Authors: Janette Jenkins
Mr Henshaw sat in his chair, crossed his legs, tapped his left ankle and puffed on his cigar. The thick pungent smoke, along with the news, made Jane’s heart race faster. ‘A man came forward, with his daughter. It seems she was one of the many Axford Square girls. One fine day she pointed Swift out to her father when they were walking in the street. It appears the man worked with your so-called doctor years ago, on the variety circuit. He read the papers. He felt he had to say something.’
‘But wasn’t he, well …’
‘Embarrassed? Ashamed of his daughter’s predicament? Frankly, he gave her the money to go and get
it
done. He’s a theatrical, and like most theatricals he is quite blasé when it comes down to the nitty-gritty of … well, you understand me. They have both given a statement to the police, who had no choice but to make another arrest. Of course, the certificates Swift produced are now being scrutinised. They were supposed to be American. Frankly, he won’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘So people will finally believe me?’ said Jane.
Mr Henshaw pulled a face. ‘Ahh,’ he said. ‘They will certainly hear that you were not wholly to blame. That you were working with Swift. Alongside him.’
‘But my situation is better than before, isn’t it?’ insisted Jane. She was not sure whether to smile, laugh or cry, because Mr Henshaw was still looking most concerned.
‘Oh, definitely,’ he said, pulling a notebook from his pocket. He flicked through the pages. ‘The witnesses are a Mr George Butler and a Miss Imogen Butler. I don’t suppose you remember her?’
‘No, sir, though I might recognise her face.’
‘A date has been set for your appearance,’ Mr Henshaw told her. ‘Three weeks from today – though with the Swift breakthrough it might be postponed. Still, you must prepare yourself.’
‘How?’
Mr Henshaw, pulling loose tobacco from his teeth, told Jane she should practise looking gullible. If she appeared too clever and quick-thinking, the judge would only think she was devious and wily. The courtroom might think she was in financial cahoots
with
Swift. She should use simple language. ‘The language,’ he said, ‘of a poor London cripple.’
‘Will I have to talk to Dr Swift before we go to court?’
‘No,’ said Mr Henshaw. ‘We have no stories to collaborate. You will say your truth and he will say his. The judge, and if it comes down to it, a jury, will decide on the outcome. Regina versus Swift and Stretch,’ he said, ‘will certainly be interesting. It has taken up much of my time. It has taken column after column in the newspapers.’
Jane’s heart sank. ‘Did the prison send my letters?’ she asked.
‘Letters? I suppose so.’
‘Have you heard from my sister? If she’s still in London, she might have seen my name.’
Mr Henshaw smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter where she lives. If she can read at all, she will have seen your name. The newspapers are national, they are sent to every part of this country and beyond – oh, I daresay if your sister lived in Dieppe she would have seen your name written bold as you like in the headlines.’
‘Do you think she will visit me? Do you think she’ll send word? Her name is Agnes Elizabeth Stretch.’
‘Quite a mouthful.’
‘Will you write the name down?’
‘No need,’ he said, patting his stomach and reaching for his coat. ‘I daresay I’ll remember it. Oh, and before I forget …’ He reached into his bag and brought out a long sheet of paper. ‘A list to be studied,’ he said. ‘All my clients tell me that it helps.’
After the warden released Mr Henshaw, leaving Jane
with
the hovering remains of his cigar smoke, she read the list.
The list made her nervous. There was too much to remember. Nose-tapping? Weeping? If she was lucky, she just might remember to breathe.
The cell was cold. It had been her home for almost a month. Outside, autumn was turning quickly into winter. She pictured the leaves. The way they would throw them up as children. The colours were beautiful, like small yellow letters falling from the sky.
Rubbing her forehead, she went over her life with the Swifts. It had seemed so ordinary in the end. Why had it seemed so ordinary? She had known it was wrong but the girls were in trouble. They had asked to be treated. Begged for it. They were always glad of the help.
‘Someone to see you.’ She had heard a warden outside her cell and Jane stood as straight as her bones would let her. She could hear her ankles creaking as a gentleman entered her cell.
