Sowing Poison (2 page)

The woman pulled her cloak a little closer around her neck, but no clothing seemed able to protect her from the insidious damp that seeped into everything, even the bench she sat on, which still felt clammy underneath her after so many hours. Her neck was stiff and sore and her legs hurt from bracing herself against the roll of the vessel. She hadn't expected the constant climbing and slamming as the steamer fought its way through the choppy water, nor the bitter cold that gripped the cabin in spite of the small stove that puffed away in the middle of the room. Even when she managed to ignore her discomfort long enough to doze a little, the steamer whistle would startle her awake whenever they approached another squalid little lake port, where she would straighten herself up in her seat as other passengers departed or boarded.

After the porter announced that Wellington was the next stop, she was ready for the shriek of the whistle and jumped only a little as it signalled the ship's approach. She had never been so glad to see the end of a journey.

For her son's sake, she had tried to make their travels seem like an adventure, and when they first set off he had been intrigued by the passing sights along the Hudson River and the wonder of watching the mules pulling the ship through the canal. This had soon palled, however, and he had become bored and whiney. They were both relieved when they finally disembarked and made their connection to Niagara Falls. Here their spirits had been revived by the sight of the great cascades of water rushing over the cliff to the whirlpool below, and she had taken off her hat and leaned as far as she dared over the railing so the spray could wash her face clean.

Her exhilaration had quickly worn off when she discovered that accommodation in the resort town was expensive, even for the tiniest of rooms. She and her husband had divided what was left of their money before they split up. There wasn't nearly as much as there should have been — they had both spent lavishly in the mistaken belief that the flow of income would never end. She knew it would be unwise to try to augment her purse here in this border town — it would draw far too much attention and there were many Americans at the hotel. Niagara Falls was a popular destination for New Yorkers looking for a change of scene, and any one of them could give her whereabouts away with a casual comment once they returned home. Better to bide her time until they were all together again. Then they would test the winds of circumstance and set a course for their next destination.

Day after day she waited, as the money drained away. After a week, she decided that she could wait no longer. She was told that there was a fairly reliable coach service that would take them on to Wellington, but that there would be several time-wasting stops along the way. She was also informed that if the road was muddy, the passengers were expected to get out and walk. She found this an unappealing prospect.

The steamer was more expensive, but if they went by coach she would have to pay for an inn wherever they stopped, with no prospect of finding any customers during the short overnight stays. Besides, she didn't think she could abide the jostling of a coach for so many miles.

Ultimately, she decided that it was faster and cheaper to go by water. She briefly considered neglecting to settle her hotel bill, but decided that this would draw too much attention to the fact that she had been in Niagara Falls. Reluctantly, she handed over what she owed. The few coins she had left were barely enough to cover the steamship fare, with nothing extra for private quarters. So she and the boy spent the entire journey sitting up on the benches provided in the public cabin. As a result, she was sore and exhausted and the boy had begun to whine again. She looked at her son anxiously; he was pale at the best of times, but now his face had an ashen tinge to it that matched the slate-coloured sky that stretched away to the horizon.

As soon as the captain had signalled their approach, she had risen and gone to the cabin window. She could see that Wellington was no bigger or better than any of the other towns they had called at along the way, and she felt a twinge of homesickness for the chaotic bustle of city streets. There were several men waiting with carts at the wharf, and as soon as the gangplank was lowered she directed the porter to load their luggage into one of these. It was little more than a hay wagon, with a board laid across to serve as a seat, but it was no worse than any of the others, and the carter looked friendly.

“Where to ma'am?” he asked as he helped her up onto the seat.

She hesitated. Should she go straight to the farm or find a quiet inn where she could stay until she found out what had happened? But the village was too small for that. She could scarcely pass as a stranger. Best to talk to Reuben first. Besides, her husband could well be waiting there, delayed by some unforeseen event and his message to that effect gone astray.

“Ma'am?” The carter sat, reins in hand, waiting for her instruction.

