The Prince of Eden (19 page)

Edward walked to one of the small windows and looked out. The two Peelers were still in place. What now? As confusion rose within him, he turned back to the night warden. "Then I must ask a favor of you," he began, returning to the desk.

Speaking of death seemed to have softened the old man. "If I can oblige, I'd be happy to, sir."

Edward looked closely down into his face. "I request the right to see Mrs. Charlotte Longford."

The name had no sooner left his lips than the old man was shaking his head again. "Quite impossible, sir."

"Why?"

"It ain't visitin' hours."

Angrily Edward leaned across the desk. "I know that," he said.

"No need to lose your temper, sir. Rules is rules."

"And I'm asking you to bend them," Edward went on.

"And blot me record? Not on your life, sir. I've put in honorable time here and I'm not going to—'*

Slowly Edward reached for the packet of money in his pocket.

The night warden pushed back in his chair as though offended by the sight. "Don't try them bribes on me, sir," he warned. "I'll lock you up this very night, I will—'*

Without speaking, yet holding the man fast with his eyes, Edward placed a ten-pound note on the desk near the ignored glass of wine.

"No sir," the man said sternly. "I won't be tempted, and I don't intend to sit here and—"

Twenty pounds.

"What you're doing is a crime itself, sir. I hope you realize that. All I got to do is signal them Peelers out there and—"

Thirty pounds.

"The lady won't suit you now, sir. She's quite—"

Forty pounds.

A look akin to pain crossed the old face. He pushed further back in his chair. "Leave me be, sir, and leave her be as well—"

Fifty pounds. Methodically Edward pulled the notes off until they formed an unruly heap in the center of the desk.

"What's she to you?" the old man demanded. "She's an adultress, gettin' her just desserts. A gentleman like you—"

Sixty pounds.

"Oh Gawd, sir, have a heart. Spare yourself a double shock and leave my conscience be—"

Edward's hands froze over the packet of money. A double shock? "What do you mean?" he demanded.

The man left his chair as though grateful for the opportunity to move away from temptation. "I just mean she's—done in, sir—"

"How so?"

As the pudgy little hands played with the tight collar of his jacket, a flush spread across his face. "Sometime this morning, it was," the warden said, speaking rapidly now. "My turnkeys swears they saw nothing—"

Seventy pounds.

The man groaned audibly. On diminished breath he went on. "A bunch of drunken dockmen it was who done it to her—"

Eighty pounds. Edward's hands were trembling. "Take me to her," he whispered fiercely, his eyes never leaving the man's face.

"For what purpose?" the warden shouted, perspiration covering his face, his eyes moving constantly over the pile of money on the table.

Ninety pounds.

"Sir, I beg you—"

One hundred pounds.

For a moment the tableau held, Edward still standing over the pile of notes, the warden looking down on them as though they were a cause of solemn worship. Finally he returned to the desk and commenced restacking the notes carefully, one on top of the other, his eyes never meeting Edward's face. When the notes had been reassembled, he stuffed them carefully into the pocket of his jacket. "A humanitarian gesture," he grinned, "that's what we'll call it. The lady could do with a bit of comforting."

As he reached beneath the desk and withdrew an enormous ring of keys, Edward closed his eyes in silent thanks. He had no plans now beyond seeing Charlotte. But something would happen. The money intended for Jawster had scarcely been touched. Enough remained for him to buy every turnkey and warden in Newgate if necessary.

Then the old warden was signaling to him. "Come quickly,'* he urged. '^I can't leave the office unattended for long. Hurry!"

They left the office by the small door at the right and turned right again into a darkened passageway. About twenty yards down the corridor they came to a door composed of thick bars, through which Edward could discern a number of prisoners, all asleep on straw pallets. Beyond the door they encountered another corridor, railed off at considerable distance and formed into a kind of iron cage about five feet in height, roofed at the top. Edward had to stoop for easy passage. He looked about at the unfamiliar surroundings. He'd never been in this part of the prison before, had no idea that it even existed. Still ahead of him was the warden, the passageway leading down into a dank cellar, the stench overpowering as apparently they drew nearer to the cesspool beneath the prison.

