Sowing Poison (16 page)

For dessert, Sophie had concocted a savoury pudding from the plums that Susannah had preserved in jars at the end of the summer. This was served hot, with a dollop of heavy cream poured over it. It was met with enthusiasm by their guests, but in an effort to appear efficient, Lewis balanced too many plates on his arm at once, which forced him to stand very straight and awkwardly lower each serving to the table. With all of his attention focused on making an uneventful delivery, Lewis failed to notice that Clementine was reaching for the plate at the same moment he was placing it in front of her. Her hand and the plate collided slightly in mid-air, sliding the dessert forward and causing a thick blob of the cream to land on the front of her dress.

Lewis apologized profusely as she leapt up and dabbed at the mess with her napkin.

“It's of no matter,” she said. “But I wonder if you might bring me a jug of hot water after the meal, so that I might sponge the stain.”

Lewis agreed and left Francis to serve the rest of the dessert as he scurried off to fill a jug from the reservoir at the side of the sink-room stove. He had assumed that Clementine meant him to take it to her in the dining room, but when he returned, she was nowhere to be seen.

“She's gone upstairs,” Horatio said through a mouthful of pudding. He must have taken what was left of his mother's dessert as well as his own, for there were two plates in front of him. “She said to tell you to take the water up there.”

Lewis was annoyed at having to climb the stairs. The carrying of pans and jugs up and down was one of the things that aggravated his aging knees, and he avoided it whenever he could. He had caused the current problem, however, and he supposed it was incumbent on him to deliver the means of rectifying it.

Clementine called to him as he crossed the hall. She was not in her bedroom, but in the sitting room next door, and the heavy scent of the herbs she burned during her spirit sessions still hung in the air. They would have to leave the windows open for weeks to get rid of the smell, Lewis thought, for no one would want to sleep in the room until it was gone.

Clementine had made no effort to hide any of her paraphernalia, although he noted that she quickly closed the door behind him. He could see a corner of what appeared to be a closet jutting out from behind the dark curtains. It was a much larger camera than the one the lecturer had used. That stood to reason; she needed to project a nearly life-like image in order to convince her patrons. There were wads of gauzy material on one chair, no doubt the materials that streamed from her ears when she assumed her trance-like state. How she made them move was still a mystery, but one that he needn't concern himself with. It was enough to know what it was.

He set the jug on the table and was preparing to leave her to her cleaning when she asked, “Did you bring a cloth?”

He hadn't. “I'll go and fetch you one.”

“That's such a lot of trouble for such a small stain,” she purred. “Perhaps if I could just borrow your handkerchief it would save you all those steps.”

He dug in his pocket. Fortunately, he had grabbed a fresh one that morning and it was still pristine. He held it out to her, but she didn't take it as he expected.

“Just dip it in the water and bring it here,” she said.

He moistened the cloth and again held it out to her. She had undone the top few buttons of her bodice and held the stained area away from her undergarments, which were plainly visible underneath.

“If you'll just rub it here,” she said, “that should take the stain out.”

He hesitated.

“Go on,” she said, “I need both hands to hold the material taut. Otherwise the water will leak through underneath.”

He stepped closer and dabbed tentatively at the stain. “Rub a little harder.” She breathed the words in a husky voice and removed her hand from her bodice.

He stepped back. There was no mistaking the invitation she was extending, and he wanted no part of it. Surprisingly enough, he had found over the years that attempted seduction was almost an occupational hazard. Too often some lonely woman had misinterpreted his interest regarding the state of her soul as an interest in something else entirely. He had several times been the object of some unhappy woman's designs, and although he was often hopeless at discerning the nuances of courtship, he was adept enough at recognizing the signals of enticement. This was a trouble he didn't need.

Clementine stepped forward and closed the distance between them. “What's the matter?”

He noted that she no longer spoke with the high-pitched twang that irritated him so, but rather with the rich contralto voice that she had evidenced when calling spirits.

He knew he should turn and leave immediately. He had no intention of falling victim to her wiles, and the situation was compromising in the extreme, but this could also be a golden opportunity to gain some information. Curiosity won over caution.

“You're not really from the American south, I take it?”

She laughed. “Of course not. It's just a way to sound a little more exotic for my customers. It's one of many personalities I can conjure up. I can be anything you want, you know.”

“Including a spirit guide?”

“Especially a spirit guide.” She shrugged. “People see want they want to see. I just make it easier for them.” She reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “And what could I make easier for you? It must be so hard for you, having to be so circumspect all the time. Wouldn't you like to let go for once?”

He grasped her hand and removed it from his arm, then let it drop by her side.

