“Naturally. You were concerned, I take it, that the gunshots might presage an escape attempt by your prisoner?”
“Precisely.”
As Thornton led his friendly witness through the damning details of Billy’s duel with Coltrane, Marc looked about him. He had sat in here a dozen times this past fall to observe a variety of trials during the assizes and had often remained in the august chamber alone for a few minutes afterwards. The high court, though barely ten years old, never failed to impress the apprentice barrister. No expense had been spared in its creation. Oak, maple, and ash gleamed from every angle—wainscoting, shallow side galleries, vaulted window sashes, benches, lecterns, prisoner’s dock, witness stand, and, of course, the raised, throne-like dais upon which the high-court justices sat in all their lordly glory. On this day, the presiding jurist was none other than John Beverley Robinson, the chief justice of Upper Canada, in his engulfing periwig and ermine-tipped robes, staring down at the assembly from under his aristocratic brow and intimidating Roman nose. And high and vulnerable and wee in the dock, Billy McNair peered out at his accusers and could not breathe a single word in his own defense.
Robert Baldwin and Richard Dougherty were seated on the front bench to Marc’s left, waiting their turn to go at the colonel. Marc had no idea of the particular strategy they might have planned for cross-examining Stanhope or how long it might take. But if they were to float the theory of the colonel’s powerful motives for murder—infidelity and blackmail—then the corroborating love letter from Detroit must be shown to them and thoroughly discussed. Marc scribbled a note, folded it, and whispered to Clement Peachey, “Would you slip this into Robert’s hand for me? It’s urgent.”
Peachey nodded and began sidling up the aisle under the baleful watch of the judge. The note was brief: “Stall Stanhope. Letter recovered. Much else.” Marc did not witness its safe delivery, but Peachey returned smiling.
“As clearly as you can recall, Colonel, what were Mr. McNair’s exact words?” Colonel Stanhope but Mister McNair, Marc noted.
“He said the two of them were duelling and ‘I did my best to kill the—’ ” Stanhope looked at Thornton, then up at the judge.
“You must repeat the exact word, sir, repellent as it must be to this civilized audience,” Thornton said with disingenuous solemnity.
“ ‘To kill the bastard.’ ”
The spectators—most of whom had heard the word used once or twice and had even uttered it themselves when occasion demanded it—susurrated in shock.
“We will hear testimony a little later, sir, from one of our own police constables concerning these very events and utterances, during which it will be revealed that you initially attempted to suggest to the authorities, who had arrived just before you, that what they were seeing was perhaps a mere game or charade. Why would a man of your standing do such a thing?”
The colonel hung his head for a necessary millisecond, then looked up and said forcefully, “Young Billy McNair was the best sergeant in my regiment, a sort of protégé whom I looked upon almost as a son. My first instincts were those of a father, I suppose, trying to protect his offspring. But it was clear to all that what had happened in the garden was in earnest, and I made no effort to continue my initial and less than honourable behaviour.”
“You hold honour to be among the highest of virtues?”
“As an officer in Her Majesty’s militia, I cannot do otherwise.”
My word, Marc thought, Thornton is setting the man up as a saint, and Stanhope has become the master of the quick mea culpa and recovery. Both men would be a challenge for Doubtful Dick, even if he had managed to haul himself upright, ambulatory, and alert sometime in the past five days.
“You’ve missed the earlier testimony about Billy and all that bother about the battle down there,” Clement Peachey whispered to Marc.
With the valour and genius of the Pelee Island Patriot duly noted, Marc thought ruefully.
Thornton had now moved on to the most incriminating moment of the duel’s aftermath. “Again, Colonel, the defendant’s exact words, if you please.” He smiled grimly, as if braced for syllables even a seasoned counsellor ought never to hear.
“He shouted out, ‘I’m going to kill the bugger, hanging’s too good for him’—meaning Major Coltrane.”
Thornton rewarded Stanhope with a grateful grin, then turned to the jury and shrugged his shoulders in mock helplessness. All eyes swivelled up to scrutinize the young blasphemer.
