immersion would do to body tissue.
“It’s not a sight I’d like to see often,” the doctor replied. “The poor soul truly did look like a monster.” Then, in great detail, he described the bloating and the change in colour.
“Is there a difference in appearance between someone who died from drowning and someone who died and then was immersed in water?” Luke wasn’t sure that this distinction was in any way important, but it kept the doctor from returning to the previous topic of licensing issues.
“Not that I know of,” Keough said. “I’m not sure what difference it would make anyway. The person would be equally dead regardless.”
“Odd, the business with the clothing, though.”
“Oh yes, very odd indeed. And nothing in the pockets to point us toward an explanation. Only a piece of green ribbon, and I have no idea what, if anything, that signifies.”
Nor did Luke, but from there he was able to steer the doctor toward the latest developments in medicine, and a discussion of the current battle for public sentiment between the physicians of the traditional bent and the Thompsonians, who claimed that bleeding, blistering, poison minerals, and starving were poor substitutes for a sickbed regimen based on herbs and vegetables.
Many of Betsy’s friends came to pay their respects to Luke as well. A number of these were from the Wellington Methodist community, their visits a reflection of the esteem in which his father was held. A handful of them were of a different connection, amongst them a Mrs. Sprung, who seemed to be a regular visitor, and with whom his mother spent a great deal of time drinking tea.
Each day after the noontime dinner, Luke found himself sitting on a chair on the verandah with his father, his mother having retired for a rest and the others busy with their various tasks. Sometimes the conversation was wide-ranging; at other times they sat in a comfortable silence, their faces lifted to the ever-hotter breezes blowing in from the lake. Luke enjoyed the silent days. He wasn’t used to talking as much as had been required of him since his arrival in Wellington. For the last few years his world had been one of hasty consultation regarding which field should be cleared next, or what the price of wheat was likely to be.
His father appeared to enjoy the silence as well. They weren’t so very different, Luke reflected. No doubt Thaddeus had grown used to silence, too, on his long rides between congregations. Silence was something that could be sorely missed when it wasn’t there.
On one of these days nearly a week into his visit, Luke watched idly as a very stylish trap harnessed to a handsome horse trotted along the main street. As soon as it came into view his father sat up a little straighter. The buggy stopped in front of them, and Thaddeus stood as a very distinguished-looking man climbed down.
“Lewis! Good day to you, sir!” the man said in a booming voice.
“Mr. McFaul! Good day! I don’t believe you’ve met my son Luke.”
“Yes, yes, I’d heard he was here. Welcome to Wellington, young man.” But unlike all the other acquaintances who had come calling, McFaul seemed little interested in chatting with Luke and got straight to the point of his visit. “I meant to talk to you this morning when you were at the warehouse, Thaddeus, but I got sidetracked with a shipment that came up a little short in the counting.”
“Please, come and sit down,” Thaddeus said. “Would you have tea?”
“Haven’t time,” McFaul replied. Then he turned to Luke. “I hear you’re off to Montreal in a few days.”
Luke had no idea how this man knew his plans. He hadn’t mentioned them to anyone but the immediate family. But it was a small village, and he supposed that everyone’s business was soon common knowledge.
“Yes, I need to get myself situated before I begin college in the fall.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you’d like a little company for part of your journey?” He addressed Thaddeus again: “I have some business for you to attend to in Kingston. It appears that one of my business associates has fallen woefully behind in the payments on his mortgage. His interests were mostly in timber, I’m afraid, and of course he’s come amiss now that the market has collapsed. I need you to take an inventory of his property and register some papers with the local court. I’ll have all the details ready for you in the next day or so.”
Thaddeus nodded, but Luke could see that he was puzzled. These were evidently matters that he attended to on a regular basis as part of his arrangement with McFaul. It hardly needed a special visit in the middle of the afternoon.
“I do have something else I would like you to do while you’re there — and,” he said, turning to Luke, “you could perhaps give your father a hand. The school has been short-handed since Father McQuaig passed on.”
This reference was to the Roman Catholic boarding school, which Luke had been told was situated at Tara Hall, the magnificent brick house that McFaul had built for himself but subsequently bequeathed to the Church.
“I’d arranged for a replacement — a Father Higgins — to come from Ireland. The last I heard from him, he had successfully navigated the Atlantic and had got as far as Kingston. He should have been here days ago, but there’s no sign of him. I’d like you to track him down. If he’s fallen ill or something, you can see that he’s looked after. If he hasn’t, you can tell him to get his carcass moving.”
“If you can get the paperwork ready, I could go tomorrow,” Thaddeus offered.
“Monday or Tuesday would suit better, I think. And that would fall in with this young man’s plans, I believe. Travelling is so much more pleasant with a companion, don’t you think?” He nodded at Luke. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Safe journeys, and perhaps our paths will cross on your next visit.” And with that he leapt into his shiny buggy and drove off.
Luke found McFaul’s manner very abrupt, and commented on it to his father.
“That’s what I like about him,” Thaddeus replied. “There’s no nonsense. He just concentrates on the task at hand.”
“I understood very little of what he said. There’s no market for timber anymore?”
“None. And I’m afraid it’s going to have repercussions here. Apparently, the bottom has fallen right out of the railway boom in Britain and now there’s not so much demand for Canadian timber. And they’ve lifted the tariffs on it as well, so even if the market recovers, a lot of people believe we’ll have to compete with the Baltic nations — Norway in particular — which, of course, we can’t do, since their shipping costs are so much lower.”
Luke had only the vaguest notion where the Baltic nations were, but gathered from what his father said that they were much closer to Britain than Canada was.
“So this gentleman in Kingston has come amiss because of developments in Britain?”
“Yes. The smart ones got out last year. But the demand has been so great that everyone else has been in the backwoods all winter cutting for all they’re worth; but now that they’ve floated the timber down to the front, there’s nowhere they can sell it.”
This was disturbing news. Canada’s most lucrative exports had always been timber and wheat, and now it appeared that neither could find a market. “I hadn’t heard about the timber. The talk in Huron was all about wheat. I know a lot of the mills
