The Death Chamber

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘The murderers’ prison,’ said Jude thoughtfully. ‘No, I haven’t heard of it.’

  ‘Neville Fremlin was hanged there.’

  ‘The Silver-Tongued Murderer from the thirties? I’ve heard of him, of course. Calvary,’ said Jude thoughtfully. ‘The name’s very evocative, isn’t it? The place of execution. Then where exactly are we, Chad? Fremlin was from York or Harrogate or somewhere like that, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Knaresborough,’ said Chad. ‘We’re in Cumbria – the west edge of the Lake District.’

  Jude half nodded, as if absorbing this information, and then said, ‘Very early on I thought I heard footsteps, but I think now it was either my imagination or maybe you were still around.’

  ‘Unless it was the ghost of some old warder who prowls around every night, clanking a bunch of keys,’ said Drusilla.

  ‘Of course. Tommy the Turnkey, that’s who it’ll have been,’ said Jude at once.

  ‘Well, nothing but a ghost could have got in,’ said Chad. ‘We checked everywhere before we left, if you remember. There are only three ways in – and one’s through the door we used. Then there’s a door opening onto the mortuary, and a little scullery door right at the back, but they were both locked. And we locked the main doors after we left, as you know.’ He leaned forward. ‘Jude, can we talk some more about that image you saw?’

  ‘We can talk until the start of the next millennium,’ said Jude. ‘Or until breakfast time at the very least. I can’t offer any opinion on it, though. And before anyone starts talking about hallucinations, I should point out that I was in my right mind and I had only had half a glass of wine. It’s true that I fell against the gallows lever and the crashing in of the trap was a hell of a shock. But I wasn’t knocked out by the fall or even knocked into dizziness. You’ll probably see that when you run the film.’ He paused and then said, curtly, ‘Also, I’d better say that I’m physically unable to experience visual hallucinations in the accepted sense, and at that stage of the night I had no idea where I was – you were all very careful about not giving out any clues, and I honestly didn’t know. So there was no subconscious knowledge at work.’

  Phin leaned forward, and said very hesitantly, ‘Jude, I – um – I’m not sure how to put this, but there’s a thing I’d like to ask.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘You said you “saw” the image. The man’s face. Well, you haven’t put it quite like that, but – and I hope it’s OK to ask this, but—’

  ‘How exactly did I “see” it?’

  ‘Well, uh, yes.’ Phin pushed back the flop of hair that had tumbled forward, and thought he had probably committed the worst discourtesy in the world. He supposed Dr Ingram and Drusilla were staring at him in horror, but he did not dare look at either of them.

  But Jude appeared to give the question serious consideration. He said, ‘Phin, I can only explain it by saying that I’ve still got the memory of sight. I still know what a tree looks like, or a car or a whisky bottle.’

  ‘Especially a whisky bottle,’ murmured Chad. He sounded amused and Phin was deeply relieved he had not offended anyone by his question.

  ‘But,’ said Jude, ‘those images I have are mind images. Like closing your eyes and conjuring up a memory. Seeing with your mind. Does that explain it sufficiently?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phin. ‘I’m glad it was OK to ask.’

  ‘Whatever it was, we’re going to use it in the programme, aren’t we?’ asked Drusilla. ‘Maybe with some kind of mock-up?’

  ‘Yes, of course we’re going to use it – it’s exactly what we hoped to get,’ said Chad. ‘But I’m not very keen on mock-ups. I’d rather present the facts and let people make up their own minds.’

  ‘You need something to fire people’s imaginations, though,’ said Jude thoughtfully. ‘Something about the history of the prison, maybe.’

  ‘Dru and Phin are working up some stuff about Neville Fremlin,’ said Chad. ‘And Phin’s trying to find out about any other reasonably dramatic murderers who were executed there.’

  ‘I love the phrase “dramatic murderers”,’ murmured Jude.

  ‘How about if we use the relevant bit of footage from tonight – showing Jude’s reactions and so on, and then segue into a mock-up of a hanging?’ put in Drusilla. ‘We could dub some sounds onto it – the footsteps of the condemned man’s last walk to the gallows, stuff like that.’

