Man in the Shadows (27 page)

“Conor, what are you doing?” she gasped. “You scared me half to death.”

“Sshh,” he whispered. “I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“Lots of things.”

She didn’t say anything right away.

He asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, you come over here. Just hold me. Just hold me tight.”

T
homas O’Dea had been kept in jail for only two nights. His time as a prisoner of the state was uncomfortable, cramped, humiliating, but mercifully short. On the night of his release, he went to work at Lapierre’s. The talk at the bar was all about the arrests. A regular customer told him the latest Fenian chant:
It was with the greatest of glee I heard of the death of D’Arcy McGee.
He thought Thomas would enjoy the verse, but he didn’t. He found he couldn’t savour the taste of death. Not even McGee’s. This was a man’s life. A father and a husband. What kind of animal could shoot someone from behind in the middle of the night? No, it was not with glee that he heard of McGee’s death; it was with emerging shame—shame for Irish vengeance, shame for his own hatred, shame for his wasted life.

He had blamed McGee for deserting the cause of his homeland and for destroying his family. Now he had grounds to blame McGee for his own false arrest. But somehow, he couldn’t keep blaming a dead man, and he could find no joy in murder. It made him think: Had D’Arcy McGee caused the mess in his life, or had he done it to himself with a poisonous stew of jealousy, anger and resentment?

Another customer told him that Conor had been the first person to reach McGee’s side when he was murdered, that he held his corpse and even ran through the streets, screaming hysterically.
Thomas thought of those hours on Grosse Isle, holding his wife’s lifeless body. What about Conor? How was he? He wanted to talk to him, but how could he? He hoped, simply, that his son was all right.

THERE
were still some of Conor’s papers and books at Thomas O’Dea’s flat. In the past, looking at the scribbles, trying in vain to decipher their meaning, made him angry. Now it made him sad. Polly Ryan had urged Thomas to find out what was written there. A teacher who frequented Lapierre’s would read Thomas the latest newspaper reports about Whelan’s trial in exchange for a free beer or two. One day, Thomas brought in some of Conor’s papers and asked him to read them to him.

“Do you really want me to read this one?” the teacher asked. “It’s a poem by D’Arcy McGee.”

“Read it,” Thomas said. “Please.”

In the darkness of the tavern, the teacher strained his eyes to read the verses. He started haltingly:

Thomas interrupted. “When did he write this?”

“It says 1852 on the top of the page, when he was in exile from Ireland.”

Thomas nodded.
Poor storm-toss’d stranger
—that’s how he’d felt when he arrived in Canada. Did McGee feel the same way when he came to the New World?

“He loved Ireland, didn’t he?” Thomas said.

“Yes, he did. And he loved his wife. As I suppose you did, Thomas.”

And now there was this raven-haired girl with Conor. Were they in love? He asked the teacher to carry on reading.

Thomas O’Dea might not have been able to read or write, but his memory was crystal clear. He repeated the verse word for word. Yes, they had been “exiles both,” but McGee had made something of his life. He had not. The memories of his past attacked him—the famine … the coffin ship to Canada … holding his dying wife … losing his son.

Would God, Thomas thought, that I could change what I have done, quell my anger, repair my life. Would God that I could be with Conor again.

WHEN
Andrew Cullen was called to the stand, there was confusion in the courtroom. It was not a familiar name among those closely following the trial. Cullen had been sitting with an intense, square-shouldered man Conor couldn’t quite place. He spoke with the sing-song accent of County Clare. “I am a detective from Montreal. I got the news of Mr. McGee’s death and immediately came to Ottawa.” He looked at the man he had been sitting with, and added, “Under orders.”

“Are you familiar with the Ottawa jail where the defendant is confined?” James O’Reilly asked.

“Yes, I am. I visited there a number of times.”

“Can you describe the arrangement of the cells?”

“Yes, James Whelan was in cell ten and John Doyle in cell seven.”

“What was your purpose?”

“To hear what I could hear.” There was a burst of laughter in the crowd. It stopped under the glare of Justice Richards.

