STILL, THINGS WOULD COME OUT LITTLE BY LITTLE about Stroud. Henrietta’s sister said that Mel Stroud had given the injection, and she was present when he did. But Mel simply sat there in the corner playing solitaire.
Over the next three years Clara Bell, under the auspices of Chester and Dexter Raskin, would take charge of the monies of Raskin Asbestos, and they along with the government would give out close to thirty-five million dollars to those families who had suffered.
The old men died within hours of one another in 1992. Chester first, and then Dexter.
The property was sold for condominiums, and a new park on Good Friday. The statues were put into storage, and the old building Eva Mott had lived in that fateful summer with her parents was torn down.
The local Native band in contract with a Finnish company took over the remaining logging interests on Good Friday. But Torrent Peterson was left his stand.
Professor Eliot Slaggy had his book on Thomas Chatterton published. He and his friend Mr. Beansworthy took their long-waited trip to England, Scotland and Wales.
The world changed. It changed dramatically when DNA became widespread in legal opinion. One week in 1993 a test was done on the ancient articles of Mrs. Wally, and a database was searched and a match was found.
It was not Mel Stroud. It was, however, as far as 89-million-to-1 ratio was concerned, his younger brother Shane. He was convicted of second-degree murder.
He asked for Constable Donaldson, and told her he needed a deal.
“What deal?” she said.
“I don’t want to go to Renous. There are too many there I don’t get along with. And I need a chance at parole. I need a chance at parole. I don’t believe in this DNA anyway, so you should help me put in a request. You have an Indian guy killing my brother and he is away in some nuthouse—but look where I am.”
“I can’t promise anything, but I will speak on your behalf.”
So Shane told her about the mescaline, and how Professor Raskin had given the girl what she thought was an aspirin, with, he said, criminal disregard.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am, That’s exactly what caused her death.”
For weeks Albert, who had become our MLA, had heard of an impending arrest.
And one day just as he was leaving, he was arrested on the steps of the legislature building and put in handcuffs. He was charged with criminal negligence causing death. This time Donaldson didn’t smile, though her hair flipped under her hat the same way when she walked, and when she took him by the arm her hand was like a vise, she was that strong.
Just before the trial he resigned and pleaded no contest in court. Out of a four-year sentence he had to serve eighteen months in jail. He was released because of ill health. His health was not at all what it used to be. He often complained he had measles in prison or maybe the mumps—he was sure he might have had a few mumps—and couldn’t eat the food.
Sackville stuck by him. Her hair was grey now and made her look very dignified. But by 1996 she too resigned from the university after some upset with a female student, and both of them lived on pensions and his endowment. They played bridge for money at the golf club. They walked together along the shore hand in hand, and were seen in the summer playing croquet at Lampkey’s. He seldom spoke.
Sometimes Sackville went away for a week or so, and would not tell him where. She had a female companion. He was often alone.
She would say, “Wait exactly where you are, my dear, and I will be back to you if you do. Don’t worry my little Canuck I will always come back to you.”
Once I had to visit them. It was strange how her little black boots sitting in the corner closet made an impression. Little black lace boots. Such a remarkable impression I painted them from memory, and the painting hung for half a summer in the Beaverbrook Gallery.
After that I saw Professor Raskin only once more. He was walking toward me, but he didn’t recognize who I was. It was in the autumn and very cold. I was surprised to see he was wearing a poppy.
Things had come out in a book about Raskin Enterprises published in Toronto. Letters had been found at Parliament, redacted though they were—the money Albert had received while he marched against them revealed at over a million dollars. The press began to hound him, young fresh-faced reporters who loved scandal.
Once he picked up his cane and yelled at one. “I am Albert Raskin. Do you even know who I am!”
The reporter laughed, something like the reporters once had at his uncles.
He had gone away, he was forgotten, and no one seemed to care.
People teased him now, and he often looked distracted, puzzling over some problem in his head.
He took drives all alone. Not in the expensive Mercedes, but in a small Chevy over ten years old. One cold autumn afternoon his car was parked at the cemetery in Loggieville. For many minutes he sat staring blankly at the world. And then he was seen by a passerby—a young girl on her way home from school. He was stumbling forward toward a grave in the back corner. A grave that said in simple letters “Annie Margaret Howl.”
