by Ann Walsh
"He was most brave, don't you think, sir? This boy. Although he will have grown by now, as I have. But he was very young—it happened more than two years ago—when he sat here alone and comforted a dying man. He would have been afraid, don't you think?"
I swallowed hard, my urge to introduce myself vanishing.
"My cousin says I must be sure to meet this young man," she continued, unaware of my silence. "He was to be a doctor, but when the fire came he knew he was needed elsewhere, so he took work as a carpenter and helped to rebuild the town. Do you know of whom I speak?"
I swallowed again but managed to say, "Yes," my voice threatening to squeak on even that little word.
"Ah, you're fortunate. He must be a very courageous person, for when he was even younger he helped to arrest the man who committed that other murder I spoke of. Oh, but you know of that evil deed."
"Yes," I said, my voice higher than normal. "Yes, I do. Very well."
"Only twelve was this lad, so Bridget says, when he bravely pointed out the murderer who would have escaped had it not been for—"
"I'm afraid I'm late for work," I interrupted. "Forgive me, I must go." Jenny had her mouth open to ask me—or to tell me—something else, but I bowed and made my escape, almost running down the street, heading for Pa's shop.
I took a quick look behind me. She was staring after me, hands on her hips, mouth open as if about to call me back. Or as if she were going to chastise me for my rudeness in leaving so abruptly. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought she stamped one sturdily booted foot as she watched me retreat.
Jenny had spoken of bravery. Although anyone would have to be brave to try to carry on a conversation with this talkative young woman, I would need to be especially courageous the next time I met her.
For I was the "brave" person she spoke of, and right now I did not feel brave at all.
I had lied to Jenny. I wasn't late for work. My father didn't expect me at the carpentry shop this morning. I had stayed away with his permission.
"I can manage without you tomorrow," he had told me the previous night, "though it will be difficult. You've become a fine craftsman, and many of my customers now ask for you when they need a carpentry job done. But on the anniversary of your friend's death you should spend time mourning him. Go to the graveyard and honour his memory."
It was hard to believe a year had passed since Dr. John Wilkinson had died. I had always called him "J.B.," not "doctor" or "Mr. Wilkinson," and for a short time I had been his apprentice. And, like Bridget, I had also been his friend.
I missed him greatly, so much so that at times I thought I heard his voice, or saw him going by on the street or leaning out the window of the stagecoach. Once I ran after a man, shouting, "J.B., it is you!" The stranger turned, puzzled. I muttered some excuse, my face red with embarrassment, my eyes prickling with unshed tears.
His grave was marked only by a simple wooden cross. Less than an hour earlier I had knelt beside it, shivering in the bitter cold. "I miss you, my friend," I said. "I miss you, J.B."
I had planned on going to the Wake Up Jake restaurant to have something to eat before heading to work, but now I wasn't hungry. Perhaps Pa would close the shop for a while and come eat with me later when my appetite returned. Of course, Pa didn't like eating in restaurants. He said it was foolish to spend good money on food that could be brought from home for much less cost. So maybe I would eat alone. It didn't matter. I wasn't hungry.
My father glanced up when I came into the carpentry shop, but he didn't say anything. I began to explain about the murder, but he already knew.
"I heard," he said. "But you have work to do. We'll talk later." Our carpentry shop was only a short distance from Ah Mow's restaurant, and gossip travelled quickly through Barkerville's streets.
I added wood to the stove and placed a pot of glue on top of it. A rocking chair, a fine piece from England, lay dismantled on my work bench. The dry air of Cariboo country had shrunk the glue holding the chair together, turning it into a dry powder that no longer kept the rocker intact. I had promised the chair's owner that it would be as good as new by tomorrow, and now would have to work quickly to keep my promise.
It was nearly lunchtime when a knock on the door startled us both. Pa called, "Come in."
Chief Constable Lindsay blew into the shop. "It's bitter for so early in November," he said, wrestling to close the door against a gust of icy wind. "The winter may be a long and harsh one."
