Sowing Poison (19 page)

“What's your name?” he asked softly.

There was no answer. Lewis wasn't sure if he had been heard so he reached out to turn the man's face toward him, so that he would understand he was being addressed, but the Holey Man flinched at his hand's approach, so he let it fall. His gesture did, however, gain the man's full attention, and he repeated his question in a louder voice.

“What's your name?”

“O-ee.”
Lewis struggled to understand the words. He realized that the Holey Man's lips had difficulty closing over the gaping hole that was his mouth.
“O-ee. O-ee.”
And finally with an enormous effort,
“Bo-ee.”

“Boy? That's your name? Just Boy?”

The Holey Man peered at Lewis through the shaggy mass of hair hanging in front of his eyes.

“Old Man call me …” he seemed to have to think a little, “Old Man call me Idiot.”

Lewis understood only the last word, and felt a twist of pity for this poor malformed creature.

“May I call you Boy? Is that the best name?” The Holey Man obviously understood him, for he nodded his assent. “Where did the head come from, Boy?”

“Ra.” He jerked his head to the right to indicate a place away from the cabin.

“Are there any more?”

The Holey Man didn't answer, but his eyes darted back toward the cabin.

“I wonder if Gilmour's in the shack.”

Francis heaved the Holey Man to his feet and half-dragged him up the dune and down the other side to the cabin. Now that they were closer, it was evident to them that the shack was in the process of falling down. When a portion of the roof had collapsed, it had smashed most of one wall beneath it, causing the entire structure to lean alarmingly. It wouldn't take much, Lewis thought — a heavy snow load and it would come tumbling down.

When they went inside, it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimness of the interior, but his awareness of the stench was immediate. It was the smell of half-cured hides and offal and of bedding and pots gone unwashed for a very long time. There was a richer and more immediate odour, as well, one that was far more pleasant, although not nearly strong enough to mask the essential fetor of the room. It seemed to be coming from the iron pot that steamed on the crude hearth in the corner.

The wall beside the fire was a jumble of broken logs, boards, and bark shingle. No attempt had been made to clean it up or repair it in any way, and there were a number of gaping holes in the rubble where the wind blew through. This would be a sad place to spend a winter, Lewis thought to himself.

“Oh, my God. Look.” Francis was staring up at the ceiling. There were several joints hanging from the rafters of the shack. Most of them were unrecognizable as anything but hunks of meat, but one shoulder still sported most of an arm and Lewis thought that one piece might be a buttock.

Francis began to retch. Lewis himself felt the bile rise in his throat. He had seen many terrible sights in his time — from the dreadful wounds inflicted on the bodies of soldiers to the white and bloated dead in the aftermath of battle; he had seen young women strangled and mutilated by an insane murderer and he had seen that same murderer struggle and kick as the life was choked out of him — but he had never seen anything quite like this deliberate degradation and destruction of human flesh.

He drew his handkerchief to cover his nose, and continued his inspection of the cabin. The fireplace was a crudely built pile of fieldstone with a wooden chimney that had been twisted askew by the fallen roof. A large homemade wooden ladle lay on the hearth beside several stone jars that appeared to be full of a greasy fat. Lewis grabbed the ladle and stirred the contents of the iron pot that had been set to simmer over the fire. Its principle ingredient rose to the top. Like the grisly relic he had discovered in the root cellar, the top of the skull had been cracked in two, but the eyes were still intact and yellowed teeth protruded from underneath a bristly moustache. It was, without a doubt, the missing Mr. Gilmour. Gagging, Lewis quickly withdrew the ladle and the head sunk back into the simmering stew.

The Holey Man had been watching without expression during this survey of the cabin. It was only when Lewis neared the corner opposite the fire that he seemed to become agitated again, and Francis was forced to restrain him once more.

There were a jumble of items in a pile against the wall — a ragged pair of man's trousers and the filthy remains of a woman's dress. The trousers were gigantic, far too large to have ever fitted The Holey Man. It made no sense for him to have kept the dress. And then a possible explanation struck Lewis — these must be the relics of the trapper and his woman — the people with whom the Holey Man had lived. His parents, he supposed. He wondered how they had died. Killed when the roof collapsed, maybe, and the poor raggedy creature had been left behind to fend for himself?

