disregard long-held customs too lightly.” The Judge put his coffee cup down with a clatter. “I told him this kind of thing might be all very fine down in the jungle somewhere. But not in a modern society. We believe in morality and the protection of our citizens. Hanging’s too good for the likes of Simmonds.”
Rachel nodded, but she was thinking of how interesting Rowland Vanderlinden looked. And what a brave man he must be to say such things to her father.
ON THE MORNING OF THE SENTENCING, she made up her mind to go to the courthouse in the hope of seeing Rowland. The court was packed so she had trouble finding a seat at the back. She looked around and was disappointed to see no sign of her father’s visitor.
A bell rang and a policeman called for silence. Simmonds was brought into the dock by two guards. He was wearing a blue prison uniform, a small, apologetic-looking man with wide eyes and thin hair slicked back.
The clerk called on everyone to rise. Now her father, all in black, came solemnly into the courtroom. He went to the bench, carefully adjusted his robes, sat down and waited for complete silence. He watched the clock till it was exactly on the hour. Then, in the sonorous voice Rachel sometimes heard him practise in his study, he told the prisoner to rise.
Simmonds did so, with the two guards standing on either side, towering over him.
The Judge now picked up a cloth that lay on the bench before him: the black cap. He unfolded it slowly and carefully placed it on his head. He cleared his throat and solemnly pronounced the awful words that reverberated through the crowded courtroom: “By the power . . . hereby sentence you . . . on an appointed day . . . to be taken from this place to a place of execution . . . hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Simmonds didn’t seem to like the sound of that, for he staggered and leaned on the dock. When he went back to the cells, he had to be helped by the two guards.
THAT NIGHT AT DINNER, the Judge was in a very good humour and sipped the glass of red wine he allowed himself on such occasions.
Rachel, who’d never been to a death-sentencing before, asked him about it. “Isn’t it hard, sending men who are younger than you are to a premature death?” she said.
“Not at all,” he said. “We all have to die. In fact, these men are luckier than the rest of us—they at least know the exact moment they’ll be leaving.” He looked very serious.
“Well,” Rachel said, “that doesn’t sound very lucky to me.”
He put his glass down on the table and began to laugh wholeheartedly—a rare phenomenon. He never allowed anyone else to know that he was capable of laughter.
“Simmonds looked so harmless,” she said
The Judge smiled at her affectionately. “That’s a good lesson for you to learn,” he said. “You can’t tell a man from a monster just on the basis of looks.”
Watching him, Rachel couldn’t help wondering how he would look to her if he were not her father but her judge. She imagined him sitting on the bench pronouncing sentence on her. Then those same glittering eyes and thin-lipped smile might make him the most frightening of men. She wondered, too, what Rowland Vanderlinden thought of him: she feared he might have disliked her father and assumed that she would be too much his daughter.
– 9 –
HER FIRST REAL MEETING WITH ROWLAND didn’t occur until the following summer. She’d come to Toronto to spend a morning shopping and decided to visit the Museum on the off chance of seeing him. It began raining quite heavily as she went along University Avenue, so she ran the last hundred yards. Inside the lobby of the Museum, she had barely caught her breath when she saw him coming out of an office and heading towards the door, with an umbrella in hand and a notebook protruding from his coat pocket. She looked around her in a general way, as though wondering where to go, making sure she remained
Rachel nodded, but she was thinking of how interesting Rowland Vanderlinden looked. And what a brave man he must be to say such things to her father.
ON THE MORNING OF THE SENTENCING, she made up her mind to go to the courthouse in the hope of seeing Rowland. The court was packed so she had trouble finding a seat at the back. She looked around and was disappointed to see no sign of her father’s visitor.
A bell rang and a policeman called for silence. Simmonds was brought into the dock by two guards. He was wearing a blue prison uniform, a small, apologetic-looking man with wide eyes and thin hair slicked back.
The clerk called on everyone to rise. Now her father, all in black, came solemnly into the courtroom. He went to the bench, carefully adjusted his robes, sat down and waited for complete silence. He watched the clock till it was exactly on the hour. Then, in the sonorous voice Rachel sometimes heard him practise in his study, he told the prisoner to rise.
Simmonds did so, with the two guards standing on either side, towering over him.
The Judge now picked up a cloth that lay on the bench before him: the black cap. He unfolded it slowly and carefully placed it on his head. He cleared his throat and solemnly pronounced the awful words that reverberated through the crowded courtroom: “By the power . . . hereby sentence you . . . on an appointed day . . . to be taken from this place to a place of execution . . . hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Simmonds didn’t seem to like the sound of that, for he staggered and leaned on the dock. When he went back to the cells, he had to be helped by the two guards.
THAT NIGHT AT DINNER, the Judge was in a very good humour and sipped the glass of red wine he allowed himself on such occasions.
Rachel, who’d never been to a death-sentencing before, asked him about it. “Isn’t it hard, sending men who are younger than you are to a premature death?” she said.
“Not at all,” he said. “We all have to die. In fact, these men are luckier than the rest of us—they at least know the exact moment they’ll be leaving.” He looked very serious.
“Well,” Rachel said, “that doesn’t sound very lucky to me.”
He put his glass down on the table and began to laugh wholeheartedly—a rare phenomenon. He never allowed anyone else to know that he was capable of laughter.
“Simmonds looked so harmless,” she said
The Judge smiled at her affectionately. “That’s a good lesson for you to learn,” he said. “You can’t tell a man from a monster just on the basis of looks.”
Watching him, Rachel couldn’t help wondering how he would look to her if he were not her father but her judge. She imagined him sitting on the bench pronouncing sentence on her. Then those same glittering eyes and thin-lipped smile might make him the most frightening of men. She wondered, too, what Rowland Vanderlinden thought of him: she feared he might have disliked her father and assumed that she would be too much his daughter.
– 9 –
HER FIRST REAL MEETING WITH ROWLAND didn’t occur until the following summer. She’d come to Toronto to spend a morning shopping and decided to visit the Museum on the off chance of seeing him. It began raining quite heavily as she went along University Avenue, so she ran the last hundred yards. Inside the lobby of the Museum, she had barely caught her breath when she saw him coming out of an office and heading towards the door, with an umbrella in hand and a notebook protruding from his coat pocket. She looked around her in a general way, as though wondering where to go, making sure she remained
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