“Destruction of prison property,” said the Chief Warder. “Yes, that’s pretty bad.”
“Now what was your profession before conviction?” asked the Governor, turning to the prisoner.
“Carpenter, sir.”
“I knew it,” said the Governor triumphantly. “We have another case of the frustrated creative urge. Now listen, my man. It is very wrong of you to insult the officer, who is clearly none of the things you mentioned. He symbolizes the just disapproval of society and is, like all the prison staff, a member of the Church of England. But I understand your difficulty. You have been used to creative craftsmanship, have you not, and you find prison life deprives you of the means of self-expression, and your energies find vent in these foolish outbursts? I will see to it that a bench and a set of carpenter’s tools are provided for you. The first thing you shall do is to mend the piece of furniture you so wantonly destroyed. After that we will find other work for you in your old trade. You may go. Get to the cause of the trouble,” Sir Wilfred added when the prisoner was led away; “your Standing Orders may repress the symptoms; they do not probe to the underlying cause.”
Two days later the prison was in a state of intense excitement. Something had happened. Paul woke as the bell rang at the usual time, but it was nearly half an hour before the doors were unlocked. He heard the warder’s “Slops outside!” getting nearer and nearer, interjected with an occasional “Don’t ask questions,” “Mind your own business,” or a sinister “You’ll know soon enough,” in reply to the prisoner’s questions. They, too, had sensed something unusual. Perhaps it was an outbreak of some disease—spotted fever, Paul thought, or a national disaster in the world outside—a war or revolution. In their enforced silence the nerves of all the men were tightened to an acuteness of perception. Paul read wholesale massacres in the warder’s face.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“I should bleeding well say there was,” said the warder, “and the next man as asks me a question is going to cop it hot.”
Paul began scrubbing out his cell. Dissatisfied curiosity contended in his thoughts with irritation at this interruption of routine. Two warders passed his door talking.
“I don’t say I’m not sorry for the poor bird. All I says is, it was time the Governor had a lesson.”
“It might have been one of us,” said the other warder in a hushed voice.
Breakfast arrived. As the hand appeared at his door Paul whispered: “What’s happened?”
“Why, ain’t you ’eard? There’s been a murder, shocking bloodthirsty.”
“Get on there,” roared the warder in charge of the landing.
So the Governor had been murdered, thought Paul; he had been a mischievous old bore. Still, it was very disturbing, for the news of a murder which was barely noticed in the gay world of trams and tubes and boxing-matches caused an electric terror in this community of silent men. The interval between breakfast and chapel seemed interminable. At last the bell went. The doors were opened again. They marched in silence to the chapel. As it happened, Philbrick was in the next seat to Paul. The warders sat on raised seats, watchful for any attempt at conversation. The hymn was the recognized time for the exchange of gossip. Paul waited for it impatiently. Clearly it was not the Governor who had been murdered. He stood on the chancel steps, Prayerbook in hand. Mr. Prendergast was nowhere to be seen. The Governor conducted the service. The Medical Officer read the lessons, stumbling heavily over the longer words. Where was Mr. Prendergast?
At last the hymn was announced. The organ struck up, played with great feeling by a prisoner who until his conviction had been assistant organist at a Welsh cathedral. All over the chapel the men filled their chests for a burst of conversation.
“O God, our help in ages past,” sang Paul.
“Where’s Prendergast today?”
“What, ain’t you ’eard? ’e’s been done in.”
“And our eternal home.”“Old Prendy went to see a chap
What said he’d seen a ghost;
Well, he was dippy, and he’d got
A mallet and a saw.”“Who let the madman have the things?”
“The Governor, who d’you think?
He asked to be a carpenter,
He sawed off Prendy’s head.“A pal of mine what lives next door,
’E ’eard it ’appening;
The warder must ’ave ’eard it too,
’E didn’t interfere.”“Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away.”
“Poor Prendy ’ollered fit to kill
For nearly ’alf an hour.“Damned lucky it was Prendergast,
Might ’ave been you or me!
The warder says—and I agree—
It serves the Governor right.”“Amen.”
From all points of view it was lucky that the madman had chosen Mr. Prendergast for attack. Some people even suggested that the choice had been made in a more responsible quarter. The death of a prisoner or warder would have called for a Home Office inquiry which might seriously have discouraged the Lucas-Dockery reforms, and also reflected some discredit upon the administration of the Chief Warder. Mr. Prendergast’s death passed almost unnoticed. His assassin was removed to Broadmoor, and the life of the prison went on smoothly. It was observed, however, that the Chief Warder seemed to have more influence with his superior than he had had before. Sir Wilfred concentrated his attention upon the statistics, and the life of the prison was equitably conducted under the Standing Orders. It was quite like it had been in old MacAdder’s day, the warders observed. But Paul did not reap the benefits of this happy reversion to tradition, because some few days later he was removed with a band of others to the Convict Settlement at Egdon Heath.
IV
Nor Iron Bars a Cage
The granite walls of Egdon Heath Penal Settlement are visible, when there is no mist, from the main road, and it is not uncommon for cars to stop there a few moments while the occupants stand
