The Death Chamber (48 page)

Life went on . . . But couldn’t life as you knew it, end when you had been told something so appalling that your whole existence was drained of all colour and all meaning? Walter had gone
along to Calvary’s office by this time and had looked in the old files, giving the secretary the reason that he needed to check back on a particular treatment for an inmate at the end of the
last war.

There was the entry for Nicholas O’Kane.

What had they buried that day? Some kind of dummy corpse?

I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to come to terms with this, thought Walter. My father killed those women – he murdered them for their money and their jewellery. And he
exerted that Svengali spell over Elizabeth Molland – if I’d spent more time with him, he’d have exerted it over me as well.

And in the meantime, life went on, even when you felt as if you were dead inside.

He visited Violet Parsons diligently every day and tried without success to reach the woman’s mind. He could not tell if she was resigned to what lay ahead of her, or if she was working
out some deep and sly plan for cheating the sentence.

Edgar Higneth’s prophecies about the weather were fulfilled. Snow began falling three days before Christmas Day, and on Christmas Eve a telegram was delivered by a boy who had spent an
hour struggling up the hill from Thornbeck. The telegram said that Mr Pierrepoint would do his very best to keep his appointment on 27 December, but roads were already impassable and train points
were frozen and it was not looking very hopeful. When Higneth tried to telephone the Home Office for advice the phone lines were dead.

Clara Caradoc’s Christmas dinner party had been cancelled since hardly any of the guests could reach Thornbeck, but Lewis had sent a message – again by the telegram delivery boy
– to say that if Walter could get to their house he would be most welcome to share their dinner. By that time Walter felt he could not bear the gaol’s confines any longer. He attended
morning service in the prison chapel, then wrapped himself up in thick scarves and mufflers and set out to walk across the fields. A stinging blizzard was blowing and he wondered dispiritedly if he
would reach Sir Lewis’s house, and then he wondered if, having reached it, he would be able to get back to Calvary. Then he wondered if he cared.

By the time he reached the old house he was soaked to the skin and shivering. He downed the large rum and blackcurrant that Lewis mixed for him, and the warm room with the crackling fire in the
big hearth began to blur and seem unreal. He ate two mouthfuls of the excellent dinner Lady Caradoc’s cook served, and then laid his knife and fork carefully down. The room was starting to
spin; he thought he made an effort to fight it off, but it closed relentlessly around him. He tumbled into a blessed unconsciousness where nothing was required of him, and the only things he was
aware of were voices saying he had a fever, and not to worry about anything at all, and everything was being taken care of.

‘Everything’s taken care of,’ said Lewis Caradoc, seated on the window-seat in the guest bedroom of his house, smiling at Walter who was still lying in bed.
‘I’ve told Higneth you’ve picked up the tail-end of that wretched influenza outbreak – a perfectly acceptable statement. And everywhere else life’s returning to normal
– the telephone lines have been restored, and Higneth telephoned earlier to say Pierrepoint can’t get over to Calvary, but the Home Office are sending one of his assistants. It’s
not ideal, but he’s an experienced man and he’ll manage very well. He’s hoping to get to Thornbeck by Thursday – that would mean Violet Parsons’ execution could take
place on – oh, Lord, on New Year’s Day. That’s an irony, isn’t it? The first day of the year and the first day of a new decade. I don’t suppose the Parsons woman will
care, though. I don’t suppose she’ll even notice the date.’

‘What about a doctor?’ said Walter. ‘Because I think I could manage—’

‘Walter, do stop worrying about Calvary,’ said Lewis. ‘You’ve been in bed for nearly four days – your temperature’s been sky-high for most of those days, and
you can’t possible attend a hanging. Higneth will get hold of a locum – there are any number of GPs in the area he can call on.’

McNulty, thought Walter at once. He’ll call on McNulty. But it’s all right, because McNulty won’t have any hold over Higneth, and his wretched experiment will never happen. He
felt a deep relief at this knowledge. And by the time the next condemned man was brought to Calvary, he, Walter, would probably be hundreds of miles away – perhaps in France, helping to fight
the war.

It was later that evening that he suddenly said to Lewis, ‘I’ve been thinking about my father being with Elizabeth. Those months they seemed to have lived together.’

A spasm of pain crossed Lewis’s face. ‘I think about that as well,’ he said, and then, almost eagerly, ‘She was entirely under his influence, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Walter, and thought: but was she? What was really under that doe-eyed helplessness of Elizabeth Molland? She may have lived with my father, but she was
virgo
intacta
. Most people had assumed there was a sexual relationship between those two – Lewis would certainly have assumed it. He tried to remember what had been said about that aspect of
the relationship during Elizabeth’s trial, but could not.

He said, carefully, ‘I wonder where she is now.’

‘She could be anywhere,’ said Lewis.

‘She could, couldn’t she? It depends on the driver of that car – he might have taken her anywhere. He got her into the car pretty quickly and drove off into the night, but I
couldn’t see what direction he took,’ said Walter, watching Lewis closely.

There was no doubt about his reaction. He flinched, and then said, ‘I didn’t know you had actually seen the driver? Did you tell the police you had?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ said Walter, looking at Lewis very directly, ‘all I saw was a figure in a long coat and a deep-brimmed hat. Whoever it was, I couldn’t have identified
him.’

‘Yes, I see. You’re sure of that are you?’

‘Quite sure. I shouldn’t think,’ said Walter, ‘that it will ever be known who drove the car that night.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

As Edgar Higneth went through the snow-lit corridors on New Year’s Eve he found himself thinking that Calvary had never been so extremely quiet before an execution.
Normally the place filled up with such anticipation and angry fear that it was very nearly possible to cut slices of it. But this was not the case today, and it seemed as if the execution of Violet
Parsons would go almost unnoticed.