“And what did you hear?”

“I heard Doyle say, ‘James, I’m sorry you ever done it.’ Then I heard Whelan say, ‘I don’t care a damn. I’m prepared for the worst.’” There was now complete silence in the courtroom. “I heard James Whelan say, ‘Yes, I shot that fellow. I shot that fellow like a dog.’” James Whelan watched Cullen in disbelief. Reporters were writing furiously. Conor was shocked. D’Arcy McGee had taught him to think beyond the moment, and this moment was fraught with significance. Conor considered what had really happened. The prosecution was relying on eavesdropping. There was something desperate about that. They would need Doyle to substantiate it. But the fact remained that James O’Reilly did have a confession.

THE
new Ottawa jail was on Nicholas Street. Conor stood outside, feeling small and unnerved. He rubbed his hands through his hair, the way D’Arcy McGee used to, and slowly headed along the curved stone walkway toward the cold stone building. A tall, lanky guard opened the door for him. Another guard called out, “How long are you planning to stay?” An old and tired joke. But the guards all laughed. Conor counted four of them. Others must be in the cell blocks.

The jovial mood changed when the tall guard opened the first huge wooden door toward the cells. He and another guard led
Conor up the stairs, past rows of cells filled with petty criminals. Conor tried to ignore the swearing and catcalls from the cells. On the fourth floor, one guard unbolted a thick wooden door. The other stood beside it. Conor entered the hallway where the most dangerous criminals were kept. At the end of the hall, behind another locked door, was death row.

“Whelan, you have a visitor,” the jail guard growled.

James Whelan was slumped on a bed that took up most of his tiny, dark cell. He looked up, only slightly curious, as Conor approached the bars. The sole source of light was high above Conor’s head. Conor could hear birdsong outside. He wondered if it comforted Whelan or haunted him.

The guard waited down the hall, within both sight and earshot. He was armed and appeared eager to use his weapon if need be. Conor stumbled for his opening words. “How are you?” was the best he could do.

Whelan just shrugged. Life, or the prospect of death, had hardened him. “What are
you
doing here?” he replied bitterly.

Conor answered honestly. “I don’t know. I just want to talk to you.”

“You worked for McGee. You said you saw me on the street that night. You testified against me.” It was as if Whelan was reciting his reasons, in order, for hating Conor.

“I said I saw a man in a grey coat. I never said it was you.”

Again, Whelan shrugged. “Are you here to try to sneak another confession out of me? You’ve heard what they say about me: ‘He talks too much.’”

“Actually, I have a feeling that if you told everything you knew, it wouldn’t be a confession of guilt.”

“Perhaps,” Whelan said feebly. “Perhaps you were in court when I pleaded not guilty?”

Conor nodded. He noticed Whelan’s eyes were now permanently wide open in fright. Whelan stared above Conor’s head, out the high window. Conor let him have some time, then asked, “What about your confession in jail?”

“What confession? I remember saying he was shot like a dog, not that I shot him. Ask Doyle, if he’ll talk to you.”

“I hear he’s been fired at the Russell House.”

Whelan just shrugged. “I didn’t say it. But it doesn’t matter.”

Throughout the trial, Conor had been studying Whelan’s face, trying to remember him from the Montreal election, from around Parliament Hill. He was familiar, that was all. “When I was in Montreal during the election,” Conor said, “there was someone there stirring up trouble, but no one seemed to recognize him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Whelan responded, but Conor noticed that he was shivering.

“I think you know exactly what I’m saying.” He reached out for Whelan and held the bars separating them. Whelan shrank away. “Tell me about the other man Joseph Faulkner was talking about.” Conor was practically yelling.

Whelan stared back at Conor with wild, frightened eyes, weighing the odds, considering what to do. “They got to find me guilty yet,” was all he said.

But Conor was not about to give up.

“Are you a Fenian?” he asked.

“I don’t know anymore,” Whelan muttered, but added proudly, “I am an Irishman.”

