Chapter 38

LEONARD’S CHOICE

April 21, 1904

The piercing light of a clear spring morning roused Leonard Babington with a start. He turned on his side to reach for Kathleen, realized she was not there, and saw by the bedside clock that it was after seven and the alarm had not rung. It was then he remembered all that had happened: the fire, his visit with Molly Leppard, and her confession. He had to get up and get going. He found Kathleen washing up dishes left unattended from last night.

“I wanted you to have a little extra sleep,” Kathleen said when she saw Leonard. “You tossed and turned all night.”

“I should be on my way by now. But there’s something we need to talk about before I leave.”

Leonard washed and shaved quickly, dressed, and in ten minutes was ready for the fried ham and boiled egg that Kathleen had prepared. He cracked open his egg, dipped toast into the yolk, and swallowed a mouthful of tea. As he ate he told Kathleen how Scarth Tackaberry had turned up in Toronto after jumping bail, how he had confronted him at the Colonial Rooms, and then made him to go with him to the Asylum.

When Leonard got to the part about how Rosannah had died from eating jam poisoned with strychnine, Kathleen stopped him to ask if Molly said Scarth had done it.

“It wasn’t Scarth,” Leonard answered. “Molly said he had nothing to do with it. She admitted it was she who had killed Rosannah. Talked about visions and voices, all about a wailing banshee, and how she was told she could wash away Rosannah’s sins by sinning against her. Some crazy religious delusion. And the wails of the banshee – she’d forgotten it was Halloween, hadn’t realized that what she heard was just kids making a noise.

“It’s clear to me now. She straight out confessed to me. So do I keep quiet, or do I reveal the truth? My choice is to publish. It’s only fair to Rosannah and Cook Teets. People have to know a mistake was made.”

Kathleen poured Leonard more tea and refilled her own cup. “How do you know what Molly says is true? Maybe she’s just hallucinating, acting out some lunatic fantasy. And you say you let Scarth go on his way? So you’ve lost your only witness.”

“I don’t need a witness, Kate. This is the second time Molly’s confessed. I’d known about it for years. I just never could believe it. I always suspected Scarth of doing it.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Rosannah had a brother, name of James. He was married to a girl called Jennie Wonch. I never told you, but a story Jennie told the police about Molly having confessed to her is in the files of the Owen Sound Advertiser. Nobody ever paid any attention to it. I never believed the story myself until I heard it confirmed by Molly yesterday.”

“And you really think you need to put this in the Telegram?”

“I’ve no choice. I know she’s told the truth. A newspaperman has to let out the truth, or he betrays everything he stands for. People have to know when the system goes wrong. How else are we going to stop the same mistake from happening again?”

“But think of what this will do to Molly.”

“That’s what’s bothered me. She would never have confessed if the fire hadn’t terrified her. I don’t want to add to her pain, but I doubt she’ll ever know her truth’s been told. The police are not going to do anything. As Molly says, no one will care about a crazy old woman who’s not got long to live.”

The editorial department was at its peak of activity when Leonard arrived, a little before nine o’clock. Reporters hurried in and out, stories fell from their typewriters, and calls for copy boys rose above the din. Leonard’s deputy, Roland Cooper, a recent recruit from Fleet Street’s London Transcript, gave him a run-down of the day’s main stories: more reports on the Great Fire; a debate on evolution at the Jarvis Street Baptist Church; arguments at Council over renewing the contract of the city’s welfare officer (Goldwin Smith having decided he could no longer pay the man’s salary); along with the usual collection of cases from the police blotter.

“I’ve something else for the one o’clock edition,” Leonard said. “I’ve been working on it for awhile. We’ll make it the top story on page five, first thing after the want ads. You can handle the desk while I write.”

