by Sarah Rayne
Lewis did not consider himself eminent but the newspapers would like the word. They would drag in his involvement in the Home Office inquiry for rehabilitation of long-term prisoners, and he would be forced to step down.
Would the papers unearth Clara’s attendance at seances? If they did, they would wring every shred of pathos from it. They would talk about a bereaved mother, desperate for a last glimpse of her dead hero son – Cas would have laughed at that and said, What nonsense, he had not been a hero, he had only been helping a few friends out of a tight spot. A stab of pain sliced through Lewis, and he thought he would give everything he possessed to hear Cas laughing at the idea of himself as a hero.
But there was the other side of the coin. What if he gave in to McNulty and the truth about that got out? Mightn’t the headlines be even worse? ‘Calvary’s governor presides over bizarre experiment in execution shed . . .’ ‘Baronet in quest for the soul’s origins . . .’
It was a bastard choice. On the one hand he would be made out to be a faithless husband who indulged in bed games with a bouncing trollop, and on the other he would be a fanatic who abused his position and inflicted unnecessary mental torment on a condemned man. Either way he would lose the work that meant so much to him.
A tiny treacherous voice in his mind said, But you wouldn’t really be inflicting mental torment on O’Kane, would you? It would be simply a question of O’Kane stepping onto a weighing machine, that’s all. Two minutes at most, McNulty said. You wouldn’t even need to give O’Kane a reason: he’s been weighed by Pierrepoint once already; he would think this second weighing was simply a confirmation of the first. And you’d be in the clear with Denzil McNulty. But would I? thought Lewis. Don’t blackmailers always come back for more? And the thought of lying to Nicholas O’Kane was deeply distasteful. O’Kane’s idealism might be misplaced but he had believed in his cause with the same passion that had ultimately sent Cas to his death.
O’Kane deserved to die – he had been indirectly responsible for the deaths of a great many English sailors whose ships the German navy had torpedoed, but he did not deserve to be deceived on the threshold of death.
Lewis frowned, reached for the whisky he kept in a locked cupboard, poured a hefty measure and went on thinking very deeply.
Saul Ketch had also been thinking very deeply. He had been thinking ever since he had found out about the Skelton tart and the governor, and he was now feeling mightily disgruntled.
You might have considered that a man taking a juicy bit of information along to the doctor – all according to their arrangement – would have been welcomed and given money there and then. You might also have thought you could trust a doctor not to rook you.
Ketch had trusted the doctor and what had it got him? Bugger all, that was what it had got him. ‘Sorry, Ketch,’ he had said, swinging that stupid eyeglass that made him look like a lopsided toad. ‘This information is not worth anything. It’s unusable.’
Ketch, stung, had demanded to know why. The doctor had proof of it, hadn’t he? Well, Ketch knew he had proof, because the doctor had gone capering along to Sir Lewis’s office to see for himself there and then. That made this a prime morsel of information, worth at least half a sovereign of anybody’s money, and Ketch would bet the doctor would get a lot more than half a sovereign out of Lewis Bloody Caradoc for keeping quiet.
‘It’s worth nothing,’ the doctor said when Ketch put forward this point of view, turned on his heel and went away to his own room, leaving Ketch staring after him.
Well! Well, if Doctor Toadface McNulty was not going to use this prize snippet, then Ketch was going to do so on his own account. That would just serve Toadface right, the spidery old miser that he was, not even giving a man his proper name, calling him ‘Ketch’ as if he had been no more than the sweepings of the gutter.
The more he thought about using the information himself, the better he liked the idea. He would go along now, this very night, and he would say what he had seen and heard to Sir Lewis Cocksure Caradoc. The small bawdiness of this pleased him. Cocksure. Sir Lewis would soon be very cock unsure if Ketch handled this right.
He thought very carefully about what he should say, and then went along to Old Muttonchops and said he had a bellyache, and please could he be excused duty in the condemned cell for a while.
Muttonchops was not best pleased, what with it being death watch. They were always busy on death-watch nights, what with so much to be done, and what with having to make sure the prisoner did not top himself beforehand and cheat the hangman.
