by A S Croyle
“But-”
Fixed on holding back my tears, I pulled my shoulders back. “Mr. Holmes, can you at least assure me that you will... that you will process this information and proceed accordingly?”
“I assure you we are doing everything possible to solve these murders, Dr. Stamford.”
“But you won’t let my uncle go.”
“No. We won’t.”
I thought about his words for a moment as I paced again. Obviously, he did not consider this case solved, and that meant he did not think Uncle was the perpetrator of the crimes. What game was Mycroft playing?
I turned and asked, “Then can I see him? Will you let me visit my uncle?”
“Your aunt asked to accompany him, but I was able to reason with her. I just sent her home. You do not want to go to the prison.”
“I most certainly do. Please, Mr. Holmes. I just need to know... He probably will not speak to me about any of this either, but I need to see him with my own eyes. To know that he is all right.”
He fidgeted for a moment. “Well, given your help to us in the past-”
“Yes, do I need to remind you again that you yourself involved me in the Angel Maker investigation and nearly got me killed?”
“And you were of great service to Her Majesty. But you - and my brother - have no business in this matter.”
“I-”
“However-”
I opened my mouth to speak again and he gently placed his forefinger briefly against my lips. “However, under the circumstances, with you being a respectable doctor and all-”
“As is my uncle.”
“Well, I might be able to arrange for a short visit. We shall tell the Warder that you are a doctor and that you wish to attend to his health and well-being.”
I nodded, holding back the tears. I refused to let anyone see me cry.
41
A short time later, Detective Inspector Lestrade escorted me to a police coach. Every minute seemed like a day, a week, or longer. I kept seeing the prison in my mind. I’d read about it, heard stories.
It was thought that Newgate Prison dated back to the thirteenth century, when it was the fifth gate to the city. A new prison had been built in the late eighteenth century, and it had been remodeled once or twice. Then the building was badly damaged by fire, and it was rebuilt just the previous year. At that same time, as a result of the Prisons Act of 1877, conditions were supposed to change. The prison bore an ugly history of appalling conditions. It had often been crowded with half naked women and their children, most waiting for transfer to prison ships that would take them to the Colonies. Prisoners under sentence of death were kept shackled and apart from other prisoners. Murderers were fed only bread and water for the final days of their lives before ascending to the gallows. Their only permitted visitors were prison staff and the “Ordinary” - the prison chaplain.
Now, it was to be used only for those awaiting trial and prisoners sentenced to death awaiting execution, but those rules were not strictly enforced. I knew that it still housed all manner of prisoners who had committed heinous crimes. They could be taken right next door for trial at the ‘Old Bailey,’ the Central Criminal Court, the trial venue for all of London’s most heinous criminals.
As if he were reading my mind, Lestrade said, “Newgate is better than it was, Dr. Stamford. These days, they don’t keep most prisoners in irons and the food is better. And friends and family can visit occasionally.”
Faint praise, I thought. Uncle should not be in prison at all!
“I inspected Newgate once myself,” he went on. “There’s a small anteroom near the entrance where there’s a collection of castes of the heads of the recently executed, taken after execution, of course. One of the detectives - you know him, Stanley Hopkins, Sr. - he’s very interested in them. He’s an amateur student of phrenological science.”
Phrenology... a pseudoscience that focused on measurements of the human skull in the belief that the brain contained very specific functions and that different parts of it controlled character, thoughts, and emotions. I did not dispute this necessarily, but I didn’t believe that measuring the skull had anything to do with a mind’s capacity, a man’s ability to think. I wonder what would someone make of the measurements of Sherlock Holmes’ skull, a skull that contained a brilliant mind, but a mind that controlled all emotions?
“Some time back, I did see the irons in which prisoners used to be confined,” Lestrade continued. “And the cells. Prisoners who are sentenced capitally are taken to the condemned cells, and they do not leave them again except to go to the chapel. Those cells are in the old part of the building, toward the back. They have narrow port holes that give a view of Newgate Street. The prisoners pass through the kitchen on their way to the gallows. Then the guards take them to a chapel to see the Ordinary.
“I’ve been told that some murderers are buried under a flagstone passageway,” he said. “Quick lime makes short work of the bodies. Now some, while they are waiting to take that last walk, scratch their initials in the wall. Most can’t even stand, though. They just faint dead away, so they put them in a chair and, as a bolt is drawn, it crashes to the pit below and-”
You are a dolt! I wanted to scream. Sherlock is right! You’re thick-headed.
Instead, I said, “Stop. Please, Detective Inspector. I thank you for the history lesson, but I would rather not know anything more about this place where my uncle is being wrongfully detained. And I would rather you concentrate on apprehending the real killer.”
Ignoring Lestrade for the rest of the journey, I looked out the coach window at the blur of buildings as we passed, and I listened to the hooves of the horses striking the streets. Though Sherlock always greeted Lestrade as if he were a friend, he did so mainly so he could keep in touch with what was going on at police headquarters. Lestrade always seemed eager to please Sherlock, and Sherlock delighted in any news of unsolved crimes; but down deep, Sherlock thought Lestrade lacked imagination, that he was deficient in the skills and knowledge one needed for detective work.
