Two for Sorrow (36 page)

‘And were you at the club for dinner last night?'

‘What a charming way of asking for my alibi. No, I was here. I came straight back after my fitting because we had a bit of trouble in the hospital wing. When staff are off sick, it's all hands to the pump—or to the bedpan, in this particular case. There are plenty of people who'll confirm that.'

‘Did Marjorie have anything to do with the club, apart from the preparations for the gala?'

‘Not to my knowledge, although I bumped into her there yesterday lunchtime when she was dropping something off, and she seemed perfectly at home in those surroundings. She was certainly giving that awful Timpson woman the run-around.'

‘Oh? In what way?'

‘Well, you know the sort. She's a terrible snob and hates it if
the likes of Marjorie get above their station, and Marjorie was clearly enjoying the fact that she had as much right to be there as Timpson.'

‘But nothing more vindictive than that.'

‘Oh no. It was cheeky, but I didn't blame her. In fact, I encouraged her.'

‘I don't know if you're aware of this, but some of the Cowdray Club committee members have received some unpleasant letters.'

‘Yes, I know. I've had one myself.'

‘Really? It's not on the list that Miss Bannerman gave us.'

‘I didn't bother reporting it. Someone in my position gets lots of mail; most of it's kind and most of it's signed, but not all of it. I destroyed it as soon as it arrived.'

‘Can I ask what it referred to?'

‘Of course. It implied that my appointment here was the result of unfair favouritism from someone in the Home Office.'

‘And do you think there's any possibility at all that Marjorie was behind these letters?'

She didn't hesitate. ‘None whatsoever—not mine, anyway. It simply wasn't her style. If Marjorie had a grievance, she told you about it, and she didn't give a damn about the Home Office.'

‘Marjorie's friendship with Lucy Peters—did that begin in prison or did they know each other beforehand?'

‘No, they met here. Lucy's a different case altogether, though—a victim, and you would never have called Marjorie that, at least not until today.'

‘What was Lucy in prison for?'

‘Stealing from her employer. Of course, what wasn't obvious
until she'd been in here for three months was that her employer—or rather, her employer's son—had taken something from her as well. Technically, I know that's not an excuse but she's not the brightest of girls and there was no way that she was emotionally equipped to deal with either prison or pregnancy; both at the same time could have been a disaster, so I asked Marjorie to keep an eye on her.'

‘And she was happy to do that?'

‘Yes, I probably didn't even need to ask. Marjorie knew when someone was vulnerable.' Penrose couldn't help thinking that Marjorie had underestimated someone's vulnerability with tragic consequences, but he said nothing. ‘Have you spoken to Lucy yet?' Miss Size asked.

‘No. She'd gone off duty for the day by the time we got to the club.'

‘So she probably doesn't even know Marjorie's dead.'

‘We'll be speaking to her as soon as she returns this evening, and I'll make sure she's taken care of; my sergeant said you were worried.'

‘Yes, they were close. Will you make sure to tell her that she can come to me at any time?'

‘Of course. Would Marjorie have covered for Lucy?'

‘Almost certainly. Why?'

‘There have been a number of thefts at the club. One of the stolen items was found on Marjorie's body.'

‘What was it?'

‘A small silver photograph frame.'

‘And the photograph?'

‘Sorry?'

‘What was the photograph.'

‘It was a picture of a woman with her baby.'

‘That's what Lucy stole, then. The value of the frame was incidental. She's still grieving—you need to understand that. And it
is
a type of grief, you know, the pain a mother feels when she gives up her child, but it's not like bereavement; there are no certainties, no rituals like a funeral to begin the healing process. If you lose your child to adoption, you lose the right to know anything more about it and lots of women find the uncertainty very difficult. Lucy suffered a great deal—clearly she's still suffering. But Marjorie would definitely protect her.'

No wonder Josephine's manuscript had upset Lucy so much, Penrose thought. ‘What is the adoption procedure here? Are prison mothers encouraged to give up their children?'

‘No, it's entirely up to them. Babies are born here, in the hospital wing, and mothers are given pre-natal care and a lot of help after their confinement. On release, each mother gets a complete new outfit for the child. It's not much, I suppose, but it helps.'

‘And if the mother decides to give her child up?'

‘Then we arrange it for her as painlessly as possible. Our volunteers help a great deal with that, and the warders are involved to oversee the welfare of the prisoner.'

How things had changed since Lizzie Sach's adoption, Penrose thought; if Celia Bannerman had been more typical, if the support had been as open and as comprehensive thirty years ago, then at least one tragedy might have been averted. ‘Miss Bannerman must have been ahead of her time as a prison warder,' he said, but there was a knock at the door before she had a chance to respond.

‘Am I interrupting?' Josephine asked.

‘Not at all,' he said. ‘We've just about finished.'

‘Has Cicely shown you everything you need to see?' Mary Size asked, offering her a seat. She looked at the expression on Josephine's face as she sat down, and said sympathetically: ‘It's unsettling when you come to it for the first time.'

‘Yes, it is, but from what Cicely told me, it must have been much more so thirty years ago. She's marvellous—are all your staff as receptive to change as she is?'

‘Good God, no. In fact, I was just about to say to Inspector Penrose—some of the older ones are still very set in their ways and they're convinced we're giving the women a holiday rather than a punishment, but the young women coming through now are much more responsive and natural retirement is gradually shifting the balance. There's hope, as long as the girls are patient enough to wait for promotion. I've never understood why, but we're not allowed to sack people for being incompetent.'

