A Fatal Freedom

by Janet Laurence

  Rachel sighed heavily. ‘It must have taken so much courage to leave that dreadful man. My aunt was devastated with the shame of her action. Did you, Ursula, feel that she would indeed be happy with Daniel?’

  ‘Oh, yes! She seemed desperately in love. And I think that parting from him broke her heart.’

  Rachel was silent.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Ursula, ‘were you able to discover what Albert was doing with Count Meyerhoff in that public house? Have you talked to Mr Jackman and discovered why he was there as well? Was he, as it seemed, following Albert?’

  Alice gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Neither Albert nor Mr Jackman has been available. When I went round to the Peters’ household only Cook was there. The servants seem to think they have been given a holiday! My aunt has spoken to them about the necessity for keeping everything in proper order ready for Alice’s return. I do feel Mr Jackman should call on me with details of how his investigation is doing. I wonder,’ she said angrily, ‘whether we were right to employ him.’

  ‘I believe him to be very reliable,’ Ursula tried to sound reassuring. ‘I am sure he will let you know as soon as he has something to report.’

  Inwardly, she wondered what Thomas Jackman had been up to in following Albert, if that indeed was what he had been doing. Did she really know enough about the ex-policeman to be completely convinced he was to be trusted? Then there was Count Meyerhoff. It seemed so unlikely that Joshua Peters or his valet had any business with him. That morning, beginning to sort out the Maison Rose accounts, Ursula had looked for a mention of a Mr or Mrs Joshua Peters, thinking that perhaps Alice had visited Maison Rose as a client. So far, the name of Peters had not appeared.

  The cab came to a stop. They alighted and Ursula had her first, astonished sight of Holloway prison. ‘But it looks just like a castle from a fairy tale!’ she exclaimed, taking in the towers, the battlements, the fanciful lines and elaborate stonework.

  Rachel turned from paying off the cab and gave a snort of derision. ‘Some fairy tale! Heaven only knows what the authorities were thinking of to choose such a design, for it has always been a prison. Originally both male and female inmates were housed there but this year it was converted to hold all females. At least that has worked to Alice’s advantage.’

  There was nothing fairy tale about Holloway’s grim interior. Dark corridors led to a series of wings that reached back in several directions; the prison was much larger than had seemed possible from its frontage. There must be room for many, many cells. A depressing smell of boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies hung about the reception hall. The walls were whitewashed but, though there was no discernable dirt, nothing appeared clean. Odd cries and the sound of clumping feet echoed down the stone corridors giving an impression of constant activity. A girl in an arrow-decorated prison uniform worked at scrubbing the floor on her knees. She didn’t glance at the visitors.

  The two girls were directed to an office, where a thorough search was made of the change of clothes Rachel had brought for her sister; as a remand prisoner, Alice did not have to wear the official uniform.

  Rachel handed over Ursula’s Visitor’s Permit. It was scrutinised by a wardress whose expression suggested she doubted it would be in order. She then fixed Ursula with a basilisk stare, laid the permit on her desk and watched while another wardress conducted a quick but comprehensive search of Ursula’s person. Finally she gave a nod.

  ‘You are not allowed any contact with the detainee. You must not touch her hand nor any part of her. You must not ask about details of any prisoner she may have come into contact with or their treatment. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ursula said hurriedly. ‘I will abide by all your regulations.’

  ‘You, Miss Fentiman, will remain here.’

  By now Ursula wondered whether there wasn’t a danger she could end up in one of the cells herself. She followed another wardress to a small room that held a plain table and two chairs.

  ‘Sit, Miss Grandison.’

  She did so and waited on her own for several long minutes before Alice was brought in by the stern-faced wardress.

  Ursula rose and the officer held out a warning hand, enforcing the space between the two girls.

  Alice’s appearance shocked Ursula. She had lost weight. Her dark dress hung on her small frame, it was so loose it took a second look to discern that she was with child. Her face was very pale, her hair greasy and pulled back without any attempt at style. Her eyes, though, lit up when she saw Ursula and she smiled.

