Chapter Eighteen

At five o’clock that afternoon there was a great thudding of doors and snapping of keys in Telsbury Prison. The evening meal-hour was over. The last visit had been paid by the chief wardress. Laundries, cook-houses, and workshops had been locked up by the officers responsible, and the five halls, that ran, star-shaped, from the common centre, were deserted except for the wardress on duty at the desk, who was reading the letters which had come addressed to the prisoners and which would be delivered to them in the morning. She worked with the sure eye and hand of an expert, using her blue pencil to cover up such items of general news as convicts are not allowed to receive.

So engaged, she heard the burr of a “call,” and, looking round, saw that the red disc had fallen over one of the hundred apertures in the indicator. She put down her pencil, walked along the hall, and, stopping before a cell, inserted her key and pulled the door open.

The woman who rose from her bed did not wear the prison livery. Instead, she was dressed in a dark blue costume; her hat and coat lay on the bed and on top a pair of new gloves. In one corner of the cell was a small Gladstone bag and an umbrella.

“I am sorry to trouble you, madam,” said the prisoner nervously, “but I wondered if they had forgotten, if----” Her voice shook and she found it difficult to speak.

“They haven’t forgotten, Mrs. Pinder,” said the wardress calmly. “The officer should not have put the lock on you.” She pushed the door open wide. “If you feel lonely come out and sit with me.”

“Thank you,” said the woman gratefully, and the official saw that she was very near to tears. “Only the governor told me that he had telegraphed to my friends. There has been no reply?”

“There wouldn’t be,” said the tactful wardress. “They will be here very soon. Probably they think that you would prefer to wait.” She laughed. “Usually prisoners are discharged in the morning, but the Home Office allowed the governor to use his discretion in letting you out over-night. I don’t think I should worry, Mrs. Pinder.”

She waited at the door.

“Come out when you want,” she said good-humouredly. “There’s the whole hall to walk in and the lock is on, so you won’t be seen by any of the women.”

Mary Pinder came slowly into the wide hall and looked along the familiar vista of small black doors, tier upon tier, at the big window at the end of the hall through which the light of the evening sun was shining. For the first time in twenty years she was free of restraint, could walk without observation, and soon would pass through that steel-barred grille into God’s sweet air and into a world of free people.

She checked the sobbing sigh that came, and, her hands tightly clasped together, stood motionless, thinking. She dared not believe the story she had been told; dared not let her mind rest upon what happiness lay beyond the bars.

The wardress had gone back to the desk and her occupation, and the woman watched her wistfully. She was in contact with the world; had a husband perhaps, and children, outside these red walls. Mary Pinder had been cut off from life and human companionship for nearly twenty years. Outside the world rolled on; men had risen and fallen, there had been wars and periods of national rejoicing; but here, in this shadowy place, life had been grey, without relief, and even pain had become a monotony.

She walked timidly towards the officer and sat down in a chair near her. The wardress stopped her work to smile encouragingly, and then laid down her pencil again.

“I hope you’re going to forget this place, Mrs. Pinder?”

The other shook her head.

“I shouldn’t think it were possible--to forget,” she said. “It is life, most of the life I have known. I was eighteen when I came here first; twenty-three when I was transferred to Aylesbury, and thirty when I came back. I have little else to remember,” she said simply.

The woman looked at her curiously.

“You’re the only prisoner I’ve ever known that I had any faith in, Mrs. Pinder,” she said.

Mary Pinder leant forward eagerly.

“You believe that I was innocent?” And, when the woman nodded: “Thank you. I--I wish I had known that somebody believed that.”

“I wish I had told you,” said the wardress briefly. Then, as the sound of a turning key came to her: “Here comes somebody who thinks you were innocent, at any rate,” she said, and rose to meet the governor.

“All dressed and ready, eh?” said he cheerfully. “You’re a lucky woman! I wish to heaven I were free of this wretched place. But I am a prisoner here until I die!”

It was a stock joke of his and the woman smiled, as he took her arm and paced with her along the hall.

“Your friends will not be here until ten o’clock. I’ve just had a wire. They thought you’d rather leave after dark. Do you know where you’re going?”

“I haven’t any idea,” she said. “The address I gave you will always find me.” And then, in a changed tone: “Doctor, I wasn’t dreaming that you told me about--about----”

“That young lady who saw you? No, it is a most amazing coincidence. If I’d had any brains I should have known, the moment I saw how upset she was, that she was the girl with the branded arm.”

“My daughter!” she breathed. “Oh God, how wonderful! How wonderful!”

“They didn’t want to let you know. They were afraid of the effect it might have upon you. She’s a pretty girl.”

“She’s lovely,” breathed Mary Pinder. “She’s lovely! And does she know?”

He nodded.

“She knew that day she was in my room, when I told her about Lois Margeritta. If there’s any doubt about it the letter I had from the Under-Secretary should set your mind at rest. She went to see him with the idea of getting further particulars about the--about the crime you were charged with committing. Mrs. Pinder, will you tell me something?” He dropped her arm and faced her. “I am an old man and haven’t a very long time to live, and I’ve lost most of the little faith in human nature I ever possessed. Were you innocent?” He paused. “Were you innocent or guilty?”

“I was innocent.” She raised her eyes fearlessly to his. “What I have told you has been the truth. I went out to look for work, and when I came back I was arrested.”

“What about your husband? Where was he?”

She shook her head.

“He was dead,” she said simply. “I didn’t know then, but I have learnt since. Doctor, do you believe that?”

He nodded silently.

“You’ve been wonderful to me, sir,” she said in a low sweet voice. “I wish I could repay you for your kindness.”

“Well, you can,” he said in his gruff way. “When you get out into the world, you’re bound to meet some poor women who will suggest that you have your hair dyed red--don’t do it.”

He found an especial pleasure in the soft laughter that his jest evoked.

“And now you can come along and dine with my wife and me,” he said. “The only satisfaction I’ve ever got out of having a house within the prison walls.”

At five minutes past ten that night a small saloon motor-car drew up before the gates of Telsbury Prison and the driver got down and pulled the bell. He was challenged, as usual, from the wicket.

“I’ve called to take away Mrs. Pinder,” he said.

“You had better come in and see the governor.”

“I’d rather stay.” The driver lit a cigarette and paced to and fro to kill the time. But he had not long to wait; five minutes after, the little wicket-gate swung open and a woman stepped out.

“Is that Mrs. Pinder?” asked the man in a voice little above a whisper.

“Yes, it is I.”

“Let me take your bag.”

He opened the door of the car, pushed the bag inside and put out his hand to help her enter. Then, swinging into the driver’s seat, he closed both doors and sent the car spinning along the London road. In the shadow of the prison-gate the doctor watched the departure, and turned back with a sigh towards his office. Telsbury Prison had lost something of its interest with the passing of one whom the newspapers had described as “The Hereford Murderess.”