Wishful Seeing (10 page)

“But he was around enough to make himself unpopular with the neighbours?”

“No, not exactly. He wasn't generally well liked, but I think it was because of his manner rather than any specific point of contention until he was blamed for sharp dealing in connection with the train station at Sully.”

“Ah yes, the land deal. Do you know any of the details?” Ashby's pen was poised over the paper, ready to record them.

“It's a one-hundred-acre parcel that was being farmed by a man named Jack Plews. He fell behind in the mortgage, at which point Mr. Howell bought him out. It was only after Howell gained control of the land that it was announced that the railway company wanted it for a station.”

“And who held the mortgage?”

“A local lawyer and a friend of Howell's,” Thaddeus said, “D'Arcy Boulton, who also happens to be on the Board of Directors of the railway company.”

Ashby's eyebrows shot up. “A Boulton? Oh my, my, my, this is getting interesting. I expect everyone assumes there was collusion?”

“What's collusion?” Martha asked.

“It means they put their heads together and hatched a shady deal,” Ashby replied. “I don't know for sure if the deal has anything to do with the murder, but it certainly makes an interesting starting point, doesn't it?” He tapped the table with his pen for a moment. “So, here's what we need to do. Mr. Lewis, I need you to find out what this Mr. Plews was doing on the afternoon of the murder, and where Paul Sherman obtained the boat that took him to Spook Island. I'll interview Mrs. Howell tomorrow to see if she can shed any light on her husband's business enterprises. And I'll stand a couple of rounds at the Globe and see if liquor loosens some tongues.”

Thaddeus was glad to see that Martha wrinkled her nose in distaste at this ploy, but he had to admit that it was probably a sound strategy on Ashby's part. The Globe Hotel was a favourite haunt of Cobourg's business community. More deals were made there, they said, than in any office in the town. As a Methodist minister, Thaddeus would find it difficult to access those circles and he certainly would never “stand a round or two” of drinks. Ashby must have deep pockets indeed, if he could afford to drink at the Globe.

“What can I do?” Martha asked.

“It would be useful to know what the community is saying about the case. Often someone lets slip a key piece of information without realizing it. Have you heard anything at the market, or at teas or parties, or anywhere really?”

Martha knitted her brows while she thought about this. Finally she said, “I don't attend parties, and I don't like gossip. But I can't help but overhear what people are saying while I'm running errands. Generally, they seem to think Mr. Howell is guilty, and that Mrs. Howell just happened to be there.”

“I would suspect that's probably true; however, it won't make any difference in terms of how the prosecution proceeds.”

“What do you mean?” Martha asked. Thaddeus was just as anxious to hear the answer.

“The law is quite clear. If two or more people form a common criminal purpose, they are all guilty of every crime com­mitted by any one of them in the execution of that purpose. That is what my opposing counsel will assert — that the Howells were engaged in a criminal act that somehow went awry, and that, therefore, Mrs. Howell is as guilty as her husband.”

“Even if she didn't actually do anything?” Martha asked.

“Even so,” Ashby said. “It's only if one of them committed a crime foreign to the common purpose that the other would be innocent of it.”

Thaddeus was puzzled. “But what was the common criminal purpose? Nobody knows what any of them were doing on the island.”

“And that is what I will attempt to show in court,” Ashby responded, “that the Howells had no criminal purpose, and that, therefore, Mrs. Howell's culpability is divorced from her husband's.”

“But only if she didn't do anything,” Martha pointed out. “We don't know that for certain.”

“Precisely!” Ashby said and gave her another approving look. Thaddeus was taken aback. He had assumed that Ellen Howell was innocent and that this fresh-faced young man would somehow prove that fact to the court. He hadn't considered any other possibility. He was jumping to conclusions again, only in reverse, he realized. He had a long history of believing in the guilt of people he didn't like. Now he was believing in the innocence of one he did.

“What happens if you discover that she's guilty after all?” he asked quietly.

“It makes no difference. We'll give her a grand defence anyway,” Ashby said with a wave of the hand. When Thaddeus looked dubious, he went on. “You have to understand my role here, Mr. Lewis. It doesn't matter if she's guilty or not, my job is to provide the best defence I possibly can, within the framework of the law as it is written.”

Thaddeus thought that it mattered a great deal, at least to him. But he wasn't about to argue with a lawyer. Not even a newly qualified one.

