Act of Injustice Read online

  Rosannah’s nakedness reminded him of his wife Mary Alice and he wished he was with her, in the home he’d lovingly built. He called it Knarsborough Hall. It was just around the corner and he could be there in five minutes, once he’d finished this awful job.

  Rosannah looked perfectly natural in death except for two small bruises on her upper cheeks. The result of postmortem lividity, caused by blood gravitating there, he knew. She looked to be in the prime of life, well developed and well nourished. Having suckled two children, her nipples rose prominently from her breasts. He checked her eyes, nose and throat, and examined her ears. Delicately, he checked her vagina. He concluded there had been no criminal assault.

  Dr. Sproule lifted Rosannah’s head with one hand and with the other used a razor to make a cut behind her ears and across the back of her head. He peeled away her scalp, reached for a hacksaw, and began to cut into the cranium. This was always the hardest part. Her skull was thick and it took fifteen minutes of sawing before he could lift out the brain. He was tired by the time he was finished. The brain was normal in size and in a healthy condition although the membranes – the dura mater – were slightly congested and the veins contained considerable blood.

  With Rosannah on her back, he made a series of cuts in the shape of a Y that began at either shoulder, met midway between her breasts above the rib cage, and extended in a single incision to the pubic bone. Due to the fact blood pressure is absent in a corpse, there was little blood flow. He sawed into Rosannah’s sternum and with both hands pried open her breastbones and rib cage. He could see all her inernal organs – her lungs, stomach, liver, kidneys, spleen, and intestines.

  Dr. Sproule stepped back, wiped blood from his hands with a towel, and drew a large white handkerchief from his coat pocket. He blew his nose. Adjusting his glasses, he noticed that both lungs contained blotches of discolour measuring about two inches across, perhaps an early sign of consumption. The left lung was slightly congested. Her heart appeared normal and her liver looked healthy. Her stomach cavity contained a small quantity of fluid and considerable gas. He found the bowels of the deceased – better to think of her in that term rather than as Rosannah – nearly empty, as was the bladder. Both organs had a healthy appearance.

  Dr. Sproule was not surprised when he found Rosannah had a fetus in her womb. Goddamn it to Hell, he muttered under his breath. From the size and state of development of the child, he thought Rosannah was about four months gone. Because Constable Field had mentioned poisoning, Dr. Sproule removed her stomach, intestines and esophagus, along with part of her liver and one kidney. He placed the organs in two jars, one glass and the other stone. He then restored her abdomen and skull to as normal a condition as possible, discarded the sheet in a garbage pail and wrapped the blanket around the body.

  The door to the waiting room creaked open. “You can come in,” he called to Constable Field. Dr. Sproule handed Field the jars. “The coroner may want you to send these down to Toronto for analysis. I saw no cause for natural death. I calculate she’s likely been poisoned. But by what there’s no way I can tell. We’ll leave that to the analyst.” Constable Field held the jars gingerly.

  Alfred Frost’s question about the cause of Rosannah’s death had put Dr. Sproule in a reflective mood. He chewed his lower lip and passed his hand over his brow. Leonard put a fresh sheet of paper before him, his pen poised to record the answer.

  “I saw nothing that would account for death by natural causes,” Dr. Sproule said.

  “You heard the evidence given at the inquest regarding the symptoms Rosannah showed when she died?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “From your knowledge of medicine what did these symptoms represent?”

  “The arching of the body, the spasms, the inability to speak? To my mind, strychnine poisoning.”

  The prosecutor asked how quickly the poison could kill. He put his question in lawyerly terms:

  “What is the length of time for the operation of strychnine poison from administration until death ensues?”

  Dr. Sproule hesitated before answering. Strychnine – from that shrub in India, Strychnos nux vomica. Most people thought of it as nothing more than a good, reliable rat poison. Dr. Sproule knew there were so many factors to consider – the amount of the white crystal ingested, the constitution of the victim, whether food had been recently eaten, the presence of alcohol in the blood. Strychnine is terribly bitter and as little as half a grain could kill. Doctors sometime prescribed strychnine to stimulate the nervous system, or as a laxative. Dr. Sproule had given tiny doses to patients who felt lacklustre or apathetic. When he finally addressed the question Alfred Frost had asked, his words were deliberate and detailed:

  “The time between administration and death would depend on the condition of the stomach. If strychnine was taken when there was no food in the stomach, it would be more active, it would be absorbed more rapidly. Death might ensue in half an hour. If the stomach contained much food, it would act slower.”

  Dr. Sproule’s testimony reminded Leonard that Cook had last been seen with Rosannah at tea-time, around twelve hours before her death. Could she have survived that long with poison in her stomach?

  “Well now,” Alfred Frost remarked jauntily, “we have heard the prisoner and the deceased shared tea and bread. After, they spent some time alone together outside the Leppard house.” He let the implication of that statement hang in the air. He must have hoped the jurors would accept the suggestion that Cook had taken advantage of that time to poison Rosannah.

  Alfred Frost said he had one more question. Had Rosannah Teets been pregnant at the time of her death? Dr. Sproule confirmed that she had.

