He lay in the covering of snow and rock, safe and secure. He knew they wouldn’t find him. He had prepared this reserve position days ago. He was dry, but soaking in his misery. He was not a man who knew failure. This should not have happened. His plan was in shambles. He had to escape. Get out of Canada. But was there anything else he could do before leaving this wretched British country?
THE Toronto House burned down the next week. The building just burst into flames in the middle of a moonless night. The offices of the Queen’s printer burned to the ground with it. There was a masquerade ball at the Desbarats home, and the guests watched the inferno in fancy costumes. Miraculously, no one was killed or injured. George Desbarats had insurance, but that didn’t compensate for the loss. A part of Canada’s young history had disappeared overnight.
Fires were common among the lumber town’s many wooden structures, especially in winter, when wood stoves threw flames about. Still, the police believed it might have been arson. Fenians were suspected, but when police searched through the rubble and ashes, they found no clues. No one had been seen around the boarding house the night of the fire. No one was arrested. Somehow, the suspicions didn’t linger. The country wanted to get back to the business of living.
The fire seemed to help put the Fenian–D’Arcy McGee matter to rest.
“HOW are you, Sir John?” Conor asked.
“Can’t complain,” the prime minister answered. “Well, I can, but no one would pay attention.” He looked over at Thomas and winked. The mood was jovial in Macdonald’s study. There was a sense of relief, as if a sick friend had been cured. Everyone was smiling, except for Meg, who was still anxious and tentative. Conor was beside his father. Meg held back, just slightly behind.
Polly Ryan stood tall beside a beaming Gilbert McMicken.
“How long were you working for the government?” Conor asked.
“Since the Ridgeway invasion. So I guess about three years. My husband was killed in the Fenian attack.”
“I recruited her myself,” McMicken declared.
“I tried to keep an eye on you both,” she told Thomas.
So many things started to make sense to Conor. He turned to the prime minister. “So what are we going to do, sir, about the murderer?”
“Mr. McMicken here has people chasing the man. I don’t have to tell you that he hasn’t caught him.”
Conor nodded. McMicken stared straight ahead.
“What about the fire at my mother’s boarding house?” Meg asked.
“What a blessing no one was hurt,” Macdonald answered. “These wooden buildings are such fire traps.”
“Do you think it was the work of Fenians—or that man?” Conor added.
“Good Lord, no. Just a coincidence. I’m just glad, Miss Trotter, that you and your family were not there.”
Conor glanced at McMicken, who ignored him.
Meg pressed on. “The trouble at Rideau Hall … it never made the newspapers?” Her voice had a slight waver to it. Her stunning blue eyes still held a trace of fear.
“No,” Macdonald said proudly. “Not a word. No talk of assassins and gun battles. We told everybody that some petty thief was hanging around the toboggan run. The story is sticking.” Conor considered how it must irk a man like Macdonald, who loved to bask in the light of his successes, to keep this one quiet. Pragmatism won over pride.
“A policeman was killed,” Thomas reminded him.
“Don’t worry, I’ve explained it,” McMicken declared. “A freak accident while we were chasing the thief.”
His answer didn’t please the O’Deas, but before either could object, Macdonald announced, “I have some news for you, though. Our sources in New York say the Fenians are devastated by their failure here. Apparently, the powers that be in Dublin have lost interest in these Canadian dreams. We think it’s over.”
It looked as if McMicken might disagree when Thomas asked, “What about Jim Whelan?”
Macdonald frowned deeply. “Whelan admitted that he was part of the conspiracy. A jury would still have found him guilty, and he would still have hanged. I know that isn’t very satisfactory, but it is the truth.”
Neither Thomas nor Conor looked impressed. A jury might well have acquitted Whelan if they knew the whole story. To serve his purposes, Macdonald was prepared to sweep the facts under the rug and be done with it. The prime minister knew he was losing the convivial spirit in the room and quickly changed the subject. “What about you people?” he asked.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Meg said softly. “I know a man in Toronto who might be able to give Conor a job. I believe you know him. Casimir Gzowski.”
“Ah, the Polish count.”
“He is looking for someone to help him write speeches, prepare business briefs; someone proficient in English.”
“I think working for D’Arcy was as good as a university education. Conor, I will give you a reference so glorious he might name a bank vault after you.”
Conor took Meg’s hand; she held it, gently.
“This has been horrible for you, I know,” the prime minister said, stumbling for the right words. “But let me tell you, this country is in great shape with people like you two growing up to replace old fools like Thomas and me.”
Thomas laughed. How Conor loved to watch him laugh.
“Thomas,” Macdonald said, “I wonder if you would do me a favour?”
Thomas looked at him, puzzled.
“There is a delegation travelling to Ireland next month. Would you go along as an extra adviser, an emissary from the prime minister’s office?”
“You know I can’t read or write.”
“But you can think. We need people with good, old-fashioned common sense. I know you’re a good listener. I’ll give you some people to keep an eye on for me, and maybe, if you would, say a few nice things about me over a dram. Don’t worry, I’ll pick your brain. You’ll earn your keep.” There was a sparkle in Macdonald’s eye that Conor hadn’t seen in months. “And the pay will be better than Lapierre’s, even counting my tips.”
Thomas just nodded. “Thanks.”
Macdonald shook his hand warmly.
“Thank you, sir,” Thomas said again, emphasizing the “sir.”
Thomas gently touched Polly’s shoulder. “You’re a woman of mystery.”
“Oh, I think I wear my heart on my sleeve.” She smiled at Thomas. And Conor didn’t mind.
“Now,” Sir John A. Macdonald wondered, “who would like a wee glass of whisky?”