Wishful Seeing (24 page)

Thaddeus was aware of much craning of heads as he walked to the stand. He knew that his name had been bandied about in connection with the case, but he was less well known here in Cobourg itself than he was in the backcountry, and everyone wanted to get a look at this preacher who seemed to have played such a large part in the story. He stood as straight as he could while he took his oath, and avoided looking at Ellen Howell as he wondered what he was about to be asked.

“Mr. Lewis, your assistant stated that when he met you on the road on October twenty-first, you were on your way to George Howell's farm.”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“What were your reasons for going there?”

“My granddaughter and I were visiting Mr. Leland Gordon and his mother at their farm near Sully. During the course of this visit, Mr. Gordon expressed some concern as to the well-being of the Howells' daughter. As Mr. Howell's whereabouts were unknown and her mother was here in Cobourg, there was an uneasiness that the daughter had been left alone on an isolated farmstead. She's only twelve.”

“And why had Mr. Gordon not attended to this himself if he was so concerned?”

“Because the girl ran away whenever anyone went near the farm. Mr. Gordon thought that, as I am a minister and Caroline had met me previously at a meeting, I might have more success in reaching her.”

“Wasn't that an odd thing for you to do?”

“Not really. We were going by on our way home, so it was no inconvenience. I told Mr. Gordon that I would at least try to talk to her.”

“And you were successful?”

“Yes.”

“Even though Mr. Gordon himself, and no doubt countless other neighbours, couldn't get near her.”

“I doubt that I would have either, had the cave not fallen in on her dog.”

“Are the Howells members of your church?”

“No.”

“And yet you managed to retrieve the girl when no one else could. And not only that, but you took her into your own home.”

“Yes.”

“Is Mrs. Howell a close friend?”

“No.”

“And yet, Mr. Lewis, you went to a great deal of trouble to find a barrister to represent her.”

“Yes.” Thaddeus felt his face grow stony and tried to will it to relax.

“And the keeper at the gaol tells me you have faithfully attended Mrs. Howell and that you spend your time reading to her.”

Thaddeus should have realized that a gaoler named Palmer would repeat everything he saw to his sprawling family, and that any tidbits concerning Ellen Howell would have been repeated many times.

“Yes,” he said.

“These were spiritual readings, designed to comfort her in her time of need?”

Thaddeus wanted to say yes, because that's what it was, for her — a reminder of home and happier times.

“No.”

“What exactly did you read, Mr. Lewis?”

“A book called
Mansfield Park
. By a Miss Jane Austen.”

“And what kind of book is
Mansfield Park
?”

“Well … it's a work of literature. A story.”

“Would it be fair to say that it's a romance, Mr. Lewis?”

“I suppose.”

“So, for this woman whom you claim you barely know, you retrieve her child, scurry around and find a lawyer, and spend hours reading a romantic novel for her amusement?”

It sounded so ludicrous and silly the way Garrett presented it. In spite of himself, Thaddeus felt his face grow hot.

“Yes.”

“You have quite a reputation for solving crimes, do you not?”

Thaddeus could see that Ashby was about to leap up and object, but he knew how to answer this.

“I have no idea what my reputation is,” he said. “That's for other people to decide.”

“But will you confirm that in the past you were involved in two rather infamous cases?” Garrett consulted his notes. “A peddler who was convicted of killing a number of women, and a case of murder and fraud involving a farmer?”

“I had some small part in finding the truth of those affairs, yes.”

“Mr. James Small is your assistant, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“And so you hold a supervisory position over him?”

“Yes.”

“And has he demonstrated a romantic inclination toward your granddaughter?”

“Yes.” Thaddeus hoped Martha would forgive him for this answer.

“Would he be inclined to do anything you ask of him?”

“Objection!” Ashby was on his feet.

“I'll rephrase. Would James Small lie for you?”

“Not in a million years,” Thaddeus answered before Ashby had time to object again. And then he steeled himself for the question that must surely come next. The one question he did not want to answer.

To his surprise, Garrett didn't ask it.

Thaddeus was dismissed from the witness stand and took his seat. Martha slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze for reassurance.

Ashby rose and began his summation, weaving all of the facts together so that the jury would see a clear picture of what had transpired — an unscrupulous land deal and an old document that magically reappeared when it was wanted most, produced by a man who earned his living as a counterfeiter; an identification made on the basis of a blue dress that was too small for the woman who was supposed to have been wearing it; Donald Dafoe's unconvincing fish story, his possession of the one hundred dollars in banknotes and of the steamer ticket that matched one purchased by the victim, his attempt to gain entry to the manse. Ashby spoke for an hour, laying it all out for the jury to see.

