Wishful Seeing (9 page)

Somewhere in the sideboard she had discovered a matching set of reasonable-quality dishes with which to set the table, a step up from the cracked and mismatched collection of dinnerware they used when they ate in the kitchen. She served lamb chops. They were a little overdone, not surprising since she had been frantically trying to hold their dinner in an edible state until Ashby's arrival. The savoury onion sauce she spooned over them helped disguise the blackened edges. Thaddeus was so ravenous he would have bolted down anything she put on the table. He dove in to the food on his plate.

Ashby was a charming dinner guest, having the ability to appear profoundly attentive to whatever remarks his companions made, whether they merited any weight or not. Thaddeus could see that Martha was flattered when any observation she ventured was taken quite seriously and responded to with consideration. Small talk, including several remarks about the unusually hot summer, occupied the first few minutes of their meal. Thaddeus wondered at the propriety of introducing the topic of murder over the dinner table, but decided that he might just as well, as murder was Ashby's only reason for being there in the first place.

“I don't know whether this has any bearing on the Sherman case or not,” he said, “but at any rate you may find it interesting in light of what you were saying about the railway turning thousands into millions. There was some sharp dealing with regard to the sale of some lands that one of the stations is to be built on.”

Briefly, he outlined what he had heard about Jack Plews and the land at Sully.

Ashby absorbed this for a moment and then he said, “This could well be more than a simple case of an argument gone wrong then, do you think?”

“I wasn't at all sure that's what it was to begin with.”

“You could be right,” Ashby said. “An argument is the simplest explanation, and all too distressingly often the simplest thing is what, in fact, occurred, but that scenario doesn't offer our client much of a defence. If you have any other theories, I'd like to hear them.”

“I'm not sure I'd call them theories,” Thaddeus said, “but there are some very peculiar aspects to the case that puzzle me.”

“My grandfather has quite a history of sorting out puzzles, you know,” Martha said as she passed a dish of mashed parsnip.

“Yes, I did know that,” Ashby said. “He's been involved in several rather thrilling adventures, hasn't he? I've heard all about them.”

“From my son, I expect,” Thaddeus said.

Ashby waved a languid hand. “Yes, some from Luke, although the topic rather embarrasses him, but I've heard from other sources as well.”

Thaddeus wondered what other sources could possibly have any information about his past history, but Ashby didn't seem inclined to elaborate. Instead he said, “So, what can you tell me about the woman who has been accused?”

“I don't know a great deal about Ellen Howell at all. She attended a couple of my services, but it was in the company of others, and purely, I'm sure, for the entertainment it afforded. And anything I know about her came via her neighbour, although I have no reason to believe that the information is inaccurate in any way.”

“So you have no particular interest in this woman?”

“No, not really, except that I hate to see anyone subjected to trial without adequate counsel. Especially when it's a capital offence.”

“Fair enough,” Ashby said, and turned his attention to the delicate dissection of a chop.

Thaddeus was grateful that the young barrister didn't belabour the point. If pressed, he would have a great deal of difficulty explaining his interest. He wasn't sure what it was himself.

“She's English, but has been here for a number of years,” he went on. “The Howell farm is just south of Sully, which is on the near shore of Rice Lake. That's where the railway will cross if they ever manage to build the bridge. She's liked well enough in the neighbourhood, although her particular class of English settler tends to consider itself of a finer cut than the ordinary farmers around them. Everyone refers to Mr. Howell, her husband, as “The Major.” Thaddeus shrugged. “I'm not sure if he really was ever a major or not. Apparently he puts on a few airs, but no one takes it very seriously, and that's their way of showing him up.”

And then he stopped, momentarily embarrassed. He knew nothing about this young man who sat across from him. For all Thaddeus knew, Ashby himself came from that same background and might take offence at his remarks.

