The Death Chamber (5 page)

He does like to ham it up, thought Georgina. I wonder if I ought to point out that his cravat is trailing in his tea cup? But Vincent, seeing she had finished her cup of tea, said she would be
wanting to unpack and have a rest after the journey. In fact, whatever must she think of him, keeping her talking. It was just that when he began talking about the Society – his life’s
work, it had been – he feared he could be a sad bore on the subject.

It had not occurred to Georgina that anyone outside the pages of Jane Austen used ‘sad’ in quite that context any longer. She said it must have been absorbing work and she would look
forward to hearing more about it.

‘Well, if you’re
sure
you’ll be all right here?’ said Vincent, finally getting up to take his leave.

‘Quite sure. You’ve been very kind. I’ll see you in the morning,’ said Georgina firmly, in case he felt obliged to ask her out to dinner.

But he did not. He only said, ‘I usually arrive here about half past nine. Oh, this is a key to the main street door in case you want to have a little look round the town later on, or walk
along to the King’s Head for a meal. But there’s eggs and cheese in the fridge, and some tins of soup in the cupboard.’

Georgina listened to him going down the stairs and out through the main door, and then peered out of the window to watch him walk along the street. There he went – he was re-knotting the
cravat as he walked along and glancing in shop windows at his reflection. Still, vanity was not the greatest of the sins. She watched him for a moment and then was annoyed with herself for falling
victim to the curtain-twitching syndrome.

It was half past six. She would have a shower and walk along to the King’s Head for a meal because she was blowed if she was going to spend the whole evening on her own, particularly since
she kept imagining David and the ex-business partner watching her, and saying, ‘Oh,
poorest
George, all on her own in that depressing room for the whole evening, eating tinned soup
and bread and cheese.’

The room was not depressing at all, and Georgina did not in the least mind bread and cheese, but she would still take herself out to dinner.

Vincent had debated whether to ask Georgina Grey, this great-granddaughter of Walter Kane’s out to dinner. The idea of walking into the King’s Head with her was
appealing – a number of the locals were sure to be there and everyone knew Vincent of course, so his appearance would cause a bit of a stir. My word, people would say, there’s Vincent
Meade with a lady. Life in the old dog yet, eh?

But there were two drawbacks to this plan. One was that Miss Grey was younger than Vincent had been expecting – probably around twenty-six or seven – and he did not want those
admiring looks to turn into sniggers about ageing gentlemen making fools of themselves with young girls. He was, in fact, ageing gracefully – he fancied he was becoming quite distinguished of
late and these days he dressed rather jauntily which helped – and the idea that he might make a fool of himself with any young girl was ridiculous. Still, people could be unkind and
jealous.

The other drawback to inviting Miss Grey to dinner was the presence of the television people who were at the King’s Head looking into the possibility of a programme about the area. People
had said it was to be about unusual buildings in England’s north-west and quirky pockets of Britain’s countryside, and hearing this, Vincent had at once realized his own local knowledge
might be very useful. He had assembled some details about Calvary – nothing dangerous, nothing that might draw them to that part of Calvary’s history Vincent needed to keep hidden.
Facts such as how it had been built in the 1790s, originally as a place to hold prisoners before trial or awaiting execution, but how, after an Act of Parliament in the mid-1800s, the distinction
between Gaol and House of Correction had been abolished, and Calvary had consequently housed quite a lot of men serving life sentences. And little bits of local gossip and legend, so it was not too
dry. Such as how the old turnkey’s room was reputed to be haunted by a Victorian gaoler who had operated the old Newgate system of forcing prisoners to pay for quite basic services.

It had turned out to be rather a snappy little piece, but then he had always had a knack with words. Mother often used to say so. ‘I don’t know why you don’t do something with
your writing, Vincent,’ she would say. ‘All those compositions you did at school.’

It would be very gratifying if the TV people used his article, although he would insist on a proper credit. “Our thanks are due to Vincent N. Meade who gave so generously of his time and
knowledge during the making of this programme.” Something on those lines would look well.

He had given the article to the female assistant – Drusilla somebody she was called – and she had said they would be extremely interested in reading it, and yes, certainly he should
give her his phone number so they could contact him. Vincent thought they would have studied it properly by now, which meant they might be looking to talk to him. So he would go along to the
King’s Head later, but he would go alone so as to be free if they wanted him. His appearance in the bar would not be thought strange: he sometimes looked in for a glass of sherry of an
evening. He rather thought they kept the sherry especially for him and he visualized the barman saying to the landlord, ‘Goodness me, we must order another bottle or two of Mr Meade’s
sherry this week: it won’t do to run out of that.’

In any case, Miss Grey – Georgina – had indicated that she wanted to spend the evening on her own. Probably she was tired after the long drive; ladies never had as much stamina as
men. Vincent’s mother often used to say so. ‘Poor fragile creatures that we are,’ she would say, lying back in her chair, smiling as everyone ran around waiting on her. Vincent
had been one of the people who had waited on her most often, but he had never minded.

Girls today were nothing like Vincent’s mother. They were brisk and efficient like Georgina Grey seemed to be, and they were casual about long drives to unfamiliar places and about dining
with strange men. Vincent’s mother, if she was alive, would not have cared for that – not ladylike, she would have said – and she would not have approved of Georgina. One of these
flippant modern girls, she would have called her. Hard. And what is it she does for a living? Oh, an interior designer? Well, she may call it that if she wishes, but a wallpaper shop with a
curtain-making service is my guess. I shan’t be impressed by
that
, thank you very much.

