Sowing Poison (6 page)

That morning he had just finished scrubbing the last of the breakfast dishes when the front door opened. He assumed it was Mrs. Sprung again, and it wasn't until he heard someone clearing his throat that he realized it wasn't. It was a ruddy-faced man who looked vaguely familiar to Lewis, but he couldn't quite come up with the name.

“I'm looking for Mrs. Nate Elliott,” he said, and his face reddened even more.

Lewis directed him up the stairs, and it was only later that he realized the man was Peter Spencer. This was an unwelcome realization. There could be only one reason that he would be visiting Clementine Elliott; he was hoping she could help him discover the fate of the missing
Anthea
.

Lewis went fuming back into the kitchen, wishing he could think of some way to get his brother-in-law to put his foot down in this matter.

Daniel had taken a cup of tea in to Susannah, relieving Betsy of her invalid-sitting duties for a few moments. Lewis had arrived back in the kitchen only just in time to stop his wife from peeling the mound of potatoes that were set out for the noonday meal.

“I'll do those later if Daniel doesn't get to them,” he said, although he sincerely hoped that this wouldn't be necessary. “Come and sit down for a minute. There's something I want to discuss with you.”

She looked puzzled, but obligingly settled herself down at the kitchen table.

“It's not your hotel,” she pointed out, when he outlined his concerns about the activities taking place in the upstairs room. “It's Daniel's place to stop it if he thinks it's wrong, but he has no qualms about it at all.”

“That's because Mrs. Elliott has bewitched him,” Lewis grumbled.

“No, it's because Mrs. Elliott is a paying customer. Enough people turn away because there's no drink here. If Daniel starts questioning everyone's business, he won't have any customers at all. It's bad enough the way he keeps pestering poor Mr. Gilmour.”

“You don't think it's some sort of witchcraft or something?”

“Of course it isn't. We can't communicate with the dead. You know that as well as I do, Thaddeus. There's no doubt in my mind that there's some sort of jiggery-pokery going on, but I honestly don't see what you can do about it. If she was asked to leave, she would no doubt simply move down the street to the other inn, or operate from the Elliott farm, and in the meantime you would have deprived Daniel and Susannah of most of their current income. I know it seems wrong, but I don't think it's wrong enough to make a fuss over.”

As usual, Betsy's opinion was one of good sense, but he kept an eye on the hall after that. Within an hour, Peter Spencer came down the stairs with a satisfied look on his face.

“I knew it,” he said to Lewis. “I knew there was no chance that Matt could ever drown. He was born with a caul, you know.”

There was a persistent opinion that babies born with a caul were impervious to death by drowning, that somehow the birth membrane protected them from a watery death. Lewis subscribed to no such notion, but he was reluctant to snatch away whatever hope this man held.

“You'll see,” Spencer said. “They'll turn up. Mrs. Elliott said they were happy where they were, and she thought they might be near an island. They were on their way from Oswego, you see, so an island makes sense. They probably put in at Main Duck and can't get away again.”

If that were the case, if the crew was indeed comfortably housed in one of the cottages on the island, they might well take a few days to ensure that the weather was fair enough to continue. In the meantime, it would be impossible for them to notify their relatives of what had happened. Similarly, if they had never left Oswego at all, they could bring news of their own fates as quickly as anyone else. If Spencer and Mrs. Elliott were right, it was not surprising that no news had reached their ears. Lewis could only hope Peter Spencer's optimism was not ill-conceived.

“We can only pray that this is the case,” Lewis said, and Spencer appeared satisfied enough with this half-hearted response.

Since his arrival, Martha had been intrigued by the pale boy who was staying at the hotel. The only time she saw him was when he appeared for meals with his mother. He would sit at the table across from her and pick half-heartedly at the food that was placed in front of him, occasionally wrinkling his nose in disgust at a particularly fatty piece of meat or an underdone crust. His mother would chide him gently, but this admonishment was never enough to make him eat more than a few mouthfuls.

He didn't go to school. Martha had started classes in the fall and her excitement at going off to the schoolhouse down the street from where they lived had soon faded at exposure to the constant repetition of the alphabet and counting to one hundred every day. She could already read — her grandma had taught her — and in spite of the thrill of spending her days with the other children, she was too easily bored by the routine. She was mildly envious of the boy, Horatio, who had all of his days free to do as he pleased; he just didn't ever seem pleased to do much of anything, she thought, and she made it her mission to befriend him.

