Sowing Poison (13 page)

“So, what is impossible is impossible and that leaves only the improbable,” he muttered as he read. One of the gentlemen looked up and glared at him for violating the rule of silence.

At first he was unsure what other clues the scene might provide. Observation in itself was fine, he thought, but what if there was so much to observe that none of it made any sense? And then, almost as if he had heard, Dupin answered his question. “The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe.” He was not surprised when Dupin revealed that he had discovered a tuft of non-human hair clutched in one of the dead woman's hands, but he was surprised that the police had not thought to examine the corpse as closely. The only one of Simms's victims Lewis had had a chance to look at carefully had been the woman he had found in the cabin near Prescott, and repugnant as it had been, at least he had known enough to observe the details carefully, to pry her hands open and to look closely at her neck. The Paris police (for he had been correct and the setting of the story was in Europe) had gone off on the wrong track altogether and had arrested the clerk who had delivered a sum of money shortly before the murders, an apprehension that seemed ludicrous to Lewis.
But then, he himself had behaved ludicrously, too, hadn't he, when he had suspected Francis Renwell?

In the end he was disappointed by the resolution of the tale. The presence of an exotic beast like an Ourang-Outang in so citified a setting seemed a little far-fetched, except that it reinforced the idea that improbable and impossible were two different things entirely, and perhaps that was the point.

He replaced the pamphlet on the shelf and left the reading room. He could see many parallels between Dupin's solving of the Rue Morgue murders and his own role in the capture of Simms; he, too, had attempted, albeit belatedly, to eliminate the impossible. He wondered if he could apply the same technique to the disappearance of Nate Elliott. No one was suggesting that this was another murder case, but perhaps elimination and careful observation could solve this mystery as well.

It was impossible that Nate's dead body had risen and walked away, and besides, his brother Reuben was certain that he had been alive when last seen. But if Nate had been merely wounded and had wandered into the swamp in a daze, why could none of them follow his trail? The best tracker in the neighbourhood had failed to find any sign of him and no hunter or woodsman had discovered him since. It was as if he hadn't been there at all, and Lewis turned this possibility over in his mind. Not impossible, but highly improbable. And if that were the case, why had Reuben led them to the clearing in the first place? Lewis shook his head. This was nonsense. His mind had been infected by the story he had just read. Nate's body would turn up one of these days, he was sure, and as soon as it did, his widow would be on her way. Lewis's objections to her occult activities would leave with her, as would the money she had collected from her unsuspecting followers. He wondered if Gilmour would depart, as well, since his only interest seemed to be Clementine.

No Ourang-Outang was going to magically appear out of nowhere and neatly answer all of his questions, he realized. He wasn't even sure that the questions were related in any way.

Lewis drove a little more slowly on the way back to Wellington, mindful of the delicate nature of his cargo. As he passed through Bloomfield and continued west, the road followed a high ridge that gave him a commanding view of the rolling countryside around it. To the right a row of prosperous farms marched all the way to Wellington; to the left the farm fields seemed to melt into the vast reedy marsh of West Lake until it, too, gave way to the open water of the lake.

He had been idling along, glancing only occasionally from side to side as he drove, noting the state of the barns and whether or not some building was in need of a coat of paint. His attention was on nothing but his wandering thoughts and his enjoyment of the day. Then, just at the periphery of his vision, he caught a flash of orange to his left. There was someone moving around down in the marsh. As Lewis watched, the figure moved first to the right for a few feet, then to the left, as if it was looking for something.

Lewis slowed his horse even further and squinted. In his younger days he could have seen the figure clearly; now he could only just make out enough detail for a tentative identification. His waning eyesight notwithstanding, he was almost certain that it was Mr. Gilmour, and that the flash of orange he had seen was the man's colourful cravat.

What was he doing in the marsh?
It was hardly the place for an afternoon stroll. Even if the water was frozen, it would be hard to walk through the mess of tough cattails, and Lewis was by no means certain that it had been cold enough for long enough to freeze the ice solid. Gilmour was looking for something, that much was certain, and given the fact that he appeared to be intensely curious about Mrs. Elliott, the only conclusion that Lewis could draw was that he was searching for Nathan Elliott's body.