“We have ample evidence that Ellen Howell was not on Spook Island that day,” he said. “We have also heard evidence to support the notion that Donald Dafoe had means, opportunity, and motive in the murder of Paul Sherman. The prosecution's case against Ellen Howell rests on the premise that she and her husband formed a common criminal purpose — to wit, the robbery of Mr. Paul Sherman — and that Mr. Sherman was killed in the course of executing that purpose. I submit that the evidence points in another direction, both in terms of robbery and of murder. I must remind the jury that when a case depends exclusively on circumstantial evidence, the circumstances must be not only consistent with the guilt of the accused, but inconsistent with any other rational conclusion. I submit, gentlemen of the jury, that there is an alternate conclusion that is very rational indeed.

“You have one decision to make today — did George Howell shoot Paul Sherman, or could there be some other explanation? It is not up to this court to decide if someone else is guilty of this crime, only that Ellen Howell is not. Nor is her husband. I urge you to acquit Mrs. Howell of the unwarranted charges against her.”

If Thaddeus had not been so unsettled by the prosecutor's questions, he would have thought that Ashby was magnificent. Clearly the spectators thought so. Thaddeus could only hope that the jury agreed. It was a shame that the prosecution had the last word.

Garrett did his best to muddy the waters. He avoided any mention of the seamstress's testimony, instead focusing on the number of witnesses who had seen the Howells that day, and the bloodstain on the skirt of the dress. But he saved what he thought was his most damaging argument for the end.

“You have heard testimony from two ministers today. You're probably like me, gentlemen of the jury — you are predisposed to believe that a man of God must be telling the truth. But these men of God are both of the same persuasion. One of them, in fact, holds a superior position over the other, and we may assume, therefore has a great deal of influence over him. James Small has testified that he intercepted Donald Dafoe trying a window at the Methodist manse. His concern, however, appeared to be solely for the safety of the Methodist minister's granddaughter. It was clear to me, gentlemen of the jury, as I'm sure it is clear to you, that James Small holds great expectations with regard to this granddaughter. And so, I ask you, if you were in love with a man's granddaughter — moreover, a man who held your future in his hands — would you not do almost anything to ensure that man's good opinion? Now, I am not saying that James Small is a perjurer — I am sure he told you faithfully what he believes he saw — but I am suggesting that his testimony has been coloured by his emotions and his eagerness to please the man who holds the key to his happiness.”

Thaddeus could feel the intensity of Martha's scowl without even looking at her, but he could pay her no attention just then. He knew there was worse to come.

“And now let us consider Mr. Lewis, a senior minister in the Methodist Episcopal Church. A man who has a history of tracking down murderers. A man who visited the accused in her cell, not to grapple with the state of her immortal soul, but to read her romantic nonsense. A man who wished to place himself in a good light in her eyes.

“And what would be most natural for a man who has a history of solving crimes to do? Why, solve another crime, of course, and find a solution that would exonerate the lady in question.

“Mr. Lewis has been remarkably resourceful in providing that solution. He hired a barrister to defend her. He has been in court every day, immediately behind that barrister, directing her defence. He just happened to be present at her farm at the exact moment that so-called
new evidence
was uncovered, and he has no one to corroborate his story but his assistant, Mr. Small. And again, we have only Mr. Small's word for it that someone was attempting to break into the Methodist manse.

I do not mean to say, gentlemen of the jury, that these two men of the cloth are less than sincere. I am merely suggesting that they have been influenced by their emotional states. One of them is in love with the granddaughter; the other is in love with the accused. They have seen what they wanted to see, and said what they most wanted to believe.”

Thaddeus couldn't stop himself from looking at Ellen Howell. Her face was a mask of embarrassment. And something else besides, he realized, some emotion that showed itself in a tiny upturn of the lip. Distaste? Repugnance?

And his mortification became almost more than he could bear. He heard little else the prosecutor said, and almost nothing of Justice Stephens's direction. His humiliation was complete. He would not be remembered on the Hope Circuit as the winner of The Great Debate, an orator of the first rank and a saver of countless souls, but as a man who lusted after a married woman and pressed his suit with false words and trashy novels.

