Thaddeus Lewis Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Janet Kellough
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to pick over. There was some talk of building a new, more lugubrious marketplace along with a new town hall, but so far it was only talk, and the farmers were against the notion anyway.
“So where am I supposed to sell my pork while they’re buildin’ their fancy new meetin’ hall?” one farmer commented. “Typical, ain’t it? The last thing they ever think of is what happens to the regular folk.”
Lewis thought the man might be forgiven for holding this point of view, given the total lack of consideration displayed by the powers-that-be over the years. He could only hope that things would change now that the colony had been re-invented as the exalted-sounding “Province of Canada.”
The market also served as a sanctuary of sorts for a number of transients and rogues. Although the local constabulary attempted to rout them out every night, there were many desperate men, women, and sometimes even children who would find a night’s shelter amongst the crates and boxes that were left piled up beside the sheds. These people had been blamed for the previous fires —with good reason. They built small campfires after the sun went down, and in the attempt to shelter these from the eyes of the prying constables, they built them in out-of-the-way places, far too close to the piles of flammable material that surrounded them.
When he was in Kingston, Lewis often poked around the market in the evening, on the lookout for the sick, the hungry, and the spiritually bankrupt. It was only in this last area that he felt he was of much help; he could sometimes find aid for the ill, especially if they were children, and some members of the local Methodist Society might be persuaded to provide food for the truly starving, but there was little or no organized charity for the anonymous beings who had fallen on such hard times. Lewis found it difficult to talk to them about the state of their souls when he knew how cold and hungry they were, but occasionally he ran across a derelict who had drunk his way to a pitiful condition and wanted to turn over a new leaf.
It was a cold, raw December afternoon and Lewis could smell the snow that promised to fall that evening. There were few people in The Shambles. The farmers and their families had packed up early and gone home — it was too cold for customers to linger over their purchases and the farmers had no wish to stand all day for no return. As Lewis walked through the market, shifting crates and lifting boxes, he realized that there were very few of the other kind of regular inhabitants either. With any luck, they had all found warmer places to sleep on so cold a night.
As he turned to retrace his steps, Lewis heard a faint scuffling sound behind one of the empty crates. He assumed it was a rat — they were common enough in a place where foodstuffs were so easy to snatch — and continued walking until a nagging voice inside his head told him to go back. What if it wasn’t a rodent but a small child? Or a woman, or a drunk, curled up behind a box and in danger of freezing to death? He turned around and approached the crate warily. He shoved it aside and found, not an animal, as he expected, but a dirty and unshaven man, his clothes tattered rags, his face sunken.
It was Francis Renwell!
“You!” Lewis bellowed, feeling an unreasonable rage come over him. This man, this beast, had taken Sarah from him. Suddenly Lewis was certain that he had done more than that. Renwell had been close enough to commit the other murders, as well, hadn’t he? Having tasted blood, his appetite must have grown for it. Lewis didn’t stop to consider any of the other details that had puzzled him so. He was convinced that it had to have been Renwell. How many other young women had he killed? How many other families had he ripped apart?
Renwell shot one frightened glance at Lewis, leapt up, knocked him out of the way, and ran. He ran down the length of The Shambles and headed for the nearby shore. Lewis was surprised by the sudden shove. He fell heavily, but righted himself and quickly gave chase.
Renwell didn’t stop at the shore’s edge, as Lewis expected, but ran down a dock that jutted far into the water. There he hesitated. Lewis thought that he surely had the culprit now, for the ice was still too thin to hold a man. Instead, Renwell took one look over his shoulder at Lewis and leapt the three feet to the river below. The ice held, and he began to run across the river toward Wolfe Island. Lewis paused for only a moment — long enough to utter a brief prayer — then leapt down after him.
Renwell had a minute or two on him, and was a much younger man who, in spite of his apparent sorry condition, wasted little time in opening up a lead. Lewis pursued doggedly, his breath soon raspy and his chest aching. His quarry headed slightly off to the east, not toward the quay at Marysville, but farther down the shore where a point of land jutted out into the river.
The ice boomed and cracked under their feet as they ran. There were many places where several inches of frigid water lay on top of a layer of half-frozen ice and others that remained open to the water entirely. They avoided these, zigging and zagging across the surface, between and around the perilous areas.
Lewis began to gain a little; he had the advantage of merely following the other’s course, while Renwell had to choose his footing carefully. A sleety snow began to blow from the northeast and at times Lewis would lose sight of the man entirely in the swirl. Then a break would come and he could pick out the green of Renwell’s ragged scarf. Or was that the green of the conifers growing on the opposite shore? He realized he could no longer be sure, for the bitter wind made his eyes water and the snow was sticking to his lashes.
Renwell had slowed to a walk now, spent by his initial efforts, but so had Lewis, whose breathing was quite audible in the frosty air, his lungs sore, not only from exertion, but from the cold knifing into them. He could feel the temperature dropping rapidly, and his face became encrusted with a layer of icy snow. He attempted to pull the collar of his coat up to shield himself, but this limited his vision even more and he found it increasingly difficult to make out where he should place his feet.
He knew he had made a mistake as soon as he stepped down, but he couldn’t stop himself in time. The ice right over the middle of the river where the current ran swift gave way and his leg plunged through to the icy water. He grabbed the edge to prevent himself from falling farther, but the fragile ledge broke away in his hand and he plummeted into the cold dark water, only catching himself from total immersion with one last desperate reach. This time the ice held, but he was in water up to his shoulders and could see no clear way to get himself out. He could feel the current pulling at him, trying to drag him under the ice with it. Every time he attempted to shift his weight up onto the ledge of ice he only slid farther back. The cold was perishing and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before it took him.
Summoning up the last of his laboured breath, he shouted, “Francis!”
Renwell stopped and turned around.
“Francis! Help me.”
Renwell stood looking at him for what seemed like many long minutes. Please, Lord, Lewis prayed. Please stir this sinner’s conscience, for I am not ready to meet You yet. The Lord is my Shepherd … If it be Your will that I’m taken so be it … The Lord is my Shepherd … If not, then please let this man come to me now … The Lord is my Shepherd.
He couldn’t remember the next line in the prayer. Try as he might, he couldn’t force his numbed brain to function, to dig down and retrieve the words.
Renwell picked his way back over the ice until he was close enough to be heard without shouting.
“Why should I help you?” he said.
“For the love of God, Francis, you can’t leave me here.”
“Better you than me. If I come any closer, I’ll go in the water as well.”
“No. The ice is freezing while we speak. It will hold if you go down on your belly.”
“And why would I? So you can chase me? So you can turn me in? If I leave you there, I’m free, at least from you. No one would ever know what happened.”
Lewis reflected that this was true, for no other living soul would be on the river on a night such as this, and by the time some fisherman or boatman again ventured out, all they would find was a corpse frozen into the ice.
“If I get you out, will you leave