Man in the Shadows (25 page)

She choked back tears. “I so wanted this to be a happy time, not a time of murder and funerals.”

“What’s the matter?” he pleaded awkwardly.

She looked deeply into his sad eyes and quietly sobbed, “I’m going to have a baby.” Her tears grew stronger. “But is it safe, John? Is it safe to bring a child into this?”

IN
the United States, McGee’s murder had turned some people against the Fenians. Many sympathized with the fallen Irish hero. General O’Neill had publicly condemned McGee’s murder as “dastardly and cowardly.” But Patrick O’Hagan could barely contain his excitement. Alone at night, he toasted the man in Canada and his holy work. And he spent his days preparing, recruiting men and stashing arms by the border.

It was all going according to plan.

The fate of our land

God hath placed in your hand;

He hath made you to know

The heart of your foe,

And the schemes he hath plann’d;

Think well who you are,

Know your soul and your star

Lady Macdonald knelt in the straight-backed, uncomfortable pew at St. Alban’s Church and prayed heartily. She prayed for her fragile husband; she prayed for the soul of his last wife, the invalid Isabella; she prayed for the soul of his lost son, little Johnny; she prayed for poor Mary McGee and her now-fatherless children. And she prayed for her unborn baby.

She was proud of the new church in Sandy Hill. It reminded her of a country chapel in England. She would have preferred a steeple and a grander altar, but the organ was fine and the woodwork quite magnificent. She was proud of her role raising funds and gathering supporters. D’Arcy McGee, the staunch Roman Catholic, had helped out when she told him that the first minister, Thomas Bedford-Jones, was an Irishman.

Lady Macdonald had started going to St. Alban’s Church daily. Sir John didn’t mind a weekly sermon and the occasional prayer for forgiveness, but every day, he told her, “was excessively excessive.”

John Macdonald had been born into the Church of Scotland—a Presbyterian—but he and his family had joined the Church of England when they came to Canada. He never really took to the kneeling and reciting in the Anglican ritual, but turning C of E was an easy step up the social ladder. And he always had his eye on the top rung.

He had one of his “headaches” this morning and begged off the Sunday service, so her brother Hewitt escorted her.

Agnes paid scant attention to the priest. She found the Reverend Bedford-Jones’s sermons wordy and ponderous. “One would think he was lecturing at Trinity,” she often complained. This morning’s sermon was about St. Alban himself, the first English saint, the namesake of the little gothic church. “Alban was a soldier in the Roman army,” Bedford-Jones informed the congregation, “in the second or third century. The scholars are uncertain of the exact date.” She nudged her brother, who was in danger
of falling asleep. “The Roman authorities were persecuting and hunting down the few Christians on the island, but Alban, even though he was a pagan, gave shelter to a Christian priest.” She was feeling the chill in the church. Would she ever become accustomed to this northern country? “The priest converted Alban. When Roman officers came in search of the Christian, Alban met them himself, dressed in the priest’s cloak. He was arrested and tried. He refused to renounce his new faith and was executed. He went to his death with the peace and blessing of a Christian.”

“So unsatisfactory,” she whispered to her brother. “If only he would explain the history less.” A man dressed in someone else’s clothes, wrongly arrested, refusing to renounce the other man and being executed. What nonsense!

She lined up patiently to approach the altar and take communion, knowing that the parishioners were watching her. She was, after all, a great man’s wife. As she took the wafer, the body of Christ, she prayed again for the innocent baby she carried. She prayed for peace and order. And she prayed for the end of Fenians and Irish extremists. As she took the wine, the blood of Christ, she solemnly prayed that this man Whelan, this vicious, cold-blooded murderer, would soon hang from his neck until he was dead.

That would be a blessed thing.

C
onor stood in front of Notre Dame Cathedral, leaning on a gas lamp, watching the people enter the church for Sunday Mass: women in bright bonnets; men in their best suits; some people chattering, others progressing solemnly. It was a dismal early-autumn morning; the dark skies threatened rain and the air had a damp chill in it. Across the river, the Gatineau hills held some autumn colour, but its vibrancy was dulled by the clouds. Flowers that could tough it out to early September brightened the church’s front; soon, a blanket of white would cover the gardens.

