Читать книгу Thaddeus Lewis Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Janet Kellough - Страница 14

Lewis’s next scheduled visit to Demorestville again coincided with Isaac Simms’s round and, as usual, the peddler was full of news. For weeks there had been rumours that an American force had crossed the border, or was about to, or had plans to. According to Simms, and he had newspaper accounts to back him up, a small group had in fact mounted a raid down near Niagara somewhere, abetted no doubt by William Lyon Mackenzie, who had somehow got himself off Navy Island and was living in Rochester, New York, just across the lake. The raiders were a motley bunch, consisting of Upper Canadian rebels who had escaped across the border and self-proclaimed American “patriots” who were determined to get rid of the British in British North America.

One of the newspaper articles had quoted Governor Arthur: “There are on the American frontier thousands of these lawless characters,” he thundered, “these atrocious banditti, they are the scum of the population.”

It appeared that the invading band was led by a certain James Morreau. No one was sure who exactly he was. Some said he was an Irishman, others that he was from Pennsylvania. One thing was clear: he had successfully infiltrated a place called Short Hills and was expecting the countryside to rise with him. He had issued a proclamation, complete with high-sounding flights of revolutionary rhetoric, calling on all Canadians to come to his assistance:

We have at last been successful in planting the standard of liberty in one part of our oppressed country. Canadians! Come to our assistance as you prize property, happiness and life! This is the hour of your redemption. Rally to the standard of the Free and the tyranny of England will cease to exist in our land.

Far from rising, the countryside received this proclamation with disdain.

The Niagara Reporter summed up the local reaction in an editorial that called the invaders “vagabonds without name or nation” and labelled the enterprise “madness.”

“We believe no individual dotard since the days of the first idiot ever exhibited such unutterable folly,” they wrote.

Folly or not, the vagabonds were in Canada for ten days before Governor Arthur finally sent a troop of Queen’s Lancers to deal with them. Surprised at Osterhout’s Inn, the Lancers were forced to surrender when the patriots set fire to the building, and were afterward relieved of their uniforms and equipment, much to the embarrassment of the governor.

No one was sure how many “patriots” were in Morreau’s band.

“I heard there were hundreds,” Mrs. Varney said. “Do you suppose they’ll march this way next?”

“Nay, mother,” Varney replied. “It won’t be that bunch, but some other.”

Frustrated by the Lancers’ lack of success, Governor Arthur finally set the militia and their Indian hunters loose on the area.

“That’s what he should have done in the first place,” Simms said. “If anybody can catch traitors, it’s the boys that know the country.” The militia had proved themselves in this sort of enterprise before. It had been militia and Indians, with red flannel strips sewn into their caps for identification, who had ruthlessly hunted down Mackenzie’s rebels. In any event, a mere rumour that the Indians were coming was enough to panic the patriots. They fled toward the border, strewing abandoned ammunition and equipment behind them. In spite of their haste, not all of them made it to safety, and now more than forty were in jail at Niagara or Toronto, Simms wasn’t sure which, since he had heard reports of both. Their trials were to be held immediately.

Lewis was irritated and depressed by this news. More trials, more punishment, and he was sure the government would use this latest incident as an excuse for another round of persecution against anyone with Reformer leanings. He sometimes wondered what would have happened had last year’s rebellion been led by someone other than the quixotic, impulsive Mackenzie, who was a dab hand with rhetoric but completely incapable of organizing a military expedition. It was a musing he dared not share with anyone but Betsy. He was sailing close enough to the wind as it was, just by being a Methodist.

Minta came to the next women’s class meeting with her infant in her arms. The other women made much of her, cooing over the baby and declaring it to be the finest boy anyone had ever produced. Again Lewis noticed that smugness about her whenever her child was discussed, and her evident joy would briefly light her pale, tired face.