My mother maintained that all winters in Barkerville were long and harsh. Many miners and storekeepers left the Cariboo for the milder climate of the coastal areas, but my family stayed winter after winter, struggling to keep the path to the outhouse cleared of snow, waking several times during the night to stoke the wood stove, braving the ice-covered road on every journey to town.
Most of the time I liked being in Barkerville through the winter. Even though many of the stores were closed and shuttered tightly, the homes and businesses that remained open were always decorated for the Christmas season. In December lamps glowed softly against evergreens wreathed around windows, and lace tablecloths and silver candlesticks graced tables. If the weather wasn't too bitter, the Cariboo Glee Club would go carolling. There would be sleigh rides, with warm drinks, good food, and dancing afterward. Since so few people stayed in town, those that remained grew closer in friendship. There were many dinner parties, dances, and literary evenings to while away the long, dark winter nights.
Like us, the chief constable spent the winter in the gold fields, for crime is no respecter of seasons.
"What's happened?" I asked. "Has Mr. Tremblay been arrested?"
"Unfortunately I did have to arrest him, Ted, though it doesn't seem right. He's an upstanding member of our community, and it's a shame that he'll be locked away. However, we'll do our best to keep him comfortable. I had a new mattress brought to the jail, and my wife, a fine cook as you may know, will prepare his meals herself."
"But if he killed Ah Mow–"
"If—and that remains to be seen—he did, it's obvious it was self-defence, Ted. You know how those Celestials like to fight, though it's usually among themselves."
I frowned. "There was no weapon near Ah Mow's body, no knife or gun lying beside him. I don't believe he attacked Mr. Tremblay. How could it be self-defence?"
"The jury will decide that, Ted. Don't worry your young head with those details. Perhaps we'll learn more at the inquest."
"The inquest? What's that?"
"The coroner—Dr. Bell—has examined the body, and now he'll tell a jury how Ah Mow died. Those who witnessed the murder, if anyone did, will say what they saw. The jury will decide if the death was accidental or not."
"I see."
"If the coroner's jury finds that Ah Mow met his death at the hands of a person or persons unknown, then we must have a trial and Mr. Tremblay will be subjected to further indignities."
"But if he killed Ah Mow—"
"It's early days to be deciding that, Ted. First the inquest. Come along."
"Me?"
"Of course you. That's why I'm here. I came to ask your father if we could borrow you. Your testimony may be needed. You were there only moments after Ah Mow died."
"I was," I said, remembering fresh blood steaming in the cold. Suddenly I felt hot, and I moved toward the door, opening it and standing in the rush of fresh air that swept into the room.
"What are you thinking of, Ted?" The chief constable moved closer to the stove. "Shut that door, please. I've only recently escaped from the bitter cold and must soon return to it. Just as I'm beginning to thaw my frozen fingers, you fling the door wide and invite winter back in. What's the matter with you?"
Slowly I closed the door, then turned to face him. "I saw nothing that many others didn't also see. There's no need for me to go to the inquest, is there?"
The chief constable laughed. "Many of the Chinese say they saw everything. But to get any sense out of those heathens—wel
l, it will be as much as we can do to get a straight story. Besides, everyone knows Celestials would as soon lie as breathe."
"That's not true—" I began, but the chief constable didn't let me finish.
"Put on your coat then, Ted, and let's be off." "Now? The inquest is now?"
"The jury is convened, the coroner is ready to begin. We've delayed the proceedings until your arrival, but everyone is waiting."
I swallowed hard. "But I haven't had lunch," I said, even though I didn't feel at all hungry.
"Lunch must wait on justice. Come along."
Reluctantly I went.
Three
The Theatre Royal, where the inquest was being held, was packed. I took a quick look, but thankfully didn't see Jenny in the crowd. I was relieved. I knew I would have to meet her and be properly introduced sooner or later, but I preferred that it be later. Much later.
In the theatre the curtains were open and a table had been set up on the stage. Dr. Bell sat behind the table, and there was a row of chairs, filled with men, to his left.
Chief Constable Lindsay led me to the front of the theatre. Sing Kee and two other Chinese were there as well as a few other men whose names I didn't know. "Sit down," the chief constable said. "We kept these seats for the witnesses. My, there's quite a crowd. Sit, Ted. You'll have a good view of the proceedings from here."