However, “I see,” was his only response, and he appeared in no way put out, but returned to carving away at another thin slice of lamb. He was taking an enormous amount of time to eat his meal. Thaddeus had dispatched his in short order and Martha appeared to have finished, as well, but Ashby's plate was still half full of food. Martha took a slice of bread and made a great business of buttering it while Thaddeus toyed with a spoonful of potatoes, both of them waiting for Ashby to catch up. He seemed in no hurry, and frequently placed his knife and fork on the sides of his plate when he spoke, a habit that further delayed the completion of the meal.

“Why don't you just tell me what you've heard, whether it's confirmed or not?” he said. “I have the basic facts from the news articles, but I'd like to get an idea of the lay of the land, so to speak. What is Mrs. Howell's explanation of what happened?”

Thaddeus was happy to oblige, not least because as long as someone else was talking, Ashby would continue to work away at his dinner.

“She offers no explanation at all. She seems to think that the whole affair has been decided already, and that her days on this Earth are numbered.”

“Really? Now that's interesting.”

“She claims not to know the victim, and denies ever having been on Spook Island where the body was found, but other than that, I don't believe she's provided any details that would either prove or disprove the allegations.”

“And the blood-stained dress?”

“I don't know,” Thaddeus said. “I don't think she said anything about it.”

Ashby must finally have noticed that the others were waiting for him to finish his meal, because he let silence fall as he scooped up the rest of the food on his plate, then laid his knife and fork across it to signal that he was finished. Martha rose to clear the dishes away and returned a few moments later with a pudding and a carafe of coffee, instead of the usual pot of tea she and Thaddeus normally shared after meals. She must have decided that a city person would prefer the more exotic beverage.

As soon as they finished dessert, Ashby reached for his valise and pulled out a stack of papers.

“Would you like to use the parlour?” Thaddeus asked. “There's a good writing desk there.”

“Oh no, I'm fine here, if you don't mind me commandeering your table,” Ashby replied. “There's room to spread these papers out, and I must admit I wouldn't mind getting Miss Renwell's opinion of the case. I'll willingly forego my brandy and cigar so that she can remain with us.”

Thaddeus didn't bother to point out that there weren't any cigars, or brandy either, and that this was a Methodist household where Ashby would be unlikely to ever be offered such things, but he was pleased that Martha wasn't being chased away. She had as good a grasp of the case as he did, and might well remember some detail he had forgotten.

Martha looked astonished. The law was men's business, as a rule, and ladies were seldom invited. Nevertheless, she smiled a little and said, “I'd be happy to consult, if you give me but a moment. I'll just clear away the dishes.”

“Well,” Thaddeus said as soon as Martha returned and took her seat, an eager look on her face. “Where do we start?”

“Let's just recap what we know to date,” Ashby began. “What I could gather from the papers is this: Mr. and Mrs. Howell were seen in the village of Sully by a number of steamer passengers and a few of the villagers, but they weren't seen to board the boat. Instead, they rented a small skiff and went out on the lake for the afternoon. No one saw them return.”

For some reason, Thaddeus found that he was reluctant to mention that he had seen someone in blue rowing for shore that same afternoon. After all, he wasn't at all certain that it had been Ellen Howell. It could have been anyone else. There were any number of people on the lake that day.

Ashby went on. “Some time later, a Mr.,” here he stopped and shuffled through his notes again, “Donald Dafoe discovered a body on Spook Island, which, I take it, is in Rice Lake?”

“Yes. More or less halfway across at that point, and set a little away from the other islands.”

Ashby nodded. “Mr. Dafoe delayed reporting the discovery until his father persuaded him that it would be in his best interest to do so. A contingent of local law enforcement went to the island to confirm the report. As Dafoe said, there was a dead man who had been both shot and whacked on the head. Nothing was found in the deceased's pockets, but there was a banknote stuck on a bush. The police then questioned the neighbours, who reported having seen the Howells that day, one of them having rented out his boat to them, but this gentleman was unsure who returned it or when. Based on these accounts, the chief constable proceeded to the Howell farm, where he discovered a blue dress soaking in a washtub. The dress has a stain on the skirt, which the constable concluded was a bloodstain. Mrs. Howell was arrested on the spot. Mr. Howell would have been as well, except that no one seems to know what's become of him. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“I take it that Mrs. Howell didn't offer any information about where her husband might be, and that the authorities are finding that omission a bit suspicious.”

