Wishful Seeing (8 page)

Mrs. Howell herself might well be puzzled at his presence, and if it turned out that she had no interest in his company, he would leave it at that.

The courthouse was some distance from the centre of town, in what had once been called Amherst back when Cobourg was known as Hardscrabble and there had been two separate villages. Amherst had been chosen as the district town, but Hardscrabble had grown faster. Now Cobourg's limits sprawled to encompass them both.

Like all monuments to government authority, the building was imposing, a two-storey edifice with a portico supported by majestic round pillars and a grand stone staircase that led to the front doors. It was not up these stairs that Thaddeus proceeded, however, but around the side to the gaol entrance.

He explained his errand to the gaoler, who inspected the parcel Thaddeus carried before escorting him through a heavy oak door to a corridor of cells. There was an unpleasant smell of old urine and something worse and someone was shouting, “Lemme out, Keep, you old devil you!”

“Shut your trap, Amos!” the gaoler shouted back. “We'll get you out soon enough.” He turned then to Thaddeus. “Sorry. Old Amos ends up here drunk every Saturday night and wakes up mad every Sunday morning. We'll let him out tomorrow in time for work. Then he can do it all over again next week.”

The gaoler stopped at a door at the end of the corridor. “We put her down here so she's away from the others,” he explained. “It's got a solid door, too, so nobody can peer at her when she's … well, you know.”

He slid open the small wooden hatch through which food was served.

“You have a visitor,” he said, and then he turned to Thaddeus again. “I'll wait down the hall a bit. I can only give you a few minutes. We're just locking down for the night.”

Thaddeus peered through the wicket. She was sitting at the head of a rude cot, huddled into the corner with her eyes closed.

“Hello, Mrs. Howell,” he said.

She opened her eyes and looked at him then, although she didn't move from the position she was in. He found her shadowed face difficult to make out. Little light penetrated into the narrow cell from the small, high window above her head.

“Oh,” she said. “It's the preacher.”

“Patience Gordon sent some food. Some apples and cheese and white bread.”

She stirred then and sat up straighter. “That was good of her.”

“She's very concerned. As am I.”

“Are you here to pray for me?”

“Only if that's what you want.”

She didn't answer for a moment, then stood and came closer to the hatch. Thaddeus could see her more clearly then, and was shocked at her pallor and the lines that had etched themselves around her eyes and mouth. All the radiance that had shone so naturally from her face had vanished behind a mask of worry.

“I would take all the prayers that anyone offered,” she said, “but I fear they'll do no good.”

“God always listens,” Thaddeus said, “no matter what has happened.”

“Then pray for my soul. I fear my body is forfeit. There's nothing I can do to save it.”

Thaddeus tried to choose his next words carefully. He wanted to hold to the notion that this woman could have had nothing to do with anything so vile as murder, yet he knew too well that evil often comes in a pleasant form. “If you have done this thing, then you must answer to God. If you haven't, then you need someone to speak for you.”

“What good would that do?” Her mouth twisted into a half-smile. “I'm hanged already, as far as the law is concerned.”

“Facts can be made to say many different things. And the law is a twisted thing.”

She met his gaze fully for the first time since he had arrived. “You're a very clever man, Mr. Lewis, who makes a good argument when the occasion calls for it. But I don't think you can help with this.”

“You're right in that I know nothing of the law. And you need a better mind than mine. Do you have a barrister?”

“I have no money for one. They tell me that if I'm put on trial, they'll prevail upon some local man to speak for me, but that I shouldn't expect to see him until then.”

It would be a half-hearted defence, Thaddeus knew. In all likelihood the barrister would be unfamiliar with the evidence and resentful at having to take the case in the first place.

“What about your husband's associates? They tell me he's well connected. Couldn't your friends help?”

“My friends are like me, Mr. Lewis, poor women with little in the way of resources. As for my husband's acquaintances, I'll tell you what they're worth. You are the first soul to come near me since I was arrested. You and, in a second-hand way, Patience Gordon, I suppose.”

It didn't surprise Thaddeus that none of her English friends were able to help, but he did wonder why none of George Howell's business contacts had seen fit to assist in any way.

“Will you let me make some inquiries for you?” he asked. Surely someone Howell did business with could be persuaded to help.

She didn't answer directly, but hesitated for a moment, then said, “You could do one thing for me.”

“Yes?”

