Perhaps Hillyard Cameron should not have smiled so broadly, because juries don’t approve of lawyers gloating, but the trial was starting to turn in his favour. He had one more key question: “Do you have a scar?”
Euphemie Lafrance rolled up her sleeve and showed what was clearly a scar. It certainly looked as if a bullet had grazed her arm. There was commotion in the courtroom as people strained to see. John Hillyard Cameron sat down, smiling. But his triumph would be short-lived.
JAMES O’Reilly stood confidently and declared, “I would like to call Joseph Faulkner to the stand.” Conor recognized Joe Faulkner immediately from the election campaign in Montreal. Faulkner was one of McGee’s critics, but he was no hothead. He sincerely believed D’Arcy McGee had been inciting the Fenians with his virulent attacks. “A noble man,” McGee had described him. “A fool to disagree with me, but true to his convictions nonetheless.”
“Do you know the defendant?” O’Reilly asked.
“Yes,” Faulkner answered, to Conor’s surprise.
“Did you know D’Arcy McGee?”
“Of course.”
Conor felt that Joe Faulkner looked very credible on the stand. He wondered where O’Reilly was going to go with his questioning.
“During the election last summer, how would you characterize Mr. Whelan’s behaviour?”
“He was against McGee.”
“Mr. Faulkner, would it be fair to say that you recall James Whelan as a particularly vocal member of the opposition?”
Faulkner hesitated. Sometimes men said things they didn’t mean. Jim Whelan was a braggart, not at all like the quiet, subdued man perched in the prisoner’s dock. He drank too much, said too much and said it too loudly.
The judge interrupted his deliberation. “It is a perfectly clear question. Please answer.”
“Yes, he was vocal,” Faulkner replied, knowing well that further questions would demand a fuller and more damning response.
“Did you overhear any conversations involving Mr. Whelan concerning Mr. McGee?”
“Well, when Mr. McGee was speaking at Jolicoeur’s Saloon, I distinctly heard him yell, ‘McGee’s a traitor and deserves to be shot.’”
“‘He deserves to be shot,’” O’Reilly repeated. “What else did you hear?”
“I remember him and another man talking about Mr. McGee. The other man was encouraging Whelan and calling McGee every name in the book. He asked him, ‘If you got the chance, would you shoot him?’ Whelan said, ‘I’d take McGee’s life as quick as drink a cup of tea.’” There was a gasp from the courtroom crowd. “Whelan did a lot of bragging. I remember the other man patting his back affectionately. He knew I was listening to their conversation. I don’t think Whelan knew.”
“What exactly did the defendant say?”
Joseph Faulkner answered carefully and deliberately. Each word seemed to hang in the air. “He said, ‘If McGee is elected, the old pig won’t reign too long. I’ll blow his bloody brains out before the session is over.’”
James O’Reilly smiled proudly. Whelan’s eyes were widening with fear. He had developed a slight twitch at the side of his mouth. Conor also noticed that the jurors were no longer looking at the defendant with curiosity; they were glaring at him with contempt.
“Thank you, Mr. Faulkner. No more questions.”
HILLYARD Cameron approached Joseph Faulkner carefully. This was not a man to toy with or belittle. No doubt he had heard Whelan say those things, but that did not mean he carried them out. “Mr. Faulkner,” he began cordially, “the other man—‘the stranger,’ as you called him—do you remember what he was wearing?”
“Not really, but he was carrying a grey coat, I believe.”
Cameron smiled. Another man with a grey coat. It was a step forward. A small one. But a step nonetheless. “Can you describe the other man?”
“I’m sorry, but not really. He was of medium height and wore a black hat well over his head. He had sideburns, I think. I saw him, but I’m not sure I would recognize him again. I know that’s not a very satisfactory answer—in fact, it’s rather strange—but it’s the truth.”
Hillyard Cameron had been taught as a young trial lawyer never to ask a question if he did not know the answer, but he allowed himself to be swayed by the enticing thought of another man as a possible suspect. Was Faulkner thinking what he was thinking? He took a chance and asked an unprepared question. “When you first heard of the murder of D’Arcy McGee, what did you think?”
