The Particular Problem of Postern Prison
Chapter Two
I left Endymion bemoaning his lot at having paid the outrageous sum of fifty guineas for two pea-green dressing gowns and made my way to Scotland Yard. It could not be avoided now that I had verified that my cousin had not been alone in sighting the egregious Vamberry, and I steeled myself for the task ahead.
To my mind, it was evident that the former wine merchant had somehow escaped the executioner and was attempting to forge a new life for himself abroad. He had been wise enough to adopt an alias, but not to forgo the improvement of his wardrobe until he was in foreign climes. It had been our good fortune that he had been recognised, by perhaps the only man in London who had spent some little time with him in the days before his execution and upon whom he had left an indelible impression. Since we were only a day behind, there was every chance that the police could apprehend him before he left the country.
That was, if they were prepared to listen to my story. From the dangerous looks I earned as I passed beneath the archway from Whitehall into the cobbled courtyard beyond, I gathered I was still persona non grata. No one likes arrogance, least of all, as Lestrade had put it when last I saw him, when one could be accused of displaying contempt for the police and the law in general. Nor was I expecting forgiveness any time soon. Policemen, after all, are notorious for their long memories.
Their dislike for me and my methods was understandable, but to be dismissed out of hand when I had come bearing information bordered on the perverse. My chief obstacle was six feet five inches of solid, stubborn policeman, in the shape of Duty Sergeant Hathaway, who was that morning manning the desk. A long-faced fellow with dusty grey hair and a slither of side whiskers attempting unsuccessfully to distract attention from his red outstanding ears, his smile faded when I entered the reception. A copy of Punch was spread out on the desk before him and we played a game of studious indifference while he pretended to read and ignore my presence at the same time.
When I persisted, he finally relented and gave me a world-weary glance. "Was there something you wanted, sir?" he asked.
"I want to speak to Inspector Lestrade," I replied.
His gaze turned back to his reading. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No. Do I need one?"
"Oh, yes. Inspector Lestrade, he's a busy man. You can't just come waltzing in here and expect to see him, just like that."
"It's important."
"I dare say it is – to you. But who's to say whether your problem is any more or less important than what he's dealing with now?"
I could feel my jaw tightening. "Very well then, Sergeant. When might he be free?"
"You'll have to check with the officer in charge of making appointments, sir."
"And who might that be?"
Hathaway extracted large yellow handkerchief from his pocket and took his time in wiping out the inner surface of his nostrils as far as his fingers would allow. Then, with all due diligence, he stowed the handkerchief back in his pocket and regarded me with infuriating amusement.
"That would be me, sir."
"Then may I make an appointment, Sergeant?"
"I don't know about that." He fished out his half-hunter and consulted it. "It's time for my break. Why don't you come back later? Or better yet, not at all," he added under his breath.
I had been fully aware that I was liable to attract hostility by returning to Scotland Yard and I will allow that to an extent it may have been justified. I was prepared to put up with so much, but this was going too far. What was testing my patience to breaking point was the knowledge that every minute wasted bandying words with this fellow was another for Vamberry to leave the country.
"Sergeant Hathaway," I said, taking a deep breath to contain my growing frustration, "you may or may not have good reason to hold a grudge against me. Either way, it does not help us. Now, I can stand here all day debating the issue with you, but it does not change the fact that I need to speak to Inspector Lestrade!"
I should not have raised my voice. Hathaway rose to his feet, came over to where I stood and towered over me. I am not often intimidated, but when faced with a man so large that his body blocks out the daylight, one should exercise discretion. Had he chosen, he could have pounded me into the ground with one of his sledgehammer fists without breaking a sweat. Suddenly I knew how a mouse felt when confronted by an elephant.
"I should inform you, sir," said he in a severe tone of voice, "that loitering with intent is viewed very seriously by the courts. Now are you going to move along or am I going to have to arrest you?"
I tried once more. "I really do need to see Inspector Lestrade."
"Well, he don't want to see you, Mr Holmes. None of us do. So hook it."
The door to the inner sanctum was tantalisingly close. I gave serious consideration to whether I had turn of speed enough to dart past Hathaway and reach Lestrade's office before he caught up with me.
