“Hugh!”
He shouts; he sounds far away. I hear grunts, pants, and scraping noises, as though he’s being dragged. The hands propel me in the opposite direction. They belong to two men behind me—one gripping my left arm and my coat collar; the other, my right arm and my hair. I smell their loud, sour breaths as I struggle.
“Help!”
My voice echoes. No one responds. My eyes adjust to the darkness, which isn’t total; faint daylight emanates from other passages. I try to turn to see my captors, but they prevent me. The assault is all the more terrifying because they’re invisible, faceless. At the threshold of a doorway, they give me a mighty shove. I scream while tumbling, skirts over head, down a flight of stairs. I crash to a stop and lie stunned, gasping. When I flex my limbs and neck, my knees, elbows, and chin hurt where they struck the stone steps, but my heavy clothes and my bustle padded me; nothing seems broken. I sit up as my heart pounds with lingering terror. Gas fumes waft through the air; then the doorway above me brightens as someone relights the jets in the passage. Below, down a second flight of stairs, the black hole of a cellar gapes.
“Miss Bain? Miss Bain!” The anxious voice belongs to Dr. Davies.
I hesitate before answering. He could have been one of the men who pushed me. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to get out of Newgate by myself. “I’m here.”
Dr. Davies hurries down the stairs. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“Let me help you.” He extends his hand.
“No, thank you.” Despite his apparent concern, I don’t trust him. I grasp the railing and pull myself to my feet.
“What happened?”
A male voice says, “She fell.”
I look up at a warden standing in the stairwell doorway. He’s the one Dr. Davies left in charge of Hugh and me before the lights went out. “No, I was pushed.”
Dr. Davies frowns as if confused about whom to believe. “I told you to watch her,” he says to the warden.
“She snuck away and got lost in the dark and had an accident,” the warden says.
“The hell it was an accident!” Temper moves me to swear. “Someone pushed me. Was it you?”
“It was your own bloody fault, stupid cow.”
I turn to Dr. Davies. His expression is apologetic but disapproving; he believes the warden. I’m furious, but there’s no time to make a scene. “Where is Hugh?”
“I thought he was with you,” Dr. Davies says.
I falter up the stairs with Dr. Davies at my heels, push past the warden, and look down the corridor. It’s vacant.
“He must have left,” Dr. Davies says.
“He wouldn’t leave without me. Something’s happened to him.” I grab Dr. Davies by the arm. “We have to find him. Now!”
Either he’s convinced by my panic or he thinks he’s humoring a crazy woman, but he raises the alarm. Soon Newgate is like a fortress under siege as the wardens mount a search for the missing visitor. Dr. Davies and I rush through corridors noisy with the tramp of footsteps, the echoes of voices calling. There’s no sign of Hugh. I hear the ear-splitting shrills of police whistles. We follow wardens stampeding outside, to a yard enclosed by buildings on three sides and a wall topped with iron spikes on the fourth. At the center of the yard, other wardens struggle to pull men dressed in gray prison uniforms away from what appears to be a riot. The prisoners roar like animals. Other inmates cheer from barred windows. I shrink against the wall as wardens drag dozens of handcuffed inmates to the cells. Four wardens remain, trying to separate two men who are fighting. One is blond-haired, disheveled, and naked to the waist; his clothes must have been torn off. He grips the other, a brawny prisoner with a shaved head, in a chokehold.
“Hugh!” I cry.
While the wardens tug at him, Hugh grits his teeth and hangs on. His face wears a ferocious expression I’ve never seen before. His opponent grunts and chokes, face purple, eyes bulging. Their feet trample bodies of fallen, unconscious inmates.
“Hugh, stop!” I say. “You’re going to kill him!”
Hugh lets go of the prisoner, who drops to his knees, clutching his throat, wheezing. Hugh shakes the wardens off him and says to the prisoner, “That’ll teach you to assault visitors.” He addresses the prone men, whom he apparently knocked out earlier. “You too.” Breathing hard, sweating, and his left cheek scraped, he grins with exhilaration.