  ‘How kind of you to visit me,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I cannot imagine what has brought you.’

  The wardress took up a position by the door, her face expressionless.

  Ursula wanted so much to enfold the girl in her arms, to offer comfort and reassurance. She had to force herself to make no movement but could not stop herself saying impulsively, ‘How can you bear it here?’

  Alice’s gaze flicked towards the wardress, who was frowning.

  Ursula sat down and tried to look innocent.

  ‘It is not so bad,’ the girl said steadily, sitting at the other side of the table. ‘Rachel has visited and so have my uncle and my lawyer.’

  Ursula drew a deep breath. ‘Alice, Rachel is very anxious about you. We all are. We understand you will not explain, will not comment in any way on the writings in your diary.’

  For a moment something flashed deep in Alice’s eyes, then she looked away.

  Ursula waited.

  Finally, in the same low voice, the girl said, ‘I wrote what I wrote. I cannot deny it. I have told my sister so.’

  Without thinking, Ursula extended her hand across the table.

  ‘Contact with Peters is not allowed,’ the wardress said sharply.

  Ursula flushed and withdrew her hand. ‘But why, Alice? We cannot believe you meant those words, that you really wished Mr Peters could leave this life.’

  Alice gave her a straight look. ‘It was wrong of me to write in that way. I have offended against the preachings of the Church. But I did not send Joshua poisoned chocolates.’ It was a solemn declaration.

  Could Ursula believe her? Here, faced with such a dogged spirit in these surroundings where despair seemed to leach from every wall, she felt that maybe she could. She knew she wanted to.

  ‘We understand that you wrote you had reason for believing that your husband was a wicked man and did not deserve to live. Can’t you tell us why?’

  Alice closed her eyes and said nothing.

  ‘I believe before your husband died, you met with Mr Jackman. At that time he had been hired by Mr Peters to follow you. Have you heard that he is now investigating your husband’s murder and trying to discover who did send those chocolates so that you can be released?’

  The faintest of nods.

  ‘Can’t you help him? Can’t you tell us what it is you know about Mr Peters? It must be more than that he mistreated you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Surely you understand what danger you are in?’

  A long pause, then Alice placed a hand over her thickened waist. ‘I know that whatever happens, my child will be safely delivered.’

  Ursula cried out in frustration. ‘Do you want your child to be born in this place?’

  The girl flinched. ‘You don’t understand. I am innocent but I cannot have my child growing up to despise its father.’

  ‘And what will he or she think of a mother hanged for murder?’ Ursula felt she had to shock Alice into revealing what it was she thought she knew.

  Again Alice closed her eyes. ‘I cannot believe any jury will convict an innocent woman.’

  ‘Your sister has been trained in law and believes that they could.’

  A shudder ran through Alice’s frail frame. ‘I must believe otherwise.’

  ‘Please forgive me for asking this but I think it could be important. Alice, you were obviously very unhappy with your husband. If he had not died, were you planning to take your child and l
eave him a second time?’

  The girl did not seem upset by the question. ‘I should have remained with him. It was my duty; a child should be with both its parents. Nor could I have brought myself to abandon him or her. If I left their father, I would not be allowed to take his child with me.’

  The situation seemed so extraordinary, Ursula was left bereft for words.

  ‘Miss Grandison, Ursula, I miss our discussions on books. Can you perhaps see that I am sent some volume that will allow me to forget this place while I turn its pages? I believe it is permitted.’

  ‘Of course I will. But Alice, Mr Jackman needs your help to uncover why Mr Peters died. Please, you must tell him what you know.’

  Alice gave Ursula such a sweet smile, it almost broke her heart. ‘Our time will soon be up. Please, tell me how Mrs Maple is and Meg and Mrs Crumble. And I would love to hear how your employment with Mrs Bruton proceeds.’

  Ursula tried to think of some approach that would break through Alice’s determination and could find none. So she related a few details of life at the boarding house and Wilton Crescent.

