The Widow's Demise (21 page)

“Did you propose marriage to Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones?”

“Several times.”

“And how did she reply?”

“She put me off.”

“She refused you?”

“Yes.”

“And this frustrated and angered you?”

“It left me impatient.”

“And suspicious, didn’t it? For you
subsequently learned that Horace Macy was a rival for the lady’s
hand.”

“I did find that out, just recently.”

“And you insulted Macy and occasioned him to
challenge you to a duel?”

“Yes.”

“I suggest, sir, that your emotions were
running high. You were angry at Macy and angry at the lady for
double-dealing.”

“My anger was directed at Mr. Macy.”

“Then why were you seen being friendly with
him after the duel was interrupted and stopped?”

“We both realized we had been foolish. I
apologized.”

“I suggest you both realized the lady was
faithless, that she was toying with your affections, and that your
love for her quickly turned to resentment and hate.”

“That is not true. I loved her.”

“Where were you on the evening of the
crime?”

“I was home, alone. Waiting for a
friend.”

“You were initially at the Reverend
Ogilvie’s, playing cards?”

“Yes, but I got called away to go home and
wait for a friend. But he never showed up.”

“What time was this?”

“It was around seven o’clock when I started
back for the Reverend’s place.”

“And, according to a witness I can produce,
you went past Rosewood. In fact, you were observed just after seven
o’clock on the front porch of Rosewood having an argument with Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones, weren’t you?”

Trueman looked daggers at Marc, and said,
“What if I was?”

“Tell the court, please, the nature of that
argument.”

“We argued about Horace Macy.”

“And her seeing him as well as you?”

“Yes.”

“How did the quarrel end?”

“She said she wasn’t ready to marry. And she
would see as many gentlemen as she wished.”

“And you left – very angry.”

“I was upset. I thought she would marry
me.”

“And angry at her perfidy?”

The galleries were mesmerized by this
testimony. There was a hushed awe in the courtroom.

“So angry that you did not go home?”

“No, I went straight to the card party,
though my evening was spoiled.”

“I submit, sir, that you were outraged, that
you went home, less than five minutes away, brooded about what had
happened, and forged a note as being from Marion Stokes, whom you
knew to be a close friend of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones. You had it
delivered to Rosewood, and taking a vial of acid, you hid at the
side of house until Mrs. Cardiff-Jones came out, whereupon you
hurled the acid in her face – ”

“Milord, this is outrageous,” cried Austin
McBride.

“I agree,” said the judge sternly. “Mr.
Edwards you must refrain from making wild accusations If you do
not, I will hold you in contempt of court. Let the jury draw their
own inferences.”

“I have no more questions, Milord. The
defense rests.”

McBride, ruffled and flushed, rose to ask
Trueman if he had indeed tossed acid at Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, and was
satisfied with his denial. But a lot of damage had been done. A man
with a clear motive had been placed at the scene fifteen or twenty
minutes before the murder. Was he also the third party seen
scuttling afterwards along the east wall of Rosewood? Marc was now
convinced that the jury would acquit his client. Court was
adjourned. Closing arguments would be heard the next day.

***

“Why the long face?” Cobb said to Marc later that
day when they had come to Briar Cottage to mull over the events of
the trial. “I think you got the jury on your side.”

“Yes,” said Beth, “you couldn’t have done
more, Marc.”

“”Well, I’ve certainly got enough to spin a
powerful closing argument,” Marc admitted. “I’ve got five people
with much stronger motives than Gilles Gagnon, and I’ve shown they
had the opportunity. I’ve placed a third party at the scene of the
crime. I’ve shown that Gilles couldn’t have forged that note, that
the glove didn’t fit him, and did fit several of the others. But I
did not succeed in breaking down the real criminal on the stand.
For sure as I’m sitting here, one of those five did the deed.”

“My money’s still on Macy, the chemist,” said
Cobb. “He could get his hands on the acid anytime he pleased.”

