by G. M. Best
No one spoke but Trollope’s heart went out to the man. He had thought earlier in the day that Mr Harding was a broken man. Yet now his manner was almost like that of an ancient prophet, strong and resolute.
‘I think the time has come for us all to do what is right and not what is convenient,’ Mr Harding continued. ‘How can we continue to pervert the cause of justice by refusing to tell what we know to the inspector? Do we not wish the person who murdered poor Thomas Rider and Jeremiah Smith to be caught? Does not our Lord call on us to be speakers of truth? I confess that I have permitted my judgement to be corrupted by my love for my daughters, but no more, no more!’ His voice cracked and the pain that underlay his courage was momentarily evident. Pulling himself together, he concluded, ‘Tomorrow morning Mr Blake must be told everything. Let him decide what he does with the information. If he chooses to tell our story to the press, so be it. We will face what must be faced together!’
‘Don’t be a fool, Papa. You risk shaming us all,’ snapped back Mrs Grantly.
‘I disagree,’ replied Trollope. ‘I think your father’s right. The most important thing now is not hiding that either you or your sister has an unknown mother. It’s finding out who killed Thomas Rider and Jeremiah Smith. Until that happens there’s not a person in this room who will be free of suspicion.’
Dr Grantly could not help grimacing but he concurred with what Trollope had said. ‘I’ve no great faith in the ability of Inspector Blake,’ he muttered, ‘but our decision earlier today was wrong. We must tell him what we know.’
‘It’s agreed then?’ asked the warden, his strength almost done.
One by one the others grimly gave their assent, all except Mrs Grantly. ‘I pray that you don’t live to regret this!’ she said and she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
‘I’ll go to her. She’s understandably distraught,’ said her husband. ‘I’m sure that she’ll come round to accepting our decision.’ The others could see that this was said more in hope than expectation.
Neither Mrs Grantly nor Eleanor Harding chose to be present when Inspector Blake arrived very early the next day. Mrs Winthrop took him to the study where Mr Harding, Dr Grantly and Trollope were awaiting him. Between them they relayed all that they knew. Understandably he was not amused that he had been kept in the dark for so long but he was sufficiently astute to understand the motives of the family and grateful that they had finally decided to take him into their confidence. He at once asked that he should first be permitted to speak with John Gaunt in case he could extract anything else that might be useful and then that there should be a meeting in the parlour later in the morning with not only all Mr Harding’s family present but also John Bold and Anthony Trollope. It was agreed that Trollope would fetch Bold for that purpose.
The meeting began at eleven and the inspector took the lead throughout. ‘I want you all to know that I do understand the delicacy of the situation that you’re in,’ he commenced reassuringly. ‘That’s why so far I’ve kept all information about these crimes out of the hands of the press by insisting that no bedesman leaves the premises.’ If he had expected appreciation he saw none in their faces and he frowned. ‘I warn you that I can’t keep Barchester from knowing what has happened for much longer. It’s most unfortunate that so much of my time has been wasted by you not being more open with me from the outset. By now we might have resolved these crimes.’
‘We made an error of judgement, Mr Blake, for which I take responsibility,’ answered Mr Harding wearily. ‘We should have trusted you earlier as indeed Mr Trollope advised.’
The inspector acknowledged the apology with a slight inclination of his head and then pressed on. ‘I’m not going to dwell on the details of this case now. You know them already. The motive for murdering both men appears obvious – to avoid a family scandal. I think that we can safely assume that these murders wouldn’t have occurred had it been known that neither of Mr Harding’s daughters has Catherine Farrell as a mother.’ He paused to give added weight to what he was about to say. ‘For that reason you must all accept that, with the exception of Mr Trollope, the people in this room are those with the most vested interest in committing the crimes. No one else has such a strong motive.’
‘I agree with your logic but I don’t believe one of us is guilty,’ responded Dr Grantly promptly.
