Michael came out of Maria’s journal to the realization that Deadlight Hall was no longer as silent as it had been. Soft footsteps were walking about overhead – slow, dragging steps, as if their owner was crippled. He looked across at the stairs, trying to quell his racing heartbeat. Had something moved there – had something shuffled in an ungainly way across the top landing, casting a blurred, misshapen shadow as it went? Surely it was only the shifting light outside? His watch showed it to be six o’clock. He dialled Nell’s numbers again, but both were still on voicemail. But he would give it until half-past, then he would see if there was another way out. There was sure to be a kitchen door – a former tradesman’s entrance. The conscientious Jack Hurst would no doubt have locked that as well, but it would be worth trying. But Nell would have phoned back long before then. In the meantime, there was the rest of Maria’s journal.
Wednesday 15th
3.00 a.m. Remarkably I have slept for a brief time. Esther does not seem to have stirred. She has six hours of life left.
5.00 a.m. A grey light is trickling in, and there are sounds beyond the room, suggesting people are abroad. Even so, they are moving quietly, and I remember that Mr Glaister said they try to keep an execution secret from the other prisoners.
7.00 a.m. A mug of tea and a wedge of bread and butter has just been brought to us. I have eaten and drunk gratefully, but Esther shook her head and refused to eat or drink.
The pimpled attendant glanced at me, as if for help, but I could find nothing to say. The normal remarks such as ‘You must eat to keep up your strength’ or ‘You will feel better for some food’ scarcely apply. It does not matter if she feels better, for soon she will be dead.
8.30 a.m. A few moments ago Mr Glaister himself looked in to ask if there was anything I needed. I thanked him, and said not. Indeed, I have been able to wash and tidy myself in a small washroom, to which the attendant took me after my own breakfast. I feel better and fresher for doing so – better armoured against what is ahead.
People are gathering in the passage outside the cell. Mr Porringer is with them – I can just see him. He has the pale cheeks and flushed nose that indicates he is, or is about to be, bilious. This is unfortunate and also annoying, because we cannot be coping with biliousness at such a time.
Esther has refused to get dressed, despite all my efforts to persuade her. She will not even wear shoes or stockings. I have tried again to tie back her hair, but she fought me off, clawing at my face, then retreated into a corner, wrapping thick coils of her hair around her neck. For a moment I feared she was trying to strangle herself with her own hair, in order to cheat the hangman, but then she stopped, and fell back on the bed.
Several times she has called for the children again, and I cannot find it in my heart to tell her that her children will never come to her again. For how can we know what may happen to the soul in its last moments, and how can I know if those two little ones may not be waiting for her, ready to forgive her?
It is ten minutes to nine o’clock, and the cell door is being unlocked. The time has come.
Governor’s house: midday.
I write this still in a state of considerable shock, but it seems important to record it while it is still clear in my mind. Clear! May God help me, I do not think it will ever be anything other than clear to me for the rest of my life.
This is what happened.
With the clock showing ten minutes before nine, a small sad procession assembled immediately outside the condemned cell, in the narrow passageway