It was a long way from the clearing in the woods to the marsh. When Lewis had been searching with Martin Carr, he had briefly wondered whether or not a dazed man might have wandered into the morass and disappeared, but he had dismissed the idea. He would have left some trail that could be followed or been seen as he crossed the road. And yet there had been no trail, nothing that would lead to the marsh or to anywhere else for that matter.

Had Gilmour spent these past weeks combing the woods and, finding nothing, turned to the marsh for lack of anywhere else to look? Or did he have some piece of information that led him there? In either case, he had yet to turn up any evidence of Nate Elliott's fate — or at least, none that he was sharing with anyone else.

As Lewis passed the Elliott farmstead, he noted that a horse and cart were standing in the dooryard unattended. Clementine appeared to be visiting her father-in-law, and as was apparently quite usual, Gilmour must have followed her there.

Sometime later, as Daniel helped him unload the boxes of fragile china back at Temperance House, Lewis noticed Mrs. Elliott's wagon rumbling past in the direction of the stable, and by the time they had unpacked his purchases she had returned to the hotel. She must have departed from the farm shortly after Lewis passed by.

Not long afterward, Mr. Gilmour returned, as well.

Hiram Elliott had finally died, Francis announced at suppertime. He had heard the news when he went to pick up a barrel of oysters that Sophie had ordered. The doctor had been to see the old man the previous night and had given his opinion that he couldn't last much longer. Hiram had slipped away quietly in the early afternoon.

“Clementine was at the farmhouse when I went past,” Lewis reported. “Reuben must have summoned her. I expect it's a relief after all this time.”

The old man had lingered many months longer than anyone had expected, and in these cases the family often became tired with the waiting, Lewis knew, so that it came almost as a surprise when the loved one finally passed.

“Loved one” was perhaps an inappropriate phrase, according to Sophie. Her mother knew the family well, she said, and her mother's opinion was that Hiram was “the meanest man alive.” She had added, “Now I guess he's the meanest man dead.”

Lewis had to object to this, if only on theological grounds. “You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, you know. He may have repented his sins before he passed.”

But Sophie was unapologetic. “He spoke ill enough of everyone else. I don't see why that fact should be overlooked just because he's passed on. We can only hope he's met his just reward.”

Lewis was curious about the details of Hiram's meanness, but he had no opportunity to question Sophie further, as Daniel asked with an anxious look on his face, “Do you suppose one of us should call at the viewing tomorrow? After all, Mrs. Elliott is a guest here.”

This hadn't occurred to Lewis. He had never met Hiram Elliott and had had only brief encounters with Reuben, but he supposed Daniel was right. It wouldn't hurt them to show their support at a difficult time.

“I could call on our behalf, if you like,” he said. “It would be a decent enough thing to do. And I suppose Martha should go as well. She and the boy are such good friends.”

Daniel looked a little put out at this, and Lewis realized that he had had a picture of himself squiring the elegant Clementine along, offering a sympathetic arm to her grief.

“Or you could do it,” Lewis added hastily. “It's just that I'm probably the least missed. After all, the hotel is still full of other guests.”

Daniel agreed, albeit reluctantly. Lewis thought that it wouldn't hurt Daniel a bit to stay back and attend to business. It was his hotel, after all.

The next morning after breakfast, Betsy supervised the scrubbing of Martha's face and hands and marshalled her thick hair into two tidy braids in preparation for their visit to the Elliott farm. Lewis owned only one coat — the old black shadbelly that he wore every day — but he carefully sponged away any stains that he could see, and brushed the dust from his flat-brimmed hat. The farm was close enough that they could walk to it. He was reasonably sure that Martha could easily manage the first part of the journey, but he thought that it might well be slow-going on the homeward leg unless they could beg a ride from one of the other callers. Martha took his hand as they walked, and he was grateful that she was not yet too old to do such a babyish thing. Although the breeze was brisk, it was not too cold and the sun shone brightly.

“You know why we're going to the Elliotts', don't you?” he asked her.

She nodded. “Horatio Joe's grandpa died, and we're going to say how sorry we are. I already told him I was sorry, though, this morning at breakfast.”

“That was good of you,” Lewis said. “But it's important to do it officially, as well. It's a sign of respect.”

“He didn't seem sorry at all.”

“He didn't know his grandfather very well, and Mr. Elliott was pretty ill when he arrived. I expect Horatio thought he was just a sick old man.”

“I didn't know him at all.”

