Sowing Poison (21 page)

“Miserable in what way?”

“He was nasty to both his boys and he did his best to turn them against each other, as well. When they were small, he'd often whip both of them for something one of them did. Or he'd lock them in the sty with the pigs until they screamed themselves hoarse. Once, he kept the pantry locked and refused to feed Nate when Reuben misbehaved. Things like that. When they got too big to whip, he'd lock all the doors so they couldn't get into the house. I don't know any of the details of why Nate finally lit out, but I don't think anybody was surprised. The surprise was that Reuben didn't leave too.”

“What did you think when Nate came back? If he was on such terrible terms with his father, why would he hurry back just to be at the deathbed?”

“My guess is that Nate did it mostly for Reuben. I don't think he ever hated his brother, in spite of the way they used to fight. They say Hiram managed to tie everything in knots before he died and that was why Nate came back. He wouldn't have done it for the money, you understand. He was never a greedy boy. But he might have done it for Reuben.”

“What did Nate say about it?”

“I don't know. I didn't see him when he came back. If he'd been around a little longer, I expect he would have called on us, but after he and Reuben arrived back in Wellington, they went straight to the Elliott farm and no one saw much of him until Reuben reported him missing a few days later.” She sighed. “I would like to have seen him again. I always liked Nate.”

They had reached the gates of the graveyard. There was a sizeable mass of people clustered around the brick building that was used to hold the dead for burial. Lewis always thought how unfortunate it was when a death occurred in the wintertime and these interim funerals took place. The mourners then had to revisit their grief all over again in the spring once the graves had been dug.

He walked Sophie and her mother to a place in the crowd where he could easily watch Reuben and Clementine. Reuben's face was impassive and Clementine had lowered her silk veil over her face, so he could see nothing of whatever emotion she might be feeling. Horatio stood between the two, and the boy's pale face was tear-stained and tense. One look was enough to show that the boy, at least, believed that it was his father who was being interred here today. But Lewis was beginning to wonder just who that father had been.

A familiar misery settled on Clementine like a pall, and not for the first time she regretted the decision to come to Wellington. Nothing had gone right since Reuben had first appeared at their squalid, third-floor apartment in New York. It had all seemed so simple — come to some arrangement with Reuben, show up at the farm, and bury the old man. She should be sitting in some fine hotel somewhere with her husband and son, not standing in a Canadian graveyard as a pompous country clergyman mangled the Bible verses he had chosen.

No matter what had been decided at the inquest, she knew without a doubt that the remains of her husband were being committed to the vault this day. It had taken her some time to admit to this fact. It had been a slow, agonizing realization that assaulted her in waves, catapulting her from despair to denial and back again a thousand times. She had begun to feel uneasy when he had failed to keep their rendezvous. The bouts of panic had started when the days flew by with no word from him. Her mind had been in a whirl at the inquest. But only now, standing beside his bones, did she truly realize that she was on her own. She sneaked a glance at Reuben, who appeared entirely unmoved by the ceremony, but then there was no reason for him to feel any grief, was there?

What a bastard he had turned out to be. As far as she was concerned, the terms of their original arrangement had been fulfilled, but Reuben obstinately refused to uphold his end of the bargain. He'd laughed at her when she threatened to tell all she knew.

“Are you really willing to risk it?” he sneered. “One bounty hunter is quite neatly out of the way, but who knows how many more there are? That old man in New York has put up quite a reward. I expect there are dozens who would like to claim his money. One story in one newspaper is all it would take and there would be a plague of them following your every move.”

She knew now that Reuben had never intended to pay what he owed. His mad scheme had cost her her husband, and in spite of that he was perfectly willing to cut her loose without a penny from his precious farm.

She should leave immediately — every one of her overstretched nerves was screaming at her to get away. The preacher had not exposed her, yet she didn't know why. He had not said a word about the equipment in her sitting room, hadn't even hinted to anyone that all was not above board. She had begun to relax a little when she realized that he was not going to denounce her publicly as a fraud. And then this morning he had made himself clear — he had only been waiting for more evidence before he played his hand. How much did he know?

She could cut her losses and go, but there weren't enough coins in her purse to cover her hotel expenses, never mind set her up in a new town. She glanced at Reuben again, standing lumpenly at her side. He was determined to wait her out; he had made that clear.

“Just give me what you owe me,” she'd said.

