she added regretfully. ‘I can’t think that it was so.’ She gazed frankly at her son. ‘I cannot contend with this upset, Hugo. It is an affront to my nerves. You know how I hate scandal! So I’ve made a decision. I’m not accusing you, don’t think that I am, but there’s something amiss here,’ she raised her hand as he started to speak, ‘and I don’t really want to know what it is.’
He shuffled slightly and shrugged, but made no answer.
‘I want you and Deborah to leave here: buy a house of your own where you can do as you like when you like.’ She saw his expression change. He was going to argue with her, so she added swiftly, ‘There will be the trial, the police will want to question you again, seeing as you and Deborah found the child and I don’t want them in my house. I am old, Hugo,’ she pleaded. ‘I need a quiet life.’ And neither do I want your wife trailing around after me wherever I go, she thought. Already there were hints from her friends that Deborah was not welcome.
‘All the more reason why I should stay, Mother,’ he wheedled. ‘I can look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after, Hugo,’ she said sharply. ‘I pay servants to look after me! I want my house to myself. You must buy a house for yourself and Deborah. Go to Hessle or Anlaby, those places are close enough to town for shopping or your clubs – and the air will be better for her.’
‘This is my house too,’ he said curtly. ‘Father always said so.’
‘Not until I die.’ Her mouth set in a tight line. ‘It was written into his will. It will come to you after I die. Not before!’
They stared at each other, locked in acrimony. ‘I have made up my mind, Hugo,’ she said firmly. ‘I want you to leave this house and take your wife with you.’
The constable had put manacles on Emily’s wrist as they left the inn and attached them to his own wrist. ‘Please don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘I won’t run away.’
He looked down on her. He carried a truncheon and a rattle and seemed huge in his tall hat and navy swallow-tailed coat. ‘We’ve heard that one before, haven’t we Sergeant Harris?’
The sergeant looked concerned. He was dressed similarly to the constable, but had silver-plated buttons on his coat and wore white gloves and carried an umbrella. ‘Sorry miss, but we have to.’ He put a rope round her waist and twisted it around his hand. ‘If we mislaid you, we should be in trouble with ’inspector. Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be sorted out.’
She kept her head bent as she was marched down the thronging Market Place towards the police station in Blanket Row, hoping that she wouldn’t be recognized by anyone and praying that this was some dreadful mistake, a nightmare from which she would soon awaken.
‘Charge of murder of a newborn child,’ said the constable as they passed through the heavy gaol door, ‘and wilful destruction of property.’
‘No!’ Emily gasped with muffled breath. ‘No! It’s not true. The baby was dead. He never drew breath. I tried to revive him.’ She started to sob. ‘Please. You must believe me. I’d never do such a wicked thing.’
The clerk at the desk didn’t look up, but started to write laboriously in a large book. ‘Name? Last address? Occupation?’
She gave them, choking and almost fainting with fear, then the clerk looked up and asked, ‘Witnesses?’
‘Mr Hugo Purnell and his wife; address Parliament Street, same as ’prisoner.’ The sergeant looked at Emily with something like sympathy as he spoke. ‘Occupation, gentleman.’
‘She can’t stop here,’ the clerk continued writing. ‘We’re full up. Besides she needs to be secure on that charge. You’ll have to tek her to Kingston Street gaol until ’magistrate’s ready for her.’
Emily felt her heart beating faster in her chest as the name of the House of Correction was given. This was the place where villains, thieves and felons were taken to atone for their sins. They were put to the treadmill or made to crush whiting. Surely, surely, they couldn’t mean to take her there?
The constable expressed annoyance at having to trail further across to the edge of the town to deposit Emily, but there was nothing for it; the police station was small, overcrowded and inadequate for keeping prisoners for very long.
The House of Correction was built in an oval shape around a sunken area, with five prison buildings leading off from it. There were separate wards for male and female debtors, other cells were classed for various kinds of delinquency, and between the work buildings and the cells there were open yards containing water pumps. Overlooking the whole of the building the governor’s house stood like a sentinel on duty.
Emily shook, hardly able to hold her hands still as they unfastened the handcuffs and, with the rope still around her, took her down a flight of stone steps and through into a long, dark, brick-built passageway barred at both ends by an iron gate. ‘Nowt to do with us, miss,’ said the sergeant almost apologetically, ‘but a child’s body has been found, there’s a damaged picture, and a charge has been made against you.’
She said nothing. There seemed to be nothing to say. Who would believe her? Who would take her word against that of Hugo Purnell? A gentleman?