And for what? A mirage. A trick of memory.

The jury was out for only half an hour.

Ellen Howell was led back into the prisoner's box to hear her fate. Thaddeus sat with downcast eyes. He would not look at her again.

The clerk of the court stood. “How say you, gentlemen? Is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” the foreman replied. “We find the accused not guilty.”

The noise in the room became deafening.

Thaddeus desperately wanted to get out of the courtroom, but spectators and reporters rushed to the front, blocking the aisles in their eagerness to get close to Ellen. It would take the bailiff some time to clear them out.

Ashby was grinning broadly as he accepted congratulatory comments on his victory. He shook hands with several people, then turned to Thaddeus. “This crowd is a menace. They all want to talk to her. I'll see if I can take her back to the gaol for now. Meet me there as soon as you can get out.” And then he rushed forward, pushing people out of the way to get to the prisoner's box.

“What happened to Mama?” Caroline asked. “Why is she being taken away again?”

“Your Mama is free,” Thaddeus said. “We'll go and get her in a little while.”

When they were finally able make their way to the gaol entrance, Ashby met them at the outer door and beckoned them in, shutting it firmly against the reporters crowded around the entrance. Ellen was sitting, not in the narrow cell where Thaddeus had seen her before, but in a comfortable chair in the antechamber. She rose and rushed to Caroline, enveloping her in a tight embrace. They were both crying.

“What happens now? Martha asked. “Do they just put her out on the street?”

“That's more or less it,” Ashby said. “It's up to her where she goes now, but the Anglican minister has stepped forward and offered her and the girl a room for the night.” He eyed Thaddeus speculatively. “I think that's the best plan, don't you? No one will question it, and he'll keep the newspapers away from her.”

Thaddeus nodded. He wasn't sure he was ready to talk to her anyway.

Martha and Thaddeus walked back to the manse in complete silence.

Martha was profoundly embarrassed by the remarks the prosecutor had made about James Small and herself. She hoped that the newspapers would not report that part of Garrett's address. She was almost certain that they would. But as she walked along she reflected that she had done nothing to cause any of it, and could protest as much should anyone remark on it. It was different for Thaddeus. He had behaved very oddly with respect to Ellen Howell, but the prosecutor had put the worst possible construction on his actions. He must be appalled.

The day had certainly been a triumph for Towns Ashby, though. Martha couldn't help but feel glad for him, and proud of the role she had played in the case. She wondered if he would come to the manse that night, then decided that he probably wouldn't. He would want to bask in congratulatory attention at the Globe or at one of the less salubrious establishments he frequented. Many people would want to buy him drinks and claim they knew him.

Tomorrow, perhaps. Yes, tomorrow, and probably some­­-time in the morning. She would slip out to the market and get a chicken. She would use her own money to buy it. And she should make a pie. They could have a celebration. And maybe it would go a little way toward cheering up her grandfather.

Digger barked as soon as they neared the house, but once inside he settled quite readily at Martha's command.

“He's getting used to us,” she remarked.

“I suppose I should take him out to the yard,” Thaddeus said. “He's been inside all day.”

“I'll do it,” Martha said, “if you'll put the kettle on.”

She slipped the old piece of rope they used as a leash over the dog's head and stepped outside the back door. Digger made a beeline for the yellow rose bush that grew beside the house and relieved himself, then put his nose to the ground and pulled her to the back of the garden. He was following Caroline's scent, she realized, tracing the steps she had made the day before. Martha let him pull her along. He piddled twice more, to make his mark. She turned to pull him back to the house when a voice on the other side of the fence startled her.

“May I speak with you, Miss Renwell?”

It was James Small.

“Yes, I suppose.” She was in no mood for James, but she supposed he was owed his say. After all, he had been singled out in court as well.

“In light of today's events, I think it's wise for me to speak frankly. I hope you won't think me presumptuous.”

He was at his most pompous, red in the face, Adam's apple bobbing.

“By all means, please be frank.”

“I don't think it can have escaped your notice that I may have had certain aspirations regarding yourself.”

“It was pretty much announced in open court,” she pointed out.

“Yes. Well. I have never been certain what your position is regarding me.”

Martha was very certain, but she decided to refrain from baldly stating it.

“I am currently in no position to entertain matrimony, and I know that you are still quite young,” he continued.

Oh dear Lord,
she thought,
where is he headed with this?

“I had, however, hoped to reach some sort of understanding with your grandfather so that at some future date I might press my suit.”

