“There’s strong evidence against you.”
Harry thumped on the table. “You’ve got me tight by the balls, haven’t you, Will. You’re just going to squeeze a little now and again just for the pleasure of seeing me wince. Well, I’m not going to do it. I know there’s been bad blood between us, and you haven’t forgot it. Maybe we’ve got to get that out of the way before we go any further. Or are you enjoying it too much? You’re finally getting your own back.” His eyes had darkened in a way that Murdoch was all too familiar with. He leaned forward. For all the world he looked as if he were about to challenge his son to an arm wrestle. In spite of the inactivity of the jail, he still had the broad shoulders and thick forearms of a fisherman. It was all Murdoch could do not to flinch. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him if he stood up. He felt as if he had been deluged with scalding water, and in spite of himself he was that boy again confronted with his father’s rage, an anger that had felt murderous to him then and even so now. His fear was quickly followed by his own fury.
“Why should I believe you’re innocent? Answer me, Harry? Why should I? You say you don’t remember anything after you left the tavern. Shall I remind you what you were like when you had tossed back a few? You liked to come out swinging. At me, Bertie, even Ma. And the next day you couldn’t remember a bloody thing.” He was leaning forward now, his face close to his father’s, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Why should this be different?”
Surprisingly, Harry didn’t respond in kind. He averted his face.
“Because it is. I’d know if I killed somebody. I’d remember that.”
“Well, let’s try digging into our memories, shall we? Do you recall picking up a piece of tree branch and whacking the man across the back of the head?”
“No, I do not.”
“Whacking him so hard his skull split? Then maybe a recollection of kicking his body as if he was a sack of potatoes? And all because you thought he’d cheated you. Is it coming back to you now, Harry?”
“No!”
The door opened and the guard peeked in. “Everything all right, Mr. Murdoch? Do you need help?”
Startled, Murdoch realised he had been shouting. “No. Thanks. Harry and I are just getting down to brass tacks.”
“Keep it down then. You sure are loud.”
“Some things need to be said loud, Mr. Barker.”
The guard grimaced and went back to the corridor. The interruption, however, served its purpose, and Murdoch was able to regain some control. Harry was sitting very still, his hands in front of him. Then he spoke and his voice was taut with emotion. “Don’t you think I’ve wondered that myself? If it is true I committed a murder, I want to know. I’d like to prepare myself to face my Maker.”
Murdoch almost laughed out loud but was stopped by the expression on his father’s face. He meant what he said.
“I’ve been thinking about little else since I’ve been in here. But I just don’t think I could have done such violence. Even if I felt it, I was too full. I could barely walk by that time. I wouldn’t have had the strength to hit him like that.”
This was the only point that Murdoch had thought was in Harry’s favour when he’d read the trial report. The blows that Harry threw around were easier to dodge and feebler the more drunk he was.
“What do you think I can do at this late stage?”
“I don’t know. You’ve ended up in the police force. You’ll know what to do.”
His pipe had gone out, and he fiddled with the matches to get it going again. Murdoch let him have a draw first.
“This man, White. The one who vanished. What was your impression of him?”
“Ah, you’ve hit the nail on the head, Will. I begged and begged my counsel to search for him, but he always gave me tepid answers. ‘We’ve advertised in all the newspapers,’ was all he could come up with. I told him the man was a city swell, which was a mistake. That made him stop looking right away. If I’d said he was a navvy or a clerk, he’d have gone all out to find him.”
He bit hard on the stem of his pipe. “Besides, I was a charity case and that slows down the enthusiasm right there. I didn’t have no money to pay a lawyer, and beggars can’t be choosers.”
“He seemed to do a competent job, as far as I could tell.”
“He was a hack. I needed somebody with spirit.”
“Wishful thinking aside, do you consider White the kind of man who would kill somebody?”
