Sir William scowled. “I should hope she will be safe.”
The other officer, tall and young with the scruffy beginning of a beard, reached into the pocket of his greatcoat. “Time to go, Miss.” He pulled out a pair of shackles.
Elly burst into tears.
“A word, gentlemen,” Sir William pulled the constables aside and pressed gold coins into their palms. The shackles disappeared from view.
“Follow me, Miss.” The elder constable led the way.
As the butler helped her with her coat and hat, Elly turned back for a final look at her friends. Ned stood at the foot of the stairs, white knuckles clutching the banister. Sir William stood like a statue, his square jaw tight, his hands pushed in his trouser pockets.
Sam’s tired eyes still devoured the document.
“Sorry, sir.” The younger constable reached out a hand. “We need to deliver that arrest warrant with the prisoner.”
Sam made a comical salute as he handed over the paper. “Yes, sir!” Smiling sadly, he winked at Elly. “See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”
Wishing she could return his smile, Elly bit her lip and followed the elder constable outside. The younger constable stood close behind her, blocking a barrage of newspapermen. Elly was barely aware of a gently blowing rain, and curious neighbours peering out of doorways and windows. The elder constable unlocked the barred door at the back of the police wagon. The younger man helped her up. “Lots o’ busy-bodies ’round ’ere. On some streets this ’ere Black Maria’s regular as the milk wagon. I’m guessin’ this neighbour’ood ain’t seen a police wagon, ever.”
Elly landed on a hardwood seat and hid her face in her hands. The door clanged shut. The wagon lurched as the constables took their places in the front. Elly heard the flick of reins against the horse’s flank. The wagon lurched forward, jerking her against the wooden wall. Feeling totally helpless, she bounced on the hard seat, worn smooth by a multitude of frightened passengers. She told herself this was better than her abduction. At least she could see through the bars. She wasn’t bound and drugged. The soft clink of metal made her look into a back corner of the wagon. She caught her breath. A woman sat huddled, a shawl pulled over her head and face, shackles on her wrists. Who was she? Was she a real murderer?
The ride was relatively smooth and Elly lost track of time. When the wagon slowed and bounced to a heavy stop, she looked out window bars and nearly fainted. They were in a castle courtyard. The younger constable opened the door and Elly climbed down. She looked around and her legs gave way. The constable was ready and propped her up.
“Felt the same way, first time I saw this place, and I were goin’ ’ome that same night. Different fer you.”
In the dim, drizzly light, tall grey-walled turrets surrounded her on all sides. She was deep in the wicked castle of every child’s nightmare. Only a dragon could survive within these walls.
The constables took both women prisoners through heavy wood and iron doors, to a duty desk. A small potbellied stove warmed only the desk area. The rest of the room was so cold Elly could see her breath.
When Elly’s paperwork was done, the second woman was brought forward. She raised both shackled wrists to push the torn shawl away from her face. Elly gasped. One side of the woman’s face was swollen and horribly discoloured. Her eye was almost closed. The other side of her face was dirty but uninjured. Elly was surprised to see she was young and pretty.
The duty officer looked her over. “Didn’t expect you again Mrs Appleby. Last time y’ said y’ was goin’ to leave the old man.”
“Tried, di’n’ I?” The woman shook her head. “Came after me wiv ’is ’orse whip. Dragged me back. Gave me a good wha’ for.” She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “’E won’t be knockin’ no one else about, not never again.”
The duty officer looked at Elly. “Leave your ’at and coat, Miss. Can’t take ’em to the cell. We’ll keep ’em safe, ’til you’re sent t’ the Old Bailey.”
“The Old Bailey, sir?” Elly trembled as she removed her outer garments. Even though she had purposely worn old ones, she felt overdressed next to Mrs Appleby’s ragged frock and shawl.
A callous female voice said, “When yer sent fer trial.” A stern, muscular woman appeared from the shadows. Her institutional uniform was plain grey wool. She pulled a rough woven shawl tight against the cold.
Shivering, Elly handed the officer her hat and coat. He took them to a wall lined with narrow drawers, and put them into a drawer marked ‘78’. “Two for ya, matron, 42 and 78.”
