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

Excerpt
The Convictions Of John Delahunt

I won't be welcome in the Delahunt plot. I doubt they'll make the slightest effort to reclaim me. Perhaps I'm promised to the dissectionists on York Street, though these days they've the pick of the workhouses. Most likely I'll end up in some forsaken corner of Kilmainham's grounds. Pitched in with my peers. Lying at odd angles and uneven depths, depending on the diligence of the digger. Quicklime poured in to hasten the process. And unmarked, save a scrawled entry in a spineless ledger, to be shelved and forgotten, filthy with dust. The fate of my remains had not given me a moment's pause until today's visitor. Now I can think of little else. It's tiresome, that such morbid fancies should master me in my remaining hours.

Helen might make some petition for a decent burial. My wife has been disowned, disinherited; she is soon to be widowed. Her plaintive letters will be mired in bureaucracy. Still, it will do her good to keep busy.

At about noon I started at the rustle of keys and scraping of bolts as Dr. Armstrong was shown into my cell. He was a spare man, a little below the average height, but with a dignity of carriage that made him appear taller. Clean-shaven, and obviously particular in his habits and dress. He was accompanied by an assistant, whom I took to be one of his medical students. As they entered, the doctor held a handkerchief to his nose—it's amazing how soon one stops noticing it—but immediately folded it into a pocket and regarded me with professional interest.

'Has Mr. Turner told you the reason for my visit?'

I set aside my pen. 'Not in much detail.'

'Mr. Delahunt, I'll begin by saying I care not about the nature of your crimes.'

I reminded him I had only been convicted of one.

He took the interruption in his stride. 'Quite.' It was his belief that the manifest failings in my character, which had led me to commit my admitted crime, resulted from grave deficiencies in certain faculties of my brain and the profusion of others. 'Your cranial bone will have conformed around these undulations, leaving a discernible map for the trained hand.' He flexed his fingers as if in demonstration. He said my cooperation would aid his research and further scientific understanding. 'Of course, you are free to refuse my interview, and if you wish me to leave I shall do so immediately.'

He fixed on a point above my shoulder as if my response either way was of no concern. My first impulse was to tell them both to get out. But how could I refuse the final courtesy extended to me in my short life?

I offered to vacate the only chair but he waved me to remain. His assistant inspected my stained mattress with some distaste; then he sat at the edge of the bunk without my leave. He placed a file on the frayed blanket beside him, opened a leather-bound notebook and took a pencil from his jacket pocket.I must admit to an uneasy sensation when Armstrong walked behind me to take hold of my matted head. That feeling soon gave way. After several minutes I had to stifle a smirk at both his earnest kneading and tender caress. I couldn't see his face, but I'd hear the occasional guttural response to an interesting knoll. I pictured Dr. Armstrong in his private moments, head in his hands, deeply contemplative, on a journey of self-discovery. Then again, if he was convinced of his calling perhaps he couldn't bring himself to touch his own head. Maybe he was loath to scratch an itch, or fix his hat, lest he happen upon an unsettling trait.

He spoke his observations aloud in a distracted voice. 'The head is well sized. The base regions very fully developed, and the coronal portions…by no means deficient.'

I was flattered. The pupil, a young man with round spectacles and a thin beard, carefully jotted down each comment. I knew his type well: the class pet plucked from the group to assist with the professor's own research and experiments. He no doubt considered it a great honour rather than an unpaid chore. Some characters can be discerned without the use of phrenology.

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.