“Ma’am?” The carter sat, reins in hand, waiting for her instruction.
She made her decision. “Do you know the Reuben Elliott place? I’m told it’s not far from here.”
The carter nodded and set his team in motion with a flick of the reins. He seemed uncurious about who she was or what her business might be with the Elliotts. She blessed the man’s stolidity as they rumbled down Wellington’s main street.
An hour later they were rumbling back again. Reuben had seemed annoyed when he realized who it was at his door. He had admitted her only as far as the front hall while the carter waited with the wagon. Reuben had imparted little information other than the bare facts that her husband had disappeared nearly a week previously, and that he had no idea what had happened to him after that. He had not offered accommodation, or any sort of assistance. Reluctantly, she had climbed back into the wagon and directed the carter to return her to Wellington.
Her mind was in a whirl. Something had gone wrong, that much seemed clear. But what? Until she knew what had happened, she decided, she would stay the course.
As they drove along the main street, she realized that the village was even smaller than it had appeared from the water.
The carter took her to a tavern. As he halted his team, the tavern door swung open and two men staggered outside. It was still only early afternoon, but it was apparent that they were already drunk.
“Is there anywhere else?” she asked her driver. “A respectable inn, if such a thing exists. Somewhere a lady might stay with her son without fear of interference?”
The carter wrinkled his brow and seemed to think deeply for a moment. Then his face brightened. “Well now, there’s the new place. The Temperance House. It doesn’t serve liquor. It seems very respectable, although I don’t know of anyone who’s stayed there. It’s new, you see.”
“Perfect. Please take me there.” No drunks to chase the women away, she thought, for she would have to work while she waited. Easy pickings. But I’ll have to be careful.
After days of searching, it was evident to all that although Nate Elliott’s body might yet be found, there was little hope that it would still be breathing. After the second day, the number of volunteers had dwindled. Many had either been called away by their own business or had become discouraged by the lack of progress. Lewis was among the stubborn few who continued to rendezvous at Murphy’s Tavern each morning, but as the constable could do little but direct them to go over the ground that had already been covered, it seemed a futile exercise, and after the fifth day the search was officially called off.
Lewis had found the long hours of tramping across fields exhausting, and, relieved of this duty, he settled in that afternoon to the pleasant pastime of looking through the papers that were provided for the convenience of the guests at the Temperance House Hotel. The dining room was deserted by two in the afternoon, as the hotel currently hosted only a single guest, who by that time had long since finished his dinner and departed. The morning chores were done, the evening chores not yet pressing, and Lewis spread the pages out on one of the tables and read while sipping his cup of tea. With this indulgence, his aches and pains began to subside. He felt only mildly guilty. In a way, he felt that he had earned this luxurious diversion. Prior to his recent exertions, he had spent four years tracking a killer, and when the chase had finally ended, he had continued to ride the circuits saving souls for the Methodist Episcopal Church. During it all, he had been aware of a profound sense of weariness. Part of it was physical; he had gone back to the travelling life too soon, he now knew, after a plunge into the icy waters between Kingston and Wolfe Island had nearly killed him. Every winter since, he had developed a hacking cough that plagued him until spring, and long hours on horseback through wind and rain and snow sapped his strength and made his bones ache.
He also knew that part of his fatigue was emotional. He had caught a murderer and watched him die, and although the crimes had been stopped, he was still trying to make sense of them. He had come to realize how much he treasured his family and how transient life could be, for five women, including his own daughter, had been killed, and his granddaughter had almost been taken too, all because of the twisted passions of the Simms family. He had been deeply shaken by the evil he had uncovered.
As a result, Lewis had been mulling over his options as he attended to the constant round of prayer meetings and sermons, study classes and Sunday schools. For a long time he had persisted in what he had always considered his true calling, but it had been a struggle. And then his wife, Betsy, precipitated a crisis that put an end to his travelling days.
Nearly a year ago, just before Christmas, she had taken an alarming turn that had rattled him to the core. She had been fighting mysterious fevers and agues for several years, but he had been sure that she was on the mend. Then one terrible day, he had arrived home to find she had fallen, insensible. She had stayed that way for five days. At the time he thought he would lose her, and he tried to steel himself for what appeared inevitable. But just as mysteriously as it had arrived, the pall of unconsciousness had lifted. An apoplexy, the doctor said — a small one, but a warning of what was to come.
As with the fevers, her recovery was erratic. Some days she could barely move from her bed, and when she did she walked with a pronounced limp and had difficulty speaking or using her left arm. On other days her infirmity seemed slight, and as long as she didn’t overdo it, she could tidy up her own kitchen and direct both Thaddeus and their granddaughter Martha in the household tasks that they both performed clumsily. Lewis thought that eight-year-old Martha was actually more help than he was, but he tried to do Betsy’s bidding without complaint, for he knew that the next day could find her once again unable to stir from her bed.
Even so, he wasn’t sure how they could have managed without the help of their landlords, Seth and Minta Jessup, who lived in the other half of the house behind Seth’s smithy in the town of Demorestville. Minta had helped to nurse Betsy through the initial stages of her illness, but Minta had a young family who quite rightly claimed a great deal of her attention. Seth had not pressed Lewis for the small amount of rent he charged them, but it was clear that they could not continue to rely on the Jessups’ charity, as much as the couple appeared willing to help.