“Apparently, he travels a great deal on business, so it isn't unusual for him to be away.”

Ashby frowned as he reread his notes. “The dead man was subsequently identified as Paul Sherman, who had travelled to Cobourg on business and never returned home. So according to the prosecution, the Howells rented a boat, somehow encountered Paul Sherman, did him in, and rowed for home, at which point Mr. Howell skedaddled, leaving the missus to face the music.”

“I'm afraid that's it in a nutshell,” Thaddeus said. This was hopeless. The evidence against Ellen Howell, as circumstantial as it might be, was sure to hang her. Why had he bothered dragging a lawyer all the way from Toronto for such a lost cause?

Ashby noticed Thaddeus's gloomy face and smiled. “Don't worry. I have to look at the facts of the case in the same way that the prosecution does. Then I have to see if I can find an alternative explanation.”

“Of course.” But Thaddeus had no hope that there might be one.

“I think there are a number of questions we need to ask. First of all, how many other people would have been out on the lake that afternoon?”

“Quite a few,” Thaddeus said. “There were all the barges and skiffs involved in the bridge construction, just for starters, and several small boats full of spectators watching the work. There might have been a few others, besides all the people on the passenger steamer, but I would think that Donald Dafoe, the man who found the body, had to be one of them.”

Ashby was astonished. “You were there that afternoon?”

“I just rode by. I was on my way from Sully to Gores Landing and stopped to watch them working on the bridge.”

Ashby scribbled this information into his notes. “Well, why didn't you tell me this before?”

Thaddeus shrugged. “I didn't think it was important.”

Ashby fixed him with a glare. “Everything is important. Every. Single. Thing. Cases sometimes hinge on the most minor of details. Did you happen to remark on anything else?”

Thaddeus hesitated, but just for a moment. This young barrister, was, after all, here to help Ellen Howell. “I saw a boat headed for shore. Whoever was in it might have been wearing something blue. I didn't see where it made landfall. There was too much vegetation in the way.”

“And what time was this?”

Thaddeus had dined with the Gordons after the meeting in Sully, and had lingered on the shore watching the pile drivers for a time. “Maybe about three o'clock? But that's a guess.”

Ashby scribbled on his papers again.

“I have a question,” Martha said. “How did Paul Sherman get to the island?”

Ashby beamed at her. “Excellent question! How indeed?”

“It's just that … the man who rented the boat to the Howells has come forward, but no one has claimed any such thing for Paul Sherman. He wasn't local … he's from Burlington, so he wouldn't have had a boat of his own readily available.”

“Precisely. And that's one thing you can do for me, Mr. Lewis. Ask around. See if you can track down where Sherman might have got a boat.”

Thaddeus felt thoroughly trumped by his granddaughter. He had been fussing about what they knew and she had gone straight to a very salient point about what they didn't.

“Would it be possible that he swam to the island?” Ashby asked.

“I shouldn't think so,” Thaddeus replied. “It's farther than it looks from shore. Most people can't swim anyway, even the ones who live close to water.”

Ashby nodded. “Let's set that aside as improbable for the moment then. It begs the question anyway — why was he there at all? What's the connection between Sherman and Howell?”

“According to Mr. Sherman's family, he was in Cobourg on business,” Martha said. “I don't know what kind of business would have taken him to Spook Island.”

“And what exactly does Mr. Howell do that would have taken him there?” Ashby added. He beamed at Martha again, who ducked her head a little, but was smiling.

“All I know is that he travels on a regular basis,” Thaddeus said.
So many questions,
he thought.
Questions that he himself should have been asking long since.
He was beginning to think that he was losing his touch, had become suddenly lacking in that ability to connect seemingly unrelated information and circumstances into a picture that made a whole.