Wishful Seeing

by Janet Kellough

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t see him myself. I only heard that he might be there. There was some evidence that he might have been, but I have no idea where he is now, so what good would it do?”

  Ashby nodded. “Did you talk to the girl?”

  “No. I figured that was better left to you. Besides, I was a little busy.”

  “Fair enough,” Ashby said. “I think it wise if we keep her whereabouts as private as possible for the moment, don’t you?”

  “I don’t intend to tell anyone,” Thaddeus said, “but several people know — my assistant and his family, for example.” He also wasn’t sure whether or not the old man had seen Caroline before she scooted under the seat.

  “Ah, yes, the unfortunate Mr. Small.”

  “Mind you, he may not remember it. He’s been a little odd since he got hit on the head. Even so, I don’t see how we can keep it secret for long.”

  “All I need is time to question her before it occurs to the constable that she might have something to say.”

  “I expect we can manage to keep her hidden until tomorrow morning,” Thaddeus said. “Oh … and when you come into the house, keep an eye out for the dog. He’s a bit aggressive, but Caroline wouldn’t have come without him.”

  As predicted, Ashby’s knock the next morning set off a frantic round of barking from Digger. Martha ordered the dog to go and sit, and she was surprised when he obeyed her. He seemed to have accepted that she and Thaddeus posed no danger to Caroline, but he continued to growl and mutter at anyone else he saw.

  “She’s in the kitchen,” Martha said when she answered the door. “It might be friendlier if you talked to her there. Follow me.”

  Caroline was just finishing her second helping of toast. She’d already devoured a bowl of porridge and several glasses of milk. She seemed half-starved, an impression that wasn’t helped by the fact that she had nearly grown out of the dress she wore. Her wrists stuck out far past the cuffs, and the skirt was too short, even for a twelve year old. The dress was filthy, as well, and torn from the cave-in. I’ll have to find her something else as soon as I can, Martha thought. She looks like a ragamuffin.

  Ashby parked himself across the table from the girl, but pointedly refrained from looking at her. “Is there tea?” he asked.

  “Of course. Would you like breakfast as well?” Martha asked.

  “Couldn’t eat another morsel,” he replied. “The Globe’s food isn’t a patch on yours, but they are generous with the servings.” He took a long time over his mug, slowly stirring in sugar and dribbling in milk. He seemed tired, Martha thought, his usual polish worn a little thin. The harsh morning light that streamed through the windows emphasized the dark shadows under his eyes.

  Caroline regarded him warily as she chewed the last crusts of her toast.

  Finally, Ashby turned to her and spoke. “Do you know where your mother is, Caroline?”

  “In gaol.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Her face was stubborn. “Papa said not to talk to anybody about that.”

  “I understand that,” Ashby said. “Did Mr. Lewis tell you why I’m here?”

  “To help Mama.”

  Having evidently decided that Ashby was no threat at present, Digger flopped down in the corner by the stove. He stared at them all for a moment, and then, just slightly, wagged his tail before he laid his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

  “That’s a nice dog you’ve got there,” Ashby remarked.

  “He looks after me.”

  “And you look after him, too. Mr. Lewis told me you rescued him yesterday.”

  She nodded. “Mr. Lewis helped. And the other man, too. And Martha.”

  “We’re all here to help, Caroline. Why don’t you tell me what happened and I’ll figure out what I can do to sort it out.”

  “Papa said not to.”

  “Do you know what a barrister is?”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s what I am. I’m somebody who tries to help people in trouble. But do you know what’s really great about being a barrister? When people tell me things, I don’t have to tell anyone else. Barristers are really good at keeping secrets.”

  Caroline’s eyes slid over to Martha and Thaddeus.

  “And nobody else has to hear, either.”

  “Even if somebody did something wrong?”

  “Especially if somebody did something wrong. I can’t figure out how to help until I know what happened.”

  “Papa said don’t talk to anybody.”

  Ashby gave up, rather soon in Martha’s opinion. “You’re a good girl, Caroline, to do what your Papa said. Let’s go see what your Mama says, all right? Are you finished with your breakfast?”

  She nodded, but looked at Thaddeus, a question in her eyes.

  “Would you like me to go with you and Mr. Ashby?” he asked. “I can wait outside while you see your mother, and then I can bring you back here to Martha. Would that be all right?”

  She nodded again and slid off the chair to retrieve the shoes she had left at the back door.

  Martha wasn’t at all pleased at the notion of being left alone with the dog, but Digger seemed reasonably content to sit by the stove after Caroline had commanded him to stay. His eyes followed Martha as she cleared the breakfast dishes and carried them to the sink. There was a burnt bit of toast on one of the plates, and she was about to dispose of it when she realized that Digger had probably not been fed since the previous day. Most dogs lived on scraps, but if Caroline’s half-starved appearance was anything to go by, it was unlikely that there had been many scraps in the Howell household. She rummaged in the pantry, looking for something that she could feed the dog that wouldn’t be missed by the household. There wasn’t much, but she tore a slice of bread into bits and doused it with milk. It was enough to satisfy the dog’s hunger for now, she figured, but surely she could find something that would make it a little more palatable. She did have a small barrel of oysters she’d bought at a good price. She could spoon up a few of them for Digger, she decided, along with a few spoonfuls of the oily liquid they sat in.