I’m glad Hugh isn’t hurt, proud that he got the better of his assailants. On past occasions, he’s displayed combat skills learned, he claims, at Eton, but I’ve just seen something savage in him that’s usually hidden. I already knew he’s capable of killing, the same as he knows I am, but it’s disturbing to see it in broad daylight while in my rational mind.
The uproar from the prisoners in the other cells dies down. The wardens in the yard stand aside to let Governor Piercy through. “What’s going on?” Piercy demands.
Hugh picks his hat, overcoat, jacket, and shirt up from the dirty pavement. The shirt is torn and bloodstained. “When the lights went out, some men dragged me out here.” He dons the clothes and points at his defeated opponents. “Those fellows thought they’d have a little fun with me. They should have thought twice.”
Piercy asks the wardens, “What really happened?” After they each swear that Hugh started the riot, he frowns at Hugh and me. “I told you not to wander around by yourselves.”
“We didn’t!” Sudden suspicion enrages me. “You turned off the lights. You sent people to attack us.”
“That’s a ridiculous accusation,” Piercy says. “Gas interruptions are common.”
“Gas interruption, my foot,” Hugh says. “You didn’t like us asking questions about Amelia Carlisle’s execution. You wanted to stop us before we could get the answers.”
Piercy shakes his head in disdain and says, “I think you went to the men’s exercise yard and made obscene advances toward the prisoners. They were only defending themselves.” He bares his diseased gums in an evil smile. “You wouldn’t want that story in the Daily World.”
As Hugh and I gape, stunned by the unjust accusation, Piercy says, “Oh yes, I know about you—Lord Hugh Staunton, the famous sodomite.”
And he must have made sure that the prisoners knew, that when Hugh was thrown into their midst, they would treat him as they would any homosexual. Hugh’s expression turns black with rage, and he lunges at Piercy. The governor recoils, frightened. I grab Hugh by the arm, restraining him as his outstretched hands graze Piercy’s throat.
“Let go, damn it!” Hugh struggles to pull free, still hot-blooded from the fight. As wardens step between him and Piercy, he says, “Get out of my way!”
“Hugh, stop,” I plead.
Piercy eyes us with contempt. “I ought to have both of you arrested for disturbing the peace.”
Hugh subsides as he comprehends that his reckless behavior could get us locked in cells with more prisoners than we can vanquish. He pats my hand before I release his arm—to reassure me that he can control himself—but he’s breathing hard, his expression still defiant.
“See that Lord Hugh and Miss Bain get out of Newgate without causing any more trouble,” Piercy tells the wardens.
Much as I would like to leave before any more trouble befalls us, I say, “We’re not finished here. Governor, where were you the night Harry Warbrick was murdered?”
“In my residence here at Newgate. With my wife. All night.” Piercy speaks as if he’d anticipated the question and rehearsed the answer.
“An alibi. How convenient for you,” Hugh says. “We still need to speak with the matron and the chaplain.”
Because now we’re virtually certain that the governor is hiding something related to Amelia Carlisle’s execution, and we’re determined to find out what it is.
“Suit yourself. But be careful.” Piercy’s mocking smile suggests that he was indeed responsible for the lights going out and the attacks on us. “Or you could get hurt next time.�
��
* * *
Two wardens escort Hugh and me out of the men’s quadrangle. Dr. Davies has taken advantage of the confusion and escaped. Hugh and I exchange wary glances; these wardens could be some of the very people who attacked us. In the women’s quadrangle, rows of cells flank the wide corridor. Prisoners peer out through grilles in iron doors. Above, more tiers of cells rise on both sides to an iron-and-glass skylight. Odors of urine, mildew, and disinfectant sharpen the cold, drafty air. Women’s shrill voices echo. A scream of agony chills my blood.
“Jesus!” Hugh says.
The chatter quiets for a moment, then resumes. I’ve heard that prisoners are no longer flogged, but that seemed a sound from a torture chamber. The wardens seem undisturbed, and so does the woman walking down the corridor toward us. She wears a blue-plaid wool coat over her bustle and full skirts, with a large ring of keys at her waist. A dark blue felt bonnet crowns taffy-colored hair curled in a fringe over her low forehead. She could be a respectable shopkeeper.