‘Do sit down,’ he said kindly. ‘And I wouldn’t mind a seat for myself.’ The warden gave a little curtsey, returning very quickly with a foldaway stool.
The man was grey-haired, his face waxy and unlined. A pair of pale blue eyes sat beneath course, unruly eyebrows. ‘How d’you do? I’m Mr Niven,’ he said. ‘I am the governor of this prison.’
Jane stood again without thinking. ‘Sir,’ she said, pressing her palms into the side of her legs like a broken toy soldier.
He smiled, indicating the bench with his hand. A small gold ring twinkled on his little finger. He had brought with him the scent of the outside world: the snuff, shaving soap and the coffee pot.
‘Miss Stretch,’ he said. ‘I come to you not in a professional capacity. Do you know what that means?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘From what I hear, you understand most things.’
‘Oh, don’t believe everything, sir,’ she blushed.
He shook his head. ‘If you are talking about the Press, I am attuned to the ways of the newspapermen,
and
I can read between the words, never mind the lines.’
‘I am not that girl they write about, sir. That very wicked-sounding girl isn’t me at all.’
Mr Niven opened up his hands. ‘It is not for me to make a judgement on a case that hasn’t been heard. I am a governor, not a judge,’ he said.
‘No, sir.’
He looked nervous for a moment, and Jane thought he appeared like an uncle asking for a favour, the way he now sat with a half smile, his eyes narrowed, twiddling his thumbs. ‘My wife,’ he began, glancing over his shoulder to see if the warden had stepped away from the door, ‘has taken to reading the papers of late, trying to take an interest in the outside world. Or so she says. She then holds debates inside our parlour. She has not been herself these past months,’ he confided, now scratching together his thumbnails, ‘what with one thing and another. Prison has an effect on her. Our own house is set inside these walls and my wife must be released from her own front gate by a guard. It can make her feel …’
‘Like a prisoner, sir?’ said Jane.
‘Exactly. My fault of course. She married an ordinary barrister, who turned into something else.’ Mr Niven gave a wistful smile. Jane liked looking at him. The brightness of his clothes. The way his shoes shone like beetles and the fine gold watch on its chain. There were no spills or stains. He looked like something polished. ‘My wife would like to meet you,’ he said.
‘She would, sir? Why?’ Jane looked down at her
prison
dress, the broken threads, the way the hem fell into a grey dusty pool. Her prison boots were too big, and put her in mind of a clown.
‘She thinks that you are interesting,’ he said. ‘That you would make for an afternoon’s conversation.’
‘I would make for conversation?’ Jane looked bemused. ‘You mean I would sit, and they would talk about me, sir?’
He leant forwards. ‘I am afraid my wife bans me from these events,’ he said. ‘But she is a kind woman, and I am led to believe that these afternoons are very jolly occasions for all concerned. She does not gossip. She would not mention your arrest, or ask why you are here at Newgate.’
‘Though she knows, sir?’
‘She has read the newspapers. She knows what the rest of London knows. No more, or less. I would not permit her to talk about it and she abides by my rules. Of course, these visits are not to be bragged about within the confines of the prison, leading as they might to jealousy, rumour and so on. I know I can trust you to be on your best behaviour.’
Jane wanted to ask him how he knew she would not wreak havoc in his own private residence. She wondered what his wife was like. Why was she interested in meeting her? Perhaps she had never spoken with a cripple. Did they behave like everybody else?
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it is an invitation, and you must feel free to refuse it.’
‘I accept, sir.’
Mr Niven quickly reddened. ‘You will? That’s
marvellous
. Of course, as governor, I must make it very clear that this is a private visit, and will do nothing to influence your case.’
‘I understand, sir. I would not expect it to.’
Mr Niven told her that his wife and her friends had already been visited by several other inmates, who on the whole had enjoyed the experience, though a certain female prisoner, now no longer with them, had taken it upon herself to steal a small gold box and to fill her ward with tittle-tattle regarding Mrs Niven, and all of it untrue.
‘It is a risk, of course, taking an inmate into your home, but we are a God-fearing family, and my wife is well known for her charity.’
