IN GLOUCESTER PRISON
THERE is a cell in Gloucester Prison; the end cell in a long corridor of
the old building. Next door is another cell, which is never occupied,
for an excellent reason. That in which Ray Bennett sat was furnished
more expensively than any other in the prison. There was an iron
bedstead, a plain deal table, a comfortable Windsor chair and two other
chairs, on one of which, night and day, sat a warder.
The walls were distempered pink. One big window, near the ceiling,
heavily barred, covered with toughened opaque glass, admitted light,
which was augmented all the time by an electric globe in the arched
ceiling.
Three doors led from the cell: one into the corridor, the other into a
little annexe fitted with a washing-bowl and a bath; the third into the
unoccupied cell, which had a wooden floor, and in the centre of the
floor a square trap. Ray Bennett did not know then how close he was to
the death house, and if he had known he would not have cared. For death
was the least of the terrors which oppressed him.
He had awakened from his drugged sleep, to find himself in the cell of a
country lock-up, and had heard, bemused, the charge of murder that had
been made against him. He had no clear recollection of what had
happened. All that he knew was that he had hated Lew Brady and that he
had wanted to kill him. After that, he had a recollection of walking
with him and of sitting down somewhere.
They told him that Brady was dead, and that the weapon with which the
murder was committed had been found in his hand. Ray had racked his
brains in an effort to remember whether he had a revolver or not. He
must have had. And of course he had been drugged. They had had whisky at
the _Red Lion_, and Lew must have said something about Lola and he had
shot him. It was strange that he did not think longingly of Lola. His
love for her had gone. He thought of her as he thought of Lew Brady, as
something unimportant that belonged to the past. All that mattered now
was that his father and Ella should not know. At all costs the disgrace
must be kept from them. He had waited in a fever of impatience for the
trial to end, so that he might get away from the public gaze.
Fortunately, the murder was not of sufficient interest even for the
ubiquitous press photographers. He wanted to be done with it all, to go
out of life unknown. The greatest tragedy that could occur to him was
that he should be identified.
He dared not think of Ella or of his father. He was Jim Carter, without
parents or friends; and if he died as Jim Carter, he must spend his last
days of life as Jim Carter. He was not frightened; he had no fear, his
only nightmare was that he should be recognized.
The warder who was with him, and who was not supposed to speak to him,
had told him that, by the law, three clear Sundays must elapse between
his sentence and execution. The chaplain visited him every day, and the
Governor. A tap at the cell door told him it was the Governor’s hour,
and he rose as the grey-haired official came in.
“Any complaints, Carter?”
“None, sir.”
“Is there anything you want?”
“No, sir.”
The Governor looked at the table. The writing-pad, which had been placed
for the condemned prisoner’s use, had not been touched.
“You have no letters to write? I suppose you can write?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve no letters to write.”
“What are you, Carter? You’re not an ordinary tramp. You’re better
educated than that class.”
“I’m an ordinary tramp, sir,” said Ray quietly.
“Have you all the books you need?”
Ray nodded, and the Governor went out. Every day came these inevitable
inquiries. Sometimes the Governor made reference to his friends, but he
grew tired of asking questions about the unused blotting-pad.
Ray Bennett had reached the stage of sane understanding where he did not
even regret. It was inevitable. He had been caught up in the machinery
of circumstance, and must go slowly round to the crashing-place. Every
morning and afternoon he paced the square exercise yard, watched by
three men in uniform, and jealously screened from the observation of
other prisoners; and his serenity amazed all who saw him. He was caught
up in the wheel and must go the full round. He could even smile at
himself, observe his own vanity with the eye of an outsider. And he
could not weep, because there was nothing left to weep about. He was
already a dead man. Nobody troubled to organize a reprieve for him; he
was too uninteresting a murderer. The newspapers did not flame into
headlines, demanding a new trial. Fashionable lawyers would not
foregather to discuss an appeal. He had murdered; he must die.
Once, when he was washing, and was about to put his hand in the water,
he saw the reflection of his face staring back at him, and he did not
recognize himself, for his beard had grown weedily. He laughed, and when
the wondering warders looked at him, he said:
“I’m only now beginning to cultivate a sense of humour—I’ve left it
rather late, haven’t I?”
He could have had visitors, could have seen anybody he wished, but
derived a strange satisfaction from his isolation. He had done with all
that was artificial and emotional in life. Lola? He thought of her again
and shook his head. She was very pretty. He wondered what she would do
now that Lew was dead; what she was doing at that moment. He thought,
too, of Dick Gordon, remembered that he liked him that day when Dick had
given him a ride in his big Rolls. How queerly far off that seemed! And
yet it could have only been a few months ago.
One day the Governor came in a more ceremonial style, and with him was a
gentleman whom Ray remembered having seen in the court-house on the day
of the trial. It was the Under Sheriff, and there was an important
communication to be made. The Governor had to clear his throat twice.
“Carter,” he said a little unsteadily, “the Secretary of State has
informed me that he sees no reason for interfering with the course of
the law. The High Sheriff has fixed next Wednesday morning at eight
o’clock as the date and hour of your execution.”
Ray inclined his head.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.