“And even though this infamous duel and the threats it engendered took place in your own garden and involved a man you assumed to be safely locked in his cell in your basement, you are swearing here on your oath that you knew nothing about it until you and Mr. Shad arrived on the scene after the exchange of shots?”
“That is correct. I was shocked and dismayed.”
“Did you subsequently learn from one of your household how the prisoner, Mr. Coltrane, was able to come into possession of one of your own pistols?”
“Hearsay!” It was the first word that Marc, or any other in the chamber, had heard Dougherty utter. The defense had waived opening argument, not having as yet a coherent one to offer.
Chief Justice Robinson frowned at the interjection, as if he had been telling a particularly good story at a garden party and been rudely interrupted, but said with polite deference to the prosecutor, “Try getting there another way, Mr. Thornton.”
“Did you subsequently recognize the pistols as your own?”
“I did.”
“Did you publicly upbraid Lieutenant Lardner Bostwick that morning for allegedly facilitating the duel?”
“I did. I threatened to have him drummed out of the regiment for insubordination.”
“And he left your service, I believe, two days later—that is, on Wednesday evening of last week?”
“Yes. And I was compelled to assign Mr. Shad the task of jailer until I could replace Lieutenant Bostwick.”
“Thank you for your forthrightness, Colonel.”
Stanhope beamed. A triumph at the Twelfth Night gala and now this. Whatever sympathy and support Billy might have among the ordinary citizens in attendance here, no blame for his undeserved fate would attach to the man who had treated him like a son.
Thornton now moved on to Thursday, the day of the murder. As background for the jury, and in the absence of Bostwick, who had not been flushed by either side, Stanhope was encouraged to describe the jailing arrangements, his reinforcement of the prison chamber, Bostwick’s duties, and the strict protocol placed on the unusual number of visitors.
“Is it not unorthodox, Colonel, for a criminal to be incarcerated in an officer’s home and then to be offered a variety of privileges such as you provided the victim?”
Stanhope seemed delighted with the question. “It is, sir, if one looks upon Major Coltrane as a common felon. I did not. He was to all intents and purposes the commander-in-chief of an invading army and distinguished himself in two separate engagements. In a more gentlemanly world he would have given me his parole and I would have offered him the keys to my estate. As it was, I considered the basement chamber I provided, the carefully screened visitors, and the proper food a compromise. It was to me a matter of honour to accept a military adversary as such and treat him as a gentleman. The courts are the place to judge his misdemeanours, not my home.”
Despite the universal animosity to Coltrane, the murmuring among the side galleries was wholly approving.
“Thus it was that on that fateful Thursday, Mr. Coltrane received several visitors. Did you personally greet them?”
“Only Alderman Boynton Tierney, who had been there three or four times before. I met him briefly because Shad was new to the business of keeping jail, and I wished to walk him through the procedures.”
“Like having Mr. Tierney sign the visitor’s book, which is an exhibit in this trial?”
“Precisely. I happened to be in the hall when Mr. Tierney left at ten forty-five
or so. We said our good-byes, and as no other visitors were scheduled till the afternoon, I left the house to keep an appointment at my tailor’s.”
“But the book—which milord has before you—shows that a Mrs. Jones from Streetsville did arrive at eleven o’clock that morning and sign in.”
“I know nothing of the visit or the lady herself.”
“Nor does anyone else!” Thornton cried, with a little pirouette behind his lectern, and received a few cautious titters for his remark. To the jury he said, “Mr. Shad, whom we shall call shortly, may shed more light on this mysterious incognita.” He paused, like a bad tragedian before a soliloquy, then moved the jury towards the afternoon visit of Billy McNair.
“What occurred below the main floor of your home that Thursday after luncheon will be detailed by two witnesses to come, but your testimony in regard to what transpired only moments after those events—”
“Milord, there’s been no testimony as to these putative events!” Dougherty again, rising almost imperceptibly.
