“Yes, and by then Elijah had become attached to Mrs. Smallman. But when you needed to, you made sure he realized where his loyalties lay. He owed his living to you. He took a shine to your cook. He spent more and more of his free time over here. Furthermore, I’m certain you have some more tenacious or threatening hold over him, something so compelling that he would do your bidding even if it entailed murdering Beth’s father-in-law.”
“And precisely how were such an improbable duo able to execute a scheme to assassinate a harmless dry goods merchant?” Child was looking relaxed and bemused again. No hint of a twitch. “Your fantasies are far more entertaining than Holy Communion at St. Peter’s.”
“I can only speculate on the details, but from the evidence available, I’ve been able to set your scheme reliably in outline. What I surmise happened that night was this. You decided that Joshua must be confronted and your suspicions put to him—man to man. Even if he could successfully dispute them, you likely intended to pressure him into selling the farm to you by threatening to ruin his reputation with vicious innuendo. After all, he couldn’t prove that the ‘J. Smallman’ on the smugglers’ list you confiscated was not him. You sent a servant with a note that contained some message designed to lure him out, even on a snowy New Year’s Eve. Beth thought it was an invitation to your soiree, but it was something more sinister.”
“But why did I not merely summon him here into my presence and have it out in this very room?”
“You did not do so because you had already determined that if he could not satisfy you of his innocence of sedition, you would execute him on behalf of the Crown—for its sake and to satisfy your own greed. That is why the double motive here and the explosive nature of your character are so relevant. For you, nothing could absolve a turncoat or exculpate a Guy Fawkes with a grenade in his fist. And your lust for land and status is without bounds.”
“And this Elijah chap is supposed to have joined me in my murderous crusade. Just like that?”
“I think you decided to confront Joshua in a secluded spot, interrogate him, and then, if necessary, have Elijah dispatch him—out where no one would think to look. Oh, they’d find his horse, all right, miles from the deadfall, but I believe the body would have been dragged along the lake ice and dumped into the snow half a township away. The bears and wolves would scatter the bones. They might never have been found, or identified.”
“You do have a florid imagination. You should take up novel writing: the three-volume Gothic variety.”
“As it turned out, you didn’t need to do any of that. Elijah established his alibi with your besotted cook, then slipped out and rode one of your horses to the smugglers’ cave at Bass Cove, a place you’d likely heard about from Durfee or one of the other longtime residents of the area. His instructions were to wait there for Joshua’s arrival, and then to keep him there, by force if necessary, until you came yourself to begin the inquisition. Elijah may appear old and addled, but he’s neither. He’s a muscular farmhand who can and does read. A knife or pitchfork would be all the weapon required to intimidate the older and weaker man.”
“I was in this room until two hours past midnight.”
“I’m sure you were, with many worthies to testify so. Your plan was to make some plausible excuse to retire early—a touch of indigestion perhaps—and then sneak out and ride undetected up the lakeshore to the cove at the foot of the ridge. But you did not have to. When you ‘stepped out for some air,’ say, around ten o’clock, Elijah himself was waiting for you in the stables. He told you that Joshua Smallman had indeed been lured out to Bass Cove but had never reached the cave. The God who anoints and protects monarchs had steered the turncoat into a deadfall trap meant for deer or bear, and thus meted out His own brand of retribution. And that’s most likely how you viewed what happened out there, though I strongly suspect that Elijah directed Joshua into the deadfall trap or, in the least, deliberately left him there to die. A personal trial of the man’s honour out there would have pleased you perhaps, but it was not to be. Higher powers had intervened and done the dastardly work for you.”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform,” Child said with deliberate irony.
Marc didn’t notice, for he was riding the crest of a rhetorical adrenaline rush, soaring along on the wings of his own argument. “At first I thought Joshua had been tempted out there by a note from one of the political radicals suggesting knowledge about Jesse’s apparent suicide.”
Child was fussing nonchalantly with his snuffbox.
