I have been steeped in the stories about my ancestors
since my birth. They may have even seeped into me through the walls of
the womb. Anna’s Secret is a story I’ve heard many times from various
people. The latest version was from my Uncle Harold. He said that one
of our own people was suspected of the crime of murdering Anne Beaton
with a turnip hoe. It was said that she was no better than she should
be and was doing a little marital wandering with someone in the
community. For a long time the smithy was suspected. He was in custody
for a period but was finally exonerated and left Prince Edward Island
for good. Ultimately the authorities decided that the crime was
perpetrated by a woman and was in fact, a crime of passion. This last
was pronounced with great relish. They never found the person
responsible. It seems that Anne had greatly riled a wronged wife, and
probably several.
The story caught my imagination and I
began to wonder: what if she wasn’t who they thought she was? What if
the reason for her murder was entirely different? What if the murderer
was discovered? Who would it be? Her husband? The wronged woman? The
man she was said to be involved with? There was a lot to play with
here. In a technical sense, how close to reality could I be without
offending descendents? Not too close, I decided. Anyway, it’s more fun
to write what pops into my mind and see how it plays out.
As
I wrote, the narrative opened like a flower as I examined the
individuals who I decided were involved. Who were they? What
relationship did they hold to Anna and to her family and to each other?
How did Old Annie figure into it? After all she was a daft old woman
who had to be transported to gatherings in a wheelbarrow because she
couldn’t be left alone. Most of the time she didn’t know anyone and
lived in her mind very far in the past with people she knew in her
youth. What did she have to do with Anna’s murder? After all, she and
Anna had been life-long friends.
And what did it do to
the community? Their sense of safety was shattered and people took to
locking their doors, some even in the daytime. This was in a community
that never locked its doors even in my grandmother’s time. I remember
this from my childhood. The only time the door was locked was if they
were going to be away for an extended period because, what if someone
needed something and they weren’t home to give it to them? I remember
my own mother telling me a story about an old man who peddled goods and
trinkets door-to-door. He was a little simple as they say here. They
woke up one morning and discovered him asleep on the lounge with a
blazing fire in the stove. After the murder, people were afraid to walk
out alone at night.
As the story progressed it took
awhile for me to realize who the real perpetrator was and the denouement
was almost as much a surprise to me as it will be to you.
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