The Death Chamber

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Yes, of course. What’s his name?’

  ‘Saul Ketch,’ said Higneth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Walter had been wrong when he said Elizabeth Molland would be a difficult prisoner. She was not difficult at all. She was quiet and well behaved, and submitted to the indignities of her captivity with a docility that he found heart-breaking.

  On the first morning he explained to her there must be a particular examination to establish that she was not expecting a child. He thought this a very unlikely circumstance, but there had been occasional cases of condemned women postponing the hangman by getting impregnated by a warder or another prisoner, or even by a prison chaplain, and the rules were clear. Elizabeth had been in prison for the last two months but Walter intended to follow the rules to the letter.

  He had asked the new, temporary female warder to attend the examination, in order to satisfy medical etiquette. He had met the woman briefly. She was in her mid-forties, and had seemed agreeable, willing to please and grateful for the work. She wore a wedding ring; Walter thought she might be a widow.

  Elizabeth Molland had not, at first, seemed to understand about the pregnancy examination. She stared at him and said that of course she was not expecting a child, how could he think such a thing? She was unmarried. An unmarried girl.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Walter, indicating the examination couch and screens and leaving her to undress.

  While she was doing so the wardress tapped at the door and came quietly in. Walter nodded to her to wait by the door, and called to Elizabeth to let him know when she was ready. He was feeling awkward and slightly nervous; he had not, in fact, had to make a pelvic examination since his stint at the big teaching hospital where he had spent six months after qualifying before coming to Calvary. When Elizabeth timidly called out that she was ready, he had to beat down a wish to be a hundred miles away, but he stepped behind the screens, and reached for the jar of lubricant he had put ready. She was lying on the bed, clutching the thin robe around her, her eyes huge and frightened. Walter said, with what he hoped was a gentle firmness, ‘This won’t take a moment.’

  But she still seemed not to understand, or to know what was expected of her for the examination, and Walter had to part her thighs himself. As he did so there was a disturbing feeling that an intimacy was being created between them, and he had to school himself to detachment. Even so, he found himself thinking that it was remarkable how you forgot the soft feel of the female body when you had only ministered to men for two years. There had been one or two girlfriends during his student years, but since he came to Calvary most of his energies had been directed into his work and he had scarcely given a thought to female companionship.

  He was glad that his training held good when it came to it; he was able to be professional and impersonal about checking cervix and uterus, first with his hand and forefinger, then with the speculum. The uterus showed no sign whatsoever of being soft or in any way distended by pregnancy.

  Nor would it. Elizabeth Molland was a virgin. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Walter had felt her wince of pain when he slid his forefinger inside her, and when he inserted the speculum she shrank in unmistakable discomfort and her hands came instinctively down to push him away. Extraordinary. He heard himself say, ‘I’ve made you bleed a bit. I’m sorry about that. There’s warm water in the bowl there and a clean towel.’

  He washed his hands and stepped outside the screen. The warder was still standing by the door, and he thanked her for attending. ‘When the prisoner’s dressed you can take her back to her room, if you would.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Is she all right?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s just a routine examination.’ He moved back to his desk, and had just reached for his pen to enter up his notes, when Elizabeth, once again dressed in the drab prison grey, came out from behind the screen. The wardress looked at her and let out a cry of such shock and deep pain that Walter looked up, startled. The woman was staring at Elizabeth Molland with distended eyes and a sheet-white face. One hand was clapped over her mouth in the classic gesture of horror or fear and she looked to be on the verge of fainting.

  Walter said, ‘What on earth’s the matter? Are you ill?’ He half reached for the alarm bell by his desk, because the possibility of an escape had always to be remembered. But there seemed to be nothing but puzzlement in Elizabeth’s expression, and when she spoke she sounded concerned. ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘Yes. But you’ll have to go back to your cell at once,’ said Walter, pressing the button that would summon a warder, and then taking the wardress’s wrist to check her pulse, which was erratic. ‘Put your head down for a moment,’ he said to her. ‘Right down – yes, that’s good.’ He filled a tumbler with water for her and when she straightened up, handed it to her. ‘Sip it slowly.’