“But that was wishful thinking. Joshua may have been obsessed with his son’s inexplicable death, but I don’t believe now that he would have been foolhardy enough to venture up there in a blizzard unless he recognized the handwriting on the note delivered to him by one of your servants, who doubtless thought he was the bearer of an invitation, perhaps a peace-offering. Joshua read it in the barn while making his nightly check, a message from a man he had no reason to fear, even if he did quarrel with him over politics and land acquisition. After all, this man was a justice of the peace. What you put in that note I do not know, because the note was destroyed by Joshua or, more likely, removed from his body by Elijah after the fact. Joshua was knocked unconscious: alive but dying. Leaving a man to die and not reporting it is tantamount to murder. And those who seduced him out there under false pretenses are equally guilty. In the least, you are an accessory.”
“At the inquest, as I recall, even Beth could not swear to the existence of a note.”
“But her brother Aaron will.”
A minor twitch of the left eyelid. “I see. So you’ve been browbeating helpless cretins, have you?”
“The boy is as sharp as you or me. His testimony will stand up in court.”
“Perhaps. But you have nothing but a falsified alibi for evidence. You could not bring this within a mile of any court.”
Time to play his second trump card, Marc decided. “At this moment, I have your accomplice incarcerated in the miller’s office. He has confessed to the salient details as I’ve outlined them. Moreover, he has implicated you.” This devastating fabrication was delivered with such élan that Marc almost believed it himself.
Child rocked back, but not from shock or the onset of fear. He was laughing. “Well now, this time you’ve been too clever by half,” he roared. “For a second there you had me damn near convinced that you knew what the hell you were talking about. You might even have swayed a gullible jury envious of the gentry’s innate superiority.”
“My duty is to report everything I find to Sir John or his successor.”
“It’ll have to be to Francis Head, I’m afraid. Your mentor and protector is on his merry way to Montreal and obscurity.” He let a chuckle ripple to a halt, heaved his bulk forward in his chair, and fixed Marc with a look that blended contempt, complacency, and aristocratic anger. “You are a brilliant fool,” he said, “a meddling tyro whose vanity is exceeded only by his vocabulary. You do not have the hired hand in custody at Hatch’s. You appear not even to know his last name.”
“What do you mean?” Marc snapped.
“Elijah Gowan left the district right after the donnybrook last night, with his own kind.” The magistrate smiled his patronizing, judiciary smile. “The man is second cousin to Ogle Gowan, grand master of the Loyal Orange Lodge, whose lunatic apostles broke up the rally last night and tried to tar and feather the leading light of the Reform party. Elijah’s a more fanatic Orangeman than his notorious cousin. He can track republican sentiment like a hound on the spoor. The Orange Order see any suggestion of annexation or democratization as tantamount to treason against the British crown, which in turn they revere as a bulwark against popery.”
Marc was momentarily thrown off stride by the sudden failure of his trump trick and this revelation of “Chown’s” true name, but he quickly regained his momentum. “I admit that I do not have him in custody. However, he will not be very far from his cousin; we’ll have hi
m apprehended within a day.” Marc did not feel obliged to confess that he had inferred from Elijah’s obsessive interest in radical newspapers that he was a sympathizer, not an implacable opponent.
“We shall see, shan’t we?” Was there a flicker of doubt before the resurgence of confidence? “Anyway, Elijah Gowan is long gone from Crawford’s Corners. And I have good reason to believe he will be found only if he wants to be found. You’ve played your bluff, I’m afraid, without a deuce to support it.” The smugness in Child’s face was galling, to say the least.
“We’ll find him. And when we do, he’ll talk. In fact, I see now that you did not really need a hold on the man. All you had to do was convince him that Joshua Smallman was a turncoat who had thrown in with the Hunters’ Lodges and arch-republicans. He would have throttled Joshua in his own bed.”
“That is quite true. But even if you should somehow find him, he’ll never say a word against me or any other loyalist. You could put him on the rack and crack every rib and he would remain steadfastly silent. You see, for fanatics like Elijah, this isn’t a game of politics or conflict of ideologies, it’s a holy war, a crusade carried forth with God’s own connivance.”