  She set the dish down in front of the dog. He wagged his tail and looked up at her. “It’s all right boy, go ahead, eat.”

  He devoured it all before she had time to fill a bowl of water for him. He drank deeply, sighed, then turned around four or five times before he settled himself once again by the stove.

  Martha washed the dishes, then sponged down the dress she’d worn the day before. It was in a sorry state, covered in dust, wrinkled, and torn along the hem. She’d let it dry, then mend and iron it. She really should sprinkle it with salt and set it to soak, but she still had to look at the passenger lists Ashby wanted her to go through. The trial would begin in a couple of days, and he would need the information as soon as Martha could provide it. She found some paper and a pen and spread the ledgers out on the dining room table, where she would have plenty of room.

  The writing in them varied from spidery copperplate to an almost illegible scrawl, long columns marching down the pages. Martha found that she could scan the lists more quickly if she used her finger to scroll down them. She found George Howell’s name on the third page of the first ledger she looked at. As she continued to work, she realized that there were several other names that recurred with regularity. Ashby hadn’t instructed her to do so, but she began making a note of these names as well as their destinations, just in case the information should prove useful.

  She set the work aside when the clock neared eleven. Her eyes were tired and it was time to start cooking their noonday dinner. When she went into the kitchen, Digger jumped up and scratched at the back door, but she didn’t dare let him out.

  Ten minutes later, Thaddeus and Caroline came in. Digger jumped and spun with joy at Caroline’s return, his tail wagging furiously.

&n
bsp; “Maybe you should take him out to the backyard,” Martha said to her. “He’s been inside all morning. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  She nodded and led the dog outside.

  “I’d like to head off right after I eat,” Thaddeus said. “I need to cover as many meetings as I can before the trial starts. James couldn’t have picked a worse time to get himself injured.”

  “What will you do if he’s not able to take over when the trial starts?” she asked.

  “The lay ministers will have to fill in. They’ve done it before, they can do it again. Will you be all right here with Caroline if I don’t come back tonight?”

  “Yes, of course. She’s not much company, but that means she’s not much trouble either. And she can look after the dog.”

  “I’ll find a piece of rope she can use as a leash. Fortunately he seems to obey her, but I don’t want her chasing all over town if he should happen to get loose.”

  “How did it go at the gaol?”

  Thaddeus shrugged. “Ashby said that Mrs. Howell didn’t seem very pleased that her daughter was in Cobourg. She’s expressly forbidden him to put her on the stand.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, and it’s just as well, since he’d already gone in to see her when I remembered that the gaoler’s name is Palmer.”

  “And the old man on the road was a Dafoe. Palmers and Plews and Dafoes.”

  “All tangled up. Just like Mrs. Gordon said.”

  “Do you think the gaoler’s been listening in on Mrs. Howell’s conversations?”

  “He wouldn’t have to listen very hard. He can hear every word that’s said.”

  As soon as Thaddeus set off, Martha returned to the ledgers. George Howell was listed a total of fourteen times over the previous three years, and on twelve of those occasions he had taken passage to Rochester, New York. He had travelled once to Toronto, and on one occasion the previous May had gone to Burlington, a fact that Martha found intriguing. The dead man had come from Burlington.

  D’Arcy Boulton, the Mayor, and several local merchants were listed often, as well — but she supposed that wasn’t unusual. These men had many business interests. It wouldn’t be odd for them to travel in the course of pursuing them, and the destination was most frequently Toronto, a logical place to go to if one had government business to attend to.

  Two of the witnesses who had been on the Rice Lake steamer on the day of the murder had also taken passage on occasion, but to various ports of call and there was no indication of a suspicious number of trips. Of all of the names Martha found, George Howell was the most frequent traveller and the only one who journeyed to a single destination with such regularity.

  She wrote a brief summary of what she had found and laid it on top of her notes. She’d give it all to Ashby when he next came around.

  Caroline spent most of the afternoon in the garden throwing sticks for Digger to fetch. He did this enthusiastically, untiringly, and, to Martha’s relief, without too much barking. After supper the girl went off to bed early, handing over her tattered dress when Martha demanded it.

  Martha could tell it had once been a lovely dress; a soft brown check, the material of good quality, fashionably cut and beautifully sewn. But now she decided that no amount of scrubbing was going to remove the grimy marks that stained it, and when she turned it inside out, she realized that it had already been altered many times before — the seam allowances let out as far as they could go, the darts nearly non­existent, and the hem let down so far that only a small rolled piece of cloth remained to bind it.

