I am about to go along to the condemned cell, where I am to spend the greater part of the night.
I am unhappy about Esther Breadspear’s behaviour in the coming hours, but I cannot think I shall have to deal with any actual violence – she can have no animosity towards me personally. When I put this point to Mr Glaister, he said that condemned prisoners generally have animosity towards the whole world in their final hours, and I must be prepared for all eventualities.
However, the pimpled man will be immediately outside the door, the chaplain will be nearby, and I have more of Mr Porringer’s opium draught if needed.
It will be difficult to fill the hours until the morning. Sleep is clearly impossible, except perhaps in short snatches. The chaplain will visit us during the night, and has promised to leave a Bible with us. I feel, though, that we should not read any of that, for it will be read aloud in the morning, as the woman is taken to the execution shed. There is a door from this part of the prison leading on to a small courtyard, in which is situated the execution shed.
I had thought I might take in my needlework, but of course needles or anything sharp cannot be allowed. However, I believe we are permitted to play simple games – backgammon and perhaps piquet.
I shall also take writing paper with me, in case the woman wishes to record any last thoughts. A pen and inkstand will not be allowed, but several charcoal sticks, of the kind used by artists for sketching, have been brought, which will do perfectly well, and I shall make some entries in this book.
10.00 p.m.
I should like to record that everywhere is quiet and calm, but it is not. As I write this there is a kind of uneasy murmuring – almost as the very stones and bricks are humming with anger and resentment at what lies ahead.
They have kept the oil lights burning in the passage outside – a very low light it is, and it casts strange shadows everywhere.
Mr Glaister told me earlier that the other prisoners will know of the forthcoming hanging – they try to keep executions a secret, but the information always leaks out.
‘They become restless on the night beforehand,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they begin banging on their cell walls, or chanting protests. Occasionally prayers or hymns. It is accepted by anyone who has worked in this kind of gaol that the night before a hanging is always a strange one. And it may be particularly so tonight, since this is probably the last hanging that will take place here.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I cannot explain it to you, that strangeness, but it is a feeling of dark suffocation.’
I had thought this a fanciful remark for a man in his position to make, but as I sit here I understand what he meant.
Mr Glaister said something else to me over supper, and I could wish he had not done so, for with night closing around the prison, his words keep whispering in my brain.
‘At some time during the night you may have the impression that someone is creeping along the corridor outside the cell,’ he said. ‘And you may think someone has come to stand outside the condemned cell and is looking in at you through the hatch. If you should hear such a sound, do not let it alarm you, for it will be the hangman.’
We had reached the savoury course, and I was about to accept a helping of sardines, but at this I paused.
‘The hangman?’
‘Yes. He will have to study the prisoner in advance of the morning,’ said Mr Glaister. ‘To assess how best – how smoothly – to carry out his work. To make his calculations for the drop. But he always makes such an inspection discreetly, so as not to cause undue distress.’
Beside me, Mr Porringer gulped down his glass of port with a speed that will certainly provoke one of his acidity attacks.
‘So if you should hear such sounds,’ went on Mr Glaister, ‘you should try to ignore them. In no circumstances draw the prisoner’s attention to them.’