*** AUTHOR’S NOTE: Here it is, the first chapter of the monthly book! Read and be merry. It is going to be written in first and third person limited. If you have any critiques or thoughts about it, please be constructive. This is my first attempt at keeping a large project going and my first attempt at getting a large number of people (most of whom I don’t know personally) to read. Besides, constructive is great to have! Well, happy reading! ***
CHAPTER ONE: MEETING ANTHONY DAVIS
A brisk salty breeze carried the mechanical sounds of the gallows into the gaol. It has come to my attention that this would be the first hanging in the small port town of Crawford; and as such, it is my duty to report all that I experience before I leave back for London in a week’s time. I intend to be the first man to get the full account of a well known criminal and Anthony Davis is my chance at literary genius. Whether or not I will be able to get his full story depends on how long he has before meeting the hangman’s necklace.
The Crawford gaol is as small as the town itself. With only three cells, it honestly surprises me that the people of Crawford allowed such a vicious man as Anthony Davis into their cells. A day ago, I was granted entrance into the tiny gaol all for the purpose of meeting Mr. Davis. And now here I am, sitting in a rickety bench, my pad and pen on the table in front of me. Anthony Davis is staring out the tiny circular window. His view is a depressing one.
I take my reading glasses from my jacket pocket and wipe it clean with the handkerchief my mother gave me the day I graduated from the university. As I’m wiping the lenses I take the chance to observe the man.
Anthony Davis is not as imposing as the rumors led me to believe. He is of average height; about five foot eleven if I was to go into detail. He is lanky, with broad shoulders and large arms. He must have gained the muscle mass during his nights digging up the newly buried. In the dim light, I can see a mess of dark curls coming from his head. They are unruly and long, tied up in a makeshift hair tie. Though I cannot see his eyes, I can see a portion of his face through the natural window light. It is a thin, strong looking face with high cheekbones and angular features. From what I can see, there is mud and grime deep in the pores of his skin.
“I didn’t kill her,” his voice is coarse.
I almost drop my glasses at his whisper. It isn’t unusual for a criminal to deny their crimes, but for some reason Mr. Davis looks genuine when he said that. I cough gently into my fist and shake my head slowly.
“You stated in the trial that you were the reason for her death,” I muster up the confidence to remind him of the fact.
Anthony Davis turns his head sharply in my direction. I can see his dark blue eyes. They are shimmering even in the dark cell room. He turns the rest of his body towards the chair that sits alone in front of me. I hold my breath as he takes the first few steps to the chair.
“Have you ever been in love?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at Mr. Davis in disbelief. It is such an innocent question, but I don’t know how to answer it. I must look confused or hesitant because he chuckles emptily at me. He pulls the seat open and sits down in front of me. It is now that I’m struck with the thought that he may actually be telling the truth. That he did not kill Marion Walcott.
“I mean real love, Mr. Roberts,” his voice cracks. I see his face contort into a painful grimace. “I have. It changes you the instant it hits you. When it’s there, you can’t believe how lucky you are. You start to think that you don’t deserve it. And when it’s gone,”
Anthony Davis pauses. He clenches his hands together and looks down to his feet. He is heartbroken and for once, I am glad I’ve never felt the emotion he is talking about.
“When it’s gone,” he swallows roughly as he finishes his thoughts, “you realize that that person was a part of you. You feel empty; lost. I was in love with Marion.” He looks up at me, our eyes locking, “I did not kill her, but if I never loved her, she would still be alive.”
I nod slowly at Mr. Davis, trying to gather my thoughts. There is so much I can say about the trial, but I don’t know what to say to him. I take a deep breath and move my eyes away from him. They bother me. They are both empty and filled with emotion. It’s hard to know which emotion I should be paying attention to. Finally, I gather the courage to say what I came here to say.
“I have a feeling that there’s more to your story than what the court and world knows. Would you care to tell me?”
He looks at me, unsure about my intentions. Should I tell him that this will make me famous? That his story will bring my name up from the depths of literary obscurity? I wait for his reply. I hope he doesn’t decline. Finally, I see his face change slightly and he nods in agreement.
“I will, but only if you record it word for word.” His voice isn’t as coarse as it was before. Whatever his inner demons are, they moved away for him to say this to me.
I place my reading glasses onto the bridge of my nose and then gather my pen and pad. My left hand is sweating and I can feel the pen slide slightly. I hold it tighter and place the point to the paper.
“I promise,” I tell him. “Now, you said you are the cause of Mrs. Walcott’s death?”
“No,” he shakes his head to me, “we won’t start with her death. I will start with her life, before she married that man. We will start back when she was Marion Elmsworth.”
“Okay,” I nod to him and jot down her name quickly. “Tell me about Mrs. Walcott, back when she was Miss Elmsworth.”
Mr. Davis nods and smiles softly as he remembers the girl that Mrs. Walcott was.
“She was beautiful back then and it is that beauty that every man loved, but she only loved one man.”
Casia's Corner 