by Stef Penney
The remaining few minutes in the library passed in a sweet daze. Donald didn’t know what to say next, but felt that the ball was in his court and eventually plucked up the courage to take one of her hands in his. Then someone banged the Sumatran gong that stood in the hall–the signal for dinner–and she withdrew her hand, otherwise who knows what might have ensued. It makes him dizzy to think about it.
*
There are only two ways to leave Dove River: south to the bay, or north, following the river’s course through the forest. Jacob picks up the trail beyond the Price homestead. Angus Ross told them he found signs that Francis had passed Swallow Lake, and Jacob only pauses to assess the tracks and determine whether they were likely to have been made by the boy. The path is clear and they walk at a fair pace, passing the lake in early afternoon. Jacob kneels to take a closer look.
‘It has been some days, but more than one person came through here.’
‘At the same time?’
Jacob shrugs.
‘It could be that French trader. He came this way, didn’t he?’
‘More than one person went in this direction: two footprints, different sizes.’
They follow the trail for several miles. Where a tributary joins the Dove the trail turns westward and follows that, over stony ground that shows no traces. Donald follows Jacob, assuming he knows what he is doing, but is relieved to see a patch of ground near the stream where footprints have pressed leaves and moss into the mud.
‘Say he has been travelling on foot for six, seven days. And he is tired and hungry. I think we go faster. We catch him.’
‘But where is he going? Where does this lead?’
Jacob doesn’t know. The trail goes on, winding through the forest alongside the river, always climbing, but there is no sign that it leads anywhere other than into boundless wilderness.
They stop while it is still light and Jacob shows Donald how to cut branches for their shelter. Although he has been in Canada over a year, this is Donald’s first taste of the native way of life, and he is elated at the unfamiliarity of it. He is throwing off his past and his bookish, finicky shell, finally becoming a man of action, a rugged frontiersman, a true Company Adventurer. He relishes the prospect of relating his experience to the men back at Fort Edgar.
After they have built the shelter and made a fire and Jacob has cooked a mush of meat and corn, Donald hunches by the fire and takes out pen and paper to write to Susannah. He hadn’t thought how the letters are going to get to her, but presumably there will be some form of habitation along the way from where delivery is possible. He writes ‘Dear Susannah,’ and then pauses. Should he describe the trek today, the forest with its dark greens and flaming yellows, the purplish rocks that rear through brilliant moss, the sleeping arrangements? He rejects those as being potentially tedious to her, and writes ‘It has been a most interesting …’ before somehow succumbing to the heat of the fire and losing consciousness, so that Jacob has to jolt him awake and push him under the birch roof, where he collapses onto the fir branches. Exhaustion hits him like a sledgehammer, and he is too tired to notice the moon cast ethereal shadows among the trees; certainly too tired to see Jacob observe the halo of ice crystals that surrounds it, and frown.
I have, over the years, built up a fine, if eclectic, collection of books, and have just lent some of them to Ida. Unlike her mother she is grateful, and she seems genuinely touched that I would trust her with something so valuable. I wouldn’t have done it before last week, but now even my most precious possessions don’t seem that important. One of the books I lend her is my dictionary, a book I have treasured for twenty years. I kept it with me throughout my asylum career, making up for my lost education, but Ida particularly requested it, as the Pretty household has never seen such a thing.
My mother gave it to me shortly before she died, as if to make up for the lack I would soon have of her. Small enough recompense, you might think, but not entirely useless. I hated coming across words in books that I did not know and doggedly looked them up: ‘limpid’, ‘termagant’, ‘intimated’. I looked up ‘suicide’ after her death. I thought it might help me understand why she had done it. The definition was crisp and succinct, two things she never was. ‘The act of self-destruction’ sounded purposeful and violent, whereas my mother was dreamy and gentle, often absent-minded. I asked my father, to see if he could explain–I assumed he knew her better than I did. He blustered and ranted that it was nonsense–she would never have done such a thing, it was a sin even to think it. Then, to my acute embarrassment, he cried. I put my arms round him, trying to comfort him as he sobbed. After a minute or two of us standing in a simulacrum of father-daughter togetherness that made no difference whatsoever–a minute or two that seemed to last an hour–I let go of him and left the room. He didn’t seem to notice.
