Sowing Poison (18 page)

“If so, there's a reward offered by the man they bilked in New York. I'm wondering if Gilmour decided to collect it. The only thing that puzzles me is why he hasn't turned Mrs. Elliott in long since.”

“Because American law has no jurisdiction here,” Francis replied. “And none of her Canadian customers has put in a complaint. As long as she stays on this side of the border, Gilmour wouldn't be able to touch her, short of kidnapping her and hauling her back to New York.” He reddened a little. “It sort of works both ways, you know.”

Of course. Lewis should have realized that. But then he had little experience with the ins and outs of border crossings or international crime. Francis, who had fled across that same border as a rebel would understand much better the implications.

“If what you think is correct, maybe Nate knew Gilmour was on his trail and arranged his own disappearance.”

That was exactly what Lewis was beginning to think. Gilmour had arrived at Temperance House two or three days before Nate Elliott had gone missing. The timing was certainly right. And then Clementine had arrived, just at the point when Gilmour must have considered the whole thing a lost cause. Why had she come to Wellington, if her husband had gone to such pains to cover their tracks? Surely, if their theory was correct, her husband would have arranged to meet her somewhere, after the fact of his death had been assumed, and they could have gone merrily on their way. There was a piece missing somewhere in this puzzle, but Lewis couldn't find it.

He rose and stepped away from the clearing, but with the first step his right leg plunged through the ice, soaking his boot and leg to the knee.

“Why is that when we're on the ice together, you're always the one to go through?” Francis commented mildly. “You seem to have a real talent for it.”

Lewis's retort died on his lips. There was something in the water. He had kicked against it when he pulled his foot away. As he broke a little more of the ice away around the hole, he discovered it was a small leg-hold trap, of the sort used for muskrat, fully baited and unsprung.

“You're lucky you didn't step into that,” Francis said when he saw it. “It wasn't marked at all. It wouldn't be much fun out here with an injured leg. Somebody would have quite a time getting back home again.” Then he stopped to consider what he'd said. “You don't suppose that's what's happened to our missing Mr. Gilmour, do you?”

“Maybe.”

It was an old trap that Lewis had found, covered with algae, and it had probably been there for a long time. That would explain why it wasn't marked — it had been set and forgotten. He wondered if there were even deadlier traps scattered around the lake. Maybe he wasn't the only person who had stumbled upon one.

After the discovery, the two men continued more cautiously, testing each step before committing their weight to it. The trees were thick here, and at times they were unable to see more than a few feet into the woods. It was little wonder that they nearly passed right by the clearing without noticing it, but Francis suddenly missed his footing and slid across the slick surface, almost going down entirely. At the last moment, he stuck out a hand to save himself from a soaking. From this low angle, he could see through the lower branches of the thick cedars that masked a small gap in the growth.

“Let's check up in there,” he said, and they pushed their way through.

There was no question that someone had been there. Vegetation was broken and smashed and the snow was stained a reddish brown. Something heavy had been dragged to the opposite end of the clearing, where a trail disappeared into the woods.

“Someone's taken a deer, maybe?” Francis suggested warily, but he sounded unconvinced.

“I hope so,” Lewis replied, “but somehow I don't think so.”

Francis was about to follow the trail that led away, but Lewis hesitated. “Just a moment,” he said. “Let me take a look around.”
The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe
, Dupin had said in the Rue Morgue story. Lewis would observe, and hope that he would find the knowledge he needed. He followed the marks on the side of the hill up to the top of the dune. They appeared to be a long skid that ended abruptly at the stain on the ground. There was no blood — for Lewis was sure that was what it was — on the hill itself, just at the bottom. Something, or someone, had fallen, landing against a broken cedar stump, for there, too, he could see a stain that darkened the wood. A few feet away he discovered a boot print, but this was well away from the skid. Did whoever fell manage to rise and walk away? Or had there been a second person in that clearing?

