Sowing Poison (5 page)

“Now, Horatio,” his mother admonished. “Be thankful for what there is.”

“I'm sorry there are no other dishes,” Lewis explained. “I'll fetch a bowl of pickle to round this out and we'll do better tonight, all right? We've had a bit of an upset this morning. My sister has fallen and broken her leg rather badly, I'm afraid.”

“I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble,” Clementine said. “It's just that Horatio is so delicate, his digestion is easily upset. I do hope that your sister isn't in too much pain.” She smiled, and just for a moment Lewis could understand why the men scrambled so to tip their hats. Then the smile left her face and he was left wondering if his eyes had deceived him, for in repose her face was hard.

When he returned with a bowlful of pickled cabbage, he noted that Horatio appeared to have finished eating, having consumed nothing but a few spoonfuls of the potatoes. He removed the boy's plate without comment, even though the waste of good food aggravated him. Ah, well, they pay for it anyway, don't they, he thought, and the pigs will eat it up well enough.

Lewis had finished scrubbing the pots by the time Dr. Keough arrived to confirm what they already knew — Susannah's leg was broken in two places.

“I need you to hold her down while I set it,” he told Lewis and Daniel. “And you, ma'am.” He nodded to Mrs. Sprung. “Perhaps you could grasp her foot, just so.”

“I … well … all right,” she said tentatively. “I guess I could.” She looked most alarmed at the prospect.

Keough knew his business well and it was only a short time before he announced that he was satisfied with the alignment. He fixed two wooden splints to the leg and wound it around with heavy bandaging to hold them in place.

“Fortunately, the bone didn't puncture the skin,” he said. “It should heal without difficulty, although she may have a bit of a limp for the rest of her life.” He sighed. “What a morning.”

“Would you have tea?” Lewis asked, and the doctor gratefully accepted his offer. Mrs. Sprung declined. “I must go,” she said. “I've been gone too long now.”

So she did have somewhere she needed to be
, Lewis thought. “Well, thank you for all your help.”

“I don't believe we've been introduced,” she said. “I'm Mrs. Sprung. I do know that you're Mr. Lewis, though. You're the man who caught the murderer.”

“Yes, that was me,” he said. It wasn't a reputation that he welcomed, but it was one that seemed to follow him around. “Again, thank you for your help, Mrs. Sprung.” She smiled and made her own way to the front door, and he was relieved that she didn't, like so many people, pry into the details of his pursuit of Isaac Simms.

The doctor was full of news as he drank his tea. The Donovan boy would recover from his head wound, although, as he pointed out, “You can never tell with these things. He may be a little odd as the result of it.”

There had been numerous sprained ankles — less dire outcomes of spills on the ice than Susannah's. Mr. Harry, the headstone carver, had sliced open his hand when he attempted to free his front door with one of his own chisels; and Sarah Bowerman had taken a bad fall, an incident that caused some alarm as she was in the family way again. Thankfully, it appeared that no harm had been done.

“Minor stuff, fortunately,” the doctor said. “Most of the damage appears to have occurred elsewhere. There were several ships damaged, I hear, and the
Anthea
hasn't been heard from. She was due in at Picton last night. We can only hope she found safe anchorage somewhere, or better yet, didn't set out at all. I would hate to have been out on the lake in all that.”

“Were there any local men on the ship?”

“Oh, yes. Peter Spencer's brother is the captain, and his sister is the cook. I'm not sure where all the crew was from, but they may have picked them up in Oswego for a last run.”

A great number of the shipwrecks that occurred on the Great Lakes happened in November. Fall was a time when sudden storms swept seemingly out of nowhere, like the one of the previous night. Deciding when to end the shipping season was a perilous gamble for the shipowners and captains, and there were always a few who were willing to bet that they could get “one last run” in before laying the ships up for the winter. All too often, the last run of the season ended up being the last run
forever
.

The Spencer family was Methodist, Lewis knew, as he remembered having seen them at several meetings. Not that that should make any difference, really, but normally he would have gone to the family to offer whatever comfort he could. But as a result of Susannah's mishap, he would now have too much to do at the hotel, and he set about doing it as soon as the doctor had finished his tea and gone on his way.

Betsy received the news of her sister-in-law's accident with dismay. “How are we ever going to manage?” she asked. “Surely, you and Daniel can't do it all.”

“I know. I'll try to help as much as I can, and we can certainly keep things going for a few days, but I don't know what will happen after that. Daniel's not much help at the best of times, and neither of us knows our way around a kitchen.”

“Is there anything I can do? This latest bout seems to have passed, and I'm feeling much better.”

