Let Loose the Dogs (26 page)

Chapter Forty-seven

J
ESSICA PUT HER TWO COPPER POTS
in the wooden crate; then she took the top one out again. She’d need it to heat up milk for Sally. The child loved to have her “possy,” a mug of hot milk sweetened with honey. Jessica glanced over to the hearth where the child was seated on the floor. She had placed her favourite doll, Min-min, in a box for her bed. She was talking quietly to herself, but Jessica heard her say, “Go to sleep like a good girl. Don’t bother Momma. Momma has a heartache.”

Last week Sally had asked her mother what was wrong, why she lay in bed sleeping all the time. “Momma has a heartache,” Jess had replied, and now Sally said that all the time. She had bound a piece of cloth about the doll’s head, confusing head and heartaches. Jessica wanted to go to her and hug her tightly, but she felt as if she could hardly move, as if her limbs were too heavy. She simply stood and watched for a moment; then she went back to her task. She had packed the three valises, which was all Walter would allow.

“Only what we can carry, Jess. Put everything else you’ll need later in the trunks. I’ll get some crates, and you can put the dishes and your pots in them.”

She blinked. She had been standing at the sink staring through the window but seeing nothing. How long? There was a plate in her hand that she had been in the process of wrapping in the strips of Holland cloth that Walter had cut for her. These dishes had come to her from her own mother when she’d died. Her older sister, Catherine, had been angry at that, considering it was more her right as she had nursed their mother in the last days of her illness. “You can have them,” Jessica had said, but her sister had pouted and retreated into martyrdom. “No, if that was her wish, you must have them,” but after that the feelings between them were even less cordial than they had been. Jessica knew that she had been her mother’s favourite child, the last born, the youngest daughter. She hadn’t wanted to move away, but Walter was always restless and, she suspected, all too anxious to move her far from her family, where he’d have her all to himself. So they had moved to Ontario and taken this cottage in which she had once taken such delight.

She couldn’t return to Alberta, not with Catherine’s coldness and constant reproach, and yesterday, when Walter had suggested they move further east, she had agreed. Not with enthusiasm or even fear; she had no strong feelings anymore. They were soaked up like ink on blotting paper by her prevailing lethargy, her indifference to any event around her, even her own child.

The door opened and Walter came in, bringing a waft of cold air. He couldn’t hide his dismay when he saw her.

“Jess! Not done yet? We don’t have much more time.”

She looked around, saw the half-empty crate, the pots on the floor. The stack of dishes, already wrapped, were still on the table.

“Here, I can help now,” he said.

Sally jumped up and ran over to him. She was sucking her thumb, the doll tucked under her arm.

“Arh. That’s dirty,” he said, and pulled the thumb away from her mouth. She started to whine.

“Leave her alone, Walter. She’ll just get upset again, and she’s been playing nicely.”

Sally was winding up for a full crying jag. Jessica picked up a dish where a honeycomb sat in a sticky mess. Flies never completely died off, and one or two were crawling around the dish. Jessica knocked them away, broke off a piece of the comb, and handed it to Sally. The child quieted immediately, stuffing the sweet morsel into her mouth.

“Go and play with Min-min for a bit longer, there’s my girl.”

Sally cast a sullen look mixed with some triumph at her father, and he sighed in exasperation.

He began to place the dishes in the crate, where he’d put wood shavings.

“Maria has agreed to keep an eye on things until I have a chance to come back for our belongings.”

“Did she have anything to say?”

“No, not really.” He hesitated for a moment. “I told her your sister had invited you to come and live with her for a while until you felt more like yourself.”

“Catherine has virtually disowned me.”

“Maria doesn’t know that, Jess.” He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, but she felt it and turned away from him. She looked out of the window.

“It’s starting to snow,” she said.

“Yes, it’s gone very cold. It will be warmer where we’re going,” he answered, struggling to inject jollity into his tone.

She didn’t turn around, and her voice was so low he almost didn’t catch what she said.

“Are you certain we are doing the right thing, Walter?”

He stood up and came over to her and put his arms around her, burying his head in her shoulder. “Of course we are, my chuck. We’ll have a new start. No bad memories. You’ll see. Before you know it you’ll be feeling right as rain.”

Briefly she rested her cheek against the top of his head. “Will I? Sometimes I feel as if I will never be happy again. Not as long as I live.”

“Jess, come on. You have Sally. We’ll have sons, seven of them if I have anything to do with it.”

He moved his hands to her breasts, caressing them through her gown. She flinched and he could feel her body stiffen. He let her go and stepped back.

“I’d better get on with this packing. Are you going to help or not?”

Without looking at him, she walked over to the door and reached for her shawl. “I’m feeling so tired. I think some air will wake me up.”

“Jess …”

“Watch Sally, will you. I won’t be long.”

“Momma!” Seeing what her mother was doing, Sally let out a wail and ran toward her. Walter caught hold of her.

“Sally, stop it. Momma will be back. She’s going for a walk. You can help me.”

“No! I want to go, too. Me, too.”

Jessica closed the door behind her, almost running toward the gate. She could hear the frightened screams of her little daughter, but she pulled the shawl tighter about her head to shut out the sound. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t bear to be in his presence. The pretence between them was like acid in her gut. It wasn’t only the loss of her unborn son that was destroying her life energy, it was the circumstances that had caused the miscarriage, circumstances they had never referred to again so that she thought she would go mad, as if she had swallowed poison that she must vomit up if she were to live.

She was sliding down the hill now, the snow and mud over her boots cold against her bare legs. She came to a halt by catching hold of one of the trees. She clung to it, pressing her cheek against the rough bark. She began to cry out over and over. “You lied to me. I know you did. You lied.”

The skin on her face began to bleed.

Chapter Forty-eight

T
HE 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.