Conor set up an appointment with Sir John A. Macdonald for eight-thirty the next evening at Macdonald’s home. As the former assistant to D’Arcy McGee, he had no trouble arranging an audience with the prime minister. Hewitt Bernard complained about the inconvenience, but added his name to the evening schedule.
Recently, the prime minister had moved his study upstairs. Macdonald’s doctor had said the drainage smell drifting into the main-floor office was bad for his health. Conor stayed downstairs, waiting to be announced. He understood the doctor’s concerns, but this was a rose garden compared to the outhouse behind his father’s flat. Months ago, his old pocket watch had stopped working, but he estimated that he had been waiting for nearly an hour. He could hear Sir John’s voice rise in anger from upstairs, but he couldn’t distinguish any words.
“Young man.”
Lady Macdonald’s voice startled Conor. He jumped to his feet, flustered. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry. You’re in good company. D’Arcy used to doze off while I was talking to him, too. Contemplating poetry, I liked to think.”
Conor had met Lady Macdonald only a few times before. He was flattered that she remembered him. “How are you, ma’am?” he asked. Lady Macdonald was expecting a baby any day. She looked tired, and Conor was embarrassed to observe how big she was.
“I’m fine, thank you. The baby has the energy of Sir John, I’m afraid. Forever kicking and making its presence known.”
Conor was uncomfortable. Working-class pregnant women were often seen in the market or around town, but aristocrats stayed out of society’s glare when they were “in the family way.” Except for her daily visits to St. Alban’s Church, Lady Macdonald had rarely been in public since she started showing. But, he supposed, she was in her house and she could act as she liked.
“The babe wants to help him fight the Grits,” Conor joked, wondering if he was being too bold.
Lady Macdonald smiled. “Sir John speaks very highly of you.” She left the thought dangling as she walked over to the mantle to rearrange a few flowers. Conor couldn’t think of anything to say in return. She broke the silence. “You have been going to court every day, Sir John tells me.”
“I was subpoenaed.” Conor was afraid she was suggesting that he was lazy. He quickly added, “I’m still working for a few members of Parliament.”
“I don’t think it’s wise,” she declared, “to watch that wicked man every day.”
“But—”
“It’s not right to see such evil.” Her face was pained with concern. “They tell me he cannot feel.”
Conor thought of the solitary man in jail with eyes alight in fear. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I think he can feel. I think he feels very deeply.”
CONOR recognized the man who marched out of Sir John’s study and down the stairs; he was the person sitting with Andrew Cullen in court. He nodded at Lady Macdonald as he passed her and completely ignored Conor. With exaggerated politeness, she called over his shoulder, “And good evening to you, Mr. McMicken.” Without turning, he reached up with his hand. It could have been a wave, but it was more like a salute.
“Strange man,” Lady Macdonald sighed. “But these are strange times.”
“Come in, son, come in,” Sir John called impatiently from his study. Conor bowed slightly to Lady Macdonald. She followed him upstairs and turned into her room while he entered the prime minister’s home study. The first thing Conor noticed was the huge desk covered with a maze of papers, most of which Old Tomorrow seemed to have cast aside for another day. Macdonald was pouring a glass of sherry from a half-empty decanter. His deep frown indicated that he had been through a very disagreeable meeting.
He looked up from his glass. “How’s your work going?” he inquired.
“Well, sir,” Conor declared. “I’ve been quite busy doing odd jobs for members of Parliament and …” Conor could see that the prime minister wasn’t listening, but was just making conversation, so he let his words trail off. McGee had once told him, “If you lose your audience in the preliminaries, scurry to get back on the track.” So Conor came to the point.
“Sir John, I would like to talk to you about Patrick James Whelan.”
“A much-discussed man,” Macdonald said sarcastically. There was no sparkle in his eyes this night, just a deepening look of concern. Minutes ago, McMicken had told him that an informer in Detroit confirmed other reports that Whelan was not the man who killed McGee. He was an accomplice, but not the murderer. Sir John, of course, refused to believe it. “Who cares what some fool says in Detroit? The courts in Canada will decide, and the evidence, as D’Arcy would say, is as thick as blackberries. Who cares …” he murmured the last two words out loud.
“Pardon me, sir?”
Macdonald realized he had been daydreaming or, if there were such a word, nightmaring.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear what you said,” Conor repeated.
“It was nothing. Now, what do you want to say about that fellow Whelan?”
“I don’t think he’s guilty.”
Sir John A. Macdonald almost spit. Conor O’Dea, of all people, McGee’s loyal assistant, not wanting the Fenian rebel to hang! He looked at Conor accusingly. “So what makes you think this?”
“He told me,” Conor replied.
“He told the court he was innocent, too,” the prime minister snapped back. “He pleaded not guilty. Now it’s before the courts. Do you not trust our courts?”
“He told me what really happened,” Conor said, trying to retain his strength. It took a lot of nerve for him to face the prime minister’s assault.
And Sir John had just begun. “Of course he’d tell you he was innocent. The man’s life is at stake. He’s a cold-blooded murderer. Adding lying to his list of sins is no giant leap.”
“But, sir, I believe him. I think he was somehow involved. I think he was part of the crime. But I don’t think he killed Mr. McGee.”
“What about his confession in jail?”
“He says he was misquoted.”
“We all say that!” Macdonald shouted. “So who, pray tell,” he asked mockingly, “was the murderer?”
“I don’t know. But I am sure that someone else fired the gun.”
The prime minister’s world was in disarray. He wanted this terrible mess cleaned up, once and for all. Surely Whelan was guilty of something, even this young man admitted that, and there was no other suspect except some mysterious, shadowy person. Whelan had the motive and he was there; the evidence was clear. Justice must be done. Because … because, he thought with dread, if he wasn’t guilty—if someone else was really the assassin—then the murderer was still out there.
“Why are you doing this, young Mr. O’Dea? Don’t you think D’Arcy McGee would want his killer brought to justice?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” Conor was prepared for this question. He had asked it many times himself. “But I know he would want the truth exposed. He would feel betrayed if the wrong man hanged.”
Macdonald sighed deeply. Never before had he felt so alone in the premier’s chair. He had a debt to McGee, and it would be met. But he also had a duty to the country not to let this matter grow into hysteria. Anyway, this was the responsibility of the police and the courts, certainly not that of this well-meaning but immature apprentice. A dense silence hung over the room.
Conor, summoning his self-confidence, broke the stalemate. “Do you really think James Whelan is guilty, sir?”
Sir John A. Macdonald had persuaded sworn enemies to work as allies during the Confederation debates, had convinced feuding colonies to unite, had enticed headstrong people to follow him as leader—now he tried his best to convince himself that the matter was under control. “Yes, young man, I do,” he affirmed. “The final decision is up to the courts, but I am confident—no, I am certain—that the Fenian is guilty.”
But when Conor returned Macdonald’s stare, he saw no sign of confidence. He saw the same look he remembered seeing in jail in the eyes of a doomed man. He could tell that the prime minister was frightened. And not in the least bit certain.
The next day, Sir John and Lady Macdonald sat beside Mr. Justice Richards in court. Lady Macdonald sat solemnly, in loose clothes that disguised her pregnancy, but the prime minister made quite a show of it, smiling at friends and acquaintances. Macdonald was both prime minister and attorney general. He was the most powerful man in Canada, and the most persuasive when he wanted to be. He was letting the judge know this was more than just a judicial hearing; it was a political event. He was letting the jury know he wanted James Whelan pronounced guilty.