In mid-flight, he decided to change the topic of his sermon. He had been intending to base it on Jesus’ admonition to “render unto Caesar,” as it seemed to be so appropriate in light of the recent upheavals, but instead he spoke to the women on the subject of rebirth. It seemed to fit the occasion, with a nod to Minta’s boy and the hope that Rachel had been reborn in the Lord.

Afterward, the women spent a little more time admiring the baby, but when they started to file out, Minta hung back.

“I’d hoped to speak with you privately,” she said.

“Of course,” he said, smiling. He was really growing very fond of this small quiet woman.

“There’s something I feel I need to say, but I don’t know who else to say it to.”

He waited silently until she was ready to tell him.

“It concerns the night that Henry was born. Seth was there right afterward, and I remember him picking up the boy and looking at him. I was afraid he would hurt it, he’s so big and the baby was so tiny.”

Lewis nodded. There was a good reason men were generally kept out of the childbirth business. It was a delicate affair and they were seldom as careful as the women would like.

“I fell asleep after that, but my mother tells me that Seth went out. He said he was going to tell the whole neighbourhood that he had a son.”

This was undoubtedly a euphemism for going to the tavern and getting rip-roaring drunk, Lewis thought. It was the way these things usually went.

But Minta’s face was troubled as she went on. “He wasn’t there in the morning when I woke up, and he hadn’t been there all night. He finally came in near noon and Mother asked him where he’d been. He said he went to sit down by the bay for a while and fell asleep.

“Had he been drinking, do you think?”

“I don’t think so. He never drinks. The thing is,” she went on, “I don’t know for sure where he was or what he was doing. And then when Rachel was found, and the constable asked us about Seth’s whereabouts that night, we all lied. We said he’d been with us.” She began to weep a little. “I don’t even know what I’m suggesting, Mr. Lewis. I don’t see how Seth could have had anything to do with Rachel’s death, so it’s not as if we were protecting him that way or anything. I don’t even know why I said what I said. It just seemed easier at the time, but now it lies sorely on my heart. Please tell me what I should do.”

Lewis thought for a moment. A night and half a day would have been ample time for the burly blacksmith to ride from his in-laws’ house to Demorestville and back. The question, as Minta realized, was why on earth would he? There was no reason for Seth to do anything to Rachel. Quite the opposite: he and Minta would have been counting on her to help with the child.

Finally he said, “You’ve confessed to me now, and the Lord will take that into consideration. Rest easy and leave this with me. I agree that it’s unlikely that Seth had any hand in Rachel’s death, and there certainly is no point telling the authorities. They won’t do anything anyway, now that the coroner’s jury has ruled.”

The woman looked relieved.

“Just one thing, Minta. When Rachel was found she had a book in her lap. Do you know what became of it?”

She looked confused. “Oh, I’m not sure. It might still be at the house. I don’t think anyone took it away.”

“Do you think you could find it for me?”

“Yes, of course. But why do you want it?”

“I just want to look at it, that’s all. And then I’ll return it to you. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, but you’ve presented me with a bit of a puzzlement, and I’d like to resolve it if I can. At the very least, it would help you set your mind at rest.” Another misdirection. They were piling up on him, lie upon lie. He could hardly take Minta to task for the same transgression.

The Jessup’s rented house was tiny, just two rooms, but in perfect order and as clean a place as Lewis had ever seen. Constable Woodcock said that Rachel had gone to bed fully dressed, with even her boots on. Seeing the immaculate condition of Minta’s kitchen, he thought it improbable that anyone within her influence would ever dream of doing such a thing. In his experience, cleanliness was a habit that spread.

Minta beamed when he remarked on the pleasant home she had made. “It’s so small, it’s hard sometimes to keep it tidy. Seth hopes to be able to buy Mr. Chrysler’s business soon and set up on his own. There’s a house comes with the smithy, so we’ll have more room then.”

She deposited Henry in the wooden cradle near the stove and disappeared into the second room. She returned with a wooden box. “These are Rachel’s things,” she said, setting it on the table. “Go on — look through it if you like. I have no idea what to do with any of it, except to keep it in memory of her.”

