Bradshaw signaled to a nearby prison officer. “Please bring Robbie Gates down to the restoration area.”
I could see that Governor Bradshaw was somewhat annoyed by Joanna’s request, for it would appear she did not trust his word. Which of course was the case, for one of her cardinal rules was to never accept the assessment of another until she herself had confirmed it.
Joanna strolled over to a shelf that held the various ingredients necessary for furniture restoration. She briefly studied the labels on large bottles of acetone and hydrogen peroxide and checked to make certain their tops were secure. “Ah, the individual components required to make the solvents. It is wise to keep them well apart, is it not?”
“Quite so, madam, for the restoration supervisor is aware that when the two are combined together they form an unstable, most dangerous mixture.”
“The mixing produces acetone peroxide which is highly explosive,” Joanna noted.
“You are informed on chemistry?” Bradshaw asked, taken aback by Joanna’s knowledge of science.
“Only as it applies to crime.” Joanna moved farther down the shelf and came to large glass containers of flour and salt. She pried off their tops and sniffed at the contents before dipping her finger in to take a taste. “Flour and salt,” she confirmed.
“I have no idea what purpose they serve in restoration.”
“They are the major components of glue.”
“Is that all that is required?”
“You can add a bit of vinegar to make for a firmer adhesive,” Joanna said and pointed to a nearly empty bottle of white vinegar.
At that moment, a grizzled prisoner in his late middle years entered the restoration area and made his way over to us. He kept his eyes averted as is commonly done by individuals about to face someone in a position of power. His posture was decidedly stooped, but he had no other distinguishing features.
“This is Robbie Gates,” Bradshaw introduced. “It was he who witnessed the explosion that took Harry Edmunds’s life.”
“I did indeed, guv’nor, for it happened right before my very eyes,” Gates said in a cigarette-induced hoarse voice. His clothes carried an overwhelming odor of stale tobacco smoke. “Went up in a ball of flames, he did.”
“How close were you to him?” Joanna asked.
Gates hesitated and only answered when Bradshaw gave him an approving nod. “Ten, twelve feet or so. Maybe a little more.”
“Please take the position you had at the moment of the explosion,” Joanna requested.
Gates again waited for Bradshaw’s permission before walking over to the workbench that held the scorched chair. “Here I was, madam, when Harry and his cellmate were mixing up their brew.”
“Then you must have seen them quite clearly,” said Joanna, picking up a blackened chisel to examine, but as she did so it seemed to slip from her grasp and land on the floor. Gates hurried over and retrieved the tool, then handed it back to Joanna.
“Oh, thank you, Gates,” she said, placing the chisel down.
“You are welcome, ma’am.”
So Gates had passed the vision test, I thought at once. A man who could see a falling chisel at fifteen feet could surely recognize a face at that distance.
“Side by side, they were,” Gates replied.
“I take it you knew Edmunds’s cellmate.”
“Everyone knew old Derrick Wilson who is now breathing the fresh air of London, having served his sentence.”
“Are you certain that Derrick Wilson was standing next to Edmunds at the moment of explosion?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. I saw the two chatting and what have you, then went back to sanding the varnish off my chair. A moment later I heard a terrible bang and saw the flames engulfing the workbench.”
“Did you actually see Harry Edmunds on fire?”
“I saw a man with his clothes aflame and waving his arms furiously to put out the fire,” Gates recalled. “It was a horrible sight to see, it was. But I saw no more as I ran for the door, like all the others did.”
“But did you clearly see Harry Edmunds’s face?” Joanna pressed.
“I do believe it was him,” Gates insisted. “And when I saw his cellmate later on that day, I knew it was poor Harry who had perished in those bloody flames.”
“Was Derrick Wilson not burned by the flames?” Joanna asked. “After all, he was quite close to Edmunds at the time of the explosion.”
Gates considered the matter before answering. “His thick beard and moustache were badly singed and his nose was red from the flames licking at it. Also, his hands had some blisters.”
“Did you know Wilson well?”
“I do not think anyone knew that bloody Scotsman well, for he was a rather rough character who spent most of his time alone.”
“Did he and Harry Edmunds, being cellmates, get along?”
“So-so,” Gates said with a shrug. “Like most cellmates, they could be friends one day and at each other’s throats the next. They did seem to argue a lot about cheating when they gambled at cards, with Wilson dominating and often threatening Harry.”
“Which is forbidden,” Bradshaw interjected.
“Right you are, guv’nor,” Gates said in a neutral voice.
“I have one final question,” Joanna continued on. “Was Derrick Wilson, being such a rough and domineering character, much larger than Harry Edmunds?”
“Both were about the same size, but easily told apart, for Wilson had a thick beard and moustache that gave him a mean look,” Gates recounted. “The beard covered most of Wilson’s face and in particular covered up his busted cheek.”
“Busted cheek, you say?” Joanna asked immediately.
“That would be a polite term for it,” Gates described. “Apparently some years back, Wilson was involved in a terrible fight and caught a vicious punch that crushed his upper cheek bone. It left a dent and scar that Wilson tried to hide behind his thick beard. You didn’t notice it that much unless you were up close, and most people tended to keep their distance.”
“Thank you for your helpful information,” said Joanna.
Gates bowed awkwardly, obviously unaccustomed to being appreciated.
We departed the restoration area and were accompanied to
