Sowing Poison (9 page)

“That sounds like a perfect arrangement to me,” Betsy said, endorsing Lewis's offer of hospitality. “You're welcome to stay until you find your way, Francis. It will give you the opportunity to get to know Martha, as well.”

“I would appreciate that,” Renwell said, “as long as you and your good husband are in agreement.”

“Well, of course we are,” Lewis said. “You're welcome here as long as you need to stay.”

“No lingering doubts about me?”

“None.”

Lewis had once thought that the man who sat across from him was a murderer; that he had, in fact, murdered his own wife and others besides. No, not thought it,
believed
it, and had pursued him with a vengeance that had blinded him to the identity of the real murderer. It was only when his own life had been in jeopardy that he had come to see how mistaken he had been.

“I thought you were dead when I left you that night.” Renwell's thoughts had followed Lewis's own. “I was sure that the cold would kill you, if not right away, then sometime in the next few days. I didn't see how you could survive.”

Lewis had been chasing Renwell across the river from Kingston to Wolfe Island when he had fallen through, clinging to the ice while the current pulled at him. He had not been sure that this man would come to his aid — it had certainly not been to his advantage to do so — but Renwell had turned back and dragged Lewis out of the icy waters and across the lake to a house on the shore. He had not been a murderer after all, but simply a pawn in Mackenzie's rebellion, fleeing a sentence of transportation, afraid of the government's revenge on all those who had taken part.

“He very nearly didn't live,” Betsy said softly. “He was many weeks in bed, but he was just too stubborn to die. He's like that, you know.”

Renwell chuckled. “He was certainly too stubborn to stop walking that night. I don't know how we ever reached the shore.”

“That wasn't me,” Lewis said. “That was you, pulling me along.”

“You kept babbling about murder. I thought you were delirious.”

“Unfortunately, I wasn't. I discovered afterward that I was right, there had been many murders, and all committed by a single hand. Not yours, as it turns out, but eventually the culprit paid for his crimes.”

“And Sarah was one of the victims?”

“Yes.”

Renwell's face furrowed as he digested this information. “This starting over is a funny business,” he said with a sigh. “You think you can just walk away and return later with a clean slate, but there are so many things you carry with you, things you wonder about, questions you're not even sure you want to know the answers to. Why Sarah? I didn't think she had an enemy in the world.”

“She didn't. She was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I still miss her sorely. I got quite a start when I walked up and saw Martha. She looks so much like her mother.”

“Yes, she does,” Lewis agreed. “It took me a long while to get accustomed to that, as well. But she's not Sarah. She's Martha. She's a delightful Martha, and very much her own person.”

“I didn't expect to see her quite so suddenly. It was a shock.” Francis seemed far in the past, sunk in a reverie about his lost wife, his lost life. Lewis and Betsy remained silent, too, until Francis straightened up and said, “What's this about helping out? I was told that Daniel and Susannah were the innkeepers here.”

Francis had been unsure where exactly to find his in-laws when he had returned to Canada. “I went to Wolfe Island first,” he said, “to the house where I dumped you on the doorstep that night. The woman there sent me off to Bath, where they told me you had gone to Demorestville. The shopkeeper in Demorestville sent me here. The shopkeeper's wife told me that Mrs. Lewis had been unwell and had gone to stay with relatives, but I was certain you'd still be riding a trail somewhere, Thaddeus.”

“No,” he said. “I gave the circuit up when Betsy got so ill. Daniel's the innkeeper here, but unfortunately Susannah's laid up for the time being with a broken leg. We're trying to help out but have been making a pretty poor job of it so far. Fortunately, we've just found an excellent girl for the kitchen, but there's still more work to do around here than Daniel and I can manage. Martha helps a great deal, but we could certainly use your help, if you're willing.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

Just then Martha returned from her errand. She approached the table slowly. Lewis could see that she looked wary, concerned. She must be wondering what would happen to her now.

Francis was magnificent with her. “Hello, Martha,” he said. “Did Rosie get home safely?” When she nodded, he went on. “I see she was on your side in the snowball fight. It's a good thing that man wasn't too upset when the snowball nearly hit him, isn't it?”

She began to giggle at the memory of it. “I didn't think Rosie could throw that hard.”

“It looked pretty hard to me. It just kind of went
splat
when it hit, didn't it?”

He reached into his pocket. “I've brought you something. I hope you like it.”

