Minor Corruption Page 5

  “She’s gonna live, ain’t she?”

  “That’s up to God as much as us. We can only do what we’re able to. No more.”

  After a moment, while they were changing cloths, Dora said, “If the girl just told you tonight about bein’ pregnant, how did this miscarriage come about?”

  Auleen didn’t answer right away. She seemed to be mulling over the question. Then she said, “She complained of havin’ pains down there. We thought it was her appendix, but when Burton looked her in the eye, she burst into tears and said she might be in the family way.” Auleen began to weep quietly. “She’s but a child, Missus Cobb. She wasn’t sure. So I convinced Burton we needed you.”

  “Well, child or not, she’d remember whether any lad had been at her, wouldn’t she?”

  This probe brought on a shower of tears, but Dora waited her out. In a voice barely audible, Auleen said, “She confessed she’d been with a man just once. In August.”

  From the look of the abortive foetus, Dora guessed it to be about two months old. She had seen dozens like it during her years of service.

  “Did she say who?”

  More sniffling. “No. She refused. She got very upset but wouldn’t say who. Then she clutched her belly, and the pain really started comin’.”

  “Shut up, woman! You shouldn’t be blabbin’ our family secrets to the whole town!” Thurgood was back, and this time he took two steps into the room carrying a water-soaked blanket. He was careful to keep his eyes averted from the pallet.

  “I’m not a gossip, sir. And your comments ain’t helpin’.”

  Betsy suddenly began to speak, but the words were slurred and jumbled. Nevertheless, there was an urgency behind them.

  “She’s tryin’ to tell us somethin’,” Auleen said. “Sounds like a name of some sort.” She leaned over close to Betsy’s ravaged face. “What is it darlin’? You c’n tell Mama. Who did this to you?”

  Behind her, Thurgood dropped the blanket and moved up beside his wife.

  Betsy’s entire body began to tremble. Beads of cold sweat seemed to burst out of her fevered skin. She opened her mouth and, thick-tongued, pupils dilated, she uttered her final, desperate words:

  “Seamus . . . please . . . Seamus.”

  A moment later they all stood stunned and listened to her death rattle. Betsy Thurgood, along with her aborted baby, was dead.

  ***

  Dora laid the quilt over the girl’s fifteen-year-old body. In these circumstances she tried to will herself to remain numb, but it was getting harder and harder as time went on and young women kept succumbing in childbirth or its numerous complications. After a single hair-raising cry, Auleen Thurgood had stumbled out into the kitchen, where her steady sobbing could still be heard.

  “No use bawlin’, woman. She’s gone. There’s only us now.”

  Dora moved quietly into the main room of the shack. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If I’d’ve got here an hour sooner, I might’ve saved her.”

  Thurgood glared at her. His initial response to Betsy’s death had been to let out a long, slow breath, then turn and lurch out of the bedroom.

  “How much do you expect to be paid?” he snarled, perhaps letting his anger keep him from feeling something he could not bear.

  “Nothin’, sir. I did what I could, and it wasn’t much.”

  “You c’n help us out by bein’ a witness,” he said, pinning her with a stare that bordered on madness.

  “What do you mean?” Dora said, packing her bag calmly so as not to give him the slightest impression that she was intimidated by him. “I witnessed the girl die, didn’t I?” She felt deeply sorry for both the Thurgoods, but always reserved a special sympathy for the husbands and fathers, who seemed unable to vent their grief in appropriate or satisfying ways. Nonetheless, she was rapidly losing patience with Burton Thurgood.

  “She named the man who did this to her, didn’t she?” he seethed, digging his fingernails into his palms. “She called out ‘Seamus’ with her dyin’ breath! And we all know who Mr. Seamus is, don’t we?”

  “Don’t be absurd, man. Yer girl was in a fever delirium. She didn’t even know we was in the room. And it sounded to me like she was askin’ for him, not accusin’ him.”

  “But you heard my wife ask her who the father was, didn’t you?” He stepped towards her menacingly. “And there’s only one Seamus within miles of here – up at Spadina!”