  She would have to sacrifice the dress she had on at the moment, her third-best, so that Caroline would have something decent to wear. But that would leave Martha with only two — her everyday and her Sunday-best. Mind you, her everyday had taken a beating the day before. It really was suitable now for nothing more than grubbing in the garden, but that meant that she would have to wear her Sunday-best for everyday, and she’d have nothing for special occasions. And then she remembered the wedding money — the coins Thaddeus had given her as her due. There had been two more weddings in the meantime and the little cache had grown while she dithered about what to spend it on. There should be plenty enough for a bolt of cloth. She would make herself a new Sunday-best and relegate her everyday dress to scrubbing and gardening.

  She changed, then inspected the dress she had been wearing. She would need to pin it on Caroline to see how much it needed to be taken in, of course, but in the meantime she could start ripping out the hem. Shortening was always more successful than lengthening. When a hem was let out, you had to rub vinegar on the old hemline to disguise the whitened line of the fold.

  This constant taking in and letting out was a nuisance, she thought, and yet they all did it so many times. Dresses cut down for someone younger, only to be let out again as they grew.

  Suddenly she stopped clipping the threads that held the hem.

  Dresses cut down. Thaddeus and everyone else that day had seen someone in a blue dress. Not a single one of them had seen the wearer’s face. All they mentioned was the dress.

  “Oh my goodness …” She said it out loud to the empty room.

  Thaddeus had remarked on his surprise at how shabby the farm was, given the prosperous face the Howells liked to present to the world. Caroline’s dress had once been first quality, but now it was old, torn, and too small. It had been altered once, twice, three times, as often as possible, until it was worn out and beyond use.

  It must have been Mrs. Howell’s to begin with. Appearances were everything to the Howells, so she didn’t stint on her wardrobe, but she stretched her money as far as she could by handing her dresses down to Caroline as the girl grew. She must have done the same with the blue dress. And when it was seized as evidence by the constable, Caroline had suddenly been left with nothing to wear but a dress that she’d already grown out of.

  It was the sort of detail that would never occur to a man.

  If she was right about this, Ashby needed a dressmaker who could tell the court that the blue dress had been cut down to fit someone smaller than Ellen Howell.

  Thaddeus wasn’t planning to return to Cobourg until the following evening. If Martha waited until then to tell him what she’d discovered, Ashby might not have time to find a willing dressmaker before the trial began the following day. Martha had no idea how fast or in what order evidence might be presented, but she knew it would be better if she could find Ashby at once and tell him herself.

  She went upstairs and peeked into Caroline’s room. The girl was fast asleep, Digger curled up at her feet. The dog growled a little when he saw Martha, but not loudly, and settled down again when Martha backed out of the room.

  She grabbed her cloak and went next door. Mrs. Small answered her knock.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Martha said, “but I need to run an errand in town. I wonder if one of you could sit in the kitchen while I’m gone. Caroline is fast asleep, but should she wake up, I don’t want her to find an empty house. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “Well, of course, dear,” Mrs. Small said. “I’ll go right over.”

  It didn’t occur to Martha to have any qualms about marching into the Globe Hotel and asking for Ashby. She had grown up in a hotel, after all. However, her confidence wavered when she walked in the front door. She had expected that it would be much like the Temperance, the door opening to a small front hall with the register sitting on a table. She could ask for Ashby and wait by the door until someone fetched him. She hadn’t expected anything quite so grand. She was disconcerted when the heads of so many bewhiskered men swivelled to look her over. She took a deep breath and started walking toward the carved wooden counter at one side of the room. She didn’t take many steps before a man intercepted her.

  “May I help you?” he asked. Whether he was the owner of the hotel or a
just a clerk, Martha had no way of knowing, but it was clear that she would be allowed no farther until she explained her presence.

  “I need to speak to Mr. Townsend Ashby,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother him at such a late hour, but it’s very important.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Ashby is not currently at the hotel. Would you care to leave a message for him?”

  This was a development that Martha had not foreseen. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should scribble down the bare facts and ask this man to pass on the note. But then she decided against it. Hotels had too many listening ears and prying eyes, and she didn’t dare risk the information being passed to the wrong party.

  “Do you know when Mr. Ashby intends to return?” she asked. She couldn’t afford to be away from home for long, but if he was expected shortly, she supposed she could wait for him.

  “I’m afraid I have no information as to Mr. Ashby’s intentions,” the man said, a coolness in his voice. “And even if I did, I would not be at liberty to tell you.”

  She should have waited until the next day. After all, what was Ashby going to do with the information so late in the evening? In her excitement at what she had discovered, she hadn’t stopped to consider that he might not even be there. Annoyed with herself, and more to the point, with Ashby, she thanked the clerk and walked back out into the night. She was followed by an older man with a very bushy beard.

  “You might try Musgrove’s,” he said as he walked past.

  “Where?”

  The man stopped and looked her up and down in a way that made her extremely uncomfortable. “Musgrove’s Inn. Down the street. I could go there with you if you like.” And then he winked at her.

  She fixed him with what she hoped was her best look of disdain. “You can go to the devil if you like.”

  He held up his hands in protest. “All right, all right. Just trying to be friendly.” And then he walked on.

  She hesitated. She knew where Musgrove’s was. She had walked past it on the way to the butcher’s. It was a tavern that seemed to cater to the rowdier elements in the town. What on earth was Ashby doing there?