But however much Muttonchops disliked it, he could not very well refuse permission. He said, Oh, very well, Ketch had better go off and deal with whatever his problem was, and there was no need to tell the details either, thank you very much. But he was to be back on duty at midnight or they would ask Dr McNulty to take a look at him. He reminded Ketch that his spell of duty took him through to nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and added a remark about Ketch’s unwise consumption of onion broth, which annoyed Ketch because it was nothing to do with anybody what he ate and drank. But he said, quite meekly, Thank you, Mr Millichip, and promised to be back on duty at midnight and to be there to take the prisoner to the execution shed. Ketch had, in fact, bullied another warder into switching duties with him, because there would be O’Kane’s clothes to be got hold of. These were presently folded in a locker in the condemned cell, and very nice clothes they were too: Ketch had looked through them when O’Kane was being exercised. He had marked out some shirts to sell in the King’s Head four-ale bar, and there were trousers and underthings as well. Three pairs of shoes – good leather ones. Muttonchops would have marked those for himself, the sneaky old greed-bug, but Ketch was going to get in ahead of him. You could get at least five shillings for a pair of good leather shoes. There were no flies on Saul Ketch, not if there was money to be made.
There might very well be money to be made in the governor’s office tonight, and Ketch smiled to himself as he went along the corridors. He liked the feel of Calvary on an execution night and he liked the feeling of what he was about to do.
Sir Lewis was in his office. He looked pale and his eyes were darker than usual. Ketch had a little inward snigger at that, because he knew why Sir Lewis was looking pale and dark-eyed, didn’t he just!
He said politely, ‘Begging pardon, sir, but there’s a matter I need to discuss with you.’
‘Yes?’ Caradoc did not quite say, make it quick, but he nearly did.
‘It’s a bit difficult, really,’ said Ketch. ‘It’s about Dr McNulty, sir. It’s a bit – like – delicate.’ Aha! That had made Sir Lewis look up and take notice!
‘In what way delicate? Is McNulty ill?’
‘Oh no, not ill, sir. But I thought – well, several of us thought – as how you ought to know what’s been going on.’
‘What do you mean?’
Ketch had decided that at this stage, worried innocence was best. He said, ‘Well, sir, he’s been – I hardly like to say it – but he’s been trying to get a few of us to spy.’
‘Spy?’
The word came out so sharply, so much like a gunshot, that Ketch flinched, and then he realized Caradoc thought he meant spy in the way O’Kane had spied. He said firmly, ‘Spying on the people here, sir. In Calvary.’
‘On the prisoners?’
‘Not the prisoners, sir. The people working here.’
‘The warders? D’you mean Dr McNulty has asked you to spy on the warders?’
‘Well, yes, sir. And,’ said Ketch, looking Caradoc straight in the eye, ‘others as well.’
The governor frowned. ‘You’re making this up, Ketch. Have you been drinking?’
Ketch was stung by the injustice of this. A liar and a drunk, that was what he was being called, which was rich coming from a man who not an hour since had been ramming away between Skelton’s thighs!
He said indignantly, ‘I haven’t touched a drop. And it’s all the truth. The doctor tell
s us to watch and listen and find out things. We have to let him know what we’ve found, and he gives us money.’ Too late he saw he had made it sound as if he had gone along with the arrangement. But he could not take the words back and so he plunged on. ‘Tonight I told the doctor what I heard in this room an hour ago.’ He stopped and waited.
The governor’s expression did not alter, but when he spoke again his voice held a new note. ‘And what did you think you heard, Ketch?’ he said, and although the words were soft, for the first time Ketch wondered if he had been altogether wise to come here.
But he was not backing down now. He thrust out his jaw and said, ‘We both know what I heard, don’t we, sir? You and Belinda Skelton.’ Artfully he let his eyes stray to the closed door that led to the little bedroom leading off the room.
‘Scurrilous lies,’ said Sir Lewis at once. ‘Did you think McNulty would pay you for your mad lies?’
