“I understand now,” Conor told him. “I think you are wrong, but you are a very brave man.” Conor turned to the guard. He knew he had been listening. “Did you hear that? He’s innocent.”
“I am here to protect you, not listen to his lies. Your meeting is over.”
As the guard approached, Whelan asked, “You are Thomas O’Dea’s boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell your father to be careful.”
The guard briskly led Conor away. Conor never had a chance to ask James Whelan what he meant.
34
Conor set up an appointment with Sir John A. Macdonald for eight-thirty the next evening at Macdonald’s home. As the former assistant to D’Arcy McGee, he had no trouble arranging an audience with the prime minister. Hewitt Bernard complained about the inconvenience, but added his name to the evening schedule.
Recently, the prime minister had moved his study upstairs. Macdonald’s doctor had said the drainage smell drifting into the main-floor office was bad for his health. Conor stayed downstairs, waiting to be announced. He understood the doctor’s concerns, but this was a rose garden compared to the outhouse behind his father’s flat. Months ago, his old pocket watch had stopped working, but he estimated that he had been waiting for nearly an hour. He could hear Sir John’s voice rise in anger from upstairs, but he couldn’t distinguish any words.
“Young man.”
Lady Macdonald’s voice startled Conor. He jumped to his feet, flustered. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry. You’re in good company. D’Arcy used to doze off while I was talking to him, too. Contemplating poetry, I liked to think.”
Conor had met Lady Macdonald only a few times before. He was flattered that she remembered him. “How are you, ma’am?” he asked. Lady Macdonald was expecting a baby any day. She looked tired, and Conor was embarrassed to observe how big she was.
“I’m fine, thank you. The baby has the energy of Sir John, I’m afraid. Forever kicking and making its presence known.”
Conor was uncomfortable. Working-class pregnant women were often seen in the market or around town, but aristocrats stayed out of society’s glare when they were “in the family way.” Except for her daily visits to St. Alban’s Church, Lady Macdonald had rarely been in public since she started showing. But, he supposed, she was in her house and she could act as she liked.
“The babe wants to help him fight the Grits,” Conor joked, wondering if he was being too bold.
Lady Macdonald smiled. “Sir John speaks very highly of you.” She left the thought dangling as she walked over to the mantle to rearrange a few flowers. Conor couldn’t think of anything to say in return. She broke the silence. “You have been going to court every day, Sir John tells me.”
“I was subpoenaed.” Conor was afraid she was suggesting that he was lazy. He quickly added, “I’m still working for a few members of Parliament.”
“I don’t think it’s wise,” she declared, “to watch that wicked man every day.”
“But—”
“It’s not right to see such evil.” Her face was pained with concern. “They tell me he cannot feel.”
Conor thought of the solitary man in jail with eyes alight in fear. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I think he can feel. I think he feels very deeply.”
CONOR recognized the man who marched out of Sir John’s study and down the stairs; he was the person sitting with Andrew Cullen in court. He nodded at Lady Macdonald as he passed her and completely ignored Conor. With exaggerated politeness, she called over his shoulder, “And good evening to you, Mr. McMicken.” Without turning, he reached up with his hand. It could have been a wave, but it was more like a salute.
“Strange man,” Lady Macdonald sighed. “But these are strange times.”
“Come in, son, come in,” Sir John called impatiently from his study. Conor bowed slightly to Lady Macdonald. She followed him upstairs and turned into her room while he entered the prime minister’s home study. The first thing Conor noticed was the huge desk covered with a maze of papers, most of which Old Tomorrow seemed to have cast aside for another day. Macdonald was pouring a glass of sherry from a half-empty decanter. His deep frown indicated that he had been through a very disagreeable meeting.
He looked up from his glass. “How’s your work going?” he inquired.
“Well, sir,” Conor declared. “I’ve been quite busy doing odd jobs for members of Parliament and …” Conor could see that the prime minister wasn’t listening, but was just making conversation, so he let his words trail off. McGee had once told him, “If you lose your audience in the preliminaries, scurry to get back on the track.” So Conor came to the point.