Lewis looked more closely at the print. If it had been made by the trapper who supposedly guarded these woods, he would have expected him to leave the mark of a heavy, irregular tread of a homemade boot. This print was smooth, with very little tread at all —
a city boot
.

Had Nate Elliott been hunkered down here in the wilderness all this time? Had Gilmour somehow figured this out and been ambushed for his trouble? Suddenly, Lewis was profoundly uneasy at what they might find if they followed the trail that led away through the trees, and he wondered if they should return to Wellington for help. But he wasn't sure how he could persuade anyone that help was needed. A footprint in the snow and a brown stain wouldn't be enough to propel Constable Williams out of his lassitude. He and Francis would have to go ahead, but they would need to be very, very careful, regardless of whether it was Nate Elliott or the trapper waiting for them at the end of the trail.

The drag marks were easy enough to follow. Here and there, spots of blood marked the way. Then, on a low branch, Francis spotted a small jagged piece of cloth — the same brown tweed as Mr. Gilmour's overcoat. Lewis had walked right past it.
So much for making the necessary observations
, he thought.

“It looks like the branch caught on whatever was being dragged and ripped it away,” Francis pointed out.

“Whatever or
whoever
,” Lewis agreed. They moved even more cautiously after that.

The trail seemed to lead them deeper into the forest, following the contours of the great sand hills that Lewis knew lay underneath. In many places the soil was loose and tree roots lay in a tangle just beneath the surface, waiting to snag his foot and trip him up. He could see how easily someone might have fallen. He became winded as they climbed and then descended the dunes, and his left knee pained him with every step.

“Do you smell smoke?” Francis asked. Lewis sniffed the air, but could detect nothing until they had travelled another difficult hundred feet.

I'm too old for this
, Lewis thought.
My body aches and my senses have all dwindled away
.

The trail appeared to be leading them away from West Lake and toward the windswept shores of Lake Ontario, an area that was unsettled and seldom visited.

The forest suddenly opened up to reveal another small clearing. In it stood a ramshackle structure that appeared to have been built of old cast-off boards and pieces of log. One side of the structure had collapsed, but a thick plume of smoke rose from the chimney on the side that remained standing.

The drag marks led straight across the clearing to the cabin door.

“I think we should be very careful here,” Lewis said in a low voice. “I'm not sure who, or what, we're dealing with.”

“Do you think it's Elliott? Has he been holed up here the whole time?”

“I don't know. But whoever it is either attacked Gilmour or at the very least dragged him off. Neither action speaks of anything but a desperate man.”

“Why don't we circle around behind and see if there's another way in? I don't fancy bursting in the front door.”

There was no back dooryard, as a small dune pressed its sandy bulk against the rear wall of the cabin.

“If we can get up on that, we should be able to see the whole clearing,” Lewis whispered.

Francis nodded and they crept around the edge of the clearing as silently as they could. As they reached the top of the dune, they realized that it sloped sharply down on the other side into a small ravine before it rose again in yet another mound of sand. Stones projected a foot or two from the steep side, and as he slid down the bank, Lewis realized that a heavy oak door had been set into these stones.

“A root cellar?” Francis whispered.

Lewis was aware of a nauseating stench that seemed to emanate from behind the door. Something foul was hidden there.

There was no lock to bar entry; instead the door was held shut by two iron bars that slotted into brackets on either side. Lewis lifted these out and, holding his breath, jerked the door open. A disgusting odour rushed out, making his eyes water, and it took a moment for him to register what was inside. Two wooden barrels, homemade from the look of them, stood against the back wall. A third had fallen over and spilled its contents over the bone-littered floor of the cellar. Crudely butchered hunks of meat strewed from the mouth of the open barrel.

Lewis stepped inside for a closer look. The bones crunched unpleasantly under his feet. Some of them were very old, picked clean by the insects that no amount of stone wall could keep out. Some had bits of flesh still clinging to them.

