Sowing Poison (4 page)

Clementine stood at her upstairs window and watched as two women struggled down the street toward the hotel. She recognized one of them; the woman had been at the fusty little dry goods store the day before when she had called, and had seemed quite interested when she had been handed a card. The woman's eyes had been red-rimmed.
A recent loss, and a heavy one from the look of it
, she had thought at the time. She would have spoken with the woman at greater length, but she had barely been able to get a word past the prattling of the little dressmaker who worked at a table in the corner. Fortunately, the gossipy woman had happily filled Clementine in on the details she needed to know after the woman had left.

“That's Mrs. Sprung. Poor lady lost her little girl in an accident just a month ago. She's only just managed to pull herself together and go out once in a while.”

“How dreadful,” Clementine had murmured. “Whatever happened?”

She was treated to a blow-by-blow account of a runaway horse, a small child slipping in the street in front of it, broken, shattered bones, and the wails of the mother when it was discovered that the life had been battered out of her child. She had filed each detail away in her memory. The dressmaker had a very loose tongue, and Clementine made a mental note to frequent the store as often as possible.

Clementine had known that it was only a matter of time until the grieving woman came to her, but she was surprised she had come so soon. It was nearly always a woman who made the first approach, and most often they brought someone with them the first time, for comfort and support. The second woman in the street beside her could be safely ignored.

“Is the room ready?” she asked the boy, over her shoulder.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Bring me my shawl.”

“Yes, Mama.” His tone was flat. The boy always did what she asked, and with his father gone he had proved to be an enormous help to her; but she realized that she was never quite sure what this pale son of hers was thinking. There was no time to worry about it now, though, for the two women had arrived at the front door.

Clara Sprung hesitated as she and her companion reached the hotel. If her husband, Ezra, knew what she was doing, he would be furious. She had wondered at it herself all the way down the street, but the prospect of once again talking to, maybe even seeing little Amelia, was a possibility that she couldn't ignore. One part of her mind argued that the whole enterprise was a waste of money, and that Ezra would be sure to notice the missing coins. Another insisted that this woman could indeed hold the key to finding out what had really happened to her darling Amelia, in spite of the assurances of the preachers that the little girl had without doubt gone to heaven and was even now basking in the glow of God's blessing. She needed to know firsthand. But just in case her judgment had deserted her entirely, she had decided to bring her sister Harriet with her.

She was a little taken aback when she stepped inside and saw Mr. Lewis in the hallway. Everyone knew about him, of course. He had tracked down a notorious killer and brought him to justice. The whole village had been atwitter when he and his ailing wife had moved into the community. But she had been so flustered at the thought of speaking with her sweet little girl again that she had forgotten that Lewis was now helping to run the hotel. She had attended Methodist meetings on occasion, before she had settled into the habit of going along to the Church of England, and she was fairly certain what this preacher's view of trying to contact the afterlife would be. Would he remonstrate with her, right here in the front hall of the hotel? Send her away; tell her she was nothing but a foolish woman? But he merely nodded and showed her up the stairs to Mrs. Elliott's sitting room. She and Harriet were invited to take a seat at the table and the door was firmly shut in the preacher's face.

Lewis didn't know either of the two women who disappeared into the sitting room, but Daniel passed them in the hall and was quick to fill him in.

“One of them is Ezra Sprung's wife,” he informed him. “They lost their little girl a while back. I expect that's why she's here, to see if Mrs. Elliott can help. The other is Mrs. Sprung's sister. Sad, isn't it?”

With the arrival of a paying customer, Lewis's dilemma regarding Clementine Elliott's activities had suddenly moved from the theoretical to the actual. He tried again to persuade Daniel to put a stop to it. “Do you really think we should be subscribing to this?” he insisted. “It can't be anything more than party tricks, and she's using
your
premises to perform them in.”

Daniel was having none of it. “I don't see that it's any of our concern what she does in her rooms as long as it's not illegal or outright immoral. If she wants to carry on her business while she's here, who are we to stop her?”

Lewis felt that this statement was on extremely shaky ethical ground. “But if it's fraudulent in any way, that would be neither legal nor moral. And you could be held culpable in the consequences.”

“I don't see how,” Daniel scoffed. “Besides, who's to say that she doesn't have a genuine ability to communicate with the afterlife? God has wrought greater miracles. Think of Daniel in the lion's den, or Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace.”