There were other pieces of apparel, as well, Gilmour's orange cravat, some men's underthings, a pair of leather boots, and another pair of trousers, the leg torn and covered in dried blood — trousers that matched the coat now worn by the Holey Man. No, not the Holey Man, for that was the name others had given him, this was Boy.

As Lewis shifted the clothing to one side with his foot, Boy began to howl again. There were more treasures underneath the clothing — Gilmour's gold pocket watch and Martha's coral necklace. Lewis's stomach turned at the thought of his granddaughter coming anywhere near this fetid hole, but then he realized that, in fact, she hadn't. She had lost it when they were playing by the shore. The Holey Man — Boy — must have found it and brought it here to add to his hoard. Lewis hesitated for a moment; he knew he should leave things as they were. Everything was evidence. But the necklace had no bearing on what had happened here, he judged, and so he palmed it and put it in his pocket. He hoped Boy hadn't noticed.

There was more — three red buttons, a child's toy soldier, a marble — things that might have been lost by others along the shore and found by Boy on his trap route around the lake. In addition, there was a brown calfskin folder. Inside was a sheaf of documents, legal papers from the look of them, but Lewis recognized none of the names on them, save one — a handwritten agreement that had yet to be signed. It was a conveyance of property, assigning Nathan Elliott's share of his father's estate to his brother Reuben “in exchange for agreed services.” There was no indication of what, exactly, these services consisted of.

Puzzled, Lewis returned the papers to the folder. Had all of them belonged to Nate Elliott, or only the one? If so, had Boy found it and, unable to read it, stuffed it into the folder with the others? If that was the case, where had the others come from? And did this mean that the skull and rotting meat in the root cellar was all that was left of the missing Nate?

Lewis was about to replace the papers when he realized that one side of the folder felt much thicker than the other. He pulled at a strip of leather along the side. It slid back easily, revealing a pocket underneath the flaps that had held the papers in place. Inside was a handful of banknotes, all of them American in origin.

“What do you think we should do?” Francis asked. “Should one of us go for the constable or should we try to take him in ourselves?”

“Maybe we should try to take him. I don't think either of us wants to have to stay here and wait.”

As Francis turned to speak, the Holey Man saw his opportunity. One hard shove and Renwell went crashing to the floor. The Holey Man scrambled toward the door. Lewis threw himself in that direction, and only just closed his hand around the fleeing man's foot. The Holey Man kicked and Lewis lost his grip, but by this time Francis had regained his feet. He knocked the shaggy figure flat and blocked his escape route. The Holey Man slithered away from them, and seeing his exit barred, lunged toward one of the gaps in the rubble of the caved-in wall. Clawing at the broken logs, he tried to force himself through.

Francis slammed into him again and the Holey Man went flying toward the hearth. For a moment Lewis was sure he would land in the fire, but, arms flailing, he managed to avoid the flames, crashing instead into the iron kettle that hung above. The greasy contents spilled over the side and splashed over one of the man's arms. He spun round and round the cabin holding his hand and howling from the scalding pain.

Lewis tried to stop him. “We'll help you,” he said. “Just stop and we'll put some cold grease on it. It will stop hurting so much then.”

Francis and Lewis were so occupied with trying to calm this hysterical outburst that they failed to notice that the Holey Man's wild scramble had knocked one of the stone jars into the fire and dislodged part of the rubble wall. The flame flared as it found the grease, then the tinder-dry cedar shakes from the roof exploded in a flashover that ignited the wooden chimney.

They had not thought that the Holey Man could make more noise than he had already been making, but now he rushed forward with an ear-splitting scream and began trying to put out the fire with his bare hands. Lewis grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him away.

“Get some water. Is there a bucket?”

There was, just outside the door, but by the time Francis located it and filled it from the lake, the fire had engulfed the entire wall of the cabin.

“This is useless, it's gone,” he said. “Let's get out of here.”