“Sir John, I would like to talk to you about Patrick James Whelan.”
“A much-discussed man,” Macdonald said sarcastically. There was no sparkle in his eyes this night, just a deepening look of concern. Minutes ago, McMicken had told him that an informer in Detroit confirmed other reports that Whelan was not the man who killed McGee. He was an accomplice, but not the murderer. Sir John, of course, refused to believe it. “Who cares what some fool says in Detroit? The courts in Canada will decide, and the evidence, as D’Arcy would say, is as thick as blackberries. Who cares …” he murmured the last two words out loud.
“Pardon me, sir?”
Macdonald realized he had been daydreaming or, if there were such a word, nightmaring.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear what you said,” Conor repeated.
“It was nothing. Now, what do you want to say about that fellow Whelan?”
“I don’t think he’s guilty.”
Sir John A. Macdonald almost spit. Conor O’Dea, of all people, McGee’s loyal assistant, not wanting the Fenian rebel to hang! He looked at Conor accusingly. “So what makes you think this?”
“He told me,” Conor replied.
“He told the court he was innocent, too,” the prime minister snapped back. “He pleaded not guilty. Now it’s before the courts. Do you not trust our courts?”
“He told me what really happened,” Conor said, trying to retain his strength. It took a lot of nerve for him to face the prime minister’s assault.
And Sir John had just begun. “Of course he’d tell you he was innocent. The man’s life is at stake. He’s a cold-blooded murderer. Adding lying to his list of sins is no giant leap.”
“But, sir, I believe him. I think he was somehow involved. I think he was part of the crime. But I don’t think he killed Mr. McGee.”
“What about his confession in jail?”
“He says he was misquoted.”
“We all say that!” Macdonald shouted. “So who, pray tell,” he asked mockingly, “was the murderer?”
“I don’t know. But I am sure that someone else fired the gun.”
The prime minister’s world was in disarray. He wanted this terrible mess cleaned up, once and for all. Surely Whelan was guilty of something, even this young man admitted that, and there was no other suspect except some mysterious, shadowy person. Whelan had the motive and he was there; the evidence was clear. Justice must be done. Because … because, he thought with dread, if he wasn’t guilty—if someone else was really the assassin—then the murderer was still out there.
“Why are you doing this, young Mr. O’Dea? Don’t you think D’Arcy McGee would want his killer brought to justice?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” Conor was prepared for this question. He had asked it many times himself. “But I know he would want the truth exposed. He would feel betrayed if the wrong man hanged.”
Macdonald sighed deeply. Never before had he felt so alone in the premier’s chair. He had a debt to McGee, and it would be met. But he also had a duty to the country not to let this matter grow into hysteria. Anyway, this was the responsibility of the police and the courts, certainly not that of this well-meaning but immature apprentice. A dense silence hung over the room.
Conor, summoning his self-confidence, broke the stalemate. “Do you really think James Whelan is guilty, sir?”
Sir John A. Macdonald had persuaded sworn enemies to work as allies during the Confederation debates, had convinced feuding colonies to unite, had enticed headstrong people to follow him as leader—now he tried his best to convince himself that the matter was under control. “Yes, young man, I do,” he affirmed. “The final decision is up to the courts, but I am confident—no, I am certain—that the Fenian is guilty.”
But when Conor returned Macdonald’s stare, he saw no sign of confidence. He saw the same look he remembered seeing in jail in the eyes of a doomed man. He could tell that the prime minister was frightened. And not in the least bit certain.
The next day, Sir John and Lady Macdonald sat beside Mr. Justice Richards in court. Lady Macdonald sat solemnly, in loose clothes that disguised her pregnancy, but the prime minister made quite a show of it, smiling at friends and acquaintances. Macdonald was both prime minister and attorney general. He was the most powerful man in Canada, and the most persuasive when he wanted to be. He was letting the judge know this was more than just a judicial hearing; it was a political event. He was letting the jury know he wanted James Whelan pronounced guilty.
