But what of Nate Elliott? He had grown up in Wellington, and as a boy must have frequented the lake and its shores. The marsh and the dunes would have been familiar territory.
Unless of course, he had been in a dazed state from the tree branch that had fallen on him and had somehow wandered into the wilderness unaware. This was circulated as the most likely explanation, but Lewis heard others as well. Some claimed that it hadn’t been Nate’s skull at all, but that of some other poor soul, and they pointed to the jury’s verdict as proof. These people speculated that Nate had merely become fed up with his family again and decided to leave in the same abrupt and enigmatic way in which he had disappeared so many years ago, and that his wife and son would no doubt hear of his whereabouts in short order. There were darker rumours, too — that Nate had taken whatever money he could find at the Elliott farm and absconded into the night; or that Reuben and Nate had quarrelled and one brother had chased the other across the marsh to his doom.
It occurred to no one but Lewis that there might be a more profound connection between the victims. He was certain that Gilmour must have been after the reward mentioned in the newspaper clipping. He had been watching Mrs. Elliott and trying to figure out where her husband had disappeared to. Like Lewis, he had wondered if Nate was hiding somewhere in the dunes. It seemed possible that the accident that Reuben had reported had never occurred, and that it was a distraction manufactured in order to let Nate slip away unnoticed. But why?
Gilmour must have been hoping that the Elliotts would at some point reunite and attempt to cross the border, at which point he would pounce. But all the Elliotts really had to do was settle down on the family farm and wait for Gilmour to go away. After all, he couldn’t wait forever.
The only document in the leather folder Lewis had found that connected Nate Elliott to the unidentified skull had been the unsigned letter of conveyance, a document that continued to puzzle him. There had been no papers with the name LeClair. He struggled to remember what he had seen. There had been a number of calling cards similar to the one that Clementine had scattered around Wellington, one or two with foreign-looking names. There had been a letter of introduction and a baptismal certificate with an Irish name. He should have looked more closely, paid more attention. But Francis had been struggling with the Holey Man, and Lewis had assumed that there would be plenty of time to examine the papers later. So much for Auguste Dupin’s advice to “observe what is necessary” — Lewis hadn’t had time to observe much of anything at all.
As soon as the inquest was over, the skulls were gathered up with the mass of bones and flesh from the root cellar, along with whatever charred remains could be salvaged from the cabin. These relics were all taken to the undertaker’s, but no one was willing to hazard a guess as to which bones belonged to whom. No one was sure who should be notified of Gilmour’s death, and there was no one to claim the bodies of the Holey Man or his family. The undertaker suggested that everything could be buried in a mass grave as soon as the soil thawed in the spring. In the meantime, they would be held over for the winter in the dead house, where a short service, deemed to do for all, was to be held.
To Lewis’s surprise, Sophie asked for time off to attend the tomb-side service to be held the next day.
“It’s not on my account,” she said. “I barely knew the Elliotts, but my mother’s youngest sister was close to Nate at one point. In fact, I think he was a beau, but she decided in favour of Albert Chance instead. In any event, Mother remembers Nate well, as he was at their house a great deal of the time before he left. She needs some help in the graveyard, though, as the ground is so rough and she’s afraid she might stumble.”
Daniel grumbled a little, but agreed that Sophie could go after she promised to prepare the bulk of the noontime meal before she left.
The next morning, Sophie asked Lewis to go to the store for her. They were running low on butter and she could use a lemon, she said, if one were available. He decided to make one trip do the work of two, and drop in at the post office as well, as one of the guests had arranged for his mail to be forwarded to Wellington, and was apparently expecting an important communication.
To Lewis’s surprise, there was a letter waiting with his own name on it.
“New York City,” said the postmaster, “You owe me a penny for the postage.” And he hesitated for a moment before he handed it over, an invitation to discuss the reasons for correspondence from such an important source.
Lewis merely scrounged in his pocket with the hopes that he might find a penny there, and when he found it, held out his hand for the letter. He waited until he was well down the street before he peeled away the wax seal and unfolded the sheet of paper.
The letter he had written to the New York newspaper had been forwarded to Mr. Van Sylen, the man who had been bilked of his money by the LeClairs and had offered a reward for their apprehension.
Sir,
Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding the man and woman who call themselves LeClair, although they also go by many other names, I have discovered. My information is that they have at various times used the names Beauregarde, Sonderburg, and Guiseppe in their duplicitous activities.
As you are aware, they have claimed to be in communication with the spirit world and by this device have fraudulently extracted large sums of money from those, like myself, who were desperate to know the fates of loved ones. This reprehensible practice has resulted in considerable added anguish for families who were already laboring under a burden of grief.
I have hired a private detective by the name of Horace Gilmour, a man who is most highly recommended, to discover the whereabouts of the LeClairs and to return them to justice in this jurisdiction.
My latest correspondence from Mr. Gilmour derived from your vicinity, but I have not heard from him for several weeks. If you have information regarding his activities, or that of the LeClairs, I would appreciate your sharing of this knowledge. If Gilmour has moved on to another locale, I would also appreciate knowing this.