Ketch did not know what that word – scurry-something – meant, but he knew that was twice the governor had called him a liar. He said, ‘The doctor pays for knowing things like that. I told you – he’s got a whole string of people he gets to listen at keyholes and the like.’
‘Why would he pay you for that?’
‘He makes money out of knowing things that go on,’ said Ketch.
‘Blackmail,’ said Sir Lewis slowly. ‘Yes, I see. And tonight you thought you’d try your hand at a little blackmail on your own account, did you?’
‘I supposed you’d like to know what the doctor was up to,’ said Ketch righteously. ‘That’s why I come here, for to tell you.’ He edged nearer to the desk. ‘Also, sir, I thought you wouldn’t want people knowing what you’d been up to.’
‘What you thought,’ said Sir Lewis, his words like chips of ice, ‘was that I’d give you money to shut you up.’ He eyed Ketch with dislike. ‘You’re a disgusting little weasel, Ketch, and you’re dismissed from your post here and now. I’m not having liars and blackmailers working in Calvary. Collect your things and go straight away. If you’re still in the gaol in half an hour’s time I’ll have you thrown out.’
‘You can’t dismiss me!’ blustered Ketch.
‘I most certainly can. I’ve just done it. Think yourself lucky I’m not turning you over to the police.’
Ketch was not worried about the police. What he was worried about was the prospect of penury, which was suddenly opening up before him. And he was even more worried that if he had no job they might send him into the army – conscription or some such word they used nowadays. Ketch was not going off to fight the Hun, not for Lewis Caradoc, nor King George nor nobody. That was why, once he was seventeen, he had come up to Calvary. Reserved occupation they called it.
He gripped the edges of the desk and said angrily that Sir Lewis could not throw him out. There was his week’s money. He was owed a week’s money, he said pugnaciously.
‘You’re owed nothing. Now get out before I break your neck.’
There was nothing for it but to go. But as Ketch walked along the corridors to the warder’s room and his locker, he was already planning how he would be revenged on that cool-as-a-cat Lewis Caradoc and that whore Belinda.
So, thought Lewis, as the door closed, I’m between the devil and the deep blue sea. No, I’m not, I’m between the devil, Denzil McNulty, and that unwholesome slug, Saul Ketch. And an unholier trinity I never wish to meet.
He considered how far he should believe Saul Ketch. Denzil McNulty operating a sly little spy network inside Calvary? Gathering information and making use of it? Making people pay for his silence? Was that likely? Oh yes, thought Lewis, pouring a second drink and making it a stiffer one this time. Oh yes, it’s more than likely.
He did not think Ketch had the wits to make up such a tale, and it was plain that Ketch had been McNulty’s scavenger, carrying unwholesome pieces of information to his master. But tonight, it seemed as if there had been a falling-out between the two, and Ketch had taken the initiative. He could not have known that McNulty had been here before him, or that McNulty’s price was not money but something infinitely more macabre.
Lewis was not particularly concerned about Saul Ketch. He did not have the intelligence to do any real harm, nor would he be able to tell his tale in quarters where it would do harm. If he talked in Thornbeck, people would think it the pique of a man dismissed for some squalid little misdemeanour. Lewis thought he must make sure the senior warders knew he had dismissed Ketch for— What? Stealing? No, better not be specific; better just say he had caught the man in a flagrant flouting of the rules, and leave it at that.
But McNulty? Oh, Dr McNulty, thought Lewis, what a deeply unpleasant creature you are. Of all the crimes blackmail’s one of the most vicious.
He would have to do something about Clara’s association with McNulty, but for the moment he could not think how he would grapple with that. If he forbade her to have anything to do with him, she would want to know why. And Lewis could not tell her why; he could not tell her about any of this. My God, he thought bitterly, this twisted little slug has really got me tied up. I can’t see any way out of this situation. Or can I? The speck of an idea had dropped into his mind, and he sat very still, the minutes ticking away.
When McNulty returned, and said, without preamble, ‘Well, Sir Lewis, have you come to a decision?’ Lewis smiled and said, with perfect politeness, ‘I believe so. But first of all, doctor, I should like you to tell me about the blackmail network you’ve been operating in Thornbeck.’
