On the Head of a Pin

by Janet Kellough

  ON THE HEAD

  OF A PIN

  ON THE HEAD

  OF A PIN

  Janet Kellough

  A Castle Street Mystery

  Copyright © Janet Kellough, 2009

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Allison Hirst

  Designer: Courtney Horner

  Printer: Webcom

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kellough, Janet

  On the head of a pin / by Janet Kellough.

  (Castle Street mystery)

  ISBN 978-1-55488-434-6

  I. Title. II. Series: Castle Street mystery

  PS8621.E558O5 2009 C813’.6 C2009-903253-8

  1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the On–tario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

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  contents

  Part I Hallowell 1838

  Part II Elizabethtown 1838

  Part III Old Waterloo Circuit 1839

  Part IV Bath 1841

  Part V Brighton Circuit 1842

  Part VI Belleville 1842

  Acknowledgements

  Part I

  Hallowell 1838

  I

  It happened again as he rode into Demorestville —the heart-stopping moment of recognition that blindsided him whenever he saw anyone who looked even remotely like Sarah.

  It had been three months since he and Betsy had found their daughter’s lifeless body. You would think the grief would begin to ebb, but a mere glimpse of chestnut hair was still enough to set his hands shaking.

  The girl was standing with a cluster of people, most of them young men, but he noted that there were two other girls, as well. Just enough extraneous female presence to satisfy propriety, he figured. She was bidding farewell, face turned toward her friends, as she backed into the street. He had to rein his horse hard to avoid riding straight into her.

  “Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” she said, stifling a giggle with her hand.

  Her hair curled out from under her cap in a familiar way, and her grey eyes met his directly. Even the way she held herself was like Sarah, he thought, though he could see now that she was not as tall, nor did her nose possess that slightly aquiline curve.

  “Good day, Preacher,” she went on. “At least that’s who I think you are. You have the look of a man of God.”

  Her voice didn’t come out edged in the familiar low rich timbre, but rather silvered along the upper registers and made him think of chimes and bells. His heart started beating again. One long intake of breath and he was able to recover his wits in time to respond.

  “Now I’m curious,” he said. “What precisely do you figure a man of God looks like?”

  “Well, now,” she said, her eyes flitting over him. “You don’t look dour enough to be a Presbyterian — there are too many laugh-lines around your eyes for that. Yet there’s a certain authority in the way you hold yourself. I’d almost think you were an Anglican, except that your cloak is so worn and dusty.” The corner of her mouth twitched as she continued. “It’s not nearly plain enough for Quaker, though, so I’d guess … Methodist?”

  This was so much like something Sarah might have said that he had to chuckle a bit in spite of the fact that it rattled him anew.

  “There, you see? Laugh-lines.”

  “Well reasoned and absolutely correct. Thaddeus Lewis.” He tipped his hat to her. “Methodist Episcopal. New to the district.”

  “I thought the Methodists were all one now?”

  “That’s what they say. It’s not what I believe.” He was not about to start a street-corner debate on the pros and cons of Methodist union, however, so he proffered an invitation instead. “I’m presiding at services on Tuesday evening. Perhaps I’ll see you there?”

  “Tuesday evening? I may come along. We’ll see.” She smiled a goodbye, and hopped over one of the mounds of frozen horse manure that littered the roadway. When she reached the other side of the street she joined a small, pale woman and a large man who had the telltale bulk of someone who earned his living at heavy labour. As she walked away, he noted that not only the group of boys she had been standing with, but all the other men on the street, as well, watched her departure.

  They had all been watching him until then. As he had ridden into the village he had marvelled at how busy everyone seemed to be. Everywhere he looked there were workmen — carpenters, bricklayers, masons. Most of the buildings they were working on were frame — appropriate for a village that had grown up around a sawmill — but here and there some ambitious citizen had decided to build in brick.

  Demorestville was an old village by Upper Canadian standards, a village founded in the first-settled townships along the St. Lawrence River and Lake Ontario — the “front” they called it, or sometimes the “cash.” These terms implied that life was easier here, not like it was in the clearings to the north and west where back-breaking labour had so far produced little more than tree stumps that dotted the fields and shanties that leaned drunkenly against the forest. In contrast, the fields around Demorestville were cleared and neatly fenced with rails, the trees tamed into windbreaks along the road, the stumps piled up into fences, and the village itself bustling with self-important activity and people who were prepared to spend hard-earned money so the world could see just how prosperous they were.