She changed her tactics at this rebuff. “I know you've been suspicious of me ever since I got here,” she said. “Fair enough. Now you know you were right. It's all trickery. So the question is, what do you want in exchange for your silence? You can have anything you want, you know.” She unfastened another button and pushed her bodice down over one shoulder. “Anything. You're a man in the prime of life, but your wife is an invalid. That must be difficult.”

So she was prepared to offer a straight bargain, he realized. He would keep his knowledge to himself and she would offer up her body in exchange. It was no bargain as far as he was concerned. Had he been inclined that way, there had always been far more attractive women who put themselves in his path. He had never even been tempted. He had always known that Betsy was there for him and he wanted no one else, not even now when her ailing body had aged her beyond her years. He began to laugh.

“You're going to have to give me something besides that,” he said.

Clementine was taken aback; he could see it on her face. She had been so sure that she could reel him in with desire that he wondered if there had been other preachers in other places who had fallen victim to her charms.

Her face grew hard. “What is it you want then? Money? I don't have much, you know.”

“No, I don't want your money. Just information.”

“Go on.” She was wary and he was sure that she would divulge only what she had to. Never mind, it was a start anyway.

“I know how you produce the image on the wall. You do it with the magic lantern and I'm guessing Horatio assumes some sort of disguise for the projection. Wigs, hats, anything that will change his appearance?”

She nodded.

“How do you know what he should look like?”

“It boils down to the art of listening,” she said. “If you listen hard enough you can discover almost anything about anyone.”

This was true enough. In his role as a comforter of the soul, he had often been privy to the most astounding confessions.

“It helps to have a gossip handy,” she went on. “The little woman at the dry goods store was an excellent source.”

Of course
. Meribeth Scully knew everything that went on in the village, and would be happy enough to impart it all in that breathless, conspiratorial way she had, especially to so exotic a confidante as Clementine Elliott. It was a technique he had employed himself when he tried to discover who had murdered so many young women, and he had pumped the voluble Mrs. Varney in Demorestville for information on more than one occasion.

“How does Horatio manage when someone is hoping to contact a grown man?”

Clementine sighed. “It's been difficult. My husband used to do those. We've had to be very careful without him and use whoever Horatio is playing to simply relay information.”

When Lewis thought back, he realized that it had been “Amelia,” now revealed as Horatio in a wig, who had mentioned the name Mary. It had all seemed so real, even though he hadn't spoken with her. People did, indeed, see what they wanted to see.

“And the emanations? I take it you do something with that gauze over there.”

“Yes. There's a rather complicated network of strings attached to them. I can manipulate them to make it look as though they're streaming out from me.”

“I deduced as much. I can't figure out the mirror writing though.”

She smiled. “I've been able to do that since I was a small child. I have always preferred to do things with my left hand, but so many tasks are designed for the right. My parents insisted that I must learn to use my right hand as much as possible. I ended up being able to write with both. It's quite a party trick, you know. It's the one thing I do that is truly impressive.”

It was so easy to see now how the trickery worked. It had even worked, for a few moments anyway, on Lewis.

“So is your name really LeClair?”

Her eyes narrowed. “It was foolish of Horatio to take that newspaper. He thought he was helping me by hiding it, but all he did was draw attention to it. I destroyed it as soon as I found it. Was it you who searched my room then?”

“No. I found it by accident when I was turning the bed one morning. I'm not certain who searched your room, but I suspect it was Mr. Gilmour. How does he fit into this?”

“I don't know who he is. I know only that he's been following me.”

“And you don't know where he might have gone?”

Clementine shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Just then the door flew open and Horatio ran into the room. “Mama, Mama,” he cried. “I waited for you downstairs, but you didn't come back.” The boy stopped, a look of confusion on his face. Whatever he had expected to see, it obviously wasn't two people having a conversation. So that was the game, Lewis realized. Clementine had been prepared to go only so far, and had arranged to have her son interrupt them before she had reached her limit. He could hear other guests coming up the stairs and heading for their rooms. He had no wish to be discovered closeted with Clementine, or to be questioned about why his errand had taken so long.

“I'll leave you for now, but there are still some things I would like to know. Perhaps we can speak later?”

Clementine nodded, but he was uncertain how much more of the truth he would be able to force out of her.

There was still no sign of Mr. Gilmour the next day. Constable Williams had asked around the village, he said, but no one had noticed the man leaving. Lewis suspected that the constable hadn't overly exerted himself. After all, Gilmour was a stranger, and strangers have strange ways. His suspicions were confirmed when Williams said, “It looks to me as if he's skipped out and left your brother-in-law stuck for his lodgings,” an opinion that was echoed by Daniel.

