Let Loose the Dogs (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

T
HE
D
ON
J
AIL
, 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.”

Murdoch shook hands.

“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.

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE GUARD
, T
YLER, SHOWED
M
URDOCH
into the visitor’s room. “Take any seat you like.”

The room was plain, with a plank floor and one long table running down the centre. About a dozen chairs were crammed along each side, but the table was demarcated with strips of wood to indicate each place. The prisoners had to keep their hands visible within these barriers. The air was close, permanently saturated with the smell of fear and anger. Murdoch chose a chair at the end of the table and sat down. Two doors with narrow, barred windows faced each other across the room. The prisoner came in from one side and the visitor from the other. The guard walked over to the opposite door and pushed an electric button, which presumably gave a signal to the cells.

“They’ll be here in a minute,” he said. He eyed Murdoch curiously. “One of your nabs, is he?”

“No,” said Murdoch and he deliberately began to look around the room. A row of high windows to his right let in natural light but they were too high up to give a view of the outside. It was a dull, grey morning and the wall sconces had been lit. To one side of the door facing him was a portrait of her Majesty. The Queen was depicted in her robes of state and the scarlet, ermine-trimmed train and crimson drapery behind her glowed vividly. Murdoch thought the portrait was a fine copy, better than the one that was in his cubicle at the police station. Directly behind him was a large oil painting of the chief constable, Lieutenant-Colonel Grasett. This one was in the prisoner’s line of vision.

“I’ll be outside the door. Holler if you need me,” said the guard and left.

Murdoch took the opportunity to remove the black band from his sleeve. He wasn’t ready to share the news of Susanna’s death with his father. He sat back, undid his coat, and took out his watch. It was two minutes past the half hour. He knew he was trying to look at ease. It was far from the way he felt, but he’d be damned if he’d give Harry the satisfaction of knowing he was nervous.

He heard the sound of footsteps shuffling. Hurriedly he went back to the table and sat down. The door opened and in came another guard. He stood back to usher in his prisoner. This man, in grey prison uniform, was heavyset, with a pale, clean-shaven face. He was balding and what hair remained was grizzled. Relief rushed through Murdoch. There was a mistake; this was not his father. He was too old, too heavy.

The prisoner moved awkwardly to the table, and suddenly he smiled.

“Hello, Willie. It’s been a long time.”

It was only then, in the voice, that Murdoch knew it was his father. He stood up so abruptly that the chair tilted backwards and tipped over to the ground with a crash. He flushed with embarrassment, feeling clumsy and foolish, the way he always had in his father’s presence.

“Still got two left feet, I see,” said Harry.

Murdoch straightened the chair and sat down, while his father eased himself into the opposite seat. He held out his hand. “Come on, son. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge, but we’re still the same flesh and blood. Won’t you at least shake your own father’s hand?”

His father’s grip was firm, the palm hard and calloused the way he remembered. Harry had taken pride in that. His blows had been as damaging as a piece of wood.

The guard stepped back. “My name’s Barker. I’ll let you both alone, but I’ll be watching through the window. Murdoch, put both your hands on the table and leave them there.”

It was strange hearing somebody else referred to by his name. His father was scrutinising him, and he forced himself to meet his gaze.

“You’ve changed, Will, but I suppose that is to be expected. You were a lad when I saw you last. Now it’s like staring into a mirror.” He ran his hand across his cropped hair. “Rather, say, a reflection of the way I used to be. How old are you now? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-four.”

Murdoch was curt. He had never thought of himself as resembling his father, and it didn’t sit well with him. “Warden Massie says you’ve been convicted of murder.”

Now it was Harry who flushed. “Forget the niceties, eh, Will? Yes, that’s the fact of it.” He grinned again but it was like watching a dog snarl. “Unless there’s a miracle, I won’t be bringing in the new year.” He made a grotesque gesture to indicate the hanging.

“The warden said you beat a man to death because you lost money at a betting match.”

There was a sudden glint of anger in Harry’s eyes, and his lips tightened. Even now, after all these years, that look sent a stab of fear through Murdoch’s body. He leaned back in his chair.

“Why did you want to see me?”

Harry managed to drag up some kind of smile. “I know we didn’t part on good terms, Will, and I’m sorry for that. But as you can see, I’m in desperate straits. I was hoping you might help me.”

“How?”

Harry rubbed at his scalp again. “I never could talk to a man who looked as if he was about to haul off and wallop me one. Makes me nervous.”

“Does it, Harry? Nothing I can do about that.”

He had used his father’s Christian name deliberately and provocatively, but Harry didn’t take him up on it.

“Barker told me I can have a pipe. You wouldn’t happen to have ’baccy on you, would you?”