“I thought, ‘Good God! It’s nobody but Whelan that shot him!’”
Cameron turned away from the jurors so they would not see his look of horror and embarrassment.
He knows his case is lost, Conor thought.
THE parlour in Mrs. Trotter’s boarding house was decorated with large, ornately carved dark furniture. Much of it had come with the place and belonged to the landlord, George Desbarats, but Mary Ann Trotter’s own knick-knacks and keepsakes were everywhere, adding her personality to the room. Meg sat alone on the sofa, curled up in a blanket. She had been reading the newspaper reports on the trial, but the paper lay in disarray on her lap. She was breathing deeply, gently falling asleep.
She did not hear him enter the house.
He moved stealthily, settling in a chair across the room. For a few minutes, he simply watched her. In sleep, she was so tranquil, so calm. He could use some serenity now. He kept staring at Meg. Her right eye twitched. She sensed someone in the room. Clutching the blanket, she opened her eyes in terror.
“Conor, what are you doing?” she gasped. “You scared me half to death.”
“Sshh,” he whispered. “I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“Lots of things.”
She didn’t say anything right away.
He asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, you come over here. Just hold me. Just hold me tight.”
32
Thomas O’Dea had been kept in jail for only two nights. His time as a prisoner of the state was uncomfortable, cramped, humiliating, but mercifully short. On the night of his release, he went to work at Lapierre’s. The talk at the bar was all about the arrests. A regular customer told him the latest Fenian chant: It was with the greatest of glee I heard of the death of D’Arcy McGee. He thought Thomas would enjoy the verse, but he didn’t. He found he couldn’t savour the taste of death. Not even McGee’s. This was a man’s life. A father and a husband. What kind of animal could shoot someone from behind in the middle of the night? No, it was not with glee that he heard of McGee’s death; it was with emerging shame—shame for Irish vengeance, shame for his own hatred, shame for his wasted life.
He had blamed McGee for deserting the cause of his homeland and for destroying his family. Now he had grounds to blame McGee for his own false arrest. But somehow, he couldn’t keep blaming a dead man, and he could find no joy in murder. It made him think: Had D’Arcy McGee caused the mess in his life, or had he done it to himself with a poisonous stew of jealousy, anger and resentment?
Another customer told him that Conor had been the first person to reach McGee’s side when he was murdered, that he held his corpse and even ran through the streets, screaming hysterically. Thomas thought of those hours on Grosse Isle, holding his wife’s lifeless body. What about Conor? How was he? He wanted to talk to him, but how could he? He hoped, simply, that his son was all right.
THERE were still some of Conor’s papers and books at Thomas O’Dea’s flat. In the past, looking at the scribbles, trying in vain to decipher their meaning, made him angry. Now it made him sad. Polly Ryan had urged Thomas to find out what was written there. A teacher who frequented Lapierre’s would read Thomas the latest newspaper reports about Whelan’s trial in exchange for a free beer or two. One day, Thomas brought in some of Conor’s papers and asked him to read them to him.
“Do you really want me to read this one?” the teacher asked. “It’s a poem by D’Arcy McGee.”
“Rea
d it,” Thomas said. “Please.”
In the darkness of the tavern, the teacher strained his eyes to read the verses. He started haltingly:
Cling to my breast, my Irish bird,
Poor storm-toss’d stranger, sore afraid!
Thomas interrupted. “When did he write this?”
“It says 1852 on the top of the page, when he was in exile from Ireland.”
Thomas nodded. Poor storm-toss’d stranger—that’s how he’d felt when he arrived in Canada. Did McGee feel the same way when he came to the New World?
“He loved Ireland, didn’t he?” Thomas said.
“Yes, he did. And he loved his wife. As I suppose you did, Thomas.”
And now there was this raven-haired girl with Conor. Were they in love? He asked the teacher to carry on reading.
