Man in the Shadows (32 page)

She pulled a furry hat over her ears and hailed a carriage. She ordered the carriage driver to take her to a friend’s house in LeBreton Flats.

Conor didn’t know she was here. She would see him on the weekend.

A
t Rideau Hall, there was all the excitement and expectation of a winter carnival. The governor general’s mansion had been built for a lumber baron, so like most of Ottawa, it had only recently made the transition to politics. Rideau Hall was the cultural centre of Ottawa’s fledgling upper class. Young women, of the right class, were introduced to society here, and young men practised diplomacy behind the stone walls. On this winter afternoon, the gathering was unusually large and diverse. The grounds were open to all for the new toboggan slide.

The new governor general, Lord Lisgar, had not been told about the plot against Macdonald. It would have been his duty to report the situation to Britain, and the prime minister insisted upon absolute secrecy.

Plain-clothed police were everywhere. Some blended in; others were so obviously patrolman out of uniform that it almost made Conor laugh.

Sir John, bundled in a lush beaver coat and hat, arrived by carriage with a scowling Gilbert McMicken at his side. “If this man is a fur trapper, I guess I’ll be in trouble,” Macdonald lamely joked.

“There’s no evidence of that, sir,” McMicken said.

Macdonald just shook his head.

“Sir John, good morning,” the governor general announced, holding out his hand to shake the prime minister’s. Lisgar was dressed in a formal topcoat and hat, looking very dignified and viceregal. He was new to Ottawa and new to its winters.

“You might find you need a warmer coat,” Macdonald suggested.

“Yes, it’s frightfully cold, but one must keep up appearances, mustn’t one?”

“Must one?” the prime minister mimicked. “Yes, I suppose one must.” He scrutinized the assembling crowd. “Let’s go behind the lectern until the speeches begin. I think I’d like to be out of the limelight.”

“You? Missing a chance to talk to a voter? That’s not how you were described to me.”

“Yes, me!” the prime minister snapped back. He led Lisgar to what he hoped would be safety. McMicken stayed at their side.

THOMAS
and Conor O’Dea were surveying the crowd, looking for the assassin, when a plain-clothed policeman approached them from behind. “I’ve been told to keep an eye on you,” he said to Thomas, like a babysitter talking to a child.

Thomas glared at him. “We are supposed to help you people.”

“And you will. Point out this man, and we’ll do the rest.”

The silly ass, thought Thomas.

“Give me your gun,” the policeman ordered.

“He knows us, you know,” Thomas protested. “We are targets.”

“I’m under orders that you are not to be armed, and you’re to be watched at all times.”

Conor spoke up, “But Sir John said—”

“Sir John is in hiding,” the policeman interrupted, triumphantly. “No Irishmen like you two are going to be armed on a day like today. Not after what happened to Mr. McGee.”

Thomas looked at his son and shook his head in disgust, but there was no time for anger. He asked the policeman, “Where were you born, then?”

“Brockville.”

“And your father?”

“Manchester, England.”

“Ah, a good Englishman.” Thomas stepped closer to the policeman and, without taking his eyes off him, said, “Conor, would you take off your hat for a second?”

Conor did, revealing his almost bald head.

“What do you think of my son’s haircut?”

The policeman looked confused and didn’t answer.

“You see, that’s what English bullies do.”

With his one good hand, Thomas grabbed the policeman’s ear. As the man gasped in surprise, Thomas lifted his knee hard into the man’s arched body. Conor couldn’t believe his eyes. The policeman buckled over. Thomas released him and pulled the revolver from his belt, then father and son scurried into the crowd. They were now both armed. Conor laughed wildly; he saw that his father was laughing, too.

“You can tell Gerry O’Beirne about that!”

SIR
John A. Macdonald could delay no longer. The prime minister hesitantly followed Lord Lisgar to the stage. He gazed over the faces of Ottawa’s citizenry, smiled and quietly gulped. All those people, all bundled up on a winter’s day. It would be so easy to conceal a weapon in a fur coat, or pull a hat low and bury your face. He had often said that he trusted his brain but relied on his luck. Now it was truer than ever.

The governor general was going on about something. Perhaps he should pay attention. But then again, perhaps not. He actually liked the man, but he was not in the mood to listen to a speech. He saw
Thomas and Conor O’Dea laughing in the crowd. What in the world could they be laughing at?

