by Steve Vernon
Upon closer examination, the two men found what looked to be heat-baked blood crusted upon the neck and collar of Eminaud’s heavy woolen coat.
“This was no accident,” Contoy decided. “Bad work has been done here on this very night.”
Tragically, the two men could find no trace of either Mrs. Eminaud or young Catherine but a few scattered bones. As morning broke through the cold winter stillness, more traces were discovered. About eleven feet from the door frame of the house lay Eminaud’s battered hat. The hat was singed, with the marks of one or two sparks of fire charred upon it. Four or five feet from the fallen hat lay a thick gout of blood soaked into the snow. “About three or four quarts worth,” Eisenhaur later observed.
Shortly afterwards, searchers spotted the trail of snowshoe tracks. “They’re wearing their snowshoes backwards,” George Bohner, a local tracker and guide, observed. “You can see how uneven the depth of the tracks is.”
Bohner led a makeshift posse through the snow-covered woods and down to the icy water. “The efforts those two boys went through to try and hide their tracks were nearly comical,” Bohner later remarked. “The more they turned and twisted and tried to confuse me, the easier those two were to hunt down.”
In spite of the twists and turns of the trail, it was clear that the Boutilier brothers were headed toward Halifax, from where they would most likely head for their home ground in Tatamagouche. If they made it home the brothers believed that there were more than a few friendly locals who would help conceal them from the law.
But the brothers never reached Tatamagouche. On March 24, 1791, a scant five days after the murders were committed, a Halifax County sheriff named Clarke apprehended the fugitive brothers after he found them hiding out in an abandoned shanty just north of the Halifax city limits.
At first, the brothers denied their visit to the Eminaud residence. “We haven’t seen old Eminaud for nearly four or five years,” George Boutilier said. “We were just out hunting.” Unfortunately for the Boutilier boys, there were far too many witnesses who had seen them in the area.
“Let me see, now,” Sheriff Clarke said. “You’re wearing the same sets of snowshoes and moccasins that we’ve tracked from George Frederick Eminaud’s home. You’re carrying a tomahawk that looks to have blood dried on its blade.”
“George told you we were hunting,” John argued. “We used the tomahawk to skin a deer.”
“Did you eat that deer too?” Sheriff Clarke asked. “Or did you think the dead deer was going to rise up and walk home by itself?”
The brothers had no answer for that.
“In fact, the way I see it, you are carrying a bit more money than most hunters ought to, and there’s absolutely no way that any hunter I know would wander about switching their snowshoes and changing direction as many times as you boys have—unless you were figuring that you were fooling the poor dumb deer?” Neither of the Boutiliers could dispute that last observation.
“No sir,” Sheriff Clarke finished up. “I don’t rightly think I’d be doing much of a job if I let you go on your own say-so. I figure you both need to come with me.”
The Boutilier brothers spent that night in a Halifax jail, awaiting their trial. “I told you that snowshoe trick was dumber than ten kinds of stupid,” George said. John said nothing in return.
The Boutilier Trial
The trial began at the Lunenburg Courthouse on Tuesday, May 3, 1791, at two o’clock, and continued for the next two days. The Boutilier brothers continued to plead their innocence as they stood before a dour Scottish-born judge by the name of Chief Justice Thomas Strange. Justice Strange had been given the position of Nova Scotia’s sixth chief justice not more than two years earlier. The trial of the Boutilier brothers would be his first major case since then, and he was determined to do his job most properly.
Things did not begin well for the brothers. Peter, the third Boutilier brother, testified that his brothers John and George had indeed mentioned their intention to stay over at old Eminaud’s Lunenburg home. Following Peter’s testimony, brother David drove another nail into his brothers’ gallows when he testified that John and George had arrived at his home a few short hours before the sun rose.