Francis tied his handkerchief over his mouth and nose in an attempt to protect himself from the worst of the stench, and inched into the cellar behind Lewis.

“My God,” he said, “some of this is human.” He used his foot to flip over one of the chunks of flesh. At one end was what appeared to be the remains of a human foot. Lewis backed away from it hurriedly and slipped on the unstable footing beneath him. He fell squarely on his knee, the one that was already sore from their long trek, and he couldn't suppress a yelp at the pain.

“Sshh!”
Francis said, but it was far too late for silence to save them. When Lewis looked up he was staring straight into the muzzle of an ancient musket.

Martha had described the Holey Man, but her childish account had not prepared him for the reality of the man's appearance. His mouth was a gaping hole and Lewis wasn't entirely sure that he had any jaw at all, for his flattened, fish-like face seemed to merge with his neck. His eyes were odd in some way, and full of his fury at their trespass. But none of these strange details could divert Lewis for long; most of his attention was claimed by the gun that was pointed at his head.

He sensed that beside him Francis was shifting his weight cautiously, as if he were making ready to spring. Lewis's knee protested with a stabbing pain when he moved, but he did the same, preparing to rise at the same moment. They could not both be shot, for it took time to reload the gun. Lewis thought he was most likely to be hit, being the most directly in the line of fire, and he steeled himself for the shock. He hoped that he could move fast enough to avoid injury to anything vital.

Even though he was ready for it, he was still a second or so behind the younger man when they moved. With a leap, Francis crashed into the Holey Man, knocking him down and sending the musket flying. Lewis rolled to his right and crashed into the corner where a small cascade of bones brought him face to face with yet another horror.

The skull had been scraped clean and the dome of the braincase had been cleaved in two, but it was still recognizably and unmistakably a human head.

Lewis had no time to consider the ramifications of his find.

His first impulse was to locate the gun, which had landed a few feet away from the doorway. He scrambled over to it. It had not been cocked or loaded. He threw it down again and went to help Francis, who was attempting to subdue the Holey Man, who howled and spat and kicked in a frantic effort to get away. Lewis pinioned the arms while Francis gained a stronger hold on the man's feet. As soon as his limbs were immobilized, the Holey Man stopped struggling and went limp. His howls subsided to a whimper. Francis flipped him over so that he was lying face down, wrenched his arms behind him, and held him immobile with a knee in the small of his back. In one part of his mind, Lewis wondered where his son-in-law had learned such manoeuvres, but it was a question that would have to wait. Right now he had other, more pressing questions to ask.

Gingerly he picked up the skull he had found and set it down in front of the Holey Man.

“Oh, my God,” Francis said. “Did you do this?” and he gave his prisoner's arms a wrench.

“Found it,” the Holey Man whined. “Old Man say dead meat no good. Not in woods, in marsh. Belly hurt. Not dead long.” But with his horrendous and deformed mouth, this statement was unintelligible to his questioners and sounded like nothing more than a long nasal whimper.

Lewis cautioned Francis with a glance. “We won't get to the truth of the matter by frightening him.”

He crouched down in front of the Holey Man, whose features were truly monstrous, a twisted parody of a normal face, the eyes lash-less above the deformed nose and mouth. The ears were wrong, too; tiny and set forward in a peculiar way. In fact, everything seemed peculiar, and Lewis suspected that the horrendous hare lip was only a part of what was wrong with this poor creature. A number of pelts of varying origin — muskrat, beaver, fox, coon — had been haphazardly sewn together into a sort of cloak that he wore over his shoulders, and a hat of similar design lay nearby. But Lewis did not see much evidence of the “holey” clothing that Sophie had described. His pants were of good quality and intact, and under the furs he sported a brown jacket of very familiar design. The boots he wore were too small for him, but the caps had been sliced so that his feet would go in, and his bare webbed toes stuck out through the slits. Before they had been mutilated, the boots had been first-quality — city boots. Lewis began to get a very uneasy feeling about where these articles had come from.