I don’t think either of us knew her at all.
I realised later that he was angry because I had guessed the truth. I think he blamed himself, and I believe he sent me to the asylum because he was afraid he had depressed my mother, and was doing the same to me. He was not an inspiring sort of person and I suspect he was right.
I have spent my life trying not to be like either of my parents. Now that I am approaching the age my mother was when she died, I don’t know how successful I have been: my only child has run away in these terrible circumstances and clearly I can’t blame it all on his Irish blood. I have played a part, I don’t yet know how damaging, in his fate.
It gives me some relief to talk to Ida, who is more cheerful today, and there is the added spice of gossip about the man locked in the warehouse in Caulfield. Ida does a good imitation of Scott puffing his cheeks with indignation at being asked to give over his precious real estate for such a purpose. And she adds something interesting–her brothers found signs that the man had come past their farm on his way to Jammet’s, which means he came from the north. Which means it is possible he saw Francis. Which means that, even if he is a villain, I have to go and ask him. And just before she leaves she mentions Thomas Sturrock, who is staying at the Scott house. Did I know he was the famous Indian Searcher who failed to find the Seton girls? The whole town is talking about it. I nod, vaguely, and say I’ve heard something about it. I wonder why he failed to mention it when we discussed the case. One more instance where I am the last to know.
*
Predictably, Knox kicks up a fuss about my talking to the prisoner. He argues that I will not get anything out of him, that they have already asked him, that it might be prejudicial, that it would be unsuitable, and finally that it will be dangerous. I remain reasonable. I know that if I stay there long enough and refuse to go away he will eventually give in, and he does, with much headshaking and gloomy sighing. I assure him I am not scared of the man, however fearsome he looks–he has everything to lose if he behaves badly (unless he is convicted, when I suppose it makes no difference how many murders he is hanged for, but I don’t say so). In any case, Knox insists on sending his servant with me, with instructions to sit by the warehouse door and keep an eye on things.
Adam unlocks the door to the warehouse, which has been cleared of enough dry goods that the prisoner is marooned in an ocean of space. There are two windows near the roof, presenting scant escape opportunities, but in any case he is slumped on a pallet and takes no notice when the door opens. He may have been asleep–he only stirs when Adam calls out, whereupon he sits up slowly, pulling a thin blanket around him. There is no fire and the cold seems even harsher and more insidious than outside.
I turn to Adam. ‘Are you trying to freeze the man to death?’
Adam mumbles–something about burning us all to the ground–and I order him to fetch some hot stones for our feet, and some coffee. Adam looks at me in astonishment. ‘I am not to leave you.’
‘Fetch them this instant. Don’t be ridiculous, we can’t sit here talking in this cold. I’m sure I shall be quite all right until you get back.’ I fix him with my most imperio
us stare until he goes, disconcertingly locking the door behind him.
The prisoner does not look at me, but sits like a statue. I move a chair over to a spot a few feet from the pallet and sit down. I am nervous but determined not to show it. If I want his help I have to try to look as though I trust him.
‘Mr Parker.’ I have considered how to put this at length. ‘My name is Mrs Ross. I come to you asking for help. I apologise for taking advantage of your … detainment.’
He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge that I am there in any way. It occurs to me that perhaps he is a little deaf.
‘Mr Parker,’ I go on, louder, ‘I believe you came from the north, past Swallow Lake?’
After a long pause, he speaks, quietly. ‘What is it to you?’
‘It is this: I have a son, Francis. Seven days ago he went away. I think he went north. He knows no one up there. I am worried. I wondered whether you had seen any sign …? He is only seventeen. He has … dark hair. A slight build.’