Turning his back, Leonard swung into a chair behind a vacant typewriter on the rim of the copy desk. He put in a sheet of paper and caught his breath. What he was about to write would bring to an end twenty years of pain and frustration. Yet it would not be a long story. And he knew just the headline he wanted on it:

ACT OF INJUSTICE AN INNOCENT MAN HAS HANGED LAST EXECUTION IN OWEN SOUND WAS A LEGAL MURDER

It is twenty years since the last execution took place in Owen Sound. At that time, Cook Teets, a blind man, who resided in the village of Vandeleur, Grey County, charged with poisoning his wife, the former Rosannah Leppard, was tried and convicted on purely circumstantial evidence and hanged for the crime.

The execution of Teets was an act of injustice, carried out on the orders of Justice Department officials who disregarded the jury’s appeal for clemency and ignored public petitions for commutation of the sentence to life imprisonment.

Information has come into possession of The Evening Telegram, in the form of a confession by the mother of the victim, that Cook Teets was innocent of the crime with which he was charged, and that she herself was the murderer of her daughter. The confession was delivered yesterday to a representative of this newspaper by Molly Leppard, sixty-seven years of age, who has been for a number of years a patient at the Toronto Insane Asylum.

In her confession, Mrs. Leppard explained that she was in a religious trance when she laced a quantity of crabapple jam with strychnine and gave it to her daughter with bread. She laboured under the awful belief that Rossannah, reared a Roman Catholic, had sinned by marrying Teets, a Protestant. The marriage took place in St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Toronto in 1883, a scant six weeks before the victim’s death. Having since recovered much of her sanity, Mrs. Leppard explained to our representative, who has pursued the case since its inception, that she heard voices and had visions of demons from whom she received instructions that she could save Rosannah only by committing an even greater sin, viz., the murder of her own daughter.

The case warrants further investigation in that it sheds light both on the failure of the judicial system to protect the innocent among the accused, and on the prevalence of religious delusion among the inmates of our asylums.

Leonard paused in his typing. Those are the essential facts, enough to raise a few eyebrows. He’d write more stories in the days ahead, giving added details of Rosannah’s life and how Cook was unjustly punished. He marked up the copy for the typesetters, rolled the pages together, and slipped them into the pneumatic tube to be carried to the composing floor. He shivered and felt his heart race as he thought of what he’d done. Dear Rosannah, I am sorry to have to tell the world of your mother’s crime. Many crimes go unpunished but the punishment for what Molly did has been visited on all of us – on Cook through his wrongful hanging, on Molly by being thrust into a demented state, on myself for the doubts and despair I’ve suffered, but most of all on you, dear Rosannah, for it is you who have paid with your life.

Leonard was jarred from his introspection by the realization that his editor, Black Jack Robinson, was standing over him. He looked up to see Robinson pawing through the pile of carbon sheets beside his typewriter.

“Cooper tells me you’ve something big you’ve been keeping to yourself,” Robinson said. “I’m curious – can I have a look at your blacks?”

Robinson stood, swaying slightly, his ample stomach protruding around the confines of his belt as he read Leonard’s story. He wheezed and harrumphed as he went from page to page, his eyebrows permanently lifted as if to hold his eyes wide open as he absorbed their content.

“You’ve sent this to the composing room?”

“Yes, a few minutes ago.”

“Send down a note to call it back.”

“Whatever for?”

“The Evening Telegram can’t publish this. How do we know this isn’t a figment of the woman’s imagination? Her family could sue us. And the authorities. What will they think of these reckless charges of injustice? What will the doctors at the Asylum say? Mr. Robertson is away, or I’d have him look at this. In his absence, I have to decide. Let’s take some time to think about this.”

Leonard was stunned by his editor’s reaction. He had never given a thought to the possibility the paper would not wish to run the story. He saw years of frustration coming to a peak – printing Molly’s confession had become the most important thing in his life. He was gripped by a sudden rage that swept from his gut into his head, like a swarm of hornets bursting from a nest that’s been disturbed.

“God damn it, that does it,” he told Black Jack, as he stood up. “If the Evening Telegram doesn’t want me, I can always go and see Joe Atkinson at the Star. Maybe I’ll find somebody with a conscience.” He pushed away his chair, reached for his coat, and headed toward the stairs.

