Wishful Seeing (12 page)

The first chapter seemed to concern the quite different fortunes of Miss Maria Ward's sisters, which were not nearly as advantageous in nature. One sister in particular brought disgrace upon herself by marrying a mere Lieutenant of the Marines.

Thaddeus wasn't at all sure that he liked the tenor of this story, in which one's fate was dictated by the amount of money one was able to either inherit or marry. His own father had been a hard-working farmer, prosperous enough and well respected, but neither Thaddeus nor his fifteen brothers and sisters had received any great advantage because of it. They had been expected to make their own way and decide the course of their own lives. Nor had it occurred to any of them that they were inferior in any way because of it.

He soon, however, became engrossed in the story of the disgraced sister's little girl, who was summarily plucked out of the bosom of her family and brought to Mansfield Park. But even then, her circumstances made her in no way equal to her cousins.

“There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up; how to preserve in the minds of my daughters the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a Miss Bertram. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorize in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights and expectations, will always be different.

What nonsense, Thaddeus thought, to take a child into your household and treat it differently from the rest. His own daughter had married young, in haste, and perhaps unwisely, but in those dark days after she had been murdered, he and Betsy had endeavoured to provide a real home for her baby. Martha had been as their own child, and he knew that she had always regarded them as her parents, even after her real father finally came back.

Ellen Howell, however, appeared to hear nothing amiss in the premise of the story. While the first chapters unfolded, she sat very upright on her cot, but as the story deepened she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. She was so close that Thaddeus could see the fine lines that etched the skin beside her eyes and at the edges of her lips. He could hear her slow, steady breathing. He would glance up and watch her mouth form into the slight upward curve of a smile at the words he spoke to her.

After a time, his knee began to hurt from the tucked-up position of his legs, and he stretched them out to ease the ache. The cell was so narrow that his foot brushed against hers. He pulled it back hastily, but she appeared not to notice.

He gathered himself and read on. The story progressed in such a way as anyone could have predicted — the little girl was miserable and much put upon by the Bertram family, with the exception of one son, who, much to Thaddeus's amusement, was to be given a church and a ready-made congregation, an appointment which apparently was within Sir Thomas Bertram's purview to hand out to anyone he pleased.

“Was Mansfield Park the sort of place you grew up in?” he asked at one point.

She sighed, but didn't open her eyes. “Oh no, nothing so grand. My father had no title, just a smallish estate inherited from his grandfather. The rents were never enough to cover our expenses, though we lived quite simply. There were three of us girls, and no male heir.” She opened her eyes and looked at him then. “You've just read about what it can be like in England. With no money and few connections, our prospects of good marriage were slim, and father had little means to provide for us otherwise. The estate was in rather perilous debt and father hoped Canada would restore our fortunes. The land was so cheap, you see. Surely it would be no time at all before we made great riches and could go back home to live in a much finer style than we had ever dreamed of before.”

Her voice trailed off. Thaddeus had no need to hear the rest of the story. It was a common enough tale. No one had told the English that two hundred acres of Canadian bush was very different from two hundred acres of settled English countryside, and that they would be expected to work their land themselves. It had been a rude awakening for many of them.

Clearing a bush farm would be a daunting prospect for a family with no sons. No doubt it had worn the father out, and the girls had been left to marry whoever was willing to provide for them. George Howell must have seemed a good choice. He was, after all, the same class of people Ellen had been used to. It may not have turned out to be a very good match after all, given her current predicament.

Thaddeus was about to continue reading when Ellen spoke again. “I never thought I would be called upon to milk a cow, or to bake bread, or to scrub a floor. It was quite a shock, for my sisters and me, when we realized that if we didn't do it, no one would. It seemed so degrading.”

It would, he supposed, if you were brought up with the notion that labour was something to be despised. How foreign these English settlers must have found it here, where “hard-working” was a term of the highest praise.