“No.”

She had picked the brains of the fool of a barrister who had drawn up the will, and it was only then that she truly realized how much of the advantage was Reuben's. All he had needed to do was to find his brother and bring him home before the old man died. He could trot out any number of witnesses who would swear that Nate had returned, and after all, hadn't the entire village scoured the neighbourhood for days looking for his body?

But there was one small glimmer of hope, one indication of how she might successfully play this through to the end. The barrister had informed her that under the laws of Canada West, she might be deemed to have a stake in the property. He had also disclosed several other interesting facts; facts that she might well use to her advantage if she had enough nerve left to turn the tables — one last gamble that would see them on their way with a pocketful of money. Reuben was right, though. She couldn't risk the publicity of disclosure — but neither could he, or all would be lost.

She turned her plan over and over in her mind while the minister rambled on, and by the time he intoned the final “Amen,” she had reached a resolution. She would try one last bluff and hope it was enough to rattle the smugness out of Reuben.

Clementine felt some of the tension lift away now that she had decided on a course of action. She could give her mind over to playing her role. She put her hand on Horatio's shoulder, clutched her silk-clad bosom and began to sob in a way that was most gratifying to the widow-watchers standing around her.

The funeral had no sooner taken place than Christmas was upon them. The village observed the holiday in many different ways. The Catholic fathers held a special mass at the small church that had been built behind Tara Hall. The Anglicans, as well, gathered for a Christmas service. The Presbyterians and the Quakers did nothing special at all.

The Methodists met for a Christmas Eve Love Feast. This ritual, with its emphasis on strengthening the spirit of harmony and goodwill, had been borrowed from the Moravians in New York and Pennsylvania, and had made its way north with many of the Methodist denominations.

It was one of Lewis's favourite services. There was mellowness to the gathering, a peace that seemed to descend on the congregation — the reading of the Christmas story, the lighting of the candles, the singing of the hymns, always led by a child. One sweet voice would start the first lines and one by one other voices would mingle with it. Martha would not be selected for this honour, which was a profound disappointment to her. Lewis was secretly relieved by this decision. His granddaughter had many talents; music did not appear to be one of them.

Christmas Day itself was a quiet time for almost everyone, a day of reflection and meditation. Boxing Day was generally the time for more secular observances. Most people planned large meals and parties, although the Presbyterians preferred to do their feasting on New Year's Eve.

As was traditional for the head of the family, it fell to Lewis to provide a small Christmas gift for Martha. He had not much money to do it with, but he fished out a few pennies from the crock that Betsy kept their coins in, and that would be enough for a hair ribbon.

As he walked along the street to Scully's dry goods store, he reflected that his attitude toward this annual gift-giving had changed considerably since Martha had come to live with them. His own children had been given utilitarian offerings — bibles, prayer books, leather bookmarks so they could easily find their favourite bible passages. Occasionally they had been given china mugs with their names on them, or if times were good, an orange from faraway tropical climes.

Since moving to Wellington, he had become far more aware of the emphasis that females placed on their appearances. Part of it stemmed from Clementine's arrival, of course, but part of it was just that Canada was falling more into step with the rest of the world. What had once sufficed for a woman living in a log shanty in the backwoods was in no way appropriate for the wife of a respected town man. Even the Quakers, who frowned on ornamentation of any sort, wore clothing that, though plain, was made of the finest materials. He wasn't sure that he should approve of this worldlier attitude, and he could think of any number of reasons to call it foolish, but it was the norm, and he thought that a single hair ribbon was unlikely to turn Martha into a shallow flibbertigibbet who thought of nothing but her clothes. Besides, and in all conscience he had to admit it to be true, he had been just a little jealous at her delight with the necklace her father had given her.

“Why it's Mr. Lewis,” Scully called when he entered the store. “And what could I do for you today, sir?”

When he explained his errand, he was steered toward a rack of coloured ribbon, “any one of which would be suitable,” he was told. It did not take him long to choose — the emerald green would go nicely with Martha's dark hair.

“How much do I need?” he asked. “I have no experience with these things.”

“Take an arm's length,” Scully advised. “That way there's enough for however she wants to do her hair. I'll cut it for you.”

While the shopkeeper scurried away to find the scissors, Lewis went to the table in the corner to say hello to the little humpbacked dressmaker, and to thank her for recommending Sophie.