And then he had received a letter from his sister, Susannah. She wrote that she and her husband Daniel had leased a hotel in the village of Wellington, a small village some fifteen miles or so southwest of Demorestville. Although his father had left him a farm, Daniel was tired of farming and had fastened on the idea of entering the hotel business. Lewis wasn’t sure that it was a wise move; Daniel had never done anything but plough fields and milk cows. But the pair seemed determined. Furthermore, Susannah had written that there was a small house — nothing more than a cabin, really — at the back of the property, which he and Betsy could have if Lewis was willing to lend a hand now and then when business was too brisk for the two of them to manage.
It seemed a sensible arrangement. They could take their meals at the hotel, Susannah said, relieving them of the daily struggle in the kitchen. There would be no rent to pay, and surely Lewis could find something to do that would provide enough money for any of their other needs, which at the best of times were modest. Perhaps there were enough Methodists in the village to support a located preacher; if not, he was sure that someone in the bustling town would need occasional help — clerking or bookkeeping or private tutoring. He was too old for anything very physical, but as an educated man and a former minister and teacher, he was sure his skills could be turned into some source of ready cash.
As far as he could see, the only problem with the suggestion was a promise he had made to Betsy. He had been appointed to one different circuit after another over the years, and she had cheerfully moved from district to district with him. Two years ago, however, she had abruptly announced that her moving days were over and that she intended to stay put in the half-house in Demorestville.
She would have to release him from his promise not to make her move again before he could accept his sister’s offer.
He had underestimated his wife’s practicality.
“It would be a relief to me,” she said when he read the letter to her. “I’ve been worrying about how much we ask of Seth and Minta, though they’ve never said a word to me. Minta has enough to do, what with looking after Henry and little Rachel, and we’ve trespassed on Seth’s generosity long enough. I’ll be sorry to leave here, but I don’t see how we can stay, do you?”
He didn’t, and so he had written to his sister to accept their invitation.
The newly named Temperance House Hotel was a large, rambling three-storey building with a graceful double verandah fronting on Wellington’s main street. It was perfectly situated to offer accommodation to travellers on the Danforth Road, the main route between Toronto and Kingston, or to farmers bringing their produce to the wharves at the nearby harbour. A hotel situated on such a well-travelled thoroughfare should have been a going concern, but Daniel had decided to offer only wines and ale at the hotel, and to forego the sale of hard liquor, and, furthermore, to advertise that fact in the hotel’s name. Lewis approved of his brother-in-law’s decision. There was too much drunkenness in Canada West, liquor too easily obtained, and at the hotels that also served as taverns the noise of rowdy patrons was a constant source of annoyance to those trying to sleep in the rooms above.
“People need a place to stay where they won’t be accosted by drunks,” Daniel had said. “Someplace that’s respectable enough for a lady to stay. Clean beds, good food, quiet rooms. You’ll see — it will be appreciated by the more discerning customer.”
But temperance was not a particularly popular concept with the majority of people in the Province of Canada, and so far only one customer had proved discerning enough to appreciate the quiet rooms — a Mr. Gilmour, who had been with them now for more than a week. This gentleman neatly fit Daniel’s notion of what a desirable guest should look like, for he wore a fine tweed chesterfield coat over a brown suit of superior cloth, topped with one of the tall hats that had lately come into fashion. He further accessorized his elegant costume with an orange silk cravat tied into a wide bow at his throat and a matching handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. He carried a gold pocket watch, which he consulted frequently. He did not, however, state his business in Wellington, although Daniel had done his best to find out.
“I ask him every morning if he’s going out and he always says yes,” Daniel reported to Lewis. “I ask him every evening if he’s had a satisfactory day, and the answer is the same, but he never elaborates any further. It’s very puzzling.”
“You shouldn’t be so curious,” Lewis told his brother-in-law. “People don’t want their innkeeper poking around in their business.”
“I’m not poking, I’m just being polite. You know, expressing an interest in my customers.”
“Well, they won’t thank you for it, you know. Just serve up their food and keep your questions to yourself. You don’t want to drive him away.”
Lewis thought that Daniel would be less curious about the mysterious Mr. Gilmour if he had a few more guests to look after. But until that happened, the slow traffic at the hotel promised ample opportunity for Lewis to indulge in tea and papers, and with the search for the missing Nate Elliott disbanded, he had only to wait until their solitary guest departed for the afternoon, before he made for the dining room with his steaming cup and a sigh of contentment.
As he spread the newspapers across the table, he noted that the front page of the new Toronto paper, The Globe, was full of the consequences of the recent election. Responsible government had seemed such a fine idea back in 1839 when Lord Durham had suggested that the two Canadian colonies be united into one province, but no one had given much thought to the actual mechanics of making it work. Over the intervening five years it had become apparent that neither Upper nor Lower Canada — or Canada West and Canada East, as they were now called — could dominate the provincial assembly. They needed to cooperate, and to a certain extent they did, but no one had defined their responsibilities nor delineated their powers. The assembly had limped along until the arrival the previous year of Sir Charles Metcalfe as governor general, a man who seemed to assume that being a governor meant that he should govern, and that allowing a recently rebellious population to make decisions for themselves was a ludicrous proposition. In spite of this, he had initially attempted compromise with his upstart assembly, going so far as to agree that the rebels of 1837 should be granted amnesty and allowed to return home; but he would make no further concessions to the notion of the province controlling its own affairs.