Lewis looked at her face, still pale, and with traces of the pinched look it got when she was unwell.

“No, I don't think you should try to do too much. You'll just get sick again. I wonder, though, if it might be a help if you could spend part of the day sitting with Susannah. It might save Daniel some steps if he doesn't have to run back and forth, and she's sure to be happier with a woman there to see to her needs.”

“Of course.”

“And Martha can lend a hand. She's old enough to run errands and do a little sweeping.”

He had to laugh a little at the look on Betsy's face. The little girl was quite willing to turn her hand to whatever she was asked to do, and he knew that she was a real help to Betsy when he wasn't there, but when he was at home he often stopped her in mid-task and sent her out to play instead. “They grow up too fast as it is,” was his reply when Betsy protested. “Let her be a little girl.”

He knew this was spoiling her, but he couldn't help himself. Her mother had been his favourite child, and her premature death at the hands of a murderer had nearly destroyed him. That he himself had brought the murderer to justice had allowed him to close the door on his mourning, but the fact that the killer had nearly taken Martha as well was almost more than he could bear to think about, and it coloured his dealings with his granddaughter.

Betsy and Martha walked across the yard to the hotel with him. The warmer temperatures and the bright sunlight had softened much of the ice. The patches of roadway that had seen the heaviest morning traffic had cleared entirely. By picking their way carefully, they could find secure footing. Even so, Lewis kept a firm grip on Betsy's arm and Betsy on Martha's.

Daniel looked relieved when they arrived, as did Susannah when she realized that Betsy would be there to keep her company. “Yes, yes, much the best solution,” she said.

Martha was sent to the bakery to fetch some bread for the evening meal. Supper was always a much simpler affair than dinner, with the leftovers from the noon meal serving as the main course, rounded out with a good soup and a pudding; except that today there were no leftovers from the poor meal they had served up at noon. There were, however, two apple pies that Susannah had prepared that morning, which only needed to go into the oven. That would do for dessert, and they could put some cheese with each slice, as well.

Surely, Lewis thought, he and Daniel could manage to fry some chops and potatoes and boil up some carrots or turnip. With a generous serving of bakery bread and a selection of the pickled vegetables that Susannah had done down that fall, it would be an adequate menu for a supper.
It's better than what I gave them for dinner, anyway
, Lewis thought. He resigned himself to the fact that in the next few weeks he would undoubtedly be forced to learn far more about what went on in a kitchen than he had ever wanted to know.

The following day was a Sunday and Betsy helped them spit a nice piece of beef for dinner. Then she and Lewis and Martha walked to the Methodist meeting, leaving Daniel with strict instructions regarding the importance of frequent basting.

The Elliotts had retired to their rooms after breakfast and had not re-emerged since, which surprised Lewis a little. Clementine had gone to great pains to acquaint herself with the inhabitants of the village, and Lewis had assumed that she would consolidate this beachhead by making an appearance at one of the Sunday services. Perhaps there was no church of her persuasion here, although there were plenty enough to choose from — his own Methodists, the Presbyterians, the Anglicans, and even the Roman Catholics, who presided over not only a church but a boarding school that housed nearly a hundred students.

This school existed largely due to the efforts of one Archibald McFaul. McFaul had arrived from Ireland as a penniless boy and through intelligence and industry, had risen to become one of the most successful businessmen in Wellington and a leader in the community. His success had been shouted to the world when he built a large brick house on a knoll overlooking the lake. It was an extraordinary building, grandly constructed with stone lintels, four large chimneys, and elegant French doors that graced the façade. McFaul had dubbed it “Tara Hall” in honour of his Irish origins.

It was McFaul who was in a large part responsible for the lively Catholic presence in Wellington. As soon as he had been able to afford it, he had fetched a priest from Ireland to establish a church and a school. And then, a few short years later, he turned his graceful house over to the priests. There were differing motives ascribed to this astounding gift — some said it was McFaul's sense of piety that was responsible. Others claimed that his extensive enterprises, in particular his far-flung shipping business, had suffered heavy losses and that he could no longer afford to maintain the massive home. Whatever the reason, the gesture had only elevated McFaul's status within the community. The church elected to use Tara Hall as a boarding school, and soon Catholic families across the province were sending their offspring, boys and girls alike, to be educated in Wellington. On Sundays, these pupils traipsed along to the wooden church that had been built behind the school.

If Lewis had been forced to guess, he might have expected Mrs. Elliott to attend this church. For some reason he had a vague notion that there were many Catholics in the southern states. But there were many other denominations, as well, and he supposed it wouldn't be surprising if Mrs. Elliott belonged to one that was peculiar to that part of the country, and therefore declined to attend services here.