  “Please, calm down. You’re terrible upset. You can’t go around accusin’ someone like Mr. Baldwin just because his name’s Seamus. And you’ll see things different in the mornin’. Now I got to go. I’ll let Dr. Smollett know and he’ll come and sign the death certificate.”

  “I don’t need no advice from a butcher like you!”

  Dora turned to leave. It was just then that she spotted a familiar object lying beside a stool near the door. She picked it up. It was a ladies’ hat, decorated with red and white beads and topped by a garish, green peacock feather. She turned back slowly, hat in hand.

  Auleen gave a little cry and slumped back against the dry sink. Thurgood’s eyes widened, his anger draining quickly.

  “I’d know this awful bonnet anywheres,” Dora said, her own anger rising. “This is Elsie Trigger’s hat. Elsie’s already been here – and gone, ain’t she?”

  “That’s none of yer business,” Thurgood snapped.

  “Midwifin’s my business, sir. And I’ll ask you to tell me what that old quack was doin’ here before me. What did she do to Betsy?”

  “She – she come just like you did,” Auleen said in a quavering voice. Terror stood straight up in her eyes. “To see if our girl was in the family way.”

  “And you left her alone in there with a naïve little girl?”

  “It was just fer a few minutes, wasn’t it, Burt?”

  “Now I know why the girl bled to death!” Dora said, seething. “What I saw in there was no miscarriage, though it may have started out as such. It was an abortion. And I know how Elsie Trigger goes about it when she’s in a hurry.”

  “We know nothin’ about it!” Thurgood said, his defiance ill-masking his fear. “It was between her and the girl.”

  “She come out of that room with a bloody needle in one hand and a five-pound note in the other!” Auleen cried with the last of her strength.

  “And I’ve never held a five-pound note in my life!” Thurgood said. “The bitch told us Betsy’d had a miscarriage and everythin’ was fine. And she left.”

  “You’re sayin’ that Betsy gave five pounds to Elsie Trigger to abort the babe? I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not? You heard what the girl said with her last breath. Seamus Baldwin got her with child and Seamus Baldwin give her five pounds to get rid of it.”

  “She went to work up at Spadina at the end of July,” Auleen said. Then she added almost plaintively, “And she ain’t been home once till this time. It’s got to be somebody up there, don’t it?”

  Dora heaved a Dora-sized sigh. “I gotta report all this to Dr. Withers, the coroner. You can tell him all this malarkey. But you better be careful who you go accusin’ of what. It was Elsie Trigger who killed yer daughter, not the father of the dead babe. And I’m gonna make sure she don’t kill anybody else.”

  With that, Dora turned and left the house. Behind her she heard Thurgood yell, “I’m gonna have vengeance fer my little girl! You’ll see!”

  Dora kept on walking. In the moonlight ahead she could see the outline of the buggy and pony. The boy was slumped forward, fast asleep. Just as she reached out to wake him, she heard a door slam behind her, and seconds later, as the boy was slowly waking up, there came an eerie sound of wood being chopped in the dark. Dora had just taken the reins when she was brought up short by a huge, anguished, male cry.

  What a world, she thought. What a goddamned world.

  FOUR

  Marc was the last to arrive for the meeting in Robert’s chamber. Already there and seated were Robert; Francis Hincks, R
obert’s good friend and next door neighbour; Robert Baldwin Sullivan, his law partner and cousin; and Dr. William Baldwin, his father. Marc said his ‘good mornings’ and slipped into his customary chair. This was to be a political strategy meeting, one in which final plans were to be made for bringing those Reformers in the south-western part of the province up to speed on the proposed merger of the radical French and English parties. Recent correspondence indicated that there were several holdouts and at least two naysayers among the leading Reformers down there, and a decision had to be made soon as to how this possible impediment to their plans might be dealt with.

  Hincks spoke first. As editor of the party organ, the Examiner, and a voluminous correspondent, Hincks had an appreciative ear to the ground and a grasp of nuances that were invaluable in the pursuit of political ends. “I don’t think we have any choice, gentlemen. There’s to be a general meeting of the western-district Reformers in just two weeks time. Our plan to form a secret coalition with Louis LaFontaine and the rouge will certainly be discussed there behind closed doors.”

