“I did.”
“Then good for you. I hate the French.”
It took all of Marc’s tact and most of his aplomb to keep his temper and spin his cover story for this exceedingly plain and aggressively prejudiced woman. But he did so.
“A common thief, you say, pretending to be one of us? How shocking! First the horrid revolt and now this. What is the world coming to?”
Marc was amused by the wife of a Methodist pastor herself pretending to be part of the aristocracy, but then, as he himself knew, such distinctions were relative, not absolute.
“You can imagine, ma’am, how important it is for the reputation of our city that we recover Lady Durham’s jewels. Moreover, our inquiries have to be utterly discreet.”
Mrs. Finney bobbed her chin, much in the manner she was accustomed to doing whenever the Reverend Finney paused pregnantly in a sermon. “But how can we help?” she said. “I don’t recall seeing anybody I didn’t know or recognize.”
“Well, as I mentioned, the thief seems to have hitched a ride back to the city with one of the unsuspecting parties respectable enough to be travelling in a barouche.” That many of these extravagances, like the Finneys’, had been rented needed not be emphasized here: flattery would suffice. “I trust that you and Mr. Finney returned with the same members of your party who rode out with you?”
There was no hesitation. “Yes, the three Carters and Temperance and I went out and came back together. You may wish to check with them, of course. They live at number twenty-six George Street.”
“There’ll be no need for that, ma’am. The word of a minister’s wife is good enough for me,” Marc said, though he had every intention of double-checking every claim made. He rose and bowed.
“I could give you a cup of tea, if you’d like?” she offered belatedly.
“Thank you, but I must continue these inquiries.”
Mrs. Finney understood perfectly: she would have to be content with the gossipy tidbits supplied thus far.
At the door, Marc said without preamble, “Did you employ a young woman here last fall by the name of Sarah McConkey?”
Mrs. Finney froze in her tracks. A deep scowl suddenly gave some character to her bland, undistinguished features. “Why do you utter the name of that Jezebel in my home?” she hissed.
Marc winced, recovered, and said, working out the lie as he went along, “I apologize, ma’am, but the chief constable has asked me to look into the disappearance of a girl by that name. It seems that her parents, good Christian people, have not been able to locate her here in the city. And until now, the police have been of little help. But just this morning one of our informants revealed that she had been seen working here last fall. I thought that, while I was here on the more important matter, I should try to verify the informant’s story. Last fall is a long time back, but it might help if you had any idea where she might have gone after leaving your employ.”
“She didn’t leave our employ, sir!” The scowl had intensified. “We tossed her out onto the street, which is where women like her belong!”
“She offended you in some way?”
“In every way, sir. She was a lewd and grasping hussy!”
“Those are strong words about a young woman from a decent family who’d only been in the city for a few weeks and entirely in your employ.”
“They aren’t strong enough! She flaunted her flesh before my fourteen-year-old son, tempting him beyond endurance. She was caught kissing the hired man! We’d had enough by then, so out she went. I feel sorry for her parents, but I can’t spare one ounce of pity for such a creature.”
Marc thanked her for her frankness, bowed, and left. On the gravel driveway, he met Cobb coming up from the barn. Marc summarized his conversation with Mrs. Finney, to the constable’s considerable amusement. Cobb then told him that one of the stablemen, a fellow he knew personally, corroborated Mrs. Finney’s account of their trip back from Spadina on Monday. But when Marc suggested that they return to the barn to question both men about Sarah’s troubled tenure there last September, Cobb stayed him.
“Them fellas just started workin’ here at Christmastime,” Cobb said. “Before they come on steady, they told me-when we got to chin-waggin’-that the Finneys were so hard to get along with that half a dozen men had come and gone before them. If work wasn’t so scarce since the uprisin’, they said they’d be packin’ it in, too.”
“That’s too bad,” Marc said. “However, we’re gradually filling in the brief life story of Sarah McConkey, post-Streetsville.”
“Sounds like she took a fancy to men right off.”
“Perhaps,” Marc said, but did not elaborate. Instead, he pointed Cobb in the direction of the Carters’ residence, the family Mrs. Finney claimed rode with her and Finney on Monday. It never hurt to triple-check.
Lady Durham showed Beth into the sickroom. Word had been put out that Handford Ellice had fallen ill with a fever after the ball, an affliction general and vague enough to cover the symptoms of his condition. He had been moved to Government House to be near Sir George’s personal physician, Angus Withers. But Lord Durham’s executive powers could extend only so far and for so long. If the real killer could not be found by Friday morning or if Ellice did not recover his wits quickly enough to help himself, he would have to be formally charged and led in chains to the Toronto jail-with dire and irreversible consequences for Durham and possibly for the province.
Beth was aware of all this as she slipped quietly to the side of the bed where Ellice was dozing, propped up against several capacious pillows. His skin was not merely albino-white, it was almost translucent: in the sunlight it would have glowed pink. Lady Durham stationed herself near the door, out of her nephew’s line of sight, and waited.
Beth reached across and took Ellice’s right hand in hers. She squeezed it several times. Some minutes later, he groaned and opened his eyes. They were glassy from the belladonna or laudanum, and, seeing Beth, they grew round with terror. He gasped for some word to stay whatever nightmare vision he was experiencing but succeeded only in prompting a sequence of stunted coughs.
Beth squeezed his hand tightly. “It’s Mrs. Edwards, Handford. I’m alive and unharmed and here beside you.”
The young man’s entire body was trembling uncontrollably, but he could not will himself to close his eyes. Lady Durham started forward but stopped when Beth held up her free hand. Gradually the tremoring slowed and the rictus of terror that had gripped and distorted his features began to subside. Finally Ellice was able to give the hand that held his a single squeeze.
“Yes, it is me,” Beth whispered. “The woman you danced with at the ball.”
Ellice nodded his head warily.
“You’ve been sick for two days, but Dr. Withers says you’re going to be fine soon.”
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said, shaping one word at a time and forcing his breath to give weight to each.
Lady Durham gave a sharp cry from her station by the door-of joy and relief.
It did not take long for Marc to learn that the O’Driscolls and Harrises had ridden home with the same friends who accompanied them out to Spadina and the Governor’s Ball. The respective wives were quick to express their willingness to help, the Whiggery of the lord and lady being overlooked in the interests of common decency and respect for high office. But alas they were even quicker to deny any knowledge of the dastardly interloper and purloiner of pearls. Each had ridden with one other couple, and Marc, growing frustrated, had lengthened this futile line of inquiry considerably by traipsing eight or nine blocks to cross-check their claims and those of Mrs. Finney. Nor had Cobb any better luck. In the end, Marc had to conclude that Handford Ellice had not, on the face of it, been ferried to the city by Finneys, O’Driscolls, or Harrises. Foot-weary and not overly optimistic, Cobb and Marc trudged back up towards the substantial estate of Alasdair Hepburn on Hospital Street, not a block and a half south of the entrance to Irishtown.