Waxwork Read Free Page B

crime.’
    Mr Justice Colbeck tersely answered, ‘The prerogative of mercy does not rest with me. The plea must be recorded.’
    The Clerk of the Court faced the dock. ‘Miriam Jane Cromer, you have confessed yourself guilty of the wilful murder of Josiah Perceval. Have you anything to say why the court should not pronounce sentence upon you?’
    Her left hand moved towards the rail. The rings on the third finger glittered in the light.
    â€˜You must answer,’ said the judge.
    â€˜I have nothing to say, my lord.’
    The oblong of cloth known as the black cap was placed on the judge’s head.
    â€˜Prisoner at the bar, you have been convicted on your own admission of the dreadful crime laid to your charge. I have studied the evidence and examined the deposition you made concerning your actions and I can entertain no doubt as to your guilt. That the deceased by your account behaved shamefully and criminally towards you I concede, but whether that may be weighed in mitigation is not for me to say. There were other remedies open to you than murder, which is the most heinous of all crimes. I am bound to say that yours was an odious form of murder. The use of poison necessarily involves an element of calculation. This was not an impulsive act; it was a crime deliberately planned. You carried it out in cold blood.
    â€˜As I have already made clear to you, the law leaves me no discretion, and I must pass on to you the sentence of the law; and it is that this court doth ordain you to be taken hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead; and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been confined after your conviction, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.’
    The eyes of everyone were on the small figure in the dock. The sentence had not disturbed her waxlike stillness. A wardress touched her arm to indicate that she must turn and go down the steps. She inclined her head, turning to her right, away from the judge. For a moment her eyes appeared to linger on someone in the well of the court. Then she allowed the wardresses to lead her down and out of sight.
    That ritual over, another began. On the steps down from the dock the wardresses gripped the prisoner firmly by each arm. In the brown-tiled passage underneath they held her upright while the doctor adminstered sal volatile. Whether it was required was not considered. They took her into a room and sat her on a bench. The doctor offered brandy, but she shook her head. She appeared to be in control. The doctor took her wrist and felt the pulse.
    The chaplain who had waited unobtrusively came forward, opening his Bible.
    Miriam Cromer turned to one of the wardresses and asked, ‘When will you be taking me back to the prison?’
    â€˜When you are fit to walk.’
    â€˜I can walk now.’ Before the chaplain could begin his spiritual comfort she told him, ‘I am not ungrateful, but at this moment I want to be taken wherever I must and then left alone.’
    The doctor nodded his assent. The wardresses, both strong women, took hold of her arms and practically lifted her from the bench.
    The Central Criminal Court was linked with Newgate by a stone passage open to the elements. It was commonly known as Birdcage Walk, from the iron bars in default of a roof. The rain was teeming in.
    They hustled her forward, heads bowed. After a few steps she hesitated, her attention caught. At intervals capital letters had been crudely chiselled in the flagstones. Isolated letters. ‘Better you don’t ask,’ one of the wardresses told her firmly. ‘Take a squint at the sky. You won’t see much of it where you’re going.’
    There was a stone porch at the end. They stood there breathing rapidly from the quick walk through the rain while a turnkey opened the iron-plated