Across the country, Canadians were in mourning. The new nation was in a state of shock—and panic. It was just too horrible to be believed: Thomas D’Arcy McGee assassinated a block away from Parliament Hill, gunned down in the moonlight. Rumours spread like brushfire. If the Fenians were that powerful, surely they were going to strike again. Who could stop them? Could the country last a year?
Guards were increased around all government buildings. There was a rumour that Fenians were going to blow up the Parliament Buildings. In Kingston, it was reported that Irish revolutionaries planned to free all the prisoners. What was true and what wasn’t? No one was really sure. The only certainty was that the Ottawa police had done their job; the murderer was behind bars. The Montreal Herald summed it up with the headline “No Doubt Whelan Guilty.” The evidence against Whelan seemed conclusive. Police found a Smith and Wesson revolver in his coat—a six-shooter, the same kind of gun used to kill McGee. One of its chambers was empty and a bullet had recently been fired. Whelan had a motive: he was a well-known Fenian supporter, one of the infamous Barney Devlin boys during the Montreal election. He even had a Fenian newspaper in his coat pocket. After the election, he had left his wife in Montreal and come to Ottawa. Surely he was following McGee. He had watched McGee’s speech from the visitors’ gallery and had been seen clenching his fist in anger.
Conor O’Dea was a main witness. He had told police about the footprints in the snow, and they matched Whelan’s boots. And there was that coat. Although there were no eyewitnesses to the murder, people including Conor—actually, especially Conor—saw a man in a grey coat nearby. It was a coat just like Whelan’s.
Any trial was seen as a simple formality before the inevitable hanging.
But Conor wasn’t sure. “I know everything points to his guilt,” he told Meg. “But it seems too cut-and-dried, too convenient. Maybe he seems too guilty.”
“GOOD God, man, what are we going to do?” Sir John was practically shouting at Gilbert McMicken. Usually, McMicken stood up to the prime minister, but not tonight. He knew he had better not antagonize Macdonald while he was under such pressure. He answered plainly, “We think we have the man.”
“Well, I damn well hope so,” Macdonald exclaimed, clutching his glass of port for dear life. “Did Whelan act alone?”
“I don’t know,” McMicken sighed. “If I had to guess, I would guess not.”
Macdonald took a deep breath and walked over to his desk, slowly exhaling. He pulled a piece of paper from his top drawer and handed it to the policeman. “Here’s why I sent for you. Read this.”
The letter’s handwriting was childlike, and the ink was a brownish-red colour. It looked like blood.
Your life is in our hands. You can save it only if you leave town within ten days.
No British spy will live in our midst.
Let the bloody fate of D’Arcy McGee warn you.
The hour draws nigh. Be it the knife or the pistol.
Be warned.
It was signed, “Many Fenians.”
McMicken looked up from the letter and closed his eyes in thought. All he could think to say was, “We can increase the guard around you.”
“Don’t be daft. There are already enough police around me to throw a party, and still the letter got through.”
McMicken became businesslike. “There is no doubt, sir, that the Fenians felt Mr. McGee was their worst enemy. However, they know they won’t make any headway in Canada until you are put out of the way, too.”
“Well, no one can accuse you of trying to spare my feelings.”
Macdonald gulped down some dark port. Fortified wine. I can use some fortification, he thought. He was not a particularly brave man, but he was practical. Canada did not have the army to withstand an invasion. More important, he was not sure the country had yet developed the kind of collective spirit to pull together and defend itself. If he panicked, it would play right into the extremists’ hands. He must stand up to these madmen. He had no other choice.
“Any more word on this man who was causing the trouble in Montreal?”
“No. It might have been Whelan. But we’re not sure.”
“What, pray tell, are you sure of?” Macdonald roared.
McMicken ignored the prime minister’s outburst. “In Irish bars in the States, they are toasting the man who killed McGee,” he said. “And there is even talk of another raid before July the first if the American government doesn’t act vigorously.”
“Act vigorously! Why, they’re not acting at all. Sniffing around for the Irish vote while we endure—what did you call it?—’a reign of terror.’ It sounds like the French Revolution, for God’s sake.” Macdonald took the threatening piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball. “Without D’Arcy, I’m not sure we would even have a Canada. He was the heart of it. And now he lies in a closed casket with the back of his head blown off.” He threw the letter in the wastepaper basket.
McMicken stood upright.
“Listen,” Macdonald continued, gaining his composure. “No one is to know about this letter. No one. I’ll go around Ottawa pretending there’s no danger. I’ll put on a brave face. I’m a good actor. But let me tell you: I’m scared. I’m damned scared.”
LADY Macdonald leaned against the door. Her head spun and she steadied herself on the door frame. Sir John would be furious if he knew that she had been listening in on the conversation, but she knew something awful was happening and she wanted to discover what. Since D’Arcy’s murder, he had become so sullen and distant. She was afraid he would descend into the shadows again. All this talk of spying and intrigue, and now she was a part of it, eavesdropping on his private conversations. She didn’t have the stomach for it. These Fenians made her blood run cold. The logic was clear to her: if the fanatics were really determined to win, they had to kill her husband. They needed another dramatic death. A Protestant death. This was no idle threat.
She had come to hear the conversation innocently enough, almost bursting into John’s office to give him her news. She had seen the doctor in the morning. She was going to have—her eyes filled with tears—a baby. This should be such a joyous time. The beginning of life. Instead, her family was consumed by death. She felt cheated and betrayed, and terrified for her husband. She ran to her room in tears.