When Lisgar finished his speech and welcomed Sir John, the prime minister cautiously walked the few steps to the lectern. “This is not a day for political speeches,” he began stiffly, “but I don’t know any other kind.”

Someone from the crowd yelled, “Give ’em hell, John!” and there was a great cheer. Macdonald smiled. All right, he thought, I might as well have some fun. After all, I’ve got an audience.

“They say I’m a slippery customer,” he began. Some in the crowd laughed, and some cheered. He pointed toward the toboggan slide. “Well, do you see that slide?” he yelled.

“Yes!” the crowd roared.

“Do you know what it reminds me of?”

“Nooo,” from the crowd. He was surprised at how much he was enjoying this. Maybe being brave was just a case of ignoring what was terrifying you.

“That slide reminds me of the Liberal party’s platform,” he continued. “Like the Grits, it’s aimed straight downhill, and for the life of me I can’t find a rudder on the infernal thing.”

The crowd cheered.

“I
think we should split up,” Thomas told Conor. “I’ll stay near the stage. You keep an eye on the back.”

Conor held on to his father’s elbow. “No, please,” he urged. “Let’s stay together.”

“Okay, son,” Thomas said, gently. “We’ll work together. But we must think. Where could he be?”

Conor urgently searched the crowd. Faces were hard to distinguish, all covered up from the cold. He searched desperately for an
idea, a scent, a clue. D’Arcy McGee had told him that the secret to winning a debate was to put yourself into the mind of your opponent. What was it he said? “Try to understand the heart of your foe.” So what would he do if he were the assassin? It would be suicidal to kill Sir John down here. There are too many policemen, the crowd too large; he’d never get away. He might be a maniac, but he has a gift for self-preservation.

“Father,” Conor asked, “is Macdonald going to go down the slide?”

“Yes. He and the governor general will be the first to go down it.”

Conor watched the prime minister on the stage. He was now talking about a railway to the Pacific, and warming to the subject.

Yes, Conor was sure of it. “He’s up top,” he said.

“What?” Thomas asked.

Conor took his father by the shoulders. “He’s waiting to kill the prime minister at the top of the hill.”

MEG
first went to her mother’s old boarding house. She wondered whether Conor would be there. There was a
FOR RENT
sign in the window. Mr. Desbarats would know what was happening. She knocked on the door at the Queen’s printer’s next door, but no one was there. Across the street, Mrs. McKenna said there was a large gathering at the governor general’s mansion for the opening of a toboggan slide.

A toboggan slide.
This is a strange town, she thought.

She headed toward Rideau Hall. Conor would be there, she figured. She wondered whom else she might see.

T
he toboggan slide was an impressive wooden structure built on stilts up the hill. Tobogganing had been part of winter life at Rideau Hall for years, but the hill on the viceregal property was fairly gentle. The new wooden slide added steepness. This would be the fastest and most thrilling run in the city.

No one could see him huddled at the top of the wooden steps, hidden in the scaffolding. It had been easy. The lone policeman guarding the top of the slide was now his lifeless companion. He had spent the night up here in the dark, sharpening his knife, inspecting his revolver and thinking about the morning. The cold didn’t bother him. He was warmed by the excitement of the hunt, anticipating the next kill.

He couldn’t see what was happening down below, and he didn’t risk looking. His time would come. He was crouched so low that he had no idea Thomas and Conor O’Dea were climbing up the path toward him.

ON
the platform at the bottom of the hill, Sir John A. Macdonald’s speech was over. Lord Lisgar was telling the crowd that he and the prime minister were going to go down the slide together. “To make
sure it’s safe for everyone else,” Macdonald interjected. The dignitaries started up the wooden steps, watched and guarded by policemen. Sir John hung close to McMicken. He felt like going down a toboggan run about as much as he felt like … well, like being used as bait.

Thomas and Conor were well ahead of them, off the path, out of people’s sight, trudging through the heavy snow. The steady climb was painful for Thomas. His shoulder ached, but he never complained. They searched along the way for the assassin, for some shape hidden behind a tree, skulking on the other side of a rock—something, anything. They saw nothing.

The platform at the top looked like the scaffolding James Whelan had recently climbed. The sight of it made Conor wince. But he was certain. “He’s up there,” Conor said. “I know it.”

