I followed Lestrade, cautiously keeping within a few inches of him.
We went up some narrow steps, into the turnkey’s room, and then along a dark hallway. At the end, we came upon a small open court surrounded by very high walls. Not much light or air or warmth could ever find its way into this well. “We are facing the women’s wing of the prison,” Lestrade said.
I saw a chary of windows, strongly grated, and shivered.
A guard turned the locks, removed the heavy bars and we ascended another staircase, this one of stone. There were suites of chambers on either side.
“This is where prisoners are kept while waiting to stand trial,” Lestrade told me.
We passed through many rooms and corridors, dark and close and foul smelling. It was a forbidding place, cramped and narrow.
“Are you taking me to Uncle Ormond’s cell?”
“No, I’ve arranged to have him brought to the chapel to visit with you.”
“But-”
“I don’t think your uncle would want you to see him in a cell. Like I said, the Warder is letting me bring him to the chapel.”
“But, Detective Inspector, how can I see to his health if I don’t see where they are keeping him?”
“Dr. Stamford, please.”
“Tell me. At least tell me what the cell is like.”
“Dr. Stamford, I must insist you stop asking-”
“I need to know, Detective Inspector. I need to know what Uncle is faced with.”
He heaved a sigh. “He’s alone. There’s a water tank and a basin and a bed roll. He can have a Bible and books, a plate and a mug. And there’s a stool and a table. And a window.”
“He does have a window?”
Lestrade nodded. “High up and double-grated. It does get intensely cold in inclement weather.”
“How cold?”
“Cold enough that prisoners suffer almost beyond endurance, so I’m told.”
I thought of Mr. Hartwig, the victim who had been imprisoned during the American Civil War. I thought of the horrible agony he had experienced and the lasting effects of his confinement.
“It is only September. Uncle Ormond will not be here when it gets cold,” I said, more to reassure myself than anything else.
Finally, we arrived at the chapel, and he motioned to me to sit down. I took a seat in one of the pews to the left of the pulpit. Then Lestrade disappeared.
I looked around the chapel. It was neat and plain, with galleries for male and female prisoners. I’d read Dickens’ descriptions of the chapel in one of his books. In later years, remembering this day, I would return to a passage and read it over and over again. He said:
There is something in a silent and deserted place of worship, solemn and impressive at any time; and the very dissimilarity of this one from any we have been accustomed to, only enhances the impression. The meanness of its appointments - the bare and scanty pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side - the women’s gallery with its great heavy curtain - the men’s with its unpainted benches and dingy front - the tottering little table at the altar, with the commandments on the wall above it, scarcely legible through lack of paint, and dust and damp - so unlike the velvet and gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern church - are strange and striking.
I squirmed and looked at the pulpit. It faced the communion table. To the right of the pulpit there was a box for the Governor of the gaol, and the Chief Warder’s seat was beneath that. Between the stove and the reading desk below the pulpit was the harmonium for music during services. Then my eyes fixed upon ‘the condemned pew.’ Dickens had described the pen as well:
There is one object, too, which rivets the attention and fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn horror-stricken in vain, for the recollection of it will haunt us, waking and sleeping, for a long time afterwards. Immediately below the reading desk, on the floor of the chapel, and forming the most conspicuous object in its little area, is THE CONDEMNED PEW; a huge black pen, in which the wretched people, who are singled out for death, are placed on the Sunday preceding their execution, in sight of all their fellow-prisoners...
Often, during the service, the coffin that awaited the prisoner was placed by his side in this pen. I’d seen Auguste Pugin’s painting of it once - this chapel, that pew with a coffin waiting for its occupant. The other prisoners would be asked to pray for the soul of the condemned man. I had no doubt they prayed only for their own.
Imagine, Dickens wrote, what have been the feelings of the men whom that fearful pew has enclosed, and of whom, between the gallows and the knife, no mortal remnant may now remain!... Think of the hopeless clinging to life to the last, and the wild despair, far exceeding in anguish the felon’s death itself...
I shuddered as a miserable foreboding came over me.
Uncle would never sit in that box. Never. I would move heaven and earth to keep that from happening, and I knew that Sherlock would as well.
42
Lestrade opened the door to the chapel and I saw Uncle Ormond next to him in the hallway. I had not seen him since Mycroft incarcerated him. He wore a different set of clothes, ones that Aunt Susan must have brought to him... pants and coat made of a midnight blue fabric and an ivory shirt. He looked tired and untidy, but otherwise like himself.
I bolted from the pew, ran to him, and threw my arms around him. He stroked my hair and held me close. He turned to Lestrade and said, “Thank you.”
“I have to stay right here in the doorway, Dr. Sacker. You understand.”
“Of course,” Uncle said, and he guided me to a pew just a few feet away.
“Uncle, I have news.”
I quickly explained to him my trip to the museum and my brief