Well that’s it. There’s no other way of saying it, and anyway I find my throat has constricted so fiercely I’m not sure I could get more words out.
Parker seems to be thinking; his face has lost that blank cast and his black eyes are fixed on mine.
‘Seven days ago?’
I could kick myself. I should have said eight. Or nine. I nod.
‘And Jammet was found six days ago.’
‘My son didn’t kill him, Mr Parker.’
‘How do you know?’
I feel a surge of anger at his question. Of course I know. I’m his mother. ‘He was his friend.’
Parker does something very unexpected then: he laughs. Like his voice, it is low and harsh, but not unpleasant.
‘I too was his friend. Yet Mr Knox and Mr Mackinley seem to think I killed him.’
‘Well …’ I am taken aback by this turn of events. ‘I suppose they don’t know you. But I think an innocent man would surely do his utmost to help a woman in my situation. That would establish him as a man of good character.’
Am I imagining it, or is he actually smiling? The down-turned mouth twists a little.
‘So if I help you, you think Mr Mackinley will release me?’
I cannot tell if he is being sarcastic. ‘That will depend on circumstances I know nothing about, Mr Parker, such as whether you are guilty or not.’
‘I am not. Are you?’
‘I …’ I hardly know what to say. ‘I found him. I saw what had been done to him!’
Now he looks genuinely surprised. And I have the overriding impression that he wants to know what I saw. And, it occurs to me in a rush, if he wants to know, then it stands to reason that he cannot have done it.
‘You saw him? They did not tell me what had been done.’
If he is lying, he makes a convincing show. He leans forward. I try not to lean away from him, but his face is terrifying. I can almost feel the anger radiating from him.
‘Tell me what you saw. And I may be able to help.’
‘I can’t do that. I can’t make a deal with you.’
‘Then why should I help you?’
‘Why would you not?’
Suddenly he stands up and strides to the wall of the warehouse–just a few paces, but I flinch before I can stop myself. He sighs. Perhaps he is used to people being afraid of him. I wonder where Adam is with the coffee–he seems to have been gone at least an hour.
‘I am a half-breed, accused of killing a white man. Do you think they care if he was my friend? Do you think they believe anything I say?’
Parker is standing in a particularly shadowy patch of the warehouse and I cannot see his expression. Then he turns back to his pallet bed.
‘I am tired. I will have to try and remember. Ask me tomorrow.’
He lies on the bed and pulls the blanket over him, his back to me.
‘Mr Parker, I beg you to think on this.’ I’m not at all certain that I can argue my way back in here. ‘Mr Parker …?’
When Adam returns I am waiting inside the door. He looks at me in astonishment, the pot of coffee steaming like a miniature volcano in the dank air.
‘Mr Parker and I are finished for the time being,’ I tell him. ‘But why don’t you leave the coffee here.’
Adam looks unhappy but does as I suggest, placing the pot and a cup a cautious distance from the pallet.
And that, it would seem, is that.
Andrew Knox sometimes wishes he were not the upstanding community elder he has become. When he retired from the law it was to get away from all those people who begged him to instil order into their tangled, messy lives. People who lied and cheated but still thought the world was conspiring against them and that whatever iniquities they had committed, none of their troubles were of their own making. As if it is not enough to have the whole town in an uproar because a potential murderer is in their midst, John Scott was in his study this morning, complaining that he must have his warehouse back, or substantial compensation for giving his building over for the town’s benefit, as he put it, or else he will have to take up the matter with the government. Knox wished him luck. Other inhabitants have stopped him in the street to ask why the culprit has not been moved to a proper gaol–no one seems to entertain the possibility that he is innocent. And Mackinley is in no hurry to leave–Knox suspects him of wanting to extract a confession in person, so that he can parade the conviction like a trophy. Knox is caught between the hungers of ambitious men and wants no more to do with any of it.
And then there is the business of Sturrock, which he can’t ignore.