“And Beth, you still favour the woman,
Constance Brown?”

“This is definitely a woman’s crime of
vengeance,” Beth said. Then she added as if she had just thought of
it, “but there’s one woman we haven’t looked at.”

“So there is,” Marc said, smiling broadly.
“So there is.”

***

Over Austin McBride’s strenuous objections, Marc got
permission to call one more witness, a woman who was still in the
courtroom: Audrey Denfield.

The galleries were abuzz with
anticipation.

“Mrs. Denfield,” Marc began. “How long have
you been married?”

“Ten years,” said Audrey, biting her lip to
control her emotions. She looked like a trapped rabbit, staring at
the stoat.

“And your husband was always faithful to
you?”

She looked down. “Yes. Always.”

“So it must have come as a shock to hear you
husband admit in open court that he had committed adultery three
times a week for three months.”

“Of course it did,” she snapped.

“I suggest, however, that you knew of this
affair well before this trial. Is that not so?”

“No!” she cried. “I did not!”

“I submit that you discovered his affair, but
that your anger was directed not so much at your wayward husband as
the wayward woman who had seduced him.”

“No, that’s not true.”

“Is it not true that merely seeing him dance
with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones at the Charity Ball caused you to faint
dead away?”

“I – I was feeling dizzy from all the
smoke.”

“You were outraged at the flirtatious
behaviour of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, weren’t you?”

“I just felt dizzy and fainted.”

“Bringing your husband to your side
immediately, and out of the clutches of that awful woman. I submit
that even then you knew or greatly suspected he was having an
affair with her. And your husband’s excuses for being away until
midnight three times a week must have grown thin and
threadbare.”

“No, I never suspected!”

“You did not dislike Mrs. Cardiff-Jones? Did
not disapprove of her dissolute behaviour?”

“Of course I did. Everybody did.”

“Did you not go out of the house at seven
o’clock on the evening of the crime?”

“I went to my cousin’s on Simcoe Street.
She’ll swear to it.”

“I submit that you took a vial of acid from
your pantry, put on your husband’s coat and hat and gloves – even
though it was a warm evening – and knowing that your husband was
ill in bed and your maid was in her room, you forged a note from
Marion Stokes – whose handwriting you knew well from your work
together on church committees – had it delivered to Rosewood, and
then waited for Mrs. Cardiff-Jones to come out, whereupon you
tossed acid – ”

“Milord! I protest in the strongest possible
terms!” shouted McBride, leaping to his feet.

“Mr. Edwards, I gave you your last warning. I
find you in contempt of – ”

The judge never finished his sentence, for he
was drowned out by a searing cry from the witness-stand.

“She deserved it!” cried Audrey Denfield.
“She was a wicked woman. I never meant to kill her, just make sure
she would never seduce no-one’s husband, ever again. I’m not sorry
I did it!”

The courtroom was stunned. Marc looked
relieved, and not a little saddened.

In view of Audrey’s admission, the judge
adjourned the court, pending further investigation of the crime.
Two hours later, after she had signed a full confession, Gilles
Gagnon was released, a free man.

***

“Well, Major,” Cobb said at the celebration at
Baldwin House later that evening, “you’ve done it again.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your
investigation,” Marc said. “I’m grateful that you were able to do
it without much heartache from your superior.”

“He’s just happy the crime got solved,” Cobb
said. “He was feelin’ the heat from Humphrey Cardiff.”

“And it was Beth here who was right all
along,” Marc said. “It was a crime of vengeance carried out by a
woman.”

“And you came within a hair’s breadth of
bein’ called fer contempt of court,” Beth said.

“I had infinite faith in you,” Marc said,
smiling.

“Now,” said Robert Baldwin, “we can all truly
celebrate Louis’ victory at the polls.”

“A victory for province and dominion,” Marc
said.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Louis
LaFontaine.

