Murder As A Fine Art Part 19

She was certain of something else. They would come sooner.

And be worse.

She slumped against a back corner of the bakeshop.

"Margaret, are you sick?" one of the other workers asked.

"I need to leave on an errand."

"But you never leave. The fog will soon be here. Aren't you afraid to go out?"

"This can't wait."

Margaret hurriedly put on her thin coat and emerged from the warm building onto the grim, cold street. Its usual bustle was absent.

"How do I get to Scotland Yard?" she asked the constable on the corner. Again, she turned her head so that the scar on the left side of her face didn't show.

"The Yard's a distance, ma'am."

"I need to talk to whoever's in charge of investigating Sat.u.r.day night's murders."

"That would be Inspector Ryan. What do you know about those murders?"

"Not them. The others."

"The others, ma'am?"

"The ones that happened forty-three years ago."

"The recent ones are what concern us."

"But I know the truth about the ones that happened back then, and Lord help me, I'm afraid I know who killed those people on Sat.u.r.day night."

YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE," De Quincey insisted as the police wagon transported the four of them up Farringdon Road. Having returned to the north side of the Thames, they were only a mile east of the Russell Square neighborhood where the killer had arranged lodgings for De Quincey and his daughter. But the contrast in the areas was extreme. Farringdon Road was dismal, on the verge of poverty. Normally it would have been crowded with dustmen, street sweepers, and costermongers desperate to earn a living by selling fruit, vegetables, and fish from their carts, but with the fog spreading, everyone was hurrying home before an early dark threatened to bring new violence. The nervousness on the faces the wagon pa.s.sed was obvious.

"I ask you not to do this," De Quincey protested.

The wagon wheels clattered. High, stone walls loomed as the vehicle turned left onto Mount Pleasant Street. The gray of the approaching fog made the stone wall even more somber.

"Coldbath Fields Prison," De Quincey said. "No."

"I don't have a choice," Ryan told him. "I take Lord Palmerston more seriously than I do the prime minister. If I don't arrest you, I'll be dismissed from the force, and right now, the city needs every detective and constable it can muster to stop the killer from slaughtering more people."

They reached an ugly, arched, barred entrance flanked by stern-looking guards. A group of men in civilian coats stood impatiently nearby. When the wagon stopped, the men rushed forward, ready with pencils and notepads.

"Is he the Opium-Eater?" one of them shouted.

"Why did you kill all those people?" another demanded.

"Newspaper reporters?" Emily exclaimed. "How did they know we were coming?"

Becker jumped down and spread his arms. "Stay back!"

"Did the opium make you do it?" a third reporter shouted.

The guards near the gate hurried to help Becker.

"Keep away!"

"Lord Palmerston must have spread the word," Ryan told De Quincey in disgust. "He thinks that by arresting you, people won't be afraid while we continue hunting for the killer."

"But it's good for people to be afraid," De Quincey said. "If they're suspicious, it might save their lives."

"The only thing Palmerston cares about is his political reputation. If you don't walk in there on your own..."

"No need to resort to the alternative."

De Quincey stepped down from the wagon, s.h.i.+elding himself behind Becker.

"Did you kill the Marr family and the Williamsons forty-three years ago?" a reporter shouted.

Ryan looked at Emily and then at the commotion. "I hoped you could wait here while we went inside. But now..."

"Even if the reporters were absent, I wouldn't have agreed to remain outside."

Emily stepped down before Ryan could help, amazing him with her agility. No woman in a hooped dress could have ridden in the wagon, let alone climbed down easily, so difficult was it to keep a hooped dress from popping up and revealing undergarments.

"After you bashed in their heads, why did you slit their throats?" a reporter yelled.

"Why did you slaughter the baby?"

As Becker struggled to make a path through the reporters, more guards ran from the barred entrance.

"Don't force us to get nasty!" Becker told the reporters. "Clear the way!"

Doing his best to s.h.i.+eld De Quincey and Emily, Ryan guided them past the guards and through the entrance.

Instantly the air became darker and colder.

COLDBATH FIELDS PRISON derived its name from a field in which a spring had once provided the opportunity for bathing on the outskirts of London. But then the metropolis had spread to the north and overtaken the field. The wet ground upon which the prison had been built made the walls feel permanently, achingly damp.

As soon as Becker joined Ryan, De Quincey, and Emily, the barred entrance clanged shut. They stood in a courtyard, the cobblestones of which were dirty and worn. A puzzling rumble vibrated from the center of the complex. On the left was a bleak structure with the sign GOVERNOR'S QUARTERS. On the right, an equally bleak structure had the sign GATEKEEPER'S QUARTERS.

From the former, an overweight man in a tight suit emerged, wiping his mouth with a food-stained cloth napkin. His cheeks were florid.

"Inspector Ryan," he said in hurried greeting, "Lord Palmerston sent word that you'd be arriving, but I had no idea when. I was just catching a bite. Sorry to keep you waiting. This is the prisoner, I take it."

