41
A short time later, Detective Inspector Lestrade escorted me to a police coach. Every minute seemed like a day, a week, or longer. I kept seeing the prison in my mind. I’d read about it, heard stories.
It was thought that Newgate Prison dated back to the thirteenth century, when it was the fifth gate to the city. A new prison had been built in the late eighteenth century, and it had been remodeled once or twice. Then the building was badly damaged by fire, and it was rebuilt just the previous year. At that same time, as a result of the Prisons Act of 1877, conditions were supposed to change. The prison bore an ugly history of appalling conditions. It had often been crowded with half naked women and their children, most waiting for transfer to prison ships that would take them to the Colonies. Prisoners under sentence of death were kept shackled and apart from other prisoners. Murderers were fed only bread and water for the final days of their lives before ascending to the gallows. Their only permitted visitors were prison staff and the “Ordinary” - the prison chaplain.
Now, it was to be used only for those awaiting trial and prisoners sentenced to death awaiting execution, but those rules were not strictly enforced. I knew that it still housed all manner of prisoners who had committed heinous crimes. They could be taken right next door for trial at the ‘Old Bailey,’ the Central Criminal Court, the trial venue for all of London’s most heinous criminals.
As if he were reading my mind, Lestrade said, “Newgate is better than it was, Dr. Stamford. These days, they don’t keep most prisoners in irons and the food is better. And friends and family can visit occasionally.”
Faint praise, I thought. Uncle should not be in prison at all!
“I inspected Newgate once myself,” he went on. “There’s a small anteroom near the entrance where there’s a collection of castes of the heads of the recently executed, taken after execution, of course. One of the detectives - you know him, Stanley Hopkins, Sr. - he’s very interested in them. He’s an amateur student of phrenological science.”
Phrenology... a pseudoscience that focused on measurements of the human skull in the belief that the brain contained very specific functions and that different parts of it controlled character, thoughts, and emotions. I did not dispute this necessarily, but I didn’t believe that measuring the skull had anything to do with a mind’s capacity, a man’s ability to think. I wonder what would someone make of the measurements of Sherlock Holmes’ skull, a skull that contained a brilliant mind, but a mind that controlled all emotions?
“Some time back, I did see the irons in which prisoners used to be confined,” Lestrade continued. “And the cells. Prisoners who are sentenced capitally are taken to the condemned cells, and they do not leave them again except to go to the chapel. Those cells are in the old part of the building, toward the back. They have narrow port holes that give a view of Newgate Street. The prisoners pass through the kitchen on their way to the gallows. Then the guards take them to a chapel to see the Ordinary.
“I’ve been told that some murderers are buried under a flagstone passageway,” he said. “Quick lime makes short work of the bodies. Now some, while they are waiting to take that last walk, scratch their initials in the wall. Most can’t even stand, though. They just faint dead away, so they put them in a chair and, as a bolt is drawn, it crashes to the pit below and-”
You are a dolt! I wanted to scream. Sherlock is right! You’re thick-headed.
Instead, I said, “Stop. Please, Detective Inspector. I thank you for the history lesson, but I would rather not know anything more about this place where my uncle is being wrongfully detained. And I would rather you concentrate on apprehending the real killer.”
Ignoring Lestrade for the rest of the journey, I looked out the coach window at the blur of buildings as we passed, and I listened to the hooves of the horses striking the streets. Though Sherlock always greeted Lestrade as if he were a friend, he did so mainly so he could keep in touch with what was going on at police headquarters. Lestrade always seemed eager to please Sherlock, and Sherlock delighted in any news of unsolved crimes; but down deep, Sherlock thought Lestrade lacked imagination, that he was deficient in the skills and knowledge one needed for detective work.
They did, however, share one common trait... they lacked the good sense and were too insensitive to realize they were hurting someone’s feelings.
“Anyway, Newgate is not that way anymore,” Lestrade said. “I’m sure your uncle is just fine.”
We soon arrived at the corner of Newgate Street and the Old Bailey. I looked in despair at the granite building. It had few windows, an empty niche here and there, and some shabby, eroded carvings. All of it, everything about it was gloomy, stony, and cold. The dome of St. Paul’s loomed large against the sky behind it.
“Wait here one moment,” Lestrade said. “I need to talk to the Warder to arrange the visit.”
I nodded.
When he went inside, I followed the wall of the gaol to a roadway. There were people milling about, most smelling strongly of spirits. A guard pushed several people aside and told me to come into the yard. Blurry-eyed and disoriented by the events of the day, I followed him.
“You don’t belong with the likes of them out there,” he said. “This is where the gallows are kept,” he added. “And where the whippings take place. Over there is the Debtor’s Door. They come out of there to be hanged. It’s what you came over here to see, eh?”
I felt sickened. I could not flee quickly enough. I ran back to where Lestrade had left me and saw him pacing.
“Where did you