  As busy as everyone seemed to be, still they looked up and took note as he rode by. Carpenters stopped sawing and nailing; bricklayers paused with trowel in hand; even the people clustered at the street corner and in front of the inn huddled together a little closer and took sly, sideways glances at him. It took him aback at first. As a man of the cloth he was used to being welcomed wherever he went. The whole colony was in turmoil, he reflected, and with the militia called out, everyone was in an unsettled frame of mind. Strangers were to be viewed with suspicion until their motives were clear.

  He rode on, looking for the general store that he had been told was halfway along the main street — “the Broadway” as he later learned it was called. The store was owned by a man named Varney.

  The Bay of Quinte area was where Methodism had first come to Canada, and Lewis had been told that there was still a solid base of supporters here who could be counted on to ease a new preacher into the community. Varney was one of these, and apparently offered his premises for meetings when the church
was unavailable.

  Lewis found the store without difficulty and as he pushed open the front door he was assailed by the sweet smell of over-ripe apples warring with the sour smell of the pickle barrel. The shelves seemed well stocked, even for January, a time when little cargo could make its way down the frozen St. Lawrence River from Montreal.

  “You must be Mr. Lewis.” A plump red-cheeked man strode out from behind the counter and held out his hand. “I was told to watch for a tall clean-shaven man with darkish hair. Besides, I’m fairly certain I know everybody else around here. I’m Varney. Griffith Varney. Come in, come in.”

  Varney’s enthusiasm more than made up for the suspi–cious looks that had greeted Lewis as he rode into town.

  He was ushered through a doorway at the back of the store. The Varneys had their living quarters in the rear of the building and he was invited to take a seat at a round table that had been set up by the parlour window.

  “Elsie! Elsie! He’s here!”

  Mrs. Varney bustled in with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.

  “We have a little time before the meeting,” she said. “You can rest up a bit before you speak. That’s the best spot.” She pointed to a comfortable-looking horsehair chair. “You sit there.”

  “It’s too bad your first meeting has to be here,” Mr. Varney said, “but the Presbyterians are using the church today.”

  “There’s only the one, then?” Lewis asked, taking his seat in the comfortable chair. “And everyone shares in?”

  “Aye, the mill owner, old Demorest, built the first church here, with the proviso that everybody could use it regardless of persuasion. Now he’s given some land to the Presbyterians so they can have their own place, and he says he’s prepared to donate some property to the Episcopal Methodists as well, but it will be some time before either group can put a building up. It can’t come too fast to my mind. The Wesleyans act like the church is theirs already and they make it difficult for the rest of us.”

  “The mill owner is prepared to support us all?” This was unusual. Generally men of influence threw their support to one church or another and gave short shrift to the rest.

  “Oh, aye. He’s a good man, and I think he welcomes anything that will have a civilizing influence on the place.”

  Demorestville, like so many of the early settlements, had built its fortunes on lumber — one of the few commodities that would fetch hard cash in those first desperate years. Logging, however, brings loggers, and loggers cause problems when they leave the woods and come into town.

  “It was so bad here at one time,” Varney went on, “that Demorest’s first wife called the place Sodom. There’s many still call it that, and with some reason, though it’s not nearly so bad as it was.” The shop door opened and Varney excused himself. “Why, look, Elsie,” he called back. “It’s Mr. Simms. You’d best get another teacup.”

  Lewis knew of Isaac Simms. He was a peddler, and their paths had crossed on several occasions, although they had never exchanged more than a few words of greeting. He knew that the man had a reputation for fair dealing and seemed to be well-liked everywhere he went.

  Whatever transaction the peddler had with Varney was quickly concluded, and he was invited to join them in the parlour. Lewis thought that Simms was probably very successful as a peddler. There was a general air of affability about him, and an open face framed by sandy brown hair. His high forehead denoted intelligence; the width of the brow promised honesty. He would have the pennies winkled out of a farmwife’s hand in a moment, leaving her well satisfied with her bargain, Lewis figured.

  They exchanged a few pleasantries while Mrs. Varney poured more tea, and then Lewis attempted to turn the conversation to the subject of his new congregation.

  Simms had distracted the Varneys from church matters, however; they were eager for news, regardless of how bad it might be. Though the towns along the front had easy access to newspapers — there was one that published regularly from nearby Picton — the Varneys, as was the case with most people, placed little reliance on the truth of anything they read in these. The papers were too apt to propound their own points of view, and support their owners’ politics. It was preferable to gather intelligence from those who travelled the colony with regularity, most notably peddlers and itinerant clergymen like himself who often had the facts first-hand and could dispute or confirm the printed version with authority. Unlike himself, Simms proved to be an informative source.

  “Lount and Matthews are to hang, Governor Arthur will make sure of that,” he told them. This was consistent with what had been reported in the more radical papers. “Thousands are to be transported or banished.”

