The Particular Problem of Postern Prison
Chapter Thirteen
Of the night that followed, my remembrance is incomplete. At some point, while darkness held sway outside and my room was lit by the poor light of a tallow candle, a memory was formed when I opened my eyes to a land peopled by images that moved about me in blurs and indistinct shapes. I had had the strongest feeling of nausea and the bile had burned the back of my throat in its rush to escape. I had been cold and shivering, assaulted on all sides by the moving objects that had held me fast and forced a bitter-tasting liquid into my mouth.
The drug worked as before, and I had slept again, a dream-free, untroubled sleep. Only when the prison bell had chimed eight had consciousness begun to reassert itself. Perhaps that is too grand a description of my state, for although my eyes were open, a stupefying mixture of drugs had conspired to muddy my wits. It took a terrifyingly long time for anything approaching a rational thought to come to my mind. At first, I knew nothing, except confusion. Later, a name began to form – my name, I supposed – and then I held onto it every ounce of my being, as a drowning man might cling to the scantest piece of driftwood in the hope of deliverance.
I had a name – Sherlock Holmes – and precious little else. Another drifted in and out of my thoughts, Henry, as though it should mean something. I sought to follow where it led, only to be overwhelmed by the strongest sense of impending danger. Somewhere beyond the dying light of the candle, some indescribable horror lay in wait for me. I could not define it, except to know it was present. What form it should take in a room where I was alone and on my back on a bed of hard boards and swaddled in a dirty, vomit-stained blanket was beyond my grasp. I knew only that I had to rouse myself and escape from whatever it was that was waiting from me.
My best effort, after falling from the bed onto the hard stone floor and enduring an agonising crawl across the bare flagstones, brought me to a locked door. A breeze crept beneath, taunting me with smells of a world that existed beyond my prison walls. The door was locked from the outside, presenting an inside surface that was as smooth and cool as a solid sheet of ice. I had come so far but could go no further.
Frustration at the sheer futility of my labours should have made me rage against this obstacle, but I was drained. I could not muster up the energy to return to the bed, so that when the three men came they found me prostrate by the door, a helpless, exhausted wretch, unable to resist as I was hauled onto a stretcher and borne from the room.
With every step they took along the mildewing passageway, the same warning instinct that had driven me into action before now screamed dire panic in my ears. I tried raising my arms and managed only the feeblest of movements. My head I managed to lift a few inches, and it was to see the back of the younger man's head, his dark brown hair peeping out in a uniformly straight-line beneath the band of his cap. Above me, the older, blond-hair man with the scarred face, the one called Andrews, offered a thin smile of consolation, never breaking his stride for a moment.
"Not long now, sir," said he, as though my imminent encounter with whatever horror lay at the end of the passage was a thing to be lauded. "It's no good you getting yourself in a state about it. See if you can't walk the final steps on your own. You'll feel better in yourself for it if you can."
If I had any doubt about where those final steps might take me, they were soon dispelled when I was carried into the chamber of execution, where stood the white-painted gallows surrounded by a grim-faced gathering.
There is nothing quite like knowing one is about to be hanged for concentrating the mind, to paraphrase Dr Johnson. The effect of the drugs still held sway over my body, but at least my thoughts were my own. I knew these faces and I knew what they intended: Merridew, resigned and righteous in his sober black apparel; the chaplain, Bible in hand, trying his best to stifling a yawn; Dr Martin, forever glancing at his watch, with another appointment to keep elsewhere; and another man, whose name I did not know, but whose proprietorial glances and fidgeting adjustments to the length of rope with its end noosed ready for the neck of the condemned marked him out as the executioner.
At the head of our solemn procession strode Webb, Merridew's minion and dispenser of summary justice with the aid of boot and fist. The two warders who carried me between them were not familiar to me, as I was not to them. We, along with the hangman, were meeting for the first and, in my case, last time. Possibly they did not know my assumed identity and nor was it necessary. Their role in this unsavoury business was only as witnesses; should the need arise, they could testify that they had carried the condemned to his execution and that the sentence had been carried out.
It was a comfort not to die in ignorance, but I was at a loss to see how my restored awareness would make any difference to the outcome. It was not Sherlock Holmes they were hanging this day – although certainly his death would be the result of these proceedings – but a thief by the name of Henry Holmes, worthless in their eyes compared to the financial reward to be earned from letting a murderer go free to return to his former occupation.
