Our attitude to murder has always been complex and ambiguous. We largely disapprove, yet remain fascinated. Very few kill, yet from King Lear to the nightly news, we like to follow the trail of blood. And in certain circumstances, we continue to believe that killing will make us safe. Hence war, capital punishment and the machetes of the Hutu. Something in us, it would seem, loves the most final of solutions.
Few events in this country expose our relationship to killing better than the Donnelly murders. Under a full moon in February of 1880, a mob formed in Biddulph township, a few miles north of London, Ontario. Using clubs, a pitchfork, axes, a spade and guns, 40 or so men slaughtered five members of the Donnelly family, including two women. The identities of the killers—among them a police constable, magistrates and a justice of the peace—were widely known in the area, yet despite the presence of an eyewitness, who escaped being killed by hiding under a...
John Bemrose’s most recent novel is The Last Woman (McClelland and Stewart, 2009). He lives in Toronto.
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