  ‘It was only a moment of dizziness. I’ll just sit for a minute if I could.’

  ‘Of course.’ Walter was grateful when a male warder appeared to take Elizabeth out. She went with him at once, but when she got to the door she turned back and looked at Walter for a moment. She’s trying to create a link, thought Walter uncomfortably, she’s trying to make something of the intimacy of the examination. No, I’m wrong; she’s simply looking at the wardress and wondering what’s wrong with her.

  When the door closed, he turned back to the woman who was still sitting in the chair. Her hair had escaped slightly from the prison cap; Walter saw it was fair and soft. She must have been very attractive when she was young. Unusual, rather striking.

  He said, ‘Now, will you tell me what’s wrong? Clearly you’re unwell and clearly it was something to do with seeing Elizabeth Molland, wasn’t it? But you knew she was here – you must have known about the case.’

  ‘I did know about it, of course. I read an account of it in the newspapers and there was something on the wireless. But I hadn’t seen her – there weren’t any photographs in the papers. It’s almost all war stuff nowadays, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’ Walter waited.

  After a moment, she said, ‘So it was a shock.’

  ‘Why?’

  She paused, and then said, ‘Anything I tell you – it’s confidential, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Like – like when the Catholics confess to a priest?’

  ‘Very much like that.’ What on earth was coming?

  ‘That girl – the one they call Elizabeth Molland—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s not who she really is.’

  ‘Not? You mean—’ Walter broke off, grappling with wild ideas of switched identities, of false names. But Elizabeth’s parents had been in court, and he had seen the photograph in their house. ‘It is Elizabeth,’ he said, gently, ‘that’s beyond question.’

  ‘I mean she isn’t . . .’ She sat up a little straighter, setting down the glass of water. ‘Dr Kane, Elizabeth Molland is my daughter.’

  And then, before Walter could say anything, she said, ‘Her father is Lewis Caradoc.’

  ‘I gave her up for adoption straight after the birth,’ said Belinda – Walter had by this time established her name. He had asked one of the attendants to bring a tray of tea; when it arrived he drank his own cup as gratefully as his companion.

  ‘It was 1917,’ said Belinda, sipping the tea. ‘The war was still going on, of course. I remember, we had the Irish traitor here. Nicholas O’Kane was his name.’

  Something clicked into place in Walter’s mind, and he stared at her, and thought: Yes, of course! You were the J. M. Barrie creature in the condemned cell. A slanting face and tip-tilted eyes – I recognize the eyes. You were the person I thought about all the way home from seeing my father just before he died; you’re the one who took the edge off the pain for me.

  It was impossible to say any of this, and in any case she would not have room in her mind at the moment for Walter’s twenty-year-old memories. He said, ‘You and Sir Lewis were lovers?’

&nb
sp; For the first time the glint of a smile showed. ‘Yes. Quite briefly. He was governor then.’

  ‘These things happen,’ said Walter. ‘Did he know you were pregnant?’

  ‘No. He would have helped me. If you know him, you’ll know that.’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes.’

  ‘I just – went away, not telling him,’ said Belinda. ‘I went to live with distant relations just outside Thornbeck. Near enough to feel I was still with people and places I knew, but far enough away for no one to recognize me. I posed as a young widow. There was a lot of shame in an unmarried girl being pregnant in those days.’

  ‘There still is,’ said Walter drily.

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t know if he ever tried to find me: there was no reason why he would. He was married, his wife was a fine London lady.’

  And a cold and humourless one as well, thought Walter.

  ‘There was a vicar there who helped me,’ said Belinda. ‘He was very kind. He arranged an adoption – I never knew the details; he said it was better that I shouldn’t. But he promised me they were good and kindly people. A couple who couldn’t have children of their own, he said, but who dearly wanted them.’

