Was Robert right? Had they at last won the battle they had been waging for so long? Robert all his adult life, of course, and Marc since the winter of 1836 when he had ventured naively into the Upper Canadian countryside to try and solve the murder of Beth Smallman’s father-in-law. He had been an ignorant aristocrat then, full of himself and his own narrow future. But Beth and her neighbours had taught him about the reality of life in the province, and he had come to know and love them. Then there had followed the slow but inevitable change in his politics – from career Tory to enthusiastic Reformer. He had teamed up with Robert, and they had together fought elections, battled in the Assembly for their rights, championed the union of the two Canadas, and always with one eye on the main prize: responsible government. Was it now really within their grasp?
“Well, then, we’d better make a toast to our success,” Hincks said. “I’ll see if our host has a chilled bottle of champagne handy.”
***
While the toast was being drunk, less sanguine events were occurring in the town. The three dozen or so French workers from the Parliamentary and other work-sites, many with their families, lived in rundown shanties in the east end of Kingston. This evening, instead of fiddling and dancing and other entertainments, there was an uneasy quiet over the community. Men were seen going door to door, gathering in small groups and whispering. Gradually they formed into a single group of several dozen. They still spoke in low voices but the tone was one of anger.
“I say we go to the jail and let LeMieux out,” someone was heard to say.
“It’s the magistrate who did this. Let’s go to his house and demand that he free LeMieux.”
“It’s a plot against us French, that’s what. We have to do something about it.”
“Let’s take clubs!”
The talk was increasing now in volume and in anger.
“No! No! This must be a peaceful march. There are troops in the fort.”
“To the magistrate’s house!”
“To Wilson’s!”
The group was leaderless, but they didn’t seem to require one, so focussed was their purpose and its rightfulness. They swarmed down a side street – a swelling tide of resentment – to King Street, and thence on to number 31, a substantial two-storey stone house. One of the men went up and pounded on the door.
“Come out, Wilson!” he shouted in English.
The door opened, and a black-suited butler recoiled in shock at the sight of the mob in front of him. He slammed the door shut.
“Come out, Wilson, or we’re coming in!”
A few minutes later, Magistrate Wilson, in his dressing-robe, stepped out onto the stoop, shivering and wide-eyed. He was a rotund little man with fleshy cheeks and pop-eyes.
“What do you people mean, disturbing me like this? Go to your homes!” he shouted in as commanding a voice as he could muster.
“We want Jacques LeMieux freed from prison. He is there only because he is French.”
“Libérez LeMieux!”
“If you don’t let him go, we will go to the jail and do the job ourselves.”
“Just a minute. I have to get my coat on. Then we’ll discuss this.” With that Wilson shut the door, and said to his footman. “Go to the Clarendon Hotel and fetch Louis LaFontaine. Immediately. We’ve got the makings of a mob on our hands.”
The footman scooted out the back door.
Wilson re-emerged on his stoop with a coat and hat on. “Mr. LeMieux’s hammer was used to murder Earl Denham,” he said to the spokesman for the French protesters. “And the man made a death-threat against him. He has no alibi. He was seen drunk and heard threatening Denham just before midnight when we think the crime took place.”
“What about the other workmen? You arrested LeMieux because he is French!”
“Libérez LeMieux!”
The magistrate continued to argue with the spokesman, but since he was the only one whose English was proficient, the arguments were lost on the mob that was growing increasingly restless.
“To the jail!” someone shout in French.
“Arrêtez!”
The single word boomed from the back of the mob. All chatter ceased, and the crowd parted to let a tall, dark man of regal bearing walk through to the stoop. He stood beside Wilson, towering over him, and faced the mob.
“You know who I am?” he said in French.
“Monsieur LaFontaine,” someone said, sending whispers through the crowd.
“That’s right. I have fought for your cause long and hard in the legislature and in the courts. I have been jailed by the English. I speak to you now as your friend and your ally. I know all about Jacques LeMieux’s case. I have engaged a first-rate investigator to find the real killer of Earl Dunham so that LeMieux may be freed. If that does not happen, then we will have the most able defense attorney to defend LeMieux, and I have been assured he will be acquitted.”
“But he’s innocent!” someone shouted.
“I believe he is as well. But going to the jail as a mob will only get you shot at by the English troops. It will not free LeMieux. You must accept my word that LeMieux will be done right by. I am LeMieux’s best hope.”
“The English will not listen to a Frenchman!”
“They will and they do. I am a friend of Robert Baldwin, who is a member of the Governor’s Executive Council. He has agreed to help. Together we will get LeMieux out of prison – now or later. I guarantee it.”
There was a lot of muttering and murmuring in the crowd, but LaFontaine had broken the spell. Their fury was spent.
“Now, please go home to your families.”
Silently, the mob drifted away.
“That was a close call,” Wilson said. “Thank you for coming.”
LaFontaine smiled wryly. “Now I must deliver on my promises.”
***
And the man who could help him do that was Marc Edwards.
“How is the investigation going?” Louis asked Marc the next morning. “We have a lot of restless French people here in town, and the word will spread. We don’t want a bump in the road this soon after our victory in Cornwall.”