  ‘And I have another job now. I am to attempt to sort out a tangle of accounts at the Maison Rose beauty clinic. Tell me, have you visited there?’

  Before Alice could respond, the wardress announced that Miss Grandison’s visit was at an end and it was time for Peters to return to her cell.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Alice said, just as though it had been a social visit. ‘Please give my love to my sister. She is not to worry: I am fine. And I wish Mr Jackman well in his search for whoever it was that sent those chocolates.’

  Alice Peters was taken away.

  Then Ursula was returned to the office where Rachel waited. To the hopeful look the girl gave her she had to shake her head. ‘Your sister will only say that she did not send the poisoned chocolates.’

  Rachel closed her eyes for a moment but said nothing until they had found a cab to take them to the underground station. Once settled she turned to Ursula. ‘Alice said nothing at all about why she wrote those words in her diary about Joshua not deserving to live?’

  ‘She says she cannot have her child believing its father was an unworthy person.’

  Rachel cried out, ‘Oh Alice, Alice!’

  ‘She said that if her husband had not died, she would have remained with him, that a child should have both its parents and she could not have brought herself to abandon him or her.’

  Rachel put a hand over her eyes. ‘How like Alice.’

  ‘I can understand wishing your child to have its father but if she believed her husband was such a dreadful man, could she not have taken it and gone to Daniel? Would he not have been a surrogate father and given the child a happier start in life?’

  Rachel shuddered. ‘Do you not realise that she would not have been allowed to do that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It is illegal for a mother to remove her children from the care of their father.’

  Ursula was appalled.

  ‘But surely a mother has every right to nurture and care for her child, especially if the father abuses her.’

  ‘The law does not agree. No matter how foul the father, how badly he treats the mother, he has sole rights to any offspring.’

  ‘That is dreadful!’

  ‘Now you can see what we are fighting for in our campaign for the female vote.’

  It wasn’t votes for women that were concerning Ursula. If the situation was really as Rachel had outlined, it could well be suggested that Alice had a cast-iron motive for removing her husband from her life once and for all.

  ‘Do you really think that Alice could be found guilty of murder?’

  Rachel looked out of the window and said nothing. Ursula wondered if she had begun to believe Alice might actually be guilty. Rachel might not know everything about her sister’s marriage but she surely knew enough about its dreadful aspects and how ensnared Alice felt herself to be.

  The cab arrived at the underground. Rachel got out and paid for their fare.

  Once back at Victoria station, Ursula said goodbye and went to find a bookshop.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As part of his commission for Joshua Peters, Thomas had looked into Daniel Rokeby’s background. By dint of a session at the local library and visits to several literary magazines, Thomas had amassed a considerable amount of information on him. The poet’s presence had been noted at several society gatherings; he had had two romantic stories published in magazines provided for the entertainment of women with little to occupy their time. And in several publications he found poems by him.

  Thomas did not consider himself an intellectual in any way. He’d rather read accounts of petty crime than poetry lauding a woman’s looks or the joy in a blackbird’s song. Daniel’s verses to ‘Night’, which spoke of a ‘hushing wind’ and ‘the owl’s ghostly wings’ and ‘quivering planets shining through the black garb of night’ left him unmoved. But one of the poems contained a credit after the author’s name noting he was a member of a poetic society.

  After his encounter with Mrs Firestone, Thomas made his way to the public house in Bloomsbury where he had followed Daniel for the first time.

  It was approaching lunchtime and both bars were busy but there was no sign of Mr Rokeby. On his way out, though, Thomas caught sight of notice fixed in the entrance. The poetry society Daniel Rokeby belonged to was holding a lunchtime meeting there that day in an upstairs room. For a small fee, members of the public were invited to hear some of the poets read their most recent work.

  Even as he read the message, two men passed him heading for the stairs. Thomas followed, thinking he should have gone home and changed his suit for a loose jacket and linen trousers. A cravat would have also been a good idea, as would swapping his trilby for a panama.