‘But that’s not what the world will think when it hears what has happened here,’ Blake argued fiercely.
Mrs Grantly audibly drew breath and scowled at him. ‘Not necessarily. My father is a much loved and respected man. People will accept that one of the bedesmen may have killed to protect him.’ She looked to her husband to support what she had said but he remained ominously silent.
‘I fear they’re more likely to judge that all the bedesmen are too frail to be murderers,’ pointed out the inspector.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ she said, trying to retain her temper. ‘Some of them are still active enough to wield a knife effectively, especially when that blade is directed into an unsuspecting victim.’
‘There is some truth in what you say,’ admitted Bold, anxious to avoid a situation in which the inspector’s goodwill might be lost, ‘but people will prefer the more scandalous possibilities.’
The inspector welcomed the young doctor’s support but was not satisfied that the gravity of the situation had yet fallen on the family. ‘Let us agree on one thing,’ he said gravely. ‘The murderer has to be someone at Hiram’s. A stranger would have been spotted and the fact both murdered men appear to have died without a struggle points to them knowing – but possibly not suspecting – their killer. Do you all accept that?’
All heads nodded.
‘In that case, I must ask for your patience while I continue to interrogate everybody further – and by that I mean not just again asking questions of the remaining bedesmen but also seeking answers from all of you with the exception of Mr Trollope.’ He saw the surprise this evoked and quickly explained why. ‘Last night I received confirmation that he is who he says he is and I totally accept that his involvement here has been entirely accidental. For that reason he is free to leave Hiram’s Hospital.’
Trollope welcomed the news that he was no longer a suspect but he was sorry he was leaving behind a family in turmoil. ‘If I can do anything to help I’m willing to stay on if my employers will permit it.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ retorted Mrs Grantly ungraciously. ‘We don’t require your assistance.’
‘I think you may help more by returning to London,’ said the inspector before anyone else could respond. He saw the puzzlement on Trollope’s face and added, ‘I don’t want to waste my time seeking this woman called Mather and I’m happy to delegate the task to you if you’ll promise to undertake it.’
‘Involve the police and they instantly pass on their responsibilities to others!’ snorted Mrs Grantly.
‘I’m sure the inspector has his reasons,’ intervened Eleanor Harding.
‘Yes, I have. I’m not convinced that there is much of value to be obtained from pursuing the woman who foisted on to Mr Harding an unknown child twenty years ago. How will that help identify our murderer? I would much prefer to spend my time asking questions of everyone connected to Hiram’s Hospital than travel on some silly goose chase to London. You’re clutching at straws if you think discovering the true parentage of one of Mr Harding’s daughters will lead to an alternative line of investigation.’
‘You don’t make it sound an inviting task for me to undertake,’ Trollope commented.
‘It’s not, but it’s also not difficult. All you have to do is go to Newgate Prison and see if Gaunt’s former associate, Tom Paterson, knows where Mrs Mather now lives. If you get her address you can go and see her.’
‘But surely all that is better done by you?’
‘No. It’s better that you should do it for two simple reasons. First, as I have already said, I think my time would be better served here. S
econdly, and perhaps more importantly, it means that if you do discover information about the child you need only inform the people in this room. If I undertake the task, I would have to incorporate that information into my official report, even if it was not relevant to the murders, and I can’t guarantee that such a report would not eventually find its way into the hands of the press.’
Trollope at once saw the sense in what the inspector was saying.
‘Will you do this for us?’ asked Mr Harding.
‘Willingly.’
‘Good!’ said the inspector. ‘Then I’ll write a letter for you to take to the turnkey at Newgate Prison, requesting that he assist you, and I suggest you head back to London this afternoon.’
‘I’ll go on the railway. It’s much faster,’ responded Trollope. ‘Once I’ve seen my employers, I’ll go at once to Newgate. Then I can return here and let you know the outcome before I collect my horses and resume my work.’
