Governing Passion (20 page)

“Oh, yes. She had a secret door, didn’t
she?”

“I didn’t know anything about a secret door,”
Mrs. Baldridge said. “I had no idea she was sneaking out at night.
I always found Christine in bed in the morning, with the headache
gone.”

“Christina has been goin’ out to Devil’s
Acre, hasn’t she?” Cobb said.

“That’s what she’s been telling me,”
Christine said.

“And why did she do that?”

“It was all Christopher’s fault. That’s what
Christina told me. He abandoned me, he was going to marry a
witch!”

“But a witch that looked like you?”

Christine winced. “That’s what Christopher
told me. Tall and blond, like I am and Christopher is.”

“So Christina convinced you to hate this
woman in Kingston?”

“Christina said all would be well if only we
could get rid of her.”

“So Christina plotted to do that, and she
went looking for someone blond and attractive in Devil’s Acre.”

“She was a devil, wasn’t she? Where else
would we find her?”

“But she lived in Kingston.”

“That’s what Christopher wished me to
believe, but she’s been here in Devil’s Acre all along. He’s been
keeping that secret from me, but Christina knows everything. She’s
naughty, but she knows things for certain.”

“So Christina went looking for her?”

“And there she was. Christina told me about
her. And how clever she was in doing what had to be done.”

“Christina thought up the idea of dressing up
like a man? In yer brother’s clothes?”

“Oh, yes. Clever, isn’t she?”

“But what did Christina do?” Mrs. Baldridge
said with a gasp.

“She killed three people by slitting their
throats: Sally Butts, Sarie Hickson and Simon Whitemarsh,” Cobb
said.

“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Baldridge said, and
reached for the smelling salts. She sat down in a chair opposite
the couch that Christine was lying on.

“But the third time Christina killed your
brother’s fiancée,” Cobb said to the girl, “it was really a
man.”

“Christina was not pleased to read that in
the newspaper.”

“Not completely clever, was she?”

“Oh, but she boasted to me how she outwitted
the police every time.”

“She put on your brother’s boots and
greatcoat and fur hat, didn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, but not here.”

“That was the really clever part, wasn’t it?
She put these things in a big laundry bag and pretended she was a
laundry woman, didn’t she?”

“And who would notice or remember a laundry
woman walking towards or away from Devil’s Acre?”

“So Christina waited till she was inside
Devil’s Acre, then put on a man’s coat, hat and boots over her
woman’s clothes, old clothes like a laundry woman would wear. And a
bit like the ones you’ve got on, Christine.” Cobb had an image of a
tall, dark figure stalking its victim, silently except for the
whirr of the knife, blood splashing on the white snow.

Christine looked puzzled. “Christina must
have given me these. They’re not mine.”

“Then she prowled Devil’s Acre looking for
the witch, didn’t she?” Cobb said.

“Even if she was seen she got only a nod from
the passers-by. She had the knife ready, the one my daddy used for
skinning rabbits.”

“What puzzled me the most,” Cobb said, “was
tracking those bootprints to the edge of Devil’s Acre, at Jarvis or
Church Street. They disappeared because Christina stopped there to
put the men’s things into the laundry bag – and became the laundry
woman again.”

“How clever is that, eh?”

Cobb remembered now that the tracks at the
edge of Devil’s Acre had always looked as if the killer had
shuffled about waiting for the coast to be clear. But now he knew
the shuffling about was for the removal of the disguise. And that
the laundry woman the watchman had seen after Sally Butts was
killed was in fact the murderer.

“And Christina was clever enough to fake an
attack on you,” Cobb said.

Christine smiled. “Oh, that was a good one,
wasn’t it? I was very frightened, of course, when she told me I had
to walk through Devil’s Acre. ‘But I’ll be nearby, won’t I?’ she
said to me. And I knew I’d be safe. She told me when to scream and
fall down.”

“She wanted the police to know, from your
description, just what sort of
man
was doing the attackin’,
didn’t she?”

“They’ll never suspect it’s a woman,’ she
said, and laughed.

“She only made one mistake, though. She
dropped her scarf in the alley. It had the letter ‘P’ on it for
Pettigrew.”

