Act of Injustice

by Argyle, Ray

  It was clear to Leonard that the lassitude that had gripped Kathleen at the Asylum had vanished. His mind was filled with thoughts of marriage. Kathleen told him she was convinced they loved each other, but she worried if it was right to bring such an unhappy past into his life. How might it affect them once the bloom of romance had worn off? Would he be able to withstand the cruel gossip that her past, once it became known, would swrl around them?

  “I’m afraid I’ll not be worthy of you,” she told Leonard.

  “I am the one who’s not worthy,” he answered.

  “But will you still love me when people say you’re married to a crazy woman? Will Mr. Robertson still want you at the Telegram?”

  “Nobody’s going to say anything like that.”

  “But if they did, what would you do?”

  “I would thrash them to within an inch of their life. And I’d love you more than ever.”

  “Oh, Leonard, I hope you would. Love me, that is. Not thrash somebody.” They laughed.

  A few days after this conversation, Leonard turned up at the Staples house a little before four o’clock – a good two hours before his usual arrival. Kathleen put down the dress she was hemming and held her face up for a kiss. “I’ve brought you something,” Leonard said. “I hope you like it.” He handed her a small box and invited her to open it. In it, she found an engagement ring whose tiny diamond glittered in the afternoon light. “It’s so beautiful Leonard, I love it,” Kathleen said. He put the ring on her finger and together they set the day for their wedding – June 16, 1900.

  Owen and Lillian wanted the wedding at their church but Leonard insisted on another choice. He had never forgotten his visit to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian church on King Street where the Rev. Macdonnell had married Rosannah Leppard and Cook Teets. Macdonnell was dead now and his young successor, the Rev. Armstrong Black, was reaching out to more of Toronto’s Scots population, hoping to enlarge the congregation. Leonard wasn’t quite sure why he asked the Rev. Black to conduct their wedding. He’d become fed up with the raging Orangeism of the Jarvis Street Baptists and he looked on the Presbyterian faith as a reasonable compromise to the rivalries of Christian churches. Anyway, St. Andrew’s made a nice fit with Klathleen’s Ulster Protestant background. Leonard never admitted to himself that Rosannah Leeppard’s connection there had any influence on him.

  Kathleen had been taken with a wild rose bush she had seen in the Don valley. Its mass of flowers led her to her want a “wild rose” wedding. She had an arch set up over the church altar and covered it with clematis vines and wild roses. Kathleen wore a white wedding dress with puffy sleeves in the “Leg o’Mutton” style of the day and Owen took pictures with his new Kodak Brownie camera. It had cost him a dollar, which he considered a good investment. After the ceremony, the wedding party made its way along King Street to the Hotel Falconer at Spadina Avenue, where the dozen guests – mostly Telegram men – toasted the bride and groom. Owen had hired a fiddler and every man insisted on a dance with Kathleen. After an extravagant supper – lobster, chicken, lamb and roast beef – washed down with ale and wine, Leonard and Kathleen escaped upstairs. They slept late the next day, a Sunday and it was afternoon before Leonard hired a taxi to take them to Parliament and Winchester streets where he had rented an apartment – parlour, kitchen, and bedroom – on the third floor of the grandest rooming house in the neighbourhood.

  The newlyweds lived only for each other, oblivious to what went on around them. Kathleen spent her days with Lillian or with new friends she’d made in the neighbourhood. Leonard rushed up the stairs every night after work, swept Kathleen into his arms, and in a few minutes they were making love. After, they’d wander to the kitchen and eat the dinner, now cold, that Kathleen had prepared. Later, they’d creep into bed where they’d hold each close as they talked about the day when they’d have a house of their own and children to love.

  Leonard became aware that Kathleen was tiring of her daily visits with Lillian and the gossip sessions with her neighbours. This caused him to worry about her. She made many trips to the Insane Asylum to see Molly Leppard and to inquire after former friends she’d left behind. Who knows what tidbit about Rosannah’s death that Molly might share with Kathleen? Kathleen told Leonard she had felt nervous about returning to the place where she had suffered mistreatment and confinement. But slowly, her visits emboldened her to suggest changes the ward matrons could make to improve the lives of patients. “They need physical activity, exercise of some kind,” Kathleen told Mrs. Wilson. They were discussing this when Dr. Clark happened upon them.

