The House Of Smoke (29 page)

I lay flat on the floor, working the brick up and down and side to side. It slipped back, in danger of disappearing into the blackness behind it. I couldn’t let that happen. If it slipped into that space then I might not recover it and the hole would be left exposed and noticeable.

With great care, I manoeuvred the brick forward. Firstly, from the left. Then the right. Soon, I was able to get my fingers onto the edges and eased it forward. It came away completely.

I froze with shock. I had taken a brick out of the cell wall.

The rest of the wall was still intact but to me it felt like I had cracked opened a safe. The rectangular hole beyond the brick was tiny, but it was a hole.

Beyond it there was only blackness. I put my ear as close to the gap as I could get and heard a distinct sound of wind. It convinced me I had discovered a chimney, still bricked at the bottom but hopefully open at the top.

Thoughts of Jack Sheppard sprang to mind. One of his escapes had been through such a shaft.

Loud sounds on the landing caused me to stop. Hurriedly, I brushed the scrapings and filth into the small hole then replaced the brick. I grabbed a book and sat on my bunk. Keys jangled. I realised I still had the nail in my hand, and jammed it into the back of my shoe.

The door opened. A gaoler, a vile hog of a man called Wallace, rubbed his whiskery jowls as he entered.

‘Stand up, Lynch!’

My heart skipped as I rose.

He peered at my feet to check that my new leg irons were still secured to a floor ring, then glanced around the rest of the cell, before adding, ‘Father Deagan is here to see you.’ He stepped aside. ‘Please come in, Father. Our apologies for the stink and for him over there stinkin’ more than anythin’.’

The priest entered. He looked older and weaker than I remembered. ‘Thank you, officer,’ he managed. After pressing a handkerchief to his mouth to stifle a cough, he added, ‘You may leave us now.’

The door shut. Deagan lifted his tired face and shook my hand. ‘How are you, my son? I hope you are holding up as you climb your own Calvary.’

‘I am fine, Father.’ I made space for him on the bunk. ‘Please sit down. You really do not look so well.’

‘I confess to being somewhat under the weather. But I do count my blessings. God gives me the constitution to soldier on and administer his word.’ He lifted a leather bag and from it produced two prayer books and two sets of red rosary beads. Without asking he passed one to me. ‘I thought we might pray together. Nothing grander or more ambitious than that. A shared moment of divinity, that is all.’

‘I am ashamed to say it is many years since I have prayed. So many that I cannot remember.’

‘That is why I brought the book.’ He closed my hand around it and then struggled to rise from the bunk. ‘Please help me kneel as my old joints have grown rusty in this wet and bitter winter.’

‘Of course, Father.’

I held his arm as he lowered himself to the hard floor and then knelt myself. For a second, his breath drew short and he stayed motionless until another fit of coughing was finished.

I waited patiently while he regained his composure, hoping his illness wasn’t serious. Winter was a time of dying. Prison flu killed a person a week, took felons and gaolers without prejudice.

‘Let me offer you some words of fortitude,’ he said weakly. ‘Some trusted words from Man’s most trusted book.’ He lifted a rosary over his head, set it in place around his neck and kissed the small black crucifix. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, ‘he began, ‘I shall not want …’

The words of the psalm struck chords within me and raised hopes that I feared might be false ones. Could a killer like me really pass through the valley of death into the green pastures of heaven? Was I not the embodiment of evil and was this not the time the Devil would come and claim his soul?

Father Deagan touched my arm. He pulled me out of my contemplative state and pressed me into prayers. We did the full circle of the rosary, the ‘crown of roses’ in all its Christocentric glory, punctuated only by the rasping of his painful cough.

When we finished, he looked to me and asked, ‘Now Simeon, while you are in this state of grace, would you like me to hear your confession?’

It seemed right to say yes. Perhaps the old priest was a perfect salesman and knew that if he had me kneeling and in a state of prayer then I would finally consent. Certainly, I saw no harm in it.

I rejoined my hands and said, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have not made a confession since I was a child and had not long since completed my first communion.’