‘Sadly, the prison service isn't alone in that stipulation,' Penrose said, smiling. ‘But I can see how frustrating it must have been for Miss Bannerman to be surrounded by such a rigid system.'

‘Indeed. Most warders of her generation would still tell you that I molly-coddle the girls, but if Celia came back to work here now, I'm pleased to say that she'd be in the majority. I'd have her like a shot, as well, but unfortunately she's too good at what she does now.'

‘You obviously admire her, but she told me that she'd been found lacking as a prison officer because she wasn't sufficiently detached.'

Josephine looked at him in surprise, but Mary Size just smiled. ‘I'd dispute that she'd been found lacking, from what I know. Prison is full of marred lives and wrecked hopes—
that's as true today as it was thirty years ago—and, as I understand it, if Celia had a fault it was that she concentrated on the individual rather than the system. I think her lack of detachment caused
her
more suffering than anyone in her care.' She turned to Josephine. ‘I know you've talked to Celia about Holloway back then, but, as I said, she certainly wasn't typical of her time. If you want to write about prison as it really was, you should talk to someone at the other extreme—Ethel Stuke, perhaps.'

‘I thought she was dead?'

‘Ethel?'

‘Yes, Celia told me she'd been killed in a Zeppelin raid during the war.'

‘Believe me, if she'd been caught in a Zeppelin raid, the Zeppelin would have come off worse. She's quite a force of nature, is Ethel. No, she was still working here when I arrived, although she left soon after.' There was something like pride in her voice, Josephine noticed, and it complemented the twinkle in her eye quite beautifully. ‘As far as I know, she's alive and well and living in Suffolk—we'll have her address on file. Celia must have meant one of the other warders—there were three sets of two looking after each condemned woman.'

‘Do you still keep staff records for Celia Bannerman?' Penrose asked.

‘Our records go back to when the prison came over to women, so I imagine they're in the archive somewhere. Can I ask why?'

‘She's the main link with the Sach case, and I wondered if her records might mention someone else who could help us.'

‘Bear with me a second and I'll find out.' She picked up the telephone. ‘Smithers? Come up to my sitting room, will you?' Her request was answered immediately. ‘This is Detective Inspector Penrose. Will you take him down to the office and look in the archive for a file on Celia Bannerman? She was a warder here in 1902. And give him Ethel Stuke's address as well.'

Penrose picked up the other two files. ‘I'll return these to you as soon as possible.'

‘Thank you. Do you mind if Miss Tey and I talk for a couple of minutes? I won't keep her long—I know you're busy.'

He looked at Josephine, who nodded and sat down again. ‘I'll see you downstairs. And thank you for your time, Miss Size. It's much appreciated.'

‘You're welcome, although I don't know how much use I've been to you.'

‘Apart from anything else, you've helped me to understand what happens when my job is over,' he said. ‘Sometimes I think we're not sufficiently aware of the consequences of what we do.'

He left, and Mary Size turned to Josephine. ‘Now, Miss Tey …'

‘Please—call me Josephine,' she said, ‘but can I ask you something first?' ‘Of course.'

‘Marta Fox—how did she cope?'

Mary Size looked surprised but, to her credit, she resisted the temptation to answer Josephine's question with one of her own. ‘I always think the miracle is that she
did
cope,' she said quietly. ‘I see every prisoner within hours of her arrival here, and I feared for Marta at first. It wasn't surprising after
everything she'd been through—an abusive marriage, the loss of her children in the most horrific circumstances, so many revelations which must have been impossible to come to terms with—but I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite as empty. Guilt and self-reproach, even despair—those are all emotions I'm used to seeing, and I can deal with them in whatever way is best for the prisoner concerned. But emptiness, a complete lack of concern for what happens to you—that's very hard, and it went on for some time. She refused all visits and returned all her letters unread—but you probably know that?'

Josephine nodded. ‘So what changed? Or
did
it change?'

‘Yes, gradually. Two things helped, I think. The gardens, strangely enough. She seemed to find peace there—peace, rather than nothingness. And her writing. I don't know what she was working on but, in the end, I think she wrote herself back to sanity.'

‘And now? What does it feel like to come out the other side of that?'

‘Is that really why you're here? To understand what she's been through?'

‘To
know
what she's been through, perhaps. I doubt that I could ever understand. But I would like to have some idea of what she needs now.'

‘Well, not the sort of help that the Prisoners' Aid Society can give, that's for sure. I'm not a psychologist, Josephine, but I'd say that Marta needs something—or someone—she can rely on. Something that isn't going to be snatched away from her. Above all, something safe.' The telephone rang on her desk. ‘We'll be right down,' she said. ‘They're waiting for you at the gate. I won't bother you with prison reform now; it looks like you might have your own rehabilitation project on your
hands, but do think about it, and if you want to talk to me—about anything at all—you know how to get hold of me. Next time, though, we'll have a drink at the club.'

‘And I'll see you at the gala on Monday.'

‘You certainly will, although I considered boycotting it because I'm furious that Celia's got Noël and Gertie. I can see I'm going to have to raise my game in the fundraising stakes; perhaps you could have a word with someone for me?'

Josephine smiled. ‘I'll see what I can do.'

‘Excellent. And if it's appropriate, Josephine, please give my regards to Marta.'

‘Do you think Celia Bannerman did mean one of the other prison warders?' Archie asked as he waited for a gap in the traffic streaming down Camden Road.

‘What? Oh, no, I don't. I'm sure she said Ethel Stuke—it's not the sort of name I'd make up.'