Beth was aware of all this as she slipped quietly to the side of the bed where Ellice was dozing, propped up against several capacious pillows. His skin was not merely albino-white, it was almost translucent: in the sunlight it would have glowed pink. Lady Durham stationed herself near the door, out of her nephew’s line of sight, and waited.
Beth reached across and took Ellice’s right hand in hers. She squeezed it several times. Some minutes later, he groaned and opened his eyes. They were glassy from the belladonna or laudanum, and, seeing Beth, they grew round with terror. He gasped for some word to stay whatever nightmare vision he was experiencing but succeeded only in prompting a sequence of stunted coughs.
Beth squeezed his hand tightly. “It’s Mrs. Edwards, Handford. I’m alive and unharmed and here beside you.”
The young man’s entire body was trembling uncontrollably, but he could not will himself to close his eyes. Lady Durham started forward but stopped when Beth held up her free hand. Gradually the tremoring slowed and the rictus of terror that had gripped and distorted his features began to subside. Finally Ellice was able to give the hand that held his a single squeeze.
“Yes, it is me,” Beth whispered. “The woman you danced with at the ball.”
Ellice nodded his head warily.
“You’ve been sick for two days, but Dr. Withers says you’re going to be fine soon.”
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said, shaping one word at a time and forcing his breath to give weight to each.
Lady Durham gave a sharp cry from her station by the door—of joy and relief.
• • •
IT DID NOT TAKE LONG FOR Marc to learn that the O’Driscolls and Harrises had ridden home with the same friends who accompanied them out to Spadina and the Governor’s Ball. The respective wives were quick to express their willingness to help, the Whiggery of the lord and lady being overlooked in the interests of common decency and respect for high office. But alas they were even quicker to deny any knowledge of the dastardly interloper and purloiner of pearls. Each had ridden with one other couple, and Marc, growing frustrated, had lengthened this futile line of inquiry considerably by traipsing eight or nine blocks to cross-check their claims and those of Mrs. Finney. Nor had Cobb any better luck. In the end, Marc had to conclude that Handford Ellice had not, on the face of it, been ferried to the city by Finneys, O’Driscolls, or Harrises. Foot-weary and not overly optimistic, Cobb and Marc trudged back up towards the substantial estate of Alasdair Hepburn on Hospital Street, not a block and a half south of the entrance to Irishtown.
“I can’t see why any of those women would have reason to lie,” Marc said glumly. “And if they did, the friends accompanying them would have to be in on it.”
“I don’t see any of them whist fellers lettin’ their wives in on any conspiracy,” Cobb added unhelpfully.
“You’re right. That’s why His Lordship and I decided to approach them with our phony story about a jewel robbery: we felt sure the women would tell us what was what on Monday evening.”
They turned off Yonge onto Hospital.
“You’re thinkin’ it may’ve been the Reverend Temper-rants who pestered Sarah McConkey, ain’t ya?”
“The thought has crossed my mind,” Marc said. “Mrs. Finney was so adamant about blaming the girl, who, after all, had not had much time to be corrupted by the iniquities of the city. I began to wonder if she were not protesting too much.”
“And if Finney was taken with Sarah and his old lady tossed her out, then he still might have a hankerin’ fer her.”
“Possibly. I don’t see him pursuing her into Irishtown, but his knowing her would give him some potential connection to Madame Renée’s and, not impossibly, to Michael Badger.”
“It may be all we got, Major. I don’t expect we’ll have any more luck here at Hepburn’s. And unless I know the stableman myself, I wouldn’t trust a word any of ’em utter. Most wouldn’t trade the truth fer a sofa chair in heaven!”
“I didn’t tell you, Cobb, but of the four whist players, both Lord Durham and I decided Hepburn was the most likely candidate to orchestrate any conspiracy.”
“And I’d agree with ya: nobody beats bankers at that sort of thing.”