"His name is Thomas De Quincey."

Prison administrators were known as governors. This one was not only taller than De Quincey but three times his girth, making De Quincey seem even smaller. The governor spoke as if De Quincey weren't present. "The Opium-Eater. Well, when he sees what I have in store for him, he'll wish he'd kept his mallet and his razor in his pocket."

"Perhaps there's been a misunderstanding," Ryan said. "Mr. De Quincey is here for protective custody."

"Mister? We don't call prisoners 'mister.' The note Lord Palmerston sent implied that this man is a princ.i.p.al suspect."

"The newspaper reporters are supposed to think so, yes, but in reality Mr. De Quincey is a consultant whose safety we want to guarantee."

"This is very irregular." The governor pivoted toward Emily. "And the presence of this young lady makes the situation even more so. Miss, I'm afraid you'll need to be escorted outside. This is no place for-"

Becker interrupted. "May I present Miss Emily De Quincey, our consultant's daughter?"

"You may, but she still needs to be escorted outside."

"Not with those reporters making trouble out there," Becker said.

"And who might you be?"

"Constable Becker."

"Why aren't you in uniform?"

Before Becker could reply, Emily extended her hand, saying, "Governor, I'm delighted to meet you."

"Really?" Suspicious, the governor nonetheless appeared captivated by Emily's bright, brown hair and lively blue eyes as he took the hand she offered.

"You'd do me a great service if you'd explain your responsibilities," Emily continued. "They must be immense. What are your theories about prison reform? I imagine they're extremely interesting."

"Prison reform? Theories?"

"I've read Jeremy Bentham. The greatest good for the greatest number and so forth, but I'm sure that your own theories must be equally enlightening."

"Jeremy Bentham?"

The group stood on a pathway that led to stark buildings from which the low rumble continued to vibrate. As fog gathered overhead, particles of soot drifted down.

"Jeremy Bentham?" the governor repeated, baffled. He wiped the falling soot from his sleeve. "Perhaps we should step inside."

They entered a clammy structure from which corridors radiated like spokes in a wheel. There were five corridors, for each of which a barred, metal door provided a barrier to the rows of cells. The design allowed an observer to stand in the hub and see any activity in any of the corridors merely by turning to the right or left. Although aboveground, the place felt like a cellar.

In addition to the persistent rumbling vibration, there was now a low clank-clank sound from the cells along the five corridors.

A sharp-nosed guard stepped from a room on the right in which truncheons and manacles hung from pegs. Rare among prison guards, he had a mustache, perhaps a sign that he felt ent.i.tled to his own rules.

"Which one's the lodger? I met Ryan before. It's obviously not the lady. So it's either of these two gents, but I'm guessing it's you," he said to Becker.

"Actually I'm a constable."

"But not in uniform?"

"A detective in training."

"Cushy. So it's the little man here."

"The Opium-Eater," the governor said.

"I love locking up the famous. Brings 'em down to our level. I'll take your suspenders and neckerchief for starters, gent. Wouldn't want you to hang yourself. Wouldn't want you bringing in knives or other unfriendly objects either."

"The only knife I use is for cutting book pages," De Quincey said as the jailer felt along his clothes.

"And here it is," the jailer said, removing the folded knife from De Quincey's coat. "Ridiculous little thing. Here, what's this?"

"My medicine." De Quincey removed his flask from his coat, finished the last few swallows, and gave it to Emily.

"Medicine." The jailer chuckled. "That's a good one."

"Please refill it, Emily."

"But don't be in a hurry to bring it back," the jailer advised. "He won't be drinking it here."

The clank-clank sounds continued from the radiating corridors of cells.

"Jeremy Bentham," Emily said to the governor.

"Yes, you mentioned Mr. Bentham." The governor wrinkled his brow in concentration. "I can't seem to..."

"The greatest good for the greatest number. Prisoners who are well nourished, made healthy, and taught a trade can become a.s.sets to society when they're released."

"We don't see many a.s.sets here," the jailer said before the governor could respond.

"The theory is that correction is more productive than punishment," Emily told them.

"As for that," the jailer replied, again speaking for the governor, "punishment makes them correct their ways, I guarantee it."

"There are c.o.c.kroaches on the floor."

"Indeed. If they weren't already in residence, we would need to import them to make things even more disagreeable for the prisoners."

"I saw a rat scurry down a hallway."

"If you stay here long enough, you'll see many more," the governor interrupted, trying to regain control of the conversation, "which isn't likely to happen because it's time for you to be escorted to-"

"Through the bars to the corridor straight ahead, I saw a man with a hood," Emily said. "In fact, several men with hoods. Guards were pulling them on a rope."

"Your Jeremy Bentham might call it guiding them rather than pulling them," the governor said, appearing pleased for attempting a joke. "We practice the separate system here."

"Good. You promised to explain your theories. I'm eager to hear them."

"The purpose of a prison is to isolate the offender and force him to meditate on his transgressions."