by Nicola Upson
‘And she was happy to do that?’
‘Yes, I probably didn’t even need to ask. Marjorie knew when someone was vulnerable.’ Penrose couldn’t help thinking that Marjorie had underestimated someone’s vulnerability with tragic consequences, but he said nothing. ‘Have you spoken to Lucy yet?’ Miss Size asked.
‘No. She’d gone off duty for the day by the time we got to the club.’
‘So she probably doesn’t even know Marjorie’s dead.’
‘We’ll be speaking to her as soon as she returns this evening, and I’ll make sure she’s taken care of; my sergeant said you were worried.’
‘Yes, they were close. Will you make sure to tell her that she can come to me at any time?’
‘Of course. Would Marjorie have covered for Lucy?’
‘Almost certainly. Why?’
‘There have been a number of thefts at the club. One of the stolen items was found on Marjorie’s body.’
‘What was it?’
‘A small silver photograph frame.’
‘And the photograph?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What was the photograph.’
‘It was a picture of a woman with her baby.’
‘That’s what Lucy stole, then. The value of the frame was incidental. She’s still grieving—you need to understand that. And it is a type of grief, you know, the pain a mother feels when she gives up her child, but it’s not like bereavement; there are no certainties, no rituals like a funeral to begin the healing process. If you lose your child to adoption, you lose the right to know anything more about it and lots of women find the uncertainty very difficult. Lucy suffered a great deal—clearly she’s still suffering. But Marjorie would definitely protect her.’
No wonder Josephine’s manuscript had upset Lucy so much, Penrose thought. ‘What is the adoption procedure here? Are prison mothers encouraged to give up their children?’
‘No, it’s entirely up to them. Babies are born here, in the hospital wing, and mothers are given pre-natal care and a lot of help after their confinement. On release, each mother gets a complete new outfit for the child. It’s not much, I suppose, but it helps.’
‘And if the mother decides to give her child up?’
‘Then we arrange it for her as painlessly as possible. Our volunteers help a great deal with that, and the warders are involved to oversee the welfare of the prisoner.’
How things had changed since Lizzie Sach’s adoption, Penrose thought; if Celia Bannerman had been more typical, if the support had been as open and as comprehensive thirty years ago, then at least one tragedy might have been averted. ‘Miss Bannerman must have been ahead of her time as a prison warder,’ he said, but there was a knock at the door before she had a chance to respond.
‘Am I interrupting?’ Josephine asked.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘We’ve just about finished.’
‘Has Cicely shown you everything you need to see?’ Mary Size asked, offering her a seat. She looked at the expression on Josephine’s face as she sat down, and said sympathetically: ‘It’s unsettling when you come to it for the first time.’
‘Yes, it is, but from what Cicely told me, it must have been much more so thirty years ago. She’s marvellous—are all your staff as receptive to change as she is?’
‘Good God, no. In fact, I was just about to say to Inspector Penrose—some of the older ones are still very set in their ways and they’re convinced we’re giving the women a holiday rather than a punishment, but the young women coming through now are much more responsive and natural retirement is gradually shifting the balance. There’s hope, as long as the girls are patient enough to wait for promotion. I’ve never understood why, but we’re not allowed to sack people for being incompetent.’
‘Sadly, the prison service isn’t alone in that stipulation,’ Penrose said, smiling. ‘But I can see how frustrating it must have been for Miss Bannerman to be surrounded by such a rigid system.’
‘Indeed. Most warders of her generation would still tell you that I molly-coddle the girls, but if Celia came back to work here now, I’m pleased to say that she’d be in the majority. I’d have her like a shot, as well, but unfortunately she’s too good at what she does now.’
‘You obviously admire her, but she told me that she’d been found lacking as a prison officer because she wasn’t sufficiently detached.’