The Hepburns occupied a fine brick and stone house located on the north side of Hospital Street. Built in the Georgian style, it boasted extensive barns and stables out behind; inside an enclosed paddock, several well-bred horses gleamed and pranced. Cobb headed directly for it.
A tall, middle-aged woman with masculine features and auburn hair pulled tightly into a bun showed Marc into a richly furnished sitting room complete with Turkish sofas, Persian rugs an inch deep, and high, spacious Italianate windows. Mrs. Matilda Hepburn was seated on one of the sofas, and from the cut of her dress and the flowered bonnet beside her, she had either just come in or was preparing to go out. She had a small face whose lineaments might have been admired when she was fourteen but had not bloomed as promised, leaving her with a pinched and impoverished face. She appeared to be compensating for its lack of physical character by keeping her chin higher than nature required and her sloe eyes dart sharp.
“That’ll be all, Una,” she said to the tall woman. “Though you might see if cook has any fresh tea and biscuits for our guest.” She waved Una off and then turned the gesture into an invitation for Marc to sit opposite her on an embroidered Queen Anne chair.
After introducing himself, Marc spun his yarn just as he had done three times previously that afternoon. He was beginning to believe it himself. Matilda Hepburn showed no emotion or response of any kind at the mention of the fictitious imposter or his clandestine thievery.
Before Marc could ask the routine and obvious question about the ride home to the city, she interrupted him to say, “I do not see, young man, why the police would come bothering us about such a thing. Mr. Hepburn and I are not accustomed to giving rides to total strangers, and certainly not one cloaked and wrapped in secrecy as the man you have described. I am sorry for Lady Durham’s loss, though I daresay neither she nor her affluent husband are pinched for pennies.”
“You’re telling me, then, that you and Mr. Hepburn rode home together, as you rode out to Spadina?”
The black eyes darted and pricked. “I hope you’re being deliberately naive, Mr. Edwards. The point I made was quite clear and in need of no elaboration.”
“You did not travel to the gala with friends or neighbours?”
“That should be of no concern to you, sir, but in order to show my respect for the law, I will tell you no: we travelled alone.”
“Please forgive me, ma’am, but I have been asked by the highest authority to make these intrusive and less than tactful inquiries.”
At that moment Una re-entered the room carrying a tea tray. She stumbled on the edge of the thick carpet and, in righting herself, let go of the tray. Teacups, teapot, biscuits, and steaming tea struck the arabesques on the rug.
“You stupid oaf!” Mrs. Hepburn cried, rising to her feet.
“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, I—”
“Just get out! Fetch cook and get this mess cleaned up!”
Flushed and confused, Una staggered back and fled.
Her ruffled feathers quickly back in place, Mrs. Hepburn said to Marc, “She’s been like that for two days. Family problems, I believe. Come, I’ll show you the way out.”
In the lane, Marc met up with Cobb and gave him the disappointing news. “Did you find the driver of the barouche?” he said hopefully.
“I did, Major. He says it was a quiet night. Just mister and missus—out and back.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No reason not to, though I don’t know him from Adam.”
“Damn.”
“I guess we wasted an afternoon and lost half an inch of shoe leather inta the bargain,” Cobb said. “So what do we do now? You think we’re likely to get anythin’ more outta our four gentlemen if we was to ask them the same questions?�
��
“Not likely. I’ve been instructed to treat them with kid gloves. But there’s still the McConkeys. I’m certain that when we know the whole story of Sarah’s ten months in the city, we’ll have more clues to work with than we need.”
“You ain’t thinkin’ about ridin’ all the way out to Streetsville now, are you?”
“It’s only eighteen miles, and I have my choice of swift horses from Government House. I’ll be back before dark.”
“Well, then, I’ll keep pokin’ around town to see if I can help turn up Badger.”
“Good. If anything develops, leave a message at Government House. I’ve got to have something positive to report to Lord Durham later tonight.”