For you and I are exiles both—
Rest you, wanderer, rest you here!
Soon fair winds shall waft you forth
Back to our beloved North—
Would God I could go with you, dear!
Thomas O’Dea might not have been able to read or write, but his memory was crystal clear. He repeated the verse word for word. Yes, they had been “exiles both,” but McGee had made something of his life. He had not. The memories of his past attacked him—the famine … the coffin ship to Canada … holding his dying wife … losing his son.
Would God I could go with you, dear!
Would God, Thomas thought, that I could change what I have done, quell my anger, repair my life. Would God that I could be with Conor again.
WHEN Andrew Cullen was called to the stand, there was confusion in the courtroom. It was not a familiar name among those closely following the trial. Cullen had been sitting with an intense, square-shouldered man Conor couldn’t quite place. He spoke with the sing-song accent of County Clare. “I am a detective from Montreal. I got the news of Mr. McGee’s death and immediately came to Ottawa.” He looked at the man he had been sitting with, and added, “Under orders.”
“Are you familiar with the Ottawa jail where the defendant is confined?” James O’Reilly asked.
“Yes, I am. I visited there a number of times.”
“Can you describe the arrangement of the cells?”
“Yes, James Whelan was in cell ten and John Doyle in cell seven.”
“What was your purpose?”
“To hear what I could hear.” There was a burst of laughter in the crowd. It stopped under the glare of Justice Richards.
“And what did you hear?”
“I heard Doyle say, ‘James, I’m sorry you ever done it.’ Then I heard Whelan say, ‘I don’t care a damn. I’m prepared for the worst.’” There was now complete silence in the courtroom. “I heard James Whelan say, ‘Yes, I shot that fellow. I shot that fellow like a dog.’” James Whelan watched Cullen in disbelief. Reporters were writing furiously. Conor was shocked. D’Arcy McGee had taught him to think beyond the moment, and this moment was fraught with significance. Conor considered what had really happened. The prosecution was relying on eavesdropping. There was something desperate about that. They would need Doyle to substantiate it. But the fact remained that James O’Reilly did have a confession.
THE new Ottawa jail was on Nicholas Street. Conor stood outside, feeling small and unnerved. He rubbed his hands through his hair, the way D’Arcy McGee used to, and slowly headed along the curved stone walkway toward the cold stone building. A tall, lanky guard opened the door for him. Another guard called out, “How long are you planning to stay?” An old and tired joke. But the guards all laughed. Conor counted four of them. Others must be in the cell blocks.
The jovial mood changed when the tall guard opened the first huge wooden door toward the cells. He and another guard led Conor up the stairs, past rows of cells filled with petty criminals. Conor tried to ignore the swearing and catcalls from the cells. On the fourth floor, one guard unbolted a thick wooden door. The other stood beside it. Conor entered the hallway where the most dangerous criminals were kept. At the end of the hall, behind another locked door, was death row.
“Whelan, you have a visitor,” the jail guard growled.
James Whelan was slumped on a bed that took up most of his tiny, dark cell. He looked up, only slightly curious, as Conor approached the bars. The sole source of light was high above Conor’s head. Conor could hear birdsong outside. He wondered if it comforted Whelan or haunted him.
The guard waited down the hall, within both sight and earshot. He was armed and appeared eager to use his weapon if need be. Conor stumbled for his opening words. “How are you?” was the best he could do.
Whelan just shrugged. Life, or the prospect of death, had hardened him. “What are you doing here?” he replied bitterly.
Conor answered honestly. “I don’t know. I just want to talk to you.”
“You worked for McGee. You said you saw me on the street that night. You testified against me.” It was as if Whelan was reciting his reasons, in order, for hating Conor.
“I said I saw a man in a grey coat. I never said it was you.”
Again, Whelan shrugged. “Are you here to try to sneak another confession out of me? You’ve heard what they say about me: ‘He talks too much.’”
“Actually, I have a feeling that if you told everything you knew, it wouldn’t be a confession of guilt.”
