A Conspiracy of Ravens (15 page)

There was no hesitation in Dylan’s answer. “We’re going to the prison. Margaret Anderson must have spoken to someone, an inmate or one of the guards.”

“How will you get the warden to let us question him? He’s probably a hard man in a job like that.”

Dylan smiled crookedly. It brought a dimple to the left side of his cheek that she had noticed before. “I’m relying on my charm, my wit, and my handsome features.”

Serafina could not help but smile. She asked, “What if that doesn’t work?”

“Then”—Dylan held up the cash—“we bribe the warden!”

TEN

T
hat’s Brixton Prison, Lady Serafina. And a mournful sight it be too.”

Dylan had drawn the carriage up to a line of horses tied to hitching posts and rails. The prison itself rose out of the cold earth, grey and bleak and colourless.

“What a terrible-looking place, Dylan!”

“That it is. It’s better than the hulks though.”

“The hulks?”

Dylan wrapped the reins around the iron rail in front of him and nodded. “The prisons are so crowded they have to use old ships for prisons, those which are unsafe for the sea. There’s quite a few of them down at Woolwich. They’re wet, dark, and verminous things. I heard as how the Defiance houses five hundred inmates on three decks. They all sleep in hammocks so tightly packed that they touch.”

“What a terrible thing! I think I’d rather die.”

“I’m of your way of thinking.” Dylan stepped out of the carriage, walked around, and tied the horses to the rail. He then came to hand Serafina down, and they started toward the front entrance. “A good friend of mine went to the prison at Pentonville. That’s the one I’d want to stay clear of. Charlie told me that the inmates are forbidden to speak to anybody else at all times. The cells are seven feet by thirteen feet, and all they have is a washbasin, a stool, and a table. That’s bad enough, but even their names are taken from them. They are called only by numbers.”

A shiver touched Serafina. “How frightful! They must die like flies in such a place,” she whispered.

“Well, many of them do. Come along now. I’ve heard that Brixton is better than most.”

The two advanced to where two guards were standing with muskets. One of them stepped forward and asked brusquely, “Why are you here, sir?”

“We need to see the warden.”

“I’ll take you.” The guard, a tall, bulky man, turned to another slighter man, an albino with pale eyes and hair so blond it seemed white. “I’ll take them to see the warden. You keep close watch.”

“Don’t I always?”

The burly guard led them into the prison without speaking. They were somewhat shocked when they stepped inside. At least fifty women sat in chairs along the walls. A high and lofty ceiling rose over them, and three other tiers of what appeared to be walkways were lined with more women in chairs. All the women wore loose, claret-brown gowns, blue-checked aprons, neckerchiefs, and small, close-fitting, white linen caps.

“What are they doing, Guard?” Serafina asked.

“Why, they’re sewing, ma’am. That’s what all the inmates do here.”

“What are they sewing?” Dylan asked curiously. Something about the large number of women all sitting without saying a word, their hands busy at their task, was somewhat frightening to him.

“Well, sir, they make flannel underwear and stitching stays. Then, of course, some of them do the washing and ironing contracted by the prison. You could buy some of their shirts at Moses and Sons.”

As they continued toward the door at the far end, Serafina noticed that none of the women looked at them. Perhaps it was forbidden. The quiet was eerie and unhealthy to her. “How many prisoners are there in this institution?”

“Seven hundred, ma’am.” He turned at the door and shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Female patients don’t bear imprisonment as well as male prisoners, but they’re treated fairly well here. They’ve got a nursery for babies born to prisoners while they’re in Brixton.”

The guard took a key from his belt, unlocked a steel door, and shoved it open. “Come along,” he said. “I’ll take you to the warden.”

A long, narrow hall, dark and full of shadows, lay before them. The two walked behind the guard until finally he came to a door. He knocked on it, and a deep voice from within said, “Come in.”

Opening the door, the guard waved the pair in. “Warden Hailey, these people need to see you.”

