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only evidence of his guilt was circumstantial, while others felt that he pleaded guilty in order to protect the real killer, who was known to him. As for myself, I am interested in the bloody handprint that was found at the scene of the crime. According to the police, Spencer’s hands did not have blood on them when he was discovered with the victim.”
    â€œHandprint?” The major frowned. “I don’t believe I heard—”
    â€œIt was not entered into evidence,” Charles said. “It played no role in the police investigation, and I don’t suppose that Spencer’s solicitor would have given it a second thought, even if he had been aware of its existence.” He stared at the play of the flames. “I should not have known of the print if it had not been for Police Commissioner Henry. He discovered a photograph of it during a visit to the Edinburgh police and brought it to my attention.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a large envelope. He opened it and handed several photographs to the major.
    The major studied the photographs, scowling, then handed them back. “I suppose you are raising this matter because you want to have a go at the fellow.”
    â€œSomething like that,” Charles said. “But there’s no special hurry, I suppose.”
    â€œQuite right,” the major said. “No hurry at all. The man isn’t going anywhere.”

CHAPTER FOUR

    The Salvation Army Mission has facilities for visiting prisoners in gaol and it welcomes them on their discharge into its homes in order that they may work out their social redemption. It has its Prison Gate Mission, which has the proud distinction of having been served as missionaries by seven ex-criminals who themselves were in durance vile for an aggregate of 210 years.
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    â€œMissionary London,” in Living London, 1902 Alec Roberts
    â€œ M iss Lucas!” The young orderly raised his voice.
    â€œThe chapel, it’s this way, miss.” He motioned down an intersecting hallway that led, like a dark stone tunnel, deeper into the prison and into an even deeper gloom.
    â€œOh, of course.” Charlotte Lucas (the name she had given to the deputy governor) straightened her shoulders. She must pay closer attention. “I’m sorry. I was distracted.”
    â€œI s‘pect it’s the smells,” the orderly confided in an understanding tone. He shifted the box of Bibles from one arm to the other. “Ladies doan’t much like ’em.”
    Charlotte Lucas smiled gently. “But we in the Prison Gate Mission are used to such things. This is the third prison I have visited in as many weeks.”
    â€œI’m shure,” the young man said respectfully. “An’ all the pris‘ners, they looks forward to seein’ a lady. We doan’t have many here’bouts.” He motioned with his head. “If ye’ll follow me, I’ll lead ye t’ the chapel. The men’re a-waitin’.”
    Charlotte inclined her head, clasped her hands at her black-clad waist, and followed the lad down the long hallway. The smells were indeed appalling, and the silence, but it was more the weight of the place .that afflicted her. It was as if the tragic lives of the doomed prisoners had been added to the eternal substance of the ancient stones, all of it pressing down upon her shoulders, an impossible burden of hardship and suffering and human sorrow. What she had told the boy was not exactly true but close enough, for she had visited most of the prisons in England over the past year, making extensive notes on matters that had to be attended to if prison life were ever to be humane. Here at Dartmoor, for instance, many things were necessary: improved heating and plumbing and food. And especially improved treatment by the guards. Although she would not be allowed to visit the punishment cells and see for herself the penalties imposed on