35
The trial proceeded with enough rumour and hearsay to hang James Whelan many times over, but no real proof of guilt. Conor noted that the prosecution never called John Doyle to confirm the confession. He supposed that a detective with an Irish accent was convincing enough.
It was the dying days of autumn. Meg wanted one last trip to the country before winter took hold of the capital. The court did not sit on Saturday, so Conor rowed Meg up the Rideau Canal to the first set of locks at Hog’s Back. The waterfall, with its wondrous sound and the mystic light, had long been one of her favourite spots. It was mid-afternoon by the time they docked; they were alone, sitting on the rocks. They had to speak loudly to hear each other above the crashing sound of the falls.
Conor told her about his meetings with Whelan and the prime minister.
“You have to help Whelan,” she urged, shouting over the rushing water.
Conor didn’t answer. He stared at the falls, hypnotized by its rhythm. He followed a wave thundering down, thinking about the complexities of life, the horrors of death …
Then he heard Meg scream.
Before he could react, a hand reached out and grabbed him from behind, pinning him. He felt ropes burning his wrists and pressure circling his ankles. He hadn’t seen his attackers. He tried to speak, but another hand gagged him. Meg was in the grasp of three other people. All wore masks. No one spoke.
Meg tried to pull herself free. Whoever had hold of her tightened his grip. She tried to scream again, but her cry came out as a hollow wail, drowned out by the loud waterfall. She felt another hand groping her, and her scream turned shrill. But it was hopeless. She could hardly breathe. She thought she might be sick.
Even though all their faces were covered, she could tell that this was not the same gang that had threatened her before. These men were older. It was as if the problem had been handed over to a higher authority. The leader, who hadn’t touched either of them, spoke almost gently. “Ease off, lads. Not too rough.”
But there was nothing gentle about him. He sauntered over to Conor, who lay bound and helpless. “Okay, Paddy, watch what we do to people who go where they don’t belong.” He took out a long pair of scissors and grabbed Conor by his hair. He snipped at his right sideburn. Then the hair on the left side of his head. Just enough to make Conor look foolish. Conor squirmed, but he couldn’t budge the ropes and he was afraid that the scissors might stab him. “If there was a little more of your red whiskers, we might take a scalp,” the attacker declared. “But this will do. For now.”
And then he looked at Meg.
She closed her eyes in terror as he strolled over to her. He whispered in her ear, “Be fair, Meg. You were warned, but you wouldn’t listen.” For a few seconds, he played with her hair. He admired it, stroked it, caressed it. Meg’s knees buckled, but the three masked attackers propped her up like a prize. Holding up a strand of hair, the leader glanced over at Conor. “Not too brave, are you, Paddy?” They all laughed as Conor wrenched his body, trying to release the ropes. He was powerless, while the person—whoever he was—held the scissors close to Meg’s face.
“You have to be taught a lesson,” he said. And he cut a chunk of her hair.
She gathered strength and spit at him, hitting his mask.
“Now, Meg,” he scolded, “why would you do something like that? It must be the kind of company you’ve been keeping.” One of the people holding her stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth. “That’s better,” he said and continued cutting Meg’s beautiful black hair. He took his time, dramatically holding her curls up and letting strands float in the air. When he was finished, he studied Meg’s shorn head. “Can’t say it’s an improvement, but I think you’ve got the message: don’t go where you don’t belong—either of you.”
The three people holding Meg released her, and she fell to the ground sobbing. They ran away, leaving Conor and Meg alone, crumpled on the bank of the river.
MEG had to untie Conor’s wrists and legs. Her hands were shaking. When he was free, she wouldn’t let him comfort her. She crossed her arms, holding on to herself. Holding on for dear life. The waterfall now looked angry and fierce, water pounding into the rocks, attacking them.
They rowed to the Toronto House in silence. Back at the boarding house, Meg ran upstairs, leaving Conor alone in the parlour. Eventually, Mrs. Trotter came downstairs and said to Conor, “I think it is better that you go somewhere else tonight.”
