“What do you want me to do?” asked James.
Craig pointed to the mantel clock, a showy walnut piece with much ormolu trim.
“Stay in here until that chimes the quarter. I’m going to come around through the copse. When it’s time, open the curtains wide and stand in front of the window. Make a point of yawning and stretching. Then pick up Bess, get the lamp, and leave the room. Keep the lamp lit and go to the back door. Put on your boots and coat and step outside onto the patio a little ways. Make a show of getting Bess to relieve herself. Make a lot of noise about it. This is your chance to pretend you’re Edmund Keane.”
He put on his jacket and slipped the billy into his pocket.
“What if this fellow has a pistol?”
Craig shrugged. “You know what to do. Don’t stand in the light; keep moving around. I should be close enough by then to stop him, but if I shout, get out of the way fast.” Then, with a curt nod for his son, he left.
James sat down in the armchair and gulped back the rest of his whiskey. His pipe had gone out, but he didn’t attempt to light it. Bess jumped up beside him, and he stroked her ears. Ten minutes dragged by, and the clock started to strike. He got up, went to the window, and flung open the curtains. He couldn’t see anything outside, but knowing how visible he was made him uneasy. He did a quick yawn and stretch, snapped his fingers at Bess, and walked out of the room. At the back door he waited, listening, but everything was silent. It was almost one o’clock, and people were long in bed. He put on his overcoat and slipped into his boots, picked up the dog, and stepped out onto the patio. Hearing him, Tiny popped out of her kennel and barked. James moved into the shadows, put Bess on the ground, and called out clearly, “Hurry up, Bess, don’t take all night.” Then he started to walk up and down, clapping his hands. Tiny continued to bark, and Bess joined in, spinning round him.
“That’s enough, come on.” He went over to the kennel, which was at the end of the patio, persuaded the pug to come over, and fastened her to a long leash. “Be good, you two.” That done he returned to the back door, picked up his lantern, and went inside. He extinguished the light and waited in the hall. The dogs had quieted down and gone into their kennel, and it must have been only five minutes later when he heard the soft crunch of snow as somebody headed towards the door. His father entered.
“You didn’t wait long out there, James.”
“Sorry, Papa. Did you see him?”
“A glimpse. He was already moving away across Hernsworth’s field. Either finished his job or knew we were on to him. He wasn’t hurrying, so he probably swallowed your charade.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s not too tall, shorter than you and me by a good foot, but he was wearing a mackintosh with the hood up, and I couldn’t tell what size he was, broad or slim.” Craig blew on his cold hands and began to take off his outdoor clothes. “I examined the ground where he’d been standing, but there was nothing to see: no tobacco juice, no cigar butts. However long he had been there, he was a patient man.”
“What do you think we should do, Papa.”
“For now, nothing.” For the first time, Craig grinned. “It is possible that we are making a mountain out of a molehill. He could be out there for a dozen reasons. He might be a shy suitor trying to catch a glimpse of Adelia for one thing. Or he could be a dog snatcher, looking to carry off our pride and joy.” He blew on his hands again. “Or he’s nosing into our business.”
They had been standing in the hall, speaking in low voices. Craig tapped his son lightly on the cheek. “By the way, James, you are looking most fearful. I’ve told you many times, you must never show fear. Never.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” James summoned up his characteristic, sunny smile.
“That’s better. You must take a lesson from what happened to that poor sod, Harry Murdoch. He was his own worst enemy.”
“I didn’t know you felt sorry for him, Papa.”
Craig shrugged. “Of course I do. Not a lot but somewhat. Now off to bed with you. In the morning we’ll go out and have another look around. He just may have left something behind, although I doubt it. This man is experienced.”
James kissed him good night and left. Craig didn’t move but stood and chafed his cold hands again. He knew he wouldn’t sleep yet; his blood was still racing. He needed a bit of soothing, a release. He made his way up the rear stairs, past the second-floor landing to the third. There were two chambers up here. One was used as a storage room; the other was where his sister-in-law slept. He opened the door to this room and went inside. “Carmel,” he whispered. “Carmel, wake up, dear, it’s me.”