“Apparently I'm to appear in front of the magistrates on Wednesday, to determine whether or not there will be a trial. I would find it a comfort to see a friendly face there, and there's little prospect of any but yours.”

She looked lost again, and bewildered, and suddenly Thaddeus could think of nothing he wanted to do more.

“I'll be there.”

The papers were full of the story again the next day, and after supper Thaddeus spent a long time poring over the articles. Most of them were just rehashes of the information that had already been printed and was common knowledge in the district, but the
Cobourg Star
reported that the identity of the murdered man had finally come to light.

His name was Paul Sherman, and his usual place of residence was near the town of Burlington, west of Toronto. According to his family, he had travelled to the Cobourg area in order to conduct some business. When he'd failed to return home on the expected day, his family had contacted the local police.

“It wasn't unusual for him to be gone longer than expected,” his widow was reported to have said, “but we read about the Rice Lake murder in the papers and were uneasy about his welfare on that account.”

Sherman's brother travelled to Cobourg and made the identification. He also, the paper reported, had retained a local barrister-at-law, a Mr. Garrett, to prosecute the case.

That explained why it had taken so long to schedule the committal proceedings, Thaddeus realized. The Crown's case would be strengthened by the attendance of the deceased's family, and as the Shermans were in a position to hire their own prosecutor, the town would then be spared the expense of paying a justice of the peace or a police magis­­trate to do it.

Other than the victim's name, there was little more to glean from the newspaper reports. Sherman's family had not stated what particular business was being transacted in Cobourg, or with whom. If there was any other evidence that had a bearing on the case, the authorities were keeping it close indeed. The only mention of George Howell indicated that his whereabouts were still unknown.

He must know that his wife had been arrested. The case was getting widespread attention — being reported not only across the province but in some of the American papers as well. Surely Howell would do the honourable thing and come forward. But then, Thaddeus reflected, he was also wanted for murder. Unless he had a reasonable alibi, coming forward would only serve to put him in a cell beside his wife. But letting her stand trial alone seemed so craven. Thaddeus didn't know if there was a genuine case against Ellen Howell or not, or if she was merely the means for luring her husband out of whatever hidey-hole he had bolted to.

He would have to wait until Wednesday to find out.

The night before the committal, he turned in early but didn't sleep well, tossing and turning as he tried to anticipate what he might hear, and what he might do as a result.

After he heard the prosecution evidence the next day, Thaddeus had to admit that, had he been a judge, he would have reached the same conclusion as the court. The case was laid out piece by circumstantial piece — the witnesses who testified that the Howells were seen at Rice Lake that day, that they had rented a boat, that a blue dress with a bloodstain was found in a washtub at the Howell farm — until altogether it was a great mound of incriminating details that pointed straight at the Howells.

It was only the prosecution's version of events, he reminded himself. No doubt there were questions that had not been asked, explanations that had not been given, but these were difficult things to lay hold of when only one side of the argument had its say.

Thaddeus went to the gaol immediately following the proceedings, but was turned away, even when he announced that he was a minister. The local Anglican man was there, he was told, and one preacher in a day was enough. Thaddeus left, fuming and determined to do something, if only he could figure out what it would be. He had no money to put toward a defence, nor did he know of anyone he could call upon. It was also unlikely that a collection around the neighbourhood would be successful — Ellen Howell was well enough liked by those who knew her, but these were not many, and her particular circle was infamous for its impecuniosities. Besides, there was continued ill-feeling over the Sully station land. The community would be unlikely to help someone they thought might cheat them out of their promised riches.

He wondered if he should try to approach D'Arcy Boulton. Everyone seemed to think that Boulton had used George Howell as a go-between to buy the land for the train station. Boulton was a lawyer and an important man, and his words would hold some sway with a jury. Surely he could be persuaded to defend the wife of a man who had done favours for him. And then Thaddeus realized that Boulton would want to stay as far away from this case as he could. There was too much mud flying already over the land deal. Boulton would do his best to keep any of it from landing on the lawn of his fine Cobourg mansion.

Just as he reached his own door, Thaddeus finally arrived at a decision. It had little guarantee of success, but it was at least a course of action. He would write to his son Luke.

Thaddeus had great respect for Luke's judgment, and although his son did not travel in exalted circles — he was, after all, only a physician in a small town north of Toronto — he did have at least one friend with sterling connections. If Luke knew of someone who might be persuaded to take Ellen Howell's case at a reasonable rate, then Thaddeus would find some way to come up with the money. If Luke knew of no one, or advised him that it was a lost cause, Thaddeus would have to think of some other plan.