Martha had a wild mental image of James Small with a sadiron, pressing a crease into his baggy black trousers and managed to stifle a giggle only just before it escaped from her lips.

He drew himself up to his full gangly height, a disapproving look on his face. “Your grandfather's reputation has been severely damaged by this whole Howell affair, as has yours by your association with Mr. Ashby. Given my position in this community, I regret that I must now inform you that I have set aside any intentions that I may have had, and that I will no longer seek any union between us.”

“I think that's probably the wisest course, Mr. Small.”

“I hope this will not be too painful for you, but you must see that your own actions have influenced my decision.”

“Thank you, Mr. Small. I shall endeavour not to feel pain. Good day to you.”

“Good day.” And with that he strode back into his parents' cottage with an air of great satisfaction at having done his duty.

“C'mon Digger,” she said, and tugged him back toward the house. Once inside, she began to laugh. She'd been annoyed with Ashby the night she chased him down on the streets of Cobourg, but if she'd known it would be enough to discourage James Small, she might have done it more than once.

“What are you laughing at?” Thaddeus was at the stove, fiddling around with the tea things.

“Apparently I am no longer the object of James Small's affections.”

“What? No. Did he just tell you that in the back garden?”

“Yes. Over the fence. Apparently, we aren't respectable enough for him.”

Thaddeus looked at her uncertainly. “Are you upset?”

“Do I look upset? I've never been so relieved in my life.”

“Oh. Well. I guess that's all right then, isn't it?” Then he stopped and frowned. “This may be a problem, you know. I expect I'm the talk of the town.”

Martha had never seen her grandfather so tentative. “I don't care,” she said. “Is there tea yet?”

The dog spent the night in the kitchen, jammed up against the back door, his head drooped over his paws. Occasionally he sighed deeply and whined.

“I'll take him over to the Anglican rectory in the morning,” Thaddeus said. “The Howells will no doubt be heading back to the farm and will want him.”

But before they'd finished breakfast there was a knock on the front door. Martha rushed to answer it. It would be just like Ashby, she thought, to turn up unannounced first thing in the morning. But when she opened the door she found a boy, who shoved a piece of paper at her and left. She handed it to Thaddeus and read it over his shoulder. It was from Ashby. As usual, he went straight to the point:

Howells leaving Cobourg dock ten o'clock.

Thaddeus seemed hardly to know what to do with the news. He sat staring at the note until Martha finally said, “Maybe you should take the dog to them?”

He looked up at the sound of her voice. “Yes. Yes, that's what I'll do.”

Thaddeus was about to leave the house when he remembered the leather satchel that Caroline had clutched so closely. He was sure that the notes and bonds it contained were counterfeit, and in the normal course of events he would have taken them all into the back garden and burned them. Or turned them in at the bank. Or something other than what he was now considering. Ashby's message hadn't indicated where the Howells were going, only that they were leaving. Ellen Howell had no money. The Anglican minister, or maybe even Ashby himself, must have advanced her the funds for steamer passage. She would arrive at her destination penniless. Would Thaddeus be an accomplice to her husband's crimes if he gave her the satchel full of notes to use as she saw fit? Or could he claim that he was simply returning her property and whatever was in the satchel was none of his concern? It didn't matter. He walked upstairs and fetched it from the room Caroline had used.

“Tell Caroline she's welcome to keep the dress,” Martha said. “Her old one isn't fit for anything but rags. And if you see Mr. Ashby, tell him he's invited for dinner. At noon.”

Thaddeus looped the rope around Digger's neck and set off. As he walked toward the harbour he was acutely aware of the stares coming from the people he passed, at first certain that it was because of the trial and convinced that they whispered to one another after he'd gone by, but after a few minutes he realized that it was more likely because of the dog, who was leaping ahead and pulling him along at a frantic pace. At the foot of the pier, he pulled the rope out of Thaddeus's hand altogether and went racing down the dock to where the Howells were waiting. He leaped at Caroline, nearly knocking her over in his enthusiasm.

Ashby was there to shepherd them aboard the steamer, which was already approaching the dock.

“Thaddeus!” he called. “I thought you might come.”

Ellen Howell said nothing at all, but walked a few paces farther down the pier.

“We thought it best to go this morning,” Ashby said. “The reporters are still scribbling away at their reports of the trial, but it won't be long before they'll be looking for something more to write about. I didn't want Mrs. Howell pestered.”