I decided that I did. I was wrong.
I got as far as laying my hand on the door handle before a hand came to rest on the scruff of my neck and plucked me into the air. I was hauled out of the reception and tossed into the gutter along with the rest of the half-thawed manure and other disjecta membra that is liable to accumulate on any London street. Where any other fellow might have met with pity, my plight was met with derision. Around me, people started to laugh. In the doorway, Hathaway was holding onto his sides and guffawing with tears streaming down his cheeks. It was fair to say that my humiliation was complete.
I picked myself up, slipped on a patch of ice and ended up on my hands and knees once again. My tormentors laughed all the louder until a stentorian voice brought order to the proceedings.
"What the devil's going on out here?"
A window had opened in the building above and I looked up to see the blond, moon-faced countenance of Inspector Gregson glaring down at us.
"I'm trying to work up here," said he. "You, Hathaway, are you responsible?"
"No, sir," the sergeant called up. "We had a spot of bother from a troublemaker."
He gestured to me. Gregson's frown deepened.
"Oh, it's you, is it, Mr Holmes? I should have known."
I scrabbled to my feet. "Gregson, I need to talk to you."
"Go home. Sergeant, send him on his way. If he resists, arrest him."
He retreated back into his office and began to close the window. Hathaway grabbed my arm and proceeded to march me back to Whitehall. Seeing my last chance slipping away, I found my voice and called out to Gregson.
"I need to talk to you about Vamberry, Inspector!"
Gregson's head reappeared in the opening. "What about Vamberry?"
"I'd rather not say in public, but I think you should hear me out."
"If you're having me on, young man—"
Hathaway gave a painful twist of my collar to remind me of the consequences should I be entertaining any notions in that direction. "I'm not, Inspector, I swear it."
"All right, Hathaway. Bring him up."
The window closed. I was released grudgingly and given a push that propelled me back towards reception and the door on which I had made my ill-judged assault. Hathaway accompanied me upstairs, saw me into Gregson's neat, ordered office and with his slab-like hands forced me down into a spindle-backed upright chair. He paused only to inquire whether he could get the inspector a cup of tea, pointedly did not ask me, and then left, closing the door firmly behind him.
We sat staring at each other, and I was keenly aware that Gregson was prolonging the moment in order to heighten my sense of disquiet. In that he was failing, for my only discomfort was in my damp clothing and the coating of filth on my hands. I was a guest in his domain, however, and obliged to play by another man's rules. I sat and waited while Gregson ran his eyes over me, his gaze sharp, appraising and critical, his smile half-mocking, half-triumphant.
"Well, well, Mr Holmes," said he at last. "I didn't expect to you back here at Scotland Yard. Still dabbling are you, sir?"
Inspector Tobias Gregson had never made any pretence of liking me, although – and to his credit – he recognised an advantage when he saw it and was happy enough to use my brains when it suited him. Our animosity was mutual: his accusation of my being an amateur was one he had levelled at me in the past, whilst in turn I thought him an over-bearing and unimaginative. He had suggested an alliance of sorts once before and had taken offence when I had sided with his hated rival, Lestrade. Stuck in the middle of a war between two, I had been tossed and tumbled like a child's rag doll. Now one side had turned against me, I was forced into an uneasy association with the other.
"When I can, Inspector," I replied.
"What about Vamberry?"
"Perhaps a towel?" I suggested, indicating up my soiled hands.
"Vamberry."
With a sigh, I resigned myself to an uncomfortable and noxious few minutes until he gave thought to the state of his rug.
"I have information," I said.
Gregson regarded me with an unfriendly eye. "Do you? Perhaps you've not heard but the man was hanged a few days ago for the murder of his wife. If you've come here to cause trouble, then you've had a wasted journey. That was my case. There was no doubt about it. The man was found guilty by a jury of his peers."
"I don't disbelieve you."
"Then why are you here?"
"He's alive, Inspector."
Gregson let out a roar of laughter.
"I'm telling the truth."
"Nonsense. He's dead, and that's an end of the matter."