  “It’s hardly secret any longer,” Dr. Baldwin said dryly.

  “True,” Hincks said, “but the Tories don’t really believe it’s anything more than a clever ruse on our part to throw them off the real scent. I suppose that a year ago I too would have been among the skeptics. But since then I’ve had the advantage of reading Louis’ letters and, of course, debating with him in person.”

  “And LaFontaine’s been able to line his own troops up and keep them there?” Dr. Baldwin asked.

  “He has, father,” Robert said. “I just got a letter from him yesterday afternoon, in which he assures us that matters are progressing satisfactorily. Of course, as we expected, the Act of Union contained an entailment that permitted a fair amount of gerrymandering in favour of the so-called English ridings in Quebec. For example, the two Montreal ridings, predominantly English and Tory, have been made double constituencies for good measure. And Louis complains that his French opponents are pushing to have him defeated in Terrebonne, where he will be contesting a seat. But he has fully convinced his supporters that Baldwin and Hincks do not have horns or cloven feet.”

  “The man commands respect just by being present in a room,” Marc added.

  Hincks cleared his throat. “I don’t see any way around it, Robert. You must attend the London confab on the sixteenth and, I hesitate to say so, but you must somehow find the time and energy to visit beforehand with as many delegates as you can. Show them our correspondence. Get to them before they arrive in London and have their minds made up for them.”

  “You’re thinking of places as far afield as Port Sarnia, Sandwich and Goderich?” said Robert Sullivan, the suave Irish-looking gentleman with the velvet tongue, who had, while no rabid Reformer, served them all well in presiding over the Legislative Council and steering the Union Bill over the political shoals last Fall.

  “He is,” Robert sighed. “But there is so much to do here, in Toronto and in these chambers.”

  “And it has to be you, cousin and brother-in-law,” Sullivan said. “The Baldwin name is magic in this province.” He glanced slyly at Dr. Baldwin and added, “That’s why I chose it for a middle name.”

  “How many cases do you have at the upcoming assizes?” Hincks asked him.

  “We have five,” Sullivan said. “All minor, wouldn’t you say, Marc?”

  Marc, who had offered to help with two of them – a forgery and an embezzlement charge – replied, “So far, yes. Nothing that Bob and I cannot handle in your absence.”

  “And I would be happy to take up the forensic cudgel once again, if need be,” Dr. Baldwin said. He had had a distinguished career as a barrister and a Bencher of the Law Society before medicine and then architecture and business had taken hold of his many-faceted curiosity. “I don’t fancy standing up and preaching before a periwigged justice any more, but I could help with research and preparation.”

  “And I understand you now have your uncle to assist Clement in the profit-making half of these chambers,” Hincks said with a wink at Robert.

  Though meant as an ironic sally, Hincks’s remark came closer to the truth than he had anticipated. He was quite aware of the foibles and follies of Uncle Seamus, having been to several picnics and soirées out at Spadina since the old gentleman’s arrival last July. But after an initial spree of pranks yesterday morning, Uncle Seamus surprisingly had settled down to be of material assistance. Indeed, by the end of the day both he and his nephew were in good spirits. Robert had confided to Marc that for the first time he held out real hope that his uncle would be able to work his way out of what was evidently a form of manic depression, wherein he swung between moods of deep depression and exhilarating episodes that almost always involved the children or the young servants. Only when he went trout fishing did he seem to find a becalmed, median place where his spirit could rest and breathe. Even though the imminent freeze-up would end all trout fishing, the kind if crusty presence of Clement Peachey and the routine tasks they shared throughout the day seemed ready to provide a reasonable substitute. To balance this there were the Baldwin children next door and weekends away at lively Spadina. “I’ll keep a close watch,” Marc had reassured him, and then added, “on the macaroons.”

  “Well, then, gentlemen,” Robert now said to his associates, “I take it I have been volunteered to reconnoitre the hinterland. What do you say we get right down to practical details. I’ve got a list here of the men I ought to be bearding before the London meetings. I need from you specific suggestions for dealing with each one. What about Ferguson in Port Sarnia?”

