Sowing Poison (20 page)

“It is our opinion,” the foreman said, “that one of the human skulls found in all likelihood belonged to the trapper who was known to take his hides to Wellington, and it is probable that one of the others was his female companion — whether wife or otherwise, we have no way of knowing — but we cannot determine this with absolute certainty.”

The coroner nodded. The jury had confirmed his opinion.

“As for the fourth head …”

Lewis was watching not the foreman but the Elliotts, and though he saw Clementine stiffen, Reuben appeared unconcerned.

“…there has been conjecture that this belonged to the missing Nathan Elliott, and it is tempting to accept this explanation as the easiest and kindest conclusion for the family. However, we have no positive identification and no evidence in hand to suggest definitively that this is the case. Therefore, we have to conclude that these remains belong to a person or persons unknown.”

A gasp went up from the crowd. This was a source of gossip and speculation that would occupy them for months to come.

The coroner officially endorsed the jury's verdict and dismissed the hearing, leaving the crowd in a hubbub. It was the finding that Lewis had expected. But he hadn't expected Reuben Elliott's lack of reaction to it.

The village was preoccupied with the true fate of Nate Elliott and rife with stories about the old trapper and his wife, although no one knew where the woman had come from and most claimed that no official joining in the eyes of God had ever taken place. Only a few people had ever encountered the Holey Man personally — those who worked near the docks or children who played near the shore — but it now seemed that nearly everyone had known of his existence, or so they claimed. It had not occurred to any of them to inquire after his well-being when so many months went by without a sign of the trapper.

Perhaps it was just as well, Lewis thought, for what would they have done with him if they had? No family would have invited such a wild thing into their home. Had he not perished in the fire, he might well have been sent to prison to pay for his cannibalistic acts, even though to Lewis's way of thinking these had not been deliberate transgressions on his part. He had not been flouting the strictures of civilized behaviour; he simply hadn't known any better. Other than that, he had shown no criminal tendencies, and how could you lock someone up just because you didn't know what else to do with him? Nor did Lewis subscribe to the notion that the Holey Man was mad, as some in the village claimed. Shunned and neglected, yes, but any derangement of thought he had shown had been the result of the bizarre circumstances in which he had obviously been raised. Besides, even if he had been insane, there would have been no place to send him other than to the grim, grey cells of Kingston Penitentiary. There were plans for the construction of a Provincial Lunatic Asylum in Toronto, but this had not yet begun, and again it would be a case of shutting away behind bars and stone walls.

No, the Holey Man was not mad, nor was he a criminal in the true sense of the word. Marked at birth, it was a miracle that he had survived at all. Raised in squalor, his life had been reduced to mere subsistence. It was as well that he was gone, for he would not have understood why he could no longer wander the lake at will, or why he must submit to a regime so foreign to him. It would have been like locking away a wolf and expecting it to understand the reason.

The village gossips had less to say about Gilmour. No one knew anything about him, really, other than the fact that he was an American and had appeared to follow Mrs. Elliott everywhere. No doubt he was unfamiliar with the area, they said, and unused to the woods. It was easy enough to understand how he could have become lost or suffered some mishap, but no one seemed to question why he had ventured along the sandbar in the first place.

But what of Nate Elliott? He had grown up in Wellington, and as a boy must have frequented the lake and its shores. The marsh and the dunes would have been familiar territory.

Unless of course, he had been in a dazed state from the tree branch that had fallen on him and had somehow wandered into the wilderness unaware. This was circulated as the most likely explanation, but Lewis heard others as well. Some claimed that it hadn't been Nate's skull at all, but that of some other poor soul, and they pointed to the jury's verdict as proof. These people speculated that Nate had merely become fed up with his family again and decided to leave in the same abrupt and enigmatic way in which he had disappeared so many years ago, and that his wife and son would no doubt hear of his whereabouts in short order. There were darker rumours, too — that Nate had taken whatever money he could find at the Elliott farm and absconded into the night; or that Reuben and Nate had quarrelled and one brother had chased the other across the marsh to his doom.

It occurred to no one but Lewis that there might be a more profound connection between the victims. He was certain that Gilmour must have been after the reward mentioned in the newspaper clipping. He had been watching Mrs. Elliott and trying to figure out where her husband had disappeared to. Like Lewis, he had wondered if Nate was hiding somewhere in the dunes. It seemed possible that the accident that Reuben had reported had never occurred, and that it was a distraction manufactured in order to let Nate slip away unnoticed.
But why?