“All right, Mr. Simmons, you may go. Come in, you two.”

As Serafina stepped into the room, she was surprised at how cheerful it was. Here in the very bowels of a cold, grim prison was a warm, cheerful office. A fireplace burned, sending a myriad of sparks upward through the chimney. A sofa was on one side of the room with a wardrobe on the other, and the warden sat at a large mahogany desk. The short, stocky man with deep-set grey eyes spoke with a harsh voice that grated on the nerves. “What is it you want?” he demanded after Dylan gave him their names.

“Warden, we’ve come to try to find out something about one of your prisoners who died recently.”

“Why would you be curious about that? Are you family?”

“No, sir,” Dylan said, “we’re not. Perhaps I’d better explain.” He quickly saw that the warden was unsympathetic, and when he had finished telling Father Xavier’s story about Lord Darby and his wife, the warden shrugged. “I know nothing about all that. The woman is dead. You can’t talk to her.”

“Oh, I realize that, sir, but if we could just talk to some of the women that knew her, I think we’d be able to find traces of the boy.”

“We have no time for that. The women are all busy. Write me a letter. I’ll consider it.”

“I have a better idea than that,” Dylan said. “I’ll give you a token of our appreciation, and you can give us written permission to talk to any inmate we want.” Dylan drew the money out of his pocket and began counting it. The warden suddenly came to his feet, anger flashing from his pale eyes. “Or,” Dylan said before the warden could speak, “you can refuse, and we’ll go back to the Earl of Darby, and he’ll use all his power and influence to remove you from your position.”

A dead silence filled the room, and both Dylan and Serafina expected to be driven from the office. But suddenly the warden laughed. “Let’s have the bribe,” he said.

“That’s a wise decision.” Dylan handed the money to the warden, who took it carelessly, shoving it in his shirt pocket, then sat down and began scribbling on a piece of paper.

“This will be sufficient. I don’t know who the woman’s cell mates were. I’ve been here fourteen years. Hundreds or maybe even thousands of women have passed through here.” He handed the paper to Dylan then sat back down in his chair. “Father Xavier isn’t here today. He was called away by his church to do something or other.” He cocked his head to one side and said, “The old woman was daft. Some of the guards called her Crazy Meg.”

“It’s the only lead we have, Warden. We appreciate your cooperation.”

“Cooperation.” The warden sniffed and patted the money in his pocket. “I’m always willing to cooperate when there’s a good reason, and money’s always a good reason. Here, I’ll assign one of the guards to you. He’ll show you the ropes.” Going to the door, he opened it and shouted, “Smith, come here. I need you!”

The guard, Fred Smith, was a slight man of below average height. His uniform fit him neatly, and he seemed to be an intelligent sort. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a pair of steel-rimmed eyeglasses through which he peered at them owlishly.

“Come along, please,” he said after he looked at the warden’s instruction. “We can’t have you roaming around the prison, but I’ll put you in a room, and I’ll go get any inmate you want.”

“We don’t know which ones we want. Can you find us one who was a cell mate of the woman?”

“Ay, I can do that. Come along.”

The two were taken to a small, cheerless room with a table and four chairs. Smith left and soon returned with one of the inmates, saying, “This is Alice Rimes. She knew Meg a little.”

Smith left, and Serafina said, “We’re trying to find out something about the woman who died called Meg.”

“Meg? Wot you want to know about ’er?” She was a tall, skinny woman, and her eyes were hard as flint. After Serafina finished, she snorted. “I don’t know nuffin’ about Meg, where she come from. Don’t reckon she had any people. She was quiet as the grave.”

When Serafina saw that the woman could tell them nothing, she knocked on the door, and Smith took her away. He soon returned saying, “I can think of one woman Meg talked to at all. Her name’s Mary Cotsworth.”

“What’s she here for, Mr. Smith?”

“For killing her child and her husband. A grim, bloody business it was. She’s crazy now. I doubt you’ll get any sense out of her. Have a seat, and I’ll bring her back to the room.”