"I have evidence to the contrary."
"What evidence?"
"He was seen by two witnesses in Piccadilly only yesterday."
Gregson sat back in his chair and gave me a challenging look. "Does it amuse you, Mr Holmes, dreaming up ways to make our lives difficult here at Scotland Yard? Don't you think we've enough to do dealing with real crime that you have to come here bending our ears with your tall tales?"
"Have you considered the possibility that I'm not lying to you?"
"Vamberry was hanged, Mr Holmes. He couldn't have been seen running loose in Piccadilly."
"He wasn't running loose, he was shopping. He bought himself a dressing gown."
"Oh, that makes all the difference. Dead murderers have a well-known penchant for buying dressing gowns. It's a well-documented fact."
I ignored his sarcasm. "He was using a false name – Robinson – and told the tailor that he was going abroad."
Gregson snorted. "I don't care if he told him he was the King of Siam. It's impossible. No one escapes from Postern Prison."
"Vamberry did."
He held my gaze a long time before coming to a decision. "These witnesses of ours, are they credible?"
"One is the tailor who served him; the other is a clergyman who spoke to him in his cell a few days before his execution."
"They aren't queer in the head, are they, these two 'witnesses' of yours? Not drunkards or anything like that?"
I could speak with some confidence on Mr Windrush's behalf, although I was loath to make any rash claims about Endymion's sanity.
"Their testimony is compelling," I said diplomatically.
Gregson shook his head. "I still say it's impossible. Postern Prison is like a fortress. In fact I believe that's what it was originally. The reformers want it knocked down, but until they find somewhere to put the prisoners, it stays."
"Considering its reputation, do you think if a prisoner did escape that the governor would want that information becoming public?"
"Why should he do that? Granted, Postern has a reputation, but the public need never have known if someone did escape. We do know how to be discreet here at Scotland Yard."
From the warning glare stare he gave me, I thought it best not to reply to that assertion.
"In any case, you're forgetting: the execution was witnessed by the doctor, the chaplain, several of the turnkeys, and the hangman. Unless you're accusing all of them of complicity too."
I shrugged. "All they would have to do is stage the execution and provide a death certificate. Are the bodies returned to the families for burial?"
"No, they've their own burial ground at Postern."
"Then unless you can find an independent witness who saw the body after death, you cannot say for certain if Vamberry was hanged at all. He was a wealthy man, Inspector. He could have bought their silence. He wouldn't be the first."
"Bought their—" Gregson checked himself and regarded me with a wearisome expression. "You're a strange one, Mr Holmes. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"It has been mentioned."
"You come back here with a tale of the walking dead, accuse the governor of one of our foremost prisons of corruption and expect me to believe you. Well, you don't lack nerve, I'll give you that, especially showing your face back here after what happened last time."
"That was none of my doing."
"Lestrade thinks you were in it up to your neck." His gaze did not waver. I sensed he was trying to provoke me into a reaction. I did not respond. "Still, what does he know? That's why I've got the big office and he's in a cupboard overlooking the back yard. Actually, I should thank you. Finding that diadem did me the world of good."
I could dispute that he had found it, but I could not admit that it had been me who had persuaded Miles to return it, since I had given him my word that I would not confess his part in the theft to the police. That Miles had then attached my name to it and raised the ire of inspector and constable alike did not mean I was about to emulate his example and break faith with him, as tempting as that prospect was.
"And what's good for me," he went on, "is bad news for Lestrade. And for you too, judging from the look of you. Times hard, are they?"
"They've been better."
"Then perhaps you should find yourself a proper job and stop wasting police time." He rummaged in a drawer and took out a towel. "You stink, young man," he said, tossing it in my direction. "Here, clean yourself up."
From the encrusted smears, it looked as though it was the towel he used for cleaning his boots. It sufficed to wipe away the worst of the dirt, although I was still aware of a lingering smell of horses and rotting cabbage.
"Let me tell you how it stands, Mr Holmes," said Gregson, leaning forward to resting his elbows on the desk. "I've got half a dozen cases on hand at the moment – real cases, mark you, not made-up ones, nor based on rumour or superstition. I haven't the time to go chasing after ghosts. We're short-handed as it is. So, here's what I propose."