Martha was used to making friends wherever she went, but when they lived in Demorestville her customary playmate had been Henry Jessup, Minta and Seth's little boy, who lived in the half-house next to them. Henry was quite a bit younger, and although he had tried to keep up with whatever game Martha chose to invent, he was timid and clumsy and sometimes she became very impatient with him. After Grandpa moved them all to Uncle Daniel's hotel, Martha had missed Henry dreadfully. Although Horatio was older than Henry, and would probably not be as eager to do her bidding, Martha was determined to give him a try. So when school was done each day, she returned to Temperance House and offered to help with whatever she could manage, just so she might catch a glimpse of him. But he appeared not to notice her at all.

She wasn't sure how she should go about getting his attention, until fortune smiled on her endeavour. As Martha was walking home from school, her eye was caught by something shiny lying on the ground in front of the meeting house. It was a penny, probably destined for the collection plate when someone dropped it without noticing. She debated whether or not she should attempt to find its owner, but quickly rejected this notion; after all, the first person she asked was apt to say, “Yes, of course, that's mine,” whether it was or not, and then she would have to give it up.

She knew what her Grandpa would say. He would say that the penny had been meant for the church, and that was where it should go, but if she put it in the collection on Sunday her opportunity to win a new friend would be lost. Besides, what if it hadn't been meant for their own church, but for one of the others — perhaps the Presbyterians or the Catholics? Surely Grandpa wouldn't expect her to donate so willingly to his rivals. And with this rationalization, she felt that her conscience was in the clear.

So off she went to Henderson's store, where she figured Mrs. Henderson could be counted on to give her the best value for her money. After all, the Hendersons were Methodist, and Grandpa was a preacher, or at least he had been. Surely that should be worth an extra couple of candies in the bag.

She agonized over the selection, limited as it was. Eventually, she decided on lemon rocks and molasses candy. There were a few pieces of marchpane on the counter, which sorely tempted her for a time, but she could get a greater quantity if she chose the more common offerings. And sure enough, Mrs. Henderson added a few extra pieces to the pile on the counter before she bundled the candy up in a twist of paper so Martha wouldn't lose any on the way home.

“My goodness me,” she said as she packed the candy. “Aren't you a lucky girl to have a penny to spend.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Martha replied, but wisely decided to comment no further. She hoped Mrs. Henderson wouldn't mention the purchase to anyone. If either of her grandparents came to hear of it, she would have to explain, and she wasn't at all convinced that the conclusion she had reached over the ethical ownership of the penny would be endorsed by either of them.

She allowed herself only one of the lemon drops as she walked back to the hotel. When it had melted away in her mouth she was tempted to gobble the whole mess down at once. She didn't often get real
boughten
candy. She resisted the temptation, however, and after consideration of the best hiding places the hotel had to offer, she snuck down the stairs to the root cellar and put the twist of paper in the corner behind the apples, which were spread out on the wide shelves for winter storage.

Then she went to her Uncle Daniel to persuade him that she could help wait on tables.

“My goodness me, really?” Daniel said when she suggested it. “Well, aren't you just the best girl to help like that.” He gave her a hug and said they could see how it went.

Initially the boy continued to ignore her, although she sometimes caught him casting sidelong glances at her while she placed a plate or a glass of water in front of him. She began to talk to him whenever she was near, something that was quite a natural thing for her to do. Grandpa claimed that she chattered every moment she was awake, but he always smiled when he said it, so she didn't think it could be a bad thing. Eventually she appeared to wear the boy down with the sheer volume of words thrown in his direction.

“What's the matter? Didn't you like it?” she asked that evening as she cleared away his plate. There was a mound of food on it, and his knife looked as though it hadn't been used.

He shook his head.

“Want something nicer?”

“Like what?”

“Come out to the front stoop in a little while and I'll show you.” She was bursting with excitement at having finally coaxed a couple of words out of him, but she nevertheless sauntered out of the dining room as if she were unconcerned. She was quite proud of herself for this show of nonchalance.

