47 sorrows, p.1
47 Sorrows, page 1
47 SORROWS
A Thaddeus Lewis Mystery
Janet Kellough
For Catharine’s birthday
Chapter 1
Thaddeus Lewis was splitting kindling in the back dooryard of the Temperance Hotel when he heard the children screaming. They came howling up from the direction of the shore — his granddaughter Martha in front, holding her side as if she had a stitch in it. Behind her were the two Carpenter boys and Michael Donovan, who, although he was far bigger than any of the others, was slow, the general opinion being that he was slightly addled as the result of being struck on the head by a large oak branch which had fallen through his roof one stormy night. Little Rosie Carpenter, wailing like a banshee, trailed the others by thirty yards or so. Thaddeus paused in his chopping and stood waiting until Martha reached him.
“On … the … beach. That way.” She pointed with the hand that wasn’t clamped to her abdomen, and then flopped, gasping, onto the ground.
“It’s … a … monster,” panted one of the Carpenter twins. Thaddeus could never tell which one was which.
“No, a big frog,” said the other. He hadn’t run as fast, and so had a little more breath.
“Uh uh. Dragon,” said Michael.
Rosie had finally reached him, but she didn’t stop to say anything. She just continued to wail as she ran past him toward home.
“Where exactly did you find this monster?” Thaddeus asked.
“On down the shore …”
“Not very far …”
“Yes it was, it was a mile …”
“Down the lakeshore …”
Thaddeus silenced them with a hand. “Wait here.”
He walked across the yard to the hotel’s back door, but just as he reached it, it opened. Martha’s father, Francis Renwell, was there, a worried expression on his face.
“I heard screaming. What’s all the excitement?”
“The children say they found something strange down by the lake. You’d better come along.”
The Carpenter boys led the way, with Martha beside her father and Lewis and Michael a few steps behind. Fractured, irregular pieces of loose limestone and exposed tree roots made walking difficult along the shore. Thaddeus felt a familiar throb of pain in his knee as he stepped on a stone ledge that crumbled underfoot and caused him to slip sideways. As they rounded a bend in the shoreline, he could see a mob of birds — gulls, crows, and vultures — clustered around and on top of what looked like a mound of clothing. At the approach of the humans they shrieked and flapped out of the way.
It was obvious that there was no life left in the figure the birds had been picking at. The body was bloated, whether from being immersed in the water or from the natural gases that accumulate after death, Thaddeus had no way of knowing. He took only one quick look, then turned to Francis.
“Take the children back to the hotel, then go for the constable and the doctor. You’ll go faster than I could.”
He did his best to keep the birds from the corpse as he waited, but the crows, in particular, were persistent and sly. They darted in to peck away a morsel whenever they dared, then scrambled away, only to swoop down again a few moments later.
Judging from the tatters of clothing, this frightful figure had been a woman once. A cook aboard one of the lake boats perhaps? Or had some other disaster befallen her? It was no wonder the children had mistaken her for some sort of monster, Thaddeus thought. Her skin was a deep mottled burgundy, split in places, but he didn’t know whether this was from the grotesque swelling that had taken place or if some marine animal had fed on her. One eye was little more than an empty socket. He suspected that the birds were responsible for this — they always went for the soft parts first. Her tongue protruded obscenely as her remaining eye stared sightless at the sky. The Carpenter boy had been closest in his description of what they had found. She had a distinctly froglike appearance.
Francis must have run. It was only a few minutes before he returned with Constable Williams, though it seemed to Thaddeus that he had passed hours in the company of this macabre discovery.
“We’ll have to wait for the doctor, but there’s no question that she drowned,” the constable said. “I haven’t heard of any wrecks recently, but that doesn’t mean nothing. She could have fallen off a wharf or a small boat just as easily as not.”
After he arrived and had a chance to look at the body, Dr. Keough agreed with the constable’s assessment.
“Poor soul. It’s a dreadful way to die.” He unfolded a canvas tarpaulin he had brought to serve as a stretcher. They spread the canvas out beside the corpse.
“I’m thinking we should just roll her over, don’t you agree?” the constable asked. “If we try to lift her, she’s likely to just pull apart.”
Francis appeared reluctant to touch the body at all. He grabbed a piece of driftwood and poked it under her, levering the body up so the others could push her the rest of the way over. Lewis and the constable each grabbed a fistful of her skirts and hauled.
She must have been in the water for some time, long enough for the cloth to have weakened, for as they pulled, the fabric ripped and the body fell back down again with a soft whooshing sound. At the same moment a gust of wind lifted what was left of her skirts and blew them over her head.
They all gasped. In spite of the clothing, it was evident that this was not a woman after all. The wind had revealed that she was definitely and most unmistakably a he.
A drowning was no great novelty for the village of Wellington. Anyone who lived along the shore of Lake Ontario was familiar with the perils that attended the business of shipping, whether it was of goods or of people. Treacherous storms and shoals claimed many a ship, and the current could suck a body down to the lakebed, only to spit it up later in the most unlikely place.
