do if he had lived.”
“Her brother?”
“A child cholera victim in ’32. You knew, surely.”
MacFarlane looked momentarily befogged. “The smaller the patient, the more fallible the diagnosis. I believe there was little of the disease you mention that year—or this far west.”
Harris knew better, and knew better than to point out that the cholera MacFarlane made light of could well have reached Canada’s shores aboard his own ships. He might have taken every precaution known to physic and still not have been able to stop it.
“In any case, Harris,” the older man resumed, his tone benevolent and admonitory, “a brother may do what other men may not. Consider the lady’s reputation. Consider your own. I need not remind you that people want only men they believe to be of the highest character to have control of their money.”
In Fenelon Falls, Harris silently wondered, did men of the highest character not look out for their friends?
“Believe me, Harris. In sixty years, no one has ever faulted me for excessive caution. Now let’s see what we can do within the limits of discretion.”
The French teacher was identified as Marthe Laurendeau, daughter of a cabinet minister from Canada East. MacFarlane didn’t know whether she had returned there or was still in Toronto. As for Theresa, he professed optimism, but his confidential view resembled the lighthouse keeper’s.
“A ruffian violates her, a hanging offence. So he kills off the victim, who is also the only witness. Even if he is caught, they can’t execute him more than once, and the murder decreases the chances he will be caught. Poor Crane is coming to the same conclusion.”
Strange optimism, Harris reflected—and yet his own hope was beginning to feel mulish. “Do you think,” he said, “you could get Henry Crane to talk to me?”
“Possibly.”
“Even if she is dead, circulation of her likeness could help locate her remains.”
“I’ll have a word with Crane about it,” MacFarlane said.
Encouraged by these accommodating responses, Harris tried again to find out if Mr. and Mrs. Crane had been happy with each other. The temperature of the monastic chamber dropped several degrees at once. MacFarlane’s eyes hardened to icy sapphires. His broad right hand rose in warning.
“That’s a question one does not ask,” he pronounced. “This ‘greatest happiness of the greatest number’ nonsense would spell the death of family life. A good marriage is one in which the husband provides and the wife obeys. The Cranes have a good marriage.”
Outside the heavily-leaded window, Kate MacFarlane and her girls were strolling back towards the house in solemn conversation while the boy chased the dogs in circles around them.
“In time,” MacFarlane continued, “their union would undoubtedly have been blessed with heirs.”
“I gather Mr. Crane has suffered business reversals,” said Harris.
“As a chap who has never laid so much as a mile of track, I don’t think I should go slinging mud at public benefactors like Henry Crane. You’re out of date besides. The man is as sound as a board.”
Harris could overlook being addressed in this lofty way so long as he was being informed. “Your dealings with him saved him?”
“No dealings we may have had bear on Mrs. Crane’s disappearance,” MacFarlane scolded before slipping back into his social mask of wide-eyed geniality. “Tell me, Harris, does anything at all rhyme with Crimea? I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to this poem if it’s to be done today. Do come again.”
“Allow me,” said Harris, having tried without success to get the conversation reopened, “to repay your kind advice by suggesting that you think twice before again acting as a guarantor for Mr. Joshua Newbiggins.”
MacFarlane blinked, slow perhaps to recognize the name. “Has he defaulted?”
“No, but his character—”
“Nor will he. Newbiggins is a man of push. His backers will prosper.”
Sunday evening, Harris dined in the city’s most luxurious hotel. The meal began with mulligatawny soup, which every serious cook seemed to prepare and no two to agree on. Here ginger and chicken agreeably predominated. If the whitefish that followed might have been fresher, the filet of veal with tomatoes and horseradish sauce truly shone. After partaking of mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables and raspberry tarts, Harris turned away both the cheese tray and the dessert of jellies, nuts and brandied fruits. Even so, he felt in a businesslike way that he had now got through his eating for the week.
That benefit was incidental to his purpose in coming. The American, at Yonge and Front Streets, was the only hotel of its class in Toronto—though two more were soon to open with locations even more convenient to the Houses of Parliament. After four years in Quebec, the seat of government had returned. Politicians and civil servants could not be expected to accommodate themselves and their dependents in lodgings designed for travelling salesmen and farmers bringing cabbages to market.
Yes, Harris was told, Postmaster General Laurendeau and his daughter were indeed guests. At least they had been until twenty hours ago when they had embarked for Canada East on the Saturday night steamer. Harris registered this near miss as philosophically as possible. He noted down the family’s forwarding address.
When he had asked the hotel manager all the questions he decently could, he went in to dinner and—as the dishes came and went—chatted with the waiter. Marthe Laurendeau had been in residence since the start of the spring legislative session. She had come to perfect her English and had stayed on to continue her studies when Parliament recessed and her mother returned home. A quiet and serious young woman, Mademoiselle seemed refined and rather shy. She ordered veal filet whenever it was on the menu.
As she began to take shape for Harris, he regretted having wished the grisly arm to be hers.
That she was a horsewoman came as news to the waiter, who believed she kept no mount at the hotel. Harris confirmed this with a stable hand before proceeding to the University Park.
By eight o’clock, light and strollers were draining from its green expanse. Robins, whose conversational song reminded Harris of summer evenings at his parents’ home, were left to skim the lawns and pick their supper from the moist earth.
No sod had yet been turned for University College. Indeed, no design had yet been approved for the £75,000 building. The chemistry laboratory meanwhile occupied a one-room frame structure, freshly painted in mustard yellow. It looked too tidy ever to have housed pigs. It smelled too foul.
Lamb came to the door in shirtsleeves and an embroidered waistcoat. Harris may have been exaggerating the smell, which turned out to be no more than the waxy adipocere churned up with strong vinegar, a general decaying mustiness, spirits of hartshorn and kerosene from a pair of hanging lamps. Beneath them, a work bench ran the length of one wall. Amid the instruments and bottles strewn there, three cleanish bones lay on a marble slab as if for presentation.
“Sit here, Mr.
