Wishful Seeing (19 page)

Thaddeus was once again beginning to feel that the case was hopeless. Everything hinged on bits of information that could be interpreted in any number of ways and he wondered if the young barrister was overly optimistic about what the jury might believe. The law was such an insubstantial thing. It was like wrestling with smoke.

“I did find out that Jack Plews, the man who owned the land that Howell bought, has left the district,” he offered, with no hope that the information was useful. “He's gone to stay with family in the west somewhere.”

Ashby looked astonished. “No, he hasn't. He's here in Cobourg. I could scarcely get a quiet drink at Musgrove's last night, he was pestering me so.”

“Really? The rumour in the neighbourhood is that he's long gone. Come to think of it, though, Leland Gordon did say he'd only heard it, and didn't know for certain. What was he pestering you about?”

“About what would happen to George Howell's property if he and his wife were convicted of murder. Whether or not the land sale might be declared invalid or some such nonsense. I let him run on for a bit, just to see if he knew anything I could use, but when it became clear that he didn't, I shut him up by threatening to send him a bill for legal services.”

“I take it there's no chance that could happen?”

“Oh, there's every chance a bill will be sent. But no, a guilty verdict wouldn't impact the transaction.”

“Strange,” Thaddeus said. But he couldn't quite put his finger on why, particularly.

Ashby turned to Martha. “I know you've been very busy, what with your … um … sewing and so forth, but did you have a chance to go through those passenger lists?”

It was such a facetious remark that Thaddeus expected her to glare. Instead, she merely looked at Ashby with a glint in her eye and a half-smile on her lips. “Of course,” she said. “Since I seldom frequent taverns, I find I have ample time to complete my work.” She shoved her notes across the table at him.

“Oh.” Ashby stared at her for a moment before he looked down at the papers, but she didn't notice because she had returned to her hemming. Thaddeus looked pointedly in the other direction. He was staying out of this.

“Well,” Ashby said after a moment, “Mr. Howell shows a distinct fondness for Rochester, doesn't he?”

“Fourteen times in the last three years,” Martha said without looking up.

“Currency exchange and bad money. That fits. Rochester is a hotbed for counterfeiters.”

“Is it really?” Thaddeus asked.

“Oh yes. Notes, coins, bogus railway bonds. Looks as though our Mr. Howell is a shover all right. And well, well, well, what's this? He went to Burlington six months ago. I wonder why?”

“That's where Paul Sherman was from,” Thaddeus said. “That has to be the connection.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you?” Ashby said. “I keep going back to the land title, but I just can't quite put it together. And we're out of time. At this point our best chance is to discredit the witnesses and hope that does the trick.” He stared at Martha's notes for a moment more before he said, “You know, I can think of all kinds of reasons why someone would want to kill George Howell. But I can't think of a single reason anyone would want to murder Paul Sherman.”

Fall Assizes, Cobourg,October 1853

 

The courtroom was packed. By the time Thaddeus arrived, all the seats were taken and the aisles were beginning to fill up. He opted to stand against the wall at the side of the room, in a position that might catch Ellen's eye if she looked up. He hoped he was tall enough for her to see him, and that she would know he was there, even if he wasn't sitting right down in the front.

A hush fell over the crowd as Sheriff Ruttan escorted the judge to the dais at the front of the room. Justice Edward Stephens was a dignified and stern-faced man who, Ashby said, was noted for his accurate knowledge of the law and high personal character.

“He'll be fair enough, but he's not likely to put up with any nonsense. We could have done a lot worse.”

The crowd sat patiently through two pieces of business unrelated to the murder trial, but became restless when Justice Stephens launched into the disposition of a third. Ashby had warned Thaddeus that this would happen. The assizes were held to deal with a number of cases, but the serious charges were always reserved as the last.

Finally, just before eleven a.m., the bailiff led Ellen Howell to the prisoner's box. As she had the first time, she looked up only briefly, a sweeping glance around the courtroom, her gaze resting briefly on Thaddeus before she bowed her head again.

Then the members of the grand jury were called in to report their findings. As expected, they returned a true bill: the charges against the accused were found to be “warranted and just.” Thaddeus thought that this particular part of the proceedings was completely unnecessary. After all, the prosecution's evidence had been gone through at the committal hearing, and if there were glaring holes in the evidence, it should have been revealed then.

There were many who agreed with him and who argued that grand juries were an unnecessary waste of time and money and should be abolished. Maybe they would be one day, Thaddeus thought. In the meantime, he supposed they were all stuck with them, like so much else about the judicial system.

The clerk read the charges. Ashby rose and entered a plea of “Not Guilty” on behalf of his client. This caused no stir in the crowd. They all knew that George Howell was the true culprit, and that Ellen Howell was in all likelihood an incidental defendant. They would have been surprised indeed, had any other plea been entered.

Justice Stephens thanked the grand jury and then dismissed them. By then it was time for dinner, and he called for a short recess.