  “He liked my suggestion and asked me to show the ladies what I meant,” Kathleen told Leonard. “He said a healthy body leads to a healthy mind.”

  Dr. Clark’s willingness to consider such an idea brought considerable change to Molly’s ward. The women looked forward to Kathleen’s weekly visit. They enjoyed stretching their arms and kicking their legs in impromptu exercises and after, they seemed more content and less complaining. They also slept better. Dr. Clark noted the difference in their behaviour. After the third week of exercises he invited Kathleen to his office. She told Leonard what he had said:

  “I must congratulate you on what you’ve achieved. Would you like to do this regularly – as a volunteer of course – and wear a badge to show you’re one of us?” Kathleen was thrilled to accept the invitation. Dr. Clark had told her they were doing “groundbreaking work” and congratulated Kathleen on being the first volunteer to assist in a mental institute in Canada.

  Black Jack Robinson made a habit of meeting with Leonard every morning to discuss the day’s news. A few months after the wedding he pointed out that Leonard had taken no time for a honeymoon. “Mr. Robertson thinks every young couple should get away for a bit. Why don’t you take a week off?”

  “A most generous offer,” Leonard said. “We’ll get around to it.” He would have preferred to be invited again to supper at the Robinson house. Leonard had been there many times when he was single, but not once since he’d married Kathleen.

  That night, Leonard told Kathleen they were going on a trip. To Vandeleur.

  “You’ll love it up there. There’ll be lots of snow but it’s not too cold yet. We’ll cuddle up in Vandeleur Hall for a week. Let the world go to hell.”

  The train pulled out of Toronto on a grey winter morning. The snow in the fields deepened as they moved north and by the time they reached Flesherton Station, it was piled in drifts driven by a strong northwest wind. Leonard and Kathleen wore two layers of their warmest clothes but they shivered as they waited for a driver to maneuvre his horses and a sleigh up to the station platform. They piled their suitcases in the back seat along with supplies they’d brought – bread, coffee, tea, flour, butter, sugar, soap and the other essentials of a one-week stay. Leonard hadn’t bothered to notify anyone of their coming. He wanted to be alone with Kathleen at Vandeleur Hall. They would get by on what they had brought and would go to the general store only to fill an urgent need.

  The driver called out “Giddy-up” and whipped his horses as they galloped off toward Vandeleur. The sleigh rocked from side to side as the runners grappled with the icy road. Leonard threw his arms around Kathleen and she screamed with delight as they pitched from side to side, like a ship buffeted by a gale. When they drew up at Vandeleur Hall, a late afternoon sun was casting pale light on the snow, throwing long shadows across fields that stretched to the deep forest behind the farm.

  Leonard stomped out a path in the snow and led Kathleen to the porch, where he extracted a key from his jacket and swung open the front door. He lifted Kathleen off her feet and with her cradled in his arms, they made their way into the house.

  “I never carried you over the threshold on Parliament Street,” he said. “Better that we do it now.” Kathleen giggled as she clung tightly to Leonard.

  It seemed even colder inside than out. Hoar frost covered the windows. Snow had penetrated the cracks in the window frames and
lay in small piles on each sash. Firewood Leonard had collected during that long ago visit with Owen sat beside the kitchen stove. He got a fire going and then moved into the bedroom where his father had died. He opened the draught in the hearth and soon had a fire raging there, too. He closed off the door to the main hallway. “This is all the space we’ll need,” he said. “And I’ve got just what we’ll want in the middle of the night.” He laughed and held up a chamber pot that had sat for years under the bed. Kathleen packed away food in the kitchen and swept the floor and dusted the furniture. They’d brought a tankard of water and Leonard filled a brass tub with snow and put it on the stove.

  They spent their days trekking in the woods and at night slept soundly under a pile of comforters. Leonard found some traps in the stable and decided to set them out, hoping to catch a lynx or a marten. After two days, they found only a hare, frozen stiff in the trap. Thawed, it made an excellent dinner that night.