Mary taps on the door and says that Mrs Ross is here to see him–again. The woman won’t leave him alone. He nods and sighs inwardly–he has a sinking feeling that if he said no she would wait outside in the hall–or even, God forbid, in the street.
‘Mr Knox …’ she starts speaking before the door is closed.
‘Mrs Ross, I trust your talk was helpful?’
‘He wouldn’t talk. But he knows something. I have to come back tomorrow.’
‘I can’t let you do that, you see …’
‘He didn’t do it.’
She sounds so certain he stares at her with his mouth open, until he remembers to close it. ‘What makes you so sure? Feminine intuition?’
She smiles sarcastically–an unpleasant trait in a woman. ‘He wanted to know how Jammet died. He didn’t know. And I am sure he knows something about Francis. But he doesn’t trust Mr Mackinley to be fair on a … half-breed.’
Knox suspects that Parker doesn’t trust him either, but she is being diplomatic.
‘Perhaps you also know what he was doing in Jammet’s cabin?’
‘I’ll ask him.’
Knox frowns. The whole thing is getting out of hand. He forgets that a few moments ago he was wishing himself free of his responsibilities–the prospect of a farmer’s wife taking them from him is preposterous.
‘I’m sorry, it’s quite out of the question. We are going to move the prisoner as soon as possible. I cannot let anyone who feels like it walk in and talk to him.’
‘Mr Knox.’ She takes a step towards him, almost as if (were she a man) to threaten him. ‘My son is in the bush and the Company men may not find him. He may be lost. He may be injured. He is a boy and if you stop me finding out whatever I can, you may be responsible for his death.’
Knox has to make an effort not to step backwards. There is something about her–or perhaps it is that sense of inadequacy that tall, handsome women tend to provoke in him. Looking into her flinty eyes–eyes of a peculiar grey and mineral hardness–he is aware of the fierceness of her will.
‘I would have thought that you, of all people, would understand what it is to lose a child. Would you deny me help if it is possible?’
Knox sighs, infuriated that she should use the Seton tragedy against him, but also aware that he will, as a result, give in. If the boy has simply got himself lost he doesn’t like to think about the consequences. And perh
aps Mackinley doesn’t have to know. If he is careful, then no one else need ever find out.
He tells her to come back in the morning, very early, impressing on her the need for discretion, and sighs with relief as she goes. He supposes it is only natural for a mother to act so in protection of her child; it is just that it would be more natural (and he would find it easier to sympathise) if she cried or showed some softness in the doing.
‘Mr Knox!’ Mackinley barges into his study without knocking. Really the man is becoming more and more unbearable; he saunters through the house as though he owns it. ‘I think one more day should do it, don’t you?’
Knox looks at him wearily. ‘Do what, Mr Mackinley?’
‘Get the fellow to confess. No point stringing things out.’
‘What if he doesn’t confess?’
‘Och, I don’t think that will be a problem.’ Mackinley smiles cunningly. ‘Deprive these fellows of their freedom and you soon have them grovelling. Can’t stand the confinement, like animals.’
Knox looks at him with hatred. Mackinley doesn’t notice.
‘I thought I’d have another go before dinner.’
‘I have urgent paperwork. Can it wait?’
‘I don’t see why you should trouble yourself, Mr Knox. I am quite prepared to question him alone.’
‘I think it would be … sounder if both of us were present.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be in any danger.’ He pulls back his jacket to reveal a revolver in his waistband. Knox feels a flush of anger.
‘It wasn’t your safety I was thinking of, Mr Mackinley. Rather the need to have more than one witness to whatever is said.’
‘Then I will take Adam, if that is your concern. The key, if you please.’
Knox bites his tongue and opens the drawer where the two keys to the warehouse lie in his custody. He wonders whether he should change his plans and go with him. He has started to think of Mackinley as a criminal, and of course he is nothing of the sort, but a respected servant of the Company. He gives him one of the keys and forces a smile.