The Widow's Demise Read online

  The Widow’s Demise

  A Marc Edwards Mystery

  by

  Don Gutteridge

  ISBN: 978-1-927789-51-3

  Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 Don Gutteridge

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  Other Books in the Marc Edwards Mystery Series

  Excerpt From Desperate Acts

  ONE

  September 1841

  “Hold still, please, Mrs. Edwards, or I’m gonna stick you with the needle.”

  This warning was delivered by Etta Hogg, the live-in, all-purpose servant at Briar Cottage.

  “It’s only a small tear,” Beth Edwards said, twisting about to get a frontal image from the mirror that Marc had set up in the parlour to aid the fitting of the ball gown. “Nobody’ll notice.”

  “You don’t sound all that enthusiastic,” Marc said from his chair by the fireplace.

  “You know what I think of fancy-dress balls,” Beth said. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Edwards, but I did warn you.”

  “Please, call me Beth, as I’ve asked you a dozen times.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Edwards.”

  “Remember that we’re doing this for charity,” Marc said. “Look on it as a personal sacrifice or a form of penance.”

  “I know the proceeds all go to the Hospital Fund,” Beth said, “or else I wouldn’t’ve agreed to go.”

  Each couple at the Charity Ball at Rosewood, Humphrey Cardiff’s palatial home on Front Street, had to contribute to the Hospital Fund, an annual rite that drew the largest crowd of the season. Old money and new, the established and the hopeful – all attended the Attorney-General’s extravaganza.

  “Just a lot of stuffed shirts and ladies in evenin’ gowns they have to be squeezed into,” Beth said, only half-seriously. “A lot of old Tories, too.”

  “Robert and Francis will be there,” Marc pointed out reasonably.

  Robert was Robert Baldwin, a leading Reformer, colleague and good friend of the Edwards. Francis was Francis Hincks, another political associate and editor of the left-wing paper, the Constitution.

  “Then we’ll have people to talk to,” Beth said, nodding her thanks to Etta, who had finished her repair work.

  “And Louis will be there, too, remember.”

  Louis LaFontaine was the leader of the rouge party, the Reform group in Quebec, who had joined in an alliance with their Canada West counterparts. He had been defeated in the Quebec riding of Terrebonne in the April elections, but was about to run in a by-election in the fourth riding of York. Robert Baldwin had won seats in both that riding and one in the eastern part of the province. He had conveniently resigned the York constituency in order to make way for Louis’ second attempt at securing a seat in the new united Parliament that had opened in Kingston in May.

  “And his shadow, too,” Beth said, laughing.

  “Yes, I’m sure Gilles will be there.”

  Gilles Gagnon was Louis’ secretary and constant companion. They had come to Toronto from Montreal a week ago to prepare for the nomination meeting and the subsequent by-election. They were staying with Robert at Baldwin House on Bay Street.

  “There’s gonna be a shortage of ladies,” Beth said.

  “Then you’ll get to dance the whole night through,” Marc said.

  “As long as you don’t get to talkin’ politics.”

  “No politics,” Marc said. “Not a single word.”

  “Oh, don’t you look lovely,” Etta enthused as Beth twirled in front of the mirror.

  “I look like a farm girl in a duchess’s dress,” Beth said.

  “There’s many a duchess who would like to look like you,” Marc said.

  Beth smiled, accepting the compliment.

  “Now I gotta see to the little ones,” Etta said, and started for the hall and the children’s bedroom, where one-and-a-half-year-old Marcus Junior and two-and-a-half-year-old Maggie were supposed to be asleep. She paused at the window and said, “Donald has the horse and buggy ready for you.”

  Donald Meigs was a neighbour lad who came once or twice a day to cut wood, haul water and take care of the Edwards’ horse. Beth herself insisted on taking care of her garden, despite spending three days a week at Smallman’s, her ladies dress shop and seamstress’s business on King Street near Bay. She was a farm girl at heart, having run a farm by herself for several years down near Cobourg.

  “Well, I guess we can’t put it off any longer,” Marc said, getting up and placing a shawl around Beth’s bare shoulders. It was cool but pleasant September evening.

  Beth leaned back against him. “Let’s go and do some dancin’,” she said.

  ***

  Rosewood was a pretentious, two-storey mansion on Front Street, two doors west of Bishop Strachan’s ‘palace’ and facing the picturesque bay. Its façade was marked by four pseudo-Doric columns, and its tall, narrow windows and soaring chimney-pots reminded its residents of medieval Gothic. Not to be outdone, the tiled roof was framed by a gingerbread fringe reminiscent of an earlier rococo era. The broad street in front of the edifice was alive with arriving coaches and less ornate vehicles. Grooms and footmen scurried about looking after the horses and assisted begowned ladies down from their precarious perches. It was a quarter to nine on a dusky September evening, and the air was cool and refreshing. A sympathetic moon was just arising in the south-east, somewhere over the lake.

  Marc and Beth arrived in their buggy amidst the mêlée. Marc steered the horse towards an anxious-looking groom.