Josephine looked at him in surprise, but Mary Size just smiled. ‘I’d dispute that she’d been found lacking, from what I know. Prison is full of marred lives and wrecked hopes—that’s as true today as it was thirty years ago—and, as I understand it, if Celia had a fault it was that she concentrated on the individual rather than the system. I think her lack of detachment caused her more suffering than anyone in her care.’ She turned to Josephine. ‘I know you’ve talked to Celia about Holloway back then, but, as I said, she certainly wasn’t typical of her time. If you want to write about prison as it really was, you should talk to someone at the other extreme—Ethel Stuke, perhaps.’
‘I thought she was dead?’
‘Ethel?’
‘Yes, Celia told me she’d been killed in a Zeppelin raid during the war.’
‘Believe me, if she’d been caught in a Zeppelin raid, the Zeppelin would have come off worse. She’s quite a force of nature, is Ethel. No, she was still working here when I arrived, although she left soon after.’ There was something like pride in her voice, Josephine noticed, and it complemented the twinkle in her eye quite beautifully. ‘As far as I know, she’s alive and well and living in Suffolk—we’ll have her address on file. Celia must have meant one of the other warders—there were three sets of two looking after each condemned woman.’
‘Do you still keep staff records for Celia Bannerman?’ Penrose asked.
‘Our records go back to when the prison came over to women, so I imagine they’re in the archive somewhere. Can I ask why?’
‘She’s the main link with the Sach case, and I wondered if her records might mention someone else who could help us.’
‘Bear with me a second and I’ll find out.’ She picked up the telephone. ‘Smithers? Come up to my sitting room, will you?’ Her request was answered immediately. ‘This is Detective Inspector Penrose. Will you take him down to the office and look in the archive for a file on Celia Bannerman? She was a warder here in 1902. And give him Ethel Stuke’s address as well.’
Penrose picked up the other two files. ‘I’ll return these to you as soon as possible.’
‘Thank you. Do you mind if Miss Tey and I talk for a couple of minutes? I won’t keep her long—I know you’re busy.’
He looked at Josephine, who nodded and sat down again. ‘I’ll see you downstairs. And thank you for your time, Miss Size. It’s much appreciated.’
‘You’re welcome, although I don’t know how much use I’ve been to you.’
‘Apart from anything else, you’ve helped me to understand what happens when my job is over,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think we’re not sufficiently aware of the consequences of what we do.’
He left, and Mary Size turned to Josephine. ‘Now, Miss Tey …’
‘Please—call me Josephine,’ she said, ‘but can I ask you something first?’ ‘Of course.’
‘Marta Fox—how did she cope?’
Mary Size looked surprised but, to her credit, she resisted the temptation to answer Josephine’s question with one of her own. ‘I always think the miracle is that she did cope,’ she said quietly. ‘I see every prisoner within hours of her arrival here, and I feared for Marta at first. It wasn’t surprising after everything she’d been through—an abusive marriage, the loss of her children in the most horrific circumstances, so many revelations which must have been impossible to come to terms with—but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as empty. Guilt and self-reproach, even despair—those are all emotions I’m used to seeing, and I can deal with them in whatever way is best for the prisoner concerned. But emptiness, a comp
lete lack of concern for what happens to you—that’s very hard, and it went on for some time. She refused all visits and returned all her letters unread—but you probably know that?’
Josephine nodded. ‘So what changed? Or did it change?’
‘Yes, gradually. Two things helped, I think. The gardens, strangely enough. She seemed to find peace there—peace, rather than nothingness. And her writing. I don’t know what she was working on but, in the end, I think she wrote herself back to sanity.’
‘And now? What does it feel like to come out the other side of that?’
‘Is that really why you’re here? To understand what she’s been through?’
‘To know what she’s been through, perhaps. I doubt that I could ever understand. But I would like to have some idea of what she needs now.’
