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urgency, I did however send a messenger to enquire of one of our former cooks who is now permanently residing in the town of Huntsville to see if he had any information. As it turns out, he did and I have forthwith included what he related. Mr. William Murdoch esquire is now to be found in the city of Toronto. According to my informant, he is employed in the capacity of a detective police officer. I do hope this is of help to you.
I am your obedient servant, sir.
C. M. Ryan. Esquire, foreman, Apex logging and saw company, Huntsville, Ontario.
    Harry grasped the bars with both hands. “A police officer!”
    Massie regarded him curiously. “I must admit to you, sir, that I did find the irony of the situation rather rare. And clearly this is a surprise to you.”
    “Yes, I should say it is. I have not heard from him for many years, close on twenty-two.”
    “He won’t be too hard to find now. I will telephone the police headquarters and see if they know which station he is attached to.”
    “Thank you, sir. I would most appreciate that.”
    The warden hesitated. “Twenty-two years is a long time. What was the reason you lost contact?”
    “Him and me had a bad falling out. Both of us as hotheaded as a gingered horse. And stubborn. He wouldn’t call ‘hold’ and neither would I.”
    Massie leaned in closer. “You must be careful not to raise your hopes too high. He cannot reverse the decision of the court even if he is the chief of police himself.”
    The other man clenched his jaw. “I am innocent, Warden. And sure as I stand here, he will prove it.” There was a glint of humour in his eyes. “You have to admit, sir, there’s not many prisoners who get an opportunity like this. What more can I ask? A detective and my own son.”

Chapter Five
    T HERE WAS ONLY ONE SMALL WINDOW in the infirmary, and the December afternoon light was already weak and fading. Votive candles flickered on stands at each corner of the bed where Sister Philomena lay dying, but they could not dispel the gloom. The room was chill, the fire in the grate meagre, as coal was apportioned out carefully even in the infirmary. The order was an austere one.
    The three o’clock bell sounded, and Sister Genevieve, the infirmarian, knelt and kissed the floor then touched her crucifix to her lips as she had done at this hour every day for the past fifty years. She said a brief prayer and got stiffly to her feet. Sister Philomena opened her eyes. The bell had wakened her, or perhaps she wasn’t sleeping, just lying as still as she could to withstand the pain. She raised her hand, indicating she wanted the crucifix that was on the pillow beside her. Sister Genevieve picked it up and held it for her to kiss. In the infirmary the rule of silence was waived if necessary, but there was no conversation between the two nuns. In the last weeks of her illness, Sister Philomena had reverted to her own language, and she seemed to have difficulty understanding the Quebec patois of her nurse. Sister Genevieve had no English.
    Sister Philomena of the Sacred Heart of Jesus had been in the infirmary for almost a month now, each day weaker. Dr. Corneille, a good pious man who ministered to the sisters, was appalled when he saw the nun’s condition. It was far too late, he said in his brusque way; he should have been called months ago. Mother St. Raphael had taken the rebuke as her due. The younger nun was in her charge. However, Sister Genevieve knew all too well that Sister Philomena had hidden her illness until the tumour was starting to break through the skin. She had gone about her duties, never complaining, although she was suffering terribly. Even now, in spite of the entreaties of the infirmarían, she also refused to take morphine or opium to alleviate her pain. Her response was unchanging. “I must bear my pain as Our Lord bore His.”
    Sister Genevieve had asked Mother St. Raphael whether or not Sister Philomena of the Sacred Heart was perilously close to