Jessica didn’t want to go back to bed just yet. Walter was not a heavy sleeper, and it seemed that the smallest movement on her part woke him. She’d half expected him to be waiting at the door. She knew it came from love, but his solicitude was oppressing her, ultimately futile. He could not help her, could not offer any relief from her torment.
She didn’t risk raking the coals even though she was chilled to the bone. Her boots were worn thin at the soles, and her stockings were damp from the snow that had leaked through. In her crib, Sally turned and cried out, “Mama, Mama.” Jessica went over to her, but she was fast asleep. She looked flushed, and in a rush of alarm Jessica touched her forehead. She was warm but not overly so, and Jessica pulled back the coverlet to cool her. Then, wrapping her hands in the ends of her shawl, she began to pace around the room. A large Bible was on its special stand by the window and she halted in front of it, touching the soft leather cover as if it were a live creature. She opened it at the back page where her mother had written down the family tree as she remembered it.
Evangeline Plain had married Josiah Watkins. They had seven children of whom four had lived to adulthood, Phoebe, Thomas, David, and the youngest, Jessica.
She moved her finger along the careful handwriting. Jessica had married Walter Lacey. Her mother had given her the Bible as a wedding present, and Jessica remembered how proudly and carefully she had entered the name of her firstborn, Sarah, called Sally, born October 30, 1891. There was another line underneath ready for the next entry, and Walter had written Sylvanus. The foetus had not been viable, but according to the church he had lived long enough inside her to have a soul and his christening and burial had been simultaneous. Jessica pressed her own breasts. If the infant had gone full term, he would have been suckling now.
She stood for a moment and touched the Bible reverentially. She had witnessed her mother many times gain solace from what she insisted was the word of God made manifest, and Jessica desperately needed guidance. She opened the book at Proverbs and without looking ran her finger down the page, continuing as prayerfully as she could until she felt the impulse to stop. She looked down. She had halted at chapter 30, verses 15–16.
The horseleach hath two daughters, crying Give, give. There are three things that are never satisfied, yea, four things say, It is not enough:
The grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water; and the fire that saith not, It is enough.
The words became shards of glass in her throat.
Chapter Twelve
THE DON JAIL, an imposing grey stone building, was set back from the street on a slight rise so that it was visible to the neighbourhood. A broad gravel driveway, always neatly raked, swept up to the arched entrance as if to a manor house, although there any similarities ended. Murdoch had been here on numerous previous occasions, but he had been in through the front entrance only once before when he was in the role of a visitor. This was when he’d gone to talk to Adam Blake, the boy he’d caught pickpocketing. Normally, the boy would have been sent off to The Boy’s Industrial school. However, the police magistrate, Denison, who tried the case, was notoriously unpredictable. Expressing great sympathy for the woman, he’d sentenced young Blake to sixty days in Don Jail. Murdoch thought there was intelligence in the boy and hoped that by showing some interest in h
im, he could help him find a better path. However, he might as well have saved his breath. Blake was sullen and uncommunicative and not at all interested in changing his ways.
Murdoch walked up the curving stone steps to the big double doors. There was a carved stone column on either side and over the lintel was a large carving of a man’s head, also fashioned out of grey stone. The hair and beard curled out like snakes, and the eyes were prominent and doleful. Murdoch thought it looked like a decapitated criminal, but he’d been told it represented Father Time, a caution to those who were foolishly wasting theirs.
He tugged on the bellpull. There was a small barred and shuttered window in the door to the right, and almost immediately, the wooden panel slid open. A man, who could have been at the mouth of Hades to judge from his forbidding expression, thrust his face into the opening. He viewed Murdoch with immediate suspicion. “What’s your business? Visiting on Sunday only.”
“Warden Massie sent for me. I’m Acting Detective Murdoch, Number Four Station.”
The guard glanced down at something, presumably a list of some kind, and his expression changed. “You can come in.” He was ushered into a tiny foyer.