Smith opened the door, and a woman with iron-grey hair stepped inside. “This is Mary Cotsworth,” Smith said. “She shared a cell with Meg for a while.”

Mary was a massive woman, big in every respect, tall, and looked as strong as any man. “Wot’s it you want wif me?” she asked in a cracked voice that sounded as if it had been long out of commission.

“We’d like to know anything you can tell us about Meg.”

But it became obvious that she knew nothing of value about Meg Anderson. She stared at them with suspicion, and finally Serafina knocked on the door, and Smith took her away, saying, “I’ll bring another inmate right off.”

Smith indeed brought four women, none of whom knew anything of value about the dead woman. Finally he brought another inmate, saying, “This is Catherine Foss. She was Meg’s cell mate for the last four years.”

The woman was undersized and her face was deeply seamed. She was hardened by the blows dealt to her in life, and now she stared at the two grimly.

“Just sit down, Catherine,” Serafina said quickly. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

“I’ll be right outside. You be nice now, Catherine, you hear me?”

The old woman cursed him soundly and then threw herself in a chair. “Wot do you want wif me?”

“You knew Margaret Anderson?”

“Old Meg? Yes, I knowed her. We was friends.”

“We’re trying to find out something about her.”

“Well, she’s dead. You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, we know that,” Serafina said. “We need to trace a member of her family, a son.”

Catherine’s eyes went from one to another. She had a mouth like a steel trap, and there was no womanly quality about her to soften the hardness. “Wot do I get out of it?”

“You do know something, then.”

“Maybe I does, but I ain’t giving it away.”

“We’ll give you some money.”

“Give me some gin.”

“I’ll get some,” Dylan said and moved toward the door with Serafina close behind.

When they were out of Catherine’s hearing, Serafina asked, “Where are you going to get gin?”

“Bound to be some drinking going on. You talk to Catherine. I’ll be right back.”

Dylan left the room, and they heard his voice speaking to Smith outside. The old woman stared at Serafina and sneered. “Well, how do you like it here in Brixton? You like to be cooped up here like a dirty animal?”

“I’m sorry you’re here, Catherine.”

“No, you ain’t. Why would you feel sorry for me?”

For Serafina it was like talking to another species. Catherine Foss had descended so far down the scale that, if the reports Smith gave were true, she had crossed some border from which she could never return. Serafina had no idea what to say to her, so she sat there silently. It was not long before Dylan entered again, and he had a bottle in his hand. He held it up and said, “Your gin, Catherine.”

“Give it to me!”

“You take a little of it, and then we’ll talk.”

The old woman seized the bottle, removed the cork, and drank three swallows. Dylan reached out and took the bottle from her.

“That’s good stuff. I’ll have to have more than that. I wants money too.”

“I’ll give you twenty pounds if you tell us what you know,” Serafina said quickly.

The woman’s eyes gleamed and she snapped, “All right. I shared a cell with Meg for a long time. She was my friend. She didn’t ’ave no other friends. She didn’t talk much. She died, I think, when she come in ’ere. It ’its some that way. They can’t take it. Give me another drink.”

The conversation went on, and Catherine would demand a drink every few moments. Finally her voice was slurred, and when she asked for a drink, Dylan shook his head. “I’ll give you this and another bottle just like it and twenty pounds, but we have to know if she ever spoke of a son.”

Catherine’s eyes were glazed with drink, and she looked at the bottle longingly. “Yus, she talked ’bout her boy. She ’adn’t seed him for a long time.”

“He never came to visit?”

“Not ever.”

“Where did they live?”

“She lived wif a man named Durkins in Seven Dials.”

“Did you ever see him?”

“No. She said the boy run off when he was young or maybe someone stole ’im. That’s all I know. Now gimme the gin.”

Dylan handed her the bottle and gave her the money. The two got up to leave, and Catherine said, “Where’s the other bottle?”

“I’ll get it for you.”