They did, however, share one common trait... they lacked the good sense and were too insensitive to realize they were hurting someone’s feelings.
“Anyway, Newgate is not that way anymore,” Lestrade said. “I’m sure your uncle is just fine.”
We soon arrived at the corner of Newgate Street and the Old Bailey. I looked in despair at the granite building. It had few windows, an empty niche here and there, and some shabby, eroded carvings. All of it, everything about it was gloomy, stony, and cold. The dome of St. Paul’s loomed large against the sky behind it.
“Wait here one moment,” Lestrade said. “I need to talk to the Warder to arrange the visit.”
I nodded.
When he went inside, I followed the wall of the gaol to a roadway. There were people milling about, most smelling strongly of spirits. A guard pushed several people aside and told me to come into the yard. Blurry-eyed and disoriented by the events of the day, I followed him.
“You don’t belong with the likes of them out there,” he said. “This is where the gallows are kept,” he added. “And where the whippings take place. Over there is the Debtor’s Door. They come out of there to be hanged. It’s what you came over here to see, eh?”
I felt sickened. I could not flee quickly enough. I ran back to where Lestrade had left me and saw him pacing.
“Where did you go off to? Never mind. Come with me, quickly now.”
I followed Lestrade, cautiously keeping within a few inches of him.
We went up some narrow steps, into the turnkey’s room, and then along a dark hallway. At the end, we came upon a small open court surrounded by very high walls. Not much light or air or warmth could ever find its way into this well. “We are facing the women’s wing of the prison,” Lestrade said.
I saw a ch
ary of windows, strongly grated, and shivered.
A guard turned the locks, removed the heavy bars and we ascended another staircase, this one of stone. There were suites of chambers on either side.
“This is where prisoners are kept while waiting to stand trial,” Lestrade told me.
We passed through many rooms and corridors, dark and close and foul smelling. It was a forbidding place, cramped and narrow.
“Are you taking me to Uncle Ormond’s cell?”
“No, I’ve arranged to have him brought to the chapel to visit with you.”
“But-”
“I don’t think your uncle would want you to see him in a cell. Like I said, the Warder is letting me bring him to the chapel.”
“But, Detective Inspector, how can I see to his health if I don’t see where they are keeping him?”
“Dr. Stamford, please.”
“Tell me. At least tell me what the cell is like.”
“Dr. Stamford, I must insist you stop asking-”
“I need to know, Detective Inspector. I need to know what Uncle is faced with.”
He heaved a sigh. “He’s alone. There’s a water tank and a basin and a bed roll. He can have a Bible and books, a plate and a mug. And there’s a stool and a table. And a window.”
“He does have a window?”
Lestrade nodded. “High up and double-grated. It does get intensely cold in inclement weather.”
“How cold?”
“Cold enough that prisoners suffer almost beyond endurance, so I’m told.”
I thought of Mr. Hartwig, the victim who had been imprisoned during the American Civil War. I thought of the horrible agony he had experienced and the lasting effects of his confinement.
“It is only September. Uncle Ormond will not be here when it gets cold,” I said, more to reassure myself than anything else.
Finally, we arrived at the chapel, and he motioned to me to sit down. I took a seat in one of the pews to the left of the pulpit. Then Lestrade disappeared.
I looked around the chapel. It was neat and plain, with galleries for male and female prisoners. I’d read Dickens’ descriptions of the chapel in one of his books. In later years, remembering this day, I would return to a passage and read it over and over again. He said:
There is something in a silent and deserted place of worship, solemn and impressive at any time; and the very dissimilarity of this one from any we have been accustomed to, only enhances the impression. The meanness of its appointments - the bare and scanty pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side - the women’s gallery with its great heavy curtain - the men’s with its unpainted benches and dingy front - the tottering little table at the altar, with the commandments on the wall above it, scarcely legible through lack of paint, and dust and damp - so unlike the velvet and gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern church - are strange and striking.
I squirmed and looked at the pulpit. It faced the communion table. To the right of the pulpit there was a box for the Governor of the gaol, and the Chief Warder’s seat was beneath that. Between the stove and the reading desk below the pulpit was the harmonium for music during services. Then my eyes fixed upon ‘the condemned pew.’ Dickens had described the pen as well:
There is one object, too, which rivets the attention and fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn horror-stricken in vain, for the recollection of it will haunt us, waking and sleeping, for a long time afterwards. Immediately below the reading desk, on the floor of the chapel, and forming the most conspicuous object in its little area, is THE CONDEMNED PEW; a huge black pen, in which the wretched people, who are singled out for death, are placed on the Sunday preceding their execution, in sight of all their fellow-prisoners...
Often, during the service, the coffin that awaited the prisoner was placed by his side in this pen. I’d seen Auguste Pugin’s painting of it once - this chapel, that pew with a coffin waiting for its occupant. The other prisoners would be asked to pray for the soul of the condemned man. I had no doubt they prayed only for their own.