  Leonard stopped writing and sucked in his breath. This made her murder an even more vicious crime.

  “Your witness, Mr. Masson.”

  Leonard had watched James Masson carefully as he cross-examined Molly Leppard. He felt his performance had not been all that convincing. This didn’t surprise him, considering the likelihood of Cook’s guilt. The lawyer was going to have to cast serious doubt on the Crown’s evidence if he hoped to get Cook off. He would have to find a way to demolish the Crown’s theory that Cook had poisoned Rosannah either at tea or when they sat together outside.

  James Masson was careful to be respectful in his questioning of Dr. Sproule. The doctor was much admired in the community, not just as a medical man and a politician but as a first-class horseman and a successful breeder of Shorthorn cattle. The two men were about the same age, the doctor forty-one and the lawyer, thirty-seven.

  “You’ve practiced medicine in Grey County for how many years, Doctor?”

  “Fifteen. I came up from Toronto, when the old Sydenham Road was just a dirt track. It rattled your bones, I can tell you. Received my medical degree at Victoria College in Cobourg.”

  “And have you dealt with poisoning in the past?”

  “All kinds. There are always people poisoning themselves on the moonshine they mix up around here.” There was laughter in the courtroom.

  A frown spread across Judge Armour’s face before he interrupted the outburst with a raised hand. “I’ll tolerate no more such levity.”

  James Masson pressed on with his questions.

  “You say you found the stomach of the deceased nearly empty, Dr. Sproule? And it was in a condition for poison to act rapidly upon it?”

  “I would expect it to act pretty quickly. Half an hour or so. If the poison was in a fluid condition, it would act even more rapidly.”

  Leonard Babington, bent over his notes, jerked his head upright when he heard these words. So much for the prosecutor’s theory that Rosannah had died hours after being poisoned by Cook. Leonard was beginning to wonder if Cook could be innocent. Perhaps James Masson was going to make a fight of this trial after all.

  “I see by the legal journals,” James Masson said, “that three hours is given as an extraordinary length of time for strychnine to kill?”

  “I thi
nk it would be,” Dr. Sproule replied.

  Leonard found it painful to picture how Rosannah must have suffered. James Masson had still more questions for the witness.

  “Dr. Sproule, I understand the real cause of death by strychnine is that it excites the body. And that death follows by exhaustion?”

  “I think that would be one way. If the victim’s spasms prevent the action of the heart for a length of time, I don’t think there’s a chance of recovery.”

  “The spasms increase in volume and length until they kill?”

  “I presume they would.”

  “And how did you find the heart of the deceased?”

  “It appeared in a natural condition, except it was pretty empty of blood. The small amount I observed was rather dark.”

  So Rosannah’s heart hadn’t suffered a lot of stress, Leonard reflected. Perhaps she didn’t even die of strychnine, but from the alcohol and the opium in her medicine. Nothing had been said about that. Nevertheless, the timing was the thing – that could stand in the way of the jury finding Cook guilty.

  “Once again if you don’t mind, Dr. Sproule. You think half an hour would be a reasonable length of time for death to have occurred in this case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Sproule. Your testimony has been most important, perhaps the most important we are likely to hear. I have no more questions.”

  Leonard scanned the faces of the jurors. He saw nothing to tell him how they had received Dr. Sproule’s testimony.

  Judge Armour glanced at the courtroom clock. It was just past four o’clock. “This seems an appropriate time to adjourn,” he announced. “I must caution the members of the jury that you are impaneled for the duration of this trial. When you get to the hotel, there is to be no discussion among you or with anyone else of anything you have heard today. Court is adjourned.”Angus McMorrin ordered all to stand. Judge Armour got up and strode from the room.

  Leonard was upset. He resented the fact Cook had enticed Rosannah into marriage, an impulsive act she had paid for with her life. Cook had the motive and the means to kill her, even if there was no proof of him having done so. He still thought it was all Cook’s fault. If Cook knew of Rosannah’s pregnancy, would he have wished to kill his child as well? A small spark of doubt began to flicker in Leonard’s mind. He could not forget he had himself once been struck by the poisoned arrow of wrongful accusation. Mistakes were made. He wondered if he had gone too far when he’d written so bitterly about Cook having shot at a gang of boys. Had his story told the whole truth? And if Cook hadn’t killed Rosannah, who had?

  Chapter 11

  LEAVING VANDELEUR

  Evening, November 3, 1884

  Leonard Babington ate a solitary supper of Georgian Bay bass and boiled potatoes at a nondescript café well away from Damnation Corners, an infamous intersection he was careful to avoid. A block from his hotel, it had a saloon on every corner, each of questionable reputation. These boozy joints had quickly become a favourite of the lawyers, pressmen and hangers-on who had assembled in Owen Sound for the trial. It was ironic, Leonard thought, that just a block away was an intersection known as Salvation Corners, populated by four churches. He avoided both and instead sought out The Tea Shoppe, a place that offered the isolation and quiet he longed for after a day of traumatic testimony.