• • •
BETH HAD NO INTENTION OF DOING anything for Handford Ellice beyond bringing him back from his hallucinatory state to the real world. Whatever he had done, he would need to face it, the sooner the better, and perhaps begin to talk about it. But such decisions must be made by Ellice himself, not his doctors with their soporifics or the police with their interrogations.
Lady Durham, as discreet as she was intelligent, had a bowl of broth brought in but let Beth spoon it onto his lips. After a few mouthfuls and a smile at Beth that seemed more painful than purging, he sighed deeply and rolled back on his pillows. Beth was just about to get up and tiptoe away when he suddenly spoke again, keeping his eyes closed all the while and pausing frequently.
“I really thought I had killed you, Mrs. Edwards. You who befriended me and did not find my dancing laughable.”
“You’ve been ill and had a bad dream, that’s all.”
“A horrible dream. It kept coming back, over and over.” He opened his eyes briefly. They were full of tears. “But it’s gone now. I can close my eyes—like this—and still see you sitting there. With no knife in your neck.” He shuddered, then smiled wanly.
Beth leaned forward and took his hand. She used it to stroke her neck. “See, my neck is as good as it ever was.”
“As pretty, you mean.”
“What you need to do now, to keep the dream away, is take some soup, rest, and get yourself strong.”
“You’ll come again, though?”
“If you wish.”
“Good. I think I might go mad if I had to endure that nightmare one more time. You are lying beside me in a strange bed, and I wake up and see a knife in your neck, and I think ‘That’s odd’ and I reach over and gently pull it out. But no blood comes out with it. Isn’t that strange?”
“Dreams are like that. But, see, you’re starting to be able to talk about it.”
“Yes, I am, aren’t I? And I haven’t st-stuttered once.” He laughed, and Beth joined him.
She put the spoon in his right hand, dipped it into the soup, and guided it to his mouth. “You spoke yesterday with my husband.”
“Mr. Edwards, yes.” His face darkened and Beth was afraid she had gone too far. But he continued without further prompting. “After the dance I played cards with some kind gentlemen. I got very drunk. I don’t re-remember anything else except c-coming to that place. This girl, I thought she was you. I felt sick and ashamed. D-d-don’t remember . . . ”
“Please don’t think about it anymore, Mr. Ellice. It wasn’t me and you’re safe in the governor’s bed.”
“Very . . . tired.” He closed his eyes and drifted towards sleep.
Beth waited. His breathing was regular. The dream had not returned. Yet.
Lady Durham left her post, came across the room, and whispered a thank-you to Beth. “I think he’s on his way back,” she said. “He did not stammer until he got to the part about what happened in the brothel. That’s a positive sign.”
“Please send for me, day or night, if you think I can be of help.”
“Yes, I will.”
Outside the room in the hallway, Lady Durham looked suddenly distracted, as if she were indecisive about her next step.
“Are you all right, Your Ladyship?”
“Yes, yes. It’s my husband who suffers from migraine and neuralgia. He often has to disappear into a dark room for days on end. I’m terribly afraid the stress of Handford’s situation will trigger another of those dreadful bouts.”
“Mr. Edwards will find the killer.”
“I’m sure he will,” Lady Durham said vaguely. Then, unexpectedly, she gripped Beth’s arm tightly. Her gaze held, for the merest fraction of a second, a glint of pure terror.
“Come into my sitting room, Mrs. Edwards. There is something I think you need to know about Handford.”
ELEVEN
Marc rode through the mid-afternoon sunshine on the lieutenant-governor’s second-best horse along the ill-named “trunk road” that would take him to Streetsville. Three years ago he had travelled this same route as part of a foraging expedition led by Major Owen Jenkin, who had since become his friend and avuncular adviser. Little had changed. The hardwoods flourished on either flank of the corduroy thoroughfare, still threatening to overwhelm the preternatural intrusion of road-making humans. Buttercups and violets foamed in rainbowed wavelets along the verges and native birds tumbled and sang in the liberating breeze. For a while Marc was able to forget the urgency of his journey and simply enjoy a landscape he was increasingly comfortable to call home.