  ‘And superimposed photos of Fremlin?’ said Jude. ‘No, that’ll detract from the programme’s aim, won’t it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t a mock-up detract from it as well?’ said Phin. ‘Because isn’t the point here that Jude got that hanged-man image? I don’t think we ought to fuzz that with simulations and dubs and whatnot.’

  ‘Phin’s right,’ said Chad. ‘We set out to see if buildings could have imprints of their past – we made an experiment using someone who didn’t know where he was – and we got that extraordinary, perfectly genuine result. You had no idea where you were, Jude, but the image you picked up was of a man who had been hanged. Absolutely classic.’

  ‘Does it weight the evidence in favour of the spooks?’

  ‘I don’t know about spooks, but it goes a long way to proving that buildings can store up their histories,’ said Chad. ‘That’s the angle we need to use, I think.’

  ‘He’ll be sub-titling the programme QED in a minute,’ said Drusilla.

  ‘Well, I think that’d be pretty neat,’ said Phin firmly.

  They watched the footage the following day and Phin had several anxious minutes while they waited for the film to begin. The viewing screen they had brought was a small one and at first there was only a fuzzy snow storm. He chewed his knuckles, wondering what he would do if it turned out he had put the batteries in back to front, or accidentally left the Pause button on. Dr Ingram would certainly kick him out if that happened. Phin was just visualizing the disappointment of his tutors at Harvard (‘We never thought he’d make such an asshole of himself’) when the screen suddenly spat into life, and there, oh blessed sight, was the dim room with the trapdoors and the crossbeam with its dangling iron chain. There was Jude in one corner, pouring a glass of wine. The images were shadowy because the light had been so poor, but they had not wanted to use any kind of night imaging because of using this footage in the programme.

  ‘We can use quite a lot of this,’ said Chad, watching intently. ‘It portrays the atmosphere beautifully – it’s a brilliant shot of the gallows trap, Phin. Jude, you’ve put the wine glass down now, and you’re moving around the room.’

  ‘I was pacing it out. Trying to get a mental map of it.’

  ‘Dru, will you fast forward a bit – thanks. You’re walking out to the centre of the room now,’ said Chad to Jude.

  ‘And falling over the trapdoor.’

  ‘Oh God, yes, so you are. You’ve smashed straight into the lever.’

  ‘And there goes the trap,’ said Phin, wincing.

  ‘You were right that only one half of it opened,’ said Chad.

  ‘Jeeze, look at the dust – it’s like a socking great sandstorm.’

  ‘You’re leaning over the edge – recoiling—’

  ‘So would you have recoiled,’ said Jude. ‘I do wish there was some way of finding out who it was I saw,’ he said. ‘I know that’s impossible, of course.’

  ‘It is,’ said Chad. ‘There must have been dozens of men executed there. Women as well, I should think. It’s a very old gaol.’

  ‘I know. And I know we’d never track him down, even if I could identify him, which I can’t. It’s just that I keep wondering . . .’

  ‘What he was hanged for?’

  ‘No, not that,’ said Jude. ‘I’m assuming he’d been found guilty of murder. But I can’t stop wondering if he really was guilty.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  October 1938

  ‘I do know Neville Fremlin is guilty,’ said Walter, facing Edgar Higneth in his office on Calvary’s upper floor. ‘I’ve read th
e reports of the trial, and it’s all as damning as it could be.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s such a thing as typical behaviour for a condemned man, sir, but I’m finding Fremlin’s attitude surprising. He’s not behaving as I thought he would.’

  This, thought Higneth, was one of the problems a prison governor occasionally hit: the idealism of the inexperienced. That was the trouble with employing these younger men at Calvary; you got the enthusiasm and the learning which were all very fine, but you also got the idealism which could be tricky to deal with.

  But he liked Dr Kane and was pleased with his work – also, they still needed to know if Fremlin was intending to take any secrets to the gallows with him next week – so he said temperately, ‘In what way is his attitude surprising you, Dr Kane? Is it something he’s said?’