It seemed in a way to this young girl that he could not make it on his own, and he slipped on the fallen leaves. He slipped and fell and his face had the anguish of a man who has suffered too much.
The girl, about twelve or thirteen, came through the gates into the graveyard wearing a small tam with the wind blowing her hair. There was a silver cross about her neck. She said, “Sir, do you need help? I can help you. Here, let me help you stand.”
“Can you help me?” he asked. He asked it with more pain than she had heard before, and she smiled, a generous smile, somewhat a pleading smile, and said, “Of course I can help you to the grave of my aunt. Did you know Aunt Annie? She died a long time ago—I’m afraid I never met her—she could sing and dance—and ride a horse—and play pranks on her brother and no one was smarter, and her voice filled the house—with love.”
And he took her hand and walked forward, and the wind blew gently too, so it was said, and the leaves blew about his feet.
He began to sob like a child. And suddenly she recognized something—something in the trees and woods and grass when he said, “Forgive me, forgive me—please forgive me.”
“Oh—it is you—it is you,” she whispered, and she put her arms about him, and tears came to her eyes, they sparkled in them. “It is you—it is you—you have come to her grave—thank you.”
He fell to his knees and wept. And she kneeled beside him.
And when he rose, she rose with him, and held his hand.
One night people saw him in the upstairs window of his house. He was writing a letter to someone, or somebody. He looked quite dignified, and quite old.
Four days later a lone figure in a bright brand-new suede jacket and brand-new fedora, and a gold wristwatch, was walking on the bridge. People said they saw him looking into the water for many moments. Then he simply got onto the rail at the highest point. He placed his fedora on the ledge beside him, and after a few moments, as if he was saying a prayer, fell, like a stone. An off-duty police officer tried her best to rescue him. Her name was Becky Donaldson. Tears actually came to her eyes.
The bridge is high, and his body was washed away. It was November 11 and already snowing. Sackville herself stood on the prow of one of the boats, looking for his body, a resolute old woman with a resolute life. Though it was minus ten, and the spray splashed over her, she refused to shiver. She was the first to spot his body, far out in the bay. There was a letter in his pocket. But the water had diluted the ink, and no one knew who it was addressed to or what it said.
“We have lost Albert Raskin,” she told the press. “Do you understand? We have lost our Albert Raskin. He would make ten of any of you.”
And she never spoke of him again.
Shane Stroud died in prison twelve days later.
McLeish is in Scotland, at Edinburgh where he teaches and helps organize the writers’ festivals. And keeps a breeding bull. He does help the poor—of that he should be commended.
Tracy McCaustere is the first name in legal assistance for First Nations rights in our province. She is well known here.
Dennis Howl was appointed to the senate in 1995. There was an uproar over this by some, and that is always to be expected.
Clara Bell and he adopted two children.
The Polly Peterson Children’s Foundation continues today.
Torry Peterson was released from jail after Roderick’s confession. He returned to Arron Brook where he rebuilt his house. He was seen at times fishing far away on late summer afternoons, taking trout from those deep hidden pools. Eva would not accept his visits, so he stopped seeing her years ago.
He did what he had always done: he went back to making tables, and cabinets and chairs, and when the timber was right a grandfather clock. Half the land he had bought from Mr. Ricer the First Nations bequeathed him, and they kept the upper half, which was closer to Riley Brook.
Gordon continued to work with him, and they sold enough. He and Gordon did not become wealthy, but neither was poor.
I used to sell my paintings at the fairs alongside his work, and at the Chatham exhibition, and help both him and Gordon in the junkyard that he never relinquished, a memory of the father who loved him in spite of the odds.
I painted Arlo and Arnie for Torrent, and his mother Mary Lou. From a picture where they are all together laughing, as if the world was filled with love. I suppose in a way it is.
One evening close to Christmas in the year 2003 I saw Gordon as I left the shop. I was looking for Torrent but he was away.
Gordon had a huge basket filled with chocolates and candy, cigarettes and smoked salmon. He was heading off to the institution where his nephew was incarcerated. At this time his nephew had little memory of Henrietta or the events of that day.