Excerpt from The Convictions of John Delahunt by Andrew Hughes, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

At one point he was called over for a practical lesson and he joined the doctor behind my chair. Armstrong took a step back. 'Our conjecture was correct. Feel Caution's Causeway.'

The young man's fingers were cold and his nails unclipped. He probed behind my left ear, fixed upon a certain spot and rotated the skin with a firm rub. It seemed to me he wasn't sure what he sought. His only expression was a vague murmur.

'Now mark the Carnal Cleft.'

He steadied my head before pressing his ring finger between the bridge of my nose and lower eye socket. This time his reaction was clearer. He was amused, enough to exhale sharply through his nostrils. I wasn't let in on the joke.

When the cranial reading was complete, Armstrong went to stand in the middle of the cell, using his handkerchief to wipe my residue from his fingers. The exact nature of his questions seems vague to me now. I recall he commended my learning and enquired into my habits of reading. He asked was I musical. My childhood stints singing in the choir were among my only happy memories, but I told him I couldn't hold a note, had no ear for harmony—there was little point being an open book.

More trying were questions that seemed pertinent to my conviction. He asked had I ever sworn falsely against another.

I scrutinized his face for a hint of mockery. 'It's a matter of public record that I have.'

'Have you ever been compelled to act because of religious fervour?'

I said I wasn't a believer.

The doctor smiled. 'Mr. Delahunt, I fear you are betrayed by your own make-up. The Organ of Marvellousness is particularly full. I have no doubt you are in awe of your creator.'

'Then why ask?'

The transcriber spoke for the first time. 'What about the note found on your victim?'

The doctor and I regarded him. I hoped the upstart would be berated but instead Armstrong retrieved the file and leafed through it. 'That's right. A passage from the Bible was clutched in his hand.' He found the relevant page. 'Identified as Philippians 1:21, "For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain."' He looked at me with the folder held open before him; the other sat with his pen poised.

I no longer found their presence diverting. 'It didn't matter what was written,' I said. 'I knew the child wouldn't be able to read.'

It had been my hope that after a brief examination the doctor would be able to reveal some underlying cause, fix me with a solemn gaze and say: 'Worry not, this was always on the cards.' Instead I grew weary of his petty enquiries and was relieved when he indicated he was about to go. Despite myself, I fished for a diagnosis as he gathered his coat.

'Have you come to any conclusions?'

He drew himself up, as if glad to be asked. 'All I would say is this. There is no doubt the capacity to commit your crime is strongly written in your development.' He narrowed his eyes. 'But so also was the power to resist it.'

Such insight. He lifted the lapel of his coat to cover his neck. 'But those are only preliminary observations. I shall require several more hours of study.'

'You mean you intend to return.'

'Why, no,' he said and looked away. 'I have made arrangements with the prison authorities.'

'Arrangements for what?'

'Well.' He patted his pockets as if he had mislaid something. 'It won't concern you.'

The student had been observing me all the while with the corners of his mouth upturned. 'We shall be using a plaster cast of your head,' he said. 'Take after your punishment.'

Armstrong reproved his charge with a touch on the arm and a stern look. I merely nodded. No doubt it's odd that this was the first realization of what awaited me. After all, there had been ample time to consider the mechanics of my demise. But the thought chilled me—of my rough handling, of some anatomical stuccodore gouging my eyes, pressing his wet plaster into my nose and mouth and leaving my enclosed head to set. Throughout the afternoon I lay awake, opening and closing my fist, holding my breath, listening to my pulse in a cupped ear, trying to sense the source of their animation.

Excerpted from The Convictions of John Delahunt by Andrew Hughes. Copyright © 2015 by Andrew Hughes. Excerpted by permission of Pegasus Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.