What they were drinking for was the
realization of a long dream: responsible government. With Louis’
victory at the polls the Reform-Rouge coalition would be a reality
in the new Canadian Parliament. The outcome was assured. Thanks to
Marc, Robert, Louis, Francis Hincks and ordinary people like Beth
and the Cobbs, among countless others, cabinet government -- with
it members being selected from the majority party in the
legislature and responsible to them – would be achieved. It might
take some time but it was now inevitable. Canada would join the
modern world as a self-governing nation.

Don Gutteridge is the author of more than 40
books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works, including the Marc
Edwards mystery series. He taught in the Faculty of Education at
Western University for 25 years in the Department of English
Methods. He is currently professor Emeritus, and lives in London,
Ontario.

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Solemn Vows

Vital Secrets

Dubious Allegiance

Bloody Relations

Death of a Patriot

The Bishop’s
Pawn

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The Bishop’s Pawn

Desperate Acts

Unholy Alliance

Minor Corruption

Governing Passion

The Widow’s Demise

One

Toronto, Upper Canada: 1840

The blizzard that howled across the icy expanse of
Lake Ontario and struck the defenceless city broadside on this
particular midwinter evening was little noticed by the five
gentlemen seated in the drawing-room of the Bishop’s palace on
Front Street. After all, supper had been lavish, as usual, and more
than satisfying, especially so since not one of the prelate’s
guests felt himself to be less than deserving of the great man’s
largesse. Friday evening was secular night at John Strachan’s
palatial residence, an opportunity for men of worth and promise to
congregate, sup well, gossip idly, and then move on to discuss the
pressing political issues of these turbulent times. Though the
guest-list varied from week to week, those attending invariably
shared a number of beliefs and convictions. That all were adherents
of the Church of England was a given, and whether that fact was
instrumental in shaping the rest of their character or not, they
were, to a man, High Tory in their politics, conservative in their
morals and demeanour, terribly sensitive to distinctions of race
and class, and inclined towards capitalist enterprise. And no less
importantly, they were susceptible to a good cigar and a fine
sherry.

Enjoying the latter post-prandial
refreshments, while the wind scoured and screeched against the
red-brick walls and mullioned windows, were Ignatius Maxwell,
receiver-general of Upper Canada and judge-designate; Ezra
Michaels, local chemist; Ivor Winthrop, furrier and land
speculator; Carson James, a non-practising barrister with a very
rich wife; and their host, John Strachan, the recently elevated
Bishop of Toronto.

“That was one superb dinner, Bishop,” James
said, inhaling deeply, “and, if I may say so, was meticulously
presented. I don’t know where you find such well-mannered and
properly trained servants, but they are most impressive.”

“Worth their weight in gold,” Michaels added,
reaching for the sherry. “We’ve had three maids and two houseboys
since September.”

“You’d think with so many people out of work
and begging for employment, that they’d be happy to do an honest
day’s work without complaining or demanding higher wages,” Winthrop
said solemnly.

“Or dropping the crystal,” Maxwell said with
a chuckle.

“I take no credit for my servants’
performance,” Strachan said in the deep, authoritative voice that
had made his sermons at St. James justly renowned. “It is Mrs.
Strachan alone who manages my household, with thrift and a good
heart.”

“I take it you’ve all heard about poor
Macaulay?” James said.

Several murmurs followed this remark, but
Michaels, looking puzzled, said, “You mean his wife going off to
Kingston to see her specialist?”

“I did hear that,” James said, “but I was
referring to what happened to his butler before Christmas.”

“Ah, yes,” Michaels said, flushing slightly.
“Alfred Harkness had been with the Macaulays for over twenty years,
hadn’t he?”

“Cancer. Out of the blue,” Maxwell said.
“Mercifully, he didn’t suffer long.”

“It is not given to us to know when it is we
are to meet our Maker,” the Bishop intoned. “For which mercy we
should be eternally grateful,” he added.