“No, but Horatio's your friend. I think he'll be pleased that you're there.”

“Was Mr. Elliott really, really old? Older than you?”

“I don't know for sure, but I would think that he was.”

“So it will be a long time before you die?”

He squeezed her hand. “We never know what Providence has in store for us. That's why it's important to be good every day, because we never know what will happen on the morrow. But if it's a case of old age, then I'd say, yes, you're right, it's likely to be quite some time before I go.”

She seemed satisfied with this answer and walked along without saying anything for several minutes, although she hummed a little tune to herself as she walked. It was sadly off-key, but an indication of her good spirits. Lewis was relieved. As a minister, he was never one to shy away from discussions of impending death, even his own, but it was a topic that had occupied his thoughts in light of Betsy's illness. He had wondered what would happen to this little girl if they were both to expire before she was grown? He had supposed that one of his sons would take her, or maybe even Daniel and Susannah, but now that her father had unexpectedly returned, the question was answered. Still, the thought of not seeing her reach womanhood saddened him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a cart approaching from behind. To his surprise, the driver pulled even with them and stopped.

“Could I offer you a ride?”

It was Archibald McFaul. He was driving a trap, not the usual cumbersome hay wagon that normally did double duty as transportation. He was one of the few men in town who was prosperous enough to keep such a vehicle.

“Why, it's the preacher-turned-innkeeper,” he said. “I expect you're on your way to the Elliotts' as well. Please, get in. I'm going there myself.”

“We'll gladly accept,” Lewis said and lifted Martha up to sit next to McFaul. “This is my granddaughter, Martha, who lives with us. Martha, this is Mr. McFaul.”

“How do you do, Martha.” His eyes narrowed a little before he smiled at her and Lewis was left to wonder if this man knew the whys and wherefores of Martha's history. She smiled back shyly, however, and said, “Thank you for giving us a ride, sir,” demonstrating the good manners that Betsy demanded at all times.

McFaul nodded, then turned to Lewis. “And how are you getting on in the hotel business?” he asked. “I'd have thought it a rum do, waiting tables and emptying chamber pots, after the glory of fighting for men's souls.”

“I've had to give that life up,” Lewis said. “My wife isn't well. I can't say I'm particularly enamoured of innkeeping, but I haven't been able to find anything else for the time being. It was good of my brother-in-law to offer us a place, though, so I won't waste my breath complaining.”

“You're an educated man? Forgive me for asking, but I've always heard a lot of nonsense about how ignorant saddlebag preachers are, and yet you're well-spoken enough.”

Lewis wondered how McFaul knew so much about him, for he had never spoken more than a few words with the man, and had certainly never vouchsafed the fact that he had been an itinerant minister. But being such an important man, he supposed McFaul had his thumb firmly on the pulse of the village and made it his business to know about everybody. Besides, Lewis carried a certain degree of notoriety, he supposed, as a result of his role in the capture of a murderer; but he had the impression that McFaul's knowledge went beyond the sensational details that were repeated so often about the case. Not for the first time he wondered at this man who had so kindly offered them a ride. How had a poor Catholic boy made such a success of his life surrounded by a large community of staunch Protestants? For McFaul was without question a leader in Wellington.

“Yes, I'm educated,” Lewis said in response to the question. “In fact, I taught school for a number of years and have tried as much as I could to continue my education, although this has, of necessity, been an informal process.”

“Well, that should help. I'll keep my ear to the ground, and if I hear of any occupation that might suit, I'll certainly let you know. And what about you, young lady?” he said, turning to Martha. “What do you do for a living?”

She giggled. “I go to school and I help Uncle Daniel at the hotel.”

“Well, of course you do,” McFaul said. “I could tell just by looking at you that you'd be an enormous help. I wish I had a Martha to assist me.”

During the course of the conversation they had covered the distance to the Elliott farm. The yard was full of wagons and horses. Hiram Elliott might not have been popular, but the people of Wellington would nonetheless observe the proprieties.

The family had laid Hiram out on a table in the parlour. The mirror over the fireplace had been covered in black cloth and Lewis noted that the clock had been stopped at quarter to two, marking the time of death. Reuben greeted them. “Good of you to come,” he murmured, a refrain that he would repeat many times over the course of the afternoon.