‘Well, not the sort of help that the Prisoners’ Aid Society can give, that’s for sure. I’m not a psychologist, Josephine, but I’d say that Marta needs something—or someone—she can rely on. Something that isn’t going to be snatched away from her. Above all, something safe.’ The telephone rang on her desk. ‘We’ll be right down,’ she said. ‘They’re waiting for you at the gate. I won’t bother you with prison reform now; it looks like you might have your own rehabilitation project on your hands, but do think about it, and if you want to talk to me—about anything at all—you know how to get hold of me. Next time, though, we’ll have a drink at the club.’
‘And I’ll see you at the gala on Monday.’
‘You certainly will, although I considered boycotting it because I’m furious that Celia’s got Noël and Gertie. I can see I’m going to have to raise my game in the fundraising stakes; perhaps you could have a word with someone for me?’
Josephine smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Excellent. And if it’s appropriate, Josephine, please give my regards to Marta.’
‘Do you think Celia Bannerman did mean one of the other prison warders?’ Archie asked as he waited for a gap in the traffic streaming down Camden Road.
‘What? Oh, no, I don’t. I’m sure she said Ethel Stuke—it’s not the sort of name I’d make up.’
‘Says the woman who created Ray Marcable.’
She laughed. ‘That’s different. You’re allowed ridiculous names in detective fiction—in fact, it’s positively encouraged. No, Celia must have made a mistake—it would have been almost impossible to keep up with prison news after she’d changed careers. Have you got Ethel Stuke’s address for me?’
‘Yes. I might use it myself if I draw a blank with Edwards. Where are you going now? Back to the club?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said, although there was something very tempting about the overnight sleeper to Inverness. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a drink?’
‘Afraid not. I’ve got to get back to the Yard—I hope Edwards will be there by now.’
‘She fascinates me, you know. I think she’s the most interesting person in the entire case. I suppose there’s no point in asking you if I can sit in on that one?’
‘No. No point at all.’
‘Bill would let me.’
‘Which is why Bill’s still a sergeant.’
‘Did she kill Marjorie, do you think?’
Archie considered the question, although he had been thinking of very little else. ‘She’s certainly the main contender—she’s got a motive and no alibi, and the method of killing fits with the sort of jealousy that she’s supposed to have shown towards her daughter. And her reaction to the news was very odd.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘Not in my heart, no. But I’ll make you a promise—if she turns out to have no connection with this murder, I’ll ask her if she’ll see you. Are you sure I can’t drop you somewhere a little more welcoming than the Cowdray Club?’
‘Oh, it’s not so bad, and the girls might still be there. If not, I suppose I could go and see a film later—it sounds like Geraldine needs keeping out of trouble.’
‘You wouldn’t rather go to Holly Place?’
She looked at him, horrified. ‘How could you possibly have read the address on that letter?’
‘I didn’t—I just recognised Marta’s handwriting. She sent me a note, too, a few weeks after she got out. Rather briefer than yours, thank God—the writing’s impossible. It just said thank you, although judging by the expression on your face when you got back from your prison tour, she has precious little to thank me for.’
‘I don’t know about that. She was an accessory to murder, and what you did for her was extraordinarily generous.’
‘It was right, that’s all. She didn’t kill anyone, and she was badly used—by everyone in her life, as far as I could see.’
‘Even so, she made things difficult for you, and I didn’t help.’
‘I’m not in policing to get my own back.’
She stared out of the window, relieved that Archie had raised the subject of Marta but unsure of how much to say to him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d heard from her?’ she asked.
‘Because I thought she’d be in touch with you as well and, if she wasn’t, there was no point in raking it all up again.’ He pulled over in Camden Town, ignoring the angry hooting from the car behind, and looked at her with genuine concern. ‘So, what’s it to be—Holly Place or the Cowdray Club?’
‘The Cowdray Club,’ Josephine said quickly. ‘I’m not ready to talk to Marta yet.’
(untitled)
by Josephine Tey
First Draft
Holloway Gaol, Wednesday 14 January 1903
Amelia Sach sat in her cell on the eve of her trial, and waited for news of another woman’s fate. Eleanor Vale’s appearance in court was the talk of the prison, but Amelia had more reasons than most for anticipating the verdict: the similarity of the charges in their respective cases—she still refused to use the word ‘crimes’—was undeniable, and she hoped that Vale’s treatment would at least give her a sign of what she should prepare herself for.
