to all that although Nate Elliott’s body might yet be found, there was little hope that it would still be breathing. After the second day, the number of volunteers had dwindled. Many had either been called away by their own business or had become discouraged by the lack of progress. Lewis was among the stubborn few who continued to rendezvous at Murphy’s Tavern each morning, but as the constable could do little but direct them to go over the ground that had already been covered, it seemed a futile exercise, and after the fifth day the search was officially called off.
Lewis had found the long hours of tramping across fields exhausting, and, relieved of this duty, he settled in that afternoon to the pleasant pastime of looking through the papers that were provided for the convenience of the guests at the Temperance House Hotel. The dining room was deserted by two in the afternoon, as the hotel currently hosted only a single guest, who by that time had long since finished his dinner and departed. The morning chores were done, the evening chores not yet pressing, and Lewis spread the pages out on one of the tables and read while sipping his cup of tea. With this indulgence, his aches and pains began to subside. He felt only mildly guilty. In a way, he felt that he had earned this luxurious diversion. Prior to his recent exertions, he had spent four years tracking a killer, and when the chase had finally ended, he had continued to ride the circuits saving souls for the Methodist Episcopal Church. During it all, he had been aware of a profound sense of weariness. Part of it was physical; he had gone back to the travelling life too soon, he now knew, after a plunge into the icy waters between Kingston and Wolfe Island had nearly killed him. Every winter since, he had developed a hacking cough that plagued him until spring, and long hours on horseback through wind and rain and snow sapped his strength and made his bones ache.
He also knew that part of his fatigue was emotional. He had caught a murderer and watched him die, and although the crimes had been stopped, he was still trying to make sense of them. He had come to realize how much he treasured his family and how transient life could be, for five women, including his own daughter, had been killed, and his granddaughter had almost been taken too, all because of the twisted passions of the Simms family. He had been deeply shaken by the evil he had uncovered.
As a result, Lewis had been mulling over his options as he attended to the constant round of prayer meetings and sermons, study classes and Sunday schools. For a long time he had persisted in what he had always considered his true calling, but it had been a struggle. And then his wife, Betsy, precipitated a crisis that put an end to his travelling days.
Nearly a year ago, just before Christmas, she had taken an alarming turn that had rattled him to the core. She had been fighting mysterious fevers and agues for several years, but he had been sure that she was on the mend. Then one terrible day, he had arrived home to find she had fallen, insensible. She had stayed that way for five days. At the time he thought he would lose her, and he tried to steel himself for what appeared inevitable. But just as mysteriously as it had arrived, the pall of unconsciousness had lifted. An apoplexy, the doctor said — a small one, but a warning of what was to come.
As with the fevers, her recovery was erratic. Some days she could barely move from her bed, and when she did she walked with a pronounced limp and had difficulty speaking or using her left arm. On other days her infirmity seemed slight, and as long as she didn’t overdo it, she could tidy up her own kitchen and direct both Thaddeus and their granddaughter Martha in the household tasks that they both performed clumsily. Lewis thought that eight-year-old Martha was actually more help than he was, but he tried to do Betsy’s bidding without complaint, for he knew that the next day could find her once again unable to stir from her bed.
Even so, he wasn’t sure how they could have managed without the help of their landlords, Seth and Minta Jessup, who lived in the other half of the house behind Seth’s smithy in the town of Demorestville. Minta had helped to nurse Betsy through the initial stages of her illness, but Minta had a young family who quite rightly claimed a great deal of her attention. Seth had not pressed Lewis for the small amount of rent he charged them, but it was clear that they could not continue to rely on the Jessups’ charity, as much as the couple appeared willing to help.
And then he had received a letter from his sister, Susannah. She wrote that she and her husband Daniel had leased a hotel in the village of Wellington, a small village some fifteen miles or so southwest of Demorestville. Although his father had left him a farm, Daniel was tired of farming and had fastened on the idea of entering the hotel business. Lewis wasn’t sure that it was a wise move; Daniel had never done anything but plough fields and milk cows. But the pair seemed determined. Furthermore, Susannah had written that there was a small house — nothing more than a cabin, really — at the back of the property, which he and Betsy could have if Lewis was willing to lend a hand now and then when business was too brisk for the two of them to manage.
It seemed a sensible arrangement. They could take their meals at the hotel, Susannah said, relieving them of the daily struggle in the kitchen. There would be no rent to pay, and surely Lewis could find something to do that would provide enough money for any of their other needs, which at the best of times were modest. Perhaps there were enough Methodists in the village to support a located preacher; if not, he was sure that someone in the bustling town would need occasional help — clerking or bookkeeping or private tutoring. He was too old for anything very physical, but as an educated man and a former minister and teacher, he was sure his skills could be turned into some source of ready cash.
As far as he could see, the only problem with the suggestion was a promise he had made to Betsy. He had been appointed to one different circuit after another over the years, and she had cheerfully moved from district to district with him. Two years ago, however, she had abruptly announced that her moving days were over and that she intended to stay put in the half-house in Demorestville. She would have to release him from his promise not to make her move again before he could accept his sister’s offer.
He had underestimated his wife’s practicality.
“It would be a relief to me,” she said when he read the letter to her. “I’ve been worrying about how much we ask of Seth and Minta, though they’ve never said a word to me. Minta has enough to do, what with looking after Henry and little Rachel, and we’ve trespassed on Seth’s generosity long enough. I’ll be sorry to leave here, but I don’t see how we can stay, do you?”
He didn’t, and so he had written to his sister to accept their invitation.
The newly named Temperance House Hotel was a large, rambling three-storey building with a graceful double verandah fronting on Wellington’s main street. It was perfectly situated to offer accommodation to travellers on the Danforth Road, the main route between Toronto and Kingston, or to farmers bringing their produce to the wharves at the nearby harbour. A hotel situated on such a well-travelled thoroughfare should have been a going concern, but Daniel had decided to offer only wines and ale at the hotel, and to forego the sale of hard liquor, and, furthermore, to advertise that fact in the hotel’s name. Lewis approved of his brother-in-law’s decision. There was too much drunkenness in Canada West, liquor too easily obtained, and at the hotels that also served as taverns the noise of rowdy patrons was a constant source of annoyance to those trying to sleep in the rooms above.
“People need a place to stay where they won’t be accosted by drunks,” Daniel had said. “Someplace that’s respectable enough for a lady to stay. Clean beds, good food, quiet rooms. You’ll see — it will be appreciated by the more discerning customer.”
But temperance was not a particularly popular concept with the majority of people in the Province of Canada, and so far only one customer had proved discerning enough to appreciate the quiet rooms — a Mr. Gilmour, who had been with them now for more than a week. This gentleman neatly fit Daniel’s notion of what a desirable guest should look like, for he wore a fine tweed chesterfield coat over a brown suit of superior cloth, topped with one of the tall hats that had lately come into fashion. He further accessorized his elegant costume with an orange silk cravat
