The Surrey House of Correction
Tuesday, 11th of May 1926, Marianne
This looks like a veritable fortress. Marianne MacArthur shivered a little, as the motorcar came to a halt in front of The Surrey House of Correction.
After Mr. Grady, her driver, helped her out of the vehicle, he stood next to her longer than usual, fidgeting with his cap.
He had loyally accompanied her wherever she needed to go throughout her years of study and pupillage, listening to her accounts of whatever troubled her during the rides and lightening up her mood with his light remarks.
Seeing his ginger brows furrowed was unusual indeed.
“Is there anything you need, Grady?” Marianne asked, her hands clenching around a leather binder containing the detailed file she’d need.
She wanted to get in there and be done with it.
It was her first time meeting a potential client of her own.
It was her first time entering a prison.
“Are… are you sure you want to go in there, my Lady?” Grady said gesturing towards the imposing wooden gates.
“Yes, of course”, Marianne answered.
She was not sure at all.
Not in this particular case.
She had not told Grady whom she was going to see today, had thought it better not to.
Although she used to tell Grady a great many things.
She swallowed, trying to force down her nervousness, and said, “I’m not going to stay there, you know.”
The grin reappeared on Grady’s freckled face and he saluted with his good hand.
“Of course, my Lady, good luck!”
Without looking back another time, she approached the massive wooden gate in purposeful strides.
“Miss, it’s not visitor’s day today. Today’s hours are for solicitors and barristers only,” the officer at the entrance told her.
There it was.
They wouldn’t let her in, just because she was a woman.
And then she would lose even the one client who had no chance but to take her on - because she wouldn’t even be able to meet him.
Talk of a total failure.
’No, stop catastrophising,’ she told herself and took a deep breath.
She tried to put as much conviction into her voice as she could when she said, “I am Lady Marianne MacArthur, barrister, member of The Inner Temple, junior partner of Barrows & MacArthur, here to see a client.”
She had thoroughly practised these kinds of situations with Mr Barrows, the senior barrister who had taken her under his wings during her studies and then employed her as a legal assistant until she was ready for pupillage.
And still, her heart pounded whenever she had to speak up.
She handed her identification to the prison officer, along with the confirmation letter that had the inmate’s name and number printed on it.
When she had read the name on the file for the first time, she had almost told Barrows that she couldn’t possibly take on this case.
That it threatened her professional integrity.
That she knew the man.
But then, Barrows must have known.
After all, he had represented her six and a half years ago when the conundrum of the contract had been sorted out.
And it had been weeks since her call into the bar and until now, every potential client had declined to work with a woman and asked for the senior partner instead.
Every potential client but this one.
If she ever wanted to get a foot into the courtroom, she would have to take him on.
So she had swallowed down her concerns, taken the files, made the appointment and now found herself eye to eye with the prison officer who now looked her up and down, frowning.
Had she missed something?
Was she not dressed appropriately for such a visit?
But no, she had checked her appearance - various times actually - before venturing out.
Her black costume - albeit rather old-fashioned - was meticulously tailored to her body, the bottom-length skirt covering her wooden leg.
She had powdered her face and stained her lips just slightly, her spectacles were clean and her short hair styled in the newest fashion.
The only problem the guard could have with her was that she was obviously not a man.
But then he nodded and called another officer to escort her.
A smaller door opened in the massive wooden portal, and an older prison officer ushered her into a dimly lit area, directly closing the door behind her, before taking out his massive key ring and opening the next door.
Now light flooded in and she was led into the receiving yard, approaching the main prison building.
Two three-story wings were spreading out from the administrative building at a wide angle, rows and rows of grilled windows staring at her.
She tried to keep her steps steady and determined, while a feeling of dread washed over her.
Better not to imagine how it must be to live behind one of those windows.
They entered the administrative building and it was the same routine again.
Opening one well-locked door, this time made of massive iron, entering with the next one only a few paces away, locking it again, before opening the next one, keys screeching.
Apart from the iron grid at the end of the corridor, the first floor of the administrative building was eerily ordinary, with wooden office doors with plaques on the side for the prison governor, clerks and chaplains.
One door was open and animated chatter came out.
They walked along, towards the grid, Marianne thought she now strode confidently, her limp only barely noticeable.
Again, the prison officer unlocked the grid, gestured for her to walk through it, and then locked it again.
The doors on the sides of the corridor were now made of iron, with glass windows in the upper part of the door allowing for surveillance.
They stopped in front of one of them on the right-hand side.
Instead of entering directly, she paused and peered through the window.
The man she was supposed to meet sat on a wooden chair in a rigid posture, his back not touching the backrest.
He looked haggard, older than the thirty-four years that were marked as his age in her files.
She could spot grey strands in his brown hair.
The dark blue trousers and jacket of his inmate’s uniform were ill-fitting and the colour washed out, the shirt a greyish white, but the tie knotted meticulously.
A nasty bruise on the left side of his chin was the obvious reminder of the reason for her visit.
When he looked up, as if he had felt her gaze on him, and his hazel eyes met hers, widening in surprise, she was catapulted back in time.
The ringing of a gunshot.
Strong arms pulling her down and into cover.
Blood stains on the white fabric of her gown.
Hazel eyes inspecting her, making sure she is not hurt.
A whisper.
“Goodbye, Lady Marianne.”
And then, alone with the shock and fear.
Her heart was beating fast, and for a moment she had to steady herself on the cool iron of the door.
“Is everything alright, Miss?”
There was concern in the voice of the prison officer who so far had not exchanged much more than a short greeting with her.
This was her last chance to turn on her heels and do the one thing that would be sensible: abandoning this impossible case.
She took a deep breath, then another one.
Then she nodded.
“Yes. If you would open the door, please.”
