Chapter Twelve
THE DON JAIL, an imposing grey stone building, was set back from the street on a slight rise so that it was visible to the neighbourhood. A broad gravel driveway, always neatly raked, swept up to the arched entrance as if to a manor house, although there any similarities ended. Murdoch had been here on numerous previous occasions, but he had been in through the front entrance only once before when he was in the role of a visitor. This was when he’d gone to talk to Adam Blake, the boy he’d caught pickpocketing. Normally, the boy would have been sent off to The Boy’s Industrial school. However, the police magistrate, Denison, who tried the case, was notoriously unpredictable. Expressing great sympathy for the woman, he’d sentenced young Blake to sixty days in Don Jail. Murdoch thought there was intelligence in the boy and hoped that by showing some interest in him, he could help him find a better path. However, he might as well have saved his breath. Blake was sullen and uncommunicative and not at all interested in changing his ways.
Murdoch walked up the curving stone steps to the big double doors. There was a carved stone column on either side and over the lintel was a large carving of a man’s head, also fashioned out of grey stone. The hair and beard curled out like snakes, and the eyes were prominent and doleful. Murdoch thought it looked like a decapitated criminal, but he’d been told it represented Father Time, a caution to those who were foolishly wasting theirs.
He tugged on the bellpull. There was a small barred and shuttered window in the door to the right, and almost immediately, the wooden panel slid open. A man, who could have been at the mouth of Hades to judge from his forbidding expression, thrust his face into the opening. He viewed Murdoch with immediate suspicion. “What’s your business? Visiting on Sunday only.”
“Warden Massie sent for me. I’m Acting Detective Murdoch, Number Four Station.”
The guard glanced down at something, presumably a list of some kind, and his expression changed. “You can come in.” He was ushered into a tiny foyer.
“Sorry if I didn’t offer you the best greeting just now, Mr. Murdoch, but we get all kinds of sob stories to get us to break the rules. Most of them a pile of horse plop.” He offered Murdoch his hand. “Clarence Howe, at your service.”
“Sorry for your loss,” said Howe, indicating Murdoch’s badge of mourning. He nodded an acknowledgment but didn’t feel like offering any further information.
“How is young Blake doing? Has a few weeks in the brig brought him to his senses finally?”
“Blake? You’re talking about Adam Blake? Tow-headed little filch?”
“That’s the one.”
“Come to his senses? Not him. He’s heading straight for a rope necklace, if you ask me.”
Puzzled, Murdoch was about to ask if Howe knew the reason for his summons, but a door behind them opened and another guard emerged. He, too, had a military bearing with short, cropped hair and a long, waxed moustache.
“The warden says he’s ready to see you, Detective. Come this way.”
Mr. Massie’s office was on the second floor at the rear of the building, facing the prisoners’ exercise court. The new guard didn’t speak as he led the way, and they marched down a dimly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor, the guard’s keys clinking at his waist. A narrow flight of stairs led to another locked door. This opened into a short corridor, plainly decorated with rush carpeting and unadorned dark brown walls. The warden’s door was at the end of the hall, and Murdoch felt as if he should have snapped to attention when they halted. The guard tapped on the warden’s door.
“Come.”
James Massie had been standing by the window behind his desk, but he immediately came over to greet Murdoch, offering his hand. He was a short man, of middle age with a smooth, bald pate that he balanced with a trim moustache and beard. He wore gold pincenez, which accentuated his rather scholarly look.
“Detective Murdoch, please have a seat.” He waved in the direction of the leather padded chair that was in front of his desk. Murdoch sat down, removing his hat and placing it on the floor beside him.
The guard turned on his heels smartly and left the room. The warden took the chair on the other side of the wide desk. The surface was bare except for an inkwell and pen tray and a large ledger. Massie moved the ledger to one side, lining it up neatly with the edge of the desk. Murdoch wondered if he was always this uncomfortable.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Murdoch. I, er, didn’t feel I should impart my news in a letter, so I assume you do not know the reason for my sending for you?”
“I thought it might be young Blake, but I gather that is not the case.”
“Ah yes, Blake. No, no, that is correct. It is not concerning him.”
Massie opened the drawer on his right and took out a buff folder that was stuffed with sheets of paper. He pushed the pince-nez up his nose. The lens magnified his brown eyes.
“Well, I won’t beat around the bush any longer. We have a prisoner here. His name is Henry Murdoch, known as Harry Murdoch. He claims he is your father.”
Murdoch stared at him. “My father? How could he be my father?”
Massie riffled through the papers and took out one of the sheets.
“Henry Francis Murdoch, born in the city of Halifax, Nova Scotia, in the year of Our Lord, eighteen hundred and thirty-nine. He was married to Miss Mary Weldon, also of the city of Halifax, now deceased. There were three issue: a son, William, born in sixty-one; a daughter, Susanna, born in sixty-four; and a second son, Albert, also deceased.” His tone was conciliatory. “I realise this must be a shock to you, sir, but we are correct, are we not? Henry Murdoch is your father?”
For a moment Murdoch felt as if he were gaping like a fool at the man in front of him. It had been such a long time since he had had anything to do with Harry. When he spoke, he could hear how cold his voice sounded. “It must be correct. Those are certainly the pertinent details of my father’s life. What has he done this time?”
