Mrs Midnight and Other Stories (17 page)

‘It came by post this morning,’ he said. ‘Alice Southern has agreed to make a full private confession to me of her sins. Afterwards she will write out and sign an unreserved acknowledgement of her crimes for the authorities. She will make her Easter Communion in the prison fully shriven, as white and innocent in the eyes of God as the day she was born.’

When I had put down the cup and paten I shook his hand, not knowing what else to do.

‘Thank you, dear man. Thank you. Our prayers have been answered. I believe Miss Southern has developed into a very exceptional young lady. I have been speaking to her and it is clear to me that she has a most remarkable prayer life. The miseries heaped on her childhood have been turned by the alchemy of the Holy Spirit into some very astonishing spiritual gifts and charisms. Of course,’ he said, checking himself, ‘one must tread carefully, but I believe that with the right spiritual director she may travel far along a path that few tread. You know, she has spoken to me more than once about entering an enclosed order of Anglican Nuns upon her release.’

‘Isn’t it a little premature of her to be talking of that already?’

‘Perhaps, perhaps. But hope is a precious thing, and a great virtue.’

This afternoon his carriage takes him to Hurst and Miss Southern will be shriven. I cannot explain why I do not share his joy.

Tuesday 7th April 1885

Workmen arrive to fit the mosaic floor into the sacristy. The design is relatively simple, and is mainly in black and white. There is a key pattern border, most of which will be obscured by vestment cupboards and the like and so will not be seen; then in the centre is a circle within a square in black on white and in the black circle the white Chi Rho symbol of Christ. The only elements of colour are to be found within the spandrels between the circle and the square which encloses it. In these four triangular spaces are the winged heads of four golden haired cherubs, and I must admit they have been done most beautifully; the gradations in the flesh tones have been very minutely observed. One thing that puzzles me is that the necks of the cherubs which are just shown each have a line of scarlet running around them. The line may be designed to indicate a mere crease in the flesh, but this does not seem to me to be the case. It looks to me as if their necks had been tied around with a length of scarlet thread, or ribbon. I tried to indicate this oddity to Father Devereux, but he ignored me.

Thursday 30th April 1885

My dreams are always most vivid at the full moon. I cannot tell why this is. Last night it was a full moon, and I dreamed that I was in my night-shirt and bare feet standing in St Simeon’s. Shafts of pale moonlight bathed the vast heights of the church in sepulchral luminescence. I was standing outside the door of the sacristy from which I could hear the sound of weeping and whimpering, as if many children were engaged in communal mourning over their short lives. Then, as one is in dreams, I felt myself compelled towards the door of the sacristy which I entered. Inside I found I had difficulty standing up: the floor was damp, uneven, unsteady and somehow
soft
. Something yielded gently to my bare feet. I looked down and saw that, beneath a thin film of water, I was treading upon the faces of dead children, wide-eyed, golden haired, cherubic. I felt their little dead mouths kiss my feet. Then the slow murmur of a thousand whimpering infants began again and in my terror I hurled myself out of sleep. Most of my bedclothes had slipped to the ground and my bare extremities were exposed to the chill night air. I was sweating profusely.

At breakfast Father Devereux is very hearty. He remarks that I look rather ‘under the weather’.

‘Never mind,’ he says, ‘I have a jaunt for you this afternoon. You are coming with me to Hurst Prison. It is a pleasant enough drive and it is time you joined me in my work there. We shall be taking tea with a rather remarkable young lady.’

He was so buoyed up with the idea that he seemed oblivious of my dismay.

To my surprise I rather enjoyed the drive out to Hurst. It was a fine spring day and Father Devereux read from a prayer book the whole way, so I was undisturbed by conversation.

If it were not for the high walls, and the monumental gatehouse Hurst might be taken for a sanatorium rather than a prison. Its grounds are extensive and well kept, and though the main buildings in red brick have an institutional air about them they are not oppressive. We were met by the Governor and the Chaplain whom Father Devereux treated with the utmost respect. The Chaplain responded a little warily, I thought. I had the feeling that there had been an element of professional rivalry in the past, but that the issue had been resolved, somewhat in Father Devereux’s favour.