Thaddeus nodded and walked up to stand beside her.

“I can't begin to thank you for what you did,” she said when he reached her side.

“It was only right,” he said.

“But not many would have bothered.”

Whatever he'd thought he was going to say to her died on his lips at the constraint in her manner. He could never, he realized, tell this woman that the prosecutor had been correct, that he had acted as he did in order to gain her good opinion. Her slip of expression in that one unguarded moment in the courtroom had made Thaddeus see himself as she must — as a wild-eyed country preacher of an unsophisticated creed, dusty from the road in his rusty black coat, an aging fanatic in a backwater colony with nothing to offer but the conviction of his own importance. How foolish he had been. How mad.

The silence stretched out between them.

“Will you ever finish
Mansfield Park
?” she finally asked.

“No. I don't think I will now. I may never know how it ends.”

“Happily for some, not so happily for others.”

“You'd read it before?”

“Several times,” she admitted. “It was still the perfect choice, and there's a paragraph at the end that reminds me of you:
When I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.

“No, I think maybe that part of my life is behind me.”

She continued to look out across the lake, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun on the water, her face in perfect profile. He watched her sidelong, but closely, trying to etch the look of her into his memory.

“Where are you going?”

“For now, to Rochester. My husband has connections there. I expect that's the easiest place to start looking for him.”

“You still want to find him? After everything that's happened?”

“What would you have me do, Mr. Lewis?” She turned to fully look at him for the first time. “Whether I like it or not, my fortunes are tied to his. And he's not a bad man. He loves his daughter.”

Thaddeus suddenly remembered the satchel he had under his arm. Without a word, he handed it to her.

He could tell that she knew what it contained. Her eyes were full of question as she took it from him.

“It really is over for you, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

As the steamer tied up at the dock, Digger barked furiously, running up and down with Caroline in pursuit. Ellen turned to watch them, a frown on her face.

“I don't know what to do about the dog. We can't take him with us.”

“I'll keep him. Until you want him.”

She nodded. “Goodbye, Mr. Lewis.”

She intercepted Caroline, and after a huddled discussion the girl dropped to her knees in front of Digger. He licked her face and wagged his tail furiously. Then she grabbed the rope still dangling from his neck and walked him to where Thaddeus stood.

“Will you take care of him?” she asked, her face streaked with tears.

“Of course I will. And when you're ready to take him back, you have only to ask.”

She gave the dog one last lingering pat, then ran up the gangplank without looking back.

Ashby walked up to stand by Thaddeus. Together they watched while the steamer pulled out into the harbour.

“That all turned out rather well, didn't it?” he remarked cheerfully.

Martha said she found Ashby “exasperating,” and at that moment Thaddeus knew exactly what she meant. “Will they ever come back, do you think?”

“I doubt it,” Ashby said. “Unless Donald Dafoe is indicted, George Howell is still technically wanted for murder. I gave Warren Garrett the agreement, by the way, so that may well happen. But then there would still be fraud and counterfeiting charges for Howell to answer to. No, if she finds him, they'll stay in the States. It's safer. And I don't think there's much of anything here for them now.”

“What about the farm? That's worth something, isn't it?”

“I should think so, because of the railway. Mrs. Howell asked me to arrange a sale. She promised to write from time to time to provide instructions.”

“And you? Where do you go from here, Mr. Ashby?”

“Back to Toronto. I'm leaving on the one o'clock steamer, actually.”

“Oh. Martha was hoping you might come for dinner.”

“Please thank her for me. I'll be sorry to miss one of her meals. But business calls.” He began to walk back toward shore. Thaddeus fell into step beside him. Had Ashby at that moment suggested that they walk back to the Globe Hotel to settle in leather chairs and order up brandy and whiskey, Thaddeus would have gladly followed him.

Fortunately, Ashby stopped at the foot of the pier and held out his hand. “Until we meet again,” he said. “You've been a wonderful partner. I couldn't have hoped for better help with all this.”

“So who actually fired the shot, do you figure? Dafoe? Plews? Another one of the Palmer clan?”

Ashby laughed. “I keep telling you, Thaddeus, it doesn't matter.”

He could smell roast chicken as soon as he walked in the back door of the manse. Martha was just putting the top crust on a pie, a smear of flour across one cheek. She looked up and smiled at him, then frowned when she saw the dog.

“Couldn't you find them?” she asked.