Frantically Edward tried to remember every turn, the labyrinth growing ever more complex. At one point he called out, his voice echoing strangely in the underground caverns, "I thought she'd been assigned to the Common Cell?"

Without altering his pace, the warden replied, "Until this morning she was—"

"Why the change?"

But either the man didn't hear or refused to answer.

Then at last up ahead Edward noticed guards, the first they'd encountered since leaving the main corridor. Four of them, there were, with face masks drawn tightly over their noses, in obvious protection against the noxious fumes.

As he hurried after the warden, his agitation increased. What was she doing here? Why had she been transferred from the Common Cell, which seemed like paradise compared to these dark damp earth walls? On either side now he noticed dark, low, wooden doors, windowless.

Finally he stopped. Edward saw him hold the torch close to a door as though confirming a number. For the first time, he glanced back at Edward. "It was your idea, Mr. Eden. Remember that," he said, almost apologetically.

"Why was she moved?" Edward demanded again, as the man was fumbling with the final key. "This was not part of the sentence. The Magistrate stated clearly that—"

The low door swung open.

Still maintaining a curious silence, the warden lowered his head and stepped through the door, taking the torch with him. "We have to keep them segregated, the mad ones, you know," he said, lifting the illumination higher. He turned back with a note of comfort in his voice. "If you want my opinion, she'll come out of it right enough. That hot poker tomorrow morning will bring her to her senses and she'll be right as—"

All the while the man was talking, Edward searched the small cell. Then as the warden stepped toward the center of the cell, he saw something on the far wall, a heaped something, inert, yet strangely pinned. His breath caught. Frantically he reached for the torch, ready to wrest it from the man's hand if necessary.

She was seated on the mud floor, her head erect, yet hanging at a rigid awkward angle. He thrust the torch closer, then wished profoundly that he hadn't. Around her neck was a chain tightly drawn, the ends attached to an iron ring embedded in the wall. Her arms were outstretched and pinned in similar fashion, heavy circles of iron holding each wrist rigidly to the wall. Her legs were spread in a peculiar relaxed state, the black prison dress torn completely from her shoulders, revealing bare breasts, her body falling forward, yet held upright against its own weight.

Still the light revealed more, her eyes profoundly open, but unseeing. From the right temple, there was a streak of dried blood which, passing over the cheek, lost itself under her blood-matted hair.

Slowly Edward knelt, his senses recording everything. Beneath his knee he felt the soft earth give. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw something scurrying across her lap; looking quickly down he saw a rat scale her torn dress and disappear behind her. In a reflexive movement, he jerked her body forward, forgetting for the moment the iron rings about her neck and wrists.

"Charlotte, look at me," he pleaded. Suddenly he was aware of

something else. She was cold. He leaned close to her mouth. No breath. She was dead.

Behind him he heard the warden speaking. "Most regrettable it is, sir, but I did warn you. In my opinion, we should do away with the Common Cell. As you well know, sir, at times we get so many crowded together, a hundred turnkeys can't keep guard. The dockmen ganged up on her, they did. Went over her good."

Without warning, caught between the talking man behind him and the dead face before him, Edward's outrage vaulted. With the speed of a madman he was on his feet with only one intent, to silence the talking mouth that was filling the already obscene air with greater obscenity.

As he whirled up and around, he hurled the torch into the far corner and reached eagerly for the man's throat. The way to stop the mouth was to crush the throat that was drawing breath.

The warden had time only to utter a single cry, then Edward was upon him, feeling the soft flabby flesh of his neck give beneath his grip. Effortlessly he wrestled the man to ground, his hands pressing, the only possible release from the horror pinned to the wall, enjoying the feel of the man's body arching beneath him. His thumbs found the Adam's apple. As he channeled the strength from his shoulders down into his thumbs, a curious hissing sound escaped through the purplish lips. The man's eyes were growing protuberant and glassy, the mouth no longer talking.

So engrossed was Edward that he failed to hear the rush of footsteps outside in the dim corridor. He was only vaguely aware of movement behind him at the door. As he turned to see who it was who had come to witness his justice, he caught only a momentary glimpse of the four masked guards.