It would have been a natural thing to ask her then how she had met her husband, but this was a subject that Thaddeus felt disinclined to discuss, and not only, he realized with a start, because her husband had landed her in such a mess. He let the moment go by and started reading again, and a few minutes later the gaoler appeared in the doorway to announce that it was time for him to go.

“I won't be back for a few days,” Thaddeus said to Ellen. “But when I return to Cobourg, I'll come again and read some more if you would like me to.”

“I would like that very much,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Lewis.”

Thaddeus spent the next three days in the eastern part of his circuit, where there was little opportunity to ask any questions that might further the investigation, but quite by accident he overheard a potential answer to one of the questions Ashby had asked, reported with a great deal of tut-tutting at a women's prayer meeting. Three Indians from the village on the far shore of Rice Lake were harvesting the wild rice that had given the lake its name when they discovered a small skiff tangled in the reeds and grasses. They recognized the craft as belonging to a man who lived near Gores Landing, and towed it back to him.

It was only after a few days of reflection that the owner, a Mr. Greeley, realized the significance of this and reported it to the local constable.

“I didn't think nothing of it when I found the boat was gone,” the man said. “I thought mebbe it had just drifted away, or someone had borrowed it and would bring it back sooner or later. It was only after I pondered for a bit about when it went missing that I thought mebbe it might have something to do with the murder.”

“That would have occurred to anyone else right away,” one of the women said. “But Harry Greeley never was too well endowed in the brains department. It's a wonder he thought of it at all.”

There was no telling, of course, whether or not this was the boat that had taken Paul Sherman to Spook Island, but Thaddeus figured the timing was right, and the discovery seemed to suggest that Sherman had been following George Howell and not the other way around. After all, Howell had rented a boat. Sherman, if it was Sherman, had simply taken the first one he ran across.

At least Thaddeus would now have something concrete to report when Ashby returned that evening.

He arrived home to discover that Martha had rearranged the dining room.

“How did you manage to move the sideboard?” he asked. It was a solid, carved piece that was far too heavy for one person to shift.

“Mrs. Small gave me a hand,” she said. “I pulled it out to clean and by the time it was far enough from the wall to dust behind, it was halfway into the room anyway.”

She had also dressed her hair in a new arrangement of braids and knots.

“What do you think?” she asked when he commented on this.

“I think you're pretty no matter what you do with your hair,” Thaddeus replied. “Didn't that take an awfully long time to do?” The style looked complicated and time-consuming.

“Yes, but don't worry, I didn't skimp on any chores.”

“I can tell that by the fact that you dusted behind the sideboard.” He wasn't at all sure that the extravagant hairstyle was appropriate for a fifteen year old, but he had no basis, really, on which to make that assessment. For the millionth time he wished that his wife Betsy was there. She would have known.

Martha had organized dinner on the assumption that Ashby would arrive at the same late hour as before. Much to her chagrin, he knocked on the door at five o'clock.

“I've been informed that reasonable people eat their suppers at five,” he said. “I must apologize for arriving so late the other night.”

Not knowing what time supper would be served, Martha had concocted something she called “ragout of beef” which could simmer on the stove until it was wanted, but there were still last-minute touches that she hadn't completed. Thaddeus thought she did an admirable job of hiding her annoyance.

“Food will be a few moments yet,” she said. “Do come in. And no talking about the case while I'm gone.” Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

Ashby handed his hat to Thaddeus, then they both settled themselves in the parlour.

Ashby smiled. “Well, we've been given our orders. Now I don't dare tell you anything until Miss Renwell returns.”

“Yes, we'll have to discuss other topics. Otherwise I'll never have comfortable socks again.”

“How goes the railway? It was all anybody could talk about at the Globe the other night.”

“As far as I know, it goes apace,” Thaddeus said. “It's a dreadful nuisance for anyone attempting to travel the roads near the line, but I haven't heard of any particular delays. There's been another bond issue go out, which the people of Cobourg are snapping up at a great rate. Forty thousand pounds worth, or so I'm told.”

