Don Gutteridge - The Widow's Demise

“I’ll help you,” Marc said.

“We was hopin’ you boys would come home toour place for a little . . . ah, supper,” said Glenna.

“Help me wake these fellas up,” Crow said toMarc.

“You got transportation?” Marc said.

“That’s our hay-wagon out front.”

“You won’t get far in that,” Marc said. “Theleft real wheel is off it.”

“Oh, my God,” said Crow.

“What about us?” Gert said.

“Sorry, but we gotta go,” Crow said, shakingPowell, who had slumped face-down on the table.

“I’ll see if Murphy has a carriage to let,”Marc said. “You get your friends awake and upright.” Marc brushedby the two women and found Murphy behind the bar.

“You got a carriage or wagon for hire?” Marcsaid.

“I’ve got an old broken down barouche and ateam,” Murphy said. “It’ll cost you money.”

“I’ll just need it for an hour,” Marcsaid.

“Five dollars,” Murphy said, whose supportfor Reform only went so far.

Marc gave him the money.

Ten minutes later, Green and Powell weredozing in the back of the barouche, which had had its roof torn offand its seats ravaged by mice. A stableboy was hitching up amismatched team of drays.

“Look after the Percherons hitched to thathay-wagon,” Marc said to the stableboy. “And see if you can findsomeone to put that wheel back onto it. There’s a shilling in itfor you if you can.”

“They’ve fallen asleep again,” Crow said indisgust.

“Don’t worry. We’ll wake them when we get tothe poll,” Marc said. He hitched his own horse to the back of thebarouche, and cracked the reins over the horses’ ears. The barouchemoved forward – south towards Danby’s Crossing. The two women stoodin the doorway, watching them go. Behind them was D’ArcyRutherford. He wasn’t smiling.

***

It was five minutes to six when Marc pulled up tothe rail outside Danby’s Inn. All three farmers were now awake -pale and sickly looking, and unsteady on their pins. Marc helpedeach one out of the carriage.

“Now, fellows, get in there and vote.”

The farmers tottered into the foyer, wherethe returning officer was standing behind his table with hispoll-book open and his watch in his hand. He looked startled at thelast-minute arrivals.

“We’ve come to vote,” said Green.

And one by one they opted for the Reformparty. The final count was Arthur Dingman: 260; Louis LaFontaine:263.

The celebration of Louis LaFontaine’s victory washeartfelt but muted. Gilles Gagnon’s trial was to begin on Monday.The principal parties and a few other well-wishers congregated inthe generous parlour of Baldwin House. Louis gave a speech ofthanks that moved his audience.

“I owe a debt of gratitude to Robert Baldwinhere that I can never repay, whose generosity and dedication to ourmutual cause are legend in Canada West. The importance of thisvictory today cannot be exaggerated. For I have been elected in anEnglish-speaking riding entirely by English speakers. I – a rebeland a Catholic and a Frenchman. This will send a message to my homeprovince that French and English can collaborate, can be united ina single cause: the quest for justice in a responsible government.I look forward to serving beside Robert in the new Legislature.And, as a result of my staying here in Canada West for almost amonth, my English has improved, if ever so slightly.”

Louis gave a smile as applause rained downupon him. Robert spoke next.

“This moment is a significant one in ourhistory. Louis and I intend to create a Reform administration,sooner rather than later. The immediate future may look uncertain -with the proroging of Parliament due to the grave state of healthof our Governor – but the long term looks sanguine indeed. Any newgovernor will be compelled to accept the status quo and the gainswe have already made. Gentlemen, the future is ours.”

The gathering broke up at midnight, Marchaving excused himself an hour earlier to get a good night’ssleep.

***

A great deal of care and money had been put into theconstruction of the Court House and its matching neighbour, thejail. The interior was as austere as it was magnificent. It was allpolished oak and filigreed plaster. The high bench gleamed downupon the side-galleries and lawyer’s lecterns with impressivemajesty. Behind the attorneys’ seats were several rows of pews forthe VIPs. Monday morning was taken up with jury selection. By twoo’clock in the afternoon the trial was ready to begin.

It was in the robing room that Marcdiscovered who his adversary would be: Sheldon McBride. McBride wasas rotund as he was orotund, a short, bejowled man with a fullwhite beard and bushy eyebrows. In his flamboyant wig and flowingrobe he looked like an ageing tragedian or Moses on the Mount. Marcknew the fellow’s reputation for histrionics and fulminations, andrespected him for it. But he welcomed the challenge. Cobb hadprovided him with plenty of ammunition to take into the fray.

Once in the courtroom, which was packed, Marcglanced up at Beth in the side-gallery nearest him and then up atthe prisoner standing in the dock. The judge entered the courtroom,the indictment was read, and McBride, resplendent in his robes,rose to give the opening address to the jury. He outlined the caseas prime facie open and shut. The defendant had been discovered bya policeman moments after the fatal blow had been struck – acidtossed into the face of an innocent woman of stature in thecommunity, which caused her to fall and impale herself on a spike,resulting in her death. The charge was murder. The motive was rageat the rejection of the accused’s attentions to the lady. Witnesseswould be called to corroborate this contention. Moreover, theaccused had been caught red-handed with the empty vial of acid inhis hand and the victim’s scratches on his face. McBride sat down,well satisfied.

Marc was brief. He said the evidence wouldshow that someone other than the defendant committed the murder,seconds before the policeman arrived, and that there were otherswith stronger motives and opportunity to commit the crime.

McBride then called the Crown’s firstwitness: Dr. Angus Withers.

McBride leaned on his lectern and said, “Goodafternoon, Dr. Withers. Let me begin by asking you when you arrivedat the murder scene?”

“I got there, apparently, about fifteenminutes after Constable Wilkie came upon the scene,” Witherssaid.

“And what did you find, sir?”

“I found Constable Wilkie and ConstableRossiter standing near a woman’s body lying prone on the ground.Another man was sitting nearby. Constable Rossiter was keeping theonlookers back and Constable Cobb was keeping an eye on the seatedman.”

“Do you see that man in the courtroom?”

“I do. It was the prisoner in the dock.”

“Did you examine the body of the woman on theground?”

“I did. She was dead, recently dead. She waslying on her back. Her throat had been pierced by a sharpobject.”

“And could you identify that object?”

“Yes. There was blood on one of the sharpspikes that constituted the low fence around the front lawn ofRosewood.”

“You know the house?”

“Everybody does. And I recognized the womanimmediately as Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, an occupant of Rosewood andwidowed daughter of the Attorney-General.”

“What else, besides the gash on the throat,did you notice about the body?”

“The cheeks and lower jaw had been singed oreaten away by what could only have been acid thrown in herface.”

This brought a murmuring from thegalleries.

“Could that have been the cause ofdeath?”

“No. While infinitely painful, it would nothave killed her.”

“Were you able to determine the type ofacid?”