  ‘It’s more what he hasn’t said. I haven’t any real training in psychiatry,’ said Walter, ‘but I’m working on the assumption that Fremlin has his fair share of murderers’ vanity.’

  Higneth recognized this as one of Lewis Caradoc’s tenets, but did not say so.

  He said, ‘More than his fair share I should think.’ ‘Then in that case,’ said Walter, ‘I’d have expected him to behave in one of two ways. Either to be overwhelmingly contrite – almost to the point of religious fervour – or to taunt us with the crimes, even to gloat a bit. But there’s no sign of contrition as you know, and he certainly hasn’t taunted us with his crimes. In fact, he hasn’t talked about them at all.’ He frowned. ‘And that brings me back to whether there’s a typical behaviour with condemned men.’

  Higneth did not think there was. ‘When they’re as close to the execution as this, there’s usually one of three attitudes,’ he said. ‘Either they’re deeply contrite, as you’ve said, or they’re defiant: “I’m guilty so hang me and be damned.” We can deal reasonably well with either of those two: it’s the third attitude that’s the difficult one. The ones who plead their innocence all the way. “Don’t hang me, I didn’t do it.” That’s the one that’ll cause you nightmares.’

  ‘Fremlin doesn’t fall into any of those categories,’ said Walter. ‘He’s an enigma, and I think he’ll stay an enigma to the end. Which means the family of that missing girl – Elizabeth Molland – will never know the truth.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘With your permission, sir, I’d like to talk to her parents.’

  ‘The police talked to them, of course,’ said Higneth. ‘And the usual enquiries were made. But it wasn’t until much later, that they began to wonder if she might have been one of Fremlin’s early victims. They found five bodies, but there’s no knowing if that was the final tally.’

  ‘He might have had another burial ground,’ said Walter.

  ‘Exactly. One they never found. There are acres of lonely mountainside and woodlands in that area – the Yorkshire Dales and the Moors. Impossible to search everywhere. And it’s a sad fact that solitary women can vanish without anyone noticing they’ve gone.’

  ‘I won’t talk to the parents if you dislike the idea,’ said Walter, ‘but I think it might be worth it. I might just pick up something that would help me reach Fremlin.’

  Higneth thought about it and could see no objection. The Molland girl’s parents had themselves been anxious to know if Fremlin had killed their daughter – the police would like to know as well, although as the inspector had remarked, if it was proved that Fremlin had murdered a hundred times they could still only hang him the once, more was the pity. They had talked to the parents, he had said, but nothing useful had emerged. Edgar Higneth thought Dr Kane might just disinter an odd fact or two that would be of use. Also, he was polite and considerate and could be trusted not to do or say anything that would bring himself or Calvary into disrepute. It was probably a bit absurd to care about Calvary’s reputation – in fact when you considered the cut-throats and villains that Calvary housed, it was doubtful if it actually had a reputation at all. But Higneth took his work seriously and he had taken over the guardianship of the gaol from Lewis Caradoc, thus imbibing some of Sir Lewis’s standards along the way.

  ‘I have no objection, although I’m doubtful anything will come of it. I’m glad you’ve been open about your intention, by the way. See now, Knaresborough’s just the other side of Harrogate from here, isn’t it? It’s a good couple of hours’ drive I should think, but if you set off early you could get there and back in one day.’

  Walter said he had looked at the map and thought it was a fairly easy journey.

  ‘You normally take Thursdays as a free day, don’t you? Then since tomorrow is Thursday, I suggest you try to see Mr and Mrs Molland then.’

  ‘That’s what I thought of doing. Molland is semi-retired, so there’s a good chance he’ll be at home. If not, I’ll try to arrange a visit when he is at home.’

  ‘There isn’t much time left to us.’

  ‘Five days,’ said Walter.

  As he drove away from Thornbeck, down the winding lane that was now so familiar, past the field beyond which he could see Sir Lewis’s house, Walter was already wondering if he was doing the right thing. He was uneasily aware that he liked Neville Fremlin far more than was professional – or even safe – and he was not sure how much this feeling was influencing his judgement. He wondered if he might be making this visit in order to satisfy himself of Fremlin’s guilt.

