Sowing Poison (23 page)

Lewis hurriedly gave his information to the sleepy-eyed woman who answered the door, and urged her to tell her husband to hurry. Then he ran after McFaul. He arrived back at the scene just in time to see him bull his way into the middle of the fight, using the horse's bulk to force the combatants apart. Lewis waded in, as well. He grabbed a man who was flailing at another man's head and pinioned his arms behind him. So far it was only a fistfight, but he knew that it was only a matter of time until it occurred to one of the Orangemen to aim his gun. He could only hope that the constable arrived before then.

Suddenly, Francis was there beside him and Lewis watched as he threw himself at a man who was putting the boots to someone lying on the ground. The kicker was knocked off balance and Renwell assisted his fall to the ground with a deft trip that took the feet out from under the assailant. Neighbours began arriving and one by one the belligerents were separated and subdued.

It was then that McFaul showed the true measure of his character.

“This is a peaceful village,” he called out from his vantage point atop the horse. “We are in a peaceful season of the year. A season when we all, no matter our beliefs, gather to celebrate the good fortune providence has seen fit to grace us with. There are many creeds in this village — Anglican, Quaker, Presbyterian, Methodist,” this with a nod toward Lewis, “and Catholic.”

“It's the Catholic we don't hold with.” This was shouted by the man Renwell had thrown himself on top of. Renwell grabbed him by the back of his head and forced his face into the ground, effectively muzzling anything further he might have to say.

“And Catholic,” McFaul continued. “We have always respected the differences among us and celebrated the things that bind us together. This is a season for reflection, not action. I urge you all to desist this night. Go home to your families. Go peacefully, and there will be no consequences — am I right, Billy?”

Constable Williams had arrived belatedly, red-faced and puffing, with one bootlace still undone. As Lewis turned to watch his approach, he caught a glimpse of a small pale figure as it slid from the shadow of the hotel and continued along the main street.
Horatio, come to watch the melee?
But the boy didn't come down the side street and Lewis lost sight of him in the dark.

McFaul greeted the constable as he finally reached the crowd. “There will be no arrests this night, will there Bill? Not if they all go home now?”

The constable looked around in confusion, then wisely decided to follow McFaul's lead.

“No, I won't haul anybody in if you all go peaceable now. We'll lay this to rest here and now. Off you go now, but I want your guns.”

There was a grumble at this. “Don't you worry — you can come and get them in the morning. You just can't have them tonight.”

Lewis thought this an uncharacteristically brilliant move on the part of the constable. Not only would it help eliminate further violence tonight, but whoever wanted to reclaim a weapon would be forced to ask for it back. The constable would have the names of at least some of the attackers.

One by one, the brawlers were released from their holds and one by one the Orangemen slunk off. Donovan's guests were about to return to the house, but the constable stopped them.

“I think the party's over,” he said. “You can all go home, too.”

As soon as Lewis's services as peacekeeper were no longer needed, he went to check on his family. It was no surprise to him that his door was firmly locked.

He knocked. “It's me. I think you're safe now.”

The door opened a crack. “What was that all about?” Betsy asked.

“It was just nonsense,” he replied. “But it's done with now. Are you all right?”

Betsy opened the door further. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I got the poker. If any of them had come in here they'd have left with a sore head.”

He smiled. “I knew I could count on you. I'm just going to walk up the street and make sure the trouble is over with — for now, anyway.” He had no real hope that this would be the last incident of the sort. Scenes like this were no doubt being repeated across the province.

As Lewis walked up toward the main street, there were still a few people slowly making their way home along the road. But Lewis spotted someone else there, as well, someone who tiptoed from shadow to shadow, someone who was trying not to be seen.
A brawler returning to finish what had been started?

Lewis moved into the canopy of shadows and began to follow the slinking figure.

Clementine had been on the edge of going mad all day, her nerves stretched and jangled as she looked for a way out. After Reuben left, she had begun to pack, weighing her choices carefully as she stuffed items into her valise. They would be able to take only what they could carry. Everything else — the trunk, the camera, all of the items she used in the pursuit of dead spirits, would have to be left behind. She and Horatio had gone down to the dining room to take their meal as usual; it would have excited far too much comment if they had stayed in their rooms. But she had been too nauseated to eat much, and she was unable to keep her attention focused on the conversation around her.

After dinner, they had returned to their rooms and waited. She rechecked her packing a dozen times and wept a little over the articles she would have to leave behind. The only other thing she could do was pace up and down the room. She had told her son what she wanted him to do as soon as he had a chance, and he waited with her. She knew he was bored, but she wanted him close in case an opportunity presented itself. He played incessantly with the jig doll he had been given, the jointed wooden feet making a constant clatter that grated on her already taut nerves.

Finally, it was suppertime, and again she forced herself to go to the dining room; this time she could eat nothing at all, but she did take a glass of wine, which helped soothe her nerves a bit. The preacher and his family were noticeably absent.

“They all went for a nap.” The innkeeper chuckled. “My guess is that they're out for the count. They'll wake up tomorrow morning and wonder what happened to the day.”

