THE GUARD UNLOCKED THE DOOR and let him into the hall.
“Is the warden available? I need to talk to him on a matter of some urgency.”
“He’s not here. He’s gone over to Central Prison to talk to the warden there, see if he can get some tips on how to run a jail.”
He grinned, inviting Murdoch to share the joke. However, he was in no mood for humour.
“When will he be back?”
“Shouldn’t be much more than an hour.” He regarded Murdoch with curiosity. “Do you want to see the prisoner today?”
Murdoch nodded.
“He’s with the priest, confessing or whatever it is they do. Be about half an hour. Do you want me to fetch him anyway?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll wait.”
He followed the guard into the waiting room.
“Here you go. Make yourself comfortable. Warden Massie’s given orders you can stay as long as you like, seeing it’s …”
His voice tailed off. He meant seeing it might be the last time Murdoch would see his father alive.
Tyler went out through the opposite door that led to the cells, and Murdoch sat down at the table. The clock on the wall gave an asthmatic whirr. It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. He propped his elbows on the table and leaned his head in his hands. He was almost surprised to find his forehead was cool. When he was about ten years old, Murdoch had come down with scarlet fever. He had a vivid memory of being sent home from school and how odd everything round him had seemed; colours were stronger, sounds louder. There had been a bad storm the day before, and as he walked along the shore to his house, he saw that the landscape had altered. A dock had been knocked askew and sand had buried some rocks and been blown away from others. In his feverish state, he tried to make himself understand this, but he couldn’t. All he knew was a feeling of dislocation and strangeness.
Even though he had no actual physical illness right at this moment, he had the same peculiar sense of abnormality. The words “relevant” and “irrelevant” were buzzing in his brain like flies in a jar. It wasn’t that good men didn’t get murdered, they did. However, Newcombe’s revelations about John Delaney’s character could change the picture. Murdoch grimaced. Suddenly the circle of suspects had widened. There was really quite a queue if he looked at it like that. What if Delaney’s wife had taken exception to his behaviour? Or his son or his daughter? Or Mrs. Bowling? Or somebody he didn’t even know about yet who had been affected by Delaney’s lasciviousness. The news about the Craigs and their sideline also muddied the pond considerably. What if Delaney had found out and was trying a spot of blackmail or even righteously was about to report them? Easy to get a daughter to lie in court, and give them an alibi, especially as she, too, would be affected by the discovery. Relevant? Irrelevant? Buzz, buzz.
The problem was one of time. He needed much more time to pursue these possibilities, and he had no certainty he would get it. For Massie to postpone the execution, he would have to be convinced there was sufficient doubt concerning Harry’s culpability now being raised. Was there?
The waiting room was hot, the oil heater blasting out warm air, and he removed his coat. He’d almost forgotten about the package Sergeant Seymour had handed to him. More for something to do than anything else, he took it out of his pocket and tore open the brown paper wrapping. Inside was a diary. He smiled, recognising it, a birthday present he’d given to his sister when they were young. He opened up the cover, which was lavishly embossed with gold flowers on a background of red velvet. He’d agonised over the choice, he remembered, finally settling on this showy book.
Printed in a big, childish hand that tended to slope off the page, was the first entry. She hadn’t got enough command of her penmanship yet, and this one entry took up three pages. He had helped her with the spelling, but it seemed as if he hadn’t been that good either.
December 12 the year of Our Lord 1872
Today I am eight years old. I got this writing tablet from
William Murdoch, my brother. I have a brother named
Albert. He is one year yunger than me and he is simpul.
My mamma gave me a blue riban for my hair.
Murdoch touched the page with his fingertips. Susanna had loved pretty things, not that she received many.
He continued reading.
January 10 in the year of Our Lord 1873
My poppa wos angry with Bertie. He is also angry with
Will. He is not as angry with me because I am a girl but momma loves us all more.
Sunday. We all went to mass and Father Maloney blessed us. Poppa did not go. Bertie was a good boy.
He turned the page and there was one solitary entry on the next page that stopped his heart for a moment.
March 12
Momma has gone to heaven.
He had been helping Mr. Mitchell in his dry goods store that afternoon. He’d been laying down fresh sawdust on the floor, and for years after, he couldn’t smell that odour without remembering that day. There were only two short entries in the following pages, both about going to church again. Then another laborious record.
November 28. 1873
Bertie, my brother, has been taken by Jesus. His hart was broken.