“I don't suppose there's any question of arranging bail for her?” he asked.

“We'd have to ask a superior court judge for it, and that would take some time. And some money. Unless you can persuade someone to post bail for her, I expect she's stuck where she is. I'll make some inquiries, though. And make sure she's being properly treated, that sort of thing. Oh, and Mr. Lewis, you might also stop by the Howell farm if you could and have a look around.”

“Wouldn't it have been searched already? When they arrested Mrs. Howell?” Martha asked.

“Yes, it would have. And I don't really expect to find much of anything, but you never know. They might have missed something. And they didn't have your grandfather to do the searching. From what I hear, he has a habit of finding things that other people can't.”

Ashby started stacking the papers he had strewn over the table. “For now, keep your ear to the ground,” he said, “and write down anything you hear, no matter how unimportant it might seem. And keep mum about anything you find. I don't know what the prosecution has up its sleeve, and I don't want to tip them off.”

“Don't they have to tell you about whatever evidence they have?” Thaddeus asked.

“No, they don't. But I don't have to tell them anything either.” He turned to Martha. “Do you suppose you could track any relevant articles that appear in the newspapers regarding the case, so we have as complete a history as possible? And if you can find any back copies, you could save those as well. I need to return to Toronto tomorrow, so I won't be on hand to do it myself.”

“Of course,” she replied. But after all her talk about not wanting anyone underfoot, Thaddeus thought she looked a little disappointed that Towns Ashby was leaving Cobourg so soon.

As he rode north the next day, Thaddeus reflected that in some respects he was grateful that the excitement over The Great Debate had died down as quickly as it had. As he predicted, attendance at meetings had fallen off by half, allowing him to revert to the more leisurely pace of his original schedule. He would have plenty of time to make the inquiries Ashby had requested of him, without missing or being late for any meetings. No one had ever complained in the past, but Thaddeus was aware that, at times, he had been sailing close to the wind in terms of the amount of time he spent doing other things when he was supposed to be ministering. This time, he judged, he could give his full attention to the class meetings he had arranged, stop by the Howell farm for a good look around, and still reach Sully in time to preside at that evening's women's meeting and ask some questions about boats.

It was easier now to focus his flocks on their prayers, too, and that saved time. Immediately following Ellen Howell's committal, all the talk had been of the evidence that had been presented, but now, with no new information to feed the rumour mill, people turned their attention to other matters. Other than the usual discussions regarding successful births and impending marriages, the conversation was dominated by the slow but steady progress of the rail line and the spectacle of the trestles that stretched four abreast out into Rice Lake.

Thaddeus was particularly pleased to note that news of Townsend Ashby's involvement was not yet common knowledge. The young barrister would be far more likely to pry loose the information he was seeking if no one knew why precisely he was asking. Liquor was a befuddlement that loosened men's tongues, but not if they were too watchful in the first place.

Thaddeus was bemused by Ashby, and not a little im­pressed. This might be the young barrister's first criminal case, but he had seemed well-prepared, with a number of relevant points to investigate and an engaging manner that would serve him well in a courtroom. Whether or not all this would be enough to win the case remained to be seen. He was astute enough — he had certainly zeroed in on Thaddeus's reasons for retaining him in the first place — but he was circumspect enough not to comment on them. “So you have no particular interest in the woman?” he'd asked. Thaddeus was sure Ashby had noticed his discomfort. He must have wondered.

And in all honesty, if Thaddeus looked at the situation from an outsider's point of view, it must seem very strange that he had gone to so much trouble for a woman who wasn't even a member of his church. But no, he decided, the fact that she professed another faith was irrelevant. It was the injustice of an accused having a poor defence that bothered him, that was all. And the fact that she had apparently been abandoned by her spouse, a man who might well have been treating her roughly. His stomach churned whenever he thought of the bruise he had seen on her arm.

He had forgotten to mention the bruise to Ashby. The young lawyer claimed that every detail was important, that even the smallest thing could tip the balance either way. Thaddeus would have to start writing things down. He was just so rattled by this case that his memory was becoming faulty, and he was losing his ability to concentrate on the bigger picture.

Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly realized that he had already reached the general vicinity of the Howell farm. He wasn't sure exactly where the laneway might be, but as luck would have it, an old farmer driving a hay wagon trundled toward him as he was stopped, puzzling, in the middle of the road.

“You look lost,” the farmer said.