What did have the people of the village talking, however, were the skirts and crinolines this body had been wearing when it washed ashore. A man masquerading as a woman was no common thing, especially not in the settled part of Canada West.
No clue as to the poor soul’s identity had been found either, and no local vessels had reported a passenger or crew member gone overboard. There had been no purse in his pocket, no papers that might indicate who he was or where he might have come from. Nothing but a frayed piece of green ribbon that might have come from any one of a thousand places.
“Unless somebody’s actively looking for him, I don’t see how we’ll ever know who he is,” the doctor grumbled, “especially if he’s an emigrant. The steamers are so overloaded, I’m not sure but that an entire boatload could go missing and no one would notice.”
“Surely they have passenger lists,” Lewis said. “Maybe we should check those.”
“The ships all have lists when they start out, though I’m told half the people lie about who they are anyway. And then so many of them die on the way over and so many more of them are held up in Quebec. By the time they get through all that and get aboard a boat that will bring them down this way, it’s a wonder they know who they are themselves. I expect it would be easy enough to lose track of a man, if someone was disinclined to be careful in the first place, and by all accounts there’s little care taken about anything in this whole sorry business.”
Canada had been warned to expect a heavy influx of emigrants this year. The potato crop in Europe had failed again after several seasons of failures. According to the newspapers, most of the population of the green country of Ireland lived on nothing but potatoes at the best of times, and this latest disaster had put them into a crisis. The ports were full, they said, with anyone who could scrape together the passage money, all frantic to get aboard a ship.
Canadian authorities, mindful of the epidemics of cholera that had arrived in previous years, had directed port city officials to inspect each emigrant to determine which of these unfortunate travellers should be quarantined and which was healthy enough to continue the journey up the St. Lawrence River to Lake Ontario and beyond. Those fortunate enough to pass this examination were piled aboard lake steamers and shunted along to the next port, where again they were sorted. If someone was determined to conceal his identity, there was plenty of opportunity for paperwork to go missing in all this chaos, and Thaddeus could think of no other reason why the drowned man would have assumed his disguise.
“I expect it’ll be up to us to bury this poor fellow,” the doctor said. “I’ll gladly donate the canvas we used to move him, and I suppose a couple of the local fellows might dig the grave, if asked.”
Thaddeus nodded. It was an indication of his advancing years, he supposed, that the doctor had not asked him to perform such heavy labour, and certainly he was grateful on behalf of his aching knee, but at the same time he was a little annoyed that his infirmities had become so evident to others. Never mind, let the younger men dig. He would stand by the graveside and say the words if no other minister could be prevailed upon to officiate. But they should do it soon, before the smell from the putrefying corpse got any worse.
Chapter 2
Luke Lewis’s backside had had more than enough of bouncing around on the seat of the mail wagon. He had been grateful when Benjamin Rumball offered him a ride down the long miles of the Huron Road to Galt. Otherwise Luke would had been faced with one of two equally daunting prospects — he could have walked the entire distance, or he could have asked his brother Moses for the use of the sway-back horse that was too old for plowing anymore. It would have been a plodding ride with the horse, who moved only a little faster than a walking pace a
However, news of Luke Lewis’s departure had spread surprisingly rapidly through the far-flung and sparsely populated settlement. He had pretty well resigned himself to shank’s mare by the time word had gotten around that he intended to go all the way south to Toronto, where he would board a passenger steamer and be carried along the shore of Lake Ontario and beyond. And it hadn’t been long before a solution had presented itself, or rather himself.
Luke had bumped into Benjamin Rumball at the general store in Clinton. “I hear you’re headed south,” Rumball said. “If you’ve no other way down the road, you can come with me. After all, I’m going anyways, and I’d be glad of some company along the way.”
Once a week, Rumball drove the Huron Road all the way from Goderich to Galt, collecting parcels and letters along the way. At Galt, he picked up whatever post was waiting and then he headed north again.
“I go all the time,” Rumball said, “so I don’t care which particular time you pick. Just meet me here in Clinton.”
Luke had immediately accepted the offer. It was far better than walking, certainly, and much better than riding the old horse, but Rumball’s wagon was singularly ill-sprung and Luke’s backside insufficiently padded to absorb the constant bouncing up and down on the rough wooden seat. Rumball, on the other hand, was shaped very like his name sounded, round and upholstered, and he seemed oblivious to the discomfort.
The road had not improved in the five years since Luke had travelled the opposite way in a wagon. He had been riding with his brother Moses then, and although he’d started the journey in a state of high excitement, he’d soon had the enthusiasm shaken out of him. By the time they had reached their destination — a tract of unsettled land that looked very much like all the other tracts of unsettled land they had just passed through — he had begun to realize the enormity of the adventure, and just how much work it was going to take before Moses’s choice of farmstead would begin to resemble anything like a farm.