I am,
Most respectfully yours,
Augustus Van Sylen
New York, New York
Dec. 14, 1844
Beauregard, Sonderburg, Guiseppe — Yes! Those were names Lewis had seen on some of the calling cards that he had found in the folder at the cabin. Apparently, they had not ever used the name Elliott in their deceptions, or the Irish surname that had been on the baptismal certificate. And Gilmour had not been just a bounty hunter, but a detective on hire. No wonder he had been so persistent.
But what to do with this information? Lewis supposed he should inform Constable Williams that Gilmour had been in the employ of this Mr. Van Sylen, who would presumably be able to provide a means of contacting the next of kin. But even should he pass on the intelligence that the Elliotts were also known by a number of pseudonyms, he could well imagine the reaction of the phlegmatic constable. He would be completely uninterested — not only had these events taken place outside of his jurisdiction, they had occurred in another country, and, after all, no crime had taken place here.
Lewis returned to Temperance House, but once there realized that he had forgotten his other errands. Rather than face Sophie’s disappointment, he made an about-face in the front hallway and was about to leave again when Clementine and Horatio descended the stairs. Again she was dressed in the elegant black of mourning, an ostrich plume on her hat and a silk veil folded round the brim, ready to mask her grief at the graveside.
He stepped forward and opened the door for her, tipping his hat as she went by.
“Good morning, Mrs. Beauregard.”
The smile that had been on her face as she turned to the greeting quickly faded as she realized her mistake.
“Pardon me,” Lewis said. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Think nothing of it.” She had recovered quickly, but Lewis knew his salutation had rattled her. She pushed Horatio through the door and quickly followed.
The errands would have to wait as Lewis made an abrupt decision to accompany Sophie to the funeral. Perhaps Mrs. Carr could shed a little light on how Nathan Elliott of Wellington had somehow turned into M. LeClair of New York.
“It’s been many a year since I’ve had the pleasure of escorting a pretty young woman down the street,” Lewis joked as he and Sophie walked along to the Carr house.
“You be careful now, Mr. Lewis,” Sophie returned. “You know this town — there will be rumours flying about us in no time.”
Lewis liked Sophie immensely, not in the least for her ready wit. Francis continued to seek her company whenever he could make an excuse to be close to her, and if events culminated in the direction they appeared to heading, Lewis thought the two might be a good match. It gave him a pang, of course, and reminded him once again of the loss of his daughter. But Sarah and Francis had been too much alike, impetuous and headstrong, the both of them. Sophie’s good nature was paired with a down-to-earth attitude that brooked little nonsense and made short work of the practical business of life. She might be a steadying influence on Francis — and on Martha, as well.
The Carrs lived in a small cottage at the edge of Wellington. Lewis noted with approval the general tidiness of both the yard and the house. It was clear where Sophie had learned her housekeeping skills.
Mrs. Carr was delighted that Lewis was to join them.
“Sophie’s a good girl,” she said, “but she’s just a slip of a thing and I need a strong arm to lean on. Martin couldn’t get away from the mill today, so you’ll do very nicely instead, Mr. Lewis.”
“Sophie tells me you knew Nate Elliott well.”
“I did, I did. He courted my sister Jane for quite some time. She wouldn’t marry him, though. She decided to go west with Albert Chance instead.”
“Is that why Nate went away?”
“Oh, no. It was never so serious as that. It was the old man drove him away, and come to think on it, the old man may have had a lot to do with Jane choosing someone else.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, she would never have met with Hiram’s approval.” She chuckled. “I’m not sure that any girl would have.”
“No, I mean, about why Nate left.”
She looked at him closely for a moment. “I’m not sure it’s seemly for me to ramble on about that. I only know what I heard, and what Jane told me, and I don’t hold with idle gossip.”
Generally, Lewis approved of this attitude. Gossip was a pernicious element in small-town life and was the occupation of small-minded people. But Mrs. Carr might well have knowledge that would help him answer his many unresolved questions about the Elliotts.
“I’m still trying to puzzle out why Nate Elliott came to such an unhappy end,” he said. “I thought that it might help if I understood why he left in the first place.”
Mrs. Carr nodded. “Of course, of course, you were the one who found him, weren’t you? Or at least what they think is him, no matter what the coroner says. Well, God forgive me for slandering anybody, much less the dead, but Hiram Elliott was probably the most miserable man I ever met in my life. Now, you wouldn’t know this, being from away, but Hiram’s wife died young. He wasn’t too bad while Alice was still alive, but after she went he made life miserable for those two boys. That’s why Nate was always at our house.”
“Miserable in what way?”
“He was nasty to both his boys and he did his best to turn them against each other, as well. When they were small, he’d often whip both of them for something one of them did. Or he’d lock them in the sty with the pigs until they screamed themselves hoarse. Once, he kept the pantry locked and refused to feed Nate when Reuben misbehaved. Things like that. When they got too big to whip, he’d lock all the doors so they couldn’t get into the house. I don’t know any of the details of why Nate finally lit out, but I don’t think anybody was surprised. The surprise was that Reuben didn’t leave too.”