“Only two, today?” The matron smirked, showing a few yellowed teeth. “Ain’t I the lucky one.” She pushed a greasy strand of dark grey hair behind her ear, away from her hard featured face. “Back fer a visit, are y’ Appleby?”
Forcing a laugh, Mrs Appleby pulled angrily on her shackle chain. “Like I said last time, matron, ‘this is the only time in m’ life I got a room all t’ m’self.’” Her chest heaved as she gingerly touched her battered face. She looked toward the locked door. “I won’t be gettin’ out this time. Just ’ope they ’ang me quick.”
Elly shivered.
The matron posed with her legs apart, large muscular hands on her hips. “Y’ might be acquitted. Depends on yer judge. Woman was acquitted couple o’ months back, remember lads?”
The elder constable nodded. “’Usband beat ’er, like you. Y’ got witnesses?”
Mrs Appleby rolled her eyes. “Plenty.”
The matron nodded. “Could be then.” She turned her gaze to Elly. While she had appeared almost kind talking to Mrs Appleby, her face hardened into rage. “No shackles? What’s the matter wiv you blokes? Think she’s special?”
The constables looked guiltily at each other. The younger one took the shackles from his belt and walked toward Elly.
“Dan bother now. She ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The matron took a slow walk around Elly, looking the girl up and down. “Funny, she dan look special to me.” Elly was taller, but the matron was twice as broad and appeared to be very strong. “I know your kind very well, m’ lady. We ’ave all kinds in ’ere … finer ’n you by a long shot.”
Elly wanted to explain that she was not titled, but the matron’s threatening glare made her lower her eyes. She whispered a simple, “Yes ma’am.”
“We know ’er kind, dan we lads?” The matron looked to the others. “Pretendin’ fancy airs when she ain’t no better than a common tart.”
Elly rushed to defend herself. “I’m not. I’ve only been in London a few—”
The others burst out laughing.
“Talk when yer spoken to.” The matron wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I read about you in Two-Penny Trash. Ran away from money, you did. Became an actress. What ’appened? Yer intended brought y’ the wrong colored roses? Is that why y’ pushed ’im out the window?”
Elly’s cheeks burned. Afraid to speak she looked down, muttering, “Rich men can be just as cruel as poor men.”
The matron glared. “All rich people’s cruel. Men and women.” Shaking her keys, she took heavy steps toward a large door at the back of the room. Mrs Appleby followed silently. The men warmed themselves at the stove.
Elly sputtered, “That’s not true. Just because a person has money …” She found she was talking to herself. In a panic, she ran after the other women. The only sound was the matron’s heavy steps and the jingle of iron keys hanging around her waist. Elly followed through dimly lit, silent corridors, and up a spiral staircase.
The matron stopped in front of a door with the number 42. She searched her key ring, found the appropriate key, and pulled the door open. The stench of disinfectant flooded the corridor. She unlocked the woman’s shackles and hung them on her belt.
“In y’ go, Appleby.”
Mrs Appleby rubbed her sore wrists, walked inside, and sat wearily on the cot.
The matron leaned on the open door. “Might not be as bad as y’ think. Y’ might get a good judge
.” Mrs Appleby made no reply as the matron quietly closed the door, locking it behind her.
Elly followed the matron past row after row of heavy bolted doors. Were so many women in prison? The freezing air smelled foul and she was quickly lost in the clammy maze. The matron stopped, opened a cell hatch, and yelled inside, “You eating again, Conner? If not, the doctor’s goin’ to make another visit, with ’is tubes.”
A strained female voice called back, “I’m sick matron, for the love of God—”
The matron slammed the hutch shut. There was silence. In the dim light, the matron appeared to be smiling. She walked two doors down and unlocked door 78. “Your bood-ware, m’ lady.”
Elly held her breath and obediently walked inside.
“Y’ frightened, m’ lady?”
Elly swallowed. “Yes, I am.”
“Good. I’m always ’appy when I can make yer kind frightened. Now y’ know what it feels like.”
“Why do you want to frighten me?” Elly’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’ve done nothing to you.”
“No, not t’ me personally, but I’m sure y’ ’ave t’ others like me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Matron mimicked in a little girl voice, “‘I don’t understand.’” She grabbed Elly’s arms, and thrust her face so close Elly smelled her bad teeth. “You never blamed a servant girl fer somethin’ that were yer fault?”
