The Widow's Demise (15 page)

“Get up some speed!” Hincks called up to
Marc.

“I can’t,” Marc said. “They’re too many ruts
in the road.”

The August rains had left the gravelled
street in poor condition. Deep ruts criss-crossed it everywhere,
the result of heavy cart traffic. With the dry spell that had
followed the rainy weather, the ruts had hardened into iron-like
ridges. Even at a sedate pace, the brougham jounced and rocked.
This slow progress allowed the mob to follow closely behind. The
leading members were only four or five yards behind the
carriage.

The brougham and its pursuers reached Bay
Street. Marc looked down towards Front where Baldwin House stood,
and his heart sank.

“Some of them are already there!” he shouted.
“They must have guessed where we were going.”

“What’ll we do?” Louis said.

“We’ll head on out to Spadina,” Marc
said.

“Great idea,” Robert said.

Spadina was the country house of the Baldwin
family, father and son. It lay a few miles north-west of the city
boundary, and was accessible only via Spadina Road, which had been
specially cut through dense forest.

Marc pulled the team back onto King. The mob,
somewhat winded, nonetheless continued to follow them thirty or
forty paces behind. The intersection of York and King was
particularly pock-marked. Marc should have slowed to a walk, but he
didn’t. There was a loud crack as the rear axle snapped in two. The
brougham lurched sideways and backwards, and its occupants grabbed
anything near them to prevent themselves from tumbling out.

Marc swung into instant action. He unsnapped
the horses’ harness and detached them from the carriage. The mob
was closing in, clubs brandished.

“Quick, Giles. We’re going the rest of the
way on horseback!”

Gagnon, dazed, staggered out of the carriage
and came over to Marc. Marc cupped his hands for a stirrup, and
Gagnon climbed aboard the larger of the two horses – bareback. Marc
hauled himself up, clutching the horse’s mane, and managed to sit
on the beast in front of Gagnon.

“Put your arms around my waist and hang on!”
he shouted to the Frenchman.

Gagnon did as he was bid.

Just as the mob reached the broken carriage,
Marc and Gagnon took off at a fast trot. Fortunately the horse had
been well ridden before being demoted to carriage duty. With Marc
holding onto the bridle only, it allowed itself to be directed down
King Street towards Brock. The mob howled its displeasure, but with
the object of their fury escaping, they quickly dissipated,
grumbling and frustrated. They left Robert, Louis and Hincks to
deal with the broken carriage.

Meanwhile, Marc proceeded up Brock Street to
the Spadina Road and entered the eerie quiet of the woods. He
slowed the horse to a steady trot, and thirty minutes later they
arrived at the splendid country estate of the Baldwins.

At their approach, Dr. Baldwin emerged from
the front door, smiling.

***

Cobb arrived at the police quarters at nine-thirty,
in time to see Constables Rossiter and Wilkie limp out of the
anteroom to resume their beats. Wilkie had a patch on his
forehead.

“Terrible business,” Cyril Bagshaw said to
Cobb as he came in.

“What happened?” Cobb said.

“A mob happened, that’s what!”

“After the Frenchman?”

“Exactly. They showed up before nine and
attacked my men.”

“Did Gagnon get away?”

“The last I saw of them they were leaving the
mob behind down King Street. I assume they made their escape. I
been told the mob broke up and scattered. But Wilkie recognized a
couple of them. We’ll pay them a call today and see that they cool
their tempers in our cell.”

“I wish I’d’ve been there,” Cobb said.

“I’m glad you’re here now because I’ve got
something to discuss with you.” Then he added in a tone that made
Gussie French stop scribbling and look up, “In my office.”

Once inside and seated, the Chief said, “I
got a visit late yesterday from a Miss Constance Brown.”

“Oh . . .” said Cobb, his throat
tightening.

“You’ve been at it again!”

“I interviewed her, that’s all.”

“You accused her of killing Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones!”

“I only asked her where she was when the
crime was committed. She had no alibi.”

“She doesn’t
need
an alibi! The
culprit has been charged and will go on trial next Monday!”

“Gagnon claims there was a third party at the
scene. I was just checkin’ to see who might’ve been there with a
strong motive.”

