Two for Sorrow

‘Can I ask what it referred to?’

‘Of course. It implied that my appointment here was the result of unfair favouritism from someone in the Home Office.’

‘And do you think there’s any possibility at all that Marjorie was behind these letters?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘None whatsoever—not mine, anyway. It simply wasn’t her style. If Marjorie had a grievance, she told you about it, and she didn’t give a damn about the Home Office.’

‘Marjorie’s friendship with Lucy Peters—did that begin in prison or did they know each other beforehand?’

‘No, they met here. Lucy’s a different case altogether, though—a victim, and you would never have called Marjorie that, at least not until today.’

‘What was Lucy in prison for?’

‘Stealing from her employer. Of course, what wasn’t obvious until she’d been in here for three months was that her employer—or rather, her employer’s son—had taken something from her as well. Technically, I know that’s not an excuse but she’s not the brightest of girls and there was no way that she was emotionally equipped to deal with either prison or pregnancy; both at the same time could have been a disaster, so I asked Marjorie to keep an eye on her.’

‘And she was happy to do that?’

‘Yes, I probably didn’t even need to ask. Marjorie knew when someone was vulnerable.’ Penrose couldn’t help thinking that Marjorie had underestimated someone’s vulnerability with tragic consequences, but he said nothing. ‘Have you spoken to Lucy yet?’ Miss Size asked.

‘No. She’d gone off duty for the day by the time we got to the club.’

‘So she probably doesn’t even know Marjorie’s dead.’

‘We’ll be speaking to her as soon as she returns this evening, and I’ll make sure she’s taken care of; my sergeant said you were worried.’

‘Yes, they were close. Will you make sure to tell her that she can come to me at any time?’

‘Of course. Would Marjorie have covered for Lucy?’

‘Almost certainly. Why?’

‘There have been a number of thefts at the club. One of the stolen items was found on Marjorie’s body.’

‘What was it?’

‘A small silver photograph frame.’

‘And the photograph?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What was the photograph.’

‘It was a picture of a woman with her baby.’

‘That’s what Lucy stole, then. The value of the frame was incidental. She’s still grieving—you need to understand that. And it is a type of grief, you know, the pain a mother feels when she gives up her child, but it’s not like bereavement; there are no certainties, no rituals like a funeral to begin the healing process. If you lose your child to adoption, you lose the right to know anything more about it and lots of women find the uncertainty very difficult. Lucy suffered a great deal—clearly she’s still suffering. But Marjorie would definitely protect her.’

No wonder Josephine’s manuscript had upset Lucy so much, Penrose thought. ‘What is the adoption procedure here? Are prison mothers encouraged to give up their children?’

‘No, it’s entirely up to them. Babies are born here, in the hospital wing, and mothers are given pre-natal care and a lot of help after their confinement. On release, each mother gets a complete new outfit for the child. It’s not much, I suppose, but it helps.’

‘And if the mother decides to give her child up?’

‘Then we arrange it for her as painlessly as possible. Our volunteers help a great deal with that, and the warders are involved to oversee the welfare of the prisoner.’

How things had changed since Lizzie Sach’s adoption, Penrose thought; if Celia Bannerman had been more typical, if the support had been as open and as comprehensive thirty years ago, then at least one tragedy might have been averted. ‘Miss Bannerman must have been ahead of her time as a prison warder,’ he said, but there was a knock at the door before she had a chance to respond.

‘Am I interrupting?’ Josephine asked.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘We’ve just about finished.’

‘Has Cicely shown you everything you need to see?’ Mary Size asked, offering her a seat. She looked at the expression on Josephine’s face as she sat down, and said sympathetically: ‘It’s unsettling when you come to it for the first time.’

‘Yes, it is, but from what Cicely told me, it must have been much more so thirty years ago. She’s marvellous—are all your staff as receptive to change as she is?’

‘Good God, no. In fact, I was just about to say to Inspector Penrose—some of the older ones are still very set in their ways and they’re convinced we’re giving the women a holiday rather than a punishment, but the young women coming through now are much more responsive and natural retirement is gradually shifting the balance. There’s hope, as long as the girls are patient enough to wait for promotion. I’ve never understood why, but we’re not allowed to sack people for being incompetent.’

‘Sadly, the prison service isn’t alone in that stipulation,’ Penrose said, smiling. ‘But I can see how frustrating it must have been for Miss Bannerman to be surrounded by such a rigid system.’

‘Indeed. Most warders of her generation would still tell you that I molly-coddle the girls, but if Celia came back to work here now, I’m pleased to say that she’d be in the majority. I’d have her like a shot, as well, but unfortunately she’s too good at what she does now.’

‘You obviously admire her, but she told me that she’d been found lacking as a prison officer because she wasn’t sufficiently detached.’

Josephine looked at him in surprise, but Mary Size just smiled. ‘I’d dispute that she’d been found lacking, from what I know. Prison is full of marred lives and wrecked hopes—that’s as true today as it was thirty years ago—and, as I understand it, if Celia had a fault it was that she concentrated on the individual rather than the system. I think her lack of detachment caused her more suffering than anyone in her care.’ She turned to Josephine. ‘I know you’ve talked to Celia about Holloway back then, but, as I said, she certainly wasn’t typical of her time. If you want to write about prison as it really was, you should talk to someone at the other extreme—Ethel Stuke, perhaps.’

‘I thought she was dead?’

‘Ethel?’

‘Yes, Celia told me she’d been killed in a Zeppelin raid during the war.’

‘Believe me, if she’d been caught in a Zeppelin raid, the Zeppelin would have come off worse. She’s quite a force of nature, is Ethel. No, she was still working here when I arrived, although she left soon after.’ There was something like pride in her voice, Josephine noticed, and it complemented the twinkle in her eye quite beautifully. ‘As far as I know, she’s alive and well and living in Suffolk—we’ll have her address on file. Celia must have meant one of the other warders—there were three sets of two looking after each condemned woman.’

‘Do you still keep staff records for Celia Bannerman?’ Penrose asked.

‘Our records go back to when the prison came over to women, so I imagine they’re in the archive somewhere. Can I ask why?’

‘She’s the main link with the Sach case, and I wondered if her records might mention someone else who could help us.’

‘Bear with me a second and I’ll find out.’ She picked up the telephone. ‘Smithers? Come up to my sitting room, will you?’ Her request was answered immediately. ‘This is Detective Inspector Penrose. Will you take him down to the office and look in the archive for a file on Celia Bannerman? She was a warder here in 1902. And give him Ethel Stuke’s address as well.’

Penrose picked up the other two files. ‘I’ll return these to you as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you. Do you mind if Miss Tey and I talk for a couple of minutes? I won’t keep her long—I know you’re busy.’

He looked at Josephine, who nodded and sat down again. ‘I’ll see you downstairs. And thank you for your