“No, never.”
“Or said she stole somethin’ she didn’t?”
“Never. I swear it.”
The matron’s vice-like fingers dug into Elly’s flesh. “I suppose y’ never slapped a poor girl fer making a simple mistake, droppin’ yer ’airbrush, or fallin’ asleep, waitin’ up all hours fer you to come ’ome from a party?”
“I’ve never struck anyone in my entire life. Please let me go.” She thought her arm would break. Tears from pain rolled down her cheeks.
“Hurts, don’t it.” She threw Elly onto the cot. “It don’t hurt as much as the master pushin’ ’imself inside y’, and laughing when y’ cry and beg ’im t’ stop.”
Bending threateningly over Elly, the matron spoke through clenched teeth. “I was thirteen when m-mother put me into service, fifteen when the master decided I was ’is private property, and seventeen when m’ baby was taken away so ’is bitch of a wife could ’ave a kid. Cold fish couldn’t ’ave one of ’er own. My kid were born, and two days later I was thrown out o’ the house. Dismissed without a reference … fer bein’ loose. I never seen my kid, not since the minute ’e was born.”
She stood and looked away. “’E’s grown now. If ’e’s still alive.” She lunged back at Elly. “I went into a workhouse. Near starved until I found a job ’ere, cleanin’ chamber pots. Only job I could get wivout a reference. That were twenty year ago. I never let another man touch me. Worked m’ way up, worked ’ard, all the way to matron.” She stood back, proudly crossing her arms. “In ’ere … m’ lady … I’m … mistress. I seldom get one o’ yer kind, but when I do …” She glared at Elly, then turned to go.
“When you do …?” Elly sat up, alarmed.
The matron swung back, “I make ’em pay.” Elly froze as the matron studied her. “Yer mighty skinny. Might need some extra nourishment … from a tube down yer throat.”
“No, I won’t.” Frantic, Elly stood wringing her hands. “I have a very good appetite. You’ll see. I can never keep on weight, but I eat a lot. I promise.”
“That’ll be for the doctor to decide.” The matron laughed at Elly’s distress.
“I’m not titled, you know. I’m a commoner, like you.”
“Like me? I dan think so.”
“I’m sorry you were hurt, but it wasn’t my doing.”
The matron swung around, knocking Elly back. Her head struck the stone wall and she cried out in pain. The matron screamed into her face, “Maybe you didn’ hurt me, but you’ll pay for those what did.” She marched out and slammed the door.
Elly heard the bolt turn and jumped with fright. She stood perfectly still. The room was dark. An appalling stench stung her eyes. Her arms throbbed where the matron’s fingers had bruised her. A small lump swelled on the side of her head. The only sound was a steady fall of dull rain. Grey light from a barred window slowly illuminated a lumpy straw mattress on a narrow cot. On top, lay a straw pillow in a filthy cover. A thin frayed blanket was rolled at the foot of the cot. In the corner, a rough wooden stand held a washbasin and a used bar of lye soap. Underneath, a stained chamber pot held a puddle of strong disinfectant. The walls looked rough and shiny. Reaching tentative fingers, Elly felt the stone. It was cold and damp. Afraid to touch anything else, she closed her eyes, wishing it all away. When she opened her eyes, she could see clearly. She started to cry.
****
Elly sat up in alarm. It was dark. The hatch in her cell door was open and a sliver of light revealed a tray of food wobbling precariously. A female voice called, “Take it, y’ stupid cow. We h’ain’t got all day.”
Elly leaped off her cot, taking the tray a moment before the hutch slammed shut. Again in the dark, trembling with shock and cold, she sat with the tray on her lap. The sky was an ominous grey and she had no idea of the time. She squinted at her meal: a rough-cut slice of black bread, and a mug of warm liquid. She braved a taste: weak, sweet tea. Warily tasting the dry bread, she laughed sadly. This breakfast was even worse than Mrs Potter’s boardinghouse. She had only lived there for only a few days. Rory lived there for more than a year.
She pictured Rory’s golden hair. His pale blue eyes smiled in her imagination. She sighed, thinking how much he loved her. He was lucky she didn’t love him. She ruined everyone who cared for her. At least she had protected Robert Dennison. She had done one thing right.
