“This is not the man who murdered my wife,” Doctor Smith pronounced with certainty, his voice shaky.
So Burgess was telling the truth!
Burgess whooped. “I bloody told ya!”
The sergeant took a look for himself. He could see at a glance that the thumb prints were very, very different. “Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,” he said.
Burgess crowed. “I told ya, I never done ’arm no lady!”
Smith slumped forward and buried his head in his hands.
“Anyhow,” Burgess chortled, “whatcha plannin’ to do when you find the bugger what actually killed yer missus? Eh?”
In a daze, Smith got to his feet.
Burgess kept pushing. “Youse gunna cook him, ain’t ya?!” He mimicked strangulation.
Smith rounded on him. “A man must pay for the evil he does.”
Burgess shook his head. “Wiv due respeck, Doc – the Bible says ‘Judge not, saith the Lord’.”
Henry stared in wonder at Burgess: a multiple murderer quoting from the Bible.
“It’ll be the good Lord what decides who’s gunna pay,” Burgess told Smith. “You bloody nearly killed the wrong man!”
Yes, he did!
Smith packed up his fingerprinting gear and headed for the door.
Burgess called after him. “You and I are two peas in a pod, Doc.”
Smith halted. “What?!”
“Peas in a pod,” Burgess repeated. “You and me – we both got our ‘reasons’ for murder. Mine’s gold. Yours be ‘revenge’. Still murder in my book.”
I tried to tell the doctor that.
Henry hobbled off down the corridor, keen to get out of this grim place. But Burgess hadn’t finished. His cry echoed after them down the hall.
“Ya know it was Sullivan wot killed ya missus, don’tcha.”
Smith stopped. “Sullivan?”
Henry heard the eerie cracking of the big man’s knuckles.
“Sullivan’s yer man for sure,” called Burgess.
Smith turned to the sergeant. “Sergeant, let me fingerprint Sullivan.” He made a dash for the corridor, but Nash restrained him.
“Doctor Smith, I’m sorry, but I cannot let you disrupt proceedings further.”
Smith continued to push against Nash. “Sergeant, I beg you…”
“Why, Doctor? All of these men are about to be tried for murder anyway – and they’re bound to hang.”
“It will take but a few minutes,” said Smith, “to set my mind at rest.”
The sergeant tugged at his moustache and studied the man in front of him, his bloodshot eyes pleading. “Very well,” he said. “But only if Sullivan agrees. I’m not going to hold the man down in order to get his fingerprints.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” cried Smith. He pushed forward, restrained by the policeman, until he was at the door of Sullivan’s cell.
“Sullivan!” the sergeant barked.
The prisoner was against the far wall, largely hidden in the shadows. He said nothing. Henry ventured closer to watch.
“Sullivan,” the sergeant continued. “You heard all that. Are you willing to have your fingerprints taken?”
No response.
“To prove you are not the man who killed Doctor Smith’s wife?”
No response.
“Sullivan – will you?” Smith called out in a broken voice.
A growl came from inside the dark cell. “Eat me boots,” said the voice.
Smith pressed against the cell door. “You can prove your innocence,” he pleaded.
“I don’t owe you nuffink,” Sullivan bellowed.
From the cell down the corridor came Burgess’s cry: “ ’E’s the one! Take ’is prints!”
“You’re the monster, Burgess!” Sullivan yelled back.
The sergeant pulled Smith away from the door. “Enough,” he said. “He’s not going to give way, and I am not going to send in the troops to force him.”
Smith’s shoulders dropped. He let out a deep sigh and allowed himself to be shepherded out of the prison.
Burgess yelled after him, his voice echoing down the corridor. “Pray for me darkened soul!”
Henry lingered, and watched Burgess reach under his pillow and picked up a piece of paper. He stood, engrossed, and read it through. He pondered the message, then read it again. “Sweet soul,” he whispered.
Henry hurried off towards the main doors. He would come back later for his camera. Right now, he wanted to talk to Doctor Smith.
He found him outside the prison gate. He was leaning against a post, biting his lip and scuffing his boots in the dirt.
“Sullivan,” he said. “All this time it was Sullivan I should have been pursuing.”
Henry nodded, remembering his own terrifying encounters with the rock-faced man with the big boots and the big knife. “He’s the worst of them all.” Yes, he was going to kill me.
“The sergeant reckons they’ll all hang,” said Smith. He sounded uncertain.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it, sir?”
“I would prefer to do the task myself.” Smith stooped and pulled from his boot a length of cord. Henry gasped.
“What is that?”
“A garotte,” said Smith. He put a hand around his throat and squeezed. “I was ready to dispatch him there and then.”
“That’d be cold-blooded murder!”
“Do you think so, Henry? If the law sends an evil man to the gallows, it’s ‘justice’, but if an individual does the same, it’s ‘murder’?”
He marched off. Henry watched. Until now, I idolised you…
Henry looked up at the cold walls of the prison. Inside was Burgess, a murderer, about to hang. And out here, walking free – Doctor Smith, planning his own private execution.
While Henry was pondering this, Smith turned around with an announcement. “I’m going back to Australia, Henry.”
“What about the trial?”
“I cannot sit in court and listen to those weasels trying to justify what they’ve done,” said Smith. He held out his hand. “There’s a boat leaving for Sydney tonight.”
Henry was barely aware of Smith shaking his hand.
“You’re a good man, Henry. You’ll make a fine doctor.”
Henry frowned. How can I become a doctor?
Smith put a hand on Henry’s shoulder.
“I will send you money for your training, Henry. To become a physician. Like I used to be.” Used to be?
“Humanity needs people like you, Henry. People with compassion.” His eyes dropped. “God knows I no longer have any.”
Henry watched him walk away.
Strangely, in all this time, he had not thought about Miriama. But he did now. He called after Smith. “What about Miriama?”