The turnkey came to a stop in front of a wooden door with two locks. Riffling through the keys, he found the one he was looking for and inserted it in the top lock, then in the lock below. He pushed the door open into a small room with only an oak desk and chair, lighted by a lamp high on the wall, and crossed the room to knock on another, smaller door.
“Beg your pardon, Matron. A new prisoner.”
Silence. Then, faintly, “Give me a moment.”
They waited. The men leaned against a wall, talking among themselves. Evangeline stood uncertainly in her chains in the middle of the room. Her underarms were damp, and the irons chafed her ankles. Her stomach rumbled; she hadn’t eaten since morning.
After some time, the door opened. The matron had clearly been woken up. Her angular face was heavily lined, her graying hair pulled back in a messy bun. She wore a faded black dress. “Let’s get on with it,” she said irritably. “Has the prisoner been searched?”
“No, ma’am,” the guard said.
She waved toward him. “Go to.”
Roughly he ran his hands over Evangeline’s shoulders, down her sides, under her arms, even, quickly, between her legs. She pinked with embarrassment. When he gave the matron a nod, she made her way to the desk, lit a candle, and sank into the chair. Opening a large ledger filled with lines of tiny script, she said, “Name.”
“Evangel—”
“Not you,” the matron said, without looking up. “You have forfeited your right to speak.”
Evangeline bit her lip.
The constable extracted a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his waistcoat and peered at it. “Name is . . . ah . . . Evangeline Stokes.”
She dipped her quill into a pot of ink and scratched on the ledger. “Married?”
“No.”
“Age.”
“Ah . . . let’s see. She’ll be twenty-two.”
“She will be, or she is?”
“Born in the month of August, it says here. So . . . twenty-one.”
The matron looked up sharply, her pen poised over the paper. “Speak precisely, constable, or we’ll be here all night. Her offense. In as few words as possible.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, there’s more than one.”
“Start with the most egregious.”
He sighed. “First . . . she’s an accused felon. Of the worst kind.”
“The charge.”
“Attempted murder.”
The matron raised a brow at Evangeline.
“I didn’t—” she started.
The matron held out the flat of her hand. Then she looked down, writing in the ledger. “Of whom, constable.”
“A chambermaid employed by . . . aah”—he searched the paper—“a Ronald Whitstone, address 22 Blenheim Road, St. John’s Wood.”
“By what method.”
“Miss Stokes pushed her down the stairs.”
She looked up. “Is the victim . . . all right?”
“Seems to be. Shaken, but essentially . . . all right, I suppose.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Evangeline saw a small movement where the floor met the wall: a thin rat squirming out of a crack in the baseboard.
“And what else?”
“An heirloom belonging to the owner of the house was found in Miss Stokes’s room.”
“What kind of heirloom?”
“A ring. Gold. With a valuable gemstone. A ruby.”
“It was given to me,” Evangeline blurted.
The matron put down her quill. “Miss Stokes. You have been reprimanded twice.”
“I’m sorry. But—”
“You will not say one more word unless addressed directly. Is that clear?”
Evangeline nodded miserably. The panic and worry that kept her vigilant all day had given way to an enervating torpor. She wondered, almost abstractly, if she might faint. Maybe she would. Merciful darkness must be better than this.
“Assault and theft,” the matron said to the constable, her hand on the page. “Those are the accusations?”
“Yes, ma’am. And she is also . . . with child.”
“I see.”
“Out of wedlock, ma’am.”
“I understood your implication, constable.” She looked up. “So the charges are attempted murder and larceny.”
He nodded.
She sighed. “Very well. You may go. I’ll escort the prisoner to the cells.”
Once the men had filed out, the matron inclined her head toward Evangeline. “Long day for you, I suppose. I’m sorry to tell you it will not improve.”
Evangeline felt a rush of gratitude. It was the closest thing to kindness she’d experienced all day. Tears gathered behind her eyes, and though she willed herself not to cry, they spilled down her cheeks. With her hands shackled, she couldn’t wipe them away. For a few moments her strangled sobs were the only sound in the room.
“I need to take you down,” the matron said finally.
“It wasn’t like he said.” Evangeline hiccupped. “I—I didn’t—”
“You are wasting your breath. My opinion is irrelevant.”
“But I hate for you to . . . to think ill of me.”
The matron gave a dry laugh. “Oh, my girl. You are new to this.”
“I am. Entirely.”
Setting down the quill and closing the ledger, the matron asked, “Was it force?”
“Pardon?” Evangeline asked, uncomprehending.
“Did a man force himself on you?”
“Oh. No. No.”
“It was love then, was it?” Sighing, the matron shook her head. “You’re learning the hard way, Miss Stokes, that there’s no man you can count on. No woman neither. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”
She crossed the room and opened a cupboard, from which she pulled out two pieces of brown sackcloth, a wooden spoon, and a tin cup. After wrapping the spoon and cup in the cloth, she tied the bundle with twine, making a loop to hang from Evangeline’s bound hands. Then she took the candlestick from the desk and a ring of keys from a drawer and motioned for her to follow. “Here,” she said when they were in the hallway, “take this,” and handed her the glowing candle, which Evangeline held awkwardly, spilling hot wax on her thumbs, while the matron fastened the locks. The candle smelled strongly of tallow. Mutton fat, meaty and greasy. She recognized it from visits to poor parishioners with her father.
They made their way down the corridor, past the hissing lights, and descended the stairs. At the main entrance the matron turned left into an open courtyard. Evangeline followed her across the damp cobbles in the dark, trying not to slip, listening to the moaning of the harlots. She wanted to lift her skirts, but the handcuffs made it impossible. Her wet skirts slapped against her bare ankles. The candle illuminated only a few feet in front of them, the path behind swallowed by darkness. As they approached the other side of the courtyard, the cries grew louder.
Evangeline must have made a noise herself, a self-pitying whimper, perhaps, because the matron glanced over her shoulder and said, “You’ll get used to it.”
Down another flight of stairs, through a short corridor. The matron stopped in front of a black iron door with a cross-hatched grate in the top half and handed Evangeline the candle again. Selecting a key from the ring, she inserted it into three separate locks before opening the door into a dark hallway.