“Perhaps,” Whelan said feebly. “Perhaps you were in court when I pleaded not guilty?”
Conor nodded. He noticed Whelan’s eyes were now permanently wide open in fright. Whelan stared above Conor’s head, out the high window. Conor let him have some time, then asked, “What about your confession in jail?”
“What confession? I remember saying he was shot like a dog, not that I shot him. Ask Doyle, if he’ll talk to you.”
“I hear he’s been fired at the Russell House.”
Whelan just shrugged. “I didn’t say it. But it doesn’t matter.”
Throughout the trial, Conor had been studying Whelan’s face, trying to remember him from the Montreal election, from around Parliament Hill. He was familiar, that was all. “When I was in Montreal during the election,” Conor said, “there was someone there stirring up trouble, but no one seemed to recognize him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Whelan responded, but Conor noticed that he was shivering.
“I think you know exactly what I’m saying.” He reached out for Whelan and held the bars separating them. Whelan shrank away. “Tell me about the other man Joseph Faulkner was talking about.” Conor was practically yelling.
Whelan stared back at Conor with wild, frightened eyes, weighing the odds, considering what to do. “They got to find me guilty yet,” was all he said.
But Conor was not about to give up.
“Are you a Fenian?” he asked.
“I don’t know anymore,” Whelan muttered, but added proudly, “I am an Irishman.”
Conor almost left then. In fact, he turned to go but stopped. He owed it to something—to the memory of D’Arcy McGee, maybe; strangely enough, also to his father—to get to the truth. McGee’s death would not be avenged by the wrong verdict. Canada would not be a safer place with an assassin at large, and his father … well, this terrified man, engulfed by his own hatred, reminded him of his father.
“Mr. Whelan, I’m Irish, too. Tell me what happened. Please. I believe in you.”
James Whelan allowed his eyes to close. This young man didn’t just believe him; he believed in him. When he opened his eyes, they were filled with tears.
“I was there,” he said simply. “I held the horse for the man who killed McGee.”
“You were just an accomplice.”
“Yes, but I cheered him on.”
“Is he the man Faulkner talked about?”
Whelan nodded, swallowing hard.
“Where is he?” Conor persisted.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re saying he used you.”
“I guess
so.”
“Then you have a lot in common with D’Arcy McGee. Unless something happens, this man will be responsible for both your deaths.”
Whelan dropped his head into his hands, but Conor was relentless. “Who is this man?”
Whelan lurched back, regaining his composure. “I don’t know. I knew him only as Marshall. You’re right. He was there in Montreal. We had a great time heckling McGee at rallies. He encouraged me and others to take it further—throwing eggs, tomatoes and eventually rocks.” He paused before saying, “He led the attack at the Mechanics’ Hall.” He looked at Conor and smiled. “I remember you there. You looked so hurt whenever we attacked your man.”
Conor ignored the jab. “Did he send you to Ottawa?”
“He never told me to move to Ottawa. That was my own doing. I thought there would be better work here, but when I met up with him by chance, we became friends. I was lonely, and he made me feel important. He asked me to go to the Toronto House and look around, make notes for him. He told me to go to the House of Commons and said I should shake my fist at McGee to remind him of the summer, how Barney Devlin’s boys were still around. He even suggested I bring along my gun.” Whelan took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes. “He lent me his boots. And yes, he wore a grey coat—like the one he gave me.” James Whelan had not spoken that many words together in months.
“Tell your story to the court,” Conor pleaded. “You must tell people about him.”
“Don’t you understand, if I do talk, what will happen to my wife in Montreal? Or even my parents in Ireland? This is war, you know. And … and …”
“And what?”
“And this man named Marshall will be responsible to God for McGee’s death.”
“And your own.”
“Probably,” he answered distantly. “Still, I would rather be hanged than be known as a snitch.”
Now Conor had the answer. Whelan would rather die a martyr than be called an informer. There was little anyone could do for a man who refused to help himself. Whelan was doomed. But that was only part of the equation: D’Arcy McGee’s murderer was still at large.
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