That night he dashed off a note.

My dear son,

I find myself in a peculiar set of circumstances here on the Hope Circuit. A local woman who has attended a couple of my meetings has been charged with murder, along with her husband who managed to disappear before he was apprehended.

Thaddeus knew as he wrote it that “attended a couple of my meetings” gave the impression that the woman was a member of his church, and that his concern was ministerial, but he could think of no other explanation for his actions that would make sense, so he let the statement stand.

The sum total of the evidence against her is purely circumstantial, including some testimony that is nothing more than remarkably convenient speculation, although I must admit I do not really know the truth of the matter.

I attended the committal proceedings and I am uneasy with the fact that the unfortunate woman is in no position to obtain adequate legal representation.

I would like very much to provide her with a better defence than she has been offered. Having had so little to do with barristers in my time, however, I am at a loss as to how to proceed. I thought that, due to your more worldly connections, or that of your friend Mr. Biddulph, you might be able to suggest someone with some expertise in criminal proceedings of this sort. I do not know what kind of monies a barrister might charge, or where this money might be found, but I would appreciate it if you could make a few inquiries on my behalf and report your
findings and opinions to me as soon as is expedient. If this appears to be a forlorn hope, I would appreciate it if you could advise of that, as well.

Your loving father

Thaddeus

He sent the letter off by the next day's post. Now he could only bide his time until he found out what Luke had to say.

The Hope Circuit, Fall 1853

 

The heat wave finally broke in the last week of September with three days of thunderstorms and heavy downpours of rain. It was Thaddeus's bad luck that it was his turn to take the meetings on the eastern side of the circuit. There was no avoiding the churned ground and deep ruts left behind by construction. Rain pooled in deep, overflowing puddles and the road became a thick porridge-like morass. Thaddeus slogged through it and was late for only two meetings.

Over the course of his travels he heard little new information about the murder from his gossiping congregation, just rumour and speculation. Everyone had a theory as to what had happened, and what would happen next.

“This Sherman fellow probably followed the Howells over to the island and tried to rob them,” one man asserted.

The man next to him snorted. “More likely the other way around,” he said.

Thaddeus was a little puzzled by this opinion. He knew that George Howell had been accused of sharp dealing, but this statement seemed to imply that he was a common thief. He was loath to inquire what he meant. It would only serve to ignite more conversation, and he wanted to get the meeting underway as soon as possible.

He encountered the same excitement about the case at his next appointment, as well. This was a gathering of women, and they had reached a consensus on motive.

“You saw Ellen Howell's arm that day at the debate,” one old woman declared. “I reckon she meant to shoot the Major and hit Sherman by mistake.”

The other women nodded their heads in agreement. They were apparently all too familiar with women who might want to take a shot at their husbands.

It wasn't until he was on his way home again that he heard something new, and even then he couldn't see how it would help Mrs. Howell in any way. A strange horse had turned up in the back field of a farm near Brighton, and everyone was sure that it must be George Howell's.

“He probably rode south and jumped a boat that would take him across the lake,” one man at the meeting in Baltimore offered. “That's what I'd do.”

If that was the case, Ellen Howell had been truly abandoned. Once in the States, her husband could easily disappear forever.

When Thaddeus finally completed his round and returned to Cobourg, he was cold, dirty, and discouraged.

Martha had news, but was wise enough to wait until he had shed his sodden clothing and sluiced himself clean before she gave it to him.

“There's a letter from Luke,” she said, handing it to him when he reappeared in the kitchen. He set it down on the table in front of him. He was so relieved to be home that he was unwilling to brook any bad news, at least for a few moments. And he was certain that the letter contained bad news. He had asked Luke to do the impossible, and mustn't be disappointed at the result.

“Aren't you going to open it?” Martha asked.

“After supper.”

“Supper's not quite ready.” She giggled then. “Or at least no harm will come to it if it boils a bit more. I'm dying of curiosity.”

Thaddeus sighed. “Fine,” he said. He took a deep breath and tore open the sheet of paper. It wasn't disappointing news, exactly.

Dear Father,

I'm rather flattered that you think I move in such worldly circles — I don't, in fact, know much of anything beyond Yorkville. I did, however, share your letter with my friend Perry, who made some inquiries on your behalf.