She took the plate she was carrying to the scullery. Uncle Daniel was still busy in the kitchen, her grandfather was clearing the rest of the dishes from the dining room, and her grandmother was nowhere to be seen, although Martha was fairly sure she was sitting with Aunt Susannah. She was confident she had at least a half-hour or so before she would be called to her own supper, which would be eaten at the big pine table in the kitchen, so she scampered down the steps to the cellar to retrieve her loot, then slipped on her coat and went out the back door.

Horatio was waiting for her on the verandah.

Wordlessly, she held the candy out to him.

His eyes widened. “Where did you get this?”

“I bought it. You want some?”

“Yeah.” He took three pieces of molasses candy and crammed them into his mouth. “Wash or nay?” he asked.

“Pardon?” His mouth was so full she couldn't understand what he was saying. “What's a nay?”

He shoved the wad to one side of his mouth. “It's something a horse says.”

She was puzzled for a moment, until she understood the pun. She began to giggle. He began to laugh with her. At that point, Martha figured the friendship was established, so she reached for a lemon drop.

“I'm Martha. And you're Horatio, right?”

He made a face. “Yeah, Horatio. But you can call me Joe if you like.”

“Horatio Joe, that rhymes. How come you don't go to school?” Lemony saliva dripped down her chin as she spoke.

“Because I have to help Mama.”

That made sense to Martha. She often had to help her grandmother, especially on the days when she wasn't feeling well. She would have been happy to stay home and help her all the time. It was her grandfather who was insistent about her attending school every day.

“How much do you have to help?”

“Mostly in the mornings. She goes out in the afternoon.”

“Wanna go play tomorrow afternoon? When I'm done school.”

“Play what? I'm not going to play girl stuff.”

“Nah. I don't want to play girl stuff either. We could go down to the docks.”

Horatio appeared to consider this proposition. Martha hoped he didn't think she was too bossy. She didn't realize that he was so bored in the afternoons that he would have agreed to play anything, even if it did involve dolls. “All right,” he said finally. He helped himself to three of the lemon drops from the twist and Martha took a molasses candy.

“Martha! Supper!”

The call came from inside. No one had noticed that she'd gone out, but there was little chance that she would be able to slip back in without being seen. She wasn't worried about being outside with the boy; it was the candy that would be hard to explain. She looked longingly at the three candies left, but then she remembered that the whole point of the enterprise had been to win over Horatio.

“I've got to go,” she said. “See you tomorrow?”

He nodded.

“Here.” She thrust the paper twist into his hands and ran back inside.

Lewis was on his way to the bakery the next morning when he saw a knot of people in front of McFaul's store, the wheelwright Ed Fisher holding court at the centre of the crowd.

“They've been found!” he shouted as Lewis joined the group. “The ship foundered, but the crew made it to Main Duck! The captain of the
Cinderella Davy
saw the signal from the island and brought them in to Picton safe and sound. ”

This was news indeed, and in spite of the fact that myriad chores awaited him at the hotel, Lewis was prepared to take a few minutes to hear the details of the miraculous survival of the crew of the
Anthea
.

As had been feared, the ship had been caught on the open lake when the storm hit. Every surface of the vessel had soon been covered with a layer of ice. The cook, Jemima Spencer, had taken the wheel, as was the customary drill, while the crew took oars and beat at the sails in an attempt to free them from the stiffening shroud of ice. This effort had been enough to give them at least a little steerage way, but with so much ice on their canvas, Captain Spencer didn't dare try to ride out the storm in open water. It would only be a matter of time before a mast snapped and the ship was rendered helpless. Jemima steered for Main Duck, hoping to tuck the vessel into the lee of the island. After an exhausting struggle, she successfully piloted the vessel into Schoolhouse Bay. The captain hoped he could throw out his anchor and at least try to get his crew ashore.

The wind had continued to howl and heavy seas washed over the
Anthea
while the ice continued to rain down on them. The lifeboat was washed away by a huge wave as they attempted to launch it, and then an eddy wind parted the anchor chain. The ship struck hard against the rocks that lay near the shore, staving a great hole in the stern of the vessel. She began to take on water.