  It was clear that Lieutenant-Governor Arthur was bringing the full force of the law to bear on those who had risen against the government. Across both Upper and Lower Canada, people were being arrested with little apparent regard for whether they had actually borne arms or had merely expressed an opinion. Lewis doubted that there would be as many transportations as Simms claimed, but the peddler spoke with great conviction and it was evident that the Varneys believed every word. Whatever the truth of the details, it was clear that the rebel leaders, Mackenzie and Papineau, had sown a crop of woe for many.

  After the failure of the rebellions, both of the leaders had evaded capture in spite of the enormous rewards offered and had fled to the United States. Papineau seemed to have melted into nowhere, but the mad little Scot, Mackenzie, had set himself up on Navy Island, just above Niagara Falls, proclaiming himself the head of “a new republic.” American agitators had been quick to supply him with food, arms, and men.

  “I shouted hurrah when our soldiers seized The Caroline and sent her plunging over the falls,” Mrs. Varney said. “That’ll starve the rebel out.”

  The Caroline was the ship loaded with provisions that had been plying its way from the American shore to Navy Island. In a daring raid, British troops had fired her and then set her adrift, to howls of outrage from the Americans, who claimed that since the seizure had taken place in their territory, their sovereignty had been impinged, and that reprisals were called for. Simms had with him a copy of the newspaper from Cobourg detailing the latest events, and he was happy to share it. Someone had written a poem to commemorate the destruction of The Caroline and the paper had printed it. Mr. Varney insisted on reading parts of it aloud:

  “And that the very gallant act Of Captain Andrew Drew, Whose name must be immortalized — Likewise his daring crew.”

  “Whatever would we do without brave young men like Captain Drew?” Mrs. Varney exclaimed, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. “My goodness me, we’d be at the mercy of the rebels!”

  These fine sentiments were lost on Lewis, as the name Drew meant nothing to him. Still, he supposed it was a victory of sorts for British troops and should therefore be lauded.

  “Listen to this, Mother.” Varney chuckled as he went on:

  “The captain and his gallant crew, Whose names I wot not all, From Schlosser cut the steamboat out, And sent her o’er the Fall. Oh then the Yankees stormed outright, And spoke of reparation. A mighty flame then rose through this Tobacco-chewing nation.”

  “Hee, hee, hee,” Varney wheezed. “Tobacco-chewing nation, that’s a good one, isn’t it now?”

  “Well, that will put paid to all Mackenzie’s nonsense,” Mrs. Varney said. “Fancy the Americans helping such a rogue.”

  Lewis declined to comment on the affair and discounted the Varneys’ statements. Now that the rebellion had failed, everyone claimed to be an ardent supporter of the status quo, and there was nary a person around who would own up to being a Reformer.

  “Britain is sending a new man out to investigate what’s going on. They say he’ll hang everybody,” Simms reported.

  “Serves them right,” Mrs. Varney said.

  Lewis waited patiently during a protracted discussion of just what the new governor might or might not do, and whether or not the Americans really meant to
invade Canada again, until it appeared that Simms’s news was exhausted. When it seemed that nothing further could be added to the rumour mill, he gently turned the conversation back to matters of the church.

  The Varneys, their tongues loosened by temporal gossip, happily filled him in regarding the spiritual state of the neighbourhood, detailing who could be counted on to support him and ease him into a new place. Mrs. Varney was quick to regale him with the personal details of everyone they discussed. He was beginning to realize that she was that most reprehensible of creatures, the village gossip, but decided that for the moment the failing could be useful. The people she described seemed to be solid, respectable citizens, and she spoke of an encouraging group of young people who regularly attended meetings.

  He wanted to ask her about the girl with the chestnut hair —to inquire as to who she was, and whether or not she was a Methodist. But then he realized how unseemly his questions would sound. A man of forty asking after a young girl like that might be taken the wrong way.

  “We are fortunate to have two artists in our ranks,” Mrs. Varney informed him. “The Caddick brothers. One of them paints miniatures and will do a portrait for you in a minute. The other is more interested in scenery. Both of them can write the entire Lord’s Prayer on the head of a pin. It’s most amazing.”

  Lewis’s mind had been drifting and he had only been half-listening to the prattle, but with mention of the pins, he started, nearly spilling his tea. He had seen just such a pin once before — nestled in the folds of his dead daughter’s bodice! At the time he had wondered at the novelty of it, but with so much else to contend with, he never expected to discover where it had come from.

  “The Caddicks really are gaining a reputation, thanks in part to Mr. Simms here,” Mrs. Varney continued.

  Simms nodded. “Aye, it’s astounding how well those little pins sell. Occasionally the Caddicks sell one of their paintings in town, but it’s those pins the people in the backcountry like.”