‘I understand. What is it that you wish to confess? Speak frankly and fully now, for you speak to the Lord thy God and master of your soul for all eternity.’

And I did. For the next half hour, without thought for the poor man’s knees on the brutal stone floor or the strains of his obvious illness, I told him everything. That is to say, every act of theft, deceit, violence and murder I could remember. The offences were so numerous and spread over so many years that I am certain there are some I forgot to mention. I named no names. And as best I could, implicated no one else. I was certain God knew to whom I referred and I did not wish to place Father Deagan in a position where he might be tempted to break his religious oaths and make himself a target for people who would need to silence him.

The old priest listened to my sins with admirable patience, without admonishment or any sign of judgement. But with his professionalism and kindness came a determination to root out all the evil that lay in me. ‘And what of the last murder you were convicted of, my son? You are in denial as to this act, yet I fear your soul is also infected by this mortal sin.’

‘No Father, it is not.’

‘Do you swear so in the presence of the Almighty?’

‘I do, Father. It is only just and proper that the Crown hangs me for the many murders I have committed, but not the one I have not.’

‘The judgement of the courts and the judgement of Christ are very different, Simeon. Lying to a court may lead to retaining your liberty; lying to the Lord leads to eternal damnation.’

‘I know that, Father. I swear on my soul, I am not guilty of that abomination.’

He raised a hand to stop me going further. ‘Then let us speak of remorse. Are you truly sorry and contrite for all your sins?’

‘I am.’

‘And do you reject Satan and all his followers and his acts?’

‘I do.’

‘Are you ready to meet the Lord your God, to beg for his blessed forgiveness and to throw yourself upon his mercy?’

‘I am.’

He opened my prayer book again. ‘Please say these words aloud, and when you speak them make sure you mean them with all of your heart.’

I looked at the text. It was the Act of Contrition. Great emotion rose within me. A thousand times or more in my life I had apologised to people and asked for their forgiveness. But this was an apology to God. My last chance to say sorry for wasting the life he had given me.

I struggled to read the words. ‘Forgive me my sins, O Lord, forgive me my sins; the sins of my youth, the sins of my age, the sins of my soul, the sins of my body; my idle sins, my serious voluntary sins; the sins I know, the sins I do not know; the sins I have concealed for so long, and which are now hidden from my memory. I am truly sorry for every sin, mortal and venial, for all the sins of my childhood up to the present hour. I know my sins have wounded thy tender heart, O my Saviour; let me be freed from the bonds of evil through the bitterest Passion of my Redeemer. Amen.’

Deagan took the book from me and gave the response in full, concluding with the words of hope that all sinners long to hear: ‘Through the ministry of the Church, may God give thee pardon and peace, and I absolve thee from thy sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

‘Amen.’

He took my hands in his and added, ‘I must leave you now, Simeon; but I will pray for your soul and so must you. Pray for it until the last breath of life is taken from you. Do this and the glory of God and the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven will be open to you.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘Please help me to my feet.’ He stretched out an arm.

As I did so, he coughed so violently his whole body shook and I felt duty bound to hold him for a good deal longer. ‘Are you all right, Father?’

‘No, my son, I fear I am not.’ Another bout of coughing caused him to double up with stomach cramps.

‘Gaoler! Gaoler, come quickly!’ No sooner had the words left my mouth than the priest staggered and fell.

Keys turned in the lock and Wallace entered. ‘Stand back,’ he shouted. ‘Get back by that window or we’ll beat you back.’

‘Hurry up – it’s Father Deagan; he’s collapsed.’

‘If this is a trick, Lynch, I’ll flog you so hard you’ll not be able to walk to the rope.’ He blew hard on a whistle.

Within the minute, half a dozen screws had rushed into the cell. The good Father was lifted up between them, carried out and my door soundly shut again.

Left behind were his bag, rosary beads and prayer books. Instinctively, I seized them.