His tone was conversational, almost too reasonable.
"You say this Vamberry escaped the prison, with or without the assistance of the governor. But how are we to know if this fellow the clergyman and tailor saw wasn't just a good likeness? They say everyone has a double. You concede that it's possible?"
"Yes, it's possible."
"Very well then. I'm satisfied with that explanation."
"I'm not, Inspector. A man has escaped justice and is about to flee the country."
"That's what I thought you'd say." His eyes took on a hard gleam. "Since you're so sure Vamberry is alive, if you can prove to me that it's possible for a man to escape Postern, I promise you that I'll look further into the matter."
"How do I prove it?"
An almost feral grin settled on his features. "By going to prison."
I stared at him, not sure whether he meant it.
"What's the matter, Mr Holmes? Feel unequal to the challenge? Prison too daunting for you?"
"No," I replied. "I just hadn't credited you with that much imagination, Gregson."
His smile faded. "If Vamberry escaped, then he did so by his own wits. I want to see if you can do the same." He drew a ten pound note from his pocket and placed it on the desk between us. "How do you feel about taking a wager, Mr Holmes? A tenner says you can't do it in a week."
"And what of Vamberry? While you play games, Inspector, he is free to go where he pleases, when he pleases."
"I'll tell the lads to keep a lookout for a man called Robinson matching his description who might be trying to leave the country. But that's all I'm prepared to do for the time being. You see, let's say I believe you – which I don't – but if I go asking questions at Postern, I'm liable to get the standard answers. If Vamberry did escape and the governor and his staff kept silent about it, they aren't going to admit as such to me. But if you go, mingle with the other prisoners, find out how the situation is, you might learn more. And if you can escape… well, you'll be ten pounds richer."
I had underestimated him. His suggestion had a touch of genius about it. Whilst I did not relish the thought of prison life, he was correct in asserting that I would be better placed to assess the situation at Postern.
"And if I fail to escape?"
"Then you'll owe me ten pounds."
I wondered if he knew about my straitened circumstances. "That's a great deal of money, Inspector."
"I know, Mr Holmes. If you haven't got it, you can pay me back in kind. You've got your faults, but you're not unintelligent."
"Thank you, Gregson," I muttered.
"So, what do you say?"
I considered. "What happens if after a week I haven't managed to escape?"
"I'll get you out of there, don't worry." He gave a grunt of laughter. "What, don't you trust me?"
"If I have your word."
"Certainly, if I have yours that this arrangement stays between ourselves. If it's going to work, no one must know what we're planning. You go in like any other prisoner, Mr Holmes. No special treatment. You knuckle down to the regime, you find out what's going on, and if you can, you escape and prove to me that it's possible."
I understood his reasoning. If anyone ever suspected that I was working for Gregson, I would learn nothing and could find myself in a great deal of danger. I also understood that in the list of people he was worried I might inform was his rival, Lestrade. Despite Gregson's arrogance, I suspected that the pecking order at the Yard was not as settled as he claimed. I was aware that I would be used to enhance his standing; I was further aware that by allowing me to conduct my own investigation, should I be proved wrong, he would not be seen to lose face by the experiment. All the risks were on my side, all the glory likely to be on his. It promised to be a thankless task.
Against that I had to consider that a condemned man had evaded justice and that only I stood between his freedom and recapture. I also had something to prove, both to myself and those who had derided me in the street. If I was ever to win back the respect of the Yarders, this was the best opportunity that had come my way in many a month.
As truces went, ours was unlikely, uneasy and too good to let past grievances stand in our way. And I have never been one to back down from a challenge.
"I accept, Inspector," I said. "How soon can you make the arrangements?"
"By tomorrow, if that suits you."
"It does. Until tomorrow then."
As I gathered up my things and made for the door, Gregson called me back.
"Good luck at Postern, Mr Holmes," said he grimly. "You'll certainly need it."
Good idea or bad idea? He's soon going to find out. Off to prison next!
Continued in Chapter Three!
