The Widow's Demise

by Don Gutteridge

  “Put your arms around my waist and hang on!” he shouted to the Frenchman.

  Gagnon did as he was bid.

  Just as the mob reached the broken carriage, Marc and Gagnon took off at a fast trot. Fortunately the horse had been well ridden before being demoted to carriage duty. With Marc holding onto the bridle only, it allowed itself to be directed down King Street towards Brock. The mob howled its displeasure, but with the object of their fury escaping, they quickly dissipated, grumbling and frustrated. They left Robert, Louis and Hincks to deal with the broken carriage.

  Meanwhile, Marc proceeded up Brock Street to the Spadina Road and entered the eerie quiet of the woods. He slowed the horse to a steady trot, and thirty minutes later they arrived at the splendid country estate of the Baldwins.

  At their approach, Dr. Baldwin emerged from the front door, smiling.

  ***

  Cobb arrived at the police quarters at nine-thirty, in time to see Constables Rossiter and Wilkie limp out of the anteroom to resume their beats. Wilkie had a patch on his forehead.

  “Terrible business,” Cyril Bagshaw said to Cobb as he came in.

  “What happened?” Cobb said.

  “A mob happened, that’s what!”

  “After the Frenchman?”

  “Exactly. They showed up before nine and attacked my men.”

  “Did Gagnon get away?”

  “The last I saw of them they were leaving the mob behind down King Street. I assume they made their escape. I been told the mob broke up and scattered. But Wilkie recognized a couple of them. We’ll pay them a call today and see that they cool their tempers in our cell.”

  “I wish I’d’ve been there,” Cobb said.

  “I’m glad you’re here now because I’ve got something to discuss with you.” Then he added in a tone that made Gussie French stop scribbling and look up, “In my office.”

  Once inside and seated, the Chief said, “I got a visit late yesterday from a Miss Constance Brown.”

  “Oh . . .” said Cobb, his throat tightening.

  “You’ve been at it again!”

  “I interviewed her, that’s all.”

  “You accused her of killing Mrs. Cardiff-Jones!”

  “I only asked her where she was when the crime was committed. She had no alibi.”

  “She doesn’t need an alibi! The culprit has been charged and will go on trial next Monday!”

  “Gagnon claims there was a third party at the scene. I was just checkin’ to see who might’ve been there with a strong motive.”

  “Good God, man, why would Constance Brown want to kill the lady?”

  “Mrs. Cardiff-Jones took her fiancé away from her. She was furious.”

  “But Gagnon claims he saw a man running off.”

  “He could’ve been mistaken. I was near dark.”

  “But we have the killer. I sent you out to find a motive, and you go looking for any motive except the one I asked for.”

  “That’s just it, sir. Gagnon has no motive.”

  “He must have. He killed her. We’ve got a constable as our witness. What more do you want?”

  “A proper motive.”

  “Well, that’s for the Crown prosecutor to worry about. Not us. We’ve done our duty.”

  “But a smart lawyer will get Gagnon off.”

  “I doubt even Marc Edwards can get around Wilkie’s testimony. Anyway, I’m ordering you to stop investigating. Now. The case is complete. It’s in the hands of the courts. And if you continue to poke about, I’ll put you back to patrolling. And you’ll have the night-shift from now till kingdom come. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may go. There’s a gentleman on Simcoe Street who claims he is being blackmailed. I have the name and address here. Get on it right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cobb took the paper and left the office. He wasn’t too disturbed by the Chief’s order for he had done all he could to help Marc Edwards defend what he himself took to be an innocent man. The only iron that was left in the fire was Itchy Quick, his snitch.

  And that was a long shot.

  ***

  For the next five days Marc spent mornings and afternoons pounding up and down the township roads in a effort to get the Reform vote out. It was not easy. Many of the farmers feared the intimidation tactics executed by D’Arcy Rutherford and sanctioned by Humphrey Cardiff. Marc offered to act as guide and escort, an offer that was taken up by half a dozen voters. Still others declined to vote, citing the case of Gilles Gagnon: if Louis LaFontaine’s lieutenant was a murderer, then what kind of people were these Quebecers? What did it say about Louis’ judgement? While Robert Baldwin’s championing of the French leader was persuasive in and of itself, it was not enough for some of the potential Reform supporters. On Saturday, the final day of voting, the count stood even at two hundred and sixty votes for each candidate. Marc and others were desperately combing the countryside for the votes that would give Louis the victory longed for by Baldwin’s Reformers.