  “I’ll take that, sir,” the groom said, taking note that the gentleman himself was driving the vehicle in lieu of a proper driver and footman.

  Marc handed him the reins, hopped down, and went around to the other side of the buggy to help Beth alight. Beth took his hand, made sure her gown was free of impediments and stepped down onto the street.

  “It looks like the whole town is here,” Beth said.

  “Pretty near, I’d say,” Marc said. “Shall we make our way through the crush and see how all these folks are going to fit into Rosewood?”

  They joined the line forming at the elegant front door, and soon found themselves in a spacious foyer with an inlaid marble floor and a magnificent chandelier reflected in it. A short receiving line was set up at the entrance to the ballroom.

  “I’m eager to meet our hostess,” Beth whispered to Marc. “I’ve heard so much about her.”

  Delores Cardiff-Jones, daughter and only child of Humphrey Cardiff, the Attorney-General, was much talked about in polite, and impolite, circles. She had married a glamorous major stationed at Fort York, a man of dashing mien and a private fortune, who had suffered the luxury of a romantic death: he had been shot dead in a duel fought over a weighty question of honour (cheating at cards) – leaving Delores a very rich widow. However, the lady did not set herself up in her own establishment; sh
e dutifully moved back into her father’s house, and since there was no other woman on the premises (her mother having died several years before), she became the de facto mistress of Rosewood. Once there, she proceeded to entertain often and lavishly, fanning the breezes of local gossip from time to time. Rumour had it that she was much pursued matrimonially.

  Marc shook hands with Humphrey Cardiff and introduced Beth to him.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Cardiff said with a brief bow. He was a portly gentleman of average height with a fierce pair of mutton chops and heavy eyebrows. His brown eyes and direct stare looked as if they would be more comfortable in a courtroom than a parlour, but he smiled as best he could with his thick lips. “And this is my daughter, Mrs. Delores Cardiff-Jones.”

  “Good evening,” Delores said, extending her gloved hand to be kissed by Marc. “So you’re the soldier I’ve heard so much about,” she said to Marc. Beth stared at her. She was certainly a prepossessing woman, in her late twenties perhaps, but of a beauty that had little to do with age. She was tall with regularly defined features and a glorious upsweep of rich, dark brown hair. Her eyes were pale hazel, almost transparent, and they sparkled with intelligence and an unsettling candour.

  “I was a soldier, once,” Marc said evenly.

  “And you fought in the Rebellion?” she said.

  “I did. In Quebec.”

  “And were wounded, I understand.”

  “I was, but I have recovered completely. I no longer have a limp.”

  “That’s too bad. I always think a man with a limp is more mysterious.”

  “But I’m a barrister now,” Marc said.

  “And a Reformer, I’m told,” Delores said with a mischievous grin.

  “That, too.”

  “Well, all are welcome here tonight,” she said, and stepped back a pace. She smiled. “I’m just imagining you in your uniform.”

  “You’re holding up the line, my dear,” Cardiff said stiffly.

  “We must dance later,” Delores said, letting Marc and Beth pass into the ballroom.

  The ballroom was already half-full. Moonlight poured in through the tall, Gothic windows on the south and east walls, and competed with the three chandeliers and wall-sconces. In the glittering, flickering light moved ladies in resplendent gowns no more than a year out of fashion, led by men in formal black suits and polished shoes. From a dais at the far end poured the gentle strains of violins and cellos, produced by Toronto’s finest orchestra, hired especially for the occasion.

  The Charity Ball was ready to begin.

  ***

  In the first set, Marc and Beth found themselves face to face with Delores Cardiff-Jones and her partner. Marc recognized him as Lionel Trueman, a stalwart member of the Family Compact who had a patronage appointment in the Customs Department that netted him only a small, steady income, but nonetheless gave him access to the corridors of power and influence. He was a rail-thin man with slicked-down hair, pop-eyes and a razor-sharp moustache. He had gripped Delores’s hand firmly, as if it might escape his grasp at any moment. She stared straight ahead at Marc. The dance began and they moved through its intricate figures. Marc noticed that Trueman barely touched hands with the other women in the set, but took every opportunity to squeeze Delores’s hand and twirl her forcefully. She gave no indication that she had invited or was tolerating his aggressive behaviour. However, she did give Marc’s fingers and extra tug whenever they met.

  When the dance was over, Trueman and Delores strolled over to the drinks table.

  “Champagne?” Trueman said.

  “Half a glass, Lionel.” Delores said.

  “You are very cruel to keep me waiting,” Trueman said as he handed her a glass of champagne.

  “Waiting? Whatever for?”

  “You know perfectly well what for. I’ve all but begged you to marry me.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Of course that. Did you think I’d forget about it?”

  “You are a sweet man, Lionel, but I have no answer yes or no. I’m just not interested in marriage, period. I’ve told you often enough.”

  “But we get on so well – ”

  “Of course we do. That’s why I seek your company.”

  “But surely you must know a man’s intentions, if honourable, are always directed at marriage. What will people think otherwise?”

