It was late Friday afternoon when Cobb finished dictating a summary of his interviews and adding some final remarks to his report. Wilfrid Sturges was attending a meeting with the mayor and aldermen, but arrived back a few minutes after Gussie French blew the last grain of blotting sand away from the paper in front of him. Cobb handed the report to his chief and waited with Gussie in the anteroom while Sturges took it into his office to read it over. Cobb was pleased to see that he was not limping today.
Time dragged on. Gussie grumped and whined about his teenager, whom the mumps had not made any more manageable. Constable Brown clumped in and went into the constables’ room. At last the Chief called Cobb inside. Sturges was sitting and staring at the report as if expecting it to burst into flames at any moment. Cobb sat down quietly and waited for the Chief’s reaction.
“What a mess!”
This remark was not among the ones Cobb had anticipated. “I thought the chain of events was pretty clear,” he said.
“They are, Cobb, they are. You are to be congratulated on the job you did this afternoon.”
“Then what’s the problem, sir?”
Sturges sighed. “What we have here – what you’ve unearthed – is a series of circumstantial events, well testified to, that surround a single witness’s claim that the person he saw assaultin’ Betsy Thurgood was Seamus Baldwin.”
“That’s the way I see it, too.”
“The trouble is not in the details you set out, it’s whether they point clearly to laying a charge of rape against a revered member of a prominent family.”
“You’re not sure whether to charge him or not?”
“What I’m sayin’ is we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
“And if we do?”
“If we do, we’ll bring the house of Reform down upon us like a rock-fall. They’ll claim the witness didn’t see the culprit’s face and that the police went out of their way to find testimony to incriminate their man. They’ll scream witch-hunt!”
“And if we don’t?”
“The Tories, includin’ most of the government, will accuse us of gatherin’ facts and findin’ witnesses and then coverin’ them up! Witch-hunt or cover-up, take yer pick. This report, you see, can be turned either way, dependin’ on yer prejudices.”
“But who else coulda done it?” Cobb said, beginning to get miffed.
“Nobody that I can tell. I agree with you that Jake Broom’s account is very believable, and everythin’ – everythin’ – you’ve dug up supports his claims. But it’s possible he lied to cover up fer Mullins or Clift, who were free from observation at the time of the crime. To think he might’ve done it himself is crazy. If he did, or if he saw one of his mates commit the crime, he never in a million years would’ve come in here and brung the whole business up when it was long forgotten. That makes no sense at all.”
“That’s right. He comes back to the mill yesterday and hears nothin’ about the rape business, does he? If he was the culprit, he might’ve expected the girl would’ve complained, and so on. Instead, he only hears about Betsy’s death after a botched abortion.”
“Why come back at all, eh?”
Cobb looked warily at the report between them. “So what are ya gonna do?”
“I’m goin’ to take this report straight over to the Court House and show it to James Thorpe. I’ll let him decide. I don’t fancy chargin’ a Baldwin, however elderly and dodderin’, with seduction and statutory rape, even though I got the power to do so.”
“But the magistrate’s a Tory!” Cobb cried. “We know perfectly well what he’ll do and why.”
“Maybe so. But Thorpe’s an honest man. However, once the Attorney-General and them other Tory hounds get one whiff of what’s in yer report, there’ll be no stoppin’ ‘em. Still, I want the charge and any prosecution left in their hands. I want it to be seen that we done our jobs – fairly and diligently.”
“You sure you wanta retire?” Cobb said.
***
It came as no surprise that at noon on Monday, a warrant was issued for the arrest of Seamus Baldwin. There was one surprise, however: the charges were multiple – seduction and corruption of a minor, having carnal relations with a minor, and involuntary manslaughter. The hand of the Tory establishment was evident, it was whispered everywhere, in that last unexpected charge. Apparently, Humphrey Cardiff, the Attorney-General, had decided to throw the book at the elder statesman of the first family of Reform. Sturges selected Rossiter and Wilkie to drive out to Spadina to effect the arrest. He didn’t want Cobb harassed or compromised. Dr. Baldwin greeted them courteously and asked for half an hour to prepare his brother. His request was granted. Wobbly on his pins but with much dignity, the old gent, emotionally drained, was helped to the carriage. There was no thought of manacles.
