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that Kingsley had refused to be conscripted in order to avoid danger and pain would have been quickly disillusioned had they attended the medical room of Wormwood Scrubs in the early hours of the first night of his sentence. There he lay upon a hard wooden bench, unconscious and entirely caked in blood, while the prison doctor, woozy and boozy after being called from a fine supper, attempted to ascertain whether Kingsley’s back had been broken.
    As it turned out, no permanent damage had been done although the victim had been badly beaten. He regained consciousness in time to hear something of the doctor’s report. Kingsley could smell the brandy and cigars on the doctor’s breath as the medical man stood over him.
    ‘There has been considerable bruising and a few cracked ribs. Clearly the wretch has also been quite severely concussed, which means I shall be required to keep him here for further observation,’ the doctor said.
    ‘How long?’ Kingsley heard the voice of Jenkins enquire.
    ‘A day or two for certain, concussions can be dangerous things. I’ve seen a man get up and walk out as happy as a sandboy and an hour later — bang. Seizure. Dead.’
    ‘It would be no great loss. Send him back to his cell immediately.’
    ‘No thank’ee, Mr Jenkins. No thank’ee indeed. I like a quiet life and that means doing things by the book. By the book, sir! The only rule for them as likes a quiet life. I don’t mind ‘em dying. Oh no, happy with that, sir. Happy to be rid of ‘em and good riddance say I. But if they are to die then they must die by the book. By the book, I say! Which in the case of concussions means they must have been appropriately observed . If they die during appropriate observation then all well and good. If they die after appropriate observation none will be happier than I. What I cannot have is them dying in the absence of appropriate observation, for then they would not have died by the book and I, sir, should not wish to answer for that. The prisoner stays here, Mr Jenkins, until such time as he has been sufficiently observed .’
    The senior warder grunted in a resentful manner.
    ‘It’s a fine thing indeed that a fellow like this lies here at his ease while the boys he’s betrayed sleep and die in mud.’
    ‘I grant you that is so,’ said the doctor, his full belly straining his waistcoat, rich food and wine seeping from his every pore, ‘but the book is not concerned with what is just or right, it is concerned with what is in it . That is, what is legal and prescribed. And in this medical room, sir, the book is law.’
    ‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best,’ Jenkins conceded. ‘Could be questions asked if he didn’t make it through his first twenty-four hours in our care.’
    ‘In your care, sir. The prisoner was brought to me in this state and that fact will be duly noted, sir. In the book.’
    Even through his swollen eyelids Kingsley could see that Jenkins was a little troubled. Every nerve in Kingsley’s body was testimony to the savagery of the beating that he had endured. He was clearly fortunate to be alive. A senior warder would not wish to be held responsible for his death, for Kingsley was a high-profile prisoner. He might have been disgraced but he was still the son-in-law of the Commissioner of the London Police. Kingsley judged that for the time being he was relatively safe. Safe at least from being murdered, for no matter that he was now persona non grata, neither his family nor the authorities would be able to ignore his sudden death. Later on, things would change, the memory of his disgrace would fade, he would eventually pass from people’s minds…and then, well, if it were announced that he had fallen from some high walkway while taking exercise, who would question the passing of a coward and a traitor?
    ‘Take your time. Let him have a week,’ Jenkins concluded. ‘Patch him up a bit. Then we’ll hand him over to some other ‘old pals’ of