“Not lost, precisely. I'm looking for something. You don't happen to know which is the Howell farm, do you?”

“Why do you want to know?” the man asked. “Here to gawk? Or to steal?” Then he took a closer look at Thaddeus. “Oh, you're the preacher. You're the one who talked down the Baptist.”

“That's right,” Thaddeus said. There were advantages to being quasi-famous. “I've just come from Cobourg. I spoke with Mrs. Howell. I thought perhaps I should check on her house.”

“Good idea,” the man rumbled. “You never know who's about, or what they might take when nobody's looking. Not like the old days when you could leave a cabin for weeks and no one would touch a thing. Other than the coons, of course. They're always a problem. And the mice.”

“Do you know where I might find the laneway?”

The man gestured in the direction from which he had just come. “On up a ways. You'll see a big oak tree and a broken- down fence. Just follow the track. It's a long way in, though, and no guarantee you'll find anybody when you get there. The girl won't talk to anybody. Skedaddles as soon as you get close.”

For a moment Thaddeus failed to understand what the old man was talking about and thought perhaps he was a little senile. Then he remembered Ellen Howell's daughter. He could have kicked himself for not thinking of her long before this, but he had seen her only once, the day she had accompanied her mother to The Great Debate. Had she really been left alone on such a remote farmstead while her mother languished in a cold cell? Surely someone had offered to take her in, or at the very least dropped in on her now and then to make sure she was all right.

And how very odd that her mother hadn't asked after her well-being. Ellen Howell hadn't mentioned her daughter at all.

Thaddeus thanked the man and continued down the road. He rounded a bend and found, just as described, a gigantic oak and a section of rail fence that was in rather desperate need of repair. Leland Gordon had said that Major Howell wasn't much of a farmer. If the state of his fences was any indication, he certainly wasn't interested in keeping livestock, at any rate.

The winding lane was crowded on both sides with lilac, sumac, and weed maple, all of it smothered with wild grape. No one had bothered to slash the intrusive growth back from the edges of the path in a long time. It would not be many years before it choked the laneway entirely. As he advanced a little farther, the lane widened out a bit and the fences had been shored up on either side to enclose several cleared fields. Leland Gordon's work, no doubt. Beyond this, it didn't look like anyone had paid any attention at all to the state of the holding.

Thaddeus knew he was close to the house when he smelled woodsmoke. As he rounded yet another turn in the path, he saw a small, squat building that appeared to be a rude settler's shanty that had been improved in a haphazard fashion. A room had been added to one side and a shed built at the back, but the basic log structure was still clearly visible. He rode farther into the dooryard and called out. There was no answer but the plaintive bellow of a cow, and off in the distance the yelp of a dog.

Behind the house a privy leaned at an alarming angle, surrounded by untrimmed nettles and stalks of goldenrod. Beyond a square of kitchen garden was a small barn, little more than a drive shed, with a hole above the carriage door where the wind had ripped the boards away. It was a grim holding, slowly falling into ruin, and at complete odds with the prosperous public face the Howells presented.

He called again, but was answered only by the cow. She was standing behind the barn, in obvious distress, in a small field hemmed in by the outbuildings and the slope of the hill that rose steeply from the meadow. Thaddeus went through the gate and pushed open a Dutch door that led into the back of the barn. One side of the building had been fashioned into stalls of a sort. There was a metal bucket in one of them. Thaddeus turned to discover that the cow had followed him in, hoping, he expected, that someone would relieve the pressure on her bulging udder. He stood aside and she walked into the stall. He grabbed the bucket and a three-legged stool he found beside the door. It had been many years since he had milked a cow, not since he had been a lad back on his father's farm, and even then he hadn't done it often. Milking was women's work. Generally men were too ham-fisted to achieve the sure and regular strokes that reassured the cow and made the milk flow.

It took him a few minutes to get the rhythm, but then the warm, frothy milk began to squirt into the bucket. Fortunately, this cow wasn't a kicker, no matter what Ellen Howell claimed.

He stopped when the pail was half full. The cow seemed content, and the milk would give him an excuse to enter the house, should anyone happen along and challenge him. He turned the beast out into the meadow again and walked to the back door of the house.

“Hello?” he called. There was no answer, so he pushed the door open.

“Hello?” he said again. What was the girl's name? Mrs. Howell had told it to him at the debate, but he met so many people that day that it wasn't surprising he couldn't remember it. He would have to ask the Gordons.