By the time anyone learned of my fate, it would be too late for me. But if there was any consolation, it was in knowing that I would not be shuffled away into the quietness of the grave unavenged. I was sure that Lestrade would keep to our plan. He would be waiting outside, ready to waylay the coffin when it emerged, fully expecting not to find the body of the condemned man, Morgan, but one of the prisoners killed in the abortive escape bid. Instead he would find me.
What would he make of that, I wondered. Another blunder on the part of an upstart pretender, compounding the first of his errors in having himself incarcerated by then getting himself hanged to prove that what he suspected about the underhand dealings at Postern were true? I dare say there are few who have ever taken a part so far to prove a point and it was not a distinction of which I felt particularly proud. On the other hand, he might take the compassionate view, as befitting a man of his nature who had gone so far as to contribute to the collection made for a fellow officer and rival, and see my demise as the waste of potential that it undoubtedly was. I fancied that despite our differences we had forged something of worth during the course of our fledgling alliance, even if it was only simmering contempt for each other's methods.
Certainly I expected more of a response from him than I would my brother. Mycroft would rationalise my death as the inevitable consequence of my chosen course. He would not grieve, but would harvest the pity of others in telling them how in vain he had tried to steer his misguided brother to a safer path. Having manipulated the affair to his advantage, it would be 'poor Mycroft' they would be consoling, whilst their scorn would be reserved for 'inconsiderate Sherlock'. It would be a fitting epitaph, if Mycroft had any say in the matter.
It occurred to me, as my two attendant warders overseen by their superior, Webb, set about pinioning my wrists, ankles and arms, that therein might lie my salvation. My deception had been too polished, and conversely it had told against me. If they knew of my real identity, would it stay their hand, knowing that others knew of their arrangement, or, having come thus far, would they continue regardless? I had no way of knowing. Only a practical test would tell, and I had nothing to lose in pursuing the experiment.
I was not sure of my voice, but the movement of my mouth was enough to cause Webb to bend over me.
"What is he saying, Mr Webb?" asked Merridew.
"Sounds like 'sheer luck'," he replied. "Talking about how he was caught, no doubt." He chuckled. "Bad luck is more like it, Mr Morgan."
"We will observe dignity in this room," reproved the governor. "It is not our place to judge the wrongdoer. 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saieth the Lord'. You would do well to remember that, Mr Webb. Whatever his crimes, it is to his maker that Mr Morgan must answer. We are but the instruments of that higher justice. Mr Pelham?" He looked to the man I had taken to be the executioner. "May we proceed?"
A small man with a crooked nose and round glasses, Mr Pelham reacted to this question in much the same manner as if he had been asked whether the week's accounts had been prepared. That a man's life was about to be ended seemed to hold little meaning for him. His attitude was one of practicality: an unpleasant task had to be performed and the responsibility had fallen to him. He would do it to the best of his ability and that would be an end of the matter, for all parties concerned.
"I believe I am ready, Mr Merridew. It is approaching nine, sir."
"I am well aware of the time. Very well, Mr Webb, get Mr Morgan to his feet."
They stared down at me, waiting for me to comply. I had no intention of going meekly to my death; indeed, I had no intention of going anywhere. If I could delay the proceedings long enough, if nine o'clock passed and the prison bell did not ring, I harboured a vain hope that outside Lestrade might become suspicious enough to investigate.
Since every second counted, I made some show of trying to rise, no easy thing when one's arms and ankles are pinioned. Patience was not seen as a virtue that day and, at Merridew's order, I was hauled upright and dragged over to the mark painted on the trapdoor. They tried to leave me, but I had not the strength to stand. I sagged and Andrews was left to curse as he struggled to take my weight.
"Dear me," said Pelham, pushing his glasses a little higher up his nose, "another one overcome by the emotion of the moment. One would wish for a little more fortitude from the condemned."
"Mr Webb, get a chair," ordered Merridew. "And be quick about it. Time is pressing."
"I'm sure Mr Morgan won't mind a little delay."
"He might not, but I do," said Dr Martin. "Can't we do without a chair? Damned waste of good furniture, if you ask me."
"We can wait, Doctor," Merridew replied. "Mr Webb won't be long."