At the top of the hill, just below the platform, Thomas O’Dea assessed the situation. If there was someone up there, he and Conor would be easy targets if they climbed the steps. They would have to stay out of sight and scale the wooden grid work to get to the top. They had time. It should take the politicians a while to get up the hill.

Thomas whispered, “I’ll climb up this side. You start from over there.” Seeing Conor’s dread, he added, “I’ll go first.”

Thomas quietly started to climb up the grid work to the right of the slide. Conor followed from the other side, slowing his climb to stay in step with his father. Thomas’s shoulder slowed him down, and every few rungs his back stiffened, requiring him to rest. But he knew they had to hurry; the politicians were climbing the hill. Fortunately, the structure was stable and their footing was secure.

Governor General Lisgar quickened his pace, bracing himself against the cold in his light jacket. Luckily, Macdonald was dawdling and glad-handing along the way.

A sharp pain flashed through Thomas’s back. He faltered and grunted softly.

THE
assassin sensed something. He thought he had heard whispering coming from the right side of the slide. Now there was a vibration and a strange sound. Someone must be near, maybe inside the woodwork. He quickly decided gunfire would make too much noise. He crouched low, holding his knife up, about to strike as the intruder—whoever he was—came up the last rung.

MEG
had never before been on the grounds of the governor general’s residence. She was impressed. She looked up at the toboggan run and decided it was not for her. Conor was probably in the thick of the crowd, where the action was. She could wait.

She went over to the carriages and patted one of the mares. She tried chatting with the man tending to the horses, but he was sullen and withdrawn. Patrick Buckley told her to move on. She was near the front gates. There was no other way out, so she would see Conor when he left.

THOMAS
mouthed, “Three, two, one …” and they burst to the top together. The assassin was waiting for Thomas, but he wasn’t prepared for an attack from both sides. Before he could lurch at Thomas, he saw Conor. He hesitated, confused. His legs were stiff from the night, and he moved more slowly than he wanted. Thomas avoided the thrust of his knife, and Conor grabbed him from behind, spinning him around. He sliced at Conor and struck his right arm. Thomas pushed the assassin as best he could with his one good shoulder and fumbled for his gun. They tried to pin him down. But they couldn’t. The assassin glared at Conor—a look of pure hatred—and squirmed away like a fish. He jumped onto the toboggan and pushed off down the slide.

A dead policeman was draped over the edge of the second toboggan. Conor gagged as Thomas pushed the corpse aside. “Come on, son,” he cried. They grabbed the other toboggan and followed the assassin down the slide.

“WHAT
on earth is that?” the governor general asked as he watched the two toboggans on the track. Macdonald had an idea, but he answered, “I guess someone decided to beat us to the punch.” He turned to McMicken and asked, quietly, “Your people?” McMicken shook his head.

MEG
had not heard the commotion. In fact, most of the people who had gathered around the slide paid little attention to the two toboggans plunging down ahead of the prime minister. They thought it was just someone checking everything out.

At the bottom of the track, the assassin jumped from the toboggan and ran toward the gates. His plan was in ruins. Macdonald was halfway up the hill. He couldn’t get to him. The bastard was safe.

He needed a horse. He saw Patrick Buckley tending to a horse-drawn sleigh. “Get out of my way,” he yelled, pushing Buckley aside.

And he could use a hostage, some protection. He thought of Buckley, but he looked too big and burly, and he might be armed. Then he saw her: a girl in a bushy hat languishing behind the crowd, near the entrance. She looked vaguely familiar, but he didn’t have time to think of where he might have seen her. He grabbed her, jammed his gun under her chin and pulled her onto the sleigh. He took the whip and thrashed at the horse. They took off together: the assassin and Meg Trotter, racing through the snow- and ice-covered street.

THOMAS
and Conor leaped out of their toboggan and chased the murderer through the crowd. Thomas couldn’t keep up. He threw Conor the policeman’s revolver and fell back, exhausted. Conor pushed ahead. He had lost all sense of fear. It was if he had assumed his father’s strength and courage. Memories of D’Arcy McGee lying on Sparks Street, of James Whelan on the scaffold, of a policeman’s bloodied corpse—all spurred him on. He ran faster than he knew he could.