He was arraigned within minutes of his arrival at the Court House, the charges read, a plea of not guilty entered and, considering his age and state of health, he was released into the hands of his younger brother. The Baldwin name alone was surety enough for his later appearance in court. Again, political chicanery was assumed when the trial date was set for two weeks hence, the first Monday in November. Three other cases in the assizes had to be rescheduled to accommodate the Baldwin trial.
It was Wednesday before Robert Baldwin could be summoned back to face the gravest crisis in his family’s illustrious history.
***
They met on Thursday morning in the spacious library of Francis Hincks, who lived next door to Baldwin House: Robert, Dr. Baldwin, Hincks, Marc Edwards and Robert Baldwin Sullivan. It was here that many of the important conferences of the Reform caucus had been held, and critical decisions taken in the long struggle for a system of responsible government in the province. And although everyone here was eager to hear Robert’s report of his journey to the western counties, no-one was surprised that the first and principal topic of conversation was to be the upcoming trial of Uncle Seamus. A copy of the Crown’s indictment lay open on the table. It ran to five pages. They had all read it, silently and solemnly.
“Before we discuss the particulars,” Hincks said to get things started, “we need to decide who is to be Uncle Seamus’s defense counsel.”
“It has to be you, Marc,” Robert said matter-of-factly, then looked beseechingly at his friend. “I am far too close to the situation.”
“And I have to be in Kingston on business the very date of the trial’s beginning,” his cousin said without apparent regret. He was a brilliant courtroom performer, but impatient with research and the petty details that were often as crucial as the grand gesture. “But in the interim I’ll do all I can to help.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Robert said. “We all appreciate your concern. As you know full well, these spurious charges are a direct attack on our family and our party.”
“And whether you are comfortable with it or not, Robert,” Hincks said, “we may need you to return to Windsor to calm the waters there.”
Robert nodded, then looked at Marc again.
“It’s a terrible responsibility,” Marc said, “but I’d be a coward and no friend if I refused.”
“That’s settled, then,” Dr. Baldwin said with evident relief. He was still pale and weak from several bouts of lumbago. “I’ll try to pitch in, but my brother’s in worse shape than I am. He needs a physician close by whenever possible.”
“So, Marc,” Hincks said, “what do you make of the indictment at first glance?”
Marc picked up the document. “I’m surprised, and disappointed, in that third charge. You can see from the allusion to the events and witness-statements that the Crown intends to link the girl’s death and the rape, as cause and effect, deed and consequence. We’ll know more when we see their witness-list in a day or two.”
“Isn’t involuntary manslaughter a bit of a stretch,” Hincks said, “even for our Attorney-General, who has ambitions as big as his belly?”
“It is, and even if he were able to prove that Uncle Seamus financed the abortion, which they can’t, he can’t be convicted of manslaughter or even criminal negligence. After all, no-one but Betsy knew who would be asked to perform that butchery.”
“You think they’re doing this to besmirch my uncle’s character so that the jury will find the circumstantial evidence around the so-called rape more convincing?” Robert asked Marc.
“I’m sure of it. The indictment begins there and I believe the Crown’s case will start there as well. By the time we get to the incident at the mill, Uncle Seamus will already be painted as a blackguard, if not an outright murderer.”
“And when we get to the mill?” Dr. Baldwin asked.
“It sounds like they’ve got witnesses at Spadina and the mill to place Uncle Seamus in the ravine at the trout-pool below the mill-building just before the alleged time of the crime.”
“And he already admits to being there,” Robert said. Then he proceeded to tell Marc and the others the version of events that his uncle, haltingly, had recounted to him the previous evening, a repetition of the testimony he had given to Horatio Cobb, but which the police chose to ignore.
“The problem is, as you all know,” Marc said, “Seamus cannot take the stand in his own defense. Our law won’t allow it. Which presents us with a problem: how can I get our version of events on the record? The business of checking out the pony for Betsy is plausible and credible, given that we could get corroboration for her interest in horses from Thurgood when he appears, as he must for the charge to stick, or from her pals at Spadina. But apparently only Seamus and Betsy were privy to that information, and Betsy’s dead and Seamus can’t testify. Likewise with the phony reason Betsy gave Seamus for needing the five pounds: to help her mother get an operation. No-one else can vouch for the deception other than Seamus himself.”
“That doesn’t leave us much of a defense,” Sullivan said.