  So that was what they were hiding, thought Walter. Nothing sinister, nothing dark and grim in Elizabeth’s childhood; just the fact that she was not their own child.

  ‘They were quite comfortably placed, so the vicar told me,’ said Belinda, ‘but I didn’t care too much about that, Dr Kane, only that the baby should have enough for her wants and be loved and cared for.’

  ‘She was,’ said Walter, remembering the distraught couple in the Kendal house. ‘He told you the truth about that.’

  ‘After a time the woman sent photographs of the child,’ said Belinda. ‘Not direct, of course. She sent them to the vicar and he passed them to me. She thought I’d want to know my little girl was safe and well and growing up. It helped seeing those photographs. It made me feel better about what I had done.’

  ‘And that was how you recognized her today.’ Walter could easily imagine Belinda secreting the photographs away, poring over them in privacy, touching the black and white images with love and with the pain of loss.

  ‘They were good photographs,’ she said. ‘Very clear. One when she was a toddler, and then two later ones: when she was ten, and another on her sixteenth birthday. They’d given her a party, and the photograph was in their garden with other girls and a nice tea all set out on a big lawn. She looked so lovely, and I could see she was happy. So I didn’t mind quite so much. But now . . .’ One hand came out to grip Walter’s wrist. ‘A killer,’ she said. ‘A murderess. My little girl is a killer. And they say she was with that man for all those months – that evil, dreadful man. In his bed – loving him— Dr Kane, I don’t think I can be here when they hang her.’

  ‘I don’t think you can, either,’ said Walter at once. ‘I’ll report you as being ill, Belinda. You’d better have an attack of gastric flu or something like that.’

  ‘Does he have to know about this? Lewis? Does he have to know about – about Elizabeth?’ She said the name as if she was trying it out in her mind.

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter, who had been grappling with this for several minutes. ‘Yes, Belinda, I think he does have to know. Do you want to see him to tell him? I could be there as well, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him,’ she said at once.

  ‘Because you still love him?’

  ‘I suppose I did love him,’ said Belinda. ‘I suppose I still do, in a corner of my mind. But you mustn’t think he took advantage of me, Dr Kane.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I made the approach,’ she said. ‘Shameless, wasn’t it?’ She smiled at him, and in that moment the years fell away from her and suddenly and disconcertingly it was a sexy, mischievous pixie who sat there. Walter saw why Sir Lewis had fallen for her twenty years ago.

  ‘No, it’s not shameless, Belinda. I’m sorry you had to lose Elizabeth, though.’

  ‘Would she have turned out any different if I’d kept her?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. She had two good and loving parents. No, I don’t think it would have made any difference.’ He had no idea if he believed this or not, but it would give Belinda some comfort.

  ‘Did they call her Elizabeth, do you know? That couple? Or did they shorten it, just in the family? To Betty or Beth. Beth’s pretty.’

  ‘I think they called her Elizabeth. Sir Lewis really must know about this. Would you like me to tell him?’

  ‘Would you?’ She looked at him with eager gratitude.

  ‘Yes. I’ll go to see him this evening, and I’ll call on you afterwards to tell you what he’s said. Would that be all right? Where are you living?’

  ‘I have a little house just outside Thornbeck. I live on my own, so you could come at any time at all. I’ll write the address down and directions to find it.’

  She did so in a neat, careful hand, and then said, ‘How am I going to live with this? Knowing my own daughter killed people? That she helped that man to murder them for their money and their jewellery? And that poor woman she pushed under the tram . . .’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help you,’ said Walter, and thought: and I understand your agony more than you could ever realize. Your daughter. My father.

  She said, ‘Thank you, Dr Kane.’ She got up to go, and then hesitated. ‘I’d like to hear you saying that everything will be all right,’ she said. ‘But it won’t, will it?’