Ashby looked concerned. “You haven't bought any of them, have you?”

Thaddeus laughed. “Ministers don't have money to invest in anything other than the necessities of life. Why do you ask?”

“Just some things I've heard. It's the sort of enterprise that the big players will make a great deal of money from. I'm not so sure it's a good deal for the small investor.”

“But I thought the bonds were guaranteed by the government?”

“And I expect those members of government who invested will see to it that their returns are paid. As for the rest,” he paused and shrugged his shoulders, “I don't know if the principal will ever be repaid, never mind generate any interest. And the municipalities that invested will have to hope that the promised prosperity actually materializes. Otherwise the taxpayer will be left to pony up.”

If true, this was bad news indeed for the town of Cobourg. All their plans for a grand new hall in the centre of town depended on everybody getting rich from the railway.

“The only person who appears to be guaranteed of anything is the contractor, Samuel Zimmerman,” Ashby went on. “He seems to have tied up the agreements for an enormous number of these smaller projects, all with clauses that allow him to charge extra for unforeseen difficulties in construction. Gossip has it that difficulties will be encountered in every single one of them.”

“But why would anyone agree to such an open-ended contract?” Thaddeus asked.

“Because Zimmerman somehow has the ability to expedite their charters in the first place. No Zimmerman, no railway. And he floats his negotiations on a sea of champagne. The company directors sign on in a golden haze, then he does what he wants with them.”

“And if the directors refuse to pay the extra charges?”

“They don't get control of the line. Zimmerman doesn't have to turn it over until he's been fully compensated.”

“Champagne and greed are a bad combination, aren't they?”

“Believe it. And should you happen to have a little extra money, there are far better investments, trust me.”

Thaddeus had many more questions he wanted to ask Ashby, but Martha appeared in the doorway to announce that their meal was ready. She must have finished her preparations in record time. They filed into the dining room and Ashby pulled out a chair for Martha before he went to his own, then he took his seat and waited while Thaddeus said grace.

Martha served them from a covered bowl that Thaddeus was pretty sure was meant to be a soup tureen. She passed Ashby a plate, and his face lit up when he took his first bite of the ragout.

“This is delicious. Much better than the fare at the Globe. You'd better be careful, Mr. Lewis, or the hotel will try to steal your cook.”

Martha blushed, but all she said was “Thank you.”

“I made a good choice when I asked her to keep house for me,” Thaddeus agreed, determined to give credit where it was due. “She's a fine cook.”

Martha blushed even redder.

“Well, now that we're all in the same room, I can fill you in on what I've discovered,” Ashby said, getting down to business right away. “As I indicated in my letter, Mrs. Howell had absolutely nothing to contribute to my understanding of the case. In fact, she almost seemed uninterested in anything I had to say. I came away with the impression that she's protecting someone, and that she's willing to go to any lengths to do so.”

“Her husband?” Thaddeus offered. “Maybe she knows where he is and is afraid to say a word in case she gives something away.”

“Maybe.” But the young lawyer looked unconvinced. “I keep coming back to the funny land deal, although I'm still not sure what the connection is. The title seems to be clear enough as of the present. In the past, the difficulties appear to have been a little more than the usual contention over whether or not settlement duties were carried out. The thorniest of these cases often concern the districts where there was confusion over how many acres the land agent could claim as his own. I don't know whether or not this is one of those cases, or how it ties anything to Paul Sherman, but I have a colleague who has agreed to dig back through the registries to see what he can find. With any luck, I should have an answer before the trial begins.”

“There was an old man at one of my meetings who said his uncle farmed that land years ago, but that he couldn't ever get clear title. He seemed to think that Jack Plews didn't own it in the first place, because of the prior difficulties. And an old woman in Sully said she could remember several disputes in the neighbourhood.”

There was something else that Patience Gordon had told him, but Thaddeus couldn't quite retrieve the conversation from his memory.

“The general consensus around here is that the railway company will just pay off whoever owns the land so they can go ahead and build their station,” Martha said.