“I’ve got three good suspects,” Marc said. “Marvin Leroy, Gregory Manson and Michel Jardin. But little physical evidence and no witness to put them at the scene of the crime, except for a button off Manson’s overalls. I could interrogate him again and see if he makes a slip.”
“It looks as if you’re more likely to end up defending LeMieux in court.”
“I’m afraid so. But I haven’t given up.”
“I’ve never seen you do so,” Robert said.
“Do you think you’ve avoided a possible sitdown by the French workers out at the Parliament site?” Marc asked.
“Possibly. But Campion told me most of the lath work is finished.”
Marc did not reply. The mention of lath work had triggered an idea in his head. He knew how he might track down the killer of Earl Denham.
***
After supper, Marc went to his room and dressed warmly. He put on a fur hat. He borrowed a flask from Hincks and filled it with brandy. He took an extra scarf and put on a second pair of socks. Then he walked to the livery stable and hired a horse. He rode out to the Parliament building-site and led the horse behind the huge, two-storey structure. He tethered the horse and walked back around to the front of the building. Two oak doors were being fitted into a new façade, and one of them swung easily open at his touch. He went through a dark hall until he came to the unfinished Legislative Council chamber. Here, moonlight streamed in through several tall windows. He could see a single pile of laths over in one corner. He went over and crouched down behind it. He took out his flask.
And waited.
And waited.
His toes began to grow numb, so he stood up and walked around the room three times, stomping his feet to get the circulation going again. He went back to his hiding-place. He took another sip of brandy, rationing it out because, although it provided t
he illusion of warmth, he had to keep his mind clear and alert.
By the movement of the moon, Marc guessed he had been hiding out for about three hours when he heard the oak door ease open. He crouched as low as he could, while maintaining an eye on the door to the chamber. He heard footsteps coming along the hall. Soon a figure appeared in the doorway. It was short and slight. Marc tensed as it moved slowly across the room towards him, glancing about often. It reached the far side of the pile, and began picking up pieces of lath.
“I don’t think those are yours,” Marc said, getting up and reaching out for the thief.
The thief dropped the lath he was holding and sprinted for the doorway. But Marc was too quick for him. He tackled the fellow before he reached the door. But he scrambled up, pushed Marc’s arms away, and headed for the scaffolding. By the time Marc reached it, the thief was halfway up.
Marc stood below the fellow and said quietly, “I won’t come up there after you, son. But neither am I going to leave this spot until you come down. So you might as well do it now.”
Marc heard the lad sigh, and then slowly he made his way down. He stood meekly in front of Marc. He was a boy of no more than thirteen years of age.
“You’ve been stealing laths for a week or more, haven’t you?”
“Are you a constable?”
“No, I’m not. And I’m not particularly interested in your stealing.”
“We need the firewood. We’re poor. We haven’t an axe. And my mother’s sick.”
“You were in here every night last week, weren’t you?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “What if I was?”
“I’m interested in something you saw one night. Something you should have gone to the magistrate about.”
Fear filled the boy’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to see it. I couldn’t help it!”
“I want you to tell me exactly what you saw, and then perhaps I’ll put in a good word for you with the magistrate.”
“What good would that do? I’ll go to jail.”
“What if I agreed to pay the company back for what you took?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I want you to go to the magistrate and tell him what you saw here last week.”
“I saw a man kill another man,” the boy said, near tears.
“With a hammer?”
“Yes. I came in here like I done tonight, and I see a man crouched down where you were. He’d been here for three nights, guarding the laths. I turned to run as usual, but then I hear him snore. So I think I’ll just take a few pieces and skedaddle. But then I hear someone comin’ down the hall. So I hide behind another pile of laths, and this fellow comes in, real quiet like. He goes over to the sleeping man. Then he goes to the other side and picks up a hammer. I wonder if he’s seen me, but, no, he just walks back and raises up the hammer and – and hits the sleepin’ man on the head. It makes a terrible sound.”
“Was there moonlight, like this tonight?”
“Yeah. Lots of it. That’s why I thought he might’ve seen me. But he didn’t. I heard him laugh, and then he walked away. I went over to the man, but he wasn’t snorin’. I was sure he was dead, and I thought I might be blamed for it. So I just grabbed a bundle of laths and ran. I didn’t come back the next night, but I heard they arrested a man, and we needed firewood. So I come back tonight.”
“Did you get a real good look at the killer?”
“Yeah. I saw his face.”
“Can you describe it for me?”
“He had a long scar, right here.” The boy brushed his cheek.
Marvin Leroy. They had their murderer.
“Now, son, you and I are going for a ride into town.”
***
Next morning, faced with an eye-witness, Marvin Leroy soon confessed to the crime. Jacques LeMieux was set free. Marc convinced Magistrate Wilson to let the thief off with a warning and restitution (courtesy of Marc). A further toast was in order in Robert’s room, after which Marc went back to his own room and discovered a pile of papers sitting on his desk. He sat down and began to read.