“Sorry if I didn’t offer you the best greeting just now, Mr. Murdoch, but we get all kinds of sob stories to get us to break the rules. Most of them a pile of horse plop.” He offered Murdoch his hand. “Clarence Howe, at your service.”
Murdoch shook hands.
“Sorry for your loss,” said Howe, indicating Murdoch’s badge of mourning. He nodded an acknowledgment but didn’t feel like offering any further information.
“How is young Blake doing? Has a few weeks in the brig brought him to his senses finally?”
“Blake? You’re talking about Adam Blake? Tow-headed little filch?”
“That’s the one.”
“Come to his senses? Not him. He’s heading straight for a rope necklace, if you ask me.”
Puzzled, Murdoch was about to ask if Howe knew the reason for his summons, but a door behind them opened and another guard emerged. He, too, had a military bearing with short, cropped hair and a long, waxed moustache.
“The warden says he’s ready to see you, Detective. Come this way.”
Mr. Massie’s office was on the second floor at the rear of the building, facing the prisoners’ exercise court. The new guard didn’t speak as he led the way, and they marched down a dimly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor, the guard’s keys clinking at his waist. A narrow flight of stairs led to another locked door. This opened into a short corridor, plainly decorated with rush carpeting and unadorned dark brown walls. The warden’s door was at the end of the hall, and Murdoch felt as if he should have snapped to attention when they halted. The guard tapped on the warden’s door.
“Come.”
James Massie had been standing by the window behind his desk, but he immediately came over to greet Murdoch, offering his hand. He was a short man, of middle age with a smooth, bald pate that he balanced with a trim moustache and beard. He wore gold pincenez, which accentuated his rather scholarly look.
“Detective Murdoch, please have a seat.” He waved in the direction of the leather padded chair that was in front of his desk. Murdoch sat down, removing his hat and placing it on the floor beside him.
The guard turned on his heels smartly and left the room. The warden took the chair on the other side of the wide desk. The surface was bare except for an inkwell and pen tray and a large ledger. Massie moved the ledger to one side, lining it up neatly with the edge of the desk. Murdoch wondered if he was always this uncomfortable.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Murdoch. I, er, didn’t feel I should impart my news in a letter, so I assume you do not know the reason for my sending for you?”
“I thought it might be young Blake, but I gather that is not the case.”
“Ah yes, Blake. No, no, that is correct. It is not concerning him.”
Massie opened the drawer on his right and took out a buff folder that was stuffed with sheets of paper. He pushed the pince-nez up his nose. The lens magnified his brown eyes.
“Well, I won’t beat around the bush any longer. We have a prisoner here. His name is Henry Murdoch, known as Harry Murdoch. He claims he is your father.”
Murdoch stared at him. “My father? How could he be my father?”
Massie riffled through the papers and took out one of the sheets.
“Henry Francis Murdoch, born in the city of Halifax, Nova Scotia, in the year of Our Lord, eighteen hundred and thirty-nine. He was married to Miss Mary Weldon, also of the city of Halifax, now deceased. There were three issue: a son, William, born in sixty-one; a daughter, Susanna, born in sixty-four; and a second son, Albert, also deceased.” His tone was conciliatory. “I realise this must be a shock to you, sir, but we are correct, are we not? Henry Murdoch is your father?”
For a moment Murdoch felt as if he were gaping like a fool at the man in front of him. It had been such a long time since he had had anything to do with Harry. When he spoke, he could hear how cold his voice sounded. “It must be correct. Those are certainly the pertinent details of my father’s life. What has he done this time?”
Massie pursed his lips, hesitating. “He has been convicted of murder.”
He waited to see if there was any reaction, but Murdoch had retreated into the wooden mode of expression that gripped him in moments of great stress.
The warden looked down at his sheet of paper and read as if it were important he not include a single word not officially recorded: “On August the fourth, last, he was charged with the willful murder of one John Delaney of the county of York. He was tried before a jury of his peers and convicted on December sixth. He was sentenced to be hung, the sentence to be carried out on Monday, December sixteenth.”