“And what does that make the man who uses such fanaticism for his own ends?”
“It depends on the ends, doesn’t it?”
Time now for the ace up his sleeve. “I think he’ll talk,” Marc said, “because I have irrefutable evidence that places him outside that cave in a position that gave him an unobstructed view of, and snowshoe access to, the deadfall trap.”
Child maintained the smug expression he had no doubt cultivated on the bench and in the counting house, but his gaze was fixed on Marc as he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out two halves of a clay pipe.
“Hatch and I found this bit of stem on a ledge near the cave. I picked up this other piece a few minutes ago in Elijah Gowan’s cabin. As you can see, they are a perfect fit. This evidence and his fabricated alibi will be enough to loosen his tongue. He won’t fancy hanging or rotting in prison for a man whose motives had as much to do with greed and personal power as political sentiment and loyalty to the Crown.”
“You have no direct proof of my involvement.” Child’s voice had gone cold.
“But I do have a case: a motive, a plausible scheme of events, a suborned servant, a man in flight without explanation, testimony that a message was received by the victim, and a summary of this conversation.”
“You would take all that rubbish to Francis Head?”
“I intend to. Without delay.”
Child uttered a world-weary sigh and sat back in his chair. “You are a sterling young man, Ensign Edwards. You showed us incredible courage and a selfless devotion to duty yester-evening when you rescued Mackenzie from that lunatic lot. You are a credit to your regiment. Your actions could well earn you promotion, even in these post-Napoleonic doldrums when such preferment is hard to come by. I observed your kindness out there at Mad Annie’s, and the calm and solicitous way in which you dealt with the dying Connors.”
“My God,” Marc said suddenly, “it was your man who shot Connors. Would you stoop so low to protect your own hide as to involve John Collins in your crimes?”
Child ignored the remark. “My point is this: why are you going to the fruitless trouble of concocting such a report and presenting it, with all its flaws showing, to a lieutenant-governor who will have been in office for less than a week?”
“Until Elijah Gowan is caught and offers up his confession, I may not have proof enough to satisfy a court,” Marc said, with more spite than he had intended, “but the evidence I do have, at the very least in these politically sensitive times, will throw serious doubt upon your character and on your probity as a justice of the peace. You are finished as a magistrate and as a pillar of this community.”
“Francis Head will laugh you out of his office,” Child said, straining now to maintain his air of unconcern and suppress his rising anger.
“I have no alternative but to do my duty,” Marc said stiffly.
“Then you truly are a fool,” Child said.
Marc rose. He reached into his pocket and withdrew two letters. “I may know little of politics, sir, but of one thing I am absolutely certain. Joshua Smallman was no turncoat. I doubt even that he was a committed Reformer. What you didn’t know, and what you would have learned if you had not been obsessed with seizing control of his farm and had given the gentleman the courtesy of an interview, is that he was a commissioned informant for Sir John Colborne, the governor’s personal friend and a trusted confidant.”
Philander Child desperately tried to look amused. “Another bluff, Mr. Edwards?”
“Why don’t you take a moment after I’ve left to peruse the last report he ever sent to Sir John? I had it from the governor’s own hand, along with this detailed memorandum outlining the reasons why Sir John himself suspected foul play and chose me to come down here to investigate.”
Marc dropped the letters on the table beside Child. It took all the moral courage he could muster not to turn at the door and watch the magistrate as he read through the documents—whey-faced, stunned, all the pomp and pride leaching out of him as the contents of each successive page burned itself into his heart.