***
Constable Cobb was invited into the Chief’s office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“I’ve just come from the Mayor’s office, Cobb. They are very pleased at your catching the mad killer.”
“And mad she is, sir. I figure she’ll end up in the asylum.”
“I’ve sent a note to her brother in Kingston. He’s a twin. He’ll no doubt take the news hard.”
“Bound to, ain’t he?”
Cobb sensed there was more to be said, so he just waited.
Bagshaw cleared his throat. “The Mayor ordered me to pass on his congratulations to you for a job well done.”
“That’s real nice of him.”
The next sentence was delivered as if the speaker were in pain. “He also ordered me to make you our detective, to investigate all serious crimes.”
Cobb’s surprise showed on his face. “I wasn’t expectin’ that,” he said.
The next sentence came out a whisper. “He wants you in plain clothes, just like the detectives in London,” Bagshaw said, his right eyebrow quivering.
***
When Cobb got home and told Dora the news, her response was, “Well, then, I guess we’ll have to get yer Sunday suit mended.”
Then she mentioned that she had picked up a letter at the Post Office. Later, alone, Cobb opened it. It was from Marc in Kingston.
Dear Cobb:
I just spent a couple of delightful hours reading through the copies of your interviews and your reports on the Devil’s Acre murders. I have formulated a theory, which is quite fanciful but may prove to have some basis in reality. First of all, I think you took into account almost all the clues available to you. Your pursuit of the dropped glove was persistent and resulted in the first detailed description of the killer by Bartholomew Pugh. The scarf with the ‘P’ on it certainly suggested Pugh may have been more than a witness to the crime. And were it not for another, more compelling theory, I would say that he – given his obsession with Sally Butts – was the most likely ‘gentleman’ to have committed the crime.
Also, you were quick to discern that you were dealing with one killer and three victims. The killer was obviously obsessed with women with blond hair. But even though the deaths occurred in Devil’s Acre, I don’t believe this was a case of a gentleman hating prostitutes. Sally Butts may have been taken for a prostitute, but Sarie Hickson was dressed as a lady (a famous lady), and your cross-dresser certainly had good taste in clothes. So victims two and three were taken for respectable women, whose blond wigs got them murdered. So we are left with a killer who merely hated blondes.
Why? Well, it could be a blond lover who’s betrayed him or a despised mother who was blond (which wouldn’t account for the youthfulness of the first two victims). But I am going to suggest another motive, and it’s based on the one clue you’ve overlooked so far. In your very first report you mention a laundry woman whom the watchman saw on Church Street, just beyond the point where the killer left Devil’s Acre. Also, you mention that the bootprints showed the killer “shuffling” about, waiting to enter the street. What I am wondering is, what might have been in the laundry woman’s sack? Could it not have been the coat, hat and boots that your killer is described by Pugh and Miss Pettigrew as wearing? That is, could this have been a disguise, allowing the killer to move about freely in Devil’s Acre to search for victims?
Yes, I know it sounds fantastic, but if the male clothes were a disguise, then the killer might have been that laundry woman.
If it was a woman – and I think you should keep an open mind on the matter – then the motive becomes clearer. Remember that the crimes are committed about three days apart and the same figure is murdered – a youngish blond woman. This suggests that your killer is mad to some degree, for she kills the same person over and over again, every three nights or so (although this may be coincidence)
. Why? Because the woman is a rival or other figure of detestation. I am convinced there will be more murders if there are victims available, so I do hope you are lucky enough to catch the killer in the act. Meanwhile you’ll know who to warn.
Anyway, I enjoyed speculating on your case. Thank you for sending me the material.
Your Friend
Marc Edwards
Cobb told Dora about Marc’s letter, and then said, “The Major and me still make a great team, don’t we?”
Author’s Note
Governing Passion is wholly a work of fiction, although it is quite possible that actual historical personages like Robert Baldwin, Francis Hincks and Louis LaFontaine did meet in March of 1841 in Kingston to make plans for their coalition and prepare for the upcoming elections and subsequent meeting of the new, united Parliament. In depicting Baldwin and LaFontaine, I have relied on a number of sources, chief among which were: R.M. and J. Baldwin, The Baldwins and the Great Experiment; J.M.S. Careless, The Union of the Canadas; S.B. Leacock, Baldwin, LaFontaine and Hincks; and George E. Wilson, The Life of Robert Baldwin. Also useful were: Paul G. Cornell, The Alignment of Political Groups in Canada, 1841-1867; Edwin C. Guillet, Toronto: From Trading Post to Great City; and Edwin E. Horsey, Kingston A Century Ago.
About the Author
Don Gutteridge is the author of more than 40 books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works, including the Marc Edwards mystery series. He taught in the Faculty of Education at Western University for 25 years in the Department of English Methods. He is currently professor Emeritus, and lives in London, Ontario.
Other Books in the Marc Edwards Mystery Series
Turncoat
Solemn Vows
Vital Secrets
Dubious Allegiance
Bloody Relations
Death of a Patriot
Or visit the Simon & Schuster Canada Website
Governing Passion Page 16