“My brothers repeatedly mentioned their intention to visit old George Eminaud after they finished sailing to the Lunenburg area. When the weather prevented me from setting sail, they found themselves a tuna flatboat and rowed the distance. I found it strange to believe that they could be in that much of a hurry to see the old man. I had no idea at all that they meant him harm.”
One wonders what the two murderous brothers were thinking as they listened to their blood kin testifying against them. Of course, whether or not they took any of the testimony personally did not matter.
The final and most fatal blow fell when young Frederick Eminaud pulled a piece of dark red carpenter’s chalk from his left pocket. “This is one half of the piece of chalk that broke in my father’s hand as he and I worked on completing the construction of a structure we were working upon. He gave me the one piece of chalk and pocketed the other, and told me that the chalk would bring us good luck.”
When the piece of chalk from young Frederick Eminaud’s pocket was paired up with the piece of red chalk that had been retrieved from George Frederick Boutilier’s pocket, it was clear to see that the two pieces were a perfect match, fitting neatly together at the spot where a single piece had been broken.
The defence seemed clearly at a loss. They offered very little rebuttal and absolutely no evidence.
Chief Justice Strange stood and spoke to the jury. “As in the case of most unwitnessed murders, the evidence against these two brothers who stand accused of the murder of George Frederick Eminaud and his family is primarily circumstantial. Therefore, jury, if you have the smallest doubt in this matter, it is my duty to instruct you to acquit them. It is better that any number of guilty persons escape punishment rather than one innocent man needlessly suffer.”
He paused to let those words sink in. “However, if you have no doubt in this matter—if you believe that the guilt of these prisoners is as plain and clear as if someone you know had come to you and told you that they had witnessed the prisoners committing the murder—in that case, and in that case only, you must find them guilty.”
Ninety minutes later, the jury returned with their verdict. The Boutilier brothers were declared guilty.
“Mr. Sheriff, let the prisoners be carried back to their cell and taken care of,” Chief Justice Strange instructed. “For their lives are forfeited; and let them be brought up again tomorrow morning at ten to receive their sentence.”
One day later, on the morning of Thursday, May 5, 1791, John and George Boutilier stood before the judge one more time to hear their sentence.
“Murder is a stain upon human dignity,” Chief Justice Strange said. “A stain that needs to be removed. Those who commit murder must be made examples of, in the hope of deterring others in such crimes.” The crowd waited expectantly.
“Therefore, I decree that four days from now, on May 9, 1791, George Frederick Boutilier and John Boutilier be conveyed to the house of the late Frederick Eminaud, or as near to that place as conveniently may be. There, each of you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
The Execution
On the second day, the brothers broke down and confessed their guilt to a local reverend, not wanting to take it to the gallows with them.
“It was all my idea,” John admitted.
“I readily agreed to it,” George added. “John did not force me to my deeds. We had been talking about our plan for a couple of months. We just wanted a little money, was all.”
On the morning of May 9, the two brothers were marched to Gallows Hill—in an area where there now stands a tool shed owned by the illustrious Lunenburg Academy—from where they could look down and see the burned remnants of
old Eminaud’s cabin.
The crowd stood on the lower stretch of the hill in oddly respectful silence. The brothers were also silent. They kept their heads bowed as if in prayer, only raising them the once to allow the customary black hoods to be placed over their heads. The nooses were tightened appropriately about their necks. When the trap door opened, the two brothers fell without a sound, only twitching a few times as they strangled.
After the passing of an hour, the bodies were cut down and taken by wagon to the Boutilier farm. They were buried in an apple orchard where the two brothers had once played as small children.
A crime of cold passion
Peter Wheeler
Bear River, Nova Scotia
1896
Just a short sixteen kilometres north of Digby lies the little town of Bear River. In 1896, Bear River was a small but thriving community of about 1,200 residents, with a half dozen lumber mills supplying the needs of a half dozen shipyards. The river itself marks the boundary between the Annapolis and Digby Counties of Nova Scotia. In fact, the village of Bear River is placed in such a fashion that half of the village lies in one county while the other half is in the other.