There were pitifully few things in the box: Rachel’s faded everyday dress and apron — she would have been buried in her Sunday dress of course; the little wildflower painting that Willett Caddick had presented to her; a raggedy doll with a wooden head. This last item brought tears to his eyes. It was obviously a relic from her short childhood, something she had treasured and saved. It made him realize how young she had been. And finally, in the corner, a small book with a red cover. He opened it — The Book of Proverbs. The inscription was there, just as the constable had said, in a fine sloping hand. TO RACHEL, WITH MY FONDEST REGARDS. There was no signature to indicate from where the regards might have originated. He thumbed the pages carefully and was rewarded when the bible fell open at a page marked by a steel pin. In this book, each chapter of the Proverbs was set off by itself, so there was no mistaking that it was Chapter Five that had been open when she died, the chapter that contained a warning against seductive women: “For her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold in hell.”

It was a strange passage for a young girl to be studying, although he knew plenty who read the Bible cover to cover on a regular basis. There was no indication of any particular passage in the chapter having been marked, no clue to tell him what Rachel’s state of mind might have been at the time, nor any clue that would lead him to anyone else’s involvement. He wouldn’t have thought it significant in any way if he hadn’t seen an identical book opened to the very same spot in the lap of another — identical, except for the inscription.

Who had given it to her? Was it the same person who had killed her? And if so, why would he leave it behind, in such an obvious place, sure to be found and looked at?

He couldn’t rid himself of the notion that it had been his son-in-law Francis Renwell. Too many things were the same; both girls had died with marks on their necks, the same strange artifacts had been left with their bodies. He knew for a fact that Renwell was in the approximate vicinity — he had seen him lurking by the mill in Milford, hadn’t he? It was a long ride from there to Demorestville, but not an impossible one. Lewis did it on a regular basis himself. The only question was why? He could imagine all too well an argument between Renwell and Sarah, some point of dissension that had triggered a tragic violence, but what did Renwell have to do with Rachel? He wasn’t aware that they had ever laid eyes on each other.

He thought back to his discussion with Griffith Varney. He had mentioned Rachel’s death only as an afterthought. He had been full of news about the church, the argument that had erupted over its use, and the fire. With everyone’s attention focused on those events, anyone could have ridden into the village on the sly and ridden back out again without attracting attention.

So, too, on the night of Sarah’s death, the countryside had been in an uproar and oblivious to anything but the news that Mackenzie had risen and was engaged in a gun battle on the streets of Toronto. No time or inclination to notice anything else amiss, they had all been sure that a revolution had started and that their lives and livelihoods were in peril.

He had no idea if the two things were connected. Did the murderer use violent events to cover his crime, or did the events themselves somehow unleash the violence in the man? He felt himself grappling with this notion that madness could beget more madness. He should not be surprised. He knew that evil dwelt in the hearts of all men, but the complexity of this kind of connection was something he had no experience with, and he was completely unsure of his ground. But if his theory was correct, there was a monster loose in Upper Canada, and he had no idea what to do about it.

He realized that Minta was hovering anxiously at his shoulder. He returned the book to its place in the box.

“Oh, I’ll get a cloth. You’ve stained your hands.”

There was a faint pink blush on his right palm. Just the sweat from his hand was enough to have leached the cheap dye out of the cover of the bible and leave a telltale mark.

“Did Rachel have any stains on her hands, do you know?” he asked.

Minta looked puzzled. “I don’t know. No one mentioned it.”

Lewis was sure that she hadn’t. Sarah hadn’t, and neither the doctor nor the constable had listed it in the details of the evidence they had found.

“Don’t worry about Seth,” he said to Minta as he left. “I’m sure that wherever he was, it wasn’t here. Pray to the Lord to forgive you for lying, but I’m sure there’s no real harm done on your part.”

He hoped that what he said was true. For he knew now, with no doubt whatsoever, that Rachel had been murdered.