At five o’clock that afternoon there was a great thudding of doors
and snapping of keys in Telsbury Prison. The evening meal-hour was
over. The last visit had been paid by the chief wardress. Laundries,
cook-houses, and workshops had been locked up by the officers
responsible, and the five halls, that ran, star-shaped, from the
common centre, were deserted except for the wardress on duty at the
desk, who was reading the letters which had come addressed to the
prisoners and which would be delivered to them in the morning. She
worked with the sure eye and hand of an expert, using her blue pencil
to cover up such items of general news as convicts are not allowed to
receive.
So engaged, she heard the burr of a “call,” and, looking round, saw
that the red disc had fallen over one of the hundred apertures in the
indicator. She put down her pencil, walked along the hall, and,
stopping before a cell, inserted her key and pulled the door open.
The woman who rose from her bed did not wear the prison livery.
Instead, she was dressed in a dark blue costume; her hat and coat lay
on the bed and on top a pair of new gloves. In one corner of the cell
was a small Gladstone bag and an umbrella.
“I am sorry to trouble you, madam,” said the prisoner nervously, “but
I wondered if they had forgotten, if----” Her voice shook and she
found it difficult to speak.
“They haven’t forgotten, Mrs. Pinder,” said the wardress calmly. “The
officer should not have put the lock on you.” She pushed the door open
wide. “If you feel lonely come out and sit with me.”
“Thank you,” said the woman gratefully, and the official saw that she
was very near to tears. “Only the governor told me that he had
telegraphed to my friends. There has been no reply?”
“There wouldn’t be,” said the tactful wardress. “They will be here
very soon. Probably they think that you would prefer to wait.” She
laughed. “Usually prisoners are discharged in the morning, but the
Home Office allowed the governor to use his discretion in letting you
out over-night. I don’t think I should worry, Mrs. Pinder.”
She waited at the door.
“Come out when you want,” she said good-humouredly. “There’s the whole
hall to walk in and the lock is on, so you won’t be seen by any of the
women.”
Mary Pinder came slowly into the wide hall and looked along the
familiar vista of small black doors, tier upon tier, at the big window
at the end of the hall through which the light of the evening sun was
shining. For the first time in twenty years she was free of restraint,
could walk without observation, and soon would pass through that
steel-barred grille into God’s sweet air and into a world of free
people.
She checked the sobbing sigh that came, and, her hands tightly clasped
together, stood motionless, thinking. She dared not believe the story
she had been told; dared not let her mind rest upon what happiness lay
beyond the bars.
The wardress had gone back to the desk and her occupation, and the
woman watched her wistfully. She was in contact with the world; had a
husband perhaps, and children, outside these red walls. Mary Pinder
had been cut off from life and human companionship for nearly twenty
years. Outside the world rolled on; men had risen and fallen, there
had been wars and periods of national rejoicing; but here, in this
shadowy place, life had been grey, without relief, and even pain had
become a monotony.
She walked timidly towards the officer and sat down in a chair near
her. The wardress stopped her work to smile encouragingly, and then
laid down her pencil again.
“I hope you’re going to forget this place, Mrs. Pinder?”
The other shook her head.
“I shouldn’t think it were possible--to forget,” she said. “It is
life, most of the life I have known. I was eighteen when I came here
first; twenty-three when I was transferred to Aylesbury, and thirty
when I came back. I have little else to remember,” she said simply.
The woman looked at her curiously.
“You’re the only prisoner I’ve ever known that I had any faith in,
Mrs. Pinder,” she said.
Mary Pinder leant forward eagerly.
“You believe that I was innocent?” And, when the woman nodded: “Thank
you. I--I wish I had known that somebody believed that.”
“I wish I had told you,” said the wardress briefly. Then, as the sound
of a turning key came to her: “Here comes somebody who thinks you were
innocent, at any rate,” she said, and rose to meet the governor.
“All dressed and ready, eh?” said he cheerfully. “You’re a lucky
woman! I wish to heaven I were free of this wretched place. But I am a
prisoner here until I die!”
It was a stock joke of his and the woman smiled, as he took her arm
and paced with her along the hall.
“Your friends will not be here until ten o’clock. I’ve just had a
wire. They thought you’d rather leave after dark. Do you know where
you’re going?”
“I haven’t any idea,” she said. “The address I gave you will always
find me.” And then, in a changed tone: “Doctor, I wasn’t dreaming that
you told me about--about----”
“That young lady who saw you? No, it is a most amazing coincidence. If
I’d had any brains I should have known, the moment I saw how upset she
was, that she was the girl with the branded arm.”
“My daughter!” she breathed. “Oh God, how wonderful! How wonderful!”
“They didn’t want to let you know. They were afraid of the effect it
might have upon you. She’s a pretty girl.”
“She’s lovely,” breathed Mary Pinder. “She’s lovely! And does she
know?”
He nodded.
“She knew that day she was in my room, when I told her about Lois
Margeritta. If there’s any doubt about it the letter I had from the
Under-Secretary should set your mind at rest. She went to see him with
the idea of getting further particulars about the--about the crime you
were charged with committing. Mrs. Pinder, will you tell me
something?” He dropped her arm and faced her. “I am an old man and
haven’t a very long time to live, and I’ve lost most of the little
faith in human nature I ever possessed. Were you innocent?” He paused.
“Were you innocent or guilty?”
“I was innocent.” She raised her eyes fearlessly to his. “What I have
told you has been the truth. I went out to look for work, and when I
came back I was arrested.”
“What about your husband? Where was he?”
She shook her head.
“He was dead,” she said simply. “I didn’t know then, but I have learnt
since. Doctor, do you believe that?”
He nodded silently.
“You’ve been wonderful to me, sir,” she said in a low sweet voice. “I
wish I could repay you for your kindness.”
“Well, you can,” he said in his gruff way. “When you get out into the
world, you’re bound to meet some poor women who will suggest that you
have your hair dyed red--don’t do it.”
He found an especial pleasure in the soft laughter that his jest
evoked.
“And now you can come along and dine with my wife and me,” he said.
“The only satisfaction I’ve ever got out of having a house within the
prison walls.”
At five minutes past ten that night a small saloon motor-car drew up
before the gates of Telsbury Prison and the driver got down and pulled
the bell. He was challenged, as usual, from the wicket.
“I’ve called to take away Mrs. Pinder,” he said.
“You had better come in and see the governor.”
“I’d rather stay.” The driver lit a cigarette and paced to and fro to
kill the time. But he had not long to wait; five minutes after, the
little wicket-gate swung open and a woman stepped out.
“Is that Mrs. Pinder?” asked the man in a voice little above a
whisper.
“Yes, it is I.”
“Let me take your bag.”
He opened the door of the car, pushed the bag inside and put out his
hand to help her enter. Then, swinging into the driver’s seat, he
closed both doors and sent the car spinning along the London road. In
the shadow of the prison-gate the doctor watched the departure, and
turned back with a sigh towards his office. Telsbury Prison had lost
something of its interest with the passing of one whom the newspapers
had described as “The Hereford Murderess.”