‘When will I see her, sir?’ she asked.
Mr Niven looked thoughtful. ‘Would Friday suit?’ he asked. ‘I think Friday is her usual day for these visits.’
‘Yes, Friday would suit very well,’ said Jane, who could think of nothing else she would be doing that day.
The rain continued. She liked the sound of it. The way it drowned out the other noises. Lying in her hammock, Jane imagined the doctor in his own solitary prison cell, and though she could not help thinking he had got what he deserved, she worried about his wife. What must she be going through? How would Mrs Swift cope without him? Was there food in the kitchen? Would she starve? Jane wanted to see her again. She wanted to say that for all she had done in the past – the food, the
lodging
, the sash she had pinned to Jane’s poor dress – she was still very grateful.
The warden set down a bowl of lukewarm water, then threw Jane a bar of lemon-scented soap. ‘It’s not for your pleasure,’ she said, ‘it’s for hers.’ Jane didn’t care who the soap was for. She enjoyed the sharp tangy scent of it. It reminded her of Mrs Swift’s favourite pastilles. It made her mouth water.
Half an hour later, a different warden appeared. This time it was a man with brass buttons on his uniform. He was short and stocky, built like a wrestler, and Jane could see the way his muscles pressed hard against the cloth of his jacket.
‘Stretch? Are you Jane Stretch?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘You must sign this piece of paper,’ he told her. ‘Or put your mark to it. A cross will do.’
Much to his impatience, Jane read the paper through before signing her name with a flourish. The paper stated that Miss Stretch must remain silent, both now and in the future, regarding her visit to the governor’s private house.
‘You understand all this?’ said the warden.
‘Yes, sir,’ Jane told him. ‘I do.’
She was taken without handcuffs out of the cell and down the dismal corridor. Closed cell doors lined both walls. A man shuffled with dust rags on his feet and a switch in his hand, which he poked and prodded over the walls, felling cockroaches, beetles and spider’s webs. ‘Hello Bugs,’ said the warden.
‘Look
sharp now, time is marching on.’ Bugs doffed an invisible cap, and shuffling quicker, he made haste with the switch, shouting at the beetles to ‘Come out, come out, and make yourselves known!’ Eventually, Jane and the warden reached a quadrangle. Women walked mindlessly round in circles. One or two of them were cat-fighting. ‘Ladies,’ grinned the warden, ‘you are lowering the tone.’
Jane had felt nervous all morning, but now she felt sick to her stomach. She could feel the women’s eyes scouring her. What had brought them here? she wondered. Had they stolen money? Bread? Had they cut their children’s throats?
The prison was enormous. Jane had never been so far inside it. They passed rattling locks, list after list of rules and regulations posted on the walls. There were offices, laundries and special enclosures. Inside a noisy kitchen a cat sat washing its face; a woman holding a large head of cabbage threw it onto a table and hacked it in two, making Jane squeal. ‘My, my,’ said the warden, ‘you’re a bundle of nerves today, ain’t you?’ They passed workshops, where inmates were bent over tables, cutting strips of cloth.
‘What are they making, sir?’ she asked.
‘No idea,’ said the warden, ‘but they’re the trusted few, doing things with scissors.’
At the end of the corridor, a plump man hitched up his trousers and nodded to the warden, unlocking the gate with a long thin key. Outside, the day was bright, and Jane tipped her head to the clouds as the air rushed through her lungs. The world was still rain-sodden. It was cold and the wind made her eyes water as she
walked
down a grey pebble path, stepping over puddles, towards a red-bricked house, half hidden by a dirty privet hedge. At the green front door, Jane smoothed out her dress, for what it was worth, and pressed her hand to her loose damp hair. She could feel her heart racing as a maid in a black and white dress answered the bell, giving what Jane could only describe as a very filthy stare.
‘Hello, Olive,’ said the warden. ‘Another one for your missus.’
‘And what a strange-looking thing you’ve brought me this time,’ the maid shuddered. ‘I don’t know what Mrs Niven must be thinking of. Is she house-trained? Is she washed?’