In a widely printed proclamation Johnston thundered his wrath:
It is well-known that the owners of this boat are violent British Tories and bitter enemies of American Democratic institutions, but in order to fleece American citizens and fill their coffers with half-dollars at their expense, they pretend to aid in the celebration of a day they abhor and detest.
The inhabitants of New York were warned not to patronize these excursions “if they value life.”
It was clear that Johnston had reassembled some of his old crew and that they were quite prepared to continue a vendetta against anything representing British authority. Lewis found it interesting that the old scoundrel had sent his underlings to carry out the deed, rather than leading the expedition himself. Maybe he was finally getting too old to do his own plundering.
He remained unconvinced that the pirate was connected with the murders in any way. Johnston preferred political targets for the most part. There was no profit in attacking lone women, and in the course of the majority of his crimes, he had always made sure that there was booty involved — a financial reward that could be split with the ruffians who followed him. No, Bill Johnston made no sense, and yet, could he be discounted entirely? He had no discernible motive as far as Lewis could see, but what did he know of pirates and their reasoning? His logic had proved faulty when it came to Francis Renwell. Could he now trust this conclusion? Perhaps the old man had a private taste for blood, or one of his men was operating without his knowledge.
And then there were the peddlers, Isaac Simms’s ilk. They travelled long distances and were such a common sight that few would remember having seen them on the road, and even those who had made a purchase would be unlikely to recall exactly when the transaction had taken place. He knew that Simms had been in Demorestville, and in Prescott, but again he could not place the man anywhere near Sarah’s cabin — neither Simms nor another like him.
What about the Caddick brothers? They peddled their wares themselves. They were the makers of the pins that had been found with each of the victims, and they had been part of the crowd of young men who had hovered around Rachel. Benjamin was often out on the road selling his portraits. Willet, he had been told, had not the personality of his brother and went less often, but still he went at times. He seemed so often in his brother’s shadow; had Rachel expressed a preference for Benjamin, unleashing a jealous fury in the younger boy? But the Caddicks gave the pins to Simms to sell, as a rule. Did they also commission others to sell them? And what about the books? Both were such popular items that almost anyone would have had access to them.
There was a key here, somewhere, a commonality that would point to the culprit, he was sure of it. His tired mind just couldn’t seem to find it.
As the year wore on, Lewis became increasingly convinced that his spiritual fatigue was related in some way to the conundrum. Night after night he studied the chapter in the Book of Proverbs. He felt sure that the words were somehow tied in with the murderer’s twisted motives. Why else would they have been left in the women’s laps, and open to the same place every time? He pored over the passage that seemed most appropriate:
For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
It seemed almost a description of the murderer’s intent, except that when he read farther, the admonition was clear: “Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her house.”
The killer had not removed himself — he had sought the women out, strangled them, and mutilated one. How had he misinterpreted the words so badly that he was driven to such horrific deeds? Lewis tried to put himself in the killer’s place, in his mind, to try to understand what it was that was driving him, but he got no closer to understanding. It only seemed to make his fever flare up again.
II
Lewis and Betsy fell into the habit of attending a different service every Sunday, at least any that were within reasonable riding distance. At some time, with any luck, in the not too distant future he felt he would be ready to take on his ministerial duties again, and he wanted to keep his hand in and make himself known to as many congregations as possible. He reflected that by the time his career was over he would probably be familiar to almost every Methodist society in the eastern part of Canada West.
Some weeks they would travel a considerable distance, visiting many congregations in turn. Other times they stayed closer to home. One of his favourites was at Millcreek. It was where he had grown up, and he still had many relations and old friends there. It was a comfort to him to be back among his own, to catch up on news of previous acquaintances, to hear of the milestones of births and deaths that lend a stately and measured pace to life.
As usual, Martha managed to charm everywhere they went, and the young women and girls would clamour to look after her. It was less “looking-after” than “doing-for,” with the girls competing with one another to amuse the child. Martha took it all in stride, looking as if all the attention was no more than she was entitled to. It was as well the child was so good natured, Lewis thought, otherwise she would become quite spoiled.
One fine fall Sunday, a day when the air was crisp with the demise of summer and the smell of ripening apples wafted around them, they rode once again to the little village of Millcreek, all of them looking forward to the occasion. They were met, not with the usual welcoming faces, but with grim and sorrowful ones. Another young girl was gone.
“It was Jemima Clark,” the miller informed Lewis when he asked what the trouble was. “You know her. She was Elias Clark’s daughter. She was one of the ones that played with your young one.”
Lewis recalled her, only vaguely, as having dark brown hair, maybe even chestnut. Beyond that he could form no clear vision of her features.
“What happened?” he asked. Let it be an accident, he prayed silently. Let it be fever, or a fit, or fire. Let it be anything but another murder.
“The family lives some way out of town. It’s pretty isolated. The rest of the family had gone off to visit an aunt, but the girl said she wasn’t feeling well, so they left her at home. When they returned, they found her dead in her bed.”
Lewis felt sick as he waited for the details he knew would follow.
“Her clothing was all rucked up and she had bruises round her neck. They think she was attacked by someone with ill intent, you know, with the clothing like that.” The miller blushed. “It was probably some outlaw — there are enough of them around, and their farm, as I say, it’s pretty far out with no one else around.”
“I heard it was Bill Johnston,” said a woman who was standing nearby listening to them. “He and Kate have been sighted down along the front. Who’s to say he wouldn’t head north and start attacking anywhere.”
Lewis gave this theory the short shrift he felt it deserved. “That’s nonsense. Bill Johnston is a thief and a pirate, but as far as I know he’s not given to attacking innocent girls.”
The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Lewis cut her short.