The extraordinary thing was that McNulty did not deny any of it. He said, quite frankly, that he had made use of two or three warders to gather snippets of information in Thornbeck and a few of the surrounding villages. Yes, Calvary was part of the hunting ground as well, he said. Why not? When Lewis used the word scavengers he nodded and said, Yes, that described it well enough. He displayed no contrition and appeared to feel no guilt.
‘The remuneration for a prison doctor is pitiful, Sir Lewis.’
‘So you extorted money from people.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said McNulty impatiently. ‘It’s for my work. My research on the soul – the existence of life after death. That can’t be done without money, Sir Lewis. The truth must be uncovered, no matter the cost. And if I can be the one to uncover it – to make the discovery—’ He broke off, breathing as if he had been running hard, and Lewis said, in his coolest voice, ‘The discovery of the existence of the soul?’
‘Yes.’ A shrug. ‘As for the extortion charge – well, we all take the pickings from our work. What were your pickings, Sir Lewis? The likes of Belinda Skelton?’
Lewis did not dare let this jibe touch him or he would have been across the desk throttling McNulty there and then. He said, ‘You blackmailed people.’
‘I merely suggested payments to safeguard people’s secrets. Things they would prefer to keep private. Adulterous liaisons, illegitimate children, a liking for bed partners of the same sex. People pay for keeping those things quiet.’
‘You haven’t asked me for a payment.’
‘Not in money. But you can provide the one thing no one else can.’
‘The soul experiment,’ said Lewis softly.
‘Yes.’ The hunger was in McNulty’s voice again.
‘You do realize I can’t ignore this,’ said Lewis. ‘Quite apart from the criminal nature of blackmail, there’s your medical standing. As well as the police, I must report you to the General Medical Council.’
‘Must you?’ said McNulty softly. ‘I don’t think you’d better, Sir Lewis. I’ve already got you in a cleft stick with Skelton. If you really do tell your masters what I’ve been doing, it would be easy for me to say you had been part of it. That you had controlled it, even. I could say that faced with exposure you were trying to shift the blame onto me.’
‘I don’t think that would be believed,’ said Lewis after a moment. ‘I’m not immensely rich but I have sufficient money for my needs.’
‘Do you?
Does any man ever have sufficient? And if Lady Caradoc should decide to sever the marital tie because of your fondness for other women mightn’t that sever a large part of your income as well?’
‘You’d never do it,’ said Lewis.
‘Believe me, I would. If I go down, you’ll go down with me,’ said McNulty, and there was an edge to his voice Lewis had not heard before. ‘It would be my word against yours, and even if you were cleared, people would look at you sideways for a very long time. Mud sticks. And I will do anything to further my work, anything—’ He broke off, and then in his normal tone said, ‘Is my request so very bad? We weigh a condemned prisoner each day anyway. Let me make one extra weighing tomorrow morning. Let me record Nick O’Kane’s weight immediately before the execution and again after it, and then report my findings to my colleagues. Your name need never come into it, not now and not ever. And then, next week or next month, I’ll leave Calvary and you need never hear from me again.’
‘Have you really no ties to keep you here?’
‘Oh no. As you know I’m unmarried and I have no close family. I’m free to roam where I wish,’ said McNulty.
Lewis said slowly, ‘If I could be sure you mean that about leaving . . .’
The smile that Clara Caradoc had found reassuring, but Lewis thought sly, showed briefly. ‘You can’t be absolutely sure, of course, can you?’ said McNulty.
‘No.’
‘But between gentlemen . . .’
Lewis thought, You’re no bloody gentleman, in fact I almost think I prefer Saul Ketch. At least he’s honest about his villainy.
McNulty eyed him for a moment, then said, ‘Well, Sir Lewis? Have we an arrangement? Are we making the soul experiment on Nicholas O’Kane?’
Lewis said slowly, ‘It looks as if we are, Doctor.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lewis finally went to bed at one a.m.