  Unbeknownst to Marc and his associates, three such voters were, just before noon, arranging to go to the poll, a ten-mile journey from their farms. Their names were Seth Green, Calvin Powell and Arnold Crow. They lived side by side, and had just helped each other clear their fields of corn. It was Green who persuaded his neighbours they had a duty to vote. The method of transportation they chose was Green’s hay wagon, drawn by his pair of Percherons, a slow but reliable means of getting to Danby’s Crossing. As there was room for only one man on the driver’s box, the other two had to content themselves with sitting in the back of the wagon, with only some potato sacking between them and the terrific jouncing they had to suffer as they made their way down the concession line towards Yonge Street. Green, however, was as fair as he was friendly, and kindly offered to let Powell and Crow take turns in the driver’s seat. They arrived at Yonge Street without incident and turned southward. It was hot in the noonday sun, and when they came to Murphy’s Tavern, Green suggested they stop for a draught of ale to quench their thirst. His suggestion was taken up happily by the other two.

  They entered the tavern to discover it was half full of customers, even so early in the day. The clink of tankards and glasses and the whorls of wafted smoke met them head on.

  “Looks like a lively spot,” Crow said.

  “Murphy serves a good ale,” Powell said.

  They bellied up to the bar and ordered a flagon apiece.

  “There’s an empty table over there by the piano,” Green said, and the three farmers headed over to it.

  “Down the hatch!” Powell said, tipping his flagon to his lips.

  The men drank thirstily.

  “How about one more?” Crow said.

  “The poll doesn’t close until six o’clock.”

  “Splendid idea,” Green said.

  “What do you think of this murder business?” Crow said after a while.

  “A strange business all ‘round” Green said. “This Frenchman, Gagnon, comes to Toronto for two weeks and gets himself thrown in jail for killin’ the Attorney-General’s daughter. He must be crazy. That’s the only explanation.”

  “I hear he claims he’s innocent,” Powell said.

  “He was caught with a vial of acid in his hand, standin’ over the dead body.” Crow said.

  “Some innocence,” Green said.

  “I don’t see how Louis LaFontaine could keep such a fellow close at hand.”

  “And trust him,” Crow added.

  “Frenchmen are not like us,” Powell said. “They do strange things for strange reasons.”

  “But I trust Robert Baldwin,” Green said. “If he says he needs Louis LaFontaine in Parliament, then I’m willin’ to go along with him.”

  At this point the three men took out their clay pipes and lit them. They were puffing peacefully when a stranger stepped up to their table and said, “Good afternoon. My name’s D’Arcy Rutherford. Are you gents headed for th
e poll by any chance?”

  “That we are,” said Green.

  “I trust you’re going to vote Reform,” Rutherford said, smiling benignly.

  “Never voted any other way,” Crow said.

  “Would you let a fellow Reformer buy you an ale?”

  “Golly, we’ve had two already,” Crow said.

  “You’ve got plenty of time. And in a while the day will cool off, and you’ll have a more comfortable run down to Danby’s Crossing.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, sir,” Green said. “We’d be pleased to join you in a round.”

  “I’ll get the barkeep,” Rutherford said.

  Rutherford ordered the round, and sat down with the three farmers. They drank and talked politics for half an hour. The room grew smokier, hazier. Another round was ordered.

  At this point Rutherford rose, shook hands with the trio, and left.

  “Nice fellow,” said Green.

  “I’m feeling no pain,” Powell said.

  “We should really be going,” Crow said.

  “Going where?”

  The question came in the form of a female voice. The men looked up to see two women standing before them. One was a dusty blonde with a buxom figure partially exposed in her open blouse. The other had curly locks assisted liberally by the application of henna. Both wore broad smiles. Even through the smoke-haze, they were immensely attractive.

  “You’re not in that much of a hurry, are you?” said the blonde.

  “We got to vote today,” Green said.