She was unsure if it was the cold or the anticipation that made her shiver. In mid-winter, prison clothes consisted of a cotton frock; a thin vest and knickers made of once-white calico; and harsh, black woollen stockings with holes she could put her fist through. She had no idea if the drab uniform had a summer equivalent or if it had been carefully designed to jar with any season, but she prayed that she might be here to find out; two months ago, she would never have believed that the inhumanity of Holloway was the lesser of two evils, but the thought of her daughter made her cling to life at all costs. Beneath her feet, the stone floor made her colder still but she focused on the discomfort as an antidote to the pain which seared through her whenever she thought of having missed Lizzie’s fourth Christmas, and of the Christmases yet to come which might now proceed without her. She missed her daughter even more than she missed her freedom. The sorrow of a lost child and the sound of a mother crying softly in the night were imprinted on her heart, part of the pattern of her chosen life; for the first time, she understood how that felt.
From the moment she set foot in Holloway, Amelia had made Lizzie’s future her priority and it hadn’t taken her long to identify an ally. Celia Bannerman was younger than most of the prison officers, and had not yet served at Holloway for long enough to soak up its cynicism; neither had she learned to hide her horror at the way in which some of the prisoners were treated, and Amelia had known as soon as she met her that Celia’s sympathies could be harnessed if necessary. She had considered offering her money to look out for Lizzie, but sensed that this was not the way to deal with someone whose very desire to do good made her vulnerable; she could exploit that vulnerability if necessary and, although Amelia still firmly believed that she would be vindicated in court, she took comfort from the fact that Lizzie would not be left solely in her father’s care.
It was getting late, but she was too anxious to try to rest and, in any case, the plank bed was almost impossible to sleep on. She was
fighting a cold—the blue serge cloak which she was expected to wear for exercise had been greasy with dirt around the neck from its previous occupant, so Amelia had scrubbed it repeatedly, preferring to shiver in it wet than wear it dry and filthy—and her hands were so chapped that they had begun to bleed from innumerable small cracks. She had asked for some ointment to ease the soreness, but the Stuke woman only laughed; in the end, Bannerman told her that the grease from the top of the cocoa, rubbed in well, was an excellent remedy, so she skimmed it off on to a plate each evening and applied it as it set. Grease was one thing that Holloway had no shortage of: a thin film of it covered everything she touched with such relentless thoroughness that she could almost believe it came from her own skin.
At least she would be allowed to wear normal clothes at the trial tomorrow, although she knew already that she would feel like a stranger in them: every last trace of her femininity had been systematically and efficiently eroded over the last seven weeks. She visualised the state of her hair after so long without attention, knowing from the evidence on her collar that her scalp was dry and full of dandruff, and that her skin would appear sickly and sallow in the harsh light of the courtroom. Not surprisingly, she had lost weight, but, more significantly, thanks to the psychological effect of appearing as a slut amongst dozens of sluts, she had lost her self-respect. What sort of impression would she make on the jury if she looked as bad as she felt? Until now, she had considered the absence of a looking glass to be a merciful omission; tomorrow, she would need all the help she could get to make herself presentable.
There was a noise outside in the corridor, and Amelia jumped up to hammer on the cell door. When it opened, she was relieved to see Celia Bannerman. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What was the verdict on Vale?’
‘Two years’ hard labour,’ Celia said; there was the ghost of a smile on her lips, or so Amelia thought in the flicker of the gas lamp. Suddenly, she was overcome by a relief so intense that she could scarcely breathe. Hard labour—what could be harder than these hours of waiting, trying to guess what her future would be? She would gladly fill coal scuttles in the pouring rain or haul gallons of scalding liquid up three flights of stairs if it meant she could see her daughter at the end of it. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.