“Wait a minute,” Robinson called. He caught up to Leonard at the revolving door that marked the building’s Bay Street entrance, and followed him outside. “I don’t understand why you’re so touchy. It’s my job to keep this newspaper out of court and you’re not making it any easier.”

Robinson’s admission surprised Leonard. He didn’t think his editor should behave as if he were a lawyer; his job was to bring the truth to readers. He now felt even more angry, but still ready to try to explain the meaning of Molly’s confession. The two paced the sidewalk while Leonard went over the history of Rosannah Leppard’s murder. He left nothing out, not even the fact he’d been in love with her, that at the beginning he had been sure of Cook’s guilt, and about his own contribution to the public prejudice against Teets.

“I’ve considered the case from all angles and it’s clear Cook didn’t do it,” Leonard said. “That leaves Molly. I know her confession seems weird but it’s true. She’s in no position to retract it, and the Telegram need have no fear in publishing it.”

“Mr. Babington, it’s all very well for you to say that. I don’t doubt your sincerity, but you have a personal interest in this. You have to consider the paper’s position. We have to think of the attitude of the authorities.”

“My God, Mr. Robinson what do you think the proprietor has been doing all his life? That was his whole intention in starting the Telegram – to hold the authorities to account. Would you have us abandon his principles?”

Black Jack paused before answering. Leonard hoped he might be looking for a way to settle their argument. “You put things in a difficult light, Mr. Babington. You’re absolutely sure of your facts?” Leonard nodded. “All right, you don’t leave us much choice – we’ll go with your story. Now, let’s get back to work. We’ve a paper to get out.”

An hour later, Leonard stood beside the presses as the one o’clock edition sprang to life. Black Jack had alerted the circulation manager that something big was up and newsboys were standing in line for their copies. They made their way out of the burned out core of the city shouting “Innocent man hanged, read all about it!” A queue formed at the corner of Bay and King Streets where stockbrokers and office clerks vied with one another to pay their penny to read of this latest sensation.

When a bundle of papers came up to the editorial department, copy boys distributed them among the staff. Every man turned to page five to see Leonard’s story. The room fell silent while they read, the quiet interrupted only by occasional gasps of disbelief or quiet curses of admiration for Leonard’s ingenuity in ferreting out such an amazing scoop.

“This’ll have the opposition curling their toes tonight,” said Major Anthes, the church reporter.

Owen Staples slapped Leonard on the back and shook his hand, smiling conspiratorially.

Reporters asked Leonard how he’d secured the confession and how long it had taken. “About twenty years, if you want the truth,” he told them. He heard their congratulatory remarks but he did not, fortunately, pick up what was being said at the far end of the office.

There, one reporter whispered to another, “Babington’s at it again. Mixing with the crazies.”

Leonard reflected on how John Ross Robertson might react to the news. He was sure he would understand his City Editor’s satisfaction at finally publishing the truth of the mystery they had discussed in their first meeting so many years ago. It would likely be weeks before today’s paper would reach Robertson and Leonard considered clipping the article and sending it by special dispatch. He decided that would be boastful and dropped the idea. Around him, the low hum of voices told Leonard that his reporters were busy dissecting the hints of evidence yet to come that he had worked into his story.

Remembering the tears that had been shed in the making of today’s headline, Leonard was filled with contentment over having at last laid responsibility for Rosannah’s death. It was like after finishing any long and difficult job. Sometimes, you didn’t want to start but you persevered, and when you were finished, you were pleased you had done the work and done it well. It was hard to compare everyday tasks to something that had drained his emotions for two decades. He’d lived so long with his guilt over Rosannah’s fate and his complicity in Cook’s hanging that it felt strange to have these feelings banished. His satisfacton would bring back neither of them but now he felt entitled to get on with his own life.