Conor almost left then. In fact, he turned to go but stopped. He owed it to something—to the memory of D’Arcy McGee, maybe; strangely enough, also to his father—to get to the truth. McGee’s death would not be avenged by the wrong verdict. Canada would not be a safer place with an assassin at large, and his father … well,
this terrified man, engulfed by his own hatred, reminded him of his father.

“Mr. Whelan, I’m Irish, too. Tell me what happened. Please. I believe in you.”

James Whelan allowed his eyes to close. This young man didn’t just believe him; he believed
in
him. When he opened his eyes, they were filled with tears.

“I was there,” he said simply. “I held the horse for the man who killed McGee.”

“You were just an accomplice.”

“Yes, but I cheered him on.”

“Is he the man Faulkner talked about?”

Whelan nodded, swallowing hard.

“Where is he?” Conor persisted.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re saying he used you.”

“I guess so.”

“Then you have a lot in common with D’Arcy McGee. Unless something happens, this man will be responsible for both your deaths.”

Whelan dropped his head into his hands, but Conor was relentless. “Who is this man?”

Whelan lurched back, regaining his composure. “I don’t know. I knew him only as Marshall. You’re right. He was there in Montreal. We had a great time heckling McGee at rallies. He encouraged me and others to take it further—throwing eggs, tomatoes and eventually rocks.” He paused before saying, “He led the attack at the Mechanics’ Hall.” He looked at Conor and smiled. “I remember you there. You looked so hurt whenever we attacked your man.”

Conor ignored the jab. “Did he send you to Ottawa?”

“He never told me to move to Ottawa. That was my own doing.
I thought there would be better work here, but when I met up with him by chance, we became friends. I was lonely, and he made me feel important. He asked me to go to the Toronto House and look around, make notes for him. He told me to go to the House of Commons and said I should shake my fist at McGee to remind him of the summer, how Barney Devlin’s boys were still around. He even suggested I bring along my gun.” Whelan took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes. “He lent me his boots. And yes, he wore a grey coat—like the one he gave me.” James Whelan had not spoken that many words together in months.

“Tell your story to the court,” Conor pleaded. “You must tell people about him.”

“Don’t you understand, if I do talk, what will happen to my wife in Montreal? Or even my parents in Ireland? This is war, you know. And … and …”

“And what?”

“And this man named Marshall will be responsible to God for McGee’s death.”

“And your own.”

“Probably,” he answered distantly. “Still, I would rather be hanged than be known as a snitch.”

Now Conor had the answer. Whelan would rather die a martyr than be called an informer. There was little anyone could do for a man who refused to help himself. Whelan was doomed. But that was only part of the equation: D’Arcy McGee’s murderer was still at large.

“I understand now,” Conor told him. “I think you are wrong, but you are a very brave man.” Conor turned to the guard. He knew he had been listening. “Did you hear that? He’s innocent.”

“I am here to protect you, not listen to his lies. Your meeting is over.”

As the guard approached, Whelan asked, “You are Thomas O’Dea’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell your father to be careful.”

The guard briskly led Conor away. Conor never had a chance to ask James Whelan what he meant.

C
onor set up an appointment with Sir John A. Macdonald for eight-thirty the next evening at Macdonald’s home. As the former assistant to D’Arcy McGee, he had no trouble arranging an audience with the prime minister. Hewitt Bernard complained about the inconvenience, but added his name to the evening schedule.

Recently, the prime minister had moved his study upstairs. Macdonald’s doctor had said the drainage smell drifting into the main-floor office was bad for his health. Conor stayed downstairs, waiting to be announced. He understood the doctor’s concerns, but this was a rose garden compared to the outhouse behind his father’s flat. Months ago, his old pocket watch had stopped working, but he estimated that he had been waiting for nearly an hour. He could hear Sir John’s voice rise in anger from upstairs, but he couldn’t distinguish any words.

“Young man.”

Lady Macdonald’s voice startled Conor. He jumped to his feet, flustered. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry. You’re in good company. D’Arcy used to doze off while I was talking to him, too. Contemplating poetry, I liked to think.”