Again Murdoch touched the page. After their mother’s death, Bertie had withdrawn into a world of his own. He didn’t laugh, and no matter what he and Susanna tried, he wouldn’t play with them anymore. That particular morning he had complained of hurting in his chest, but nobody had taken him seriously because he was always moaning about some kind of ache or pain, which they dismissed as his bid for attention. Harry had gone off to his boat, Will to school, and Susanna was left to tend to the house and get the evening meal. When Will came home, the neighbour from down the road was in the living room, sitting beside the couch bathing Bertie’s face. Susanna had fetched her because Bertie had collapsed, and she couldn’t rouse him. Murdoch had taken over the ministrations, but they had been futile. Eventually, the doctor came from the village, but he said Bertie had suffered a heart seizure. It was common for children like him to have bad hearts, he’d said, in a hateful pedantic voice. “There wasn’t anything anyone could do,” he said, and Bertie obliged by dying at that moment in front of all of them. A little gasp, a sigh, and he was gone.
The memory was still painful. Murdoch had loved his brother even though he was often exasperated with him when he couldn’t do what seemed like simple ordinary tasks. However, his father seemed to hate him from the moment it became apparent Bertie was not normal, as if that reflected on his prowess as a man. He never acknowledged him as his son and frequently beat him unmercifully for small mistakes. Murdoch intervened as often as he could and got the brunt of the anger drawn onto himself.
The clock wheezed again. Quarter past eleven. He wondered if he should read the rest of the diary later. The memories it was stirring were hot. He didn’t particularly want to colour these last moments with his father, especially after what had happened at their last visit. Perhaps he should let sleeping dogs lie. However, he couldn’t resist, and he continued to read.
December 1873
Will and me are now living with our Aunt Emily Weldon who is momma’s sister. She is strict. Her house is pretty. We have been here one week. After Bertie was taken to Jesus, Poppa was angry a lot. He was cruel to Will. Then Will got me up in the middle of the night. It was very dark. It took us a long time to walk to the station. Will had to tell a white lie to the ticket man but he let us buy a ticket. He was kind and gave me a sticky bun with currants in it. Aunt Weldon was surprised to see us. I was afraid she would send us to a Home but Will talked to her. He had to show her his arm which is bad where Poppa hit him. He has promised to work hard. I will lern to sew.
Murdoch touched his left forearm. The scar that ran from his elbow to wrist was jagged and long. The next entry one year later showed much improved handwriting and didn’t take up as much space.
December 12, 1874
I am ten years old today. Aunt gave me a picture of Jesus who is my Savyour. Will gave me a new nib for my pen.
They had stayed with their aunt for the next four years. Those were not especially happy times. His aunt was a schoolteacher at the one-room schoolhouse just outside St. John’s. She had not wanted two young children to look after. She was poorly paid, and it must have been a hardship for her to raise them. A few months after they arrived, she had received a letter from their father enquiring as to their whereabouts. She had decided then that she would not send them back, and that moment was one of the few times of warmth he had experienced from her. Now he could see that she had loved them both as much as she was capable of, but then he didn’t feel it, only constant criticism and carping. Harry had not pursued the matter, and Murdoch had not seen him again or heard anything from him until now.
He began to skim through the pages. Susanna wasn’t diligent in her diary and only managed one or two entries a year, mostly birthday times. He stopped at the entry for 1878 when Susanna had gone away to the convent school when she was fourteen. Her writing was now very neat, a result of many a knuckle rapping by their aunt.
September 7 ′78
I have begun school with the Sisters of St. Ann. I am sharing my room with five other girls. We are all the same age but Emilie is the oldest. She is almost fifteen. I cried when Will left. Aunt Weldon did not come as she was too ill to make the journey. I would have gladly stayed home and taken care of her but she and Will thought this was best as the sisters have a good name. JMJ.
She had drawn a little cross at the top of the page. More scattered entries all about school or references to letters from Will or her aunt. Desperate for some freedom, Murdoch had left their aunt’s home and made his way west. He’d had to do odd jobs along the way to earn money for food, and it was a rough, difficult time when he often went hungry. However, he remembered being happy. He was independent for the first time, beginning to feel his own power as a man. He’d grown tall, and the labouring work had filled out his chest and broadened his shoulders.
The last entry was written on the eve of Susanna becoming a postulant at the Holy Name convent.
Tomorrow I will say goodbye to the world and enter into the haven of this convent. May I be worthy.
He closed the book. He hadn’t noticed at first the envelope that was tucked at the back of the diary, addressed to him. He opened it. There were two letters, one a short one from Mother St. Raphael.
Dear Mr. Murdoch. I am sending you these last effects of your sister Susanna Murdoch, known to us in God as Sister Philomena. I cannot express my deep distress and sorrow at the contents of her letter, and I have prayed for many long hours as to whether or not I should send it to you. Obviously my decision was to do so, and the letter is enclosed. I do, however, beg you to keep your heart open to the mercy of Our Lord in whom lies all justice and retribution. If you have a desire to consult with me further, I will make myself available. Yours in God,
Mother St. Raphael
Curious, Murdoch unfolded the second piece of paper.