Lewis was at a loss as to how he should counter this argument. God had indeed wrought many miracles in the Bible, but the preacher had a great deal of difficulty believing that the same agency was at work in a hotel room in Canada West. But as Daniel pointed out, it was a difficult argument to uphold. How could you convince people of the miracle of God's grace if you denied them what they perceived as evidence of that grace, especially when it was impossible to prove it otherwise?

It was obvious that Daniel was not to be persuaded. For now, all Lewis could do was keep his eyes and ears open. When he had collected enough information to make his case, and he was certain that he would, he would once again ask Daniel to put a stop to the nonsense.

Lewis made sure to be standing near the landing when the two women descended the staircase two hours later. Tears were running down Mrs. Sprung's face and she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Whatever had happened upstairs must have been upsetting, indeed, he thought, but then he realized that her sister wore a puzzled expression that was tinged with more than a little awe.

“There, there, Clara,” she said, patting the woman on the back. “It's what you wanted, after all.”

“I know, I know, it was wondrous to see her again. It's just that it's given me such a turn.”

Lewis stepped back into the dining room before the women spotted him. He was puzzled. Whatever had happened in the upstairs room had affected Mrs. Sprung profoundly. Her sister less so, perhaps, but she had obviously been impressed.
How had Mrs. Elliott convinced them that a dead girl was communicating from beyond?

Clara Sprung might well have remained Clementine's only client if it hadn't been for the early winter storm that blew in the next evening.

Lewis had known it was coming. One of the enduring effects of his wife's prolonged struggle with ill health was her ability to foretell the weather. All would appear to be fine until, in the middle of cooking dinner or sweeping the floor, she would suddenly stand stock-still with a preoccupied expression on her face. The next moment she would be clutching the table, her legs barely able to support her weight, and it would be a struggle for her to make it even as far as the kitchen bed, where she would collapse in agony. This pain was merely a herald. After an hour or so of lying immobile she could often get up again and resume her chores, but she would know that the respite was temporary, for as soon as the wind started to blow in from the east she would have to return to her bed.

He found her there when he carried in the supper Susannah had made for them. Martha, like the good girl she was, had fed the fire to boil up some tea, but was struggling to lift the heavy kettle off the stove without spilling it on herself.

“Storm coming?” he asked, and Betsy's groaned reply was all the answer he needed.

By the time they finished eating, the wind was pounding in great gusts against the house, making the pottery rattle and setting up a multitude of draughts that whistled through the windows and sought out even the coziest corners of the room. Lewis chased Martha off to bed and got an extra quilt to cover Betsy. He would spend the night in the chair by the stove, both to keep an eye on his ailing wife and to feed the fire. It was no hardship for someone who had spent many years on horseback in all weathers, with many a night passed huddled under just a cloak in a barn somewhere or in an indifferent bed provided to him by some well-meaning but indigent Methodist supporter.

He dozed off for a while, but was awakened by the sound of ice pellets pattering on the roof. This was a nasty one, he reflected, and he sent up a prayer for anyone caught in the open country, or on a ship out on the lake. He slipped another log into the stove and glanced out the window. He couldn't see a thing. The small pane of glass was completely glazed over with a layer of ice. He felt Betsy's hand under the covers. She seemed warm enough, so he returned to his chair and had soon dozed off again.

He slept heavily until morning, when he woke to the sound of Martha filling the kettle from the water bucket. Betsy seemed better now that the storm appeared to have blown itself out.

“Could you run up to the hotel and ask Susannah for a couple of biscuits?” he asked the little girl. Betsy's recovery would be faster if he could get her to eat a little biscuit softened in her tea.

Martha ran to the door and pulled at the latch, but nothing happened. She pulled harder, but still it remained stubbornly closed.

She turned back to Lewis. “Can you help me, Grandpa? I can't get the door open.”

“What? Have you gone all feeble all of a sudden?” he teased, but when he pulled at it he could get it to budge no more than she could.

He doubled his efforts, but the door remained stubbornly fast.

“Well now, there's a conundrum,” he said, as Martha's eyes grew wide.

“Are we stuck here forever?”

“Oh, no, don't worry. I think it's just frozen shut. The ice will melt in the spring and then we'll be able to go outside.”

For a moment her eyes betrayed the fact that she considered this a real possibility, but since her grandpa had teased her in this way often, her brow quickly wrinkled as she dismissed his assertion and considered other possibilities.