“Good God, man, why would Constance Brown
want to kill the lady?”

“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones took her fiancé away from
her. She was furious.”

“But Gagnon claims he saw a
man
running off.”

“He could’ve been mistaken. I was near
dark.”

“But we
have
the killer. I sent you
out to find a motive, and you go looking for any motive except the
one I asked for.”

“That’s just it, sir. Gagnon has no
motive.”

“He must have. He killed her. We’ve got a
constable as our witness. What more do you want?”

“A proper motive.”

“Well, that’s for the Crown prosecutor to
worry about. Not us. We’ve done our duty.”

“But a smart lawyer will get Gagnon off.”

“I doubt even Marc Edwards can get around
Wilkie’s testimony. Anyway, I’m ordering you to stop investigating.
Now. The case is complete. It’s in the hands of the courts. And if
you continue to poke about, I’ll put you back to patrolling. And
you’ll have the night-shift from now till kingdom come. Is that
understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go. There’s a gentleman on Simcoe
Street who claims he is being blackmailed. I have the name and
address here. Get on it right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cobb took the paper and left the office. He
wasn’t too disturbed by the Chief’s order for he had done all he
could to help Marc Edwards defend what he himself took to be an
innocent man. The only iron that was left in the fire was Itchy
Quick, his snitch.

And that was a long shot.

***

For the next five days Marc spent mornings and
afternoons pounding up and down the township roads in a effort to
get the Reform vote out. It was not easy. Many of the farmers
feared the intimidation tactics executed by D’Arcy Rutherford and
sanctioned by Humphrey Cardiff. Marc offered to act as guide and
escort, an offer that was taken up by half a dozen voters. Still
others declined to vote, citing the case of Gilles Gagnon: if Louis
LaFontaine’s lieutenant was a murderer, then what kind of people
were these Quebecers? What did it say about Louis’ judgement? While
Robert Baldwin’s championing of the French leader was persuasive in
and of itself, it was not enough for some of the potential Reform
supporters. On Saturday, the final day of voting, the count stood
even at two hundred and sixty votes for each candidate. Marc and
others were desperately combing the countryside for the votes that
would give Louis the victory longed for by Baldwin’s Reformers.

Unbeknownst to Marc and his associates, three
such voters were, just before noon, arranging to go to the poll, a
ten-mile journey from their farms. Their names were Seth Green,
Calvin Powell and Arnold Crow. They lived side by side, and had
just helped each other clear their fields of corn. It was Green who
persuaded his neighbours they had a duty to vote. The method of
transportation they chose was Green’s hay wagon, drawn by his pair
of Percherons, a slow but reliable means of getting to Danby’s
Crossing. As there was room for only one man on the driver’s box,
the other two had to content themselves with sitting in the back of
the wagon, with only some potato sacking between them and the
terrific jouncing they had to suffer as they made their way down
the concession line towards Yonge Street. Green, however, was as
fair as he was friendly, and kindly offered to let Powell and Crow
take turns in the driver’s seat. They arrived at Yonge Street
without incident and turned southward. It was hot in the noonday
sun, and when they came to Murphy’s Tavern, Green suggested they
stop for a draught of ale to quench their thirst. His suggestion
was taken up happily by the other two.

They entered the tavern to discover it was
half full of customers, even so early in the day. The clink of
tankards and glasses and the whorls of wafted smoke met them head
on.

“Looks like a lively spot,” Crow said.

“Murphy serves a good ale,” Powell said.

They bellied up to the bar and ordered a
flagon apiece.

“There’s an empty table over there by the
piano,” Green said, and the three farmers headed over to it.

“Down the hatch!” Powell said, tipping his
flagon to his lips.

The men drank thirstily.

“How about one more?” Crow said.

“The poll doesn’t close until six
o’clock.”

“Splendid idea,” Green said.

“What do you think of this murder business?”
Crow said after a while.

“A strange business all ‘round” Green said.
“This Frenchman, Gagnon, comes to Toronto for two weeks and gets
himself thrown in jail for killin’ the Attorney-General’s daughter.
He must be crazy. That’s the only explanation.”

“I hear he claims he’s innocent,” Powell
said.