They led her down the passage, past locked doors, down another flight of steps, lit only by a flicke
ring lamp high on the wall, and into another passageway, damp and fetid, which made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. A sickening stench of unwashed bodies met her as they urged her towards an iron gate which led into a large square cell divided into two, one of which held male and the other female prisoners. Some of the women rose from their seats on the floor as Emily and the constables entered and it seemed to her that they were like ghouls from hell with their dark, shadowed faces, matted hair and rough fingers which picked and pulled at her clothing.
‘Get back!’ Sergeant Harris roared at them. ‘Go on. Get back, you old drabs!’
‘Who’s this then, Harris? Here’s a pretty customer.’ A dishevelled woman with clothes in rags and dirty hair leered at Emily. ‘What ’you been up to, dearie?’
Emily stepped back in horror. Surely they wouldn’t lock her up with people such as this?
‘Put her in a single cell,’ Harris advised. ‘She’ll be safer on her own than with this rabble.’
‘Here! Who ’you calling rabble?’ A voice echoed from the male cell.
‘It’s what I’m calling you, Briggs, ’cos that’s what you are. Now just keep quiet.’
They unlocked another iron gate, which made a small cell against the outer wall and was open to the view of the larger one. There was a short bench against the wall, just long enough for a small person to lie on, though not comfortably, a rough blanket was folded upon it and a bucket placed underneath.
Emily turned to the guards horrorstruck. ‘You’re not leaving me here?’
‘Best room in ’house,’ the constable grinned. ‘Unless you’d rather bed down with this lot!’
The female prisoners gathered about her cell, looking curiously at her through the bars. ‘What’s she in for?’ asked one scrawny old woman, who like the others was dressed in rags. ‘She’s onny a bairn.’
‘Been pinching stuff, I bet,’ said another woman, who stood with her arms folded, watching. ‘Can’t trust these pretty lasses. If they’re not on ’game, then they’ll pinch ’clothes off your back.’
‘You can talk, Meg,’ a woman in the corner guffawed. ‘If anybody knows about it, you do.’
‘Hah!’ The woman named Meg cavorted around the cell, her hand on her swaying hip. ‘Saying I’m pretty, eh?’
‘No, you ugly whore, I’m not,’ the woman growled. ‘Leave ’lass alone.’
‘You’d better not meddle with her.’ Benton locked the iron gate behind them. ‘She’s in for murder.’
There was a sudden silence as this news was imparted and the women moved back slightly. Emily gripped the barred gate. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ she wept. ‘They said I killed the baby, but I didn’t. He never took a single breath.’
The man Briggs in the next cell shouted, ‘It’s a sin to kill. You’ll rot in hell!’
‘Leave her alone!’ Meg and the old woman both shouted back in her defence. ‘What do men know?’
The old woman put her face against the bars. ‘Don’t make no difference whether tha did it or not, dearie. If they say that tha did, then tha’ll hang, like lass in next cage will, so start saying tha prayers now.’
Emily slid to the ground, too weak to summon the strength to lie on the bench. They were trying to frighten her. They couldn’t mean that she would die for something she hadn’t done? Then she thought of the damaged painting. That at least was true. She had deliberately taken the poker and burnt it. She must have been mad for a few minutes to do such a thing. Should she say that? Should she say that her sanity had vanished at the death of the child? But would they then lock her up with the insane?
She retched at the thought. She had heard such terrible things about those poor lost souls. No, she must tell the truth, as she had always done.
She shuffled onto the bench and lay down, pulling the blanket over her. But then she threw it off. It smelt mouldy, like over-ripe cheese and she thought wretchedly that others had lain beneath it, perhaps with dirty and verminous bodies. She huddled into herself beneath her cloak, closed her eyes and waited for someone, anyone, to come and rescue her.
The day dragged on and she had no means of knowing the time. It was dark, with only one small window at the top of the wall in the main cell, which she assumed would be at ground level as she had come down two flights of stairs, but the window was grimy and very little light came through it. Presently another warder came through with a lamp, which though shedding a little light gave off a noxious smell of dirty oil.
‘Soon be suppertime.’ One of the women came across to her. ‘If tha doesn’t want it, can I have it?’
She sat up, confused. ‘What? Suppertime?’ She must have dropped off to sleep. Why had no-one come to release her? ‘No,’ she said in answer. ‘I must eat, I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’ She thought of the extra cup of coffee which the landlady of the inn had pressed on her. If she had refused it, she would have escaped the clutches of the constables and been safely in Beverley now.
‘Tha won’t like it.’ The woman, disappointment in her voice, turned away. ‘Not what tha’s been used to, I’ll be bound. Nobody likes it when they first come in.’