This was welcome news.
Fewer people to dodge
. She knew that the cook went home after the supper dishes were cleared up. The innkeeper's wife was still in bed. That left only the innkeeper himself and the son-in-law. She would wait a while more, until the hotel was locked and shuttered for the night; then with any luck, she and the boy could slip out the front door unnoticed.

Luck did not favour her, however. The cook did not go home. She, too, waited until the innkeeper had gone to sit with his invalid wife and then she and the son-in-law tiptoed into the front parlour.

Clementine had been mildly amused by the budding romance, but now she cursed it. There was no way they could slide past without being seen — as befitted a gentleman with honourable intentions, Renwell had not closed the door to the small room.

The couple remained there for an hour or more. She could hear the low murmur of their voices if she went to the top of the stairs, and she did this every five minutes or so.
Would they never leave?
Finally, she heard footsteps. The cook had moved into the hall.

“Goodnight then. I'll see you tomorrow,” she said.

Whatever her suitor replied was indistinct, but she heard the front door open and close again, and then more footsteps as Renwell walked to his small room at the back of the hotel. She was about to set her plan in motion when she heard what sounded like a gunshot. She ran down the stairs, reaching the bottom just as the innkeeper entered the hall.

“There's a bit of a disturbance on the back street,” he told her. I don't know what it's all about, but Mr. Renwell has gone to find out. I can't imagine there's any real danger.”

“My goodness,” she said. “Is someone being robbed?”

“No, nothing like that. Likely just a few people who've had a little too much drink. Nothing to worry about. If it would make you feel safer, you and the boy could come and sit with us in our room. My wife, of course, is rather anchored there, and anxious for company.”

Perfect
.

“I think we'll be all right on our own,” she said, “but thank you for asking. I'll make sure my door is securely locked. You go and be with your wife. She needs you more than we do, I'm sure.”

He nodded and went back down the hall. She waited until she heard his door close and then ran up the stairs.

“Now,” she hissed. “I'll be there in a few minutes.”

Far less likely that they would be seen if they went separately
. Clementine stepped out onto the second floor verandah and watched as the boy slipped down the street. She would give him time to reach the stable and then she would follow.

She had to wait longer than she had intended, for people were pouring out of the nearby houses to see — or join in — the fight, she couldn't really tell which. Finally, it appeared that the excitement was over as groups of men emerged from the side street. She waited until she saw the constable go by with an armload of guns, then crept down the stairs. Horatio had left the door unlocked for her. She silenced the bell with her hand and slid out into the night.

Clementine hoped that everyone would now be back in their houses, recounting the details of what had happened. Wives and children would all be sitting in their kitchens, no doubt, while tales of derring-do were spun.

She decided to keep to the shadows as much as she could and hoped that the boy had managed to harness a horse without alerting the stable-keeper. She had concocted a story about being called away suddenly, just in case, but it would be far better if they were neither seen nor heard.

“Out for a stroll? It's a dangerous night for a midnight walk.”

Clementine jumped when she heard the voice.

The damned preacher!
She considered bolting, but thought better of it. She could never outrun him, not even if she dropped the bag she was carrying.
Better to stick to the story and hope it would hold water
.

“Oh, Mr. Lewis,” she said. She didn't bother affecting the southern drawl. “I'm so happy to see you. I wanted to say goodbye but I couldn't find you. I've been called away rather suddenly, I'm afraid.”

“So suddenly that you couldn't pay your bill? My, my, that's an emergency indeed.”

She hesitated.
Did he know for sure that she was skipping out, or was he just guessing?
The one thing she had learned in all the years in the game, though, was to keep the story going until you were sure it was lost.

“My mother has been taken ill suddenly,” she said. “I didn't want to disturb the innkeeper. Please let him know that I'll settle up with him when I return.”

“I expected a better story from one so accomplished in the fraudulent arts,” Lewis said. “You seem to be losing your touch. What happened today when Reuben came visiting? You seemed pretty rattled.”

She regarded him warily.
How much did he know? Too much, it seemed
.

“I had all the moaning and groaning and ghosts up on the second floor pegged as nonsense right from the start,” he went on. “I've known for some time that you went by the name of LeClair while you were in New York and that Mr. Gilmour was following you in the hopes that he might collect the reward that was offered. Just a little while ago I figured out that Nate's return was a scheme hatched so that he could get away cleanly and Reuben could inherit the farm. Do you want to fill me in on the rest of it? Something else has gone sadly amiss, I would guess, otherwise you wouldn't be scuttling away in the dead of night. I take it Horatio, or should I say Joe — that's his real name isn't it? — is waiting with the horse and cart a little farther up the road?”

Did any of it even matter now?
She decided it didn't. “Nathan Elliott just came home.”

It was the last thing Lewis had expected to hear and he struggled to make sense of this statement. “But Nate is dead.”

So he hadn't put all the pieces together yet. Too late to backtrack now. Carry on and hope he can be diverted somehow.

“No,” she hissed. “My husband is dead. And now Nate is back.”

She looked around, but there was no one else on the street. There was little likelihood that anyone could hear.