It was not really any of his business what the hotel guests did, he reminded himself. The Elliotts could honour the day in any way they thought fitting.

When Lewis and his family arrived at the Methodist meeting house there was a knot of people on the sidewalk passing the time of day before they went in. All of the conversation was about the ice storm and the damage that had been done. Of particular interest was the fate of the missing
Anthea
.

“We can only hope they read the weather signs before they left Oswego,” said Alonzo Jones, who had fished the waters of Lake Ontario nearly all his life. “If they were out in the lake, they'd have been in trouble with all that ice on their sails. Their only chance would be to steer for Main Duck.”

Main Duck was one of the islands that stretched across the eastern end of Lake Ontario. Situated almost exactly halfway across, just outside American waters, it often served as a haven for ships in trouble. The island was used as a fishermen's base in the summer, but the owner grazed livestock, as well, and there would be a man or two left there all winter to see to the cattle. In a violent storm, a ship's captain might well make for Main Duck, sure of a safe anchorage for his vessel and food and shelter for his crew.

“Peter Spencer is beside himself,” Jones said, “with his brother and his sister both on board. He's always claimed there's no storm on the face of the earth that Matt Spencer can't sail through, but I don't know — with the ice coming down so fast the way it did, I don't know how any ship would survive. In spite of what he says, Peter's worried all right. You can tell just by looking at him.”

“Well, we'll just have to pray that the
Anthea
never left port,” Lewis said. And with the rest of the faithful Methodists, he entered the meeting house and did exactly that.

When they returned to Temperance House after the service, the roast was a little burnt on the outside, and Daniel had forgotten about making any gravy, but in a few minutes Betsy had set everything right and they served up an excellent Sunday dinner.

At mid-morning the next day Clementine Elliott steeled herself to enter the dry goods store. When she had first started making the rounds of the village shops, she had always made a point of making a small purchase or two, often lingering over her choices for an hour or more. She had soon zeroed in on Scully's store as one of the hubs of conversation in Wellington, especially for the women.

Nearly everyone who came into the store would pass a pleasant word with Mr. Scully, who would inquire as to the health of his customer and his customer's family, but it was his daughter Meribeth, the dressmaker, who always took the inquiry farther, following up with questions regarding neighbours, acquaintances, and far-flung relations. She had a prodigious memory for the details of family connections and, in particular, the history of disputes and disagreements between them.

Having a dressmaker right in the store was a good business practice for Mr. Scully. Meribeth often commented on which qualities of cotton or bombazine would be appropriate for which style, and which colour would most suit the customer — although black and brown remained the most respectable colours for married women. She made suggestions regarding how each item should be trimmed, whether with ribbon or lace, and which styles were currently in fashion in London or New York. Many customers felt uncomfortable with taking the cloth away to sew themselves, or to another dressmaker when Meribeth had been so helpful in its selection, and so they would contract with her to cut and assemble the article, as well, doubling the profits for Scully, for every penny made was put into the store account, and few coins found their way back to Meribeth.

This was only fair as far as Scully was concerned, for he knew that he would be responsible for his daughter's keep as long as he lived. There was no point in setting aside a dowry for Meribeth. No man was ever likely to come courting her, for she had been born with a twisted spine, a malformation that had killed her mother in the birthing. The fact that the child had survived at all was a shock to everyone, and for a time Scully had hoped that the deformity would correct itself as she grew older. Instead, it grew worse, and her corkscrew back bent her over at the waist, so that she had to tip her head up and sideways in order to meet anyone's eye.

Her father had decided to put her to work, teaching her the intricacies of cutting cloth and of making fine, even stitches. She had shown a surprising aptitude for tailoring, and an ironic interest in the latest fashion. Her willingness to share her expertise made her popular with Scully's female customers, particularly the young girls. They listened to Meribeth's advice, for they knew that there was no element of competition in her suggestions. She would not ever lure away the young men they had their eyes set on.

Meribeth whiled away the tedious hours she spent with a needle in her hand by tracking her neighbours' business. She heard every item of news and piece of gossip that passed through Wellington's lively and extensive grapevine, and mentally fit it into the giant jigsaw puzzle of events and personalities that comprised the village's social life. She shared her knowledge with whoever came into the store, for the passing on of one item would often prompt the offer of another.

She had been aware of the arrival of the exotic Mrs. Elliott almost immediately. Bella MacDonald had been passing Temperance House as Clementine alit from the wagon, and after taking careful note of her cloak and hat, had scurried to Scully's to report their cut and colour to Meribeth, in the hopes that she might be able to copy it. Bella was to be married the following year, and was busy assembling her trousseau.