Harry shrugged. “Why not? He was what I’d call a hungry bettor. They won’t stop till they’ve won or they’re broke. He didn’t win nought that day. Maybe he believed Delaney was a cheat which he was. I know the Craigs said he was heading off in the other direction, but it would have been nothing to turn back and go in search of Delaney.”
“What did he look like?”
“Young fellow, not thirty I’d say. Medium sized, brown hair, whiskers. It was obvious from the way he was dressed he was a swell from the city. Gold cuff links, stickpin with a diamond, the lot.”
“A professional man?”
“Probably. I’d say a banker but could even be a doctor or a solicitor.”
“Did he introduce himself? Give a Christian name?”
“Not to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if White isn’t his real name.”
“I thought I’d try to find him. See what he has to say.”
Harry reached out and placed his hand on Murdoch’s. His skin was hot and dry, and it was as if a bolt of electricity shot through Murdoch’s fingers. “We don’t have much time. You might not believe me, Will, but I’m a better man than I was. Being in jail gives you a lot of thinking time. These last few months being cold sober has made me face up to a few things. I mean it when I say to you that I want to know truly if I have murdered a man. I’ll die repentant for that if it’s true. If it’s not, then I’d like the opportunity to make amends for the life I’ve led up to now.”
Murdoch wanted to sneer. This was the typical drunkard’s remorse, as lasting as a piece of milkweed fluff, blown away by the next thirst. But there was sincerity, fear, and a look he could only identify as yearning. Harry wanted something from him, and it wasn’t only help. He wanted his son to love him.
Chapter Seventeen
THE MANCHESTER TAVERN WAS LOCATED at the far end of Shaftesbury Avenue, and Murdoch walked back from St. Clair Avenue and Yonge Street, which was as far as the streetcar terminal. He was glad of the exercise. Within the space of four days, his life had undergone an irrevocable and cataclysmic change, and he felt the need to sort out both his thoughts and feelings. He didn’t know when it would be the right time to tell his father that Susanna was dead. The recent meeting had been cut off abruptly. Tyler had come in and said Harry had to return to his cell at once. There had been some sort of barney in the exercise yard, and the warden was confining all prisoners in their cells until he sorted out what had happened. As he stood up to follow the guard, Harry called out, “Find out what’s happened to my dog, will you. He’s a game little fellow. Name of Havoc.”
He wondered what Harry’s reaction would be when he did tell him about Susanna. The new Harry, that is. The one with sensibility. When they were growing up, his father had not shown any more tenderness towards his daughter than he had to the two boys. He didn’t hit her, but he did bark out orders or angry reprimands if she wasn’t fast enough bringing him what he wanted. She had wept with the rest of them.
Murdoch’s stomach felt tight and on the verge of queasiness. Although he didn’t want to think about the expression on his father’s face when he was leaving, it kept jumping back into his mind. The raw nakedness of Harry’s longing was shocking. His father’s physical nakedness had been easier to witness. Winter and summer, when he returned from a fishing trip, Harry would strip down in front of the fire before stepping into the tub of scalding hot water his wife had ready for him. Will had sat and watched him, and one time when he was almost ten years old, Harry had c
aught an expression on Will’s face that had made him chuckle. He was enjoying the boy’s nervous curiosity. He hadn’t needed to say anything, but Will knew what it was all about and had hated the power his father held over him. After that he’d developed the ability to feign indifference.
He halted in front of the tavern, a long, squat building sitting alone in a patch of waste ground. In its first life it must have been a warehouse associated with the Canadian Pacific railway yards, which ran along the south side of the street. However, the ochre-painted walls were in good repair and the black trim fresh and shiny. On either side of the double doors were two urns, empty now but no doubt filled with flowers in the summer. In the English style, there was a hanging sign on which was painted a muddy-looking picture of a little brown-and-black dog, smooth coated, with sharp, pointed ears and spindly legs. Its front paw, the claws tipped with blood, was holding down a black rat. Printed in bold red letters was THE MANCHESTER TERRIER.