Together they hauled the Holey Man through the door. They thought he would calm down once outside, but he continued to struggle with them, and then in one frantic, twisting motion pulled away. He went straight back into the cabin, his howls still audible over the roar of the flames.

Lewis tried to go after him, but by this time the smoke was thick and the heat intense, and Francis pulled him back just as what was left of the roof fell in a storm of flame.

“You'll burn, too, if you go in there.”

The Holey Man's screams ended abruptly and they knew there was no point in continuing to fill the bucket with water or to throw it on the burning cabin. They could do little but wait a safe distance away until nothing was left but a smouldering heap of charred wood. It was best to leave the constable to sift through the debris and retrieve what was left of the body, Lewis decided, if anything at all remained of Gilmour's head or the grisly meat that had been hanging in the cabin.

“We should go.”

Lewis knew Francis was right. The fire was burning itself out and there was nothing more they could do. Wearily, they began the long trek home.

Clementine found the courtroom stiflingly hot. Picton Court House itself was a handsome enough building and she admired the solemn Greek-inspired portico that guarded its entrance, although she was disappointed to discover that the pillars were constructed of wood painted to look like stone, and not the real thing. From the outside, the courthouse appeared massive, as though it should have numerous spacious rooms dedicated to the pursuit of justice, and as the county seat, she supposed Picton was where all trials and inquiries were held. The room set aside for the hastily-called coroner's inquest, however, was small and airless, and grew increasingly uncomfortable as more and more people crammed in to hear the lurid details of the preacher's discovery. The choice of rooms had been deliberate, she realized; an attempt to limit the number of spectators who could be counted on to disrupt the orderly proceedings of the inquiry. She wondered that so many people had so little to do on a weekday morning that they would willingly attend a hearing whose details were already so well-known.

Whatever evidence had survived the fire, along with the contents of the root cellar, had been gathered up and taken into the village by Constable Williams and the group of men he had gathered to assist him. They had been prepared to find Mr. Gilmour's head. Although well-boiled, it had survived the fire. The preacher had told them about the other skull he had discovered, but to the constable's astonishment, the cellar yielded two more, well-buried at the bottom of the mound of bones. Dr. Keough had examined the find and notified the coroner. The coroner had then directed the constable to pack up all the bones and take them to Picton for examination.

Reuben had been asked to look at the skulls, in the hopes that he could confirm one of them as his brother's. He had been unable to do so. Clementine was grateful to him for at least sparing her that disturbing task, for there was no doubt in her mind that her husband, or at least his head, had somehow ended up in the bone pile in that cellar. Accident or misadventure was the only plausible reason she could think of to explain his failure to meet her at their rendezvous point at Niagara. Something had gone terribly wrong. She hoped the inquest would explain what.

Reuben had accompanied her to the courthouse as well, as befitted a brother-in-law, but she found no comfort in his presence. She sat, as impassively as she could, while the facts were presented, all the time wondering what she should do next.

Besides the skeletal remains, little evidence was discovered in or near the root cellar, other than a tall hat that had been found under a bush near a sprung bear trap. The only identifiable items taken from the cabin's debris were a marble, a toy soldier made of lead, and a gold pocket watch.

The innkeeper testified that he had often seen Mr. Gilmour in possession of a similar watch, and that in all probability the one found in the cabin was one and the same, although he couldn't be absolutely sure, he said, not having examined it closely while it was still being used by Mr. Gilmour.

Then the preacher took the stand. Clementine tensed. This man was too canny, by far, and knew too much already. Had he had time to search the shack before it caught fire? Who knew what he had found, or how much of what he knew he would disclose to the court?

He stated that he and his son-in-law had been looking for his granddaughter's necklace, which she had lost while playing along the sandbar. His granddaughter mentioned that she had seen Mr. Gilmour by the lake just prior to his disappearance, and so Lewis was alert to any evidence that the gentleman might have explored the same area. They had stumbled upon a clearing that showed clear evidence of a mishap, and had followed a trail which took them to the cabin.