And what about Kathleen, who was so perfect and so deserving? She’d been uncomfortable when he first told her of Molly’s confession. The fact he’d had corroboration from Jennie Wonch wouldn’t have meant much to her. He’d be a better husband to Kathleen now that he could put away the ghosts of his Vandeleur past. He’d get that house he’d promised her; he’d see Mr. Robertson about a loan as soon as the proprietor got back. It was time to think about children. They had never talked seriously of having babies and he was a little surprised Kathleen had never gotten pregnant. They’d have to do something about that.

Later, walking toward St. Lawrence Hall and the Market, Leonard enjoyed the warmth of the spring sun on his face. The unseasonable snowfall that came with the fire was beginning to melt and the air was filled with the sounds of birds and the voices of children playing in the park. How wonderful it was to be alive and free. How good to have someone to love and be loved in return. How he had reproached himself for his past failings and how those failings now seemed unimportant. All he was sure of was that he had been given a new lease on life. Tears welled up in his eyes and he had to brush his cheeks with his coat cuff.

It was after three o’clock when Leonard returned to the Evening Telegram. He had been at his desk only a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Kathleen, who was calling from the Asylum. She had been worried about Molly and would be seeing her in a few minutes. Had his story been published?

“It went in the one-o’clock edition and the paper’s a sell-out all over town,” Leonard told her. “You don’t have to tell Molly about it. There’s really no need for her to know.” He promised Kathleen he would be home by six o’clock.

Leonard declined offers to join his staff for after-work drinks. He didn’t want to gloat about his story and there were a few tasks he needed to clean up, things he’d neglected since the fire. He half expected a telephone call from the police. He was relieved when the phone didn’t ring again.

A little before six o’clock, Leonard made his way up the stairs to their rooms. He found Kathleen in the parlour, a look of distress on her face. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look all pale and worried.”

Kathleen dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I won’t be going to the Asylum anymore, Leonard. It just won’t be the same without Molly. She died this afternoon. They said she was content at the end.”

Leonard felt an overwhelming sadness. He’d not forgiven Molly for what she’d done but neither was he prepared for her death. The strain of having confessed to him must have been too much. Or was he just looking once more for a way to put guilt on himself? He wondered if there really was a purgatory or a heaven and hell and whether Molly and Rosannah would be in one of those places together and would they get along better than they had on earth? “May both their souls rest in peace,” he said.

“Poor Leonard, you’ve been through so much. Saving the Telegram from the fire, taking Molly’s confession and writing about it, then having me tell you Molly’s dead. All those sad memories from Vandeleur. Would you like to hear some good news for a change? At least, I hope you’ll think it’s good news.” Leonard saw her lips tremble as she waited for his answer.

“That depends on what it is,” Leonard replied.

“I may as well tell you right out. I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father.”

“I knew it, I was sure of it!” Leonard answered, in triumph. “Why was I thinking that very thing a second ago?”

“Do you really want a baby, Leonard?”

“Of course I do. You know it’s what we’ve both wanted. We’ll have to make sure we get that house, now. Oh Kate, you make me so proud.” He pulled her toward him and kissed her full on the lips.

The thought of again becoming a father – and this time, being able to acknowledge it – filled Leonard with exultation. He understood now that none of the events that had marred his life – the shooting of George Brown, the accident to his father, the death of Rosannah and the hanging of Cook Teets – were cause for him to bear guilt. He had nothing to gain by blaming himself. His discovery of the facts of Rosannah’s death had served the truth, he knew. But it also came to him that truth could more often be found in the power of love and forgiveness, than in the possession of mere facts.

Kathleen put her hand on Leonard’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should go home – home to Vandeleur,” she said. “It will be quiet – you could write in peace there. You’d be able to finish Rosannah’s Story, now that you know the ending. And perhaps you’d get to know your daughter.”

Leonard thought about the turmoil and trauma that Rosannah and Cook and he and Kathleen had lived through. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said. They put their coats on, went downstairs and out through the big front garden and onto Parliament Street. All the shops were closed now and the streetlights were on. The last of the melting snow was making rivulets at the edge of the street The footprints they left in the slush became indistinct and blurred, and in a little while there was no trace of their passage.

THE END