“What were the circumstances of the murder?” Murdoch asked, although he thought he could guess. A drunken brawl, one blow too hard. Massie turned back and indicated a large sheaf of papers that were tacked together.
“This is a copy of the complete court records, but I can summarize the case if you wish.”
“If you please.”
“The crime occurred on August fourth in the ravine area to the east of Yonge Street where Summerhill ends. There is a tavern at the end of the street named the Manchester …”
He glanced at Murdoch, who shrugged. He hadn’t heard of it. “Apparently, the proprietor, Vincent Newcombe, organises terrier matches, the object being to see which dog can kill the most rats in a given length of time. Mr. Murdoch was a participant in such a match. According to the witnesses, he lost heavily and became enraged, accusing almost everybody of cheating him. The man who emerged a winner was the man who was found murdered, John Delaney. Again, all witnesses agreed that Harry left the premises first. Two hours or so later, Delaney’s wife became concerned when her husband had not returned home and sent her son to the tavern to enquire after him. He had apparently left not too long after Harry. One of the witnesses, a Mr. Pugh, offered to return with Delaney’s son, and he discovered the body lying in the creek. He had not drowned but had suffered severe blows to the back of the head. Harry Murdoch was found lying in the grass only a few feet away. When roused and told of Mr. Delaney’s death, he replied, ‘He got what he deserved.’ Mr. Pugh, on suspicion of culpability, bound Murdoch’s hands, and when the constable arrived, Murdoch was arrested.”
“Is that the sum of the evidence against him?”
“By no means. Mr. Delaney was left handed, and your father had a bruise on his right cheek, which corresponded to abrasions found on the dead man’s left knuckles. There was blood on Murdoch’s right sleeve and on the front of his shirt. He had no good reason to be where he was in the ravine. His boardinghouse was located at the far end of Shaftesbury Avenue in the opposite direction. Finally, there was money missing from Mr. Delaney’s pouch. Of course, his remark concerning the poor man’s death was most damning, Mr. Delaney was held in high respect by hi
s church and community.”
“In spite of his predilection for gambling?”
“Apparently a forgivable sin.”
“And Harry Murdoch had been drinking, I suppose?”
“According to the witnesses, he was quite full.”
Murdoch felt a rush of bile into his mouth. The years hadn’t changed his father. Massie averted his eyes, tactfully.
“I must say that since he has been here he is quite redeemed. He is learning how to read a little and has shown quite an aptitude for sketching. He cannot, of course, drink to excess even if he wished to, but he has taken the Pledge and every week he receives communion. He has returned to his faith. Roman Catholic, I believe?”
Murdoch nodded.
“The coroner’s jury concluded he had lain in wait for his enemy just below the bridge. They quarrelled. Murdoch struck Delaney, probably with a piece of wood, and toppled him into the creek. Then, overcome by the exertion and still under the influence of the liquor, he lost consciousness and did not awake until he was discovered later by Mr. Pugh. Those are the bare bones of the case. You can certainly look at this report at your leisure if you wish.”
“Is there any point, Warden?”
Massie realigned the ledger again. “That is entirely up to you.”
“Did he plead guilty?”
“No, he did not. He swears he is innocent.” Massie coughed politely. “But then that is quite common, isn’t it?”
“Why has he asked to see me?”
“I am aware that you have not seen each other for some time. He told me himself that you had a falling out when you were a young man.”
“You might call it that.”
Murdoch knew his voice was bitter, but he couldn’t help it. The so-called falling out was a violent quarrel that would have ended in bloodshed except that Harry was too drunk to remain upright. Murdoch, who was just thirteen years old but already growing tall, had accepted the blows his father was raining on his head and shoulders, too proud to do anything other than defend himself. When Harry had staggered and fallen to the ground, Murdoch had walked away, vowing he would never again allow his father to beat him. The last sight he’d had of his father was the man lying on his back in the middle of the living room, snoring, dribbling, and stinking.
Let Loose the Dogs Page 6