He made only a cursory inspection of the cabin. The stove was quite hot, and there were dishes still on the drain board by the pump. It was clear that someone had been here recently. More than just been here — lived here. If the old farmer was to be believed, it was the Howell girl, but why on earth did she run off whenever anyone approached? More to the point, how did she know when there was someone coming down the lane?

He set the pail by the sink and left, shutting the door carefully behind him. Ashby had instructed him to take a good look around, but he could scarcely snoop through the house in the face of such obvious habitation. He would have to find answers in some other way.

Even so, he scanned his surroundings again before he headed back down the laneway. There was nothing to see but the weathered buildings huddled under the tree-covered hill. Again he could hear the bark of a dog, but the sound was muffled.
It must be a long way off,
he thought.

To his surprise, the old farmer had pulled to one side of the road fifty feet or so from the entrance to the lane. Thaddeus waved a greeting at him and rode on.

“Caroline. Her name is Caroline,” Leland said when Thaddeus reached the Gordon house in Sully, “although I've never addressed her as anything but ‘Miss Howell.' She's never been exactly friendly.”

“An old farmer I met on the road said she runs and hides whenever anyone comes near.”

“She's been doing that ever since her mother was arrested. Ma did some baking the other day and I took a loaf of bread and a pie over to her. We figured that might be something she didn't know how to do for herself, you see. She was nowhere in sight, so I just left it on the table.”

Thaddeus was pleased that the Gordons had at least thought of the girl, which seemed to be more than either of her parents had done, or himself for that matter. And maybe other neighbours had reached out to her, only to be ignored.

“How does she know when someone's coming?” he asked. “She'd obviously been there, but hid well before I got to the end of the lane.”

“It's the dog. Just an old mutt, but he won't leave her side. I expect he knows someone's coming before they even turn in and he barks to let her know. That lane is so long, she'd have plenty of time to hide.”

Thaddeus thought the barks had come from a long way away, but as he thought about it, he realized that the sound had been muffled. It could have come from behind a closed door inside a building. Where had the girl been? The house consisted of nothing more than a couple of rooms and a shed. He hadn't searched them, but he was sure the barking hadn't come from inside the house. The barn was a simple woodshed, not nearly as large as the drive shed at the manse. And he hadn't heard anything while he was inside milking the cow.

It was puzzling, but since there had been little to see other­wise, Thaddeus doubted that it had any relevance to the case. He'd report his lack of findings to Ashby, and in the meantime get whatever information he could from the Gordons.

“You don't happen to know what kind of business Major Howell is in, do you? Or where he goes when he goes away?”

“That's the question everybody's asking,” Gordon said, “including the chief constable. Some say it's something to do with promoting railway bonds, but to tell you the truth, I know so little about that sort of thing I'd be hard-put to tell you what it's all about — or how anyone makes a living from it. Why do you ask?”

“I've found a barrister who's willing to represent Mrs. Howell. He's set up all kinds of inquiries, but I'm not sure which ones in particular will serve to help her case. Neither does he at this point. I'm just looking for whatever information I can find.”

Gordon looked relieved. “Ma and I talked about trying to find someone, but we were a little afraid of the cost.”

“As was I. He's working for free. He's just graduated and thinks being involved in a high-profile murder trial will cement his reputation.” Thaddeus shrugged. “I figured it was better than court-appointed.”

“Well, it's certainly better than we managed.”

And Thaddeus was reminded once again of the essential goodness of people like the Gordons, who were willing to consider helping a neighbour even when the neighbour wasn't very neighbourly.

Martha saw her grandfather off in the morning, then set about tidying up from the dinner party the night before. She had been too keyed up to wash the dishes or shake out the tablecloth after Ashby left, deciding instead to bid Thaddeus good night and go to bed. She lay awake a long time, though, going over and over the rather stupendous events of the evening.

She had never before encountered anyone quite like Towns Ashby. There had been many gentlemen travellers who stayed at the Temperance Hotel in Wellington — businessmen, salesmen, well-to-do farmers, representatives from the Agricultural Society. They had paid no attention to her, other than to ask her to fetch them a clean napkin or a fresh pitcher of lemonade — except for that one occasion when she had been airing the beds on the second floor and had been cornered by a paunchy, red-faced man who claimed he wanted to show her something, and would pay her a pound if she let him. She had grabbed a bolster and raised it as a weapon.