“Well, we'll just gather up his things and clean out his room,” Daniel said. “I hope there's something of value there that can be sold if he's truly gone. Just goes to show you, someone may appear to be a gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving. After this, I'll ask for payment before the bill gets so high.”

“I wonder if we might learn something from that bundle of letters he left,” Lewis said. As much as he disliked the notion of reading someone else's correspondence, the fact that no one even appeared to be looking for Gilmour sat uneasily on his conscience. “At the very least there might be an address of someone we could notify.”

“Or send a bill to,” Daniel pointed out. “Excellent suggestion.”

But when they went to Gilmour's room, the letters had vanished.

Lewis was certain he knew who had taken them, although he had no way of proving it. There was a connection between Gilmour's disappearance and that of Nathan Elliott's, he was sure, but unless he could persuade Clementine to confess to more than being a charlatan, he had no idea how to go about discovering what had happened to either of them.

Martha wondered if you always had to give something up in order to gain something. In spite of the fact that she still felt a little shy around him, she had been delighted when her father returned so unexpectedly. She loved her grandparents fiercely, but the sudden appearance of the long-lost father she had been told of made her feel more normal, like the other children she sat in a row with at school. Their conversations centred on what their pas had done or said, how strong they were, or how mad they had been over some misbehaviour. There were one or two who reported at times that they had been “whupped good,” but they said this almost with pride, as if being “whupped” was proof of their father's regard.

When Francis had turned up at the hotel, Martha had been afraid that this meant that she would now be “whupped” on a regular basis. Her grandfather never laid a hand on her. He hardly ever even yelled at her, and she wasn't sure that she could bear being hit. Francis had seemed very gentle, though, and took no part in any decisions that affected her. She suspected that this might change soon. She knew that Sophie really liked Francis, and that he liked her in return. Maybe they would get married. That was all right with Martha because she liked Sophie, too, but she wondered if that would mean that she would have to live with them instead of with her grandma and grandpa. And she would be a “step” if that happened. Margaret Robison, who was two years older than Martha but still in the primary class, was a step, and she said it was awful.

“My stepmother makes me work all the time, and she whups me if I don't do it fast enough,” she reported. “She's got all these little babies now and Pa makes an awful fuss over 'em. Me and Harry have to sleep in the shed out back and we have to get up early every morning and get the fire going and cook the breakfast so she don't have to do it. Harry says he's leavin' as soon as he's fourteen.”

Martha privately felt that Harry's departure would be a welcome event, as he was one of the meanest bullies in the schoolyard. But Margaret's account worried her. What if Sophie married her father and had a whole lot of babies and she had to sleep in the shed? She thought that perhaps Grandpa could prevent this from happening if he was close by, but what if Sophie and Francis moved away and made her go, too?

She hadn't told anyone but Horatio that she had lost the coral necklace that Francis had given her. The last time she could remember having it was Saturday, the day they had found the muskrat trap. Grandma would be annoyed. She'd told Martha to put it away safely and only wear it for good so it wouldn't get lost. Grandpa would help her look for it, but he wouldn't do it without telling Grandma first, and then Francis would probably find out. She couldn't imagine her mild-mannered father getting angry with her, but all of the other children in her school seemed to think that getting angry was a father's primary function.

Horatio helped her look at first, but he became bored and impatient and wanted to hunt the Holey Man or go off and play with some of the boys instead. So Martha stopped looking. Maybe if she were willing to forego the necklace, she could keep Horatio. But if she didn't have the necklace, would Francis be so mad that he'd go away again? If Francis went away, did that mean that she could stay with her grandparents? But then she'd be fatherless again. She went round and round the argument dozens of times, but couldn't decide what the best bargain was. She only knew that somewhere along the line, she would end up losing something.

The wintry weather had abated over the previous few days. Although the temperature plummeted at night and made everyone grateful for the warmth of their stoves, the sun shone brightly and mid-afternoon temperatures had crept upward past the freezing point. The snow melted away entirely in the well-travelled areas. Where no one walked, it collapsed into sullen grey mounds against fences and buildings. The sun softened the ice, and open holes began to appear near the wharves and along the edges of the shore. Farther out into West Lake the surface glistened with puddles of melted water.

Lewis knew that Martha and Horatio often played down near the shore and realized he should caution them about venturing too far out onto the ice. He decided to bring the subject up that night at the supper table. This meal had become a pleasant evening ritual for them all, a time when they shared the events of the day and discussed their plans for the morrow. They were all far less hurried than they had been, and not as tired, now that Sophie had taken over in the kitchen and Francis had proved eager to earn his keep. The addition of the two made the mealtime conversation livelier, as well, although they often seemed to be addressing their remarks to each other rather than to the room in general.