As it happens, his distant cousin, a Mr. Townsend Ashby, has recently been called to the bar. The Sherman case has been reported widely here, and he was already familiar with some of the details. He is extremely interested in representing the accused.

I should explain that, at the moment, Toronto is bursting with newly qualified barristers and solici­tors, each of them anxious to somehow rise above the rabble and make a name for himself. Mr. Ashby's involvement in the case, whether he mounts a successful defence or not, would be noted in the newspapers and bring him to public attention. For that reason he is willing to waive the usual fee. I am mentioning this, just so you don't make the mistake of feeling too grateful. There is no question that he has an agenda, but as his interests and that of the accused happen to coincide, I see no harm in it. I have met Towns (as he prefers to be called). He is a clever fellow and eager to get going on his first case.

He does, however, have some business details to attend to here in the city before he can make himself available. He is planning to arrive in Cobourg for an initial consultation on September 29th. He will be travelling by steamer. Could you possibly meet him at the dock and perhaps arrange some rooms for him?

Hope you are staying well, now that you're back in the saddle again.

Love,

Luke

“Well?” Martha asked.

Thaddeus shoved the letter across the table to her. He had hoped that Luke might know of an experienced barrister, but he supposed that even someone who was newly qualified was better than someone who had no real interest in the case. And this Mr. Ashby was Perry Biddulph's cousin. If he needed advice, surely he would be able to draw on his connections, even if they were as “distant” as Luke's letter seemed to indicate. No doubt the Biddulph family was full of lawyers.

“Oh good,” Martha said when she had finished reading it.

“Good that he's found someone, yes,” Thaddeus said, “not so good that he has so little experience.”

“No, it's not that. I was afraid that if Luke found someone, he would end up staying here.”

“Well, it crossed my mind,” Thaddeus said, but not with any degree of certainty. “He is working for free. The least I could do is offer. Would that be a problem?”

“No, of course not, although it might set the neighbours talking, when you're away so much. It's just that …” she hesitated for a moment. “It's just that it's been kind of nice having the house to myself most of the time. Not that I'm unhappy when you're here,” she added hurriedly, “but I don't exactly mind it when you're not, either. It's been nice not to have much of a routine.”

Thaddeus could well understand this. She had, after all, grown up at a busy hotel, where each day's tasks were laid out for her every morning, when meals were at set times, where the schedule was public knowledge and strictly adhered to. He supposed her delight in having the house to herself was akin to his own feeling of well-being when he was riding alone from place to place. It appeared that he and Martha were much alike in that respect.

“I understand what you mean. And you're right — it wouldn't be appropriate to have him here, although we should probably invite him to dinner. Would that be all right?”

She smiled. “I can manage dinner as long as I don't have him underfoot every day.”

“Then we'll let this Mr. Ashby stay in rooms elsewhere.”

“Try Mrs. Baker's. I hear she offers a fair room and board and it's close to the courthouse.”

And with the practical ramifications neatly arranged to her satisfaction, Martha rose to dish up their somewhat overcooked meal.

Thaddeus had no difficulty identifying Towns Ashby as soon as he stepped from the steamer to the dock. He was a tall, thinly built young man in a finely cut coat opened to reveal a waistcoat that was a little more garish than those normally seen in a place like Cobourg. It was something more suited to the drawing rooms of the city, Thaddeus thought, at some event like the soiree that his son Luke had attended one time. Ashby was also the only passenger who didn't alight and immediately set off for the town. He stood looking around the wharf with an expectant air.

Thaddeus stepped forward. “Mr. Ashby? How do you do? I'm Thaddeus Lewis.”

Ashby responded with a wide grin and doffed his hat, revealing an unruly mop of black hair. “I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lewis. Thank you so much for meeting me.” He offered his hand in a firm shake. “My luggage has yet to be unloaded, if you don't mind waiting for just a moment.” And then, before Thaddeus had any opportunity to say whether he minded or not, “I'd have known you anyway, you know. Luke will look just like you twenty years from now.”

“More's the pity,” Thaddeus joked.

“Oh, I don't know,” Ashby said. “He's quite presentable. At least, my cousin Perry seems to think so.”

The young man didn't elaborate on this odd comment, and just then the porter set a small leather-bound trunk onto the dock.

“I can carry the trunk, if you would be so kind as to take my valise,” Ashby said.

When Thaddeus picked it up he was surprised by the weight of it.