  “But we just got here,” said henna-locks, “and we’re parched, aren’t we, Glenna?”

  “I could wet my whistle, Gert,” Glenna said, “if there was a gentleman here who could buy a lady a drink.”

  “I’m Gert,” said Gert. “And this is Glenna. May we sit down?”

  “By all means,” said Green.

  “I’ll get you some chairs,” said Crow, lurching to his feet. He stumbled to the next empty table and slid two chairs up to his own table. The woman sat down with a flourish of movements designed to exhibit the more attractive parts of her anatomy.

  “I’ll have a glass of claret,” said Gert.

  “The same for me,” said Glenna.

  Powell went over to the bar to fetch their drinks, a little unsteady on his feet.

  “You ladies from around here?” Crow asked.

  “We live near Danby’s Crossing” Gert said. “Where’re you from?”

  “We’re from the township, about six miles west of here. We’re farmers,” said Green.

  “I never would’ve guessed it,” Glenna gushed. “You look like regular gentlemen to me. Gentlemen who know how to treat a lady.”

  Powell came back with the wine.

  “Thanks,” Gert said. “But you fellas look as if your flagons are dry. We can’t drink alone, can we, Glenna?”

  “It ain’t proper,” Glenna said.

  Green waved to the barkeep and ordered another round.

  “That’s better. Now we can drink a toast together,” said Gert.

  “To the Queen!” Glenna said and raised her glass to her lips. She downed the wine in a single gulp, as did Gert.

  “Tastes like more,” said Glenna.

  “Come on, boys. Drink up,” urged Gert.

  Not to be outdone, the men chugalugged their ale.

  “You hear the one about the preacher and the farmer’s daughter?” said Glenna.

  While the men blushed, Glenna proceeded to tell her salacious tale. She and Gert laughed more raucously than the men. More drinks were ordered. More jokes were told, each more outrageous than the previous one. The afternoon drifted by. Green was the first one to lay his head upon the table and close his eyes. The women held their own, talking and laughing the whole time. Glenna leaned over the table at calculated intervals and let the tops of her breasts show off their lush curvature. Powell put his arm around Gert and she did not resist. He slumped against her shoulder, his eyes glazed.

  “Looks like your pals have fallen asleep,” Glenna said to Crow. “Can’t hold their liquor.”

  “I’m still awake,” Crow said, cupping his chin in his hands.

  “Good for you,” Glenna said. “Here, finish off my wine, will you? I’ve got to find the facility.”

  It was at this precise moment that Marc Edwards entered the tavern. His tall bearing and gentleman’s attire immediately attracted the attention of the bar’s patrons. He felt several dozen eyes upon him. Which suited him fine, for he said in a loud voice:

  “Is there anyone here who intends to vote in the election? There’s only forty minutes to go.”

  “What election?” said Gert to Crow.

  “Holy Jesus! We were heading to Danby’s to cast our vote.” Crow looked over at Marc and waved. “Over here,” he said.

  Marc came over to the table. “You wish to vote?” he said to Crow.

  “Yeah. And so do my friends here.”

  “You ain’t gonna leave us?” said Glenna, returning.

  “We gotta vote,” said Green. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll help you,” Marc said.

  “We was hopin’ you boys would come home to our place for a little . . . ah, supper,” said Glenna.

  “Help me wake these fellas up,” Crow said to Marc.

  “You got transportation?” Marc said.

  “That’s our hay-wagon out front.”

  “You won’t get far in that,” Marc said. “The left real wheel is off it.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Crow.

  “What about us?” Gert said.

  “Sorry, but we gotta go,” Crow said, shaking Powell, who had slumped face-down on the table.

  “I’ll see if Murphy has a carriage to let,” Marc said. “You get your friends awake and upright.” Marc brushed by the two women and found Murphy behind the bar.

  “You got a carriage or wagon for hire?” Marc said.

  “I’ve got an old broken down barouche and a team,” Murphy said. “It’ll cost you money.”

  “I’ll just need it for an hour,” Marc said.

  “Five dollars,” Murphy said, whose support for Reform only went so far.

  Marc gave him the money.