Conditions within were Spartan, but not dingy. Presently we were shown into a room with a south facing bay window where, at a table sat the most notorious murderess of our times.

There is nothing exceptional about Alice Southern. She is neither beautiful nor ugly, and she has a simple, honest face such as I would like to see on a wife of mine if I ever marry. The plainness of her prison garments did not conceal the fact that her figure is well-formed and mature, and might, in other circumstances, attract admiration.

She looks younger than her thirty-five years, though perhaps it would be truer to say that she seems to belong to no particular age. Her skin is pale, but smooth and unblemished. The only indication that she has lived a less than contented life is to be found in her mouth which is long, thin-lipped and has been formed into a perfect downward bending curve, a kind of permanent smile in reverse. Her eyes are dark and deep set. I could read nothing into them except that, as soon as Father Devereux entered the room, her look became fixed on him and barely left his face the whole time we were there. When we were introduced she gave me only the briefest of glances and a curt nod.

A young wardress entered with a tray of tea and Miss Southern stood up in her presence. When the wardress had gone Miss Southern served tea silently with the composure of a practised hostess. It was Father Devereux who broke the silence.

‘I have brought you what you asked for, my dear.’

From the folds of his cloak Father Devereux brought forth a sheaf of papers and handed them to Miss Southern who laid them out eagerly on the table. I will not say she smiled exactly, but the sullen corners of her mouth became wrinkled in an attempt to show delight.

I craned my neck to see what had given her such pleasure and was astonished by what I saw. They were architects’ ground plans and elevations of St Simeon’s Church and our Rectory in Albion Street. Miss Southern must have noticed my amazement because she briefly addressed a few remarks in my direction.

‘I like to form a picture in my mind of where you both live and work and worship, you see. I hope that one day, by God’s Grace, I shall visit it in the flesh so to speak, but, in the meantime, I can at least, in spirit, dwell with you sometimes, even pray before your altar, or attend to you in the sacristy. It is an inexpressible comfort to me to know that my—our floor is being trod by your feet.’ I think I shuddered a little.

‘My dear,’ said Father Devereux, ‘You must not let your fancy run away with you.’

‘No, Father. You are quite right. I shall not. But even the vilest sinners amongst us may hope. I know that I am redeemed, not through any virtue of my own, but solely through the blood of Jesus Christ, and the intercession of the Blessed Virgin.’

Her speech was low, even and ladylike. There was not a hint of unfeminine assertion about it; yet I could not help feeling that everything she said was a recital. I could imagine her preparing all her speeches meticulously in her cell beforehand.

For about ten minutes Father Devereux and she were engaged in a rather dull conversation about parish news and ecclesiastical affairs in general. Miss Southern listened eagerly to Father Devereux’s news from beyond her walls, and occasionally asked questions which showed that she was an attentive and intelligent listener. Nevertheless, I felt sure that there was something else she was waiting for, far more important to her than church matters. Finally, it came.

‘My dear Alice,’ said Father Devereux, ‘I have made up my mind to write to the Home Secretary about your case.’ Miss Southern gave a little gasp. ‘Now, my dear, I have warned you. All this will take time. I must gather support. My word alone is not sufficient.’

‘But you know the Prime Minister, Mr Gladstone!’

‘We are acquainted; he has attended divine service at my poor church, but do not underestimate the power of reaction and the unthinking prejudice of the great masses. These things sway events far more than great ones choose to imagine.’

I watched them as they talked together. Her eyes were fixed on his and if Father Devereux made the slightest move, even if it was a mere inclination of the head, her own movement mirrored it in the minutest detail. To an outside observer it could have looked like mockery, but I sensed that it had a deeper purpose. Twice Father Devereux half rose to leave, but Miss Southern held him in her glance, spoke and compelled him to sit down again. The second time she did this I saw a little frown of annoyance wrinkle Father Devereux’s brow. Miss Southern, I believe, noticed it too because the next time he rose to leave she dropped her gaze, releasing him from her spell. We said our farewells and walked to the door. Just as we reached it Father Devereux turned back impulsively and said:

‘Do not despair, my dear. We shall do our very best for you, and when you are released, you must come to live with us, and enrich our lives. You shall be the belle of Brighton. We will put the roses back in your cheeks. Dr Brighton shall do his work!’

