The Death Chamber by Sarah Rayne

lives . . . Lewis said, ‘You’re quite right, of course, Inspector. There’s nothing romantic about a traitor.’
    ‘Indeed there is not, sir. You’ve got extra guards on duty for the next three weeks, I hear.’
    ‘Yes.’
    The inspector glanced about him, at Calvary’s bleak walls and locked doors. ‘No one’s ever escaped from here, have they?’
    ‘No,’ said Lewis. ‘But we’ve never had an Irish rebel before.’
    ‘You’re thinking someone might try to get him out?’
    ‘It’s a possibility I have to consider. O’Kane will leave a wife and small son, and the Irish can be sentimental about such things.’
    ‘I know about the wife and son,’ said the inspector thoughtfully. ‘But to my way of thinking O’Kane should have thought of that before he set about selling information to
Germany. Murderers have no business having wives and children, and in my book O’Kane is as bad as any wife killer or mistress poisoner.’
    ‘They’re saying this one is as bad as any wife killer,’ said Calvary’s head warder, watching the porridge-faced warder finish the grim task of digging a
grave for a man still living. ‘And I don’t know but what I wouldn’t agree with that. To my mind it’s a nasty affair, this selling out of your country. I shan’t be
sorry to see this one turned off.’
    The porridge-faced warder, whose name was Saul Ketch and who had just come off guard duty on the condemned prisoner, would not be sorry, either. He disliked glossy-haired young men who behaved
with unnatural politeness in the condemned cell, and who reminded the female warders of Rudolph Valentino, so that they sighed to think of the ugly death waiting for him. That was nothing but a lot
of female nonsense to Ketch’s way of thinking. If a man had committed murder, he should pay with his life.
    He laid down his spade and straightened up, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Digging a grave made you sweat like a pig. He pulled the thick gardener’s gloves from his pocket,
because the next part of the task was to open the lime store. Ketch put on the gloves and made sure his trousers were tucked into the tops of his boots. You got two pairs of uniform trousers with
the job, but Ketch and a few of the other warders ran a nice little business selling prison-issue clothes in a second-hand shop in Kendal. You did not really need both pairs; if you were careful,
one pair could last you two or three years, and it was a nice little sideline. He had a few other sidelines as well, but the clothes one was the best, although it meant if he splashed lime on these
trousers he had not a spare pair, so he had to be careful.
    He had to be careful anyway, with Old Muttonchops watching him and very likely Lewis Caradoc glancing out of the window of his posh study as well. Ketch sent a sidelong glance to the steep wall
of Calvary, but nothing seemed to be moving behind any of the windows – unless, of course, it might be old Pierrepoint creeping through the deserted passages, trying to catch a glimpse of his
man without being seen.
    Ketch walked across to the corrugated iron door in a corner of the burial yard, and unfastened the padlock. He opened the door slowly, keeping well back because he was not going to get himself
burned, not for Nicholas O’bloody Kane nor Lewis Caradoc, nor anybody. Even like this – before you poured on the water that slaked it – lime could be dangerous. Volatile or some
such word they called it; Ketch did not bother overmuch about words. That tart Belinda Skelton brought in books to read when she was on duty which Ketch considered a form of showing-off. Belinda
was trying to catch the eye of the governor, of course, Ketch knew all about that, and he was watching her very closely. Most people thought the governor was cold and strict – aloof they
called it – but Ketch had seen a certain look in Lewis Caradoc’s eyes at times, particularly when he looked at Skelton. It did not