Murdoch debated for a brief moment whether or not to deny him, but that felt too childish so he fished in his inside pocket and took out his tobacco pouch and matches, pushing them across the table towards his father. He waited while Harry opened the pouch and sniffed at the tobacco hungrily.

“Good stuff, Will.”

Murdoch waited until Harry had filled the pipe, lit up, and drawn in the smoke. The motions were so familiar to him. He’d seen his father do that hundreds of times – and with the same grin of satisfaction across his face. He’d bought him a pipe once as a Christmas present. He’d had to work scrubbing the decks of the trawling fleet until he’d saved up enough money. Forty cents was a month’s worth of work. Fishermen weren’t able to be generous. Uncannily, Harry seemed to pick up on his thoughts.

“Remember that sweet little briar you gave me, Will? The bowl was all carved. Silver tip, too. Very swell piece.”

Murdoch nodded. “You broke it a few weeks later.”

Harry’s face was momentarily lost in a swirl of fragrant smoke. “Did I just? Well, I’m sorry for it. It was a splendid gift.” He glanced in Murdoch’s direction. “I must say, you’ve grown to a fine man. Have you married?”

“No.”

Harry sighed. “After twenty-two years, we have a lot to catch up with, but right now I’m like a dog watching its dinner. There’s not much else I can focus on.”

“You said you wanted me to help you? In what way?”

Harry lowered his pipe. “I’m innocent, Will. I didn’t kill that man. There wasn’t any solid evidence, but the jury didn’t care. Our Bertie had more brains than all of them put together. I didn’t stand a chance.”

It was the reference to his brother that infuriated Murdoch. Harry seemed to have entirely forgotten how he had made the boy’s life a misery because he was slow.

“I understand you quarrelled with the man shortly before he was killed.”

Harry sneered and, for a moment, the thin patina of benevolence slipped. “You understand, do you? How clever of you.”

Murdoch’s jaw felt tight and stiff as if he wouldn’t be able to talk properly. Time vanished, and they were once again staring at each other across the kitchen table. Involuntarily, he steeled himself for the next move: Harry grabbing him by the front of his shirt and lifting him out of his seat. Unexpectedly, however, his father’s expression softened, and his body slumped down in the chair.

“I’m sorry, Will. We’re not getting off on the right foot. I want you to know I’m not the same fellow I used to be. I haven’t had a drop to drink since August. The world looks different when you’re sober. If I could live my life all over again, believe me I would and liquor would have no part in it.”

Murdoch stared back at him. It was still a stranger’s face, puffy, unhealthy-looking skin. Only the brown eyes, which he had inherited, seemed the same.

“You haven’t yet said how I can help you.”

Harry turned to studying the bowl of the little pipe, and he tamped down the tobacco with the end of the match. “I must admit I didn’t know till now that you were a police officer. I thought you were a lumberjack. I sent off a letter. Thought maybe you could hire somebody to investigate for me, but this is even better.”

“Need I point out that as far as the law is concerned, the case is closed. Shut. You’ve been convicted.”

“I didn’t do it. I swear.”

“It’s quite possible you just don’t remember. You hit him in a drunken rage, and now you’ve forgotten. That’s happened before.”

Harry flinched as if he had been struck. “I know, Will. I know that it did, and I’d give my right arm if I could undo it but I can’t. But I don’t want to hang for a crime I didn’t commit.”

Murdoch shrugged. “There isn’t anything I can do.”

“Yes, there is. You’re a detective. Talk to people again. The police had their minds made up I was guilty, and they didn’t do much investigating. Somebody killed the man, but it wasn’t me, I swear.” Harry met his eyes. “You’re the only hope I’ve got. No matter what’s gone down between us, you are my flesh and blood. You can’t deny me that.” He moved his hand as if he would touch Murdoch’s but stopped. “You know I’m a man don’t beg easily, Will, and I’m begging you. Don’t turn your back on me out of spite.”

The door opened and Barker came in. “It’s time for the exercise yard.”

“Can’t I go later?”

“You know you can’t.”

“I’ll skip it then.”

“No, you can’t do that either.”

“I’ll come back later,” said Murdoch.

Harry nodded. “Not too much later. I’ve learned the clocks run differently when you’re in jail. An hour can seem like a week.” He held up the pouch. “Can I hold on to this?”

Murdoch shrugged. “If you want to.”

“Let’s get a move on,” said Barker, and he ushered Harry out. Agitated, Murdoch pushed back his chair, drumming his fingers on the scarred table. This was not what he had expected. He had imagined an encounter with his father many times, but not like this. Not with this soft-voiced, defeated man. A man who seemed sincere. A reformed man. Murdoch put his head in his hands. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he was disappointed. He wanted to go on hating him.