“I’m Dorothea Fry. The guv said you want to speak to me.” Her Cockney voice is deep, resonant; if raised, it would drown out the noise in the quadrangle. She’s in her forties, short, full of bosom and hips. Her face, with its double chin, pointed nose, and shrewd blue eyes, is intelligent rather than pretty. When Hugh and I introduce ourselves, her eyebrows lift as she notes Hugh’s good looks, but repugnance briefly twists her mouth. Either she knows about him, or she distrusts attractive men.
“They’re all yours, Mrs. Fry. Don’t let ’em out of your sight,” one of the wardens says, and I’m relieved to see him and his partner go.
The scream comes again. Hugh says, “What is that infernal howling?”
“One o’ the prisoners is having a baby,” Mrs. Fry says, her tone matter-of-fact.
“Here?” Hugh says in surprise.
“She was with child when she was convicted. Where else would she have it?”
Up until today, I’d never thought about the plight of pregnant criminals. The idea of giving birth in jail is disturbing. “What will happen to the baby?”
“Her sister’s gonna take care of it till she gets out in two years. She’s lucky.”
“She won’t see her child for two years? That’s lucky?” Hugh says, incredulous.
“It’s better than never.”
It seems like a punishment for both mother and child, an even more painful form of torture than flogging.
“Heard you got into a scrape.” Mrs. Fry’s shrewd blue gaze studies our faces. “You’re bleedin’.”
Hugh touches the raw skin on his cheekbone, and I my sore chin, which struck the stairs when I fell.
“I’ll fix you up,” Mrs. Fry says. “Come with me.”
The screams follow us up an iron staircase that rises from the middle of the corridor. We reach a narrow catwalk that connects the galleries of cells on either side, then climb two more staircases. I can see through the spaces between the stairs, all the way down to the bottom. Fear of heights makes my heart pound. I fix my gaze on the matron’s feet, clad in sturdy black boots, stepping confidently above me. On the top tier, Mrs. Fry leads us along a walkway that fronts the cells. She uses a key from her ring to unlock a door and lets us into a chamber furnished like a bed sitting room.
“Is this where you live?” I ask.
“Comes with the job,” Mrs. Fry says.
The walls are covered with framed pictures, the floor with rag rugs, the bed with a patchwork quilt and embroidered cushions. A sewing box and a basket of knitting needles and yarn sit on the table. An upholstered armchair and a cupboard filled with dishes stand near a coal stove that emits welcoming heat. The barred window gives a view of rooftops and spires.
“Don’t you mind living in a prison?” Hugh says.
Mrs. Fry shrugs. “I could do worse.”
I think of the tenements where people crowd a dozen to a room, without heat, light, or comfort.
“Isn’t it noisy?” Hugh says in response to the screams, now distant but increasingly frequent, and the incessant chatter from the cells.
“Where isn’t?”
Compared to the button factory where my mother and I worked when I was a child, after my father disappeared, Newgate is blessedly quiet. With wardens on duty and the criminals locked up, it’s probably also safer than many places in London.
Mrs. Fry seats us at the table, cleans my chin with cotton dipped in mineral spirits, and applies sticking plaster over the wound. Her touch is deft rather than gentle. While she attends to Hugh’s face, I look around the room. The windowsill holds an assortment of photographs that I rise to study. One shows a wedding portrait of a younger Mrs. Fry and her husband. In a picture with a black frame, her husband lies in a coffin. Postmortem photography is a customary practice; I’ve done it myself. Even people who can afford to have family pictures taken at any time often want a last memento of the dear departed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fry,” Hugh says. “That was very kind of you.”
She nods, indifferent. I don’t know if she helped us out of kindness, but it was more aid than Governor Piercy or Dr. Davies offered. I’m reluctant to pressure her for information that the law forbids her to divulge, but my experiences at Newgate have made me suspicious of everyone here, and perhaps she meant to hinder us by putting us in her debt.
“I suppose you know that we came to find out what happened at Amelia Carlisle’s hanging,” Hugh says.
“I s’pose you know I’m not allowed to tell you.” Mrs. Fry sits at the table and takes up her knitting.
