“I say we go to the jail and let LeMieuxout,” someone was heard to say.
“It’s the magistrate who did this. Let’s goto his house and demand that he free LeMieux.”
“It’s a plot against us French, that’s what.We have to do something about it.”
“Let’s take clubs!”
The talk was increasing now in volume and inanger.
“No! No! This must be a peaceful march. Thereare troops in the fort.”
“To the magistrate’s house!”
“To Wilson’s!”
The group was leaderless, but they didn’tseem to require one, so focussed was their purpose and itsrightfulness. They swarmed down a side street — a swelling tide ofresentment — to King Street, and thence on to number 31, asubstantial two-storey stone house. One of the men went up andpounded on the door.
“Come out, Wilson!” he shouted inEnglish.
The door opened, and a black-suited butlerrecoiled in shock at the sight of the mob in front of him. Heslammed the door shut.
“Come out, Wilson, or we’re coming in!”
A few minutes later, Magistrate Wilson, inhis dressing-robe, stepped out onto the stoop, shivering andwide-eyed. He was a rotund little man with fleshy cheeks andpop-eyes.
“What do you people mean, disturbing me likethis? Go to your homes!” he shouted in as commanding a voice as hecould muster.
“We want Jacques LeMieux freed from prison.He is there only because he is French.”
“Libérez LeMieux!”
“If you don’t let him go, we will go to thejail and do the job ourselves.”
“Just a minute. I have to get my coat on.Then we’ll discuss this.” With that Wilson shut the door, and saidto his footman. “Go to the Clarendon Hotel and fetch LouisLaFontaine. Immediately. We’ve got the makings of a mob on ourhands.”
The footman scooted out the back door.
Wilson re-emerged on his stoop with a coatand hat on. “Mr. LeMieux’s hammer was used to murder Earl Denham,”he said to the spokesman for the French protesters. “And the manmade a death-threat against him. He has no alibi. He was seen drunkand heard threatening Denham just before midnight when we think thecrime took place.”
“What about the other workmen? You arrestedLeMieux because he is French!”
“Libérez LeMieux!”
The magistrate continued to argue with thespokesman, but since he was the only one whose English wasproficient, the arguments were lost on the mob that was growingincreasingly restless.
“To the jail!” someone shout in French.
“Arrêtez!”
The single word boomed from the back of themob. All chatter ceased, and the crowd parted to let a tall, darkman of regal bearing walk through to the stoop. He stood besideWilson, towering over him, and faced the mob.
“You know who I am?” he said in French.
“Monsieur LaFontaine,” someone said, sendingwhispers through the crowd.
“That’s right. I have fought for your causelong and hard in the legislature and in the courts. I have beenjailed by the English. I speak to you now as your friend and yourally. I know all about Jacques LeMieux’s case. I have engaged afirst-rate investigator to find the real killer of Earl Dunham sothat LeMieux may be freed. If that does not happen, then we willhave the most able defense attorney to defend LeMieux, and I havebeen assured he will be acquitted.”
“But he’s innocent!” someone shouted.
“I believe he is as well. But going to thejail as a mob will only get you shot at by the English troops. Itwill not free LeMieux. You must accept my word that LeMieux will bedone right by. I am LeMieux’s best hope.”
“The English will not listen to aFrenchman!”
“They will and they do. I am a friend ofRobert Baldwin, who is a member of the Governor’s ExecutiveCouncil. He has agreed to help. Together we will get LeMieux out ofprison — now or later. I guarantee it.”
There was a lot of muttering and murmuring inthe crowd, but LaFontaine had broken the spell. Their fury wasspent.
“Now, please go home to your families.”
Silently, the mob drifted away.
“That was a close call,” Wilson said. “Thankyou for coming.”
LaFontaine smiled wryly. “Now I must deliveron my promises.”
***
And the man who could help him do that was MarcEdwards.
“How is the investigation going?” Louis askedMarc the next morning. “We have a lot of restless French peoplehere in town, and the word will spread. We don’t want a bump in theroad this soon after our victory in Cornwall.”
“I’ve got three good suspects,” Marc said.“Marvin Leroy, Gregory Manson and Michel Jardin. But littlephysical evidence and no witness to put them at the scene of thecrime, except for a button off Manson’s overalls. I couldinterrogate him again and see if he makes a slip.”
“It looks as if you’re more likely to end updefending LeMieux in court.”
“I’m afraid so. But I haven’t given up.”
“I’ve never seen you do so,” Robert said.
“Do you think you’ve avoided a possiblesitdown by the French workers out at the Parliament site?” Marcasked.
“Possibly. But Campion told me most of thelath work is finished.”
Marc did not reply. The mention of lath workhad triggered an idea in his head. He knew how he might track downthe killer of Earl Denham.
***
After supper, Marc went to his room and dressedwarmly. He put on a fur hat. He borrowed a flask from Hincks andfilled it with brandy. He took an extra scarf and put on a secondpair of socks. Then he walked to the livery stable and hired ahorse. He rode out to the Parliament building-site and led thehorse behind the huge, two-storey structure. He tethered the horseand walked back around to the front of the building. Two oak doorswere being fitted into a new façade, and one of them swung easilyopen at his touch. He went through a dark hall until he came to theunfinished Legislative Council chamber. Here, moonlight streamed inthrough several tall windows. He could see a single pile of lathsover in one corner. He went over and crouched down behind it. Hetook out his flask.
And waited.
And waited.
His toes began to grow numb, so he stood upand walked around the room three times, stomping his feet to getthe circulation going again. He went back to his hiding-place. Hetook another sip of brandy, rationing it out because, although itprovided the illusion of warmth, he had to keep his mind clear andalert.
By the movement of the moon, Marc guessed hehad been hiding out for about three hours when he heard the oakdoor ease open. He crouched as low as he could, while maintainingan eye on the door to the chamber. He heard footsteps coming alongthe hall. Soon a figure appeared in the doorway. It was short andslight. Marc tensed as it moved slowly across the room towards him,glancing about often. It reached the far side of the pile, andbegan picking up pieces of lath.
“I don’t think those are yours,” Marc said,getting up and reaching out for the thief.
The thief dropped the lath he was holding andsprinted for the doorway. But Marc was too quick for him. Hetackled the fellow before he reached the door. But he scrambled up,pushed Marc’s arms away, and headed for the scaffolding. By thetime Marc reached it, the thief was halfway up.
Marc stood below the fellow and said quietly,“I won’t come up there after you, son. But neither am I going toleave this spot until you come down. So you might as well do itnow.”
Marc heard the lad sigh, and then slowly hemade his way down. He stood meekly in front of Marc. He was a boyof no more than thirteen years of age.
“You’ve been stealing laths for a week ormore, haven’t you?”
“Are you a constable?”
“No, I’m not. And I’m not particularlyinterested in your stealing.”
“We need the firewood. We’re poor. We haven’tan axe. And my mother’s sick.”
“You were in here every night last week,weren’t you?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “What if I was?”