  But how much proof do you need? he asked himself. The entire West Yorkshire and Cumbria police force had irrefutable evidence of Fremlin’s guilt. Large sums of money had been paid into his bank account on dates that fitted with the disappearances of two of the victims. He had been identified as being the man who had sold, to second-hand jewellers in Carlisle and Lancaster, jewellery that had belonged to three of the victims – quite a lot of jewellery, and much of it valuable. One of the women had drawn a bank draft two days before her death, and that draft had been paid into Fremlin’s account by Fremlin himself. Finally, most damning of all, the police had followed Fremlin and had seen him actually burying the body of the last victim in Becks Wood. Near the other four bodies.

  It was incontestable. Was that why Fremlin had never bothered to contest any of it? Why he had politely declined to give evidence at his trial? Why he had sat silent and graceful as a cat in the dock, listening to the parade of facts being unrolled, inclining his head slightly when the jury convicted him and when the judge pronounced the death sentence. The judge, Walter remembered, had agreed so wholeheartedly with the jury’s verdict that he had given a little homily on how Fremlin must surely be soulless and the personification of evil to have battened on these lonely defenceless women. The press had seized on that with relish, of course.

  And yet, thought Walter . . . And yet . . .

  Yes?

  I can’t square that business about evil and soullessness with the man inside Calvary, he thought. I can’t see the man I’ve talked to coldly seeking out rich women for their money, then stabbing and strangling them.

  He pushed the macabre images away and concentrated on the journey. It was pleasant countryside – the Yorkshire Dales and the Pennine Hills were ahead of him. He reached Knaresborough halfway through the morning and drove through it, liking the bright little market town with the ruins of the castle looking down from its hill and the glimpses of the river.

  It was necessary to ask for directions to Ivy House which was a few miles outside the town, but Walter found it without too much difficulty. Edgar Higneth had described the Mollands as prosperous middle-class people, and the house was quite large and affluent-looking. A neat maid opened the door and after a brief wait Walter was taken to a long drawing room, furnished in the rather heavy style of forty years earlier. Mr and Mrs Molland were older than Walter had been expecting – she was certainly well over fifty and her husband looked as if he was approaching sixty. They were rather like their house: solid and well upholstered. Years of large meals and security, thought Walter. I dare say they haven’t lived especially exciting lives, but they�
��re a decent couple. A spurt of anger went through him that these nice, ordinary people had had to suffer such anguish.

  He explained his errand, careful to emphasize that he was here unofficially, but that he had talked to Neville Fremlin in his professional capacity. At the mention of the name Mrs Molland gave a shiver and Walter saw Molland put out a hand to comfort her. Yes. Nice people, once living normal happy lives. And that monster in Calvary had ruined their lives for ever. (That’s better, said the inward voice. Think of him as a monster.)

  ‘I’m not exactly spying on Neville Fremlin,’ he said carefully. ‘But the police have asked me to be alert for any clue that might lead them to the truth about your daughter. Mrs Molland, I’m so sorry – I know this must be deeply distressing for you.’

  ‘Tell us what you need to know, Dr Kane,’ said Molland. He was a large, rather portly man, and Walter thought he had probably been indulgent in his treatment of his wife and daughter. There was a slight northern accent and an aura of no-nonsense business dealings and aldermen’s public duties.

  ‘It’s not knowing what happened to our girl,’ said his wife. ‘We haven’t even a grave to tend.’

  The voice in Walter’s mind said, Remember these people’s grief when you go into the condemned cell tonight. Keep remembering it. Aloud, he said, ‘Could you tell me a bit about Elizabeth? She used to go into Fremlin’s shop sometimes, didn’t she?’

  ‘Indeed she did, Dr Kane. Lotions and scented soaps and suchlike she’d buy. Girl’s fripperies, but we made no objection. She had her allowance to spend as she liked. She’d go into Knaresborough with a friend or with her mother, and they’d do some shopping and have a cup of tea in one of the little teashops.’

  ‘She was a bit frivolous at times,’ put in his wife eagerly, ‘but she was only nineteen. And she was a good girl, Dr Kane Not one to have her head turned by – by that man.’