She made her decision. “Do you know the Reuben Elliott place? I'm told it's not far from here.”

The carter nodded and set his team in motion with a flick of the reins. He seemed uncurious about who she was or what her business might be with the Elliotts. She blessed the man's stolidity as they rumbled down Wellington's main street.

An hour later they were rumbling back again. Reuben had seemed annoyed when he realized who it was at his door. He had admitted her only as far as the front hall while the carter waited with the wagon. Reuben had imparted little information other than the bare facts that her husband had disappeared nearly a week previously, and that he had no idea what had happened to him after that. He had not offered accommodation, or any sort of assistance. Reluctantly, she had climbed back into the wagon and directed the carter to return her to Wellington.

Her mind was in a whirl. Something had gone wrong, that much seemed clear.
But what?
Until she knew what had happened, she decided, she would stay the course.

As they drove along the main street, she realized that the village was even smaller than it had appeared from the water.

The carter took her to a tavern. As he halted his team, the tavern door swung open and two men staggered outside. It was still only early afternoon, but it was apparent that they were already drunk.

“Is there anywhere else?” she asked her driver. “A respectable inn, if such a thing exists. Somewhere a lady might stay with her son without fear of interference?”

The carter wrinkled his brow and seemed to think deeply for a moment. Then his face brightened. “Well now, there's the new place. The Temperance House. It doesn't serve liquor. It seems very respectable, although I don't know of anyone who's stayed there. It's new, you see.”

“Perfect. Please take me there.”
No drunks to chase the women away
, she thought, for she would have to work while she waited.
Easy pickings. But I'll have to be careful.

After days of searching, it was evident to all that although Nate Elliott's body might yet be found, there was little hope that it would still be breathing. After the second day, the number of volunteers had dwindled. Many had either been called away by their own business or had become discouraged by the lack of progress. Lewis was among the stubborn few who continued to rendezvous at Murphy's Tavern each morning, but as the constable could do little but direct them to go over the ground that had already been covered, it seemed a futile exercise, and after the fifth day the search was officially called off.

Lewis had found the long hours of tramping across fields exhausting, and, relieved of this duty, he settled in that afternoon to the pleasant pastime of looking through the papers that were provided for the convenience of the guests at the Temperance House Hotel. The dining room was deserted by two in the afternoon, as the hotel currently hosted only a single guest, who by that time had long since finished his dinner and departed. The morning chores were done, the evening chores not yet pressing, and Lewis spread the pages out on one of the tables and read while sipping his cup of tea. With this indulgence, his aches and pains began to subside. He felt only mildly guilty. In a way, he felt that he had earned this luxurious diversion. Prior to his recent exertions, he had spent four years tracking a killer, and when the chase had finally ended, he had continued to ride the circuits saving souls for the Methodist Episcopal Church. During it all, he had been aware of a profound sense of weariness. Part of it was physical; he had gone back to the travelling life too soon, he now knew, after a plunge into the icy waters between Kingston and Wolfe Island had nearly killed him. Every winter since, he had developed a hacking cough that plagued him until spring, and long hours on horseback through wind and rain and snow sapped his strength and made his bones ache.

He also knew that part of his fatigue was emotional. He had caught a murderer and watched him die, and although the crimes had been stopped, he was still trying to make sense of them. He had come to realize how much he treasured his family and how transient life could be, for five women, including his own daughter, had been killed, and his granddaughter had almost been taken too, all because of the twisted passions of the Simms family. He had been deeply shaken by the evil he had uncovered.

As a result, Lewis had been mulling over his options as he attended to the constant round of prayer meetings and sermons, study classes and Sunday schools. For a long time he had persisted in what he had always considered his true calling, but it had been a struggle. And then his wife, Betsy, precipitated a crisis that put an end to his travelling days.