True to his word, Webb's absence was all too brief for my liking. A spindle-backed chair was found and thrust under me. I tried falling to one side and saw my efforts rewarded with a steadying hand on my shoulder whilst the leather belt around my torso was unbuckled and threaded through the upright struts of the chair back to hold me in place.
"One minute to nine," said Merridew, consulting his watch. "Mr Pelham, if you would be so good…"
"I don't know that I can, Mr Merridew," Pelham protested. "The chair changes everything. The drop will have to be recalculated. I'll have to let the rope out again."
"Then recalculate and make the necessary adjustments," came the terse reply. "But see to the prisoner first."
The little man obeyed without question. The rope came first, thrust over my head to lay heavy against the skin of my throat. Next came the white hood, dragged down before my eyes so that I might not see the moment the lever was thrust back to operate the trapdoors and that the others might be spared my final moments. The fine linen fluttered back and forth, the feather touch of an obscene butterfly against my cheek, as my breath drove in and out of my lungs with a force over which I had no control.
I believe there is no shame in admitting that as the waiting went on my hands would not stop trembling or that my soul was rent with some strange thrill of horror and trepidation. I defy any man to sit as I did, with a rope around my neck and the knowledge that the next moment could be my last, and feel nothing. It was not fear of death or the process of reaching that stage that occupied my thoughts, but an overwhelming sense of frustrated anger. There was much I had left undone. Vamberry was still at large, Morgan was abroad using my assumed name, and anything I had learnt from this experience was about to go to waste.
That last consideration cut the deepest. Having stared into the abyss, nothing that could follow in the course of my subsequent career would have ever had quite the same effect on me again. My nerves would have been proof against the severest of shocks. Of all the injustices I held against Merridew, that was the bitterest. I had underestimated the cunning of the man, and the cruelty of which he was capable. Never to have a chance of rectifying my mistakes rankled – and yet even at this late stage hope was not ready to be abandoned.
Rescue came as the clock struck the first peel of nine. In the silence of the execution chamber, the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside was unmistakeable. Martin uttered an exclamation, followed by a curse from Webb and then an expression of displeasure from Merridew. I felt the movement of air as someone passed me, heading for the door to investigate the unseemly disturbance. I heard the door hinges squeal open and the metal knob thud against the plasterwork, and then, amidst the tramp of heavy boots and the laboured breathing of their owners, came a familiar voice, ordering a halt to the proceedings.
"How dare you interrupt in this manner, Inspector," Merridew retorted. "You have no authority to—"
"I have a pardon for this man, Governor. He is to be released."
"Morgan, the Chiswick poisoner? I very much doubt it. Let me see this document."
"Certainly, Mr Merridew, after you show me the face of that man."
A momentary pause ensued. "Inspector Lestrade," Merridew began reasonably, "you know full well that is not how we do things at Postern. I do not believe for one moment that you have a pardon in your possession. I understand that you had concerns the last time you were here, but let me assure you, we have followed the law to the letter in this instance. Now, if you would excuse me—"
The next I knew, Lestrade had sprung to my side and pulled the hood from my head. "That is not Morgan the poisoner," he said, gesturing to me. "He was arrested at Clapham an hour ago travelling under this man's name. How do you explain that, Governor?"
No reply was needed, for the explanation was self-evident. The scene deteriorated into confusion as the host of police descended on the gathering. Protests rose loud and only Merridew remained unmoved, reserving a look of cold fury for both myself and Lestrade, one that slowly transformed into something approaching grim satisfaction. What he found amusing in the midst of capture intrigued me and I followed the turn of his gaze to where Pelham was violently denying any part in the proceedings.
"This is nothing to do with me!" he was whining. "I was told this was the condemned man. Believe me, I did not know!"
It was the direction that his path was taking him as he backed away from the approaching constable that gave me the greatest cause for concern. Each step took him closer to the lever that operated the trapdoor. I had yet to be freed from the noose that lay still around my neck while Lestrade was making heavy work of buckle of the body belt. I tried to speak, and too late Lestrade was alerted to what was about to happen.
I could only watch as Pelham blundered back, collided with the lever and suddenly the floor gave way beneath me.
Get out of that one, Mr Holmes! I'm giving nothing away if I say of course he does… but how? Speculation welcome!
Continued in Chapter Fourteen!