I sat beside Sing Kee, who nodded at me. "So. You will be a witness. That is good."
This was an excellent seat for watching musical performances, but it wasn't so good when every person behind you was staring at the back of your neck, wondering what you were doing there. At least that was what it felt like to me—as if a thousand pairs of eyes were boring into my neck. I could feel myself, neck and all, growing red.
Mr. Tremblay and another man sat on chairs on the other side of Dr. Bell, and a constable stood behind them. The Frenchman wasn't handcuffed, as far as I could tell, but he didn't look happy. His frown drew his face into deep creases and narrowed his eyes.
"Ah, the helpful boy," Henri Tremblay said when he saw me. "The one who is almost docteur." He laughed briefly, then fell silent when the man beside him put a hand on his shoulder.
"This coroner's court is now in session," Dr. Bell said. "The jury has been selected." He motioned to the men sitting on chairs. "The Honourable Mr. Walkem, a fine solicitor, is here to watch the interests of the accused, Mr. Henri Tremblay. Let us begin. Mr. Walkem, I understand you wish to address this inquest."
The man beside Henri Tremblay rose and bowed. "If it please the court, sir," he said, "Mr. Tremblay is well-known in Cariboo as a proprietor of a farm near Quesnel Mouth, the owner of a store in Mosquito Creek, and a dealer in agricultural products. He bears an excellent character and is much respected by the entire community. It is impossible that such a man would commit murder. Arresting him has been a terrible mistake."
"I agree," said Dr. Bell. "It is unfortunate. But as you well know, Mr. Walkem, this is not the time for such remarks. First, we must proceed with the inquest, after which Mr. Tremblay will appear before a magistrate and at that time you may present all the testimony you wish about your client's upstanding character."
Mr. Walkem thanked the doctor and sat again.
I stared at the floor. My stomach felt peculiar, but whether it was from hunger or something else, I didn't know.
A Chinese man was led to the stage, and the jury foreman asked him his name. He was Ah Ohn, he replied, and was on the street when Ah Mow died.
"Are—were—you and Mr. Mow related?" asked the foreman.
"No."
"Then why do you have the same name—Ah?"
"It means like ‘mister.' Not real name."
"Oh, now I understand," the foreman said. "So tell us, Mr. Ohn, what did you see?" The audience was completely still; it almost seemed as if no one breathed.
Ah Ohn looked directly at the foreman as he answered. "I see murder. I see white man kill Ah Mow." He pointed at Henri Tremblay.
There was a gasp from the people in the audience. It appeared they found the proceedings just as entertaining as the last performance at the Theatre Royal, a melodrama with an evil, bearded villain and a vain but beautiful heroine.
The coroner waited until everyone was quiet again before he asked, "So you claim you saw murder done, Mr. Ohn? Could you be more specific, please?"
The witness looked at him, not understanding the question.
"More details. Details of what you claim to have seen."
"Details? What is details?"
"Explain what you saw," said the coroner. "Tell us exactly what happened."
"What happen, yes. First I hear, then I see. They shout, the white man and Ah Mow. I hear noise, so I come out to street. I see white man has knife."
Mr. Walkem rose. "Excuse me, but would it be possible to have this witness identify the type of knife? I have a few examples here, if the witness wouldn't mind taking a look." He gestured at a table where a white cloth covered some objects.
"Of course," answered Dr. Bell. "An excellent idea of yours, Walkem."
The lawyer whisked the cloth away and motioned for the witness to move closer, while the audience members craned their necks to see what was on the table. Some even stood, hoping for a better view. Mr. Walkem picked up a pocketknife, lifting it so that the audience and the witness could see it clearly. "Was the knife you say Mr. Tremblay was holding like this one?"
Ah Ohn shook his head. "Too small."
"Like this one?" the lawyer asked, brandishing a large carving knife with a bone handle. That knife looked very much like the one my father used to carve a roast. I shuddered.
"No, no, too big" was the reply.