10
THE PRISON AND THE WORKHOUSE
Trollope never found walking through the crowded streets of London a pleasurable experience because of the shoving and pushing that took place and the constant stream of invective that filled the air. In the busy areas strangers paid no heed to the comfort of others and it was not uncommon for accidental jostling to lead to an exchange of kicks and blows without compunction. Nor was it enjoyable to see everywhere around you in fellow travellers such striking evidence of poverty and disease. There were few who did not bear signs of the hardships they had endured – bodies twisted by rickets or inhumanly maimed by the hazards of employment, faces ravaged by the scars of smallpox or other diseases. What made his journey even worse was that he had to cross so many roads and no vehicle stopped for any pedestrian. Instead the air rang with the neighing of horses and the rattle of ironshod wheels as drivers sought to drive their vehicles over the cobbled streets regardless of the safety of him or anyone else.
Nor were these the only reasons he disliked the city. The air was almost always soot-filled and there was a constant stench that arose from the mass unwashed and the multitude of industries that operated in the polluted streets: forges, foundries, breweries, tanneries and the like. Trollope was particularly glad when he had passed through Smithfield and no longer had to endure its slaughterhouse smells or, worse still, listen to the squealing of animals being butchered. Everything in the market’s vicinity seemed smeared with either fat or blood. He turned into a street and saw ahead of him Newgate Prison and behind it the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. Straw had been placed on the ground to deaden the noise of passing vehicles – a sure sign that trials were taking place in the Sessions House that had been built next to the forbidding fortress. He pressed on, forcing his way through the vast crowd that had gathered round Newgate’s grey, filth-encrusted walls. Most of the people reeked of spirits and beer.
Trollope could not help shuddering as he showed the inspector’s letter to a guard and sought admittance. The prison’s huge gates and gratings bore witness to the fact that few who entered its walls as prisoners were ever expected to regain their freedom. Once inside, he was taken up a flight of narrow stairs to the turnkey’s room by an ill-dressed lad. Sparsely furnished, it looked more like a cell than an office and its occupier was a grim-faced man of forbidding aspect. His face looked neither clean nor wholesome, partly because his mouth and chin bristled with stubble and partly because his dark sunken eyes looked restless and cunning. He lacked any of the grace of manner that had characterized John Gaunt. Trollope handed over the letter of introduction that Blake had given him. He had seen its contents and knew the inspector had chosen his words carefully. The letter contained no reference to the Hardings or the events at Hiram’s Hospital. It merely stated that the police were keen to discover precisely what had happened to the child of a convicted murderess called Catherine Courtenay, better known as Catherine Farrell.
The turnkey opened the letter and slowly read it. He sniffed, rubbed the side of his bulbous nose with the back of his left hand, and then spat onto the floor. Trollope could not help but notice how very dirty his hands were. ‘We’ve enough to do here, sir, dealing with the living and those about to die without worrying about the offspring of someone who was hung ’ere twenty or more years ago,’ the man said in an irritated tone.
‘I really will not take up much of your time,’ responded Trollope. ‘All I want to know is whether there is anyone here who might recall John Gaunt and one associated with him, a gaoler friend called Tom Paterson.’
‘Aye, there’s a few here who knew John and that includes me. I took on his job when he left. He was a good man. As for Tom Paterson, he still works here, though that’s more out of charity than anything else. He’s too old and crippled with arthritis to undertake much of use. We keep him busy by letting him run errands for those prisoners who have the money to purchase things and so make their stay a little more pleasant. But what’s Paterson got to do with all this?’ He waved the letter of introduction that he had been given.
‘John Gaunt was the gaoler of Catherine Farrell and he arranged for her infant daughter to be cared for by a woman called Mrs Mather. Tom Paterson recommended her. My hope is that he or someone else here might know her current whereabouts. We need to find this Mrs Mather so she can hopefully tell us exactly what happened all those years ago.’