“But it does leave us with offence,” Marc said forcefully. “A situation that my role model, Doubtful Dick Dougherty, would have relished.”
Richard Dougherty, now dead, had been a brilliant trial lawyer – fair but ruthless in cross-examination. In his long career he had never lost a capital case. It was he who prompted – inspired – Marc to go back to the law, not as a solicitor like his adoptive uncle but as a full-fledged barrister, a principal performer in the theatre of life and death.
“You may need all of his cunning,” Hincks said.
“Where do you see the weak points?” Robert asked. “The points of attack?”
Marc paused, then said, “The evidence placing Uncle Seamus at the scene is there to bolster Jake Broom’s eye-witness description of the crime – given in some detail here. I’ll review the full statement later today. It’s also being used to eliminate the other obvious suspects.”
“That is everyone working at the mill who knew Betsy and Betsy’s habits, and who might have become smitten with her?” Sullivan said.
“Yes,” Marc said. “If the actual rapist was some stranger, and that is very unlikely, then we’ll never find out who committed the outrage. Betsy didn’t report it, and two months went by without a further murmur about it. She apparently said nothing about it even on the night of the abortion when she’s said to have named Uncle Seamus. Only the botched abortion itself and the return of Jake Broom rekindled the affair. So it must have been one of the mill-hands. If Joe Mullins saw Uncle Seamus in the ravine unobserved, then he himself has no alibi and plenty of time to get to the barn nearby. And Sol Clift seems to have been left alone in the office soon after, giving him time to slip through the mill and get to the barn.”
“True, Marc, but why would the Crown’s star witness say he saw an older-looking body with a bush-sized head of white hair?” Hincks said.
“Yes,” Robert said, “it makes no sense. If he did see Clift or Mullins do the deed and decided to cover up for one of his mates, why would he not just let the matter lie dormant?”
“He was gone over two months,” Dr. Baldwin pointed out.
“Perhaps he got a guilty conscience,” Sullivan said.
“And if he did it himself, then why bother at all?” Robert said again. “Even the inquest pointed only to Mrs. Trigger. Thurgood kept quiet about the business of Uncle Seamus and the five pounds.”
“You’ve all raised good points,” Marc said. “The key to this business is what Broom thought he saw that day. But if I can’t break him down on the stand and get him to reveal what he actually saw and why, then we may be in serious trouble.”
“I just thought of something,” Hincks said. “If Seamus can’t be on the stand, then he won’t have to admit where he was or why. You can go after this Joe Mullins and impeach his testimony.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Baldwin said. “The Crown will have to use only its own witnesses to suggest, not prove, whether my brother’s motives were evil or philanthropic.”
Marc held up his hand. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Remember, as Robert has told us, Uncle Seamus was interviewed by Cobb. If the Crown puts Cobb on the stand to help tie their story together and to provide context as to where in what circumstances the love letter and thank-you note were found, I’ll be able, if I’m astute enough, to get him to relate those favourable details he elicited from his interview with Uncle Seamus up at Spadina. The trick will be to use the Crown’s questioning somehow as a basis to launch the subject. I could even call Cobb as a witness for the defense.” But the spectre of vigorously cross-questioning his good friend was not a happy one.
“If they’re wise,” Sullivan said, “they won’t call him. That’ll make him a hostile witness if we do it.”
Robert shook his head slowly. “This just gets worse and worse. We’ve got a near-revolt in Windsor – which I’ll detail later – and Francis is going to have to write to Louis LaFontaine in Montreal to apprise him of the upcoming trial before he hears about it from the rumour mill.”
“Have we got any actual defense at all?” Dr. Baldwin said.
Marc smiled at him. “You are it, sir.”
“Me?” Dr. Baldwin looked surprised, and a little edgy. “Oh, as a character witness,” he said.
“Precisely. Without direct testimony from the accused himself, we’ll need to throw doubt on the probability of that big-haired villain being your sweet, gentle brother.”
“And we’ve got the servants,” Robert said hopefully. “We need to get testimony from them about his kindness, his generosity to them, and his unfailing courtesy.”
Marc sighed. “I’d like nothing better, Robert. I’ve heard about his tutoring Edie Barr and Betsy Thurgood and his giving them extra money for their families. That testimony, especially by Edie, would be invaluable because Edie was almost the same age as Betsy.”
