The grim entrance of Telsbury Convict Establishment is mercifully
hidden behind a screen of thick-growing pines. Its red walls have
mellowed with age, and but for the high tower in the centre of the
prison a traveller would pass it unnoticed. Hiding all the heartache
that has made the word “Dartmoor” synonymous with sorrow, Telsbury has
missed the fame of its fellow-prison.
Lois had already made two visits to the prison on her employer’s
business. A client of the firm had prosecuted a woman who had been
engaged in systematic fraud, and she had been sent down for five
years. It had been necessary to secure her signature to certain deeds
transferring back to their lawful owner stocks which had been
fraudulently converted.
Stopping her car broadside on to the high black gates, she descended
and pulled a bell. Almost immediately a grating was slipped back and
two watchful eyes surveyed her. Though the gatekeeper recognised her,
it was not until she had shown him the Home Office order which she
carried that he turned the key in the lock and admitted her to a bare
stone room, furnished with a desk, a stool, two chairs, and a table.
The warder read the order again and pressed a bell. He, his two
reliefs, and the governor were the only men who came within those
walls, and his sphere of operations was restricted to the room and the
archway, barred with steel railings, which cut the courtyard off from
the rest of the prison.
“Getting tired of coming here, miss?” he asked with a smile.
“Prisons make me very tired and very sick at heart,” said the girl.
He nodded.
“There are six hundred women inside here who are more tired and more
sick than you will ever be, I hope, miss,” he said conventionally.
“Not that I ever see any of them. I open the gate to the prison van
and never catch a sight of them again, not even when they go out.”
There was a snap of a lock, and a young wardress in neat blue uniform
came in and greeted Lois with a cheery nod. The girl was conducted
through a small steel gate, across a wide parade ground, empty at that
moment, through another door and along a passage into the governor’s
small office.
“Good morning, doctor,” she said. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Desmond,” and
displayed her papers before the grey-haired governor.
“She’ll be in her cell now,” he said. “Come along, Miss Reddle, I’ll
take you there myself.”
At the end of the passage was another door, which led into a large
hall, on either side of which was a steel alleyway, reached by broad
stairs in the centre of the hall. Lois looked up, saw the netting
above her head and shivered. It was placed there, she knew, to prevent
these unhappy women from dashing themselves to death from the top
landings.
“Here we are,” said the governor, and opened the cell door with his
pass-key.
For five minutes she was engaged with the sulky woman, who had a
whining grievance against everybody except herself; and at last, with
a heartfelt sigh of relief, she came out through the door and joined
the governor. As he locked the cell, she said:
“Thank heaven I shan’t come here any more.”
“Giving up being a lawyer?” he asked good-humouredly. “Well, I never
thought it was much of a profession for a girl.”
“You give my intelligence too great credit,” she smiled. “I am a very
commonplace clerk and have no other knowledge of the law than that
stamps must be put on certain documents and in certain places!”
They did not go back the way they had come, but went out through the
hall into the parade ground. So perfect was the organisation that in
the brief space she had been in the cell the yard was filled with grey
figures parading in circles.
“Exercise hour,” said the governor. “I thought you’d like to see
them.”
The girl’s heart was filled with pity and an unreasoning resentment
against the law which had taken these women and made them into so many
meaningless ciphers. With their print dresses and white mob caps,
there was something very ugly, very sordid about them, something which
clutched at the girl’s heart and filled her with a vague fear. There
were women of all ages, old and young, some mere girls, some grown
ancient in sin, and each bore on her face the indefinable stamp of
abnormality. There were fierce faces, cunning faces, weak, pathetic
faces that turned to her as the ghastly circle shuffled on its way;
faded eyes that stared stupidly, dark eyes that gleamed with malignant
envy, careless eyes that did not trouble to investigate her further
than by a casual glance. Shambling, shuffling women, who seemed after
a while to be unreal.
The circle had nearly passed in hideous completeness when Lois saw a
tall figure that seemed to stand out from that ground of horror. Her
back was straight, her chin uplifted, her calm eyes looked straight
ahead. She might have been forty, or fifty. The delicately moulded
features were unlined, but the hair was white. There was something
divinely serene in her carriage.
“What is that woman doing here?” said Lois, before she realised that
she had asked a question which no visitor must put to a prison
official.
Dr. Stannard did not answer her. He was watching the figure as it came
abreast. For a second the woman’s eyes rested gravely upon the girl.
Only for a second--just that period of time that a well-bred woman
would look at the face of another--and then she had passed.
The girl heaved a sigh.
“I’m sorry I asked,” she said, as she walked by the governor’s side
through the grille to his office.