Bear River was also the home of Peter Wheeler—and the home of a murder tale that the people in Bear River still talk about to this very day.
Arriving in Bear River
Peter David Wheeler had originally served as a cabin boy on a ship that had sailed from Grenock, Scotland. He was fifteen years old, and had signed aboard with a hunger for adventure and strange sights. His parents had passed away while he was very young, and he had no ties to hold him back.
By the time he reached Digby, however, he had come to the inescapable conclusion that he was absolutely terrified of the sea. So he decided it was time for desertion. He stepped off the ship at about two o’clock in the morning and walked away.
A few hours later, on the Sissiboo Road, Peter met Isaac Kempton, a local logger who had lost his leg in a lumbering accident several years prior. Isaac decided to hire Peter as a day labourer.
“I don’t want to work on the sea anymore,” Peter told Kempton. “The thought of that deep drop, it scares me. Just thinking of falling forever, floating away, my breath stolen and bones drifting in the tide…I need to find some work that will keep me far from the deep of the ocean.”
Kempton nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve got some work that needs doing,” he said. “Not more than a day’s worth, but I can pay a little and feed you a meal as well.”
It was at Kempton’s house that Peter Wheeler met the entire family—Isaac’s wife, Mary Ann, his son, Ernest, and two daughters: Susan, and little four-year-old Annie.
“I’ve got two other daughters,” Isaac said. “Bertha is away at school in Halifax, and Jessie Amelia, my oldest child, married and moved out some time ago.”
Little Annie smiled shyly at the strange young man whom her father had brought home. She thought he looked a little funny—so short and squatty, with cheeks like an overstuffed squirrel. She giggled at this funny-looking man.
Peter Wheeler, in return, reached out one dirt-stained finger and touched little Annie playfully and gently between the eyes.
Peter and Tillie
Isaac Kempton decided to introduce Peter Wheeler to Tillie Comeau. Tillie had four children of her own: Herbert, Walter, Hattie, and Elizabeth. As far as anyone in Bear River knew, Tillie had never had herself a husband.
“I’ve never really seen the need for having a husband of my own,” Tillie often told anyone who dared to ask. “I have four children already. With so many mouths to feed, why should I marry another?”
Tillie took pity on the hungry fifteen-year-old Wheeler. She fed him a plateful of ham and eggs. Peter Wheeler, in turn, paid for the meal by chopping firewood.
“You need work,” Tillie said. “Why don’t you just go back to your ship?”
“I’m scared of the sea, Miss Comeau,” Peter confessed. “I keep thinking about how deep it is. I keep thinking about how very long of a drop it is to the bottom. I can’t ever go back to the ship. Would you know if there was any sort of work available in town?”
Tillie thought about his question. “Jobs are scarce,” she said. “This is a small town. What needs doing mostly gets done by those who already know how.”
Peter Wheeler was clearly crestfallen. Tillie Comeau didn’t have the heart to turn him away.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You can stay here at my place if you go to school and help with the chores. You’ll find some work with the neighbours, and I promise to keep you fed and give you a roof over your young head.”
Four years later, Peter Wheeler returned to the sea. He would sail from spring to fall, and stay with Tillie through the long winter. He never really lost his fear of the sea, but he adapted to this transient lifestyle. If there was any trace of a romance between the two of them, he and Tillie kept the matter discreet. So far as anyone knew the short stocky Scotsman had no real romantic inclinations toward anyone.
By the age of twenty-six, Peter Wheeler had become a Bear River fixture. He was thought to be a stout seaman and a good, hard worker, and built himself quite a reputation as a handyman. One of Peter’s nightly tasks was to deliver milk to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Kempton and their youngest, fifteen-year-old Annie. Which was where the trouble all began.