But the brutal death of Sarah McConkey was never far from his thoughts. His hopes for the afternoon’s inquiry had been dashed. Apparently none of the whist-playing enemies of responsible government had ferried Ellice to Madame Renée’s, if the wives were to be believed. And, alas, he could see no reason why they should dissemble unless they, and the friends accompanying them, were part of a vast conspiracy. If so—and the likelihood was remote—then it would take more than a day to unravel, and a day was all the time he had left to save Handford Ellice. Moreover, the wives would certainly tell their husbands, and more than a few neighbours, about his afternoon visit and the so-called stolen jewels, thus alerting those gentlemen and half the Family Compact—putting them all on their guard. There would be little merit now in trying to interrogate anyone else using the same cover story (pilfered pearls and a missing snuffbox?) and a serious risk of having them circle the oligarchic wagons. Either the authorities had to capture Badger, or Marc himself must unearth something useful at the McConkey farm.
This deflating conclusion was mercifully interrupted by the thud of approaching horses’ hooves a short distance ahead. Marc drew his mount to one side and waited to see who was pounding towards him around the next bend in the road. The flash of scarlet and green and the familiar rattle of swinging sabres told him it was a mounted troop. Half a dozen subalterns were soon bearing down on him at full gallop. When the leading officer saw Marc, he raised a hand and the squad pulled up around him. Marc recognized several of the men and smiled a greeting.
“You look smaller without your tunic, sir,” Ensign Beddoes said with a grin, “if that’s possible.”
Marc exchanged pleasantries with the officers he knew, then asked Beddoes, “Are you fellows part of the search for Michael Badger?”
“We are,” Beddoes confirmed. “We’ve been beating the bushes in three townships for most of the day and haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
“Folks out here, as far as I can determine, are suffering an outbreak of blindness,” said the officer beside him. “They don’t seem to know whether the sun’s come up or not.”
“A six-footer with an orange mane ought to be hard to miss,” Marc said.
“There’s another troop scouring the area north of the city and a third doing the same east of it,” Beddoes said. “What’s this fellow done anyway, buggered His Lordship?”
“You could say that,” Marc replied.
• • •
AFTER BEING GIVEN FAULTY DIRECTIONS AND getting lost for half an hour, Marc finally entered a public house on the outskirts of the village of Streetsville and risked a game pie and a glass of wine. The tapster then directed him to the McConkey farm, about a quarter of a mi
le off the main road. He rode up to the half-log cabin, relieved to see smoke coming from the crude chimney and cows drifting barnward to be milked.
Mr. McConkey, who opened the door with undue caution, turned out to be no surprise. He was a lean-muscled, stern-faced farmer with intimidating black eyebrows. He glowered at the intruder, said nothing, and waited, the half-open door wedged against his sturdy left boot.
“Good evening. Am I addressing Mr. Orrin McConkey?”
“Who wants ta know?” The voice was gravel and spit.
“I’m Marc Edwards. I’ve just ridden out here from Government House in Toronto—”
“We don’t have any truck with people from the city.”
“I’m here representing Governor Durham, sir. I have been sent by His Lordship to bring you some very bad news. May I come in?”
“Is it about Sarah?” a shrivelled female voice came from somewhere in the room beyond.
“Go back to yer business, Hilda. This has nothin’—”
“Yes, it is about Sarah,” Marc said loudly.
“I take it you’re speakin’ about the girl who used to be my daughter?” McConkey’s expression darkened, but whether with anger or some more vulnerable emotion was impossible to tell.
“What’s happened to Sarah?” A wizened woman, aged beyond her years, poked her bonneted face around her husband’s shoulder.
“Please, let me come in,” Marc said.
“If you must,” McConkey said, opening the door. “Hilda, you go and finish makin’ my supper. Any news about Sarah oughta be given to me first.”
Hilda McConkey looked stricken but turned dutifully and scuttled away to a curtained-off kitchen area. Marc noticed that no hair fluttered from under the bonnet.
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