I could not help feeling that these were not wise words, and I suspect that Father Devereux felt so too, because he was silent until we were in the carriage and on our way back to Brighton.

‘Do you not think that Miss Southern is a very remarkable young woman?’ he said at last. I agreed that this was so.

‘My dear man, I would like to beg a favour of you,’ said Father Devereux, his eyes fully on mine. ‘I would like you to write to your Uncle, the Bishop of Calcutta, explaining the circumstances, Miss Southern’s contrition, the fact that she is a model prisoner, the length of her sentence already served, and asking for his support in petitioning for her release.’

‘Would the request not be better coming from you?’

‘Ah, no, you see, my dear fellow, for two reasons. In the first place the Bishop and I, as you know, are old friends. There are certain ties of obligation between us which I would not like to be seen to . . . presume upon. You understand me? No. Perhaps it is better that you do not understand me. The second reason is that I believe the time is ripe for you to join me in this great work of redemption. You are a good young man, but I believe that your heart is not yet fully open to the loving work of God. This redemption shall also be your redemption.’

I told him that I would write to my uncle the Bishop that very evening. Father Devereux put his hand on my knee and squeezed it very warmly. For the rest of the journey back to Brighton he was in the highest of spirits. He even sang me a comic song or two in his rich baritone voice, but where and in what circumstances he had heard and learned them, I cannot conceive.

Thursday 14th May 1885

We have gathered quite a number of distinguished supporters to our petition to release Miss Southern. They include my uncle the Bishop and several other eminent churchmen, but the forces opposing us, as Father Devereux had predicted, are considerable. We have received a number of very offensive letters, and the words MURDERER LOVER have more than once been chalked upon the pavement outside the Rectory. All these injuries Father Devereux has borne most cheerfully, but this afternoon, as we were walking by the West Pier, a woman spat at him. She was a most respectable looking woman too, and she was accompanied by her equally respectable husband—I assume it was her husband—a small man with a large moustache and a brown bowler hat. He seemed quite untroubled by his partner’s action. Father Devereux tried to make light of the incident, saying that the lady must be a Presbyterian, or, at any rate, very Low Church, but I could tell he was disturbed. On our return to the Rectory he went straight into his study, shutting the door behind him.

As I was standing in the hall, pondering our encounter I was approached by Mrs Price. She asked me if I had been letting any of the choir boys play in the Rectory. I was utterly astonished by her suggestion.

‘Of course not, Mrs Price!’ I said. ‘What on earth gave you that idea?’

Mrs Price looked wounded by my brusqueness. She is one of those people who will look out for every possible opportunity to be aggrieved. ‘A regular Mrs Gummidge,’ Father Devereux once called her, though not to her face; he is too kind for that. After I had spent some time pacifying her, I asked what she meant.

‘We have heard the sound of children’s voices in the house. Violet, the chambermaid has left us on that account. You see, Father, they are not happy children’s voices.’

‘Have you looked in all the rooms, Mrs Price, to see if there have been any intrusions?’

Mrs Price shook her head, so we, on my insistence, searched and found nothing. As we were coming downstairs I told Mrs Price that if there was any more trouble she must speak to Father Devereux. Mrs Price looked at me fearfully.

‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to disturb the Father!’

At that moment Father Devereux emerged from his study. The mood of dejection had evaporated and he looked radiant and alive. Mrs Price immediately made off into the bowels of the house leaving Father Devereux and I standing on the red and black encaustic tiles of the entrance hall.

‘My dear man,’ he said, clutching my arm, ‘Have you heard of the phenomenon of bilocation?’

I shook my head.

‘Till now I had only read of it in books. I thought it was only the stuff of hagiography and myth, but it is not! There are such things as saints on this earth. God moves in mysterious ways!’