“What did you think when Nate came back? If he was on such terrible terms with his father, why would he hurry back just to be at the deathbed?”
“My guess is that Nate did it mostly for Reuben. I don’t think he ever hated his brother, in spite of the way they used to fight. They say Hiram managed to tie everything in knots before he died and that was why Nate came back. He wouldn’t have done it for the money, you understand. He was never a greedy boy. But he might have done it for Reuben.”
“What did Nate say about it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him when he came back. If he’d been around a little longer, I expect he would have called on us, but after he and Reuben arrived back in Wellington, they went straight to the Elliott farm and no one saw much of him until Reuben reported him missing a few days later.” She sighed. “I would like to have seen him again. I always liked Nate.”
They had reached the gates of the graveyard. There was a sizeable mass of people clustered around the brick building that was used to hold the dead for burial. Lewis always thought how unfortunate it was when a death occurred in the wintertime and these interim funerals took place. The mourners then had to revisit their grief all over again in the spring once the graves had been dug.
He walked Sophie and her mother to a place in the crowd where he could easily watch Reuben and Clementine. Reuben’s face was impassive and Clementine had lowered her silk veil over her face, so he could see nothing of whatever emotion she might be feeling. Horatio stood between the two, and the boy’s pale face was tear-stained and tense. One look was enough to show that the boy, at least, believed that it was his father who was being interred here today. But Lewis was beginning to wonder just who that father had been.
A familiar misery settled on Clementine like a pall, and not for the first time she regretted the decision to come to Wellington. Nothing had gone right since Reuben had first appeared at their squalid, third-floor apartment in New York. It had all seemed so simple — come to some arrangement with Reuben, show up at the farm, and bury the old man. She should be sitting in some fine hotel somewhere with her husband and son, not standing in a Canadian graveyard as a pompous country clergyman mangled the Bible verses he had chosen.
No matter what had been decided at the inquest, she knew without a doubt that the remains of her husband were being committed to the vault this day. It had taken her some time to admit to this fact. It had been a slow, agonizing realization that assaulted her in waves, catapulting her from despair to denial and back again a thousand times. She had begun to feel uneasy when he had failed to keep their rendezvous. The bouts of panic had started when the days flew by with no word from him. Her mind had been in a whirl at the inquest. But only now, standing beside his bones, did she truly realize that she was on her own. She sneaked a glance at Reuben, who appeared entirely unmoved by the ceremony, but then there was no reason for him to feel any grief, was there?
What a bastard he had turned out to be. As far as she was concerned, the terms of their original arrangement had been fulfilled, but Reuben obstinately refused to uphold his end of the bargain. He’d laughed at her when she threatened to tell all she knew.
“Are you really willing to risk it?” he sneered. “One bounty hunter is quite neatly out of the way, but who knows how many more there are? That old man in New York has put up quite a reward. I expect there are dozens who would like to claim his money. One story in one newspaper is all it would take and there would be a plague of them following your every move.”
She knew now that Reuben had never intended to pay what he owed. His mad scheme had cost her her husband, and in spite of that he was perfectly willing to cut her loose without a penny from his precious farm.
She should leave immediately — every one of her overstretched nerves was screaming at her to get away. The preacher had not exposed her, yet she didn’t know why. He had not said a word about the equipment in her sitting room, hadn’t even hinted to anyone that all was not above board. She had begun to relax a little when she realize
d that he was not going to denounce her publicly as a fraud. And then this morning he had made himself clear — he had only been waiting for more evidence before he played his hand. How much did he know?
She could cut her losses and go, but there weren’t enough coins in her purse to cover her hotel expenses, never mind set her up in a new town. She glanced at Reuben again, standing lumpenly at her side. He was determined to wait her out; he had made that clear.
“Just give me what you owe me,” she’d said.
“No.”
She had picked the brains of the fool of a barrister who had drawn up the will, and it was only then that she truly realized how much of the advantage was Reuben’s. All he had needed to do was to find his brother and bring him home before the old man died. He could trot out any number of witnesses who would swear that Nate had returned, and after all, hadn’t the entire village scoured the neighbourhood for days looking for his body?
But there was one small glimmer of hope, one indication of how she might successfully play this through to the end. The barrister had informed her that under the laws of Canada West, she might be deemed to have a stake in the property. He had also disclosed several other interesting facts; facts that she might well use to her advantage if she had enough nerve left to turn the tables — one last gamble that would see them on their way with a pocketful of money. Reuben was right, though. She couldn’t risk the publicity of disclosure — but neither could he, or all would be lost.
She turned her plan over and over in her mind while the minister rambled on, and by the time he intoned the final “Amen,” she had reached a resolution. She would try one last bluff and hope it was enough to rattle the smugness out of Reuben.
Clementine felt some of the tension lift away now that she had decided on a course of action. She could give her mind over to playing her role. She put her hand on Horatio’s shoulder, clutched her silk-clad bosom and began to sob in a way that was most gratifying to the widow-watchers standing around her.
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