Her skirt was over her knee and she was gartering a stocking when the heavy cell door creaked open. The matron shouted, “Ya got a visitor … m’ lady.” Humiliated, Elly dropped her skirt. The loose stocking fell to her ankle. Behind the lumbering woman, Sam Smelling politely averted his eyes. The matron saw Elly’s untouched breakfast tray. “Not good enough for you, m’ lady?” Before Elly could answer, she continued, “Two days of not eatin’ and we put a tube down ya.” The matron stepped outside. She jerked her head sideways at Sam. “Go on. You’ve got a ’alf-hour, and no funny business.” He walked inside. She slammed the door and turned the bolt.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He turned his back. “Fix your stocking.”
Quickly gartering the stocking, she smoothed her wrinkled skirt and straightened her collar. “All done.” She turned around, remembered her hair, and tried to smooth it. “There’s no mirror. I must look a fright.”
He teased. “This reminds me of the old you, the starving apprentice actress with your hair tied in a rag, lugging costumes and falling asleep on the stairs.”
She smiled at the memory. “You were so sweet to me. You’re still being sweet to me. Thank you for coming back to London.”
“Wouldn’t have missed this. What an adventure.” He grabbed her in a playful hug. “Your matron’s a charmer.”
“She hated me on sight.” Elly gestured awkwardly to the cot and they sat down. “She told me a terrible story, how she was mistreated as a servant girl. Now she takes it out on her prisoners.”
Sam tensed as if ready for battle “What’s she done to you?”
Elly hesitated, “Nothing … yet.”
“She seems eager to shove a tube down your throat.”
“She threatened that last night. She said she wanted to frighten me.” Her face contorted.
“She’s done a good job.” He glanced at her half-eaten lump of bread. “You’d better eat it, whatever it is.”
“I will, don’t worry.”
He looked around and wrinkled his nose. “Of course, this isn’t the sort of place that encourages a hearty appetite.”
“It’s horrible.”
Sam took a small notebook from his jacket pocket and pac
ed the tiny space, measuring the length and breadth. “I’m making notes for an article.” Spying the chamber pot, he curled his lip into a comical grimace. “All the comforts of home.”
His clowning made her laugh. “Oh, Sam. Thank you, thank you. What would I do without you?”
Exactly a half-hour after Sam arrived, the cell door opened. The matron stood glaring. “Not even ’oldin’ ’ands? Done yer funny business before I come, ’ave ya?”
Sam clenched his fists. “Sorry to disappoint you, matron. This young lady doesn’t engage in ‘funny business’.”
“She’ll be the first, then … ’er kind does what they like.”
Sam was seething. “What exactly is ‘her kind’?”
“Sam, please.” Elly’s eyes begged that he not make the situation worse.
Sam winked at her, and left the cell. The matron slammed the door.
For the next hour, Elly sat curled against the damp, nearly hypnotised as a trickle of rain rolled down her window into a puddle on the floor. The sun never brightened. Except for a gnawing pain in her stomach, she had no idea time was passing. The door hutch opened. She sat up, waiting.
A voice from outside shouted, “Give me yer tray, y’ stupid cow, unless y’ don’t want yer stirabout.”
“Oh, sorry.” Elly passed her empty breakfast tray through the hutch. A similar tray was pushed back. She took it and the hutch slammed shut. Looking down, her stomach lurched. A tin cup of brown water sat next to a tin bowl of oatmeal gruel. A chipped wooden spoon sat to the side. Sitting back on the cot, she sampled the bitter porridge and gagged. Feeling like she was eating sawdust, she forced herself to swallow. This was barely worse than the bread and lard at Mrs Potter’s. If she could eat that, she could eat this. Taking a deep breath, she swallowed it in large gulps, rinsing it down with the rusty water. Proud of her accomplishment, she set the tray on the floor, curled up on the cot and fell asleep.
Elly woke as the cell door opened again. Frantic that the matron should know she was eating, she held up her empty tray.
The matron took the tray. “I see the young lady ate ’er dinner. ’At’s very good.” She stepped aside as Edward Hereford, brushed top hat in hand, leaned down to enter the low door to Elly’s cell.
Beauty's Doom: The final instalment of the romantic Victorian mystery (His Majesty's Theatre Book 4) Page 10