The judge did not look his way but leaned over towards Thornton and said cordially, “Just take the witness through what he observed, if you please.”
“My apologies, milord. Now Colonel, where were you when you heard a commotion about one-thirty on the day in question?”
“I was sitting with Chief Constable Sturges in my study while we waited for Billy McNair to finish his authorized visit to Major Coltrane.”
Thornton winced at the word “authorized” but did not go in that dangerous direction, for the governor’s eagle-eyed staff was seated two rows behind him on the VIP benches. Thornton then led the colonel through an account of Billy’s escapade in the hallway—whom he saw and where and in what sequence. Marc braced for what he knew must come.
“Describe the defendant’s actions when you first saw him in your vestibule.”
“He was excited and shouting for a doctor, waving his arms frantically, and pushing his way towards the front door. He knocked Constable Cobb aside, and as the sentries came in to see what the ruckus was, Billy bumped into one of them, fell to one side, and nearly toppled the hall tree. He regained his balance and started pawing at the coats and hats. He seemed hysterical.”
“Did you see him do anything else at that moment?”
“Yes. He had one of his hands stuck in a pocket.”
Marc drew in his breath at this. The colonel’s story had sharpened quite a bit from the initial rendering that Marc had elicited.
“We shall hear testimony that a packet containing granules of strychnine was subsequently found in one of those pockets. Think carefully now, did you see the defendant with such a packet in his hand at this time?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“But you did see one of his hands fumbling at the pocket of a coat?”
“I did. But that was all. There was noise and confusion, as I’ve said.”
“Thank you, Colonel Stanhope. I have no more questions, milord.”
He didn’t need any more, Marc thought. He had established Gideon Stanhope as a credible witness and honourable man. The duel was pointed to as Billy’s first, and failed, attempt at murder, followed by unequivocal death threats. Cobb and, if necessary, the rear-gate sentries would corroborate this testimony. Then, galling though it be, Marc and Cobb would be used to attest to Billy’s statements about why he hated Coltrane and to give the damning details of the Thursday visit and its immediate aftermath. It would be Cobb, alas, who would tap in the final coffin nail: finding the poison packet in Billy’s coat, where the lad’s hand had been seen “fumbling.” This was the story that the defense team had to break or diversify.
“You do have questions for this witness, I presume?” the judge said, squinting down at the defense bench.
“One or two, milord.”
“But you mustn’t ask them sitting down, Mr. Dougherty,” the judge said, and did nothing to stint the giggles rippling through the chamber.
As the heads of the dignitaries bobbed and weaved in front of him in an effort to observe the rise of the seated counsellor, Marc was able to spot Celia and Broderick Langford sitting nearest their “uncle” in the front row of the side gallery. Broderick wore his formal business suit and Celia, a modest, muted frock in a style now current (if Beth’s shop were an indicator of approved fashion). It took Dougherty all of two minutes to lift his mammoth bulk to an upright position, wobble up on his spindle legs until they adjusted to gravity, and take two flesh-jiggling steps to the lectern, which he then seized in both huge hands to steady himself. The wheezing, gasping effort at locomotion left the spectators spellbound and the defense counsellor pink and breathless. Somewhere a tailor had been found who could imagine a cut of cloth bizarre enough to encompass such girth, for his black barrister’s suit coat was brand-new, his striped gray trousers uncreased, and his waistcoat free of debris. Upon his bald dome there slithered a scruffy wig, three sizes too small, like an abandoned bird’s nest.
“Are you quite ready, Mr. Dougherty? We could bring in a block and tackle tomorrow if you would find it helpful.” The chief justice turned to accept the laughter due him.
“Milord is most kind.”