Gilmour must have been hoping that the Elliotts would at some point reunite and attempt to cross the border, at which point he would pounce. But all the Elliotts really had to do was settle down on the family farm and wait for Gilmour to go away. After all, he couldn't wait forever.

The only document in the leather folder Lewis had found that connected Nate Elliott to the unidentified skull had been the unsigned letter of conveyance, a document that continued to puzzle him. There had been no papers with the name LeClair. He struggled to remember what he had seen. There had been a number of calling cards similar to the one that Clementine had scattered around Wellington, one or two with foreign-looking names. There had been a letter of introduction and a baptismal certificate with an Irish name. He should have looked more closely, paid more attention. But Francis had been struggling with the Holey Man, and Lewis had assumed that there would be plenty of time to examine the papers later. So much for Auguste Dupin's advice to “observe what is necessary” — Lewis hadn't had time to observe much of anything at all.

As soon as the inquest was over, the skulls were gathered up with the mass of bones and flesh from the root cellar, along with whatever charred remains could be salvaged from the cabin. These relics were all taken to the undertaker's, but no one was willing to hazard a guess as to which bones belonged to whom. No one was sure who should be notified of Gilmour's death, and there was no one to claim the bodies of the Holey Man or his family. The undertaker suggested that everything could be buried in a mass grave as soon as the soil thawed in the spring. In the meantime, they would be held over for the winter in the dead house, where a short service, deemed to do for all, was to be held.

To Lewis's surprise, Sophie asked for time off to attend the tomb-side service to be held the next day.

“It's not on my account,” she said. “I barely knew the Elliotts, but my mother's youngest sister was close to Nate at one point. In fact, I think he was a beau, but she decided in favour of Albert Chance instead. In any event, Mother remembers Nate well, as he was at their house a great deal of the time before he left. She needs some help in the graveyard, though, as the ground is so rough and she's afraid she might stumble.”

Daniel grumbled a little, but agreed that Sophie could go after she promised to prepare the bulk of the noontime meal before she left.

The next morning, Sophie asked Lewis to go to the store for her. They were running low on butter and she could use a lemon, she said, if one were available. He decided to make one trip do the work of two, and drop in at the post office as well, as one of the guests had arranged for his mail to be forwarded to Wellington, and was apparently expecting an important communication.

To Lewis's surprise, there was a letter waiting with his own name on it.

“New York City,” said the postmaster, “You owe me a penny for the postage.” And he hesitated for a moment before he handed it over, an invitation to discuss the reasons for correspondence from such an important source.

Lewis merely scrounged in his pocket with the hopes that he might find a penny there, and when he found it, held out his hand for the letter. He waited until he was well down the street before he peeled away the wax seal and unfolded the sheet of paper.

The letter he had written to the New York newspaper had been forwarded to Mr. Van Sylen, the man who had been bilked of his money by the LeClairs and had offered a reward for their apprehension.

Sir,

Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding the man and woman who call themselves LeClair, although they also go by many other names, I have discovered. My information is that they have at various times used the names Beauregarde, Sonderburg, and Guiseppe in their duplicitous activities.

As you are aware, they have claimed to be in communication with the spirit world and by this device have fraudulently extracted large sums of money from those, like myself, who were desperate to know the fates of loved ones. This reprehensible practice has resulted in considerable added anguish for families who were already laboring under a burden of grief.

I have hired a private detective by the name of Horace Gilmour, a man who is most highly recommended, to discover the whereabouts of the LeClairs and to return them to justice in this jurisdiction.

My latest correspondence from Mr. Gilmour derived from your vicinity, but I have not heard from him for several weeks. If you have information regarding his activities, or that of the LeClairs, I would appreciate your sharing of this knowledge. If Gilmour has moved on to another locale, I would also appreciate knowing this.

I am,
Most respectfully yours,
Augustus Van Sylen
New York, New York
Dec. 14, 1844

Beauregard, Sonderburg, Guiseppe
— Yes! Those were names Lewis had seen on some of the calling cards that he had found in the folder at the cabin. Apparently, they had not ever used the name Elliott in their deceptions, or the Irish surname that had been on the baptismal certificate. And Gilmour had not been just a bounty hunter, but a detective on hire. No wonder he had been so persistent.