‘But why are the police interested in finding a murderess’s child after all these years?’ enquired the turnkey.
‘Because her brother was told by Gaunt that the child had died but now Gaunt says he was misinformed.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. I was but a young man when Catherine Farrell was hung. However, her I can recall. Pretty she was. Face like an angel.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
The turnkey grinned. ‘She didn’t look so angel-like when the hangman had finished with ’er. I helped cut ’er down.’ He stood up and took a large bunch of keys out from a drawer in his desk. ‘I can’t imagine any child of hers will have come to much good after all these years if it has survived, but I’ll take you to Tom Paterson. He should be working in the men’s yard.’
He led Trollope down an ill-lit passage into a small open court. It was surrounded by high walls and dominated by a large building with iron-grated windows. He informed his visitor that this was where the female prisoners were held but did not offer to show Trollope around. Instead they passed on through several rooms and corridors until they arrived at a set of three courtyards, which acted as the exercise yards for the male prisoners. A number of men were there but there was no sign of any activity on their part to keep fit. They loitered in corners and occasionally glared insolently at the guards on duty. Sometimes one or two exchanged conversation with each other but, from the little that was audible, the subject matter was far from edifying. Everything about their manner was unsavoury. The only exception appeared to be a very young lad, who was on his own and obviously terrified. The turnkey saw Trollope looking in his direction and offered a word of explanation. ‘He’s new. He’ll soon learn the ways of this place.’
‘I thought the aim of prison was to deter people from crime?’
‘So some say. People like to see criminals locked up for their crimes. It makes them feel happier and helps them pretend that the world is a just place. But I tell you, prison usually only corrupts men and women more. In my experience those who leave here depart more vicious and more cunning than when they entered. The only thing they’ve learned is better ways of committing crime and their only resolve is not to be caught again.’
‘Say what you like. I would rather die than have to live here,’ muttered Trollope, rejecting the turnkey’s cynicism as he stared up at the prison walls that surrounded him.
‘Oh, it’s not so bad, sir. That’s why it’s no deterrent. The prisoners employ themselves as they please and they’re well fed. Some better ’ere than outside. Each man gets a pint of thick gruel each morning and half a pound of meat or a mess of broth a
lternately for dinner, as well as a pound of bread each day. Each has a mattress and two blankets for sleeping and, in winter, there is coal to provide some warmth.’
‘Until some of them have to face the hangman.’
The turnkey laughed and replied, ‘There’s worse ways of dying.’ Shortly afterwards he pointed out an old man who was carrying some half bottles of gin. ‘There’s Tom Paterson. Come, we’ll easily catch him up. He moves pretty slowly because of his arthritis. I’ll find us a room where there are no prisoners and we can talk with him in private.’
After introductions had been made, the three men made their way into one of the larger cells. It was a whitewashed room that was more airy than Trollope had expected, given the fact it was lit only by a window that looked into the courtyard they had left. Along both sides of the room ran a high shelf on which blankets were stored and from which a dozen sleeping mats were suspended by hooks. In the centre of the room was a deal table on which were a few pewter dishes. Around it were some benches. Paterson’s frailty was evident in the way that he instantly placed the bottles of gin on the table and took the opportunity to sit down. He was skeleton-thin and it was obvious that parts of his body were severely crippled with arthritis. However, he uttered no word of complaint about his condition and smiled at Trollope. His haggard face had a natural honesty to it that Trollope found encouraging, given how long the man must have served within Newgate’s grim confines.
‘Mr Trollope is here representing the police,’ explained the turnkey. ‘They’re acting on behalf of the brother of Catherine Farrell who was executed here over twenty years ago. This brother wants to know whether his niece – the murderess’s child – died or not. John Gaunt told him she had but he now thinks the child survived. He says a woman called Mrs Mather should be able to confirm what actually happened. Mr Trollope’s here to see if you might still know her whereabouts. Apparently you recommended her to John for the task of wet nurse.’