Frequently it was Martha who amused them the most, with accounts of her adventures at school or with Horatio, but today the child had been uncharacteristically taciturn. Lewis was sure something was bothering her, and was surprised that she hadn't confided in him. She had always been so open and quick to spill out whatever was on her mind. Perhaps she was just growing up, but the thought that their old, easy-going relationship might be changing made him sad.

“So, what have you and the famous Horatio Joe been up to?” he asked.

Martha gave a little shrug of the shoulders. “Not much. We went down to the lake, but there wasn't much to do.”

“I've been wanting to talk to you about that,” Lewis said. “The ice is pretty punky with the mild weather. I hope you're careful and stay on the shore. In fact, it might be a good idea if you didn't go down there at all until it freezes up again.”

She looked at him with alarm. “But we don't go on the ice unless we know it's safe.”

“But how do you know it's safe until you go on it?” her father asked.

“We look for the footprints,” she said. “If the Holey Man has crossed the ice, we know we can, too.”

“The Holy Man? Who is that?”
Did she mean some other preacher or one of the priests from Tara Hall?
They were immediately recognizable with their long black robes. But what would one of them be doing at the lake?

“We don't know who he is. Just that he's holey.”

Lewis struggled to understand the words from an eight-year-old point of view. “How do you know that he's holy?” He briefly considered halos, wings, or even miracles performed along the sandy shores of West Lake.

“Because of the holes in him,” Martha said matter-of-factly.

Not
holy
, but
hole-y
he understood then, but it made no more sense to him than a halo would have.

“Holes? In his clothes, you mean, or his boots?”

“No. Well, yes, he has holes in his boots, but there's a big hole in his face, too. We don't know who he is, so Horatio calls him the Holey Man. He has traps and he goes back and forth across the ice all the time. We see his footprints in the snow.”

Sophie had at last finished dishing up their meal and joined them at the table. “The Holey Man,” she laughed, “what an excellent description of him.”

“Do you know who she means?”

“Well,” she said, settling down happily beside Renwell, “I don't know what his name is, but everybody thinks he's the son of this strange old couple that lives somewhere over in the cedar dunes. They've been there for years. You see them once in a while when they check the traps that are close to this end of the lake. Once in a while the old man comes in with a bale of hides and trades them for sugar and tea, but not often.”

Not an angel or a saint then, but an unfortunate, child of unfortunates
.

“Does he really have a hole in his face?”

“And in his clothes, he's so raggedy,” she said. “But yes, he does. You can see right up into his nose, if you can get close enough. He's like a wild animal.”

A hare lip, then, and worse perhaps.

“He tried to talk to us one time,” Martha said. “But he wouldn't get very close, and he was all drooly. He said something, but it was hard to figure out what it was.”

“Poor thing,” said Sophie. “It can't be much of a life back in the woods like that, but I don't expect things would be easy for him anywhere.”

“He never comes to Wellington with his father?”

“Never. The old woman never comes either, and nobody ever goes near the cabin. They say there are traps set everywhere in the marsh and on the dunes, and none of them too well-marked. I know Dad always warned Martin and the other boys to stay well away, in case the old trapper decided to take a shot at them.”

This was alarming information, and briefly Lewis considered banning the shore as a play area for the children. But then he realized that, other than from treacherous ice, there was probably little danger. The trapper would be unlikely to bother anyone so close to the village and the Holey Man — for Lewis was now unable to think of him by any other name — had proved to be unapproachable, even by the irrepressible Martha. Still, it did no harm for them to be careful.

“I want you to let me know if you're going down to the harbour,” he said to Martha, “and you're not to go wandering along the sandbar. Stay close to the village, do you hear? And I think it would be a good idea if you just stayed right away from this Holey Man. In fact, if you see him down there, I think you should just come right back home again.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I don't think I want to talk to him anyway. There was some really icky stuff coming out of the hole in his face.” She wasn't sure what Horatio's reaction to this directive would be, but she was tired of his obsessive quest for the odd creature anyway.

Lewis wondered if he should warn her about traps and how to look for them. The trapper would be hoping for muskrat, most likely. The traps would be light, set in the water at the entrance to their dens. It would be an easy matter to avoid them, if you knew what to look for. The trapper would have to mark where he had set the traps; otherwise, it would be difficult to find them again once a heavy snow had obliterated landmarks and drifted into a different landscape. The children most likely played in the open areas along the shore, not near the banks where the muskrats burrowed or in the weedy growth where they sometimes built their small lodges, poor replicas of the enormous mounds the beavers made, but Lewis decided he would take no chances. He would walk along the sandbar and see where they were. And then he would make sure that the children knew, too.