  Kathleen had spent not even a day in the wilderness. Leonard worried she would fear being away from the city. Instead, she relished the distance from other people, free of any need to answer to family, neighbour or authority. “Why can’t we stay forever?” Kathleen asked. “The farm must produce a lot if you can share it with the Bowles family. We could live quite comfortably here.” Leonard didn’t want to tell her he’d spent his life trying to get away from Vandeleur. Now, his job as city editor meant everything to him and he had no desire to leave Toronto.

  Both felt a need for a bath after three days at Vandeleur Hall. Leonard kept the brass boiler on the stove filled with snow and by now they had enough hot water to fill a tin bathtub he had dragged into the kitchen. While the fire crackled and sent heat waves across the room, Leonard poured the water into the basin, stripped off his clothes, and stepped in. Kathleen knelt beside him and soaped his back.

  “I don’t want to be in here all alone,” he said. He began to unbutton Kathleen’s dress and she quickly pulled it over her head, threw off a petticoat and underclothes, and slipped into the tub. There was just enough room for them to sit facing each other, their legs entangled. Leonard soaped Kathleen’s breasts and drew her face to his. In a few minutes they clambered wet from the tub, wrapped themselves in towels, and ran straight to their big double bed. The mattress was filled with feathers and down and was still thick and comfortable. They huddled under an eiderdown quilt and in a few minutes, wrapped in each other’s arms, they were very warm. Leonard lifted the quilt to look at Kathleen in the candlelight. Later, their laughter echoed through the house.

  On the fourth day of their stay, Leonard began to feel restless. He thought about how his life had become so much better since he had met Kathleen. But he could not forget his promise to pursue whoever was responsible for Rosannah’s death. He had long ago settled on the main suspects he thought most likely to have harmed her. Scarth Tackaberry, the late night visitor to the Leppard place, was still at the top of Leonard’s list. Nelson Teets, Cook’s brother, was another possibility but Leonard had no way of questioning him because he’d gone back to the States. Moses Sherwood had testified to seeing Rosannah with Cook on the afternoon before her death but Leonard had no evidence to link him with Rosannah’s death. And what about that priest, Father Quinn? Maybe Rosannah had said something to the Rev. Macdonnell when they went to him for their wedding, and word had gotten back to the priest. But Presbyteran ministers don’t talk to Catholic priests, do they? By process of elimination, that left only Scarth Tackaberry. He decided he must confront him.

  Leonard’s cheeks were red with the cold, each breath having turned to steam, by the time he’d walked the two miles to the Tackaberry house. He knocked on the door and waited. It edged open and Leonard could see Tackaberry’s face take on a scowl when he recognized his visitor.

  “I’d like to come in and talk to you, Scarth,” Leonard said.

  Tackaberry hesitated. “I wondered when you’d get here,” he said. “There’s been smoke from your chimney the last three nights. I see you’re back to hound me some more. You can come in, but you’re not welcome.”

  Tackaberry’s coldness did not surprise Leonard. He was a little younger than Leonard, about forty, but taller and heavier. A shock of black hair tumbled over his brow. Leonard thought he wore a furtive look, made the more noticeable by Scarth’s inability to lock eyes with anyone. His glances always darted sideways, as if he couldn’t bring himself to deal with anyone face to face.

  Leonard looked around the foyer and saw a peg for clothes near the door. “Do you mind if I hang up my coat? I’ll freeze when I go out if I keep it on in here.” He slung his fur onto the peg and rubbed his hands. “Can we sit down?” He caught a glimpse of Mrs. Tackaberry when Scarth led him into their parlour. She moved quickly out of sight. Scarth sat in his rocking chair, waiting for Leonard to speak.

  “You know I’ve never given up on fixing the responsibility for Rosannah’s death,” Leonard began. “The jury’s verdict doesn’t hold water. You testified you saw Cook Teets with strychnine. But I don’t think he ever had a chance to use it, even if he’d wanted to.”