They had thrown up a shanty as fast as they could, neither of them keen on staying any longer than was absolutely necessary with their older brother, Will, who was homesteading on the next lot. Will had a two-year head start, but with two of them to do the heavy work, they had soon caught up.
The heavily forested land had provided more opportunity than just farming for the Lewis boys. Soon after they settled on their lot, the Canada Company’s lands began to attract more settlers — just a trickle of them — from England and Scotland and Ireland, places where the trees had long since been chopped down and the lands turned into fields. These novice settlers had little idea how to proceed with a farm that was still wilderness. Luke found that he could make good coin as a chopper, and even Moses and Will abandoned their own work at times to help in the back-breaking work of cutting out small trees and brush and piling bigger logs into great heaps that could be safely burned. It was this labour that had provided Luke with the wherewithal for his current plans.
As the time approached for his departure, a number of his neighbours had besieged him with requests. It started with Jack Thompson two farms over, who asked if Luke could leave a message with a cousin whose farm was just a few miles down the road. This cousin had borrowed some harness months ago, Jack said, and now Jack needed it back. Luke thought this was a reasonable enough request and agreed that he could deliver the request “since he was going right by.”
Then Mrs. Jack asked him to drop off a parcel of baby clothes to her sister who was farmsteading with her husband farther south along the road. “Just leave them at the inn at Mitchell. She’s expecting her first come September,” she said. “It’s as easy for you to take them as it is for Jack to ride to Clinton and ask the mail.”
It also wouldn’t cost any money to have Luke carry them, he realized, but he didn’t voice this thought. He would have to hide the parcel from Rumball, otherwise the innkeeper might demand postage for it. But the Thompsons were good neighbours, and had done the Lewises many a favour, so Luke felt he should oblige.
Then Ezra Miller asked if Luke could stop by his father’s house in Galt and tell him to send his oldest boy north for the summer. The requests snowballed after that.
Almost everyone in the neighbourhood, it seemed, agreed that Luke was a far better choice of carrier than Benjamin Rumball, who was reliability itself with letters, but was apt to forget any verbal messages he was asked to pass on. Luke was charged with leaving news of engagements, announcements of births and deaths, and reports of the state of this year’s crops.
He had protested that he was merely going home for a visit, and hadn’t time to take care of all these things, but his neighbours, plus their neighbours (and, it seemed, everyone else within twenty miles), had pestered him until, in the end, he agreed that he would do his best to take care of their business along the way.
Luke had promised his brother that he would stay on the farm until the spring planting was completed. There was no point leaving before then anyway, Moses had pointed out, because the roads would still be a muddy morass from the spring rains. The planting was done, but then Moses had pleaded for help with one task after another, so that the year rolled around to the first week of July and Luke still hadn’t left.
He had been in one of their back fields helping Moses remove a stump when he was hailed by a man standing by the fencerow. Glad enough of an excuse to stop working for a few minutes, Luke had ambled over to the man. It was no one he recognized.
“Good day to ye,” the man said, tipping his hat, and Luke knew from his speech that he must be from the Irish settlement some miles away. “The name’s Henry Gallagher,” the man went on. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but they tell me you’re headed down to the front.”
Luke nodded, his heart sinking, for he knew this man must have something he wanted him to do “since he was going anyway.”
“I’m wonderin’ if you might do me a wee favour. You see, my brother is on his way across to join me here. I paid for his passage on a ship named The Syria, and he should have arrived long since, but I haven’t heard a word. You wouldn’t mind asking around, just to see if he’s there at one of the ports? And if he is, to give him this?”
Gallagher unfolded a greasy piece of paper, part of a letter long since received and memorized, for Luke could see cramped and blotted writing and the remnants of a seal. Inside this was part of a pound note, in Halifax currency. The bill had been sliced, not torn, and on a diagonal that slashed through the printing and the engraving in the middle.
“You see,” Gallagher continued, “I don’t know if Charley has the wherewithal to get hisself all the way up here. I’m hearing that things are terrible in the old country just now. He may have run out of money by the time he got to Toronto.”
“I don’t understand,” Luke said. “What is he to do with a half-note?”
“That’s so you know you have the right man,” Gallagher replied. “After all, anybody could say his name was Gallagher and take the money, couldn’t he?”
“But why?” Luke asked. “It’s still just half a note and no good for anything.”
The man beamed. “But he’ll have the other one, you see. If he can produce the other half, you’ll know it’s Charley.”
Luke had to admit that it was a brilliant means of identification. No two notes would be exactly the same — now that he looked closely, he could see that the cut had gone right through one of the numbers at the bottom. If Charley could provide the matching half, he could paste them back together and spend the money.
“How did you know that someone would be travelling all the way to the front?”
“I didn’t really,” the man admitted. “I’d clipped the bill in two and sent the other half to him last fall. I meant to send the other, but we had that early snow and I couldn’t get to Clinton to mail it. But now that you’re going anyway, the problem is solved, isn’t it?”