  Ten minutes later, Green and Powell were dozing in the back of the barouche, which had had its roof torn off and its seats ravaged by mice. A stableboy was hitching up a mismatched team of drays.

  “Look after the Percherons hitched to that hay-wagon,” Marc said to the stableboy. “And see if you can find someone to put that wheel back onto it. There’s a shilling in it for you if you can.”

  “They’ve fallen asleep again,” Crow said in disgust.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll wake them when we get to the poll,” Marc said. He hitched his own horse to the back of the barouche, and cracked the reins over the horses’ ears. The barouche moved forward – south towards Danby’s Crossing. The two women stood in the doorway, watching them go. Behind them was D’Arcy Rutherford. He wasn’t smiling.

  ***

  It was five minutes to six when Marc pulled up to the rail outside Danby’s Inn. All three farmers were now awake – pale and sickly looking, and unsteady on their pins. Marc helped each one out of the carriage.

  “Now, fellows, get in there and vote.”

  The farmers tottered into the foyer, where the returning officer was standing behind his table with his poll-book open and his watch in his hand. He looked startled at the last-minute arrivals.

  “We’ve come to vote,” said Green.

  And one by one they opted for the Reform party. The final count was Arthur Dingman: 260; Louis LaFontaine: 263.

  TEN

  The celebration of Louis LaFontaine’s victory was heartfelt but muted. Gilles Gagnon’s trial was to begin on Monday. The principal parties and a few other well-wishers congregated in the generous parlour of Baldwin House. Louis gave a speech of thanks that moved his audience.

  “I owe a debt of gratitude to Robert Baldwin here that I c
an never repay, whose generosity and dedication to our mutual cause are legend in Canada West. The importance of this victory today cannot be exaggerated. For I have been elected in an English-speaking riding entirely by English speakers. I – a rebel and a Catholic and a Frenchman. This will send a message to my home province that French and English can collaborate, can be united in a single cause: the quest for justice in a responsible government. I look forward to serving beside Robert in the new Legislature. And, as a result of my staying here in Canada West for almost a month, my English has improved, if ever so slightly.”

  Louis gave a smile as applause rained down upon him. Robert spoke next.

  “This moment is a significant one in our history. Louis and I intend to create a Reform administration, sooner rather than later. The immediate future may look uncertain – with the proroging of Parliament due to the grave state of health of our Governor – but the long term looks sanguine indeed. Any new governor will be compelled to accept the status quo and the gains we have already made. Gentlemen, the future is ours.”

  The gathering broke up at midnight, Marc having excused himself an hour earlier to get a good night’s sleep.

  ***

  A great deal of care and money had been put into the construction of the Court House and its matching neighbour, the jail. The interior was as austere as it was magnificent. It was all polished oak and filigreed plaster. The high bench gleamed down upon the side-galleries and lawyer’s lecterns with impressive majesty. Behind the attorneys’ seats were several rows of pews for the VIPs. Monday morning was taken up with jury selection. By two o’clock in the afternoon the trial was ready to begin.

  It was in the robing room that Marc discovered who his adversary would be: Sheldon McBride. McBride was as rotund as he was orotund, a short, bejowled man with a full white beard and bushy eyebrows. In his flamboyant wig and flowing robe he looked like an ageing tragedian or Moses on the Mount. Marc knew the fellow’s reputation for histrionics and fulminations, and respected him for it. But he welcomed the challenge. Cobb had provided him with plenty of ammunition to take into the fray.

  Once in the courtroom, which was packed, Marc glanced up at Beth in the side-gallery nearest him and then up at the prisoner standing in the dock. The judge entered the courtroom, the indictment was read, and McBride, resplendent in his robes, rose to give the opening address to the jury. He outlined the case as prime facie open and shut. The defendant had been discovered by a policeman moments after the fatal blow had been struck – acid tossed into the face of an innocent woman of stature in the community, which caused her to fall and impale herself on a spike, resulting in her death. The charge was murder. The motive was rage at the rejection of the accused’s attentions to the lady. Witnesses would be called to corroborate this contention. Moreover, the accused had been caught red-handed with the empty vial of acid in his hand and the victim’s scratches on his face. McBride sat down, well satisfied.