Conor stayed outside. The priest, the same man he saw the night of his argument with his father, looked out the door and beckoned him inside. He shook his head politely and mouthed, “No, thanks.” He thought for a second, and added, “
Non, merci.
”

He walked along the quiet streets of Lowertown. The market stalls were empty, the hawkers and hustlers relaxing before another busy harvest week. As he passed his father’s flat on Sussex Street, he hesitated but dared not peek inside. Lapierre’s and the many other bars were closed on Sunday, the drinkers sleeping off the night before. Thomas probably was, too.

Ottawa was such a small town, he thought he might have run into his father by now, but Conor spent most of his time in Uppertown and
Thomas rarely left Lowertown. He wasn’t sure what lured him to the front of his father’s flat. He knew Thomas had been arrested on the night of the assassination and had been freed when all the evidence pointed to James Whelan. He wanted to commiserate with him, but he was afraid of his anger. He wanted to ask Thomas for his forgiveness, but would he allow it? It was all so confusing. He had always craved the spotlight, but now he wanted to hide. He had worked so hard to create an impression of self-assuredness, but now he was uncertain and insecure. He was scared of tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, the trial would begin. Tomorrow, he would see James Whelan face to face.

He kept walking past his father’s door.

IT
was pandemonium outside the courthouse. The street was overflowing with people, many of whom had gathered for hours just to catch a glimpse of the bloodthirsty Fenian. A thousand tickets had been issued, but there was room for only four hundred people in the courtroom. Police and citizens were trading insults as Conor and the Trotter family were ushered past the fractious lineup.

They took their seats awaiting judge, jury and accused. A full-length portrait of Queen Victoria, in a gilt frame, hovered over the bench. Her Majesty would be staring down on Patrick James Whelan as his life went on trial.

JAMES
Whelan was still blinking, trying to adjust to the bright light, as he was led into the courthouse. The crowd greeted him with hisses, boos and jeers. He hung his head low in self-defence. As long as he could remember, he had been told British justice could not be trusted. Now his life depended on a British North American judge and a system that had failed his people for centuries.

Sitting in his prison cell, he had slowly come to understand his terrible fate. Marshall had used and deserted him. No legendary Fianna soldier would appear and miraculously save him. Only one man stood between him and the gallows, and he was hardly an Irish warrior. His lawyer, John Hillyard Cameron, was impressive, distinguished, eloquent—and also the grand master of the Orange Lodge.

“This should make a few heads turn, over at the lodge,” Cameron had joked, trying to cheer Whelan up.

The Orangeman was James Whelan’s only hope. He was not going to help himself. In prison, he had decided what he would do: he would not lie; he would declare his innocence, but he would not betray the guilty man. Like the Irish heroes of the past, he would remain faithful and loyal, even to the death. He really had no choice. If he told the truth, Marshall—or whatever his name really was—would certainly have his wife killed, and maybe his family in Ireland. And who would believe him anyway? They all wanted him dead. Everyone wanted him to hang except his “Loyal True Blue and Orange” lawyer.

Whelan took his place in the prisoner’s dock in the middle of the courtroom between two grim-faced policemen. His eyes were barely visible under his thick red eyebrows. He had changed in jail. His red beard was fuller, his complexion more pallid, his broad shoulders slumped. He had lost a lot of weight, but he still wore his tailored suit well. He placed his black silk hat neatly on the bench beside him and glanced around the courtroom. He saw his wife, Bridget, dressed in black, already looking like a widow. She had come from Montreal. He supposed she felt it was her duty to be there. She looked at him blankly. He had abandoned her by going to Ottawa, and he had brought shame on her family by associating with Fenians. Did she think he was guilty of this murder? It didn’t matter; she probably didn’t care anymore.

He searched for other friends or family, saw none and hung his head. He stood impassively when Chief Justice William Buell Richards entered, and he raised his head only when the court clerk read the charge. The first time most people in the room heard him speak was when he declared, in a clear but shaky voice, “Not guilty.”