Setting the Stage for Murder
Peter Wheeler had had his eye on Annie Kempton for a very long time, even when she was a young child growing up. He played with her and looked after her whenever he had the opportunity. And at fifteen years of age, she began to blossom into womanhood.
“Why, she’s as young as I was when I ran away to sea,” Peter would think to himself. “And I like the way she smiles at me.”
The Kemptons and Tillie Comeau were close friends. They had been so for a very long time. So when Mrs. Kempton’s sister came down ill in Saint John, New Brunswick, Tillie just naturally offered to help.
“Go ahead,” Tillie told Mr. Kempton. “Why don’t you go and take Mary to see her sister? You know it will do her heart good. I will stay over at your house every night and keep Annie company. Don’t you worry about a single thing.” And just that simply, a chain of circumstances began to slowly play itself out.
A week after the Kemptons sailed for New Brunswick, Tillie was asked to help out at the home of another friend, who was feeling poorly. By the time Tillie returned home, she was weary from a day of housecleaning.
“Why don’t you just deliver the milk to the Kemptons’?” Tillie asked Peter. “I’m bone tired and I need a rest. You tell Annie that I’ll be over later. You can wake me when you get home from delivering the milk.” Which is exactly what Peter did.
“There’s no need to worry about young Annie,” Peter told Tillie when he came home. “I told Annie that you’d be late, and she said that you needn’t bother yourself tonight.”
“But she’ll be alone,” Tillie said. “That isn’t right.”
“She will be safe,” Wheeler assured her. “One of the Kemptons’ neighbours—the Morine girl, Grace, from next door—is staying the night with Annie, so those two will be fine on their own.”
The truth of the matter was, there was no neighbour staying over that night, and Peter Wheeler hadn’t said a word to Annie about Tillie being late. He had other plans.
Annie’s Murder
After an exhausted Tillie had sunk gratefully back to sleep, Peter Wheeler made his move. He slipped out into the darkness and headed back to the Kempton house. He ran, purposely panting. He wanted to appear panicked and breathless when he got to Annie Kempton’s house.
He pounded frantically on the front door. A worried Annie Kempton appeared at the door.
“Be ready,” Peter Wheeler panted. “I saw a group of drunken sailors making their way down the road. If they find you here alone, there will be no one to prot
ect you.”
Annie looked nervously past Wheeler’s shoulder. “I don’t see anyone,” she said.
Peter Wheeler pushed his way into the house. “They’re coming, I tell you,” he said. “I will bar the door and keep you from harm.” He looked so panicked that Annie believed what he was telling her. She was only fifteen, after all.
“We had quite a talk,” Wheeler later testified. “She told me how many tissue-paper roses she had made that day. She asked how many rabbits I had trapped. There was no harm done or said until that old monster Satan whispered into my ear and forced me to follow her into her bedroom.”
Wheeler tried to grab the girl and force her into the bed. He was a small man, but very quick and strong; nonetheless, Annie’s terror gave her the vigour to pull free from his grasp. Their struggle led them into the sitting room. He again tried to force her down. She grabbed at a table in blind panic. A pitcher of milk smashed against the floor.
Annie fell face down into the broken glass, slashing one side of her face against a shard. She cut her hand open when she tried to prop herself back up. A lamp fell and broke. Annie tried to get up again, but Wheeler would not let her. She reached for the windowsill. Perhaps she was hoping to throw the window open and escape. Perhaps she only hoped to call out for help.
Wheeler snatched up a stick of stove wood, raised it high above his head, and brought it down against the girl’s skull. She shook as if in a spasm and then lay as still as stone.
Wheeler panicked. All that he could think was what she would say to anyone who found her this way. “They’ll hang me for sure,” was what he thought. He found a knife, and opened the girl’s throat with the skill of an experienced trapper. He cut her throat from ear to ear, severing both the jugular and the carotid arteries, as well as severing her trachea. It would be anyone’s guess as to whether she bled to death or choked to death on her own blood as it pooled into her opened trachea.