“Then why can’t we use it?” Hincks asked. “Or similar good references from Mrs. Morrisey or the other, older housemaid?”
“Because the Crown will use them for its own purposes,” Marc replied.
“I don’t see – ”
“They’ll elicit the other, impish side of his personality. They’ll subject the poor servants to a barrage of questions about the picnics and soirées up at Spadina. Details about his teasing and flirting will have to come out. The ventriloquist business will involve Betsy directly. They’ll make him out to be a lecherous and silly old man – in his dotage and dangerous to females.”
“I see,” Hincks said. “I’ve seen that impish side myself. And we’re Irish, aren’t we? We understand and make allowances for those traits, but others don’t – and won’t.”
“I’m afraid so,” Marc said.
“But won’t my father be subjected to the same cruel cross-examination?” Robert said, glancing at his parent and role model, who looked feverish and uncomfortable. He wouldn’t be able to stay for the political discussion to follow: they couldn’t afford to have him go down sick at this juncture.
“He will, but he’ll be better able to withstand it than the servants. And as one of the pillars of this community, you, sir, will be questioned with more circumspection and, I trust, more respect. In addition, your words will carry more weight.”
“And I can honestly say that I have never seen the notorious ventriloquist act,” Dr. Baldwin smiled as best he could. “But perhaps we won’t need a defense.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” Marc said.” I intend to go at every Crown witness without mercy. Seamus is innocent, so there is a truth out there that I must get to, or in the least point to. We may not be able to break up the neat little narrative outlined here in the indictment, but we can put cracks in it everywhere along route and suggest some enticing alternatives. Then we’ll win it in the closing argument.”
“That’s the spirit,” Hincks said.
“Who will be arguing against you, Marc?”
It was Robert Sullivan who answered. “I’m afraid it’s Neville Cambridge.”
Both Sullivan and Marc had come up against Neville Cambridge in the previous spring’s assizes. He was a new breed of barrister, educated in England where he apprenticed at the Old Bailey, and newly immigrated to Toronto to take up a partnership in his cousin’s law firm. He had proved to be such an effective courtroom performer that the Crown co-opted him to try important cases. His approach eschewed the flamboyant and hyper-dramatic tactics of old-guard barristers like Doubtful Dick Dougherty. Instead he relied on his gentleman’s suave demeanour and sly gambits that were closer to sleight-of-hand than slick gesture. He was also a High Tory and politically ambitious. A victory over the Baldwin clan would be a feather in his pedigreed cap.
“Then we’ll just have to try all the harder,” Marc said.
***
Reluctanty Robert set off on his trouble-shooting mission to Windsor the next day. Francis Hincks wrote immediately to Louis LaFontaine, explaining as best he could their view of the heinous and false charges brought against Uncle Seamus and, by extension, the Baldwins and the Reform party. He pointed out that the party’s grassroots support was founded on notions of equality of opportunity and fair play under the law. These people respected the earned entitlements of the middle class who led them in their political struggles: politicos like the Hincks and Baldwins and, before them, Mackenzie and the Bidwells. If one of their ilk were to abuse such privilege (abominably in the case of Seamus Baldwin) and disadvantage one of their own kind, then that constant support could be dramatically withdrawn. Three days later Hincks received a courteous and thoughtful reply from LaFontaine, himself a lawyer. He sympathized with the Baldwin’s position and promised that he would keep a lid on speculation in Quebec among his rouge adherents. He was certain there would be no long-term effects on their French-English alliance – if the gentleman were found innocent. He left unsaid the awful consequences of conviction.
Meanwhile Marc busied himself reading and re-reading the indictment and the numerous attachments: Cobb’s various interviews and summary, and the two incriminating notes. On the Thursday before the trial, he rode up to Whittle’s mill and surveyed the scene for himself. He wanted to retrace the witnesses’ movements, timing, and vantage-points. From the south side of the mill, if you walked ten paces farther on, you could see down into the ravine and the trout-pool where the stream began one of its many loops. Unless a person in the ravine were specifically looking for someone at that point, the latter would likely be unobserved, as Joe Mullins claimed. Uncle Seamus had been seen but had not realized it. From the ravine Marc followed the creek’s bank north, noting that a screen of bushes and hawthorn trees kept his movements hidden from anyone in or around the mill. This cover lasted the hundred and twenty yards he paced off from the trout-pool to the rear of the barn. Even today, with Seth Whittle aware of his presence and purpose, the back doors were wide open. Marc walked up towards them. A small grove of cedars to his right would effectively screen his movement from the two men who claimed to be working on the damaged weir above the mill itself. So, it was possible for the Crown to claim that Uncle Seamus could have got from the ravine to the barn without being seen. In less than five minutes.