The crowd jumped with excitement. Journalists rushed out of the room to report his impudence. Conor felt his own heart miss a beat, even though he had expected a plea of innocence. Chief Justice Richards pounded his gavel, demanding silence. When the commotion calmed down, he instructed the prosecutor, James O’Reilly, to state the case for the Crown.

James O’Reilly was from County Mayo, just north of Galway, where the O’Dea family was from. Like John Macdonald, he practised law in Kingston. Like D’Arcy McGee, he wore a beard but shaved his moustache. And like both, he was known for his quick wit. He displayed no sense of humour this day, however, as he eased himself out of his chair and walked toward the jurors.

“The evidence we will present will prove beyond the shadow of doubt that James Whelan is guilty of the murder of D’Arcy McGee.” Looking each juror in the eyes, he listed the facts of the case: Whelan had told friends in Montreal that he would like to see McGee dead; he had come to Ottawa after the Montreal election to plan the execution; he had been seen in the parliamentary visitors’ gallery, shaking his fist at McGee the night of the murder; he had carried a recently fired revolver, and the bullet matched the one that killed McGee; his boots matched one of the footprints, and a man wearing a long grey coat was seen near the scene of the crime.

Conor noticed a fly buzzing about. It landed on James Whelan’s forehead. He didn’t bother to swat at it. He just stared at the prosecutor. Conor wondered how Whelan felt, listening to such harsh words spoken against him, especially in an Irish accent.

“Patrick James Whelan had the misguided motive of an Irish revolutionary,” O’Reilly concluded, “and he shot D’Arcy McGee in cold blood that terrible April night.”

The courtroom theatrics fascinated Conor, but as the case proceeded, the plodding nature of the delivery of evidence bored him. He was sure McGee would have approved of the odd casting, though: a Catholic prosecuting a Fenian and a Protestant defending him in front of a stone-faced Irish-Catholic judge. This was the New World in a nutshell. His mind was still wandering when he heard his name. “The Crown calls Conor O’Dea.”

CONOR
walked anxiously to the stand. He was certain of what he saw, but uncertain what it meant. As D’Arcy McGee would have said, he knew the bare facts, but he hadn’t yet grasped the angle on the story, the perspective that provided its true meaning and significance.

James O’Reilly calmly asked him to recount the events leading up to McGee’s murder. Conor retraced his steps as best he could, describing their last words together, how they parted, and where he was when he and Will Trotter heard the gunshot.

“When you turned the corner onto Sparks Street, did you see anybody?” James O’Reilly asked.

“After I heard the shot, I was running at full speed and I might have missed something, but all I saw was Mr. McGee’s body lying in front of the boarding house.”

“Did you know it was him immediately?”

Conor cleared his throat. “I recognized his white hat on the ground beside him.”

“You recognized him from down the street by his clothing?”

“Yes.”

“And you were right?”

“Yes, sir.”

James O’Reilly walked across the courtroom dramatically, as if deep in thought. He looked at the jurors when he asked Conor, “Did you see anyone else on the street?”

“No, sir,” Conor answered. “When I rounded the corner and first saw Mr. McGee, the street was empty.”

O’Reilly quickly changed direction. “Then what did you do?”

“I rushed to Mr. McGee’s side, and my friend Will Trotter ran to the newspaper office.”

“Did you see anybody then?”

Conor knew the importance of his testimony to the prosecution. He couldn’t help glancing over at Whelan. The prisoner was watching him with a hint of curiosity.

“I saw a man hiding by the liquor store down the street,” Conor continued. “I yelled at him, and he ran away.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you see where he ran to?”

“I thought he ran into Offord’s House, across the street from the Toronto House. I followed him there. Or someone there.”

“Again, did you see his face?”

“No. The building was vacant and it was dark inside.” Conor felt a pang of shame. He knew that many in the courtroom must have felt he had lost the opportunity to catch the killer. He continued, sheepishly, “Someone was in the back. But he got away.”

“Did you see any trace of him?”