  The pause that followed Robert’s request was ended not by sage political advice but rather by the door opening halfway and Clement Peachey poking his head in warily.

  “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but Constable Cobb is in the vestibule. He wants to see you, Robert, right away.”

  “But we’re – ”

  “He says he’s come with bad news. Very bad news.”

  ***

  The news of Betsy Thurgood’s death at the hands of an abortionist cast an immediate pall on Baldwin House. Dr. Baldwin was saddened and outraged. Betsy had been coming to Spadina off and on since she was twelve, helping out on special occasions and soon becoming a favourite of the family and of the cook, Mrs. Morrisey and her husband Herb, the gardener. Then late last July, just after she had turned fifteen, she had asked Dr. Baldwin for a permanent position, and had been obliged. Now she was dead, two months into her sixteenth year. Robert was shocked and similarly outraged. He sent a note to the coroner to have the girl’s death investigated immediately. He suggested to Cobb that the police locate Elsie Trigger and keep her in custody on some pretence until the inquest could be held. While Robert and his father would like to have seen her charged with manslaughter, they knew that the “accidents” of midwifery were notoriously ambiguous. But they would see her in prison on some charge, there was no doubt about that. Meantime, the plans for Robert’s trip were superseded for the time being, despite the risks.

  It was the effect of Betsy’s death on Uncle Seamus, however, that assumed primary importance in Baldwin House. The old fellow collapsed in Robert’s arms and had to be revived with smelling salts. When he was told, tactfully, about the cause of her death, he broke into an uncontrollable weeping, punctuated with great wrenching sobs. The Baldwins knew that Uncle Seamus was fond of all their children and the two young servants, but, if asked to comment, would have named Edie Barr as his personal favourite. For it was Edie who regularly played the dummy for Uncle Seamus’s ventriloquist act and Edie who seemed most flattered by his teasing and tickling. Betsy was a shy girl, and although it was clear that she admired Uncle Seamus, she did not naturally take to his boisterous sense of fun. Obviously the Baldwins had been wrong. Such an unmanly display of grief was proof positive that Uncle Seamus had had a deep and abiding affection for the youngster. He had to be half-carried from Clement’s office to the domestic
side of Baldwin House, where he was put into the care of Diana Ramsay. Dr. Smollett was sent for.

  “I’ll have to stay for the funeral,” Robert said to Marc as the latter was preparing to leave. “And the inquest, if it’s held soon. My father has already sent the girl’s pay for this month and an additional ten pounds to help the family with funeral expenses.”

  “We’ll squeeze in another strategy meeting before you go,” Marc said helpfully.

  “It’s my uncle I’m most concerned about. This dreadful business could throw him into another depression.”

  “Let your father and I deal with that, at least in the short term. The future of the province and our battle for responsible government depends on our efforts in the next two or three months.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Robert said. “On second thought, keep reminding me. We’ve come too far to be sidetracked now, haven’t we?”

  “I promise you, Robert, your cousin and I will hold the fort here, and I’ll help your father and mother deal with Uncle Seamus. I’ll ask Beth to help. You know how good she is with people.”

  “Thanks, Marc.” They were at the door. Robert sighed: “Now I’ve got to find a way to break the news to Eliza and the other children.”

  ***

  Angus Withers, the coroner, went out to the Thurgood house before noon. The body and the foetus had already been removed and brought to his surgery for examination, but Withers wanted to hear the Thurgoods’ account of events to see if it jibed with his findings. The girl had been mauled by a sharp instrument, and if Cobb’s report, based on his wife’s summary of what happened, was accurate, a two-month-old foetus had been brutally aborted. Burton Thurgood did most of the talking, even though he seemed to be in a state of shock, but it was Elsie Trigger whom both parents pointed to as the culprit. “The murdering bitch” was Thurgood’s colourful phrase. At any rate, Withers had seen enough to call for an inquest, which he set for the following Tuesday, the day after the funeral. The police were asked to pick up Mrs. Trigger and hold her as a material witness.