Martha carefully unwrapped the paper package he handed her to reveal a salmon-coloured string of coral beads. “Oh, it's beautiful. Thank you!”

“Shall I help you put it on?”

She turned, and he fastened the clasp for her. “There.”

Martha ran to the hall where there was a long mirror, and stood admiring herself.

Lewis felt a pang. The necklace was nothing special, just a cheap string of beads that might be found anywhere, but it was the sort of small extravagance that almost never made its way into his household. They kept Martha fed and adequately clothed, but her possessions were of the homemade variety, and they could offer little more. She had turned to her father, not to her grandmother, to help her with the clasp, but then he had been the source of this unexpected luxury, hadn't he? Lewis realized that he was being uncharitable; it was only natural that her father would want to please her in some way, to help make up for the long years of absence. He just hoped that Martha would be sensible enough not to bestow her affections solely on the basis of material gain.
No, of course she wouldn't
, he thought. She had been raised by Betsy, after all.

Martha bounced back into the room. “Thank you, Francis. It's very pretty.”

Again Lewis was aware that Renwell expected physical contact, a hug or a kiss on the cheek, or at the very least a handshake, but Martha maintained her distance.
Good for you, little one
.

It was nearly time for supper and the tables had yet to be set, but as soon as Lewis moved to do this, Renwell leapt to his feet and offered to help.

“You'll have to tell me what to do for the first while,” he said. “I'm afraid I have no experience with this.” With four of them working, the task was accomplished in very short order, and for the next hour they were kept busy with the serving and removing of an excellent fillet of fish. Sophie was a marvel.

The staffing arrangements at Temperance House had been resolved just in time, as it turned out, for after supper the Grand Master of the Orange Lodge arrived at the hotel to make inquiries regarding the use of the meeting room on the second floor the following evening. The Lodge had always met at MacDonald's Tavern, the Orangemen having shown a great fondness for drink at their gatherings. But now, thanks to the Lodge's efforts in the recent election, their numbers had grown beyond what could be accommodated at MacDonald's. None of the other taverns had tap rooms that were any larger either, and the only other place big enough, the ballroom at the Wilman Hotel, had been booked for a lecture by the Agricultural Society.

The Temperance's meeting room was by no means as large as the ballroom, but it was bigger than any tavern, and after a close inspection, the Master agreed that it could accommodate the number of Orangemen expected at the meeting. He grumbled a little when he was informed that wine and ale were the only refreshments that would be available and that no exception would be made to this rule, but as he had no other option, he supposed that Temperance House would have to do.

“I don't know what the boys are going to say when they find out they can't get whiskey,” he said, shaking his head. “Ah, well, I suppose it won't hurt them for one evening.”

“What on earth do you suppose he thought the
temperance
in Temperance House meant?” Lewis said after the man left.

“I have no idea,” Daniel replied. “You would have thought it was clear enough, wouldn't you? Never mind, the rent is welcome. We'll need to move chairs from the dining room right after supper, though. There's but one or two up there now.” He sighed. “And then we'll have to move them back again after the meeting. We'll need them all for breakfast in the morning.”

“It sounds like a good job for Francis,” Lewis said, and Daniel's face brightened a little at the thought that someone else would be doing the heavy work. Daniel and Susannah had readily agreed to the arrangement that had been offered to Renwell, and rather than have him stay with Lewis, had even insisted that he be given a tiny bedroom off the back hall, little more than a closet really, that he said would likely never be rented to a guest.

“You've little enough room where you are,” Daniel had said, “and having him there is going to disturb Betsy on her bad days. If he stays here, maybe I could get him to tend the fires first thing in the morning.”

Daniel was always slow to get moving in the morning, so the offer was not entirely altruistic on his part; but what he said was true, and Francis seemed happy enough with the arrangement.

Lewis started moving chairs the next evening directly after supper, and Francis jumped up quickly to help him, later cheerfully sweeping the meeting room floor.

Their regular dinner service had been lighter than usual due to the absence of the Elliotts. That morning, Clementine had informed Daniel that she and Horatio would be present for neither dinner nor supper. They would be spending the day at the Elliott farm, she explained, and wouldn't return until quite late in the evening. She had left by the time they realized that, even if they used all the dining room chairs, they might not have enough to accommodate the Orangemen.

“There are chairs in the Elliotts' sitting room.” Daniel offered. “I wonder if we could borrow them just for tonight.” But when Lewis checked, the doors to both rooms were firmly locked, and Clementine had apparently taken the keys with her.