Well, I shall eat it, whatever it is, Emily thought. I must keep up my strength. But when the bowl of greasy soup was handed to her through the metal flap on the gate, her stomach turned. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked meekly.
The warder gave her a contemptuous glance. ‘Want me to nip to Station Hotel? I’m sure they’ll put on a little delicacy for you!’
Humiliated, she took it from him and then the piece of dry bread which he held in his hand. ‘Thank you.’ She raised her eyes to his, but he didn’t seem to see her, there was merely indifference written on his face.
Meg came across to her. She was chewing on her bread with apparent enthusiasm. ‘If ever you don’t want your supper,’ she whispered with her mouth open and full of bread and stained teeth, ‘don’t give it away. Sell it! You never know when you’ll need a copper or two.’ She leant towards the bars. ‘If you’ve got money, it can buy another blanket or a bit o’ meat. Or better still,’ she added, ‘get somebody to bring summat in.’
Emily stirred the cold soup with the tin spoon, but couldn’t bring herself to taste it. Who could she ask to bring food in? The only people who knew she was in prison were the Purnells and their servants, and they were not likely to come. Would Mrs Anderson? No, she wouldn’t dare. She would be too afraid of incurring Hugo Purnell’s wrath and losing her position. There was nothing for it then. Tentatively, she raised her spoon to her lips and sipped. It tasted of cold, tainted grease. She dipped the bread into it and chewed. The bread was stale and she doubted there was any nourishment in it, but she finished it and felt a slight sense of gratification that her willpower had overcome her repugnance.
She barely slept that night, kept awake by the muttering, groans and snores of the other prisoners, and she thought she could hear the scurrying of mice or rats. For breakfast the next day she was given a slice of bread and a mug of lukewarm tea, and after she had eaten she sat on her bench staring out through the bars at the other inhabitants. At noon, a slice of tough meat of unknown origin, an undercooked potato and a mug of water were given and at supper a bowl of soup, the same flavour as the night before.
Each mealtime gave her the measure of the days; six days passed and no-one had been to tell her what was to happen to her. She had questioned the warders, but they merely shrugged. The only person who showed any sympathy was the sergeant who had arrested her, who, when he brought in other prisoners came to speak to her and advised her to be patient, that it could be some time before she was called before the magistrate.
‘Have you no family you could write to?’ he asked. ‘Nobody who could speak for you or stand surety?’
She shook her head despondently and he went away. Only Sam, she thought, and poor Sam couldn’t do anything. Perhaps Mr Francis might, she pondered, if only I could get in touch with him. But who would post my letter?
The followin
g day she heard her name being called down the corridor. ‘Emily Hawkins! Here’s a visitor for you.’ She rushed to the bars. Who could it be? Her heart pounded and she felt sick with anticipation. She smoothed her hair and her dress and felt that she had never been so unclean. One small bowl of water was all they were given each morning for washing and she had to complete her toilet in view of everyone else. The other prisoners, she noticed, didn’t bother to wash.
‘Ginny!’ Emily burst into tears at the sight of her friend. ‘Oh, Ginny, I’m so glad to see you.’
Ginny clasped her hands through the bars. ‘Emily! I only heard ’other day. I met Dolly in Whitefriargate and she was bursting to tell somebody. She said it had been in ’newspaper, though of course I didn’t see it. And then Mrs Marshall asked me what I’d heard. Mrs Purnell’s not been seen, seemingly she’s really upset and has taken to her bed.’
Emily wiped her tears. In the newspaper! What humiliation. Whatever would they say about her? ‘It’s not true, Ginny, I didn’t kill that poor baby.’
Ginny patted her hand. ‘I know that,’ she said gently. ‘If you were going to kill it you’d have done summat afore. But what about ’picture? Dolly said you’d smashed a picture with a poker.’
Emily nodded and tears came to her eyes again. ‘I did,’ she snuffled. ‘I was so angry with Hugo Purnell and how he had treated me when I saw that dreadful picture staring at me and reminding me of what had happened, I couldn’t help myself.’
‘Listen,’ Ginny said urgently, ‘I can’t stop long. I’m on an errand for Mrs Marshall and I’ll be missed. I’ve had to give ’warder sixpence to let me in, so tell me quick is there anything I can bring in next time?’
Emily was so grateful that Ginny would consider coming back to this dreadful place that she started to cry again, but she stemmed her tears and said, ‘I’ll give you sixpence for next time, Ginny, and could you try to get me a blanket? It’s so cold in here, especially at night.’