  ‘I don’t think it can be,’ said Walter. ‘But I think it will get easier for you.’

  There was a feeling of reassurance about the familiar low-ceilinged room with the views across the fields. The curtains were drawn against the night, and a fire crackled in the hearth.

  For once Lady Caradoc was there, although Walter saw she was wearing street clothes, clearly about to go out. She stayed long enough to make a little stately conversation. The war news was quite encouraging, did Dr Kane not agree, but oh dear, what a very shocking thing about that young girl who had just been sentenced to be executed.

  ‘There are many evil people in the world, Dr Kane. Of all ages.’

  Walter said that was so.

  ‘You are here to see my husband,’ stated Clara. ‘And I have an engagement in Thornbeck – my work with the Caradoc Society, you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It must be very interesting,’ said Walter politely.

  ‘It is deeply important,’ said Clara Caradoc solemnly. ‘Deeply. My husband is inclined to scoff, but we are finding out so much. So many spiritual things are to be discovered and offered as help and support to people. I would not, of course, expect you as a young man and a doctor of the body, to be entirely in sympathy with our aims, however.’

  This bland assumption annoyed Walter, but he said he tried always to have an open mind, and that perhaps one day he might be allowed to attend a meeting.

  ‘All seekers of the truth and all searchers for the Light are welcome,’ said Clara, adding, more prosaically, that the Society met every Tuesday at eight o’clock and it was as well to arrive early to be sure of getting a seat and a voucher for the cup of tea served at nine.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Lewis Caradoc after Lady Caradoc had gone. He poured Walter a whisky and soda and waved him to a chair on the other side of the hearth. ‘She’s very earnest about all this psychic stuff; she’s been involved in it for years. I can’t see that it does any harm, and at least she’s out of the clutches of some very dubious people she met in London some years ago. A pair of very ripe ones they were, and I have a feeling Clara gave them quite a lot of money although I’ve never actually asked her. Is your drink all right? You don’t need to tell me why you’re here. Elizabeth Molland, yes? It’ll be hard for you to attend the execution of a young female. I never had to. I’d have found it an ordeal.’

  Oh God, thought Walter, and drank some of the whisky, and then said, ‘It is about Elizabeth, but not quite in the way you
think. Sir Lewis, twenty years ago you were – you knew a young wardress called Belinda.’

  At the name a stillness came over Lewis Caradoc. He said, ‘I did know her. But she left quite suddenly. I should have liked to keep in touch with her, just to be sure she was all right.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘Dammit, Walter, I don’t have to pussyfoot around with you, do I? Belinda and I were lovers, quite briefly. It wasn’t the wisest of liaisons, but it was a difficult time for me just then – But no excuses. You know – you must have realized – that Clara and I have a very barren marriage.’

  Walter said bluntly, ‘Belinda had a child as a result. A daughter.’

  For a moment Lewis stared at him blankly, as if not understanding, and then one hand went up to shield his eyes as if a blinding light had suddenly been turned on to his face. He did not say anything, but after a moment he went back to the drinks cabinet and reached for the decanter; for the first time Walter saw that for all the sharpness and the quicksilver intelligence and humour, this was a man approaching old age. Lewis’s hands were shaking so badly he was unable to pour the whisky, and after a moment Walter got up and poured the drink himself.

  ‘Thank you. Bit of a shock.’ He seemed to make a tremendous effort to regain control. ‘A daughter,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Of all things.’ Walter saw, with something like despair, that some of the light was already returning to his eyes. ‘Can you tell me any more? How do you know about this?’

  ‘Belinda has come back to Calvary for a while. A temporary wardress.’

  ‘I didn’t even know she was still in the area. Is she all right?’

  ‘She didn’t want you to know where she was.’ Walter leaned forward. ‘She’s been living just outside Thornbeck it seems, and as far as I can make out she’s perfectly all right. But there’s something else.’