Man in the Shadows

by Gordon Henderson

  “But her furniture is still here,” Conor protested. Everything was still in place, as if they had all just gone to the market.

  “I own the building and much of the contents,” Desbarats said. “Mrs. Trotter will write me and tell me where to send her effects.” The solicitor went back to his paperwork, and George Desbarats took Conor by the arm. “You can stay here as long as you need,” he said. “Until I rent the place again, that is.”

  Conor walked around the parlour, where he had often sat with Meg, where D’Arcy McGee’s body had been brought in from the cold and where he had taken Meg in his arms. But the last time they were here, Meg couldn’t stand the sight of him. She just rushed upstairs. Out of his life. Who could blame her? He was a coward who did nothing but squirm while she was violated.

  “One other thing,” the solicitor said. “There was a letter left for you.” He handed Conor a scented envelope. Conor did not read it in front of the two men. He waited until he was alone in his room. It read simply,

  Conor, I’m sorry. I will contact you as soon as I am ready.

  Meg

  Conor read the short note three times, then slowly started to cry—weakly at first, but the tears steadily grew until they were unrelenting. He sobbed shamelessly, like a lost child. There was no one there to comfort him.

  COLONEL O’Hagan was growing frustrated. He needed publicity. He needed action. He needed something to spur the men on. McGee’s assassination was cheered in Irish bars throughout America, but many of his soldiers were drifting back home. They were getting bored. The word from Washington was not good. President Johnson had been impeached; he had come within one vote of being thrown out of the White House, had lost the nomination of his own party and was in disgrace.

  The good news was that the new president, General Ulysses S. Grant, was also interested in annexing Canada. He had called the country’s existence and actions “vexatious … unfriendly … unneighbourly.” Perfect. But President Grant had no interest in Irish nationalism or Fenian adventures. It remained up to O’Hagan to keep the cause alive. No, it was up to that man in Canada.

  O’Hagan was keen to move soon, but he had not heard from him for some time. He paid attention to the trial in Ottawa, but it was largely ignored in American newspapers. Because of a useless appeal, Whelan’s hanging was delayed from December to February. How frustrating. O’Hagan had received explicit instructions from Dublin not to do a thing until their man had completed his work in Canada. His hands were tied.

  So he sat in New York, waiting impatiently.

  36

  Mary Ann Trotter hated Toronto. She had named the boarding house in Ottawa the Toronto House to bring in business from the West, not out of admiration for the city’s minor glory. Its dull streets, bland buildings and earnest citizens left her dismayed. The town had pretensions of greatness but a musty mood of mediocrity. Muddy York, Hogtown, Toronto the Good. She found Ottawa more interesting: a grimy, young logging town trying to clean itself up. Montreal was her favourite: active and lively, the centre of commerce, with a French joie de vivre. But Toronto was home, and after the attack on Meg, it was a refuge. Mary Ann took her daughter to her sister’s stylish house on Sherbourne Street. It was a Protestant area. Her family would stay in Toronto until this Fenian business ended. Then, maybe, they would move back to the capital. She would have to find a job in Toronto, and had already applied to work in the Empire Hotel.

  Meg left Ottawa in a daze. She felt she owed Conor more that the cryptic letter she had left behind, but she didn’t know what to say. She wanted to disappear. She kept her shorn head covered at all times, even indoors. But she also wanted to attack. She abhorred violence, but deep down, she was ashamed to admit, she wanted revenge.

  Will stayed in Ottawa with friends. It pained Mary Ann to leave him there, but he had obligations at school and as a pageboy. He never really liked being surrounded by women at his aunt’s house, anyway.

  Meg had confided to her aunt that she wanted to protect herself. She wanted to buy a gun and learn how to shoot it. Her mother would never approve, but her aunt told her about the Dominion of Canada Rifle Association. They held target practice on Tuesdays. “Perhaps they’ll take you in,” her aunt suggested.

  But they wouldn’t. Meg barely got a hearing at the armouries. The men rejected her simply because she was a woman. “What does a pretty girl like you need to practise shooting for?” the lieutenant taunted her. “Get a strong man at your side.”