  “Won’t let up, will you?” Scarth stammered. “You think I killed her. But it’s all over and done with. Everybody else has forgotten it. If you think you can come in here and accuse me of murder, you’re out of your mind. You’ve always had it in for me.”

  “I don’t give a damn about you Scarth, and I’ve never accused you of anything. But you’re making me mighty suspicious. Why don’t you tell me what you were doing at the Leppards the night Rosannah died?” Leonard was close to losing his temper. He had to calm down, keep quiet for a bit, if he expected to get anything out of this man.

  Scarth looked away from Leonard, directing his gaze to the corner of the room. Finally, he spoke.

  “Like I said at the trial, I was having trouble with rodents and foxes. You know that’s a big problem around here. So I thought I’d find out what Molly was doing about the pests around her place.”

  “And you thought you’d use that as an excuse to slip some strychnine into Rosannah’s food, did you?”

  Leonard’s question drew a look of rage from Tackaberry. He began to speak, apparently thought better of it, and stood up just as Mrs. Tackaberry returned to the parlour. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Babington,” she said.

  “You’ll answer to me one day, no matter how long it takes,” Leonard said.

  That night, Leonard awakened after midnight, feeling restless. He put on his clothes and went outside. The sky was cloudless. The glare of the moon on the snow created shadows as distinct as anything shaped by a painter’s brush. The snow crunched under his feet and overhead a rare outburst of the Northern Lights framed the sky in dancing blues, reds and yellows. The night was silent but for the occasional yelp of a distant wolf.

  When Leonard came back in he sat down at the kitchen table. He felt serene and confident in his love of Kathleen and secure in his place in life. Yet, Tackaberry’s reaction to his visit had strengthened his conviction that the man knew more than he was admitting. Leonard lit a fresh candle, stoked the fire, and got some paper and a pencil from a box beside the table. It was time to write more of Rosannah‘s Story. His fingers became chilled while he waited for the words to form in his mind. After half an hour, he realized he had nothing to add to what he’d already written. How could he, Leonard asked himself, when he still didn’t know who was responsible for her death?

  Kathleen had entered the kitchen without making a sound. He stirred when she sat beside him. “I know you need to finish that book you’re writing.”

  “I can’t,” Leonard told her. “Not until I know the ending.”

  Toronto was in full preparation for Christmas when Leonard and Kathleen returned to the city. The editorial room of the Evening Telegram had a festive air. The proprietor smiled as he handed around envelopes containing bonuses for the staff. Leonard and Kathleen slept in on Christmas morning and exchanged gifts before going to the Staples’s for th
e day. Leonard gave Kathleen the engraved hand mirror he had bought for his mother at the first Toronto Exhibition. Her present to him was a pair of warm gloves and a muffler, paid with nickels saved from the household budget.

  On New Year’s Eve they ate an early supper with Owen and Lillian and danced at the Orange Hall before mingling with the thousands of people who gathered outside the new city hall to listen to the Grenadiers Band. Rousing tunes like The Maple Leaf Forever and Roamin in the Glomin (aided by the presence of whisky flasks in the hip pockets of many of the men) brought the crowd to a fever pitch of enthusiasm and patiotism. Everyone sang Auld Lang Syne when the Hall’s “Big Ben” chimed at midnight to usher in the first of January, 1901 and the twentieth century.

  When the staff of the Evening Telegram returned to work after New Year’s Day, Leonard looked askance at Owen’s cartoon of a bloated Sir William Van Horne, the founder of the CPR. He had Van Horne grasping the Parliament Buildings to his bosom, a key to the Treasury Department in his hand. Owen’s caption quoted the railway baron: “The old century may go and the new Liberals may come, but we remain forever.”

  By two o’clock on most days, with reporters and editors having finished their lunches, the editorial department would take on a busy hum as the staff made the final push to close the Telegram’s late editions. On the afternoon of the fourth Tuesday of January 1901, the 22nd of the month, Alex Carpenter, who for twenty years had deciphered the signals that came from the telegraph keys in his cubicle off the editorial department, collapsed to the floor as he finished taking down a dispatch. Leonard heard the thud and was the first to reach him.