No matter how Hillyard Cameron tried to prevent it, the noose was tightening around James Whelan’s neck. As each new person testified, the defence lawyer did his best to challenge their stories or their credibility. It was an uphill battle.
He knew that for his client to live, he had to deal with the murder weapon. James O’Reilly had made quite a spectacle of brandishing the gun. “It had recently been fired,” he declared. “One chamber is empty. It housed the bullet that killed D’Arcy McGee.”
Dramatic, impressive and easily refuted, thought Cameron. Yes, Whelan owned a Smith and Wesson, and yes, that was the make of gun that had been used to kill McGee. But it was also the most popular revolver in Canada.
Much of Cameron’s case, and James Whelan’s fate, would depend on the testimony of Euphemie Lafrance. She was a tiny young woman with fearful eyes, a vicious cough and a thick French accent.
“I used to work for Monsieur Starr,” she told the court. “I make the beds.”
“Including James Whelan’s?”
“Yes.”
Cameron could see how nervous she was. She might have expected he would treat her as harshly as he had Lacroix. Instead, he spoke gently and fatherly. “Did you have an accident in Whelan’s room?”
“Well, yes, with the pistol.”
Cameron picked up Whelan’s revolver. “With this pistol?”
“If that is Monsieur Whelan’s, then yes.” She coughed quickly, then resumed her story. “It was between his mattress and the pillow. I found it making his bed. It was natural.”
She stopped talking, as if looking for approval. Hillyard Cameron said simply, “Go on.”
“I picked it up and it went off, wounding my arm.”
“When did this happen?”
“Maybe six weeks after the new year.”
“Before Mr. McGee was killed?”
“Oui.”
The word seemed to echo through the courtroom, Oui. She was saying that Whelan’s gun did not kill McGee. Conor was stunned.
Perhaps Hillyard Cameron should not have smiled so broadly, because juries don’t approve of lawyers gloating, but the trial was starting to turn in his favour. He had one more key question: “Do you have a scar?”
Euphemie Lafrance rolled up her sleeve and showed what was clearly a scar. It certainly looked as if a bullet had grazed her arm. There was commotion in the courtroom as people strained to see. John Hillyard Cameron sat down, smiling. But his triumph would be short-lived.
JAMES O’Reilly stood confidently and declared, “I would like to call Joseph Faulkner to the stand.” Conor recognized Joe Faulkner immediately from the election campaign in Montreal. Faulkner was one of McGee’s critics, but he was no hothead. He sincerely believed D’Arcy McGee had been inciting the Fenians with his virulent attacks. “A noble man,” McGee had described him. “A fool to disagree with me, but true to his convictions nonetheless.”
“Do you know the defendant?” O’Reilly asked.
“Yes,” Faulkner answered, to Conor’s surprise.
“Did you know D’Arcy McGee?”
“Of course.”
Conor felt that Joe Faulkner looked very credible on the stand. He wondered where O’Reilly was going to go with his questioning.
“During the election last summer, how would you characterize Mr. Whelan’s behaviour?”
“He was against McGee.”
“Mr. Faulkner, would it be fair to say that you recall James Whelan as a particularly vocal member of the opposition?”
Faulkner hesitated. Sometimes men said things they didn’t mean. Jim Whelan was a braggart, not at all like the quiet, subdued man perched in the prisoner’s dock. He drank too much, said too much and said it too loudly.
The judge interrupted his deliberation. “It is a perfectly clear question. Please answer.”
“Yes, he was vocal,” Faulkner replied, knowing well that further questions would demand a fuller and more damning response.
“Did you overhear any conversations involving Mr. Whelan concerning Mr. McGee?”
“Well, when Mr. McGee was speaking at Jolicoeur’s Saloon, I distinctly heard him yell, ‘McGee’s a traitor and deserves to be shot.’”
“‘He deserves to be shot,’” O’Reilly repeated. “What else did you hear?”
“I remember him and another man talking about Mr. McGee. The other man was encouraging Whelan and calling McGee every name in the book. He asked him, ‘If you got the chance, would you shoot him?’ Whelan said, ‘I’d take McGee’s life as quick as drink a cup of tea.’” There was a gasp from the courtroom crowd. “Whelan did a lot of bragging. I remember the other man patting his back affectionately. He knew I was listening to their conversation. I don’t think Whelan knew.”
“What exactly did the defendant say?”
Joseph Faulkner answered carefully and deliberately. Each word seemed to hang in the air. “He said, ‘If McGee is elected, the old pig won’t reign too long. I’ll blow his bloody brains out before the session is over.’”
James O’Reilly smiled proudly. Whelan’s eyes were widening with fear. He had developed a slight twitch at the side of his mouth. Conor also noticed that the jurors were no longer looking at the defendant with curiosity; they were glaring at him with contempt.
“Thank you, Mr. Faulkner. No more questions.”
HILLYARD Cameron approached Joseph Faulkner carefully. This was not a man to toy with or belittle. No doubt he had heard Whelan say those things, but that did not mean he carried them out. “Mr. Faulkner,” he began cordially, “the other man—‘the stranger,’ as you called him—do you remember what he was wearing?”
“Not really, but he was carrying a grey coat, I believe.”
Cameron smiled. Another man with a grey coat. It was a step forward. A small one. But a step nonetheless. “Can you describe the other man?”
“I’m sorry, but not really. He was of medium height and wore a black hat well over his head. He had sideburns, I think. I saw him, but I’m not sure I would recognize him again. I know that’s not a very satisfactory answer—in fact, it’s rather strange—but it’s the truth.”
Hillyard Cameron had been taught as a young trial lawyer never to ask a question if he did not know the answer, but he allowed himself to be swayed by the enticing thought of another man as a possible suspect. Was Faulkner thinking what he was thinking? He took a chance and asked an unprepared question. “When you first heard of the murder of D’Arcy McGee, what did you think?”
“I thought, ‘Good God! It’s nobody but Whelan that shot him!’”
Cameron turned away from the jurors so they would not see his look of horror and embarrassment.
He knows his case is lost, Conor thought.
THE parlour in Mrs. Trotter’s boarding house was decorated with large, ornately carved dark furniture. Much of it had come with the place and belonged to the landlord, George Desbarats, but Mary Ann Trotter’s own knick-knacks and keepsakes were everywhere, adding her personality to the room. Meg sat alone on the sofa, curled up in a blanket. She had been reading the newspaper reports on the trial, but the paper lay in disarray on her lap. She was breathing deeply, gently falling asleep.
She did not hear him enter the house.
He moved stealthily, settling in a chair across the room. For a few minutes, he simply watched her. In sleep, she was so tranquil, so calm. He could use some serenity now. He kept staring at Meg. Her right eye twitched. She sensed someone in the room. Clutching the blanket, she opened her eyes in terror.
“Conor, what are you doing?” she gasped. “You scared me half to death.”
“Sshh,” he whispered. “I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“Lots of things.”
She didn’t say anything right away.
He asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, you come over here. Just hold me. Just hold me tight.”