“Oh! I wonder if the shed door will open,” she said.

There was a woodshed off the kitchen, with a door leading to the outside. It had been in the lee of the storm and was not nearly as iced up. With a smart tug, Lewis was able to jerk it open. He was astonished at what he saw. Thick layers of ice coated every surface, and the weight of it had bent the trees over nearly to the ground. Many of the hardwoods had broken under the strain and there were downed trees and great branches littering the side street that ran past the hotel. The Donovan house, directly across the street from Lewis's, had been damaged by one of these; a thick piece of oak had fallen or been blown onto the roof, and he could see a gaping hole where it had landed. Lewis stepped out into the yard — he would go and see if the Donovans needed help — but as soon as his foot hit the ground, it skidded out from underneath him and he had to brace himself against the side of the shed to keep from falling.

“Are you all right?” Betsy called. Martha ran back into the kitchen to report that the ground was too slippery to walk on.

“There's been a lot of damage,” he told her as he went back in to collect his coat. “There's one roof gone just from what I can see from the back door. I'd better go and see if I can help anywhere.”

She nodded. “Yes, go. I'm much better. Just get me a cup of tea first, will you? And don't fall and break anything, all right?”

Lewis's years on the road had been spent on horseback, not on foot, and he possessed no walking stick. He rummaged in the shed until he found a stout branch that had not yet been cut for kindling. It was about the right height, and he pounded three long nails at an angle through one end, so that the points protruded. This would give him a little extra purchase on the icy surface.

As he stepped out the back door, he saw Mr. Donovan creeping gingerly to the front of his own house. He, too, had to come through his woodshed, but had the presence of mind to bring a heavy mallet with him.

“The roof's fallen on my boy,” he said in response to Lewis's hail. “I'm just going for the doctor now. I don't think there's anything more to be done inside until the doctor comes, but would you see if you can get the front door open?” Lewis nodded and, with the aid of his homemade ice pick, slithered across the road and took the hammer from the man.

“Here, take this,” he said and he handed Donovan the stick in exchange. “You'll go faster.”

It took ten minutes of beating at the Donovan's door to loosen it, for the ice came away in bits and pieces instead of falling to the ground in a sheet. When he had finally cleared it enough to open it, he poked his head inside and called. Mrs. Donovan appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Lewis asked.

“No, we just need the doctor. The boy has come to now, but he got an awful blow to the head. He was insensible for a terrible long time. I tell you, I thought he was dead when I first found him. I just hope he's not addled as a result.”

“I hope so, too,” Lewis replied. “I'm just going to free my own door now, and then I'll be at the hotel if you need anything before your husband returns. Just yell across the street. I'll tell my granddaughter to listen for you.”

He set to work to open his own door with the borrowed mallet, and by the time he finished, Mr. Donovan had returned with the doctor. Lewis returned the mallet and retrieved his makeshift ice pick.

The yard between his house and the back of the hotel was littered with icy branches and he judged that it was safer to make his way along the side of the street to the front door. Even so, the walking was treacherous, and the distance he had to travel was twice as long as it should have been. He had to pick his way around several large branches that partially blocked the road, and at the same time he was careful to stay well away from the eaves of the hotel. Every few minutes a long icicle would let go its tenuous hold and come crashing down, smashing on the ground with a shattering explosion.

Daniel had just finished freeing the hotel's doors when he arrived.

“Have you ever seen anything like it,” he said in greeting.

“No, and I pity anyone who was out in it. It's too early for any kind of news, I suppose.”

“Yes, people are only just getting out and about. We'll just have to pray that no one's been killed in this. I'm fine, for now. You go on and see what you can do.”

Lewis made his way up one side of the street and down the other, but it appeared that the rest of Wellington had suffered only minor damage from the ice. Beyond a few torn roofs and smashed windows, all its buildings stood, and the only casualty reported so far was the Donovan boy. It would take many days, however, to clear away the mess.

By the time Lewis returned to the hotel, the ice was softening underfoot, for in the wake of the storm the temperature had risen. The sun would wear a lot of it away by the end of the day, but in the meantime the water collecting on the ice surface promised to make the footing even more slippery.

Lewis busied himself with the morning chores and was just sweeping out the kitchen when he heard the bell at the front door. Surprised at anyone venturing out on such a day, he went to see who it was. It was Mrs. Sprung, this time without her sister. He waved her up the stairs and shook his head at the notion of anyone venturing out on such an unnecessary errand when good sense dictated staying safely at home.