“Sophie's worked out then, has she?” Meribeth Scully asked, although Lewis knew that she was perfectly aware that she had. “And I hear that she has quite captivated your son-in-law. I expect she'll be calling on me for a new dress one of these days.”

“I don't really know,” Lewis returned bluntly. This gossipy creature would get no scuttlebutt from him, but he was surprised that the budding relationship between Francis and Sophie was already the subject of speculation around town. The couple had known each other for only a few weeks, after all.

“Mrs. Elliott seems to think a wedding might be in the offing.”

So it might not be common knowledge after all. Meribeth was probably fishing on the basis of a chance remark of Clementine's.

Meribeth didn't seem to expect him to answer in any detail, for she went on. “How is poor Mrs. Elliott holding up? My, my, she has had a time recently, hasn't she? Poor thing. And now all that legal business ahead of her, as well.”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” he said. “I expect she'll just go back to wherever she came from, won't she?”

“Oh no, I don't think so. Old Mr. Elliott's will has made that unlikely.”

“What do you mean?”

Meribeth's eyes glittered with the pleasure of imparting the latest news. “Apparently, if Nathan Elliott hadn't come home before his father died, his barrister had instructions to sell the farm and give the proceeds to the Church of England. If he did return in time, the estate was to be left jointly to the two brothers. As you know, there's some question of what exactly happened to Nate Elliott …” She stopped for a moment to peer closely at Lewis, as if he were withholding some intelligence on the matter. When he didn't reply, she went on. “So now no one is sure what should happen. In any event, Mrs. Elliott intends to claim her husband's share. On behalf of the little boy, of course,” she said hurriedly.

“Where did you hear all this?” Lewis asked.

“The will's been filed at the courthouse. It's public knowledge now. Of course, the case could take many years to sort out, but Mrs. Elliott says the value of the property makes it a worthwhile proposition, and in the meantime she'll apply to the courts to uphold her dower rights. I think we'll have the pleasure of her company for quite some time.”

Lewis's purchase was ready for him, and as much as he wanted to continue the conversation with Meribeth, he could think of no excuse to do so without looking as though he was as bad a gossip as she was. He thanked Scully and left the store.

Lewis mulled the conversation over in his mind as he walked back toward the Temperance House. He wondered how Reuben would react to Clementine's intentions. Not well, he expected. He must have found the whole thing galling from the start. He had dedicated his life to the farm and his father, but in order to see the reward of this, he had been forced to retrieve a long-lost brother who would claim a share that some might argue he was not rightfully entitled to.

Certainly, it appeared that the first stipulation in Hiram Elliott's will had been met — Reuben had returned his brother to Wellington prior to his father's death. But what was likely to happen now, with Nate Elliott occupying a strange legal twilight between living and dead?

Lewis had puzzled over the letter of conveyance in the leather folder that he had found in the Holey Man's shack, but now the significance of it finally struck him. Nate's “return” had probably been nothing more than an arrangement between the brothers. He'd had a private detective trailing him and needed to disappear in a hurry. How much of his inheritance had he been willing to forego in order to do so? Rather a lot, Lewis suspected, and Reuben would be happy enough to help him if it meant he wouldn't have to share the farm.

Lewis also suspected that the legalities of the transfer would have been far more cut and dried if Nate had waited until after his father's death to disappear again, but unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life in a place he hated, he needed to shake not only Gilmour, but any other bounty hunters who were after the reward. And he needed the distraction of the accident in the woods to do it. Was it just Reuben's bad luck that Nate had somehow stumbled into a real accident before he'd had a chance to sign the necessary papers?

And what of Clementine and Horatio? If no legal transfer of property had taken place, where did they stand? From what Meribeth Scully said, it sounded as though Clementine intended to insist on whatever rights she might have.

He wished, not for the first time, that there was a reading room in Wellington; somewhere he could easily consult the statute books, for he knew little of the ins and outs of the law. He wondered if he could somehow justify another trip to Picton. Once again he felt the suffocating narrowness of his current situation. When he had been riding the circuits, he seldom needed an excuse to go anywhere. The rumour of someone in need of a prayer or two was enough to send him galloping off, and he could easily conduct any other business along the way, without having to explain it to anyone.

He was so occupied with his thoughts that he wasn't watching where he was going and jostled against a gentleman who was equally deep in thought, but going the other way.

