Читать книгу The Strange Countess - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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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 heart-felt 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 grill 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!"