Meribeth was intrigued, and hoped that Mrs. Elliott would soon grace the shop. She had the latest available patterns, of course, and kept herself as up-to-date as possible with new trends in dresses and hats, but styles took a long time to work their way across the ocean from London and Paris, and often she had only written descriptions or drawings to guide her. Actually being able to examine a stylish outfit firsthand would help her immeasurably — she would be able to see how the cloth was cut and inspect the details of how it was assembled.

When Clementine first entered the store, she had very graciously removed her cloak and hat and allowed Meribeth to look them over carefully while she made a show of inspecting the bolts of cloth and spools of lace on offer. As far as Clementine was concerned, these were of poor quality. Eventually she had purchased a small packet of pins, just for the sake of buying something, but by then she had listened to a full half-hour of the dressmaker's prattle.

She had been able to formulate a very clear picture of the village just by listening. She knew not only who was angry with whom, which village men were drunks, and which had an eye for the girls, but also who had suffered a loss, who was grieving, who was expecting a child. The next day she returned with a magazine, a newer one than Meribeth had seen, that had a number of drawings of the necklines currently fashionable for evening wear in New York. From then on, it seemed natural and easy to drop in every day.

Clementine knew that she had caused a sensation in Wellington and that the women remarked on her fashionable clothes, while the men remarked on her. It was not difficult to impress these villagers, she thought, stuck as they were in such a backwater place. She also knew that her regular appearances at the dry goods store had elevated Meribeth's status by the mere fact of association, and some of the village women who had previously not frequented the store, now began dropping by in the afternoon just on the off-chance that they might get a peek at Mrs. Elliott's clothes. Mr. Scully was delighted; for it meant that each of these women could be counted on to purchase at least some small item. And each time, in the course of conversation, they would impart a bit of news that Meribeth would happily repeat to anyone who would listen.

Until now, Clementine had simply let the little dressmaker chatter away, taking the information as it came, tedious though that had been. Now she judged that it was time to start directing the conversation into specific areas of interest. She took a deep breath, mounted the steps, and opened the door.

Mr. Scully beamed when he saw her. “Mrs. Elliott! How grand to see you. And how are we today?”

“Good day, Mr. Scully, I hope things are well with you.”

“Never better, never better,” he replied, bowing slightly as he did so. “And what could we do for you this afternoon?”

She had no chance to answer as Meribeth bustled over from her corner.

“Mrs. Elliott, how wonderful to see you,” she said. “My goodness me, I've just started the rosettes on Bella MacDonald's bodice. You're not in such a hurry that you couldn't take a look at them for me, are you?”

“Well.” Clementine made a show of hesitation, then began peeling off her gloves. “Perhaps I could take a quick look.”

Meribeth was full of the usual inconsequential details of village life. Sarah Bowerman was still resting, apparently, after her fall on the ice, but it looked as though it had done her unborn child no harm. The Presbyterians had still not collected enough money to begin building a church, in spite of a concerted subscription drive. The Carrs were still struggling after the death of Mr. Carr, although Martin was working at the sawmill and taking his entire pay home to his mother.

“I hear there is great concern about the missing ship,” Clementine said when the dressmaker stopped to draw a breath.

“Oh, my goodness, that's a terrible thing! We can only hope they'll turn up safe and sound. It's happened before, you know, a ship caught in a storm and presumed lost, and then some time later you find out that everything is fine. It's worrisome, though.”

“How long will it be before we know for certain?”

“Sometimes you never find out,” Meribeth said. “It's a peculiar thing. Sometimes the lake never returns the wreckage, especially if the ship went down where the lake is deep. Other times, weeks might go by and then a body might be discovered on a shore far distant from where anyone would expect. Then again, it might be thrown up in front of the victim's own home. There's no accounting for what could happen, and all anybody can do is pray and wait.”

“That's assuming that the ship was wrecked in the first place,” Clementine pointed out.

“Oh, my yes, the best news possible would be that they stayed snug in port somewhere. Even then, it might take some time before they felt it safe to set out again. You just never know about these things.”

“They tell me the captain is a local man.”

“Matt Spencer, yes, and his sister is the cook.” And at that Meribeth settled in to relate everything she knew about the Spencer family.

Lewis was at a loss to explain why Mrs. Sprung kept returning to the hotel, but each morning since her first visit she had walked through the front door just before nine o'clock. Now that she knew where the Elliott rooms were, he simply nodded a good morning to her and waved her up the stairs. During the course of the morning he would hear various rappings and thumpings from upstairs, and then Mrs. Sprung would depart again a couple of hours later, clutching a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.