“But there are a lot of ‘P’s in Toronto,
aren’t there?”

“Tell me, though, why would Christina invite
a policeman into your house?”

“Oh, but she didn’t. I did see a man at my
window, and without Christopher here, I wanted protection. I just
insisted and Christina had no say in the matter.”

“What put me onto your clever friend,” Cobb
said, “was my sudden memory of the laundry woman and beginning to
wonder what might have been in that bag. Then I noticed that the
letters from your brother were dated three days apart. I saw how
you reacted to the letter at supper time, and I began to wonder if
your headaches were brought on by the mention of Kingston and your
brother leavin’ you. Then there was the letter ‘P’ on the scarf. I
thought my idea was wild at the time, but all I needed to do was
make sure that you were in your bed where you were supposed to
be.”

“Oh, but I was, wasn’t I? It’s Christina who
goes out and does those naughty deeds.”

“Ah, yes, Christina. Well, she’s in a lot of
trouble, I’m afraid.” Cobb looked over at Mrs. Baldridge. “We’ll
have to go to the magistrate,” he said.

Mrs. Baldridge, still in shock, replied
quietly, “I’ll see that she’s ready to go.”

TWELVE

Marc and Christopher had an uneventful passage home
to Kingston. Marc went immediately to Robert’s room, where he found
Robert, Hincks and LaFontaine.

“I’ve got great news,” Marc said before he
even greeted them.

“You’ve won Thériault over?” Robert said, his
eyes widening.

“All the way,” Marc said. “Christopher was
magnificent.” He had been magnificent, too, but was too modest to
say so.

“He’s going to back the coalition?” Louis
said.

“And try to persuade others to do the same,”
Marc said. “I left a number of documents, in English and French,
for his use with his peers.”

“I’d like to meet with him as soon as
possible,” Louis said.

“That will not be difficult. He has expressed
a desire to do so as soon as you’re free.”

“I’ll go to Chateauguay at once,” Louis said,
as excited as he ever got.

“I’ll go with you,” Hincks said, “if you
think I could be of any help.”

“Marc, this is wonderful news,” Robert said.
“I really feel now as if we are on the path to responsible
government. Oh, there will be setbacks and bumps along the road,
but with a French-English Reform alliance in the Assembly, nothing
can stop our steady march.” Robert had tears in his eyes. “There
were times when I thought this day would never come. But it has.
And I thank God – and my many friends – for it.”

Was Robert right? Had they at last won the
battle they had been waging for so long? Robert all his adult life,
of course, and Marc since the winter of 1836 when he had ventured
naively into the Upper Canadian countryside to try and solve the
murder of Beth Smallman’s father-in-law. He had been an ignorant
aristocrat then, full of himself and his own narrow future. But
Beth and her neighbours had taught him about the reality of life in
the province, and he had come to know and love them. Then there had
followed the slow but inevitable change in his politics – from
career Tory to enthusiastic Reformer. He had teamed up with Robert,
and they had together fought elections, battled in the Assembly for
their rights, championed the union of the two Canadas, and always
with one eye on the main prize: responsible government. Was it now
really within their grasp?

“Well, then, we’d better make a toast to our
success,” Hincks said. “I’ll see if our host has a chilled bottle
of champagne handy.”

***

While the toast was being drunk, less sanguine
events were occurring in the town. The three dozen or so French
workers from the Parliamentary and other work-sites, many with
their families, lived in rundown shanties in the east end of
Kingston. This evening, instead of fiddling and dancing and other
entertainments, there was an uneasy quiet over the community. Men
were seen going door to door, gathering in small groups and
whispering. Gradually they formed into a single group of several
dozen. They still spoke in low voices but the tone was one of
anger.

“I say we go to the jail and let LeMieux
out,” someone was heard to say.

“It’s the magistrate who did this. Let’s go
to his house and demand that he free LeMieux.”

“It’s a plot against us French, that’s what.
We have to do
something
about it.”

“Let’s take clubs!”

The talk was increasing now in volume and in
anger.

“No! No! This must be a peaceful march. There
are troops in the fort.”

