The Poison Thread: A Novel - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Laura Purcell is the author of The Silent Companions. She worked in local government, the financial industry and a bookshop before becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Colchester, the oldest recorded town in England, with her husband and pet guinea pigs. Fascinated by the darker side of royal history, Laura has also written two historical fiction novels about the Hanoverian dynasty.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Dorothea

My sainted mother taught me the seven acts of corporeal mercy: to feed the hungry; refresh the thirsty; clothe the naked; shelter the traveller; comfort the sick; visit those imprisoned; and bury the dead. Most of these we undertook together, while she lived. Then Papa and I buried her, so that was another one checked off the list.

A single merciful act eluded me: visiting those imprisoned. A lady in my position has ample opportunity to feed and clothe, but who can she call upon in gaol? Which of her genteel acquaintances is ever incarcerated?

I mentioned the difficulty to my father once, at breakfast. My words hung in the air with the steam from our tea; hot, uncomfortable. I can still see Papa's grey eyes narrow over the pages of his newspaper.

'Charity is not a competition, Dorothea. These "acts of mercy" - you do not need to perform them all.'

'But, sir, Mama said-'

'You know your mother was a . . .' He looked down at his paper, searching for the word. 'She had odd notions about religion. You must not take what she said to heart.'

We were silent a moment, feeling her absence in the empty chair at the end of the table.

'Mama was a Papist,' I told my toast as I buttered it. 'I am not ashamed of that.'

Had I sworn before him, he could not have flushed a brighter hue. His cheeks went puce.

'You are not scampering around prisons,' he barked. 'Never mind your mother - I am your father. And I say you are a Protestant. That is my final word on it.'

But Papa never really has the final word.

When I came of age, I inherited my own money from Mama to spend as I pleased. Papa could do nothing when I decided to lay it out in improvements for prisons.

Prison, along with Mama's Catholicism, was attractive to me because it was forbidden, because it was dangerous. I sat on women's prison boards, set up committees to help the poor wretches in Newgate and purchased pamphlets on Elizabeth Fry.

I cannot say these actions made me a darling of society, but I acquired friends enough for my liking: charitable spinsters, rectors' wives. Far worthier people than the fashionable young ladies Papa wished for me to associate with.

'How do you expect to find a husband,' he said, 'when you are always off on these squalid sallies to gaol?'

'I am fair and I have an ample dowry from Mama,' I retorted. 'If any man is fool enough to be put off by a few charitable enterprises, he does not deserve me.'

So I won my way, as I always do.

Two years ago the Oakgate Charitable Women's Society began a project to dismantle the old, sinking hulk that passed for a penitentiary in these parts and build a new prison. That was my chance. When the women's wing was complete, the Society ruled it would be beneficial for lady visitors to call upon the inmates and improve them with edifying conversation. Naturally, I volunteered.

In my visits, I have seen many wretches. Desperate, friendless, craving comfort. But I have never met a criminal quite like her.

I was feeding Wilkie, my pet canary, this morning when the note from Matron arrived, informing me we had another one. I knew she meant the worst of all criminals: a taker of human lives. My blood began to hum. I ordered the carriage and dashed for my hat and gloves.

Anticipation dried my mouth as I rumbled along in the carriage towards the prison. One never knows what to expect with a murderer. When I was young, I used to imagine they all had compelling reasons to commit their deeds: a stolen lover; vengeance for a parent; betrayal; blackmail. This is a fallacy. Murder can have the strangest, most mundane of motives - or sometimes none at all.

I remember Mrs Blackwood, who maintained that she 'never drowned those poor dear children, it was them that came and did it, they were always killing and they always made her watch'. Then there was Miss Davies, who told me she 'bore no malice to the young black, never did mind his kind, but alas it was necessary for him to die, a sacrifice had to be made'. Most chilling of all, I think, was Mrs Wren. Yes, she had killed her husband. Did he beat her? No. Visit other women? Oh no, never. Had he in fact done anything to merit his death? Certainly, the brute - he had criticised her cooking. Not in general, no, just the once. It was enough. What wife would not kill him, she wanted to know.

Phrenology is the only answer to the behavioural patterns of these women. They are born with the propensity to kill. It is all there, mapped out on the cranium. If precautions are not taken, or the wrong organs become inflamed, they give way to vice. Our society is at fault in neglecting this essential science. Had we measured the heads of these females whilst they were young, we might have averted their crime by careful instruction and conditioning. Alas, I fear the cerebral malformation has now progressed too far. And if we cannot change their characters, what hope for their souls?

New Oakgate Prison reared up from the horizon, its stone shining white as redemption. Scaffolding covered the unfinished male wing, but within it I discerned the contours and the gaps where the windows would eventually gleam. On the women's side, we have them shaped like portholes, giving the place the feel of a great steam paddler. Saplings ring the high, iron fences. One day they shall grow and cover the exercise yard in green shade. It looks like a hopeful place, a place where perhaps all is not lost.

The porters opened the gates, which did not whine or clank but glided easily on their fresh hinges. As I climbed out of the carriage and arranged my skirts, another porter met me and marked my name off in his ledger. Then came one of our warders to guide me through the limewashed corridors I know by heart, straight to the office of our principal matron.

She was sitting at her desk. When I entered she rose with a clink, drawing my eyes to the leather belt about her waist and the keys suspended from it. They did not look like instruments of incarceration. They were polished, shining with the same spanking newness of the gaol. Her office smelt fresh, of wood and lime.

'Miss Truelove. How prompt you are.' She offered me a curtsey and another metallic jingle.

'But of course, Matron. I am all eagerness to meet our new inmate.'

Her face moved into an expression - I am not sure what it was, but it was certainly not a smile.

Matron is one of those unreadable women who fade so easily into the mechanics of an institution: age indeterminate; features regular and without distinction; voice monotonous. Even her skull remains concealed beneath a starched cap, showing no discernible bumps. If I was forced to reach a conclusion, I would say she does not like me - but of course she offers no evidence, nothing tangible for me to base this on.

'I must urge you to observe caution, Miss Truelove. This one is dangerous.'

A thrill chased up my spine. 'Murder, I think you said?'

'Yes indeed.'

'Was it dreadfully grisly?'

'No.' Her mouth tightened, but her voice did not change. 'Devious. She killed her own mistress. Slowly, by degrees.'

Not an act of passion, then. I yearned to ask how she committed the deed, but I reined in my curiosity. Matron is not like me; she does not question motives and hope for change. It is enough for her to ensure the women are fed and clothed...