Lewis apologized before he recognized who he had bumped into.

“Why, it's the preacher.” It was his newfound acquaintance, Archibald McFaul. “And how are you getting on, sir?”

“Splendidly,” Lewis replied, “except for a bit of puzzlement, which would explain my lack of concentration.”

“Oh, puzzlement,” McFaul said. “I'm in a state of puzzlement most days. Is it anything I can help you with?”

Lewis hesitated for a moment. McFaul was a man who owned a great deal of property. Surely, he would know something about this. Furthermore, he could probably be counted on not to broadcast the conversation up and down the street. He'd ask, and see where the asking led him.

“I've just heard that Hiram Elliott's will seems to be rife with complications.”

“I did hear something to that effect myself,” McFaul said. “All I can say is that Hiram himself was rife with complications, so it's not surprising that his estate is equally so.”

“Apparently, Mrs. Nate Elliott intends to stay in Wellington until Hiram's estate is settled, and I've just realized that I don't really know what that means. How long exactly does it take a court to declare someone dead? I'm not asking out of curiosity,” Lewis hastened to add. “Mrs. Elliott is a guest at our inn, and we are, of course, concerned with her welfare.” He didn't want McFaul to think that he was engaging in idle speculation, although he was fairly certain that the whole village was buzzing with the news by now.

“Yes, of course, you would be. Well …” McFaul considered the question for a moment. “I'm not entirely sure, but my understanding is that if a person has not been heard from or sighted for a period of seven years, a judge can clear the way for remarriages, or any other arrangements of that nature.”

“That long?” Lewis said. “And what will happen to the estate in the meantime?”

“In some respects that's an entirely separate question. Under the terms of Hiram's will, the property was to be left jointly. Unfortunately, of course, Nate predeceased his father. The issue will be whether or not his share devolves to his son.”

“Wouldn't that happen automatically?”

“Not necessarily,” McFaul said. “At the time of his death, Nate had not actually inherited anything, you see. I expect a clever lawyer could argue that Reuben became sole heir the moment his brother died.”

“And what about Mrs. Elliott? Apparently, she's asking to have her dower rights upheld. What does that entail?”

“Under normal circumstances a widow in Canada West is entitled to thirty percent of the income from the estate regardless of the terms of the will. Again, it could be argued that those rights died with her husband. I understand your puzzlement. It's a knotty question all right and in the end the courts may well set the will aside entirely.”

“What would happen then?”

“We operate under the law of primogeniture in this province. In that case, the entirety of the estate would go to the eldest son. And since Hiram's wife has been gone these many years, there would be no dower rights to consider. The courts tend to look for solutions that will leave a farm fully intact, you see. A judge could well be inclined to rule that way.”

“Which is the eldest son?”

McFaul looked at him in surprise. “Oh, yes, I forgot, you're not from here, are you? Reuben is the eldest.”

Lewis thanked McFaul for his time and resumed his homeward course with a great deal to think about.

Lewis went round and round the facts he had at hand, trying to fit the pieces together in a way that made sense. It quite spoiled his enjoyment of the Christmas Eve service. Instead of settling into a peaceful repose as the prophetic words of Isaiah washed over him, Lewis fidgeted as he considered each aspect of what he had learned.

He wasn't sure why it bothered him so. His primary concern had been the fraudulent nature of Clementine's so-called contact with the dead, but events had taken a sinister turn and now it seemed that far more than a little fraud was involved. And now that Gilmour was gone, Lewis was the only one who realized it.

It seemed clear to him that Nate had returned to Wellington only so that Reuben could help him evade retribution for his chicanery in New York. In exchange for fulfilling the condition in the will, Reuben had probably agreed to furnish him with some funds, as well, witness the transfer documents that had been in the folder, but in all probability this would have been considerably less than half the value of the estate. Nothing more than travelling money, perhaps; at the most, enough to set Nate up in a new location.

Come, Thou long-expected Jesus; born to set Thy people free …

The hymn was led by Charlie Carpenter, who had a fine, high voice. Lewis knew that Martha was still a little upset that she had not been asked to take this role and she squirmed beside him. He reached out and touched her elbow — a signal to settle down — and she subsided, although she still looked a little unhappy. She would never be asked to perform this ceremony, he knew.
Grow used to it, little mite, you can't have everything you want.