Massie pursed his lips, hesitating. “He has been convicted of murder.”
He waited to see if there was any reaction, but Murdoch had retreated into the wooden mode of expression that gripped him in moments of great stress.
The warden looked down at his sheet of paper and read as if it were important he not include a single word not officially recorded: “On August the fourth, last, he was charged with the willful murder of one John Delaney of the county of York. He was tried before a jury of his peers and convicted on December sixth. He was sentenced to be hung, the sentence to be carried out on Monday, December sixteenth.”
“What were the circumstances of the murder?” Murdoch asked, although he thought he could guess. A drunken brawl, one blow too hard. Massie turned back and indicated a large sheaf of papers that were tacked together.
“This is a copy of the complete court records, but I can summarize the case if you wish.”
“If you please.”
“The crime occurred on August fourth in the ravine area to the east of Yonge Street where Summerhill ends. There is a tavern at the end of the street named the Manchester …”
He glanced at Murdoch, who shrugged. He hadn’t heard of it. “Apparently, the proprietor, Vincent Newcombe, organises terrier matches, the object being to see which dog can kill the most rats in a given length of time. Mr. Murdoch was a participant in such a match. According to the witnesses, he lost heavily and became enraged, accusing almost everybody of cheating him. The man who emerged a winner was the man who was found murdered, John Delaney. Again, all witnesses agreed that Harry left the premises first. Two hours or so later, Delaney’s wife became concerned when her husband had not returned home and sent her son to the tavern to enquire after him. He had apparently left not too long after Harry. One of the witnesses, a Mr. Pugh, offered to return with Delaney’s son, and he discovered the body lying in the creek. He had not drowned but had suffered severe blows to the back of the head. Harry Murdoch was found lying in the grass only a few feet away. When roused and told of Mr. Delaney’s death, he replied, ‘He got what he deserved.’ Mr. Pugh, on suspicion of culpability, bound Murdoch’s hands, and when the constable arrived, Murdoch was arrested.”
“Is that the sum of the evidence against him?”
“By no means. Mr. Delaney was left handed, and your father had a bruise on his right cheek, which corresponded to abrasions found on the dead man’s left knuckles. There was blood on Murdoch’s right sleeve and on the front of his shirt. He had no good reason to be where he was in the ravine. His boardinghouse was located at the far end of Shaftesbury Avenue in the opposite direction. Finally, there was money missing from Mr. Delaney’s pouch. Of course, his remark concerning the poor man’s death was most damning, Mr. Delaney was held in high respect by his church and community.”
“In spite of his predilection for gambling?”
“Apparently a forgivable sin.”
“And Harry Murdoch had been drinking, I suppose?”
“According to the witnesses, he was quite full.”
Murdoch felt a rush of bile into his mouth. The years hadn’t changed his father. Massie averted his eyes, tactfully.
“I must say that since he has been here he is quite redeemed. He is learning how to read a little and has shown quite an aptitude for sketching. He cannot, of course, drink to excess even if he wished to, but he has taken the Pledge and every week he receives communion. He has returned to his faith. Roman Catholic, I believe?”
Murdoch nodded.
“The coroner’s jury concluded he had lain in wait for his enemy just below the bridge. They quarrelled. Murdoch struck Delaney, probably with a piece of wood, and toppled him into the creek. Then, overcome by the exertion and still under the influence of the liquor, he lost consciousness and did not awake until he was discovered later by Mr. Pugh. Those are the bare bones of the case. You can certainly look at this report at your leisure if you wish.”
“Is there any point, Warden?”
Massie realigned the ledger again. “That is entirely up to you.”
“Did he plead guilty?”
“No, he did not. He swears he is innocent.” Massie coughed politely. “But then that is quite common, isn’t it?”
“Why has he asked to see me?”
“I am aware that you have not seen each other for some time. He told me himself that you had a falling out when you were a young man.”
“You might call it that.”
Murdoch knew his voice was bitter, but he couldn’t help it. The so-called falling out was a violent quarrel that would have ended in bloodshed except that Harry was too drunk to remain upright. Murdoch, who was just thirteen years old but already growing tall, had accepted the blows his father was raining on his head and shoulders, too proud to do anything other than defend himself. When Harry had staggered and fallen to the ground, Murdoch had walked away, vowing he would never again allow his father to beat him. The last sight he’d had of his father was the man lying on his back in the middle of the living room, snoring, dribbling, and stinking.
“It’s been a long time,” he said out loud.
The warden rocked back in his chair. “Your father intends to ask you to prove his innocence.”
Murdoch grimaced. “Does he indeed? That’s why he has tracked me down then?”
“He was not aware until yesterday that you were with the police force. I believe he was more of the mind to see you one more time.”
“A reconciliation, you mean?”
“Just so. The shadow of the gallows is a long one, Mr. Murdoch, and dark. I have seen many men repent of their sins when they are about to face that last journey.” He stood up. “We have a room for visitors. The guard will take you there, and I will have Mr. Murdoch brought down. We cannot, of course, offer you complete privacy, but I will instruct the guard to leave you alone. And by the way, I have given permission for the prisoner to smoke. Under normal circumstances I do not allow any tobacco or pipes, but in this case, he may have one if he wants.”
Murdoch also stood up. He could feel his heart beating faster, and his mouth felt dry. It was a long time since he and Harry had stood face to face.