“He was caught with a vial of acid in his
hand, standin’ over the dead body.” Crow said.

“Some innocence,” Green said.

“I don’t see how Louis LaFontaine could keep
such a fellow close at hand.”

“And trust him,” Crow added.

“Frenchmen are not like us,” Powell said.
“They do strange things for strange reasons.”

“But I trust Robert Baldwin,” Green said. “If
he says he needs Louis LaFontaine in Parliament, then I’m willin’
to go along with him.”

At this point the three men took out their
clay pipes and lit them. They were puffing peacefully when a
stranger stepped up to their table and said, “Good afternoon. My
name’s D’Arcy Rutherford. Are you gents headed for the poll by any
chance?”

“That we are,” said Green.

“I trust you’re going to vote Reform,”
Rutherford said, smiling benignly.

“Never voted any other way,” Crow said.

“Would you let a fellow Reformer buy you an
ale?”

“Golly, we’ve had two already,” Crow
said.

“You’ve got plenty of time. And in a while
the day will cool off, and you’ll have a more comfortable run down
to Danby’s Crossing.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, sir,” Green said.
“We’d be pleased to join you in a round.”

“I’ll get the barkeep,” Rutherford said.

Rutherford ordered the round, and sat down
with the three farmers. They drank and talked politics for half an
hour. The room grew smokier, hazier. Another round was ordered.

At this point Rutherford rose, shook hands
with the trio, and left.

“Nice fellow,” said Green.

“I’m feeling no pain,” Powell said.

“We should really be going,” Crow said.

“Going where?”

The question came in the form of a female
voice. The men looked up to see two women standing before them. One
was a dusty blonde with a buxom figure partially exposed in her
open blouse. The other had curly locks assisted liberally by the
application of henna. Both wore broad smiles. Even through the
smoke-haze, they were immensely attractive.

“You’re not in that much of a hurry, are
you?” said the blonde.

“We got to vote today,” Green said.

“But we just got here,” said henna-locks,
“and we’re parched, aren’t we, Glenna?”

“I could wet my whistle, Gert,” Glenna said,
“if there was a gentleman here who could buy a lady a drink.”

“I’m Gert,” said Gert. “And this is Glenna.
May we sit down?”

“By all means,” said Green.

“I’ll get you some chairs,” said Crow,
lurching to his feet. He stumbled to the next empty table and slid
two chairs up to his own table. The woman sat down with a flourish
of movements designed to exhibit the more attractive parts of her
anatomy.

“I’ll have a glass of claret,” said Gert.

“The same for me,” said Glenna.

Powell went over to the bar to fetch their
drinks, a little unsteady on his feet.

“You ladies from around here?” Crow
asked.

“We live near Danby’s Crossing” Gert said.
“Where’re you from?”

“We’re from the township, about six miles
west of here. We’re farmers,” said Green.

“I never would’ve guessed it,” Glenna gushed.
“You look like regular gentlemen to me. Gentlemen who know how to
treat a lady.”

Powell came back with the wine.

“Thanks,” Gert said. “But you fellas look as
if your flagons are dry. We can’t drink alone, can we, Glenna?”

“It ain’t proper,” Glenna said.

Green waved to the barkeep and ordered
another round.

“That’s better. Now we can drink a toast
together,” said Gert.

“To the Queen!” Glenna said and raised her
glass to her lips. She downed the wine in a single gulp, as did
Gert.

“Tastes like more,” said Glenna.

“Come on, boys. Drink up,” urged Gert.

Not to be outdone, the men chugalugged their
ale.

“You hear the one about the preacher and the
farmer’s daughter?” said Glenna.

While the men blushed, Glenna proceeded to
tell her salacious tale. She and Gert laughed more raucously than
the men. More drinks were ordered. More jokes were told, each more
outrageous than the previous one. The afternoon drifted by. Green
was the first one to lay his head upon the table and close his
eyes. The women held their own, talking and laughing the whole
time. Glenna leaned over the table at calculated intervals and let
the tops of her breasts show off their lush curvature. Powell put
his arm around Gert and she did not resist. He slumped against her
shoulder, his eyes glazed.