AT nine o’clock in the morning, Patrick James Whelan was ushered into the courtroom to hear the jury’s verdict. He was dressed in black, his face so pale it was almost white. He sat stiffly in his chair, between the two policemen. He seemed devoid of curiosity or concern. Conor could see why Lady Macdonald thought he had no feeling. He could only guess what dread a man feels when waiting for a sentence of life—or death. After the attack at Hog’s Back, he knew the humiliation of helplessness. He watched Whelan with deeper sympathy.
Half an hour after Whelan had taken his seat, the jury filed in. None of the jurors looked at Whelan. Nor he at them. He continued to stare straight ahead.
“Gentlemen,” the judge solemnly asked the jury, “have you agreed on your verdict?”
“Yes,” the foreman responded, “we have.”
“How do you find the defendant: guilty or not guilty?”
James Whelan’s life came down to a few simple words. During the trial he had sat silently, listening to men argue his fate. A stream of words. Letters forming thoughts. Thoughts forming sentences. Sentences drawing conclusions. Words with meaning, words that were just sounds. Words that determined his life or death. Now, all the words came down to one, spoken by the jury’s foreman.
“Guilty.”
The clerk asked, “So say you all?”
In turn, each juror nodded—guilty.
James Whelan swallowed hard. Hillyard Cameron leaned over and spoke to him, but he didn’t appear to listen. No other words were important now but that one.
Guilty.
THE judge looked down on the prisoner. “What do you have to say, Patrick James Whelan, that the sentence of the court should not be pronounced against you?” Whelan reached into his pocket and took out some notes. He looked at the judge, then the jury, and stared back into empty space. He had not spoken in court except to assert his innocence. “I have been tried and found guilty of this crime,” he began softly. “I am held to be a murderer.” He looked over the audience, and his eyes locked onto Conor’s. “Here I am, standing on the brink of my grave. I declare to you that I am innocent and never committed this deed. That I know well in my heart and soul.”
There was a rumbling in the audience, but Whelan ignored it. “I must say this: if I had been in the same
place as one of the gentlemen of the jury, hearing the same evidence, I’d very likely bring in the same verdict. I liberate all the jurors from blame.” For a second, it looked as if he might falter, but he didn’t. “I am held to be a black assassin. And my blood runs cold. But I am innocent. I never took that man’s blood. I know I am not the murderer of the Honourable D’Arcy McGee.”
The denial exhausted Whelan. He sank back, his energy spent. He could have spoken longer, but he knew his time was up.
The clerk removed a package from a black bag and handed it to the judge. Chief Justice Richards was clearly moved, maybe even disturbed, by Whelan’s speech, but he put on a pair of black gloves, placed a black cap over his head and spoke. “The sentence of this court is that you, Patrick James Whelan, having been found guilty of the murder of Thomas D’Arcy McGee, shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead.” He took off his gloves and hat and looked at the condemned man with a blend of pity and disgust. “There is no possible hope on this side of the grave. Let me urge you to make your peace with God.”
James Whelan had listened calmly to his sentence of death. As he was being led out of the prisoner’s dock, he turned to the judge and said, “All those words, my Lord, still do not make me guilty.”
CONOR moved into a small room above a shop on Rideau Street. He went to a barber and, without explanation, had his sideburns evened out and his hair cut short. He still looked rather foolish, but it was the best he could do.
After the verdict, he went back to Sparks Street. There was a sign on the door: THE TORONTO HOUSE IS CLOSED. He still had a key, and he opened the door. Inside, George Desbarats, the Queen’s printer who owned the building, was chatting with a solicitor whom Conor didn’t recognize. Conor never said his name, but Mr. Desbarats greeted him warmly. “I know you have been through a lot. This is one more shock. The Trotters have moved away and instructed me to ask you kindly not to look for them.”
The solicitor added unnecessarily, “Mrs. Trotter doesn’t want anyone to know where her family has gone. I’m to deal with her affairs.”
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