Inside was a convict’s treasure trove – a pipe, a soft leather pouch filled with tobacco, a purple-coloured silk sash, a vial of holy water, a wooden crucifix about six inches long and three inches wide and a small mirror edged in leather. It would be a strange collection for someone such as me to carry, but was, I presumed, a standard set of tools for someone in the clerical trade. There was also a set of keys, no doubt for the parish church, and a fountain pen with a broad steel nib.

Without hesitation, I took what I wanted. The sash would make a highly workable garrotte and the crucifix a useful dagger if sharpened properly. The rosaries were well strung and could help secure all manner of things, or people.

I rushed to the brick that I had loosened, removed it, stashed my hoard and replaced it. The screws would be back any moment. I knelt with my back to the door, put my hands together and prayed. Not for Father Deagan, but that I didn’t get caught.

No sooner had I settled into that position than Wallace and one of his colleagues returned. They swore at me as they filled Deagan’s bag with his remaining things. Swore again and left me with such a hefty boot in the middle of my back that I collapsed against the wall.

The door closed and I heard them retreat down the gallery. When they were gone, I thanked God for allowing me to steal from a priest, though I suspect the appreciation should have gone to Satan. I got up and retrieved the nail that I had hidden in my shoe.

I went to the door and checked for sounds on the landing before returning to the spot where I had made the inscription SL 1900. Father Deagan had come to save my soul. He had given me absolution and within a second of his collapse I had reverted to my true self. I knew now what I had to write. What should be my message to the world. I scratched it deep into the grime of the wall.

The book Elizabeth had given me was Charles Maturin’s
Melmoth the Wanderer.
It revealed itself to be the tale of a foolish and greedy man who sells his soul to the Devil then wanders Europe, corrupting others while trying to find someone to relieve him of his burden.

I discerned the plot of the novel in the privacy of my room, while thinking over Elizabeth’s behaviour towards me. There had been a look on her face that had urged me to talk freely to her, and I had touched her heart – I was sure of it.

But she had left my thoughts and emotions spinning.

Did she really want me to take up that invitation to come to her room? She had said come with the book and she would explain it to me. But had that been more than just a literary offer?

I was filled with excitement and insecurity.

And guilt.

Guilt for in light of my newly repaired relationship with Surrey, it would be highly improper for me to pursue Elizabeth.

Darling, darling, Elizabeth.

Had she really set her sights on me?

I thought again of the old fortune-teller of Milldale and her words of opportunity. Surely, Surrey and I were destined to part. We were no more than makeweights in each other’s lives. I convinced myself that it would be better for both of us to face the reality of our situation and move on with our lives.

After dinner, I took a cowardly decision that a glass or two of whisky might help resolve the matter. And I suppose it did. For that evening, slightly the worse for wear, I found myself standing outside Elizabeth’s bedroom door.

I knocked. Cleared my throat and announced, ‘Elizabeth, it is Simeon. I wonder if I might disturb you?’

‘Come in,’ she answered in a tone reminiscent of my lessons in the drawing room.

I opened the door.

The room was warm and lit by numerous candles. It smelled of soft wax and fresh roses. The curtains were drawn. Elizabeth was seated on the side of her brass bed in a white cotton nightdress. Her hair was down and she was brushing it. The light seemed to catch every strand and it looked like it had been spun from gold. She looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

For a time, I was unaware that I was simply standing and staring. Then I realised my clumsiness and held up my copy of
Melmoth the Wanderer
. ‘Forgive my appearance at so late an hour, but you said to call if I were in need of help.’

‘So I did.’ She nodded at the novel I was stupidly holding aloft. ‘But if your cultural
craving
is to be satisfied, Simeon, then you are by necessity going to have to come closer.’

I walked towards her, aware only of the creak of the dark floorboards beneath my feet, the rhythmical tick of a grandmother clock and the thunder of my heart. I sat beside her and looked nervously across the walls, imagining that somewhere behind the boards and bricks the professor’s prying eyes were watching us. ‘Forgive me, but I fear Moriarty lurks behind the walls ghost and is spying on us.’