Nearly a year ago, just before Christmas, she had taken an alarming turn that had rattled him to the core. She had been fighting mysterious fevers and agues for several years, but he had been sure that she was on the mend. Then one terrible day, he had arrived home to find she had fallen, insensible. She had stayed that way for five days. At the time he thought he would lose her, and he tried to steel himself for what appeared inevitable. But just as mysteriously as it had arrived, the pall of unconsciousness had lifted. An apoplexy, the doctor said — a small one, but a warning of what was to come.

As with the fevers, her recovery was erratic. Some days she could barely move from her bed, and when she did she walked with a pronounced limp and had difficulty speaking or using her left arm. On other days her infirmity seemed slight, and as long as she didn't overdo it, she could tidy up her own kitchen and direct both Thaddeus and their granddaughter Martha in the household tasks that they both performed clumsily. Lewis thought that eight-year-old Martha was actually more help than he was, but he tried to do Betsy's bidding without complaint, for he knew that the next day could find her once again unable to stir from her bed.

Even so, he wasn't sure how they could have managed without the help of their landlords, Seth and Minta Jessup, who lived in the other half of the house behind Seth's smithy in the town of Demorestville. Minta had helped to nurse Betsy through the initial stages of her illness, but Minta had a young family who quite rightly claimed a great deal of her attention. Seth had not pressed Lewis for the small amount of rent he charged them, but it was clear that they could not continue to rely on the Jessups' charity, as much as the couple appeared willing to help.

And then he had received a letter from his sister, Susannah. She wrote that she and her husband Daniel had leased a hotel in the village of Wellington, a small village some fifteen miles or so southwest of Demorestville. Although his father had left him a farm, Daniel was tired of farming and had fastened on the idea of entering the hotel business. Lewis wasn't sure that it was a wise move; Daniel had never done anything but plough fields and milk cows. But the pair seemed determined. Furthermore, Susannah had written that there was a small house — nothing more than a cabin, really — at the back of the property, which he and Betsy could have if Lewis was willing to lend a hand now and then when business was too brisk for the two of them to manage.

It seemed a sensible arrangement. They could take their meals at the hotel, Susannah said, relieving them of the daily struggle in the kitchen. There would be no rent to pay, and surely Lewis could find something to do that would provide enough money for any of their other needs, which at the best of times were modest. Perhaps there were enough Methodists in the village to support a located preacher; if not, he was sure that someone in the bustling town would need occasional help — clerking or bookkeeping or private tutoring. He was too old for anything very physical, but as an educated man and a former minister and teacher, he was sure his skills could be turned into some source of ready cash.

As far as he could see, the only problem with the suggestion was a promise he had made to Betsy. He had been appointed to one different circuit after another over the years, and she had cheerfully moved from district to district with him. Two years ago, however, she had abruptly announced that her moving days were over and that she intended to stay put in the half-house in Demorestville. She would have to release him from his promise not to make her move again before he could accept his sister's offer.

He had underestimated his wife's practicality.

“It would be a relief to me,” she said when he read the letter to her. “I've been worrying about how much we ask of Seth and Minta, though they've never said a word to me. Minta has enough to do, what with looking after Henry and little Rachel, and we've trespassed on Seth's generosity long enough. I'll be sorry to leave here, but I don't see how we can stay, do you?”

He didn't, and so he had written to his sister to accept their invitation.

The newly named Temperance House Hotel was a large, rambling three-storey building with a graceful double verandah fronting on Wellington's main street. It was perfectly situated to offer accommodation to travellers on the Danforth Road, the main route between Toronto and Kingston, or to farmers bringing their produce to the wharves at the nearby harbour. A hotel situated on such a well-travelled thoroughfare should have been a going concern, but Daniel had decided to offer only wines and ale at the hotel, and to forego the sale of hard liquor, and, furthermore, to advertise that fact in the hotel's name. Lewis approved of his brother-in-law's decision. There was too much drunkenness in Canada West, liquor too easily obtained, and at the hotels that also served as taverns the noise of rowdy patrons was a constant source of annoyance to those trying to sleep in the rooms above.