Most of the spectators rose and exited the courtroom, anxious to once again discuss the case over a meal with their neighbours before the selection of the jury would begin. As soon as the front benches emptied, Thaddeus pushed forward and took a seat right behind Ashby.

“No surprises so far,” the young barrister said.

“How long will it take to choose the jury?” Thaddeus asked.

“Not long, I shouldn't think. They just draw cards from those who are eligible.”

“But everyone has read the details in the papers already,” Thaddeus noted with a sour tone. “I don't see how any of them can be impartial.”

Ashby shrugged. “That's the way it is, unfortunately. Technically, defence has the right to reject up to twenty prospective jurors, but I'm not sure what it would gain us, since I'm not allowed to question any of them about what they may or may not have read.”

Thaddeus fished in his pocket for the package that Martha had handed him that morning. When he opened it he found four thick slices of bread and butter and a generous chunk of cheese. He held it out to Ashby. “Martha sent us some lunch.”

Ashby took one of the slices of bread. “No, I think this lunch was meant for you. Miss Martha seems quite put out with me for some reason. Thank you anyway.”

“I don't think she likes the company you keep.”

Ashby grinned. “Yes, that was my impression as well. The womenfolk never like it when the men have a little fun, do they?” And then he returned to studying his notes, as if Thaddeus was in full agreement with his statement.

Whatever the outcome, Thaddeus was suddenly glad that the trial would be over in a few days, and that Ashby would leave Cobourg at the end of it. Martha had quite liked the young lawyer, he knew. He was sure it was just one of those ephemeral and fleeting attachments that young girls seem so prone to, and would soon fade away with his absence, and it was just as well. As mature as she looked and as assured as she was, she was no match for a man like Ashby.

Thaddeus was roundly scowled at when, half an hour later, people began filing back into the courtroom. He ignored them. He wasn't going to budge from his seat. Justice Stephens and the Sheriff entered as before. The bailiff came forward with a large basket, and the Sheriff began drawing cards from it.

One by one the local men who were called came forward to state their names and occupations. Most of them were classified as “yeomen” — farmers of small pieces of land that they owned. One was a clerk, another a shoemaker. The prosecutor, Warren Garrett, challenged two of the farmers. Ashby objected to one of the clerks.

“Don't like the look of him,” Ashby muttered to Thaddeus as he returned to his seat.

In relatively short order, twelve jurors were selected and Justice Stephens outlined what was expected of them. “Because of the seriousness of the charges, you will not be allowed to return to your homes while the trial is in progress,” he said. “Neither will you be allowed to mingle freely with the public, nor talk to anyone from the newspapers.”

Thaddeus thought two of the jurors looked a little downcast at this. Opportunistic farmers, perhaps, hoping for a free drink or two as a result of their selection? Their celebrity would have to wait until a verdict had been reached.

Prosecutor Garrett rose and presented a brief outline of the case he intended to prove, followed by Ashby, who, as he had indicated to Thaddeus, stated that the evidence against Ellen Howell was purely circumstantial and should, therefore, be discounted. And then the first witness, Constable Miller, was called to the witness stand.

“Could you describe for the court, please, the events that took place on September fourteenth?” Garrett asked.

“I was just thinking about turning in for the night when Donald Dafoe knocked on my door.”

“And what time was this?”

“About nine o'clock. Don said he'd found someone dead over on Spook Island and I should come. I rousted out my neighbour who has a boat, and together with Dafoe, we went to the island. It was pretty dark, but even with just a lantern I could see right away that it wasn't a case of drowning or anything like that. The man had a big hole in his chest.”

“And what did you do from there?”

“I sat down to watch over the body and told the others to go back to shore and ride for the coroner.”

“Did you check the body to see if there were any signs of life?”

The constable nodded. “I did. He was colder than a day in January.”

“Did you notice any particulars about him, other than the wound in his chest?”

“He had a gash in his head, but I don't know what from. Could've happened when he fell. There was blood on the rocks nearby.”

“And did you attempt to identify the man?”

“No, sir,” the constable said. “I didn't recognize him right off, but I thought it best to wait until Dr. Gilchrist arrived before I started rifling through his pockets. There was no point, you see, he was good and dead already, so what difference did it make if it took a while to figure out who he was?”

“Thank you, Constable Miller.”

Thaddeus realized that the prosecutor had led with this testimony in order to establish that the body could in no way have been tampered with before the arrival of the coroner. He could see no way to dispute these facts, and neither, apparently, could Ashby, who declined to question Miller.

The coroner took the stand next, and repeated the same testimony he had given at the committal.

Ashby rose. “Could you repeat your opinion regarding the cause of death?” he asked. “I just want to make sure that I am absolutely clear on the matter.”

“The cause of Mr. Sherman's death was a lead ball that entered his chest. Probably from a .625 calibre Baker rifle.”