“We used the last of the bread for breakfast, didn't we?” Susannah said to him as he returned to the kitchen.

“I wish I'd known sooner,” Lewis said. “I could have stopped at the bakery when I was out. I'll go now, if you like.” He was a little annoyed at the prospect of having to make a second trip down the slippery street, but he supposed it was more interesting than sweeping.

Susannah must have the heard the annoyance in his voice. “No, no, I'll go now that the dishes are done,” she said. “There's plenty of time before I have to start dinner.”

Lewis finished tidying up the kitchen and swept both the stairs and the second-floor hall, and when he realized that Susannah had not come back yet, he returned to the kitchen and started to peel the potatoes for the noontime meal. There was still no sign of his sister by the time he'd started them boiling. Come to think of it, he had no idea where Daniel had got to either. He was beginning to notice that his brother-in-law seemed able to disappear for long stretches of time, but where he went and what he did were a mystery. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and soon the Elliotts and Mr. Gilmour would be descending the stairs in expectation of their dinner. Lewis needed to return home to check on Betsy, but he didn't want to leave his sister to cook and serve at the same time.

At last, the bell at the front door sounded and Lewis assumed it was the tardy Susannah. After a few moments, when she had not appeared in the kitchen, he went into the hall to discover that his sister had, indeed, returned, but not in a state he expected. She was being carried on a door by the baker and Mr. Scully, and her left leg was tied firmly down to it with a couple of belts.

“Someone's gone for the doctor,” Scully reported. “We thought it best to get her in out of the cold.”

“I'm so sorry, Thaddeus.” Susannah smiled weakly. “One of those icicles came crashing down from a roof and I jumped to avoid it. Unfortunately, I jumped right onto a stretch of half-melted ice, and I went down hard.”

It was obvious from the strange angle of her boot that the leg was broken, and that the doctor would need to set it, for it was unlikely to be a simple fracture. Her lips were set in a taut line against the pain and her face had lost all colour.

“Susannah!” Daniel had finally returned from wherever he had been and was standing in the kitchen doorway, aghast at the sight of his injured wife. “Bring her through here,” he said, directing the door carriers to the downstairs room at the back of the hotel.

They set the door down on top of the bed and left Susannah strapped to it. If they tried to move her, they could well do more damage to the injured leg. Besides, there was no point in putting her to bed just yet, for who knew what the doctor would need to do — a wooden door was easier to wash if it proved to be a bloody affair. In the meantime, Lewis could hear footsteps on the stairs and he knew that Mrs. Elliott's morning session was at an end. She and the boy would be heading for the dining room shortly.

Daniel turned to Lewis. “Do you think you could finish dinner?” he asked.

“Probably not. It's only half-ready,” Lewis said. He had no confidence in his abilities as a cook.

“Could you stay with Susannah, then?”

“Yes, but then you have no one to serve. Maybe we should ask everyone to go down to the tavern this one time.”

“Maybe, although by rights we should offer to pay for it.” This was a prospect Daniel found less than appealing, in spite of his concern for his injured wife.

Lewis nodded, but as he headed to the bottom of the staircase to intercept the guests, he noticed that Mrs. Sprung was still in the hall.

“Has there been some trouble?” she asked. Her handkerchief was still in her hand and she dabbed at her eyes as she inquired.

“Yes, the proprietor's wife has broken her leg.” A sudden thought had just occurred to him. This woman apparently had no need to be anywhere at any specific time, judging from her return visit to the hotel. Perhaps she had some time to spare. It might even do her good to have someone else to think of for a few minutes.

“I wonder if you might sit with her while we serve dinner?” he asked. “We're waiting for the doctor. You don't have to do anything,” he assured her when she hesitated, “If she needs anything, you have only to come and fetch me.”

“If it would be a help, then of course,” she said.

He showed her to the room and ran back to the kitchen.

He quickly refried some of the bacon that had been left over from breakfast while Daniel dished up the potatoes that had by now boiled to a watery pulp. They then carried the bowls through to the dining room where Mr. Gilmour and the Elliotts were waiting. There was no bread to go with the dinner; no one had thought to bring the loaves that Susannah had dropped when she fell. The Elliott boy made a mewling noise when the food was set down in front of him.