  Meg held her ground. “Who’s in charge?” she asked.

  “I am,” the auxiliary lieutenant declared.

  “No, who is really in charge?”

  “I suppose Colonel Gzowski is.”

  She looked confused.

  “Colonel Casimir Gzowski. Quite a character. And you’ve never heard of him?”

  Gzowski. The name meant nothing to her. She couldn’t pronounce it and dared not try to spell it.

  “He started the regiment,” the lieutenant continued. “He is personally funding it. If he says you can shoot, I’ll let you in.”

  She memorized the strange name. Casimir Gzowski. That night, she asked her aunt if she had ever heard of this man and got an earful back. “He’s only one of the most powerful businessmen in Toronto,” she responded.

  “Why the regiment?”

  “Apparently, he was so incensed with the Fenian raids that he organized a militia to defend Canada, even sponsoring shooting teams to go to England for competitions.”

  “Fenians again,” Mary Ann interjected. Meg didn’t realize that her mother had been listening.

  “Well, he knows a thing or two about revolutionary movements, having been part of one in Poland,” her aunt told her.

  “Good Lord! Is everyone a former rebel in this country?” Meg exclaimed.

  “He’s no rebel now. I hear he’s a great favourite of Queen Victoria’s.”

  “Why do you want to know about him?” Mary Ann Trotter asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, I heard his peculiar name and just wondered,” Meg said.

  “Well, I know him. He stayed at the boarding house and filled the place with stories one week when you were in London. I can arrange a meeting if you wish. Maybe he can help you get a job. I presume that what’s you want.”

  Meg neglected to tell her otherwise.

  MEG expected Colonel Gzowski’s King Street office to be over a bank, or in suites shared with other firms, but his engineering business consumed an entire building. Meg was led into his private office, where he was hovering over blueprints and scowling. “Come here, young lady, and look at this. If I get my way, there will be parkland and walkways all along the Toronto waterfront, but the cheapskate politicians won’t spend the money and the railwaymen want all the land.”

  No introduction. No hello. Just straight to his business plans.

  “I’m all for railways and money, but there should be land for the people.” She had a bit of a problem following his English. Apparently, he learned the language—his fifth—when he arrived in New York a decade ago. She looked at the blueprints for the Toronto waterfront and feigned interest.

  She felt pleasantries were in order. “I’m Meg Trotter from Ottawa,” she said. “I am Mary Ann Trotter’s daughter. My aunt spoke to you.”

  He had been leaning over the paper. When he stood, he towered over her. He was an imposing man with an upright military bearing. He looked down on her with piercing, enquiring eyes. “You weren’t at your mother’s charming establishment when I was there.”

  “No, sir, I was in London.”

  He nodded. “Good choice.”

  She looked around the large, profusely decorated room. His writing desk was enormous. Other tables were strewn with more blueprints and contracts and whatever else she couldn’t tell. There was a large family crest over the mantle and a fire burning furiously in the fireplace. The crest had a ram in the centre of it, with a cross or a sword in its back. Probably a sword, she thought, skewering the poor sh
eep. A beautifully ornate chessboard was set up in the corner. It looked as if a game was under way.

  “So,” she asked, “was Mr. McGee there when you were at my mother’s boarding house?”

  “Some of the time. We sang songs by the piano. Do you play as well as your mother?”

  “Regrettably, no. Do you go to Ottawa often?”

  “Regrettably, yes.” He smiled at his answer. “My business often takes me there. Usually, I stay at the Russell House. Connections, you know. I must say your mother’s company is better, but there is no place in Ottawa like the Russell’s bar.”

  She found his accent rather charming, but was having a little trouble following him.

  “When I met your mother, I was trying to get our complacent prime minister to take the military seriously. We don’t have a standing army. We don’t even have a military school. We can’t depend on Britain anymore. We have to get serious. Mr. McGee and I talked for hours about the Fenians, and I came back to Toronto and started a regiment. As an example, as much as anything.”

