Death at Dartmoor Read Online Free PDF Page B

those who had attempted to escape or had been caught in possession of prohibited articles, she knew what they were like from the reports of men who had survived their solitary, lightless, airless incarceration there, on a diet of bread and water. Charlotte shuddered and put these unthinkable thoughts out of her mind. She would have to concentrate on today’s mission, which was different and quite special and required all her attention.
    The men, fewer than a dozen of them, all wearing their coarse uniforms with the distinctive broad-arrow stripe, their shaved heads bare, were already seated when Charlotte was escorted inside. The room itself was quite plain, with rows of wooden benches instead of pews and “Prince of Peace” emblazoned over the pulpit, which was backed by three tall stained glass windows and a mural painting of Christ ascending into the heavens. In fact, one might even forget that this was a prison chapel, if it were not for the tall stools on which the guards sat, strategically placed around the walls.
    Charlotte walked down the aisle and stood at the side of the altar. She unloaded the books from the box held by the orderly and arranged them in two neat piles beside the altar.
    The chaplain stepped forward. “Miss Lucas,” he said in a low voice, bowing. “I’ve had the men assembled, although I must say that yours was a rather unusual request. Only Scotsmen, as I understand it? Something about a bequest?”
    â€œYes,” Charlotte replied. She adjusted her Army bonnet, which had a way of going askew when she turned her head. “The Mission receives gifts of this sort from time to time. In this case, the donor who provided the funds through his will to purchase the Bibles left quite specific instructions for their distribution.” She looked out over the small group and was satisfied.
    â€œI see,” the chaplain said. “Well, then, shall we begin?” He stepped forward and raised his voice. “Attention, men. This is Miss Charlotte Lucas, of the Salvation Army’s Prison Gate Mission. She is here to distribute Bibles to men of Scottish descent, carrying out a special bequest from an anonymous donor. We will stand and repeat the Lord’s Prayer in unison. Then you will file forward and she will give each of you a Bible.”
    The men stood, bowed their bare, shaven heads, and dutifully mumbled the prayer. Beneath her lashes, Charlotte stole a glance at them. One in particular—a slender man with a sensitive mouth, a stubble of reddish beard crusting his prison pallor, and the number 351 sewn on his prison jacket—was watching her longingly, his feelings so evident that it was all she could do to keep from gasping aloud. She lowered her head and laced her fingers to keep them from trembling. The man wasn’t the only one staring at her, of course. All of the men were starved for the sight of a woman, and her heart went out to them. Whatever their crimes, a sentence to Dartmoor was a sentence to a living hell.
    When the prayer was finished, the men stood and came forward, one at a time, as the guards looked on watchfully. Charlotte took the small leather-bound Bibles one at a time from the pile, presenting one to every prisoner. “God bless you,” she said, looking into each face as she pressed their hands, murmuring the number of a verse to each. John 3:16, or Romans 8:28, or some other, each one different. Most of the men did not answer or return her glance, keeping their eyes averted from hers as if they did not want to risk her seeing into the darkness of their souls—all but two or three, whose looks were bold or insolent or frighteningly direct. To these, she gave a small smile as well as a blessing and a verse.
    When number 351 stepped up to her, she turned to her left as if to check the empty box. As she turned back to face him, she brushed one of the piles, knocking one book off with a thud that echoed through the