At first, I felt a strange sense of guilt. I almost believed that I was responsible for the attack on my sister. But the next morning, when I thought about the facts more clearly, I realized that was impossible.
Joe had been at the Three Jolly Bargemen from eight-fifteen until nearly ten o’clock. A neighbor had seen my sister at her door at nine o'clock, and she was fine then. When Joe arrived home at five minutes to ten, he found her lying unconscious on the kitchen floor.
Nothing had been stolen from the house. The attacker had not moved any furniture or taken any money. However, there was one strange piece of evidence. On the floor next to my sister was a convict’s leg-iron. It had been cut in two with a file. The police from the prison ships came to look at it. They said it was an old iron and did not belong to the two convicts who had escaped the night before.
I knew that iron. I was certain it was the same one I had seen my convict filing on the marshes years ago. I felt a terrible weight on my heart. I had provided the weapon for this crime, even though I never intended to. I struggled with my conscience. Should I tell Joe the whole story? Every day I decided to tell him, and every morning I changed my mind. I was afraid that Joe would not believe me, or worse, that he would never forgive me for the trouble I had caused. So, I kept my secret.
The police came from London to investigate, but they were not very helpful. They looked important and drank a lot of beer at the pub, but they never found the person who attacked my sister.
For a long time, my sister was very ill. She could not speak clearly, and her hearing and memory were damaged. When she was finally able to come downstairs, she had to use a small slate to write down what she wanted. Because her writing was bad and Joe was not a good reader, there were many mistakes. Sometimes Joe thought she wanted bread when she actually wanted her medicine!
However, her character had changed. She was no longer "on the rampage." She was patient and quiet. We needed someone to help look after her, and luckily, Biddy came to live with us after her grandmother died. Biddy was a blessing to our household. She was clever and kind, and she understood exactly what my sister needed.
One day, my sister drew a strange sign on her slate. It looked like a capital letter T. I tried to find out what it meant for weeks. I brought her tea, then toast, then a tray, but she shook her head at everything. Finally, Biddy looked at the drawing carefully.
"Why, of course!" Biddy cried. "It’s a hammer! She is drawing a hammer!"
She meant Orlick. We called him into the kitchen. I expected my sister to be angry or to point at him as the attacker. To my surprise, she seemed very happy to see him. She motioned for us to give him a drink and acted as if she wanted to be his friend. She looked at him with a strange kind of respect, like a child who is afraid of a strict master. From that day on, she drew the hammer on her slate every day. Orlick would come in, stand there quietly, and then leave. No one could understand why she wanted him there, but the house remained quiet and peaceful at last.