I voice the idea that Charlie Sullivan’s story planted in my mind and the attacks on Hugh and me substantiated. “I think someone killed Harry Warbrick to prevent him from talking.”
“You think.” Her tone dismisses my theory as a figment of my imagination.
“It had to be someone who was at the hanging,” Hugh says. “Someone who’s desperate to hide a secret and wants to scare Miss Bain and me away, if not kill us. Is it you, Mrs. Fry?”
“No.” Her expression is calm; her hands steadily ply her knitting needles.
“Then you could be the next victim.” I think that’s a likelier possibility than that a woman hanged Harry Warbrick.
“If I am, then you can investigate my murder.” The green scarf she’s knitting grows stitch by even stitch. Perhaps a woman who’s buried her husband isn’t afraid of death.
“All the witnesses could be in danger,” Hugh says in his most urgent, persuasive tone. “The best way to protect yourself is to put the story in the newspaper. Then there’ll be no reason to kill anyone else.”
Mrs. Fry shrugs once more. “So you say.”
I again seek an indirect route to the facts. “Did Amelia ever talk to you?”
“They all do. They all have a sob story, usually about men.” Mrs. Fry gives Hugh another look of repugnance.
“What was Amelia’s sob story?” I say.
Mrs. Fry knits; her suspicious gaze studies me as if she thinks I’m trying to trick her. “Amelia was from a coal-mining town in the North. She married at sixteen and lost two babies to the typhus fever. Her husband got killed in a mining accident. She married again, but her second husband died of cholera.” Mrs. Fry relates the tale in a flat, uninterested voice. “Her third was a railroad engineer. She moved from city to city with him. They had a daughter, and then he died of consumption. Amelia was on her own. She became a midwife’s apprentice. The midwife took in unmarried women who were expectin’ and delivered their babies. The mothers gave the babies to baby farmers. Amelia saw that baby farming was a way to make money.”
“How can there be enough unwanted babies to keep all the baby farmers in business?” Hugh asks.
“They’re illegitimate. Most orphanages won’t take them,” Mrs. Fry says. “The mothers want to get rid of their shame so they can marry decent men. Amelia put ads in the newspapers. She started takin’ in babies. The mothers trusted her because she was a respectable widow with a c
hild of her own. She was pretty too, before she lost her teeth.”
“Why did she kill the babies?” I say. That was the question heard all around town after Amelia’s arrest.
“There are plenty of women wantin’ to give away babies, but not enough people wantin’ to adopt ’em. And the five pounds she charged the mothers didn’t go far enough. Babies need to be fed and clothed until they grow up. Amelia took in more and more babies to make ends meet. She couldn’t take care of ’em all.”
According to the newspaper stories, that was the explanation she gave at her trial, but I found it too simple. There must have been some deeper reason why a woman would kill babies.
“So Amelia strangled ’em, wrapped ’em in blankets full o’ rocks, and dropped ’em in the river at night. That’s how she was caught, you know. The police was already watching her. They saw her do it. When they went to arrest her, they found two other dead babies in her house. She said, ‘I had no choice.’ ” Mrs. Fry’s voice turns acid with contempt. “Everybody has an excuse. Things are tough all over. The other girls in here done all sorts o’ things for money to live on.” The woman giving birth screams again and again, and Mrs. Fry says, “She got two years for stealin’ oysters. But most of these girls never killed nobody.”
I know from personal experience that even people who think themselves incapable of killing actually are capable under certain circumstances. But I can’t imagine killing helpless infants. People speculated that Amelia was possessed by the devil, and although I’m not superstitious, I can’t help wondering if they were right.
“What else did Amelia talk about?” Hugh asks.
Mrs. Fry gives him a put-upon look. I feel a sudden, overwhelming fatigue as the clashes with Governor Piercy and Dr. Davies, the terror of the attack, and the tumble down the stairs take their belated toll. I struggle to gather my thoughts. Perhaps Dr. Davies isn’t the only suspect with a personal motive for Harry Warbrick’s murder.
“How well did you know Harry Warbrick?” I ask Mrs. Fry.
“I met him a few times, whenever he came to hang one of the girls.”
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