Clementine was seated in a chair by the casket, Horatio at her side. The boy brightened when he saw Martha, but before Lewis would let her go to her friend, he insisted that they take their turns to file past the deceased. He noted that although Clementine was dressed in black, as befitted her status as a mourner, she had not been content with plain crepe. The material she had chosen was far finer, and cut in what Lewis supposed was the latest fashion, trimmed with lace and small jet buttons. She must have acquired the dress in New York, for he had seen nothing like this locally. But then, she had been expecting a death, hadn't she? That was why Reuben had gone to find his brother, after all.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Lewis,” Mrs. Elliott said when they finally reached her. She then turned to her son. “Why don't you show Martha where the refreshments are?” Horatio accepted this suggestion with alacrity, and Lewis nodded his permission.

“Had you met your father-in-law prior to this visit?” he asked when the children had tiptoed out of the room.

“No. Nate never spoke of his family, and I didn't even know they existed until Reuben arrived to say that his father was dying. I knew only what I've seen in the last few weeks — a poor old man on his deathbed. It's difficult to maintain the appropriate air of grief under the circumstances.”

There was a queue of people behind him waiting to speak with her, so Lewis moved on. A table of tea and cakes had been set up in a smaller parlour near the rear of the house, and he was directed to help himself to refreshments. Martha and Horatio were nowhere to be seen. He assumed that they were playing somewhere in another part of the house. It would be the same for the boy as it was for his mother, he reflected — Hiram Elliott was nothing more to him than an old, dying man. It was no surprise that his look had brightened when Martha appeared.

The conversation in the parlour revolved around the perennially favourite topic of the disposition of the deceased's assets.

“Most peculiar will, most peculiar,” said one portly gentleman who seemed to have inside knowledge of the arrangements.

“That's Hiram's solicitor,” whispered the woman standing beside Lewis.

“The property will go to Reuben, surely. After all, he's worked the farm for years, and I don't expect Hiram was any too generous in paying him for doing it.” — This from a man whom Lewis recognized as a local cooper.

There was a general murmur of agreement, and it was apparent that nearly everyone had the same unflattering opinion of the recently deceased.

“Well,” said the solicitor, “it may or it may not, but there were conditions laid down that had to be satisfied before the property could pass.”

“Isn't that just typical,” muttered the woman beside Lewis, “old Hiram being difficult even in death.”

The solicitor beamed at the people standing around him with the smug smile of one who enjoyed having inside knowledge. “Apparently, Hiram was determined to bring Nathan home one way or the other.”

The room erupted in comment.

“… so that's why he went to so much trouble to fetch Nate.”

“… figured Nate wouldn't come back unless there was money involved.”

“… old man still pulling the strings.”

Lewis had heard enough. He gulped down the last of his tea and went to find Martha. He hated the squabble over wills that seemed to attend so many deaths. It was Hiram's property, after all, so why shouldn't he leave it any way he liked? At least this was a point of contention that was unlikely to arise within his own family. He had nothing. There was nothing for them to fight over.

Lewis found the children in the kitchen, where one of the neighbourhood ladies had given them each a cookie and a glass of cider. He buttoned up Martha's coat and shooed her out the door, but they had barely reached the gate when Archibald McFaul emerged from the front door and noticed their departure.

“You've had enough, as well?” he called. “Wait and I'll take you back.”

He brought the horses to where they were waiting, and lifted Martha into the buggy himself.

“Well,” he said, settling himself into the seat, “duty done. Now it's back to business.”

“There was a great deal of jabber about Mr. Elliott's will, wasn't there?” Lewis said.

McFaul chuckled. “Yes, Hiram has apparently taken one last shot at his boys. I wondered why Reuben was in such a lather to get Nate back home, and now it looks as though it had something to do with the will. It's my best guess that the terms are so convoluted that it will end up with the courts deciding. It would be just like Hiram to make sure the whole thing was tied up for years.”

“Will it really come to that?”

McFaul nodded. “Oh, yes, I expect so, especially now that Nate appears to have disappeared again. And then there are dower rights to consider. Mrs. Elliott would have to be given some consideration, even though Hiram didn't know she existed. Or the boy could well inherit on behalf of his father, if, indeed, his father inherited anything at all.” He shook his head. “Old bugger. Pardon my language, but I can't think of a better term for Hiram Elliott.” He fixed Martha with a stern stare. “You didn't hear me say that, did you?”