"Perhaps more like this," Mr. Walkem said, picking up a third knife. This one was smaller, about eight inches long, and the blade glittered. It must have been newly sharpened. It could have been a hunting knife, but one with a longer blade than most.
"Yes, like that," Ah Ohn said.
"Are you sure it wasn't a clasp knife like this one?" Mr. Walkem reached across the table and picked up a pocketknife.
"I say already that knife too small," the witness answered.
"But this isn't the knife I showed you earlier," Mr. Walkem said. "This knife, this ‘too small' knife, is the one Chief Constable Lindsay found in the coat pocket of my client when he arrested him."
This time the audience's reaction was loud, and the coroner glared as he said, "In spite of Mr. Walkem's theatrics, this is a coroner's inquiry, not a dramatic performance. Those in attendance will kindly keep that fact in mind."
Mr. Walkem sat down beside Henri Tremblay. The two men exchanged glances; both looked pleased. But it was the jury foreman who asked the next question. "Where exactly was Mr. Tremblay when you saw him?"
"Beside Ah Mow. He kneels in snow beside Ah Mow. Ah Mow on ground. Ah Mow dead."
"You knew for sure that he was dead?"
"Yes. Much blood."
There had been much blood. I, too, had seen it.
"And how do you believe Ah Mow was killed?"
"With a knife," Ah Ohn said. "That man, he kill Ah Mow with knife. Ah Mow holler loud. Ah Mow holler, ‘Murder!'"
As if they were one person, everyone in the audience gasped. Then the room grew quiet once again, so silent that it almost seemed as if we could hear the words Henri Tremblay spoke when he leaned toward his lawyer and whispered something in the man's ear.
Mr. Walkem listened for a moment, then stood again. "Did Mr. Mow speak English?"
"Some words," Ah Ohn said. "Not much."
"So how is it that a man who speaks very little English has the presence of mind to shout ‘Murder' in a language that isn't his own tongue?"
Ah Ohn looked confused once again.
"Why did Mr. Mow shout in English?" Mr. Walkem repeated.
"To make white men hear," Ah Ohn said, finally understanding. "Ah Mow want help from constable. So he use English word."
"Oh," Mr. Walkem
said, looking disappointed. "Where were you when you say you saw Mr. Tremblay kneeling beside Mr. Mow?"
"Two, maybe three doors away. Nine, ten feet. I see clearly."
"Did you?" said Mr. Walkem. "You saw clearly? Are you sure about that?" But before Ah Ohn could answer, the lawyer turned away. "No further questions for this witness."
Another Chinese man was called to testify. He didn't speak English, so Sing Kee translated for him. His story was much the same as Ah Ohn's. He had heard men shouting and had come out of his house to see what was happening. He had heard Ah Mow cry out. He had seen Mr. Tremblay kneeling beside the murdered man.
The doctor who examined the body was summoned next, and he gave his report. It was long, and I couldn't concentrate on what was being said. A shuffling and restlessness in the audience made me take notice just as a sentence describing the injury, "a wound at the scapular end of the clavicle dividing the subclavicle artery," was read. I realized that not many in the audience understood the medical words. Most of the terms the doctor was using I knew from my days as Dr. Wilkinson's apprentice, but even I was mystified by scapular and clavicle until Dr. Bell pointed to his own chest, showing everyone the exact spot of the injury.
"The wound was severe," the doctor explained. "Severe enough to probably cause instantaneous death."
Then Dr. Bell called my name. "Theodore Macintosh, are you in attendance?"
Swallowing hard, I said, "Here, sir," and stood.
"Young man, your name has been presented by Mr. Sing Kee as a possible witness, though Mr. Walkem, appearing for the defence, informs me you'll have nothing to add to these proceedings. Were you, in fact, present when this murder took place?"
"No, sir." I swallowed again. "I came later, after—"
"I understand that you stayed with the body until Chief Constable Lindsay arrived. Is that correct?" Mr. Walkem asked, coming to the edge of the stage and peering down at me as he asked the question. In his black robes he looked like a large raven inspecting the ground, searching for something to eat.