“Other people have asked that,” said the governor, “and haven’t been
satisfied. It is against the prison rules to identify any convict, as
you know. But, curiously enough----” He was looking round for
something, and presently he found it, a stout calf-bound book that had
been opened and laid face downwards on a filing cabinet.
Without a word he handed it to her, and she looked at the title. She
was sufficiently acquainted with law books to recognise it as one of
that variety. It was labelled _Fawley’s Criminal Cases_.
“Mary Pinder,” he said briefly, and she saw that the book was open at
the page which was headed by that name. “It is rather curious, I was
reading up the case just before you came in. I was looking up the
essential details to see whether my memory was at fault. I don’t mind
telling you”--he dropped his voice as though in fear of an
eavesdropper--“that I share your wonder!”
She looked at the title: “Mary Pinder--Murder,” and gasped.
“A murderess?” she asked incredulously.
The doctor nodded.
“But that is impossible!”
“Read the case,” said the other, and she took up the book and read:
Mary Pinder--Murder. Convicted at Hereford Assizes. Sentenced to
death; commuted to penal servitude for life. This is a typical case of
a murder for gain. Pinder lived in lodgings with a young man, who was
reputedly her husband, and who disappeared before the crime occurred.
It is believed that he left her penniless. Her landlady, Mrs. Curtain,
was a wealthy widow, somewhat eccentric, believed to be on the border
line of insanity. She kept large sums of money in the house and a
quantity of antique jewellery. After her husband had left her Pinder
advertised for a temporary situation, and a lady, calling at the house
in answer to the advertisement, found the front door unfastened, and,
after repeated knocking, receiving no answer, walked in. Seeing one of
the room doors open, she looked in and found, to her horror, Mrs.
Curtain lying on the floor, apparently in a fit. She immediately went
in search of a policeman, who, arriving at the house, found the woman
was dead. The drawers of an old secretaire were open and their
contents thrown on the floor, including a piece of jewellery.
Suspicion being aroused, the room of the lodger, who had been seen
leaving the house just before the discovery, was searched in her
absence. A small bottle containing cyanide of potassium, together with
many pieces of jewellery, was found in a locked box, and she was
arrested. The defence was that the deceased had frequently threatened
to commit suicide, and that there was no evidence to prove the
purchase of the poison, which was in an unlabelled bottle. Pinder
refused to give information about herself or her husband; no marriage
certificate was discovered; and she was tried before Darson J. and
convicted. It is believed that Pinder, being in urgent need of money,
was seized with the sudden temptation and, dropping cyanide in the
woman’s tea, afterwards ransacked her secretaire. The case presents no
unusual features, except the refusal of the prisoner to plead.
Twice Lois read the account and shook her head.
“I can’t believe it! It is incredible--impossible!” she said. “She was
imprisoned for life--but surely she should be out by now? Isn’t there
a remission of sentence for good conduct?”
The governor shook his head.
“Unfortunately she made two attempts to escape, and lost all her
marks. It is a great pity, because she’s a fairly rich woman. An uncle
of hers, who only learnt of her conviction after she had been five
years in gaol, left her a very considerable fortune. She never told us
who she was--he visited her here a few weeks before his death--and
we’re just as wise as ever we were, except that we know that he was a
relation of her mother.”
Lois took up the book again and stared at the printed page.
“A murderess--that wonderful woman!”
He nodded.
“Yes. Remarkable. Yet the most innocent-looking people commit bad
offences. I have been here twenty years and lost most of my
illusions.”
“If they thought she was a murderess, why didn’t they----”
She could not bring herself to say “hang her.” The governor looked at
her curiously.
“Ha--h’m--well, there was a reason, a very excellent reason.”
Lois was puzzled for a moment, and then suddenly the explanation came
to her.
“Yes, the baby was born in this very prison--the prettiest little baby
girl I’ve ever seen--a perfect child. I hated the time when she had to
be taken away. Poor little soul!”
“She didn’t know, perhaps doesn’t know now,” said Lois, her eyes
filling with tears.
“No, I suppose not. She was adopted by a woman who was a neighbour and
always believed in Mrs. Pinder’s innocence. No, when I said ‘poor
little soul,’ I was thinking of the fool of a nurse who let the child
burn its arm against the top of a hot water bottle. A pretty bad burn.
I remember it because it left a scar on the baby’s forearm--the
stopper of the water bottle had a star.”
Lois Reddle clutched the edge of the table and her face went suddenly
white. The doctor was putting away the book and his back was towards
her. With an effort she gained control of her voice.
“Do--do you remember the name by which the baby was christened?” she
asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” he said instantly, “an unusual name, and I always remember it.
Lois Margeritta!”