FIFTEEN
Marc was almost at the end of the winding lane that linked Philander Child’s estate to the Kingston Road when he heard sleigh bells. He brought the colonel’s horse to a halt and waited. Seconds later, Erastus Hatch’s Sunday cutter passed by the entrance to Deer Park on its way to Cobourg, where the rituals and ceremonies of the sabbath would be played out as they had for generations of millers and other ordinary day-labourers. Thomas Goodall manned the driver’s bench, cracking his whip above the ears of the horses and trying not to over-notice the erect and proper, but not unhandsome, figure of Winnifred Hatch seated at his side and looking quite ready to take the reins should he unexpectedly falter in his duty. Seated serenely in the sleigh itself, cheek by jowl, were the stout constable of Crawford Township and his one-time scullion, Mary Huggan.
Marc waved but they did not see him.
Well, he thought, there was at least one truly happy outcome of his week in Crawford’s Corners. Father and daughter had found someone besides each other to cherish and build a life with.
MARC LEFT A BRIEF NOTE ON the table for Erastus, took a last, fond look around, and left the house. He threw his bedroll and pack over the horse, secured them, checked the saddlebags, and mounted. He nudged the animal around to the mill, then trotted up to the rear of Beth’s place. A casual observer might have thought that the ensign, dressed for Sunday parade, was enjoying a leisurely morning ride along Crawford Creek. Not so. Marc’s mind had raced and seethed since the confrontation with Philander Child. There was much to sift, assess, decide.
As he led the horse up to the house, Beth appeared at the back door. She ran towards him, hugging a sweater to her small body. “Elijah’s gone,” she cried. “He never came home last night. I’m worried sick.”
Marc took her hand. “He’s gone for good,” he said. “Let’s go inside. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
HOW TO TELL BETH, AND HOW much, had occupied a good portion of Marc’s thoughts since he had left Child. Even now, as they sat sipping tea, Marc was only half certain of what he needed to say. He had been brought up to believe that women were weaker than men, but more delicate, refined, and sensitive—and hence more vulnerable to poetry, music, art, the graces that make the world bearable. But the price of such sensibility was, alas, intrinsic frailty, the constant spectre of psychological disintegration. Here before him was a woman only two weeks into mourning the loss of a “father”; the shocks she had borne over the past year and those rude revelations of the last two days ought to have crushed her, left her emotionally maimed, utterly exhausted, dependent upon the strength of some consoling, masculine arm. And yet here she sat with a teacup on her knee, waiting patiently for Marc to say what she knew could not be k
ept from her, whatever her own wishes might be. (And, of course, though it would be much later when he had time and the predisposition to ponder the more eccentric aspects of his week in Crawford’s Corners, he would be forced to admit that few of the women he had encountered here—Winnifred, Lydia, Bella, Agnes, or Mad Annie—fitted the comfortable cameo of womanhood presented to him by dear Uncle Jabez.)
Marc began. “After I left here this morning, I went straight over to Hatch’s and told him my theory. But before I could set off for Stebbins’s place, Erastus showed me a document that completely altered my view of what happened to your father-in-law and why. I’m sorry to say that it pointed a finger at Elijah.”
“That can’t be so. He’s worked here without pay. He’s been kind to me and especially to Aaron.” She looked truly bewildered for the first time since Marc had met her.
He swallowed hard and looked away. “I found a bible in his cabin. It had his name in it: Elijah Gowan.”
“Gowan?” She drew out the syllables of the name slowly, as light dawned in her eyes. “Like Ogle Gowan?”
“He’s a second cousin, yes. And an—”
“—an Orangeman.”
“Apparently he believed that your father-in-law was about to throw his lot in with the annexationists. And to many Orangemen, that is an anti-monarchist act, an act of high treason.”
“But how?”
“How and why he came to believe Joshua had gone that far we’ll only know when we catch him.”
She nodded, still perplexed. Marc told her about the matching pieces of clay pipe.
Beth sat very still, as if absorbing more than words. “Elijah couldn’t have got Father out there in that blizzard,” she said.
“Yes, that is true. And that’s why I’m convinced that a second person was deeply involved in Joshua’s death. I believe Elijah was to be made the instrument of murder, but someone a lot more clever and knowledgeable planned it, with cold premeditation.”
Turncoat Page 22