“And not from the wound to his head?”

“No. In my opinion, the head wound was not sufficiently severe to have caused a mortal wound.”

“I see,” Ashby said, “so whoever struck him on the head was not capable of delivering a heavy blow?”

“Or didn't mean to,” the coroner said. “It's impossible to tell.”

“And is it possible to tell with which hand this theoretical somebody delivered the half-hearted blow?”

“Not definitively. But from the angle, my best opinion is that it was delivered from behind by someone who was right-handed.”

“Thank you,” Ashby said, and seemed well satisfied with the answer he had elicited. Thaddeus wasn't entirely sure what the young barrister was up to. A feeble blow could certainly be attributed to a twelve-year-old. On the other hand, it could just as easily point to anyone who hadn't had a clear swing at Sherman. But then he realized that Ashby was making it crystal clear that it had been the gunshot wound, and not the blow, that had killed Sherman.

Chief Constable Spencer was sworn in next. He confirmed Constable Miller's description of the circumstances in which Paul Sherman's body had been discovered and described the investigations that had led him to the Howells.

“And what did you discover when you arrived at the Howell Farm?” Garrett asked.

“We discovered a washtub in the woodshed back of the kitchen, full of soapy water. In the tub was a blue dress. The dress had obviously been set to soak, but it hadn't soaked long enough. When we fished it out, there was still a dark stain on the skirt.”

“And in your opinion, what could have made this stain?” the prosecutor asked.

“In my opinion, it's likely a bloodstain.”

At this point the clerk held up the dress. The stain was still dark against the blue background, the small flowers blotted out across a section of the skirt.

A murmur ran through the crowd. They had read all about the bloodstained dress in the newspapers, but this was the first time any of them had seen it.

When the constable completed his testimony, it was Ashby's turn to question. He rose, stopped in thought for a moment, took a long look at the jury, then turned to the witness.

“Do you do your own laundry, Mr. Spencer?”

The constable chuckled a little. “No, of course not. My wife does the laundry.”

“And do you assist her?”

“No.”

“And yet you stated that the dress you discovered at the Howell farm had been … how did you put it? … set to soak.”

“Yes.” Spencer was alert now. He had enough court experience to understand that Ashby might be headed in a dangerous direction.

“How do you know this?”

“Because I don't know how many times I've come home with my clothes in a state and my wife has sighed and said, ‘Give me that, I'll set it to soak.”

A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd.

“I see,” Ashby said with apparent great interest. “And do you often come home covered in blood?”

“I wouldn't say
often
, but it's happened a few times.”

“And on those occasions, your wife has, as you said,
set your clothes to soak
?”

“Yes.”

“As fascinating as we find the subject of Mr. Spencer's laundry,” Justice Stephens interjected, “I'm wondering if there is any particular point you are trying to get to, Mr. Ashby?”

“I beg the court's indulgence. I shall arrive at the point shortly.” Ashby turned once again to the witness. “Well, Mr. Spencer, since you have stated that you don't in fact assist your wife with the laundry, is it correct to say that you have never examined your soiled clothes after they have been soaked.”

The constable was wary. “I've seen them after they were washed.”

“But not
between
the soaking part and the washing part of the process.”

“Well, no … I just let the wife get on with it.”

“So really, you have no idea what a bloodstain — or any stain really — would look like after it's been soaked in a tub of water for a time.”

The constable shifted uncomfortably. “Well, no, I suppose not.”

“So, in fact, based on no knowledge whatsoever, you concluded that the stain on the blue dress was made by blood.”

“It surely looks like a bloodstain to me.”

“But it could just as easily be mud. Or cow manure.” There was outright laughter at this. “You really can't say without a shadow of a doubt what caused the stain, can you, Constable Spencer? Because you have no first-hand knowledge of laundry.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose not, but …”

“No further questions.

“But …”

“Thank you, Mr. Spencer.”

And Chief Constable Spencer was left with no choice but to step down. Thaddeus shot a glance at the prosecutor, but Garrett showed no sign of annoyance.

It was approaching five o'clock by this time, and the judge called a halt to the proceedings until nine o'clock the following morning. Thaddeus waited with Ashby while the courtroom cleared out.

“Are you coming 'round?” he asked.

“Not until later, if you don't mind. I'd like to hear the gossip. Shall we say eight o'clock or so?”

Thaddeus was reasonably sure that Martha would find this a relief, but he was also certain that Ashby's search for scuttlebutt would include a circuit of the taverns and taprooms. He would, no doubt, arrive reeking of smoke, sawdust, and whiskey. It would put a further strain on the evening when all Thaddeus wanted to do was dissect what had happened during the day and what would be likely to happen on the morrow. He supposed if Martha got too snippy with Ashby he could order her away, but she had been too important a part of the investigation for him to shut her out entirely. He'd have to follow Ashby's lead and simply ignore Martha's iciness.