  “I heard you are a man of action,” she said.

  “An interesting phrase. I get things done. I grew up in a country prone to invasion. I didn’t like it.”

  He walked over to the mantle. He might be the tallest person she had ever met.

  “But what about you? You want a job, I assume. I’m always looking for bright young people. Right now, I could use someone who can write. I need help because my English is poor.”

  His English sounded remarkably good to Meg. In fact, he had a pleasant, rather calming voice, once you were accustomed to the accent.

  “I can write, but that’s not why I’m here. I actually have a request you might find peculiar. I want to take target practice with your auxiliary regiment.”

  “Peculiar indeed,” he said. “What kind of young woman wants to learn how to shoot? And why?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He seemed amused by her conviction. “Tell me, are you like those American women I’ve read about who dressed as men to fight in the Civil War?”

  “No, I loathe war. I want protection.”

  “Is someone threatening you?”

  Again she ignored the direct question. “I don’t see why a woman can’t take target practice.”

  “I suppose I don’t see why not, either. Convention, I presume.” He thought for a second. “Yes, you can shoot. I’ll instruct the regiment.” And he added, “Remember, I’m looking for bright young people to work for me.”

  She thought of Conor. In fact, she was almost always thinking of Conor.

  MEG was a natural. At first, the gun’s recoil surprised her and she wildly missed the target, but she learned to compensate. Aim patiently and precisely. Squeeze the trigger delicately. Fire calmly. The soldiers and volunteers watched her as if she was a novelty, and she supposed that she was. One young man said, loud enough for her to hear, “I was told to touch the trigger like a woman’s nipple.” The group giggled. She looked directly at him. The laughter stopped and the soldier who cracked the joke turned away.

  She wasn’t going to be intimidated again.

  IT was not an easy delivery. Lady Macdonald went to the General Hospital in the middle of a cold February night and delivered a baby girl. They named her Margaret Mary Theodora. They would call her Mary. D’Arcy McGee’s wife’s name. A new life. It filled the Macdonalds with joy and hope.

  Mary Macdonald was born three days before James Whelan was to hang.

  JAMES Whelan sat in his cell, listening to the hammering. He recited his catechism, trying to escape the interminable pounding of nails. But he couldn’t drown it out, and he felt each nail as it pierced the wood. He heard the workers chatter and make jokes as they went about their business. He knew they were not skilled labourers. They didn’t have to be. They were building a temporary stage with rough, unpainted wood. They were building his scaffold.

  37

  At dawn, the blizzard started. By nine o’clock, snow had gathered around the scaffold. It swirled into the faces of the first people to assemble for the spectacle. By ten o’clock, men and women were jostling for the front row, ignoring the snow. Many chose to stay back and nestle comfortably in fur-lined sleighs. People chatted among themselves; children threw snowballs at each other; some paced, either nervously or for warmth. Two children were trying to build a snowman. They laughed and pretended to choke it—and each other. There was an almost-festive mood on the winter morning.

  Conor O’Dea decided to go to the hanging so that Jim Whelan might see a friendly face before facing eternity. Many of the people in the crowd were familiar. He wondered if the gang who had attacked Meg and him at Hog’s Back were here. Probably. They were likely looking at him and smirking.

  Polly Ryan waved hesitantly at him. He pretended not to see her. Was this woman everywhere?

  At eleven o’clock, the ghoulish procession began: a jailer, two soldiers and James Whelan, followed by a priest. The priest and the condemned man murmured prayers together; both seemed to be in a trance. Throughout the trial, Whelan had been meticulously dressed, but he walked his final steps in creased pants and scuffed boots. His hair and beard were a tangle of curls, uncombed and uncared for. The procession stopped in front of the scaffold. The crowd quietened in anticipation. The people wanted a speech, a confession, a performance of some sort, but they were disappointed. James Whelan moved his head side to side as if nervously testing his neck muscles. In a high-pitched but feeble voice, he said simply, “God save Ireland and God bless my soul.”

  He nodded to the hangman.