“I tucked in a few law books — easy reference for those cases in precedent that I don't quite have at my fingertips yet. I'm too newly qualified. Can you manage it?”

“Of course. I didn't expect it to be so heavy, that's all.”

They flagged down a wagon. After they loaded the luggage the driver looked at them for directions.

“I'm told that a Mrs. Baker offers clean rooms at a fair price,” Thaddeus said. “Would you like to inspect them?”

“How kind of you to think of it,” Ashby said. “I'm sure they're lovely, but I asked around before I left Toronto and found that the Globe Hotel comes highly recommended. I thought perhaps I'd take a room there. If it proves unsatisfactory, I can always fall back on Mrs. Baker's establishment.”

Thaddeus was astonished. The Globe Hotel was touted as the finest hostelry between Kingston and Toronto. It was quite grand, and therefore quite expensive. Apparently this Ashby was accustomed to the best. But he was, after all, a cousin of the Biddulphs, Thaddeus reminded himself, even if the relationship was distant.

“I'm sure the Globe would be most adequate,” he said meekly. “I guess the thing to do would be to get you settled there first, but would you care to join us for supper this evening? I could fill you in on what I know about the case. My granddaughter is my housekeeper and she's a fair cook.”

“I'd be delighted. You're so kind.”

Thaddeus deposited him at the hotel and gave directions to the manse, then went home and told Martha to prepare for a guest.

“What's he like?” Martha asked.

“He seems a very pleasant fellow,” Thaddeus replied. “Other than that, I guess we'll just have to find out.”

Ashby arrived quite late that evening, long past the usual supper hour. Thaddeus ushered him in and introduced him to Martha. Ashby took her hand and bowed over it, ever so slightly, one eyebrow raised.

Martha's eyes widened a little, but she quickly recovered her self-possession and bade him sit in the parlour until dinner was served.

The only word Thaddeus could think of to describe Townsend Ashby was polished. But it could well be a deliberately assumed manner — there were hints of a more exuberant nature under the veneer, one that bubbled up when something caught his attention and stirred his interest. In the meantime, his affable courtesy and ease of address made Thaddeus instantly comfortable. Ashby appeared not to notice the shabbiness of the chair he was sitting in, or the fustiness of the manse furnishings. He merely leaned back, gracefully folded his legs and beamed at his host.

“I can't thank you enough for making me welcome,” he said. “This is my first time in Cobourg, and I must admit I'm a bit lost. You've been so kind.”

Thaddeus rather suspected that you could dump Towns Ashby down in the middle of Arabia or any other exotic place in the world and he would immediately find some way to make himself comfortable, but the sentiment was appreciated nonetheless.

“And how are things in the city?” Thaddeus asked, groping for a civilized remark.

“Hectic, as always,” Ashby said. “Everyone rushing around trying to do business with everyone else. The prospect of reci­procity has everyone nattering on about new opportunities, and of course, the whole country has gone railway mad.”

“No more so than here. The town of Cobourg has invested thousands in a line to Peterborough.”

“The feeling in the city is that all those thousands may turn into millions if we have free access to American markets.”

“Do you think that's likely to happen?”

Ashby shrugged. “I expect the American government will need some persuading, but there's an insatiable demand for raw materials in the States. The right pressure exerted at the right time may swing it.”

“So all this railway construction isn't as foolish as it appears?”

Ashby smiled. “I didn't say that. We'll have to see how it all plays out. Your son sends his best regards, by the way. I ran across him the other day, quite by accident, in one of the pharmacies. He was buying enormous packets of things.”

“That's good. That means he's busy.”

“Oh, I understand that he has a thriving practice. There are even a few people from Toronto who travel all the way to Yorkville just to consult him. I expect my cousin Perry has sent some traffic his way. Apparently Luke has been the saving of the practice. Christie is such an odd duck.”

“Yes, he is,” Thaddeus said. “But I like him very much. And he has certainly been good to Luke. I'm not sure what would have happened to the boy if Christie hadn't taken him on.”

Ashby gave him an odd look, but before he could say anything more, Martha appeared in the parlour doorway to invite them into the dining room, a room that had seen little use to date, other than as a repository for Martha's mending. This had all now been cleared away. The table was polished to a gleam, and the badly worn rug, the corner of which had tripped Thaddeus the first time he walked across the room, was nowhere to be seen. Martha had gone to a great deal of trouble to impress their guest. Or maybe the improvements to the dining room were just another result of her experimentation with the furniture.