“I wonder if the Donovans would loan us a few,” Lewis suggested. “They seem very affable neighbours.” Daniel looked doubtful, and when Lewis went to inquire, he discovered why. He hadn't been aware that their closest neighbours were among the small group of Catholics who lived in Wellington.

“I'm sorry, if it were anyone but the Orange Lodge, I'd say yes in a minute,” Mr. Donovan said. “But I won't help them in any way, shape, or form. I hope you don't think badly of me for it, but you have to understand my position.”

Lewis understood all too well, and apologized for asking in the first place. The popularity of the Lodge made him profoundly uneasy as well. It was an organization that had been imported into Canada by the great numbers of Protestant Irish who had immigrated here, and who had brought their homeland quarrels with them. At first they had seemed like a joke. After all, the fate of the united province depended on the ability of the mostly Protestant Canada West to get along with the mostly Catholic Canada East, a fact that had been amply demonstrated in the first united legislatures. It had become clear that no one could govern without the support of the members from Quebec, and Robert Baldwin of the western province and Louis LaFontaine of the eastern had forged an alliance that allowed the government to get on with business. Now, however, the new governor seemed prepared to dispense with this notion of compromise. As far as he was concerned, any attempt to further entrench the elected, and largely co-operative legislature as the rightful governors of Canada was an affront to the Queen and a usurpation of her authority.

This sentiment appealed to the voters of Canada West. They were a diverse lot — Loyalists who had fled the American Revolution, Scots crofters looking for a better life, Ulster Irish, and immigrants from England herself — but the two things they shared were a distrust of American republicanism and an unease at the necessity of sharing a country with French-speaking Catholics.

The Orange Lodge had smelled opportunity and played upon their disquiet. To the Lodge, loyalty to the Crown meant loyalty to its language and protestant beliefs; Quebec Catholics were, therefore, by definition, disloyal.

It was a philosophy that left a bad taste in Lewis's mouth. He had heard the same kinds of arguments trotted out against the Methodists not so long ago, when the Family Compact had reigned supreme in Upper Canada. They had branded Methodist circuit riders like himself as “American” and not to be trusted, and had used this accusation as an excuse to further entrench themselves in power. This old Anglican elitism had been rendered obsolete with the establishment of the new Province — the tracts of land that had been reserved for the benefit of the Church of England were now being broken up, and the jewel in their crown, the Anglican university, was slated to be secularized. But now the term “Anglican” had, in the upper colony, been replaced by the term “Protestant” in the public mind, and this broader definition of an officially sanctioned religion had far more appeal. But to Lewis it looked like the same old hag dressed up in a new bonnet.

Robert Baldwin, the influential Reformer, without whom no united government could ever have worked, had recognized this threat and had introduced legislation that would outlaw secret societies and their provocative public marches. It was an act that was directly aimed at curtailing the growing power of the Orange Lodge in Canada West, but in spite of the fact that the legislation had been passed, the governor insisted on reference to London for final approval. Baldwin's act had halted the marches on Guy Fawkes Day and the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne in July — that much, at least, could be decided on without Britain's approval — but, Lewis thought, it was unlikely that the rest of the legislation would ever be heard of again. In the meantime, the Lodge was broadening its membership and its political influence was growing.

The Orangemen had done everything they could to influence the election in favour of the governor's position. They had harassed, threatened, and in some cases physically attacked anyone who declared for a Reform candidate. As a rule, the Prince Edward District had a basic distrust of rabble-rousers, but even here the Lodge had brought its influence to bear.

The vote had taken place during the week that Lewis was tidying up loose ends in Demorestville and preparing to move to Wellington. Some details regarding the expiry of his church appointment had taken him to Picton, and he had been drawn to the open-air poll by the shouts of the crowd gathered around it.

As each man stood on the hustings and declared his support, a group of men who seemed to have nothing more to do with their time than stand around all day would cheer or hiss according to the voter's choice. Elections were rowdy affairs at the best of times, and fistfights often broke out among the various candidates' supporters, but the continued presence of this group of toughs was intimidating in the extreme. Occasionally, when a particularly prominent citizen declared for Reform, one from the group of men would detach himself from his cronies and follow the voter down the street, shouting imprecations as he went.

Lewis could not vote. He did not meet the property qualifications — he had no house, owned no land. But had he been able to, he rather thought he would have spoken for Reform, just to annoy the toughs.