The cross-examination was about to begin. Dougherty conducted it as he was to conduct each interrogation during the course of the trial, with his eyes and voice only. The sloth’s body was incapable of gesture. The only dramatic effects it was able to achieve—and these may well have been unintentional—occurred when, on rare occasions, he teetered an inch or so to the left or right or half an inch forward. At such moments, the onlooker was compelled to consider whether defense counsel would topple to the floor with a gargantuan thud or whether the lectern would explode under the additional weight, like a shrapnel bomb. Thus did Doubtful Dick Dougherty, late of the New York Bar and a fall from grace, make his debut in the Court of Queen’s Bench, Upper Canada.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stanhope. I was intrigued by your lofty description of the relationship that developed between you and the deceased Mr. Coltrane.”
“I wouldn’t characterize it as a relationship, sir. We practised the customary courtesies of the officer class.”
“Indeed. However, beyond acceding to every whim and fancy of your prisoner, you claim to have visited him in person only during the initial week of his more than three-week sojourn under your roof.”
“I did not ‘claim,’ as you put it, I stated the facts.”
“Would you mind stating to the jury, then, your reason for neglecting to mention your private audience with the victim on Wednesday evening, mere hours before the poisoning occurred?”
Stanhope’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and he glanced over at Kingsley Thornton.
“The prosecutor, sir, is not permitted to prompt—alas. You must answer on your own tick, I’m afraid.”
Stanhope gave Dougherty a malevolent look, smiled tightly, and said, “I was not asked that particular question, sir. If I had been, I would have said that I received a note from Major Coltrane indicating he wished to see me. As soon as I finished a short meeting in my study with Mr. Farquar MacPherson, my banker, I went down and let myself into the prison chamber.”
“Lieutenant Bostwick was not on duty?”
“He left my house a little after six and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
“What did you and Mr. Coltrane discuss?”
This time Thornton did not need cueing: he was on his feet. “Milord, I don’t see the relevance of these questions.”
“Nor do I, Mr. Thornton. Mr. Dougherty?”
“I was ambling towards the snuff boxes.”
“Then amble more expeditiously, please.”
“Mr. Stanhope, did you and Coltrane discuss any matter that might remotely impinge on his subsequent murder?”
“Milord, I must—”
“Overruled.”
“None that I can think of,” Stanhope said forcefully, with a glance at the nearby jury.
“Did either you o
r Coltrane take snuff during your little tête-à-tête?”
“I do not indulge, sir. But the major may have. He was an inveterate snuff taker and invariably snorted when he had visitors.”
“How many snuff boxes were on his desk that Wednesday evening?”
“Two. He always had at least two. And drew from them randomly, as far as I could make out.”
“So, even if he did take snuff that evening, he may have used only one of the two boxes available?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“Where is this going, Mr. Dougherty?” This time it was the judge who interrupted.
“Straight to the point, milord. Mr. Stanhope, it is conceivable, then, that you, or someone there before you—like Mr. Bostwick or one of Tuesday’s or Wednesday’s visitors—could have planted the strychnine and the victim not have sampled that particular box until one o’clock the next day!”
“That’s preposterous!” Stanhope cried. “The major took snuff morning, noon, and night—from both boxes! And what about the medicine packet with—”
“Mr. Stanhope, please refrain from editorializing,” Dougherty said evenly. “You’re here to answer my questions.”
“And he has, Mr. Dougherty,” the judge said less evenly. “However, you do have a problem with that packet, don’t you?”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” Dougherty said from under his bristle brows. He cranked his head twenty degrees to face the witness. “Let us now move the clock back to Monday, the day of the duel.”
Stanhope looked wary but still very much composed.
“You are, sir, a much-decorated militia officer and lieutenant-colonel of a Toronto regiment, I understand.”
“I am.”
“And so organized and successful that you were asked to help train a new regiment down in Essex last November?”
“I was.”
“Milord . . .” Thornton was on his feet, pleading.
“Get to the point, Mr. Dougherty. Now.”
“Yet you would have us believe that, despite your creating a prison chamber in your own home right down to the nth detail and supervising the sentries front and back and vetting every visitor, you were unaware that a duel had been planned to take place in your garden with two pistols taken from your premises, a duel to be fought between your prisoner and the defendant?”
Death of a Patriot Page 23