The crew's only hope was that someone on shore would see them and attempt a rescue. But night was falling fast, and Spencer knew that at this time of year there would be only a couple of men on the island and that their chores would have been completed long since. It was unlikely that they would venture out of doors again in such a storm, and even if they did, how would they ever see the ship? Against all odds, the first mate managed to keep a lantern burning, but the fuel soon ran low and the crew's spirits plummeted as it winked out.

Now in total darkness, they huddled at the bow of the ship as water continued to pour into her stern. Though they were only a hundred feet from shore, the heavy surf and blinding sleet made any attempt to reach it suicidal. They would have to wait until dawn.

As the first light brightened the eastern sky, Captain Spencer made his decision. He removed a hatch cover, tied a rope to it and threw it overboard. They would have to jump in after it one by one and hope to reach it before being swamped. The added buoyancy of the hatch might give them a chance to kick their way to shore. What would happen after that he had little idea, for he knew that his crew was cold, wet, and exhausted, and in all likelihood they would be unable to climb the high bank or walk far enough to reach a dwelling. The alternative was to stay where they were and hope that the ship held together against the buffeting of the waves and wind. His guess was that it would soon start to break up, and that they would be thrown into the water regardless, with no chance of survival.

Jemima jumped first. If she failed to reach the hatch, the captain would jump next and try to pull her to safety. She timed her jump well, however, and bobbed up to the surface a foot from the cover. The first mate followed, and he, too, jumped well. The sailor who leapt next was not so lucky. As his head came to the surface he was caught by a huge wave, which swept him away from his target.

At this point a miracle occurred. One of the caretakers of the island appeared on the shore in search of a steer that had wandered off. This man, taking the situation in at a glance, grabbed one of the large branches that had fallen in the storm and waded out into the frigid water. It was a close thing, but the very tip of it reached the struggling sailor. He was able to grasp it and was pulled to shore.

The branch was used to good effect for the others, as well, and with the boost in confidence that the promise of assistance gave them, the rest jumped to the cover, from where they could grab hold of the branch and be pulled in.

“The hardest part,” the captain was reported to have said, “was getting to the nearest house. We were so cold we could barely make our legs work.”

There they had stayed for the next three days, warm and fed, until a passing ship could be hailed to take them to the mainland.

After he had gathered all the pertinent details, Lewis continued on his way, relaying the welcome news to the baker and whatever customers were in his shop. They in turn passed the details on to whoever they met. It was all anyone could talk about, and Lewis heard the news discussed and dissected countless times over the course of the day. He was not at all surprised when Peter Spencer appeared at the hotel the following morning.

“I told you Matt could never drown,” he said with a grin, “and Jemima can steer a ship better than most men. I have to tell you, though, I despaired for a while there, but it was Mrs. Elliott who gave me heart when things looked so bleak. I've just come round to thank her for that.”

Clementine and Horatio were just finishing breakfast, but Clementine rose and came out to where they were standing.

“I can't thank you enough, ma'am,” Spencer said when he saw her. “You were right all along, although I don't know how you do it. Is there anything I can do for you in return?”

She smiled her cat-face at him. “We have only to listen to the spirits to learn the truth,” she said. “Their voices can help us to deal with the tribulations of this mortal life.”

“Still …” Spencer shuffled awkwardly, “it seems to me that the information you gave was worth a lot more than I paid you for it. It sits kind of uneasy, you know, and I'd like to put it right.”

“There is no need,” she said, still smiling. “I would freely share the wisdom of the afterlife with all who cared to hear, if only I were able. Alas, I am forced to ask for a small remuneration only to keep myself and my poor boy. Beyond that, I ask for nothing. Except, perhaps…” she paused and looked at Spencer squarely, “perhaps you could offer your friends and acquaintances some verification of my abilities.”

“Of course. Of course I will,” he said. “I'll tell everyone. And thank you again, ma'am. Thank you so much.”

Lewis happened to glance into the dining room as Spencer spoke. Horatio was sitting at the table with his chin in his hands, his elbows on the table, something his mother was constantly chiding him about. As Clementine asked for Spencer's aid in advertising her talents, her son rolled his eyes. Mr. Gilmour was listening, as well, and his eyes narrowed as Clementine made her pitch.