  People in the crowd craned their necks to get a good view. The good citizens of Ottawa leaned forward. It was their last chance to see the mortal face of the killer, to look into his eyes. But his face was as white as the falling snow, and his eyes were closed in dread and agony. No one made a sound as the hooded hangman slipped the noose around Whelan’s neck and placed a white hood over his face.

  The hangman pulled the bolt; the trap door opened. The crowd gasped. With a thud, Patrick James Whelan’s body fell nine feet and his vertebrae snapped.

  The crowd quickly dispersed to enjoy a snowy Ottawa day in peace.

  CONOR O’Dea wiped a flake of snow from his eye. What had he done to help Jim Whelan? He had spoken to Sir John A. Macdonald, but so what? He should have found the real killer—he had seen him—but he had failed. Meg had moved, probably back to Toronto, but he didn’t know where. What had he done to help her? Nothing but watch them insult her, violate her and cut her hair, her dazzling black hair. He walked along Sparks Street toward the Desbarats Block, passing the doorway of what had been the Toronto House, where Meg had lived, where McGee had died. Offord’s House was boarded up. Over by the liquor store, all was quiet. There were no boxes out today. No one was hiding. There was no one to hide from. Ottawa had its killer, and he was dead.

  The storm was gaining power and intensity. Conor enjoyed the heaviness of the new snow on his shoulders. He leaned against the force of the wind, trudging on. He turned toward Parliament Hill and headed along Wellington Street. Across Sappers Bridge. Back to Lowertown. Back home. Where he belonged.

  It felt curiously comforting to approach his father’s door. The gaslight was flickering weakly, so Thomas must be home. Conor peeked inside, through the dirty basement window, and saw two shapes shifting. That’s odd, he thought. Thomas rarely had visitors. The window was caked with gas residue, so he couldn’t see clearly, but he caught the impression, a familiar form that made his heart almost stop. It was the man he had seen in Montreal, the man in the shadows, the man who killed D’Arcy McGee. He was sure of it.

  Conor curled himself into a ball and cowered by the window, desperately trying to listen but terrified of what he might hear.

  THOMAS O’Dea was listening, too. “I am ordering you to come with me,” the assassin commanded.

  Thomas looked into his cold eyes, searching for some emotion, some humanity. He found nothing, jus
t a hardened look of resolve. Well, he was just as resolved. “What happened to Whelan?” Thomas asked. “Did you order him, too?”

  The assassin put his right hand in his new coat pocket without taking his eyes off Thomas. He missed his old grey coat with its deep pockets, but it had served him well, and he always knew when to discard things. This man, Thomas O’Dea, was confusing, and he hated being confused. Why these questions about Whelan? Didn’t he understand that Whelan was expendable, while he, O’Dea, was more useful alive? It was important that Whelan be caught and hanged, but this time no one would be caught. After the next murder, everyone would think Whelan was innocent, hanged by an incompetent justice system. There would be panic in the streets. If an assassin could kill politicians at random, no one would feel safe.

  “I expect some answers before I do anything,” Thomas insisted. “First, I want to know about James Whelan.”

  “Whelan is dead,” the assassin answered with a sigh, “because of his own stupidity. You are smarter and much more valuable to our cause.”

  Thomas wondered, Had he used Whelan and cast him aside?

  “It’s not Whelan who’s important now—” the assassin began, but Thomas interrupted.

  “That’s right. What’s important is you. I want to know who you are. What’s your name—your real name?”

  The assassin was being tested, and he didn’t like that. He did the testing, not some simple barman.

  Thomas was stalling for time. He was desperately thinking, harnessing courage, but first, he wanted to get a confession out of this murderer.

  “Who I am is not the issue,” the assassin said impatiently. “I know who you are, Thomas O’Dea. Thrown off your land by the English, dumped like a dog on an evacuation ship. You had a wife, I’ve heard.” He watched the hint of a tear build in Thomas’s eyes, and pressed on. “Yes, I know who you are, and you’re one of us.”

  Thomas felt his resolve slipping. He asked, “What is your plan?”