There was smoke coming from the chimney and lamps lit. He could see a woman, plump and dark haired, moving about in the kitchen. A large room took up the other half of the building and was obviously the taproom, with its long tables and benches. There was a big stone hearth at one end, but there were no customers warming themselves. He assumed the tavern was closed until the evening.
He continued walking. The macadamised street ended abruptly about fifty yards on and narrowed into a dirt path that disappeared in a stand of pine trees. There were no other buildings, and the fence opposite demarcated the end of the railway property. He followed the path through the trees to the brow of the hill and stood looking down into the ravine. A blustering wind stung his face.
Beginning slightly to the south of St. Clair Avenue, the land was cut by a series of faults that ran down almost as far as the lake, like gigantic sabre slashes. These ravines weren’t especially long or deep, but they were rough and thickly wooded and afforded dramatic terrain in the otherwise bland landscape, a reminder of the primeval forest so recently tamed.
Murdoch paused. In the summer the trees would be thick and lush, but now they had lost most of their leaves. The spruces and other evergreens were abundant, but he could see through the branches sufficiently to glimpse a narrow wooden bridge at the bottom of the hill. He fished his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and checked it. Ten minutes past two o’clock. He began to make his way at a steady pace down the path. The ground was hard and dry, but small drifts of snow had been captured in the ruts, which made the way slippery.
“Ahh!” He lost his footing and slid down in a rush to level ground, where he lay momentarily, feeling irrationally angry at the fall as if the earth had vindictively attacked him. A black Junco lighted on a branch nearby and twittered, cocking its head to look at him.
“Haven’t you seen anybody fall on their arse before?” he asked the bird in mock anger. “Humans do it all the time, you know.” The blackbird darted away.
Murdoch brushed some snow off his trousers and got to his feet. Down here the wind was less fierce. It was private and protected. Even with the denuded trees, the branches were thick; in the summer he would be completely invisible. He checked the time. It had taken only six minutes to descend from the top of the hill. Add four minutes from the tavern. Ten minutes more or less from there to here.
He walked onto the bridge and leaned over the railing. The creek was narrow and the banks sandy, about four or five feet high. The little river would be frozen before too long, but now there was only a thin skin of ice at the verge, the centre running freely. Just ahead, the path forked, one branch went to the left and disappeared around the bend of the hill. The other continued further along to the right then it too vanished as it wound its way up the hill. The railway bridge, the steel girders dark and slender, strode across the gap.
Murdoch took the right-hand path and walked a distance of about twenty feet. This was roughly the spot where Harry had been found lying in the thick summer grass. Delaney had been discovered in the creek further along. The banks here were higher than at the bridge but also sandy, and the rocks had been smoothed and rounded by the flowing water. He walked on a little further. The path he was on ran underneath the high railway bridge and seemed to be heading in the direction of Yonge Street. Then just around a slight bend, he came to a flight of steps, which zigzagged at steep angles up the side of the ravine. He began to climb upward.
He might have gone past the hideaway if he hadn’t been on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary.
On the left-hand side of the path was a rocky overhang and around it a clump of bushes, too neat and symmetrical to be quite natural. He slipped underneath the railing, clambered around the slope, and peered through the bush. He was looking into a hollowed-out cave. Branches were attached to a weather-beaten piece of wood that blocked the opening. He moved it aside and crawled inside the opening. The space was surprisingly large as the sandy wall had been hollowed deeper underneath the overhanging rock and there was just enough room to sit upright. He squatted and hugged his knees. Quite cosy really. Old moss and leaves piled on the floor made a soft cushion.
He and Susanna had had a hideaway in a cave in the cliffs that they could only reach by means of a knotted rope. He remembered the pleasure he’d experienced every time he crawled into that cold space and hauled up the rope, sealing off access. He sighed suddenly, flooded with bittersweet memories of his sister, timid, overly pious, and well behaved, but at rare times, carefree and a good companion. She’d loved to race him down to the seashore, and try as he might, he couldn’t outrun her. It was probably the only way she had to triumph, and she relished it.