Marc went into the barn and stood just inside the doorway, the spot from which Jake Broom stated he had witnessed the rape. The stall was wide open to view, as it must have been on that terrible day. The stall itself was part of a row of stalls running north and south the length of the barn. But it was the only one visible from the eastern entrance. Broom must have entered from the door on the southwest corner, and then strode along to check on the sick horse, around the corner and several stalls away from the fateful one. Then he would have decided to exit through the back doors to go for a walk or a smoke, would have walked by the open stall without seeing or hearing anything (why there was no sound was another matter to be considered), would have reached the doorway, heard some small noise, and turned to discover the outrage being perpetrated before his eyes. Instead of rescuing the girl, he panics and runs to the mill-office. But it’s about one o’clock and everyone has gone back to work. So he races back, only to find the stall empty. Marc spent another minute studying the peculiar play of light and shadow in the stall, and thinking hard. Then he left the barn.
Broom told a persuasive story, one Marc would have to break – somehow.
For the sake of completeness he walked to the weir at the millpond. He stood on the little dam and gazed back towards the barn. Except for its roof, it was invisible. Where, if at all, was the weak link in this credible chain of events? He wished he could interview the witnesses, but that was not permitted. He thanked Seth Whittle and left, wiser but no closer to where he hoped to be before Monday.
He rode on up to Spadina. Robert was expected home soon, but it was Dr. Baldwin who led him up to Uncle Seamus’s room. The interview did not go well. Uncle Seamus insisted on his innocence, and Marc believed him. But when he tried to get the old fellow to elaborate on the explanations he had given Cobb and recall anyone else who might be able to corroborate them, Uncle Seamus was of no help. He was deeply depressed and sleep-deprived. His answers wandered and did more to confuse Marc than enlighten him. For the old man’s sake, Marc soon gave up.
“Maybe he’ll be better able to help tomorrow,” Dr. Baldwin said without much conviction. “But it may well be all down to you, lad.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, Marc thought.
***
When Marc got back to the chambers at Baldwin House, Clement Peachey handed him the witness-list, which had just arrived – days late.
“Any surprises?” Peachey asked.
“Yes. Cobb is not on here.”
“Then you may have to call him yourself.”
Marc sighed. Then whistled. “But my wife is.”
***
Marc always shared his investigations and court cases with Beth, insofar as confidentiality or his barrister’s oath was not broken. Since the details of the indictment were both numerous and public, Marc did not have to hold much back. And he did not have to refer to the interdicted witness-list because Beth herself had received her subpoena a few hours before he arrived home for supper. They went immediately into their new parlour, and Beth asked Etta Hogg to watch the children and hold supper for half an hour.
“Why would the Crown call me as a witness?” Beth said. She was well aware of the Crown’s case and Marc’s sense of how it would unfold.
“To make mischief, I’m afraid,” Marc said. “This whole business reeks of politics. The Tory prosecutors want to drag the Edwards clan into this – you and me both, so we will all be tarred with one brutal brush.”
“But I’d just deflect them from their case, wouldn’t I?”
“Well, you and I have been out to Spadina.”
Beth winced. “The birthday party and those shenanigans!”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. And it shows how low our opponent’s have sunk. But your name is well down the list, so perhaps I’ll have so shaken them by then that they’ll have less petty matters to attend to.”
“You figure you can unsettle the Crown’s witnesses all along?”
“I have no other choice. I must attack relentlessly and toss out alternative versions of the crime as I go.”
Beth frowned. “You mean the way Doubtful Dick operated?”
“Yes. All I need to do is unsettle the jury about the Crown’s patched-together fairy tale, and Uncle Seamus’s character and name will do the rest. It’s a reasonable doubt, as Dick always reminded me.”
Beth reached over and stroked her husband’s cheek. “But my darling, you are not ruthless. And you’re not Dick Dougherty.”