Vincent would not be impressed by it either. He was glad, though, that he had mentioned his work for the Society to Georgina and the articles he had written about its work – not boasting,
just mentioning the fact
en passant
as you might say. He was also glad he had worn the velvet jacket for the meeting; it had cost a shocking amount of money but he fancied it gave him a
slightly Bohemian look. The cravat was a recent touch; Vincent had been rather pleased with it so it had been annoying, when he got home, to find that the fringe had inadvertently trailed itself in
the teapot. He would try soaking it in a solution of lemon juice; his mother had sworn by lemon juice for getting rid of tea stains.

Mother would not have wanted him to ask Georgina Grey out to dinner. Not a suitable thing to have done, she would have said – there are standards that have to be upheld, Vincent. Standards
are very important, you must never forget that.

CHAPTER FOUR

October 1938

‘Standards are important,’ said Edgar Higneth to Walter on the day Neville Fremlin was brought to Calvary. ‘When I took over as governor here I was determined
to follow as many of Sir Lewis Caradoc’s standards as I could.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Fremlin is a cold-blooded killer – he’s murdered five women for their money.
But he has only three weeks of life left to him – two weeks and five days now – and we have to treat him with as much humanity as possible.’

Walter said he understood this.

‘I’m sorry you’ll have an execution to deal with so soon after your arrival,’ said Higneth. ‘It might have been months – a year or more – before one
happened. But it can’t be helped. You’ll be required to attend the hanging, of course, and to pronounce death. I’ll make sure you meet Mr Pierrepoint beforehand.’

‘Pierrepoint? Oh, the executioner.’

‘Yes. He and his assistant will spend the night here before the execution.’ Higneth glanced at the thin-faced young man seated in his office and wished Dr Kane was not so extremely
young. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?

Choosing his words with care, he said, ‘Dr Kane, there are often certain unpleasant aspects to a hanging. Men – and women – faced with the gallows suffer the extremes of
terror. Sometimes they fight and we have to restrain them. If they faint they have to be strapped to a chair on the gallows itself. Sometimes they’re physically sick or their bowels turn to
water.’ Higneth knew he should be hardened to the squalid side of human nature after being Calvary’s governor for more than ten years but he was not. Although he knew the men who passed
through his hands were killers, he had never got used to seeing them led to their deaths.

Kane said, ‘Mr Higneth, I’m perfectly used to the involuntary reactions of the human body in its death throes. I trained at Bart’s Hospital which is close to one of the poorest
parts of London, so I’m entirely accustomed to the rougher sorts of men and women as well.’

‘Fremlin isn’t rough,’ said Higneth at once. ‘The papers called him the Silver-Tongued Murderer, and having talked to him this morning I’m bound to agree with them.
He’s extremely charming, highly intelligent and very widely read, and, frankly, I find it difficult to think of him as a man who has killed five women—’

He broke off, and Walter said, ‘But there’s no doubt about his guilt, is there?’

‘None whatsoever. They’d been suspicious of him for some time. In the end they caught him actually in the act of burying his last victim – the inspector in charge of the case
was beside himself that they hadn’t been in time to save that woman’s life, but they hadn’t. All the corpses they eventually found were naked – he’d burned all the
clothes – obviously thinking the victims wouldn’t be identified. But they did identify them, of course – two of them at any rate.’

‘They traced the dental records, didn’t they?’ said Walter. ‘They use that quite a lot for identification these days. I remember thinking it was odd that Fremlin went to
all that trouble – burying them in that remote forest outside Knaresborough, burning their clothes and all the rest of it – but that he hadn’t thought of dental identification. As
a chemist, you’d think he’d be aware of something like that.’

‘They always miss something.’ Higneth paused, because what he had to say next would not be easy. ‘You’ll be seeing Fremlin sometime today?’

‘Yes. I’ve set aside half an hour each afternoon and evening.’ This was part of Walter’s duties, and he hoped there would be ways of smoothing out what was left of the
condemned prisoners’ lives. How he did that would depend a great deal on the individual, but for Fremlin he had prepared a laudanum-based sedative which would help the man sleep. He thought
that explaining the sedative’s compounds to this former chemist might create a tenuous link of friendship.

‘Yes, good,’ said Higneth when Walter explained this. ‘But see now, the Yorkshire police have asked me—’ Dammit, this was an impossible position for a man to be put
in! Higneth abandoned the sideways approach, and said bluntly, ‘They want to find out about the girl whose body was never found.’

‘Yes?’

‘She lived in the Knaresborough area and she vanished at the start of Fremlin’s killings. The police couldn’t add her name to the charges, because they never found any evidence
that he killed her. But she’s known to have frequented his chemist’s shop – there was a little section for hand lotions and scented soaps and fancy notepaper and so on – and
they believe Fremlin killed her.’

‘Giving him the round half dozen,’ said Walter thoughtfully.

‘Yes. She was only eighteen or nineteen, and quite sheltered. She came from a prosperous middle-class home – Fremlin would have seen that at once – and she would have been
ideal prey for him.’

‘But even if he killed her, there wouldn’t have been any way he could have got at any money, would there?’ said Walter. ‘Weren’t most of the victims older ladies?
Lonely widows?’

‘They were, but this girl – her name was Elizabeth Molland – was wearing jewellery when she disappeared,’ said Higneth. ‘Quite valuable stuff, apparently. Necklace,
earrings, bracelet. She had been to a big formal reception with her parents – some kind of musical society. That was just the kind of hunting ground Fremlin liked, of course, although it was
never established if he had actually been present. Elizabeth vanished at the end of the evening; you know how confused it can be at those affairs – people milling in and out of cloakrooms,
collecting wraps, waiting for cabs. When her parents realized she had gone they called the police, but the girl was never found.’