Lewis described the root cellar they discovered and gave a brief account of their struggle with the gun-wielding creature who had confronted them. Another man would have made much of this, Clementine mused, but the preacher was very matter-of-fact, mentioning only those details necessary to give the jury a full picture of what had occurred.

Several people left the courtroom when he recounted the scene in the cabin and one woman fainted when he described the contents of the iron pot. The other spectators hung on his every word, eager to have the more sensational aspects of the case confirmed.

“And what led you to believe that the head was that of the missing Mr. Gilmour?” the coroner asked. “Is there any likelihood that it could have belonged to someone else?”

Clementine found it an inane question, but then she supposed that this was such a bizarre case that the coroner was anxious to do nothing that would attract criticism later.

Lewis replied that he had frequently seen Gilmour at his brother-in-law's hotel, and was familiar not only with his appearance, but with his effects, most notably his watch, his distinctive cravat and handkerchief, and his outer clothing, one piece of which had been appropriated by the man who had threatened them with a gun.

“Even though it was somewhat mutilated, there is no doubt in my mind that the head I found was the same one that had once been attached to Mr. Gilmour's body,” he said. “It was of the right appearance, and I can't imagine that he gave up his possessions voluntarily.”

There was a titter from the onlookers at this.

“And, apart from Mr. Gilmour,” the coroner asked, “did you recognize any of the other remains that were discovered in the vicinity?”

“At the time, I was aware of only one other skull, and it was not identifiable as any particular individual,” Lewis replied. “I discovered a sheaf of documents in a leather folder, and one of the papers bore the names of both Reuben and Nathan Elliott, but I didn't recognize the names of anyone else listed there, so although it's possible that the skull was Mr. Elliott's, the document was the only piece of evidence that would point to that conclusion.”

Clementine jumped as Reuben clutched her arm.

“Shush, stop it,” she hissed at him. “He can't know what it was about.” She hoped she was correct.

“There were a number of other articles in the shack,” Lewis went on. “Some buttons, the marble, for example — items that might have been discovered by anyone who rambled along the shore. I don't know if the folder is indicative of Elliott's presence or if it was merely something that had been found and added to the collection of trinkets.”

Had Clementine been conducting the inquest, the next question would have been about the substance of the piece of paper with the Elliott name on it, but the coroner seemed little interested in this.

“And did the man you apprehended give any indication of who any of the skulls belonged to?”

“The man who occupied the cabin had a number of severe deformities, including a hare lip. This made him nearly impossible to understand, but he seemed to indicate that he had found the older of the skulls at some distance from the cabin.”

“And this individual was already dead when he was discovered?”

Clementine wondered if she was the only one to notice the look of impatience on the preacher's face.

“I don't know. There is no way of telling what happened. As far as I could make out, he found both Gilmour and the other individual somewhere near his traps and he appeared to have processed them both in the same way that he dealt with the wild animals he caught. I suspect he thought that was the proper procedure. I don't believe he had any contact with civilized society and in all probability was unaware of our usual distinction between dead animals and dead people.”

Clementine found this statement very odd. Lewis seemed to be defending the wild man in some way, giving him a rationale for his actions, as if he were sorry for him. There were depths to this preacher that she had usually found lacking in others of his profession, but then he had had much to deal with in his life, according to Meribeth Scully, whom she had pumped for information. He had tracked down a murderer and seen him hanged. He had testified once before to the unthinkable.

“How did the fire start?” the coroner asked.

“Having realized the extent of the degradation in the cabin, Mr. Renwell and I attempted to remove the man, with the intention of taking him to Wellington. He managed to free himself briefly and in his effort to exit the cabin, he apparently knocked some of the debris from the collapsed roof into the fire. I don't know how long the cabin had been there, but the wood was old and extremely flammable, and by the time we realized that it was burning, we had little chance of putting the fire out. We dragged the man to safety, but again he freed himself and went running back into the flames.”

“And why, in your opinion, would he have done this?”

Clementine realized that this was one question the preacher hadn't expected to be asked, for he hesitated for some time before he finally said, “I don't really know why, but you must understand that this man lived in the manner of a wild beast. As well, his physical limitations may well have been matched by mental disabilities that were equally profound. I doubt that we would be able to understand his motivations even if he could somehow have communicated them to us.”