But what to do with this information?
Lewis supposed he should inform Constable Williams that Gilmour had been in the employ of this Mr. Van Sylen, who would presumably be able to provide a means of contacting the next of kin. But even should he pass on the intelligence that the Elliotts were also known by a number of pseudonyms, he could well imagine the reaction of the phlegmatic constable. He would be completely uninterested — not only had these events taken place outside of his jurisdiction, they had occurred in another country, and, after all, no crime had taken place here.

Lewis returned to Temperance House, but once there realized that he had forgotten his other errands. Rather than face Sophie's disappointment, he made an about-face in the front hallway and was about to leave again when Clementine and Horatio descended the stairs. Again she was dressed in the elegant black of mourning, an ostrich plume on her hat and a silk veil folded round the brim, ready to mask her grief at the graveside.

He stepped forward and opened the door for her, tipping his hat as she went by.

“Good morning, Mrs. Beauregard.”

The smile that had been on her face as she turned to the greeting quickly faded as she realized her mistake.

“Pardon me,” Lewis said. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Think nothing of it.” She had recovered quickly, but Lewis knew his salutation had rattled her. She pushed Horatio through the door and quickly followed.

The errands would have to wait as Lewis made an abrupt decision to accompany Sophie to the funeral. Perhaps Mrs. Carr could shed a little light on how Nathan Elliott of Wellington had somehow turned into M. LeClair of New York.

“It's been many a year since I've had the pleasure of escorting a pretty young woman down the street,” Lewis joked as he and Sophie walked along to the Carr house.

“You be careful now, Mr. Lewis,” Sophie returned. “You know this town — there will be rumours flying about us in no time.”

Lewis liked Sophie immensely, not in the least for her ready wit. Francis continued to seek her company whenever he could make an excuse to be close to her, and if events culminated in the direction they appeared to heading, Lewis thought the two might be a good match. It gave him a pang, of course, and reminded him once again of the loss of his daughter. But Sarah and Francis had been too much alike, impetuous and headstrong, the both of them. Sophie's good nature was paired with a down-to-earth attitude that brooked little nonsense and made short work of the practical business of life. She might be a steadying influence on Francis — and on Martha, as well.

The Carrs lived in a small cottage at the edge of Wellington. Lewis noted with approval the general tidiness of both the yard and the house. It was clear where Sophie had learned her housekeeping skills.

Mrs. Carr was delighted that Lewis was to join them.

“Sophie's a good girl,” she said, “but she's just a slip of a thing and I need a strong arm to lean on. Martin couldn't get away from the mill today, so you'll do very nicely instead, Mr. Lewis.”

“Sophie tells me you knew Nate Elliott well.”

“I did, I did. He courted my sister Jane for quite some time. She wouldn't marry him, though. She decided to go west with Albert Chance instead.”

“Is that why Nate went away?”

“Oh, no. It was never so serious as that. It was the old man drove him away, and come to think on it, the old man may have had a lot to do with Jane choosing someone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she would never have met with Hiram's approval.” She chuckled. “I'm not sure that any girl would have.”

“No, I mean, about why Nate left.”

She looked at him closely for a moment. “I'm not sure it's seemly for me to ramble on about that. I only know what I heard, and what Jane told me, and I don't hold with idle gossip.”

Generally, Lewis approved of this attitude. Gossip was a pernicious element in small-town life and was the occupation of small-minded people. But Mrs. Carr might well have knowledge that would help him answer his many unresolved questions about the Elliotts.

“I'm still trying to puzzle out why Nate Elliott came to such an unhappy end,” he said. “I thought that it might help if I understood why he left in the first place.”

Mrs. Carr nodded. “Of course, of course, you were the one who found him, weren't you? Or at least what they think is him, no matter what the coroner says. Well, God forgive me for slandering anybody, much less the dead, but Hiram Elliott was probably the most miserable man I ever met in my life. Now, you wouldn't know this, being from away, but Hiram's wife died young. He wasn't too bad while Alice was still alive, but after she went he made life miserable for those two boys. That's why Nate was always at our house.”