  “People will think the worst of us. That’s unfortunate but true. Let them talk. I have my home here and all the income I’ll ever need. And you make me happy.”

  “At least let me dance with you again tonight.”

  Delores smiled. “Well, my dance-card is quite full, but if you’re a good boy and agree not to squeeze my hand as if it were an orange, we’ll see.”

  “But it’s your ball – ”

  “And as hostess I’m expected to mix with the company and dance with whoever wishes me to. And I must tend to those duties now.”

  With that she walked away and left Trueman standing rigid and forlorn.

  ***

  It was ten o’clock when Louis LaFontaine and Gilles Gagnon entered the ballroom unannounced. However, they were quickly spotted by their host, Humphrey Cardiff, who trundelled over to greet them.

  “Welcome, Monsieur LaFontaine,” Cardiff said, putting out his hand.

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Louis said. “We’re not always so welcome among Tories.”

  “Tonight there are no politics, only a ball for charitable purposes.”

  “We are pleased to be here,” said Gagnon, feeling awkward because his English, although quite good and improving daily, was not as fluent as he would have wished.

  Whereas Louis LaFontaine was very tall and courtly and authoritative, his associate, Gilles Gagnon, was short and red-cheeked, as if he had just stepped off the farm. But his appearance belied a shrewd and able strategist and advisor to politicians. He and Louis were inseparable.

  “I understand your name will be put forward in nomination for the by-election in the Fourth Riding of York,” Cardiff said affably to Louis.

  “You have heard correctly,” Louis said. “And we hear that you will be one of the nominators for Mr. Arthur Dingman of the Tory persuasion.”

  “I deem it an honour. Mr. Dingman is a respected member of Toronto society.”

  “And will be a worthy opponent,” Louis said graciously.

  “May the best man win,” said Cardiff. “Now, please help yourself to the champagne. The food will be served at midnight.”

  Louis and Gagnon brought their drinks over to where Beth and Marc were standing on the sidelines. A brisk lancers was being danced on the floor of the ballroom.

  “Not dancing?” Louis smiled at Marc as he bowed to Beth.

  “This is the first one we’ve sat out,” Marc said.

  “He’s not as young as he used to be,” Beth said.

  “None of us is,” Louis said.

  “Would you do me the honour of the next dance?” Beth said to Louis.

  “It will be my honour,” Louis said.

  While Louis and Beth were dancing, Marc broke his promise by talking over the upcoming nomination meeting with Gilles Gagnon, who was acting as chief organizer. Moments later Robert Baldwin came over and joined the conversation. Francis Hincks was dancing with his wife. Robert’s wife had died five years before and he had not married again, nor did he plan to. He worshipped the memory of his Elizabeth, and that was enough.

  “You will start off the nominations?” Gagnon said to Robert.

  “Yes, I’d love to. But I’d like to go over my speech with you and Louis beforehand,” Robert said. “It’s a bold move to bring a French-speaking Quebecer into an English-speaking riding, as we are, and none of us knows quite how we ought to make our pitch.”

  “At least it’s a rural riding,” Gagnon said. “Lots of these farmers were sympathetic with the Rebellion, weren’t they?”

  “Some of them were in it,” Marc said.

  “I won the riding with a
large majority,” Robert said. “We should have no trouble.”

  “That’s what Louis and I thought at Terrebonne last April, but we didn’t allow for the savagery of the dirty tricks that were played on us,” Gagnon said grimly.

  “I doubt that that will be repeated here,” Robert said. “Humphrey Cardiff is running Dingman’s campaign, and I think we can count on him to fight fairly.”

  “Then you haven’t heard?” Marc said.

  “Heard what?”

  “That Cardiff has enlisted the help of D’Arcy Rutherford,” Marc said.

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Robert said. “That is not good news.”

  “Who is D’Arcy Rutherford?” Gagnon said.

  “An organizer with a reputation for dirty tricks,” Marc said.

  “Well, we saw every trick in the book in Terrebonne,” Gagnon said. “Road blocks, goon squads around the polling station, outright bribes, visits to farmsteads to intimidate – the whole works. We have to be prepared for them this time out.”

  “We’ll have a strategy meeting at Baldwin House tomorrow at eleven, shall we?” Robert said.

  “Good idea,” Gagnon said.

  The men now turned to watch Louis and Beth dance. Marc noted that Dolores was in the set once more. This time, however, she was not with Lionel Trueman but a distinguished-looking gentleman Marc recognized as Horace Macy, a local chemist whose business had fallen on hard times of late. He was a short man with a posture designed to add height and authority to his demeanour. He was looking up at Delores with calf’s eyes. Delores did not return his worshipping gaze.

  When the dance was over, Macy trailed after Delores and stood beside her in an alcove near the dais, where the orchestra continued to play.

  “You’re a hard person to get alone,” Macy said.

  “We’re hardly alone, Horace. There’s a hundred other people in the room,” Delores said lightly.

  “Alone enough for me to say what I have to say.”

  Delores looked coy. “And what weighty words have you for me?”