He was about to turn to leave the poll and carry on with his business when a small, thin man stepped forward to declare. There was a growl from the gang as the man called out his choice in a quavering voice: “John Roblin.”

“Traitor!” one of the men shouted, for Roblin was the local Reform candidate. The group spread out to encircle the platform.

When the voter tried to shoulder his way through them, they gave way a little as he strode through the line near Lewis. Then, just as he was passing, one of the gang reached out and shoved him. He stumbled, but Lewis in turn reached out and caught him by the arm before he could fall.

“Hey, you, what do you think you're doing? Traitor helping traitor, eh?” The man who had pushed the voter had a thick brogue that spoke of the treeless hills of Scotland.

Lewis fixed him with an icy stare. “Pardon me, sir,” he said. “I was born in this land; I fought for this land in the War of 1812. I bandaged more wounded than I could count at the Battle of the Windmill, and I buried the dead at the end of it. Where were you when I was defending British Canada? This man is free to vote as he pleases, and you'll have nothing more to say about it.”

“Hear, hear!” said a voice at his side. “And you'll be letting these gentlemen go on their way now, won't you?”

A well-dressed man had joined Lewis's side. The Scottish thug wilted under his glare and took a step backward. The gang of men around them grumbled, but they too moved away, unwilling, for the moment anyway, to escalate the conflict. The gentleman ambled along behind them for a few steps, just to make sure, then turned back to Lewis, who by then was standing alone, for the skinny little voter had taken the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

“Well spoken, sir, and thank you for saving that man a tumble in the dust. He's a neighbour of mine and I wouldn't like to see anything happen to him.”

“It was nothing,” Lewis replied. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“Not with that gang of Orangemen, they wouldn't,” the man said. He stuck out his hand. “Archibald McFaul.”

“Pleased to meet you. Thaddeus Lewis. Now, I think we'd best be getting on with our business before this crowd gets rowdy again.”

The man nodded briskly and strode away. His name meant nothing to Lewis at the time. It was only after they moved to Temperance House that he realized he had met one of Wellington's leading citizens.

And to Lewis's surprise, John Roblin carried the day and was returned to the legislature, in spite of the best efforts of the local Orange Lodge.

The dilemma of the extra chairs was answered quite neatly by Francis, who offered to knock together a couple of benches from some old planking he had discovered in the woodshed.

“It will only take a few minutes,” he said. “They'll be crude — I'm no cabinetmaker — but they'll serve well enough for an Orangeman's arse.”

Lewis should have chided him for the vulgarity, but he just chuckled.

The Orange Master, when he arrived prior to the start of the meeting, requested that refreshments “of the liquid variety” be served to the members at nine o'clock.

“I'll signal you when we want 'em,” he said to Daniel, “but I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of the room until then.”

Lewis and Francis hurriedly washed the goblets and glasses that had been used for supper and carried them on trays to the top of the stairs. They would bring the wine and beer up in decanters and jugs when the time came. As they passed the meeting room door, they could hear the murmur of voices inside the room, and snatches of song, although it was hard to make any of it out.

“…on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore”
was the only bit they could understand, because it was shouted out at the end of each verse with great enthusiasm.

At a quarter to nine, Lewis climbed the stairs. He stationed himself just outside the door in anticipation of “the signal,” at which point he would call to Francis and Daniel to start bringing up the jugs.

Just as he reached the landing, he thought he heard footsteps and a faint bang as a door was pulled shut. One of the other guests, he thought at first, but there were only three rooms on the other side of the hall from the meeting room — the Elliotts' chamber and sitting room, and the bedroom assigned to the enigmatic Mr. Gilmour.

Lewis walked down the hall and noticed that the door to the Elliott bedchamber was slightly ajar. This must have been the door he heard closing, but it hadn't latched and had swung open slightly. He was sure that it had been quite securely locked; after all, they had attempted to get inside to borrow chairs only that afternoon. Puzzled, he pushed the door open and went in.

At first it appeared that nothing had been touched. The room was neat and orderly, as it was every morning when the linen was aired and the room swept out, but then he realized that the coverlet had been rucked up on one side of the small bed, the side where Lewis had previously discovered the newspaper. When he turned, he noticed that the trunk that was normally firmly locked had been opened. A small piece of white gauzy material protruded from the lid, as if whoever had been looking at the contents had shut it hastily. He noticed nothing else amiss.