“On what subject?”
“Couldn’t hear. It just seemed indicative of what state her nerves were in. No wonder they snapped when—you know . . .”
“That’s how you explain her disappearance?” Having ruled out this possibility himself, Harris rose impatiently from the table. “After a calm Sunday dinner, she just ran wild. Well, if she has lost her wits, she can’t have hidden herself too cunningly.”
“I imagine someone has seen her,” said Small.
“You can imagine anything you like. If you really want to set your mind at ease, Jasper, you can imagine some Christian soul has taken her in and is plying her with roast goose.”
Harris walked Small back to his law office, though he was already likely to be missed at the bank. Irresolution gnawed him. His momentary hesitation before attending Sheridan’s funeral was but a love bite to this. In the Holland Landing of his boyhood, there would have been no question. Everyone would have helped beat the bush for the missing woman. Urban cynicism might colour Small’s advice, and yet Harris lived in the city now too. If Toronto’s neighbours were not to be counted on, it wasn’t because they lacked hearts, but because they by and large worked for others and were not masters of their own time. No more was Harris. He would likely have to act alone if at all and turn his life upside down to do it.
And then again, the circumstances remained so clouded—everything from Sheridan’s death to the state of Theresa’s nerves. If there had been some cry for help, some unmistakable plea, the path ahead would have been plainer.
On the steps where Harris had first heard Sheridan’s voice, Small turned.
“She mentioned you, Isaac,” he said. “I didn’t know whether to tell you.”
“Please do.”
“She asked did I think enough time had passed that you could regard her now as just a friend.”
Pain rippled through Harris’s stomach, chest, and throat. “And you answered?”
He knew he had given Small no reason to believe he was over his disappointed love. Time and again Small had introduced him to charming young women that he had danced with for part of an evening and gratefully seen whisked out of his arms by enthusiastic young men. As lately as Saturday, he had danced the polka—which was taking ballrooms by storm, and which Methodists found so lewdly suggestive. For better or worse, Harris was not very open to suggestion, he guessed. He nonetheless would have found it hard to forgive if Small had said anything that might have deterred Theresa from seeking his aid.
“I said, ‘Try him.’”
“Good.” Harris let out a breath he had scarcely been aware he had been holding.
“I gather she didn’t,” said Small.
“No. I wish I had known.”
“Well, she didn’t tell me she was about to vanish.”
“Of course not,” said Harris gently. “Thanks.”
Chapter Three
The Rouge Valley
Well-established habits carried Harris through Thursday afternoon’s routine business—interviewing loan applicants, authorizing replacement of a cracked window pane, reprimanding a chronically unpunctual teller, perusing economic reports. Canadian wheat production for 1856 was expected to reach twenty-six million bushels. An impressive figure, probably still on the low side—although the new peace with Russia and the consequent reopening of trade to the east could not but depress the price those Canadian bushels would fetch in England and France. The fat years might well be ending.
Harris found it impossible to care, preoccupied as he was with what act of friendship Theresa had required. He had kept Small standing on his office steps and asked him that question in various ways, but—beyond sympathetic companionship during William Sheridan’s indisposition—Small had no ideas at all.
“No,” Harris was explaining to a chemistry professor, “our charter prevents us from accepting your house as the principal security for a loan. Do you have any bonds you could pledge? Or is there anyone at all that owes you money?”
The squat Yorkshireman replied that the University of Toronto owed him an increase in emolument. As this was a moral rather than a legal obligation, however, Harris could only recommend that the man get whatever influential friends he had to speak for him to his employers. Best wishes and good day.
Then the afternoon mail brought a matter that was far from routine. Out of an envelope addressed to Harris personally fell four of his branch’s brand new fifty-dollar notes.
He stared a moment in amazement at the harbour scene depicted on the backs. A classically draped female figure, spilling bounty from a cornucopia, sat at the water’s edge while a train steamed towards her from one side, a ship from the other. Both billowed clouds of smoke, intricately engraved for the discouragement of forgers.
These were not forgeries. They were a bribe, equivalent to an even tenth of the cashier’s yearly pay. He pulled from the envelope a letter to the effect that Joshua Newbiggins recognized Isaac Harris’s abilities and would work to ensure they received wider recognition.
The absence of a stamp showed the envelope had come by private messenger. Even so, Newbiggins must have stepped lively. The money he had picked up at noon he was already putting to work. Harris had suspected its first use would be as gifts, but the likeliest recipients had seemed the railways that Conquest Iron Works hoped to supply or Conquest’s influential Front Street neighbours. Not Harris.
He knew, though, why he had been so honoured. One of his branch’s major borrowers was York Foundry, an established manufacturer in Conquest’s line. Information the bank held regarding York’s costs, suppliers and clients would help Conquest overcome the handicap of a late start.
Harris had been offered bribes before, but so discreetly that he had always been able to decline without either taking or giving offence. Newbiggins’s crudeness raised questions about his judgement and, unhappily, about that of the president who had recommended him. Re-enclosing the bills and letter in a fresh envelope, Harris entrusted their return to Dick Ogilvie and instructed his staff to say he was occupied if Mr. Newbiggins should call.
Thursday evening and every free minute of the next day were spent on the kind of inquiries Harris had outlined to Vandervoort. Neither the ticket agencies nor the city hotels admitted to having seen Theresa. A proper detective job was going to require something Harris had not yet worked out how to get, Crane’s cooperation or that of someone in his establishment.
Gatekeepers at Crane’s home and office kept offering polite excuses. A personal letter went unanswered. Friday noon Harris did manage to intercept him on King Street. Crane cut him off before Harris could speak.
He had been about to ask what funeral arrangements Crane had made on Sunday. The undertaker denied having seen him. So did the priest and the pallbearers.
Harris got a little further with Dr. Hillyard—who appeared in every respect the dotard Small had represented. The opening of his surgery door late Friday afternoon sent dust balls scurrying. Throughout the interview, the doctor’s trembling hands wandered between the buttons of a food-stained waistcoat and a high, scabby forehead bracketed by cobwebs of hair.
He said he had last seen Sheridan alive on Saturday morning. At that time he had administered no medicine. He had left none. He had recommended none. The symptoms of inflammation having subsided, no medicine was indicated.
But the annals of physic were full of unforeseen reverses. Sheridan’s demise that very evening was regrettable, but not so surprising as to arouse suspicion. “We are not God, sir.” A messenger from Mrs. Crane had reached Hillyard’s just