The entire assembly had resigned in protest over Governor Metcalfe’s insistence on controlling government appointments. The Province of Canada had responsible government in name only, it seemed, as Metcalfe had simply carried on without these elected representatives until he was sure enough of his ground to call for a new vote. He had trotted out the old bogeyman of “British loyalty” as a campaign platform. Any further handing over of responsibilities to the assembly was, according to Metcalfe, tantamount to disloyalty to the Crown.
His strategy had worked, especially in Protestant Canada West, but Lewis had been surprised by some of the people who had supported it. Egerton Ryerson, self-appointed Methodist spokesman and editor of The Christian Guardian, had written in defence of the governor, to howls of outrage and general vilification by those who supported reform. Lewis read that Ryerson had now been appointed superintendant of education for Canada West, and wondered if that had been the price put on his support. Lewis had never liked Ryerson, and there were many Methodists, himself included, who often found themselves in disagreement with the man’s opinions. Shaking his head over the chronic chaos of government affairs, he abandoned The Globe and turned instead to the inside pages of the Cobourg Star.
These were more entertaining by far. One article reported on the recent international cricket match between the United States and the Province of Canada, which took place at the St. George’s Cricket Club in New York. Due to bad weather the match had been extended to three days of play. Lewis read with pleasure that “the British Empire’s Canadian Province” had emerged victorious by a margin of twenty-three runs. Another item detailed some of the many wonders that had been unveiled at the Paris Industrial Exhibition, including a new musical instrument called the baritone saxophone. Its inventor, a Belgian man by the name of Adolphe Sax, intended the new apparatus “to fill the gap between the loud woodwinds and the more adaptable brass instruments” according to the article. Lewis hadn’t realized that such a gap existed, never having heard an orchestra, only a few of the military bands that accompanied British troops in Canada.
He then became absorbed in an article about General Tom Thumb, a wonder of nature who was featured with Barnum’s American Museum. A perfectly formed child, who at the age of five stood only twenty-five inches high and weighed only fifteen pounds, Tom could sing, dance, and impersonate Napoleon Bonaparte, apparently. His act, along with the Feejee Mermaid, was drawing huge crowds as the exhibit travelled across the United States.
Wonder or freak, Lewis wasn’t sure, but in any event his enjoyment of the article was interrupted and he never did get the chance to return to it. A horse and wagon had pulled up in front of the hotel and he watched through the window as a seemingly endless number of trunks and cases were pulled down from it. It appeared that Temperance House was about to acquire its second customer.
Lewis knew that Susannah was in the kitchen dicing vegetables for the evening’s stew and he had seen Daniel disappear upstairs sometime earlier, so he supposed it was up to him to greet their new guest. Lewis sighed and took one last hasty sip of his tea, folded the newspapers into a neat pile, and walked out onto the verandah just as the carter handed down a striking woman who was dressed in a fashion that signalled her origins; her finely cut cloak spoke of the city and shops, of the
latest fashion and of clothing made with the greatest attention to detail. She wore a hat that fit snugly to her head, with a small brim and ribbons that matched the satin loop on the muff she carried. It was quite unlike the flowered and feathered headwear that Canadian women generally wore when they dressed up. This woman wore no cap under her hat either; instead, her face was framed on each side by long curls that dangled down to her chin. She was quite unlike anything Lewis had ever seen.
“How do you do, ma’am,” he said as she looked up at him. “Could I be of assistance?”
She smiled, an action that gave her heart-shaped face a distinctly cat-like appearance.
“How do you do. I wonder if I might take a room — a very private room, please.” Her voice was high-pitched, almost shrill, with a telltale twang that spoke of somewhere in the south of the American republic. It grated on Lewis’s ears and he found himself hoping that he wouldn’t have to listen to it for long.
“Of course,” he said. “Please come in and I’ll fetch the innkeeper.”
The bell on the front door jangled as he opened it for her. Daniel must have heard it and came running down the stairs, wiping his hands on the filthy apron he had tied around his waist after breakfast and had neglected to remove. However, when he saw the woman, he hastily tore it off.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, beaming at her. “Are you looking for a room, miss? We have a pleasant one on the ground floor. It has a view of the street and there are two beds in it.”
“I should prefer a second- or third-floor room if that is possible,” she said. “Horatio must be away from the awful dust that is thrown up from the street.”
Lewis hadn’t noticed the small, pale boy who had entered behind the woman. He must have been hidden amongst the trunks and hatboxes that the carter had stacked beside the wagon. Whatever dust had been in the streets of Wellington had long since dissolved into a muddy mess with the cold rains of autumn, but perhaps this woman from away was unfamiliar with the usual state of the streets in Canada in the fall.
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