The coroner thanked Lewis and dismissed him. Renwell, the son-in-law, was called to the stand next. He confirmed the story the preacher had told, and the coroner had only one other question for him.

“It was you, and not your father-in-law, who managed to wrest the gun away from this man?”

Francis nodded his agreement with this statement.

“Was that not a very courageous act? To rush an armed man?”

Francis grinned. “Not really. From my vantage point, I could see that he hadn't pulled the hammer back. Afterward, I discovered that the gun wasn't even loaded. I don't think the poor thing knew how to shoot it.”

After that, Wellington's constable described his inventory of the cellar, and gave his opinion that the extra skulls must have once belonged to the old trapper and the woman who had lived with him.

“It was generally accepted that the deformed boy was their son,” he said. “You'd see him checking the trap lines once in a while, but the old man kept him away from the village. Now that I've had a chance to think on it, I hadn't seen the trapper for some time, but he kept to himself anyway, so it didn't occur to me that something might have happened to him.”

In a dry, clinical voice, Dr. Keogh next confirmed the details of what the constable had found in the cellar. The group of onlookers appeared bored during his long description, but the coroner's next question caused an uproar.

“In your opinion, what would have been the reason for the barbaric splitting of the skulls?”

“I believe that splitting the skull is part of the generally accepted procedure for making head cheese.”

There were screams from the women still present, and it took several minutes to restore order to the room.

At that juncture, the coroner seemed content with the evidence presented and directed the jury to retire for deliberation.

Clementine was glad of the chance to exit the stuffy room, as, apparently, was everyone else, judging by the way they rushed for the door. Outside, the witnesses and the curious mingled together on the steps of the portico discussing the case while they waited for the jury to return.

Lewis thought that it might take some time to reach a conclusion in light of the evidence that had been presented.

“I think they'll rule that it was Gilmour in the cabin,” he said to Francis as they stood a little apart from the mob that was milling around. “After all, we both identified the head and his watch was there. I don't know what they'll make of the others.”

“There's only one piece of evidence to connect with Nate Elliott, and that's burned up,” Francis said. “It's hard to say which way they'll jump on that.”

“By the way, you might have told me the gun wasn't cocked. I hurt my knee rather badly when I rolled out of the line of fire.”

“I wasn't completely sure.”

“You were, too.”

Francis just grinned. “I'm going to go look for a cup of tea. There's an inn just down the street. We can see the courthouse from there, so we'll know when the jury comes back in.”

Many others had the same notion, among them Reuben and Clementine Elliott. There were no unoccupied tables, so the two men stood as they sipped their tea. The Elliotts had managed to find a seat at a small table set away from anyone else. They appeared to be in a deep, and to Lewis's eye, somewhat rancorous discussion. Curious, he edged closer, hoping he could discover what they were talking about, but Clementine noticed him long before he was within earshot.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Elliott,” he said. “If there is anything we can do to ease your burden, I hope you'll let us know.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her face, which Lewis had never found attractive, was now pinched and pale and she looked more like a cat than ever. “I do appreciate you keeping Horatio occupied while I'm here. Little Martha has been a good friend to him.”

Betsy had offered to keep an eye on the children while the inquest was being held, and Sophie had promised that they could come into the kitchen to help her make cookies.

“It was the least we could do,” Lewis replied. “I know this is a difficult time for both of you.”

Clementine nodded her gratitude, but it appeared that neither had anything else to say. Lewis tipped his hat and wandered back to Francis's side.

“I wonder what that was all about,” Francis said.

“I'm not sure we'll ever know,” Lewis replied. But he was determined to find out.

After an hour, they were finally called back in. The jury agreed without question that Mr. H.G. Gilmour had suffered “death by misadventure” and that his remains had been cremated in the cabin fire. They agreed equally that the individual who resided in the cabin had been guilty of cannibalism, and that he, too, had perished in the flames; however, they could come to no determination as to whether or not he was guilty of murder. Nor could they come to any conclusion regarding the other remains that had been found.