“Yes, that's what I've been hearing, too,” Thaddeus said. “It would be rather a lot of money by ordinary standards, but everyone seems to think it's nothing at all for the company. And I don't see how it could be enough to justify murder.”

Ashby shook his head. “People have been killed over the matter of a few pounds, you know. It happens all the time. But it does raise the question of someone besides Mr. Howell having a motive for murder, provided, of course, that Paul Sherman can somehow be tied to ownership of the land. After all, Howell and Plews already have their money from the sale, and sorting out the title is the railway's problem.”

“Even if you can find someone with a motive, don't you have to prove that this someone else actually shot Mr. Sherman?” Martha asked.

“No, actually. In this particular instance, the rule in Hodge's should apply.”

“Which is what?”

“The case against Ellen Howell rests on the premise that she and her husband went to Spook Island with criminal intent, and that the murder was committed in the course of enacting this intent.”

Martha nodded with impatience. Ashby had already explained this.

“This is based purely on circumstantial evidence. The rule says that the court can convict only if the evidence is consistent with the guilt of the accused and inconsistent with any other rational conclusion based on fact.”

“So if we can find someone else who had a good reason to kill Paul Sherman, that would be enough to prove Ellen Howell's innocence?” Thaddeus said.

“Well, not entirely,” Ashby said. “Circumstantial evidence can consist of many things. Motive is certainly important, and in this case George Howell doesn't appear to have one. He had opportunity — he was there on the island with Sherman — but I'm not sure the opportunity was exclusive. There were many other people on the lake that afternoon. Any one of them could have put ashore, or even, I suppose, have fired the shot from a boat.”

He stopped for a moment as a thought struck him. “I wonder no one heard the shot? Noises echo across water in a way they don't on land. Unless the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. You don't happen to remember what the wind was like that day, do you, Mr. Lewis?”

“No, I don't,” Thaddeus said, “but it doesn't matter. There was work being done on the bridge. The crews were putting in the log supports with a pile driver. I remarked at the time on what a racket they were making.”

“Excellent. Remind me to write that down later.”

No writing at all would take place unless Ashby started to eat a little faster, Thaddeus thought. He had been so busy talking that he had taken only a few bites of food from his plate.

“As well, a jury would have to consider whether or not Howell had the means to commit the crime,” Ashby went on. “No one knows if he had a firearm with him, so I expect a certain amount of doubt could be raised over that. And although he is certainly a bit of a shady character, there is no history of violence.”

The taste of Martha's excellent supper suddenly turned sour in Thaddeus's mouth. The livid marks on Ellen Howell's forearm were a sure sign of violence. The Gordons didn't seem to think that they had been inflicted by her husband, but Thaddeus could think of no other explanation for what he had seen. Reluctantly, he told Ashby about it.

“Really?” Ashby thought for a moment. “Were you the only person who saw the bruises?”

“Patience Gordon noticed them. And a number of other people did as well.”

“Still, that's no proof that Howell would kill a man. It's not good news as far as our defence goes, but there's a lot of difference between raising your hand to your wife and actually killing a man.”

“Not really,” Martha interjected. “If you can hit someone you love, what are you capable of with someone you don't?” She looked at her grandfather, as if she expected him to protest this statement. “We need to anticipate what the prosecution will say,” she pointed out. “I expect they would have rather a lot to say if they thought Mr. Howell was in the habit of beating his wife.”

“Yes, Martha, you're quite right,” Ashby said. “We'll just have to hope that the prosecution doesn't know about it. Whether or not they do, they certainly will make a great deal about Howell's apparent flight and continuing absence, but really, that and opportunity are the rather shaky cornerstones of the prosecution's case.”

“But if you find a connection between Mr. Howell and Mr. Sherman, don't you run the risk of supplying the motive?” Martha asked.

“My goodness, my dear, you could be a barrister yourself,” Ashby said with a laugh.

“But really,” she insisted, “aren't you taking a chance?”