“We were trying to cover our tracks, so we booked a squalid little room in a poor neighbourhood in New York. The previous occupant had been unable to pay his rent and had disappeared abruptly. He left some things behind — a few pieces of clothing. They were little more than rags, but there were some letters in a jacket pocket. They belonged to a Nathan Elliott. We didn't think anything of them until Reuben showed up, looking for his brother.”

Lewis nodded. Reuben must have been desperate. He thought he had located the long-lost Nate, only to find that he had once again disappeared like a wisp of smoke.

“We knew that Van Sylen had offered a reward and that sooner or later someone would catch up with us. Jack offered Reuben a deal that was supposed to have taken care of both problems. Jack would pretend to be Nate, and Reuben would help Jack disappear.”

“Jack?”

“My husband.” Her voice broke a little as she said this.

“So it was Jack we buried?”

She nodded. “He was supposed to have met me in Niagara Falls. He would sign the agreement, and I was to bring it here to collect the money. When he didn't show up, I came here anyway. I didn't know what else to do. I wondered for a time if I'd been double-crossed, if Jack had taken the money and run. Then I discovered that he truly had disappeared. Reuben claimed that everything had been going as planned and that he had no idea what had really happened. When you found all those bodies, I finally realized what was going on. It wasn't Jack who was doing the double-crossing.”

“And Reuben wouldn't give you the money he'd promised in the original agreement?”

“No. And I couldn't expose him without exposing myself. I thought I could rattle him if I threatened to go to the courts. That was also my insurance policy. I made sure everyone knew about it. That way it would be far too suspicious if a second Elliott disappeared mysteriously.”

“And now the real Nate Elliott has returned, and the game is up.”

She sighed. “It's all been for nothing. I wish we'd never heard of Nate Elliott.”

“So the question is,” Lewis said. “What do you think really happened to Jack?”

She looked at him squarely, trying to judge what he would do. “I think Reuben murdered him and left his body in the marsh. I think Reuben would murder me if he thought he could get away with it. I don't have any proof of this. All I know for sure is that it's time for me to be on my way.”

“Where is Nate Elliott now?”

“At the farm, as far as I know. At least that's what Reuben told me this morning.”

They could hear the sound of an approaching horse. Lewis turned and Clementine slipped back into the shadows.
It was now or never. Go to the farm; please decide to go to the farm. Go save the brother. Let me leave.

“Just tell me one more thing,” she heard Lewis call out softly. “What's your real name?”

It was the last thing she expected him to ask, and she took a moment to answer. “It doesn't matter. Just remember me as Clementine.” And then she ran.

The man on horseback was McFaul, patrolling the street to be sure that everyone had returned to their homes and that there would be no further trouble.

Lewis thought furiously in the few seconds he had before McFaul greeted him.
Just how desperate would Reuben be?
If he had committed one murder, would he see a second as an equally convenient solution to his problem? No one besides himself, Clementine, and Reuben knew that the real Nate Elliott had returned, and Reuben would be unaware that Lewis knew. Reuben would assume that if Nate went missing now, no one would ever go looking for him.

“Ah, Preacher.” McFaul had reached him. “All seems quiet now.”

“I don't think you'll hear any more from the Orangemen tonight,” Lewis replied. “But there may be trouble brewing somewhere else. Do you suppose I could borrow your horse?”

There must have been an urgency in his voice, because McFaul looked at him coolly and said, “Hop up behind me and I'll take you to wherever you're going. You can tell me about it on the way.”

It was not far to the Elliott farm. Despite the fact that the horse was carrying two men, it took only a few minutes to reach the house. Lewis gave a barebones account of what he had discovered as they rode. He knew that McFaul had many questions, but the man seemed to realize that these could be answered later. They leapt from the horse and ran into the Elliott kitchen. There was no one there, although the stove was hot and the remains of a meal were on the table. Whatever Reuben had planned to do, he had waited until he had the cover of darkness to do it.

“I don't think they've been gone long,” McFaul said, looking around the kitchen. “And they had quite a feast before they left.” He laid his hand against a pot at one end of the table. “This is still warm.”

Lewis stood in the doorway, surveying the scene.
The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe
, and like C. Auguste Dupin, observation had become of late a species of necessity with him. A man's life might well depend on what he could observe in this untidy kitchen.

It had occurred to him that Clementine's claim that the real Nathan Elliott had returned might be a feint designed to distract him while she fled, but he could see that the table had been set for two, and two glasses had been used, although only one had been drained. Reuben's guest could have been anyone, however — a neighbour, a relative, a friend.

He went to the sideboard and inspected the many bottles that were there — whisky and rum, mostly, along with several decanters and a number of unwashed glasses. But tucked away, just behind a jug of cider, was a small brown bottle.

It was a container of the sort used for tonics and elixirs. It was uncorked. Lewis sniffed at the open neck. There was a distinctive smell that he recognized immediately: the tang of herbs in a laudanum mixture. Betsy took something similar at times, when the pain was bad and they could afford it. When he tipped the bottle upside-down, not a drop came out.