Then without warning, something of indeterminate weight and substance was brought down across the back of his head. As his face was half raised, the side of his head took the brunt of the assault, a resounding blow which seemed mysteriously to lift him for a moment before dropping him, senseless, back to the mud floor.

Beyond the blow, he heard and felt nothing except the shrill ringing inside his head, a trickle of something wet across and down his forehead. He tried once to turn his head, but couldn't.

The mud felt cool against his cheek. Through his blurred eyes, he saw nothing. Everything turned to liquid and blended. Blessedly, nothing mattered.

At a quarter past eight, after a hectic late afternoon, Daniel sat at the end of one of the long tables in the student dining room, facing his

guests, wondering what excuse he would give if Edward's absence was mentioned, as it was sure to be.

His disappearance had been reported to Daniel by Elizabeth shortly after five. Apparently she'd gone to his room to tell him something about Mr. Wordsworth. Daniel had never understood precisely what she was talking about. As the children were just coming in for the evening meal and his guests were due momentarily, he had tried to calm her as best he could with reassurances that, this time, he knew precisely where Edward was. And he did, or at least he felt certain that he did.

Now he looked up at the three gentlemen seated around the table. In honor of the occasion, the volunteers had covered one end of the student table with a small white cloth, and Matilda had placed a simple arrangement of daisies at the center. These touches had been the only concessions to the importance of the guests. His guests had eaten the same mutton and boiled potatoes that the children had eaten, and they were serving themselves from the plain crockery which was in daily use in the dining room.

Looking around, in the silence of men eating, Daniel felt that perhaps he should have gone to greater pains with the food. But then he changed his mind. This was the way he lived. And in truth his guests seemed to have no objections. That grand old reformer, Robert Owen, was eating heartily enough. Daniel smiled as he saw him sop his plate with a biscuit. It was pleasant to see such plain country manners on so great a reformer.

Accompanying him tonight was a young man from Birmingham named George Jacob Holyoake, a disciple of Owen who was undergoing some sort of training in London in order to carry the great work forward. And there was another gentleman, John Bright, about twenty-five, from Rochdale, another reformer who possessed one of the most articulate voices in speaking out against the Corn Law.

The precise purpose of these distinguished visitors in Daniel's Ragged School was still a mystery. Shortly after they had arrived about five-thirty, he had taken them on a complete inspection of the school. But still Daniel was at a loss to explain their presence.

Now, "Coffee, Mr. Owen?" he asked, seeing the portly man push back from the table and a plate so cleaned it could have gone directly to the cupboard.

The man smiled. "Yes, thank you," he said.

Across the table, John Bright was now saying something. "How long have you had occupancy here, Mr. Spade?'*

"For—several years, Mr. Bright. About ten, maybe slightly more.'*

"It's ideal," Bright said, looking about. "The Elizabethans were certainly aware of the need for scope in a room," he added, his eye climbing up the walls to the high saddle-topped ceiling.

Robert Owen joined the conversation. "Clearly this was a private home at one time, Mr. Spade," he announced.

"Yes," Daniel concurred, "in use by the family as recently as fifteen years ago."

Robert Owen leaned forward and helped himself to more coffee. "And that family would be—"

"The Edens," Daniel said.

"Ah, yes," Owen smiled, taking the filled cup with him as he leaned back in the chair. He hesitated a moment as though carefully sorting through his thoughts. "Would it be too forward of me, Mr. Spade," he began, "to ask how it came into your possession? Please don't answer if you feel I'm—"

But Daniel laughed. "I'm not in possession of the house, Mr. Owen."

Both Bright and Owen looked pointedly at him. "I'm afraid I don't understand," Owen began. "I do see a school here, a very successful one, perhaps one of the most effective it's ever been my pleasure to visit."

As Daniel started to answer, he saw young George at the end of the table turn as though he too were interested in the reply. With the attention of all three men upon him, Daniel felt a wave of self-consciousness. "I'm here," he began, "at the generosity of Mr. Edward Eden."