“To the magistrate’s house!”

“To Wilson’s!”

The group was leaderless, but they didn’t
seem to require one, so focussed was their purpose and its
rightfulness. They swarmed down a side street – a swelling tide of
resentment – to King Street, and thence on to number 31, a
substantial two-storey stone house. One of the men went up and
pounded on the door.

“Come out, Wilson!” he shouted in
English.

The door opened, and a black-suited butler
recoiled in shock at the sight of the mob in front of him. He
slammed the door shut.

“Come out, Wilson, or we’re coming in!”

A few minutes later, Magistrate Wilson, in
his dressing-robe, stepped out onto the stoop, shivering and
wide-eyed. He was a rotund little man with fleshy cheeks and
pop-eyes.

“What do you people mean, disturbing me like
this? Go to your homes!” he shouted in as commanding a voice as he
could muster.

“We want Jacques LeMieux freed from prison.
He is there only because he is French.”

“
Libérez
LeMieux!”

“If you don’t let him go, we will go to the
jail and do the job ourselves.”

“Just a minute. I have to get my coat on.
Then we’ll discuss this.” With that Wilson shut the door, and said
to his footman. “Go to the Clarendon Hotel and fetch Louis
LaFontaine. Immediately. We’ve got the makings of a mob on our
hands.”

The footman scooted out the back door.

Wilson re-emerged on his stoop with a coat
and hat on. “Mr. LeMieux’s hammer was used to murder Earl Denham,”
he said to the spokesman for the French protesters. “And the man
made a death-threat against him. He has no alibi. He was seen drunk
and heard threatening Denham just before midnight when we think the
crime took place.”

“What about the other workmen? You arrested
LeMieux because he is French!”

“
Libérez
LeMieux!”

The magistrate continued to argue with the
spokesman, but since he was the only one whose English was
proficient, the arguments were lost on the mob that was growing
increasingly restless.

“To the jail!” someone shout in French.

“
Arrêtez
!”

The single word boomed from the back of the
mob. All chatter ceased, and the crowd parted to let a tall, dark
man of regal bearing walk through to the stoop. He stood beside
Wilson, towering over him, and faced the mob.

“You know who I am?” he said in French.

“Monsieur LaFontaine,” someone said, sending
whispers through the crowd.

“That’s right. I have fought for your cause
long and hard in the legislature and in the courts. I have been
jailed by the English. I speak to you now as your friend and your
ally. I know all about Jacques LeMieux’s case. I have engaged a
first-rate investigator to find the real killer of Earl Dunham so
that LeMieux may be freed. If that does not happen, then we will
have the most able defense attorney to defend LeMieux, and I have
been assured he will be acquitted.”

“But he’s innocent!” someone shouted.

“I believe he is as well. But going to the
jail as a mob will only get you shot at by the English troops. It
will not free LeMieux. You must accept my word that LeMieux will be
done right by. I am LeMieux’s best hope.”

“The English will not listen to a
Frenchman!”

“They will and they do. I am a friend of
Robert Baldwin, who is a member of the Governor’s Executive
Council. He has agreed to help. Together we will get LeMieux out of
prison – now or later. I guarantee it.”

There was a lot of muttering and murmuring in
the crowd, but LaFontaine had broken the spell. Their fury was
spent.

“Now, please go home to your families.”

Silently, the mob drifted away.

“That was a close call,” Wilson said. “Thank
you for coming.”

LaFontaine smiled wryly. “Now I must deliver
on my promises.”

***

And the man who could help him do that was Marc
Edwards.

“How is the investigation going?” Louis asked
Marc the next morning. “We have a lot of restless French people
here in town, and the word will spread. We don’t want a bump in the
road this soon after our victory in Cornwall.”

“I’ve got three good suspects,” Marc said.
“Marvin Leroy, Gregory Manson and Michel Jardin. But little
physical evidence and no witness to put them at the scene of the
crime, except for a button off Manson’s overalls. I could
interrogate him again and see if he makes a slip.”

“It looks as if you’re more likely to end up
defending LeMieux in court.”

“I’m afraid so. But I haven’t given up.”