Chapter Four

JEREMIAH BARKER LIKED THIS PERIOD of his turn of duty. The majority of prisoners were in the shops working. The few who had to remain in their cells were usually easy enough to keep an eye on. This afternoon he only had three charges. One was an old, destitute man who was too infirm to work at all. Lost in a world where time had disappeared, he lay on his cot all day, waiting to be transferred to the House of Providence. He was so scrofulous, Barker knew the cell would have to be completely disinfected when he went. More work. The other two prisoners were both on the second level. Lawson, the younger one, had received ten stripes two days ago, and he was excused from work. Barker had scant sympathy for him. He was a sly fellow with a look about him that made you never want to turn your back.

The third man was in the cell at the end of the row. He was a convicted murderer. He had been sentenced to hang; and as that was about to happen in a week’s time, there seemed no point in training him in any of the prison workshops. For him, Barker had some compassion. He never gave any trouble and spent his days doing his sketches or just lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling. When asked what he was contemplating, he’d replied, “Just my life, sir. Nothing else but that.” Usually the prisoners facing death were kept isolated in a special section of the jail that overlooked the exercise yard, but he was here because the last inhabitant of the death cell had died from typhoid and they didn’t want another convict to cheat justice. The guards were not supposed to talk to the prisoners, but often loneliness on both sides overrode that rule. Since August Barker had had many a quiet chat with his charge. Initially, he’d suffered from withdrawal from liquor, but the longer his sobriety, the more he expressed regret at his previous way of life. Not that he admitted to his crime of murder. Innocent of that he was. They all said that though. Prior to his conviction, he had apparently been a lapsed Roman Catholic, but the shock of the death sentence had sent him back full speed to the fold. The priest, Fr. Healy, visited him twice a week and was happy with his progress. Jeremiah was a pious man himself, although of the Methodist persuasion, and he was always glad to see a man turn to God, even if it was the papist heresy the penitent embraced.

This afternoon Barker had managed to get a bit of a sit down at the table by the entrance door. His legs weren’t as young as they used to be, and the constant patrolling along the iron walks, up and down the staircase, had taken its toll. He yawned and scratched a varicose vein on the back of his leg. It was a dreary afternoon, and the gloom of the cell block was deepening. The light filtering down through the central skylight was grey and sombre, threatening snow. It was only on Sundays when there was no work and the men were in their cells that the warden allowed the gas sconces to be fully lit. Otherwise, on weekdays they stayed off until after the evening meal.

Right now Jeremiah could hardly see the third-floor cells above him. He shivered and hunkered down into the collar of his thick serge tunic. There were two big woodstoves in the centre of the cell block, but like the sconces, they were kept at a low burn during the afternoon. It was all very well to say that those who had broken the law should not be coddled; nobody seemed to consider that their keepers had to suffer as well. He would be glad to finish and get back to his own room in the guards’ quarters.

There was the sound of a key clanking in the lock, and Barker stood up as quickly as he could, grunting a little at the stiffness in his back and legs. Mr. Massie himself entered. He rarely came to inspect the cells at this time of day, and Barker felt a wiffle of alarm in his stomach. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble. The warden, however, smiled benignly.

“Afternoon, Mr. Barker. Everything correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Massie indicated an envelope he was holding. “I have a letter for one of the prisoners. It’s rather an unusual situation, so I thought I’d bring it to him now rather than wait until Sunday. Can I see your book.”

“Yes, sir.” Barker swivelled the big roll book around to face the warden.

“Good! He’s in cell six. No points lost all week, I see.”

“No, sir, he’s an obedient fellow.”

Massie jabbed his finger on the page. “This one, Lawson? How is he behaving?”

“He’s complaining quite a lot, sir. He says he should be in the infirmary.”

“Ha! I don’t particularly like to see a man whipped, but he deserved it if ever a man did. If he continues whining, take away one of his privileges. Maybe going without dinner for three days will develop some conscience in the man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go then, shall we, Mr. Barker.”

The guard picked up the lamp from the table and led the way. The warden halted and peered through the bars of the old man’s cell.

“Hello, Mr. Dade, how are you this afternoon?”

There was no answer. Massie waited for a moment, then he said rather more loudly, “We’ll have you out of here soon as a shake.”

They moved on. “He’s been most despondent, sir. Won’t eat or drink anything,” said the guard.

“Poor unfortunate fellow. He must be carrying at least seventy years on his back. He deserves to end his days in a little more comfort, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jeremiah, but he was not sincere. As far as he was concerned, if you ended up a pauper, it was your own fault or your own depravity that got you there.

They climbed up the spiral metal staircase to the second floor.

As they passed by Lawson’s cell, the prisoner came to the bars and reached out.

“Warden, have pity. I’m suffering real bad.”

Massie scowled at him. “You should have thought of that before you assaulted that poor woman. I’m sure she suffered, too.”

Jeremiah was glad he’d never been called upon to administer a whipping. He could be strict when it came to applying the rules but deliberately inflicting physical pain was another matter, and he knew he could never stomach it. He’d had to witness some of the whippings, and he hadn’t liked it at all. These punishments weren’t common anymore, but everybody was affected when they occurred. The prisoners were more likely to be restless and defiant, and the guards jumpy.

They proceeded on to the cell that was at the end of the row. The prisoner had heard them coming and was standing close to the bars, waiting.

“Good afternoon, Warden Massie …” His voice was civil, but his eyes were wary, afraid to hope, unable not to.

“I’ve brought you a letter. I know you’ve been anxious for a reply, so I thought I’d give it to you at once.”

“Thank you, sir. I do appreciate that.”

“Shall I read it for you?”

“If you please.”

Massie took the letter out of the envelope and beckoned to the guard to bring the lamp closer.

Harry grasped the bars with both hands. “A police officer!”

Massie regarded him curiously. “I must admit to you, sir, that I did find the irony of the situation rather rare. And clearly this is a surprise to you.”

“Yes, I should say it is. I have not heard from him for many years, close on twenty-two.”

“He won’t be too hard to find now. I will telephone the police headquarters and see if they know which station he is attached to.”

“Thank you, sir. I would most appreciate that.”

The warden hesitated. “Twenty-two years is a long time. What was the reason you lost contact?”

“Him and me had a bad falling out. Both of us as hotheaded as a gingered horse. And stubborn. He wouldn’t call ‘hold’ and neither would I.”

Massie leaned in closer. “You must be careful not to raise your hopes too high. He cannot reverse the decision of the court even if he is the chief of police himself.”

The other man clenched his jaw. “I am innocent, Warden. And sure as I stand here, he will prove it.” There was a glint of humour in his eyes. “You have to admit, sir, there’s not many prisoners who get an opportunity like this. What more can I ask? A detective and my own son.”