  At the door a young woman with a straw hat on long, fair hair sat with a metal moneybox and a sheet of paper on which she noted the names of, presumably, those who were not members of the poetry society. Thomas felt in his pocket for the entrance fee, handed it over and was given a beaming smile. ‘May I take your name and address, sir? This is so we can inform you of other events of our society.’

  ‘Michael Prescott, 2 Cheyne Walk,’ Thomas said urbanely.

  She wrote, and the box chinked as she added his coins. ‘Please, take a seat,’ the girl said, waving her hand at the room. ‘Our poets will soon be here.’

  The audience was not many. The two young men Thomas had followed upstairs sat on the far side of the group of chairs, very close to a dais on which the poets no doubt were to stand as they read. Three seats at the front were occupied by a couple of smartly dressed middle-aged women accompanied by a young girl who looked as though she could be sister to the one manning the door. Another slightly older but just as smartly dressed woman sat on her own. For a dreadful moment Thomas thought that it was Mrs Trenchard. He did not imagine she could be a follower of modern poetry but she might have heard that the young man her niece had left her husband for was to perform and come out of interest. Then he realised that, under the severe hat, the women’s hair was brown not iron grey.

  Minutes passed. Then more minutes. A few more people entered without paying, obviously members of the society. Thomas looked around but there was no one who looked like a poet.

  The two women with the young girl grew restless. ‘If nothing happens in five minutes, I think we should leave,’ said one.

  ‘No, Mama, we must stay; I’m sure Rupert will be here soon,’ said the girl.

  At last four young men entered carrying sheets of paper and glasses of beer. Long haired, wearing velveteen jackets and linen trousers, Thomas thought they looked exactly how he imagined poets should. And he was relieved to see that Daniel Rokeby was one of them.

  The leader, short and chunky with a sparse beard the colour and appearance of hay, bounced up on to the dais and beamed at the scanty audience. ‘How very good it is to see you all here today. I am
Boris Humphrey, Chairman of the Society. It is our very good fortune this lunchtime to have to read to us three of society’s leading poets …’

  Thomas stopped listening. He was watching Daniel Rokeby. The other two poets were nervously shuffling their feet and sorting through their papers. When it came to moving up on to the dais, they stumbled and apologised awkwardly. Daniel, though, stood quietly, as though in complete command of himself, or in a trance.

  He was the last poet to read his work. The other two, whose names Thomas did not bother to register, read three or four shortish works. All were bad and were read badly. At least, Thomas considered that works comparing a girl’s eyes with twinkling stars, or her hair with silken waterfalls, could not qualify for good poetry. Nor did a comparison between a beating heart and a racing horse, particularly when the heart had been spurred into action by the sight of yet another girl. It seemed all that the poets could be concerned with was the effect on them of pretty girls. Their delivery was histrionic and did their works no favours. By the stillness of the girl sitting with the two middle-aged women, and the fervour of her applause after the second poet finished, Thomas deduced that she had provided the inspiration for his work, particularly as he flushed deep crimson as he caught her gaze while bowing to the audience.

  Then it was Daniel’s turn.

  He stepped up on to the dais with a dreamy air, looked straight at the audience and said, ‘These are poems I wrote recently while staying in the Lake District. They are in a new style for me.’

  Well, at least there seemed a good chance they would not be concerned with comparing Alice’s eyes to sparkling diamonds or the Milky Way.

  The verses were simple, and as far as Thomas was concerned, all the better for it. Sheep and rocks and lonely farmers were more in his line, as was the image of a steamboat seen from above, sailing across a wide lake with the grace of a bird flying through an empty sky. The verses were read almost in a monotone and received only a spattering of applause.

  Daniel, however, bowed and in a low voice thanked those who had come. As he straightened, he looked in Thomas’s direction and his eyes widened. The detective rose and came up to him. ‘I enjoyed that,’ he said. ‘Went to the Lake District myself once; I could recognise the pictures you created.’