The snowbound conditions were in some measure to blame for the curious atmosphere. The spiteful blizzard that had raged across Torven on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning had completely
shrouded Thornbeck; the neighbouring villages and market towns were covered in a thick white blanket and Calvary itself seemed to be at the core of this cold whiteness, although they were not quite
cut off from the world any longer.

At least the assistant executioner had reached them, for which Higneth was deeply thankful. The man had arrived at the prison midway through the previous afternoon; Higneth thought him a bit
young, but they did not have much choice in the matter. As Higneth had told the Home Office when finally the call got through to Calvary, they had nearly got to the stage of telling the prisoner
they did not know when they could hang her. This would have been unbearable, especially as Higneth, during his years as governor, had striven to make all executions as humane as he possibly
could.

A doctor had reached them as well, which was another thing to give thanks for. Higneth would have preferred Walter Kane to be in attendance – he would have preferred Walter Kane always to
be in attendance – but Kane was still confined to bed with a bad go of this wretched influenza. Higneth was glad to think that he was at Sir Lewis’s house, being properly looked after.
Kane had rooms in Thornbeck, but he slept at Calvary more often than not. This worried Higneth at times because it was no life for a young man, but at least Walter was being ill in comfort. Lady
Caradoc might be severe and a bit humourless (an odd wife for Sir Lewis, Higneth had often thought her), but she would make sure Walter was properly cared for.

So taking things all in all, Higneth had been glad when Denzil McNulty made his way up the slope and offered his services as attendant doctor at Violet Parsons’ execution. He had heard of
Dr Kane’s illness, he said – a miserable thing, influenza – and so if they needed anyone to take Kane’s place for this execution? Ah, they did. Then, he would be more than
happy to attend. As it happened he knew the prisoner – Higneth had probably heard that, had he? – and it might help her a little to have a friend there with her at the end.

Higneth did not know McNulty very well and thought him a bit of an odd one – all that delving into psychic phenomena, and his involvement with the Caradoc Society – but he had been
glad to have this particular problem solved, and to know that a properly experienced doctor would attend the hanging. When he expressed his concern about the hangman, McNulty said, ‘I
don’t think you need worry. You and I will be present, and we’re both old hands at this.’ He paused, and then said, ‘I believe there’s no need for this fledgling
hangman to be part of the cutting down of the body afterwards.’

‘No?’ said Higneth, looking up in surprise.

‘I believe we can come to a far more beneficial arrangement.’

‘Beneficial? Beneficial to whom?’

‘Why, to both of us,’ said Denzil McNulty. He leaned forward. ‘A little matter of a packet of mustard that found its way into Elizabeth Molland’s cell last September.
I’m sure you wouldn’t want your masters at the Home Office – or anyone else – to hear about that.’

Edgar Higneth had always had a weak spot in his make-up, and this weakness was for young ladies. Not in any distasteful way: the desires of the flesh had never particularly
bothered him. He had never wanted to marry – he had certainly never found any lady with whom he would have wanted to share that kind of intimacy, either mental, physical or emotional. One or
two congenial female friends, perhaps, whom one might invite to accompany one to the occasional formal function. His position as governor required attendance at these things, and it was acceptable
and pleasant to have a lady on one’s arm for the evening.

But he had always had a strong and secret wish for a daughter. A young, pretty little girl whom he could take about and whom he could be proud of. A daughter who would admire him and think him
wonderful, and who, when she was older, would be tolerant and indulgent and affectionate. Occasionally he had amused himself by imagining how she would look, this mythical daughter. Small and fair
and kitten-faced, thought Edgar Higneth, allowing himself the odd moment or two of daydream. Nicely mannered – he would have made sure of that – but fragile – needing to be
protected. He had never expected to meet this mythical figure; he had been perfectly content with his occasional dream.

And then Elizabeth Molland came to Calvary to be hanged, and Elizabeth Molland was the embodiment of Edgar Higneth’s dream.

At first he had not entirely taken in what Sir Lewis Caradoc had said that day – the day he had come to see the prisoner.

‘I can’t let her hang,’ Lewis said, facing Higneth in the governor’s office after his visit to Molland.

‘She’s been found guilty—’

‘Higneth, she’s my daughter.’

A daughter. The old dream had come uppermost in Higneth’s mind at once. He stared at the older man, his mind in turmoil. Caradoc had not said, ‘She’s innocent and I can’t
let her hang.’ He had said, ‘She’s my daughter and I can’t let her hang.’ Did the words matter?

Who had Elizabeth Molland’s mother been? Higneth wondered briefly, but he did not see how he could ask such an impertinent question; he did not see it mattered in this situation.

‘Well, Higneth? Will you help me?’

Edgar Higneth, solid upright citizen, upholder of law and order, and overseer of the health and security of convicted murderers, had struggled with his conscience. But at last, he said,
‘I’m not sure. No, I can’t. It’s too much of a risk.’

‘I understand. And we have never had this conversation – I can trust you for that, can’t I?’

‘Yes, but—’ Sir Lewis was already opening door. ‘No, wait.’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me what it is you want me to do.’

‘Very little. Simply give her this later today.’ Lewis produced a small envelope containing yellow powder.

‘What is it?’

‘Ordinary dry mustard. Perfectly innocuous in a small quantity. But this is not a small quantity – it’s a very large quantity and if it’s stirred into warm water it
should make her sick. She’ll do the rest – she knows what to do – how to produce the signs of a fever and so on.’

He’s worked something out with her, thought Higneth. Am I really going along with this?