Imagine, Dickens wrote, what have been the feelings of the men whom that fearful pew has enclosed, and of whom, between the gallows and the knife, no mortal remnant may now remain!... Think of the hopeless clinging to life to the last, and the wild despair, far exceeding in anguish the felon’s death itself...
I shuddered as a miserable foreboding came over me.
Uncle would never sit in that box. Never. I would move heaven and earth to keep that from happening, and I knew that Sherlock would as well.
42
Lestrade opened the door to the chapel and I saw Uncle Ormond next to him in the hallway. I had not seen him since Mycroft incarcerated him. He wore a different set of clothes, ones that Aunt Susan must have brought to him... pants and coat made of a midnight blue fabric and an ivory shirt. He looked tired and untidy, but otherwise like himself.
I bolted from the pew, ran to him, and threw my arms around him. He stroked my hair and held me close. He turned to Lestrade and said, “Thank you.”
“I have to stay right here in the doorway, Dr. Sacker. You understand.”
“Of course,” Uncle said, and he guided me to a pew just a few feet away.
“Uncle, I have news.”
I quickly explained to him my trip to the museum and my brief exchange with Mycroft, and I told him that Sherlock had launched his own investigation. “You will be out of here in no time.”
“Poppy, you shouldn’t have come. I keep telling your Aunt Susan to stay away as well. And you must stay out of this. You and Sherlock. Please listen to me, dearest girl. I’ve tried to reason with Sherlock. I thought he would be rational. He told me what the two of you have been up to but-”
“You’ve spoken to Sherlock?”
“He’s come every day to see me. Several times a day, in fact.”
“Well, then you see how focused he is on your release. Uncle, why is this happening? Please talk to me. Talk to Mycroft and make him see-”
He smiled. “You do sound like Sherlock. He ranted on and on about ‘What is the point of your incarceration? What object is served for you to place yourself in this miserable, violent environment?’ And then we were off on this long, protracted discussion about the misery of the world, the pointless suffering, and he wondering if the world is ruled by chance when he is certain that is quite impossible.” He chuckled. “He said that life is stranger than fiction, that in fiction you can almost always foresee the outcome, but in real life, human reason rarely surfaces.”
“Uncle, this Mr. Brown, the apothecary... you must know him. Is he capable of committing these murders?”
“All of us are capable of despicable acts.”
“No, not all. Not you.”
“You believe I am innocent.”
“Of course, I do.”
“That is not what Sherlock told me.”
I felt the blood rush to my head, which started pounding. For a moment, I was afraid I would be sick right there because I felt nauseous and frightened. “Sherlock told you... he told you that I...” I stammered and stumbled. I could not find the words.
“He said you confided your doubts to him.”
I would thrash him. I would beat Sherlock’s face bloody!
“He explained to me,” Uncle said, “that you had found my scribbles in various books. That you pondered my long absences. It was a comfort.”
“What?”
“I did not know why you refused to speak to me for days on end. At least now I know why. And I understand.”
“Uncle, I-”
“Poppy, I have been considering the dilemma of euthanasia for a very long time. The meaningless suffering some have to endure. The lack of dignity so many experience when they are terminally ill. I have had many conversations wi
th like-minded people and one urged me to explore the teachings of the Buddha. I am not a religious person, as you know.”
He stopped and looked up at the pulpit. “An odd place for us to be meeting, isn’t it?” he asked solemnly. “An atheist and an agnostic. Unless you have changed your mind on the matter of God’s existence.”
I looked down. I truly was unsure of my beliefs.
“There is much to be learned from the Buddha, Poppy. From the Four Truths. Especially the Truth of Suffering. That life is suffering. Sherlock asked, ‘What is the meaning of that?’ as well. It is difficult to calculate, to measure humanity or its components. The great problem with...”
His voice drifted. “But Sherlock decided, in his infinite youthful wisdom, that even this must serve some purpose, must tend toward some end.”
He sighed. Then he said, “I asked you to read the article that was published in The Lancet a few years ago. The one by William Dale. You remember it?”
I nodded. I’d read it long ago, long before I entered nursing school or medical school. I didn’t want to reproach him. I loved Uncle more than ever. So I answered, “Yes, I remember it. He wrote about telling a patient of his fate and using medications like opium to relieve the pain, but that is not the same as euthanasia, Uncle.”
“No, but opium, and other drugs, certainly are a great boon to allowing a person to depart this world less filled with terror.” He picked up one of the books that he had placed on the pew. “I want you to read this, too. You remember our discussion about Samuel Williams?”
“Yes. It was a heated discussion.”
“Yes, it was, as they so often are with you,” he laughed. “Well, his essay was published in this book called Essays of the Birmingham Speculative Club. They are the collected works of members of a philosophical society. Williams’ essay was very favourably reviewed in The Saturday Review, as I recall.” He tapped on the book. “He proposed that in all cases of hopeless and painful illness, it is the duty of the physician, if it is desired by the patient, to use chloroform to deliberately hasten death. The remedy must be applied only at the express wish of the dying person, of course.”