Perhaps he should have insisted on seeing her face. He could have broken through into that dark room and looked at her. He grimaced to himself. Too late now.
He turned his head in the direction of the steps, which were just visible through the protective branches. There was a rough shelf wedged into the bush roots and on it lay a heap of stiff, dried squirrel pelts and a skinning knife, quite clean. He touched the blade, which was razor sharp. Next to that was the nub of a candle and a box of lucifers. Tucked underneath the shelf was a cigar box, which was pierced with holes. He pulled it out and removed the lid. Inside was a tiny frog skeleton. Murdoch frowned. He knew what this meant. Years ago, a boy in the village had showed him something similar. He said his sister was in love with a lad who didn’t want her, and she was trying to win his affections through spells. She had captured a live frog, put it in a box pierced with holes, and placed it in the middle of an ant heap. When she came back two weeks later, at the time of the full moon, the frog’s flesh had been consumed by the ants and only the skeleton remained. One of the bones had the shape of a fish hook, which she had to contrive to fasten to the garment of the desired one, and he would come to her. “And did he?” Murdoch had asked. “In more ways than one,” the other boy had replied with a leer. Gingerly Murdoch touched the tiny bones. The hooked piece had not yet been removed.
At that moment he heard the sound of a child crying, a grizzling kind of cry that usually tried the patience. Feeling foolish at the thought of being found in the hideaway, he hurriedly replaced the box and crawled out. Above him on the hill were a man and a child. Because of the incline, they were moving carefully, the man holding the little girl by the hand. She was complaining, seemingly not wanting to be walking. They saw Murdoch and immediately the child halted, stopped whining, and shrank against the man, presumably her father. He gathered her into his arms, but Murdoch heard her wail. No words, just a frightened, high-pitched cry. The man pressed her head against his chest. He hadn’t moved either, and Murdoch waved to him.
“Good afternoon,” he called out.
The fellow started to descend, and Murdoch was struck by his wariness. The child had hushed, but as they approached he saw how she clung tightly to her father’s coat as if she were a little wild animal.
“You startled us, sir.”
“Beg your pardon, I was in pursuit of a,
er …”
He waved vaguely. Close up, Murdoch saw the man was young, ruddy complexioned. His eyes were intelligent enough but with the same air of caution he’d observed in his movements. He was a big man, with the wide shoulders and strong thighs of a labourer.
“I was just out for a walk,” replied Murdoch.
“Lost your way, did you?”
“Quite so. Will these steps take me to Yonge Street?”
“They don’t go anywhere except up to my cottage.”
Murdoch turned in the direction of the wooden bridge. “And where does that other path lead to?”
“That don’t go anywhere either, except to private property.” He shifted the child so she could ride more comfortably on his hip. She whimpered and tried to burrow her face deeper into his coat. “Hush, Sally.”
Murdoch rubbed his hands together. “You know what, it’s colder than I thought. I think I’ll turn back.”
“Forgo your walk, you mean?”
Murdoch grinned. “Yes, I think so. A dram of hot gin might do no harm. I passed a tavern up there on the road. Would you recommend it?”
The man’s face was still grim, but he said, “I’m going that way myself. I work there. I’d say the ale is as good as the Dominion brewery can make it, and the gin’s passable. But if you’re peckish, what we’re famous for is home-grown bacon.”
Murdoch fell in beside him, and they continued on down the steps. He guessed this must be the hired man, Walter Lacey. At the trial, his description of Harry had been caustic. A man to be avoided. A swarm of wasps would be less dangerous than him when he’d been drinking.
“Haven’t seen you around here before. Did you come all the way up from the city to walk in the ravine?”
Murdoch hadn’t set out with any particular plan in mind, but suddenly, it came ready formed. He knew he had to ask questions and have some reason to do so, but human nature being what it is, he thought it highly doubtful that he’d get much information if he revealed his true identity.
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