  As Leonard ate, carefully transferring bones from his fish to a saucer beside his plate, he thought about the decision he had made to leave Vandeleur after Rosannah had broken off with him. He hadn’t known how he would earn a living. Aside from teaching school, the only worthwhile thing he’d done had been to write nature articles for the weekly edition of the Toronto Globe. He’d had ample opportunity to observe the habits of wildlife in the Queen’s Bush and he drew on those experiences as he wrote.

  Large flocks of passenger pigeons would fly over Vandeleur, sometimes in such number that they took half a day to pass his house. Whenever that happened, the men of the village got out their shotguns and brought down dozens and sometimes hundreds of the birds. Leonard had learned that each hen hatched only one egg every year. He concluded that this reproductive habit, when combined with heavy hunting pressure, meant the flocks were bound to get smaller. He speculated that other wild species might also be pushed to the edge of extinction. These thoughts led him to write one of his best pieces: “Whither that delectable morsel of the skies, the Passenger Pigeon?”

  It had been Leonard’s habit, ever since the Babingtons moved into Vandeleur Hall when he was fourteen, to rise early on Saturdays and visit James Henderson’s general store, where he collected the family’s mail and his father’s prized copy of the Weekly Globe and Canada Farmer.

  Leonard had gone to the barn and saddled Sugar Loaf for the ride into Vandeleur. He let the normally trim-legged animal amble at his own pace. By the time they got to the store his throat felt like chalk and he was wrung with sweat. The other customers, a couple with a child and a few farmers in to pick up their mail, moved slowly, unaccustomed to such weather. He collected the Babington mail in a damp palm and headed home. He dumped the letters on the kitchen table, pumped two cups of water that arrived cool from the backyard well, and went to his bedroom to compose a letter to Melvin James, the editor of the Weekly Globe. In it, he asked to be hired as a reporter. It was his only chance.

  Leonard took the letter to Henderson’s store Monday morning in time to catch the mail wagon. He was first in line every Saturday and Wednesday for the next month to watch for an answer. Every time, Leonard thumbed quickly through the envelopes addressed to the Babingtons, but there was no letter from the Globe.

  Leonard helped his father with farm chores – fencing the north meadow, dynamiting stumps, and bringing in hay – while he turned over in his mind what to tell him about his wish to go to Toronto. After waiting a month without hearing from the Globe, Leonard decided he must go to the city and confront Mr. James. He would show his determination, spell out his willingness to take on any task, even offer to work for nothing. Anything to get started. First, he had to deal with his father.

  “I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do with myself,” Leonard told his parents when they sat down to Sunday supper. His mother had prepared a stew of beef and suet dumplings, Leonard’s favourite meal.

  “What do you mean, son, you know I need you here at Vandeleur Hall,” his father said.

  It always irritated Leonard to hear his father refer to their house as Vandeleur Hall. That kind of stuff might have been all right back in England, but this was Canada.

  “You can always hire help,” Leonard answered. “Quite a few men have been by looking for work this summer.”

  “But what would you do, Leonard?” his mother inquired.

  “I’m going down to the Globe. They like my articles. I’d just as soon not teach school any longer. I could do better as a journalist.” Leonard didn’t consider he was being untruthful. He was sure he would land a position with the Globe once he’d explained to Mr. James how anxious he was to work there.

  Erasmus dipped a piece of bread in what was left of his stew. Wiping his dish with it, he lifted the bread to his lips and worked it around in his mouth before swallowing.

  “Leonard, why would you want to go and do a damn fool thing like that? Who knows what kind of company you’d fall into? You have no idea what might happen to you. They say it’s not safe to walk the streets of Toronto. No, I’ll have you stay here. This is where you’re needed.”

  “Father, I don’t think you have the right to decide my life for me. I’m twenty-five and I think I’m entitled to my own decisions. I’m going to Toronto in the morning.”

  “Do that and you don’t need to come back,” Erasmus barked. He stood up, shoved his chair to the table, and left the room.

  “Oh, Leonard, look what you’ve done.” His mother began to cry.

  The next morning, Leonard packed his clothes and books into a single valise and left the house before the sun was up. A
n hour’s walk found him at Munshaw’s Hotel. It was a substantial two-storey brick building, with eight windows on the second floor, indicating as many rooms. Leonard took a cup of tea from the morning serving girl, Elsa, and waited for a carriage to take him to the train station a mile and a half out of town.

  The coaches of the Toronto, Bruce and Grey Railway rolled south through forests and farmland, stopping no more than a few minutes in each village. Leonard’s pent-up excitement pushed the quarrel with his father to the back of his mind. He ate the lunch his mother had packed and spent his time looking at the passing scenery and watching other passengers. When the train arrived at the Toronto railway station in a belch of steam and smoke, he gathered up his things and made his way out of the coach. He followed the crowd onto Front Street where he saw a jumble of people and horses unlike anything he’d ever imagined. Carriages jostled in the street while dogs ran after their masters and people greeted relatives and friends in a noisy, jovial spirit.

  Leonard found the noise of the city unsettling. Everything he saw was new and fresh – stores, banks, factories and churches. The sun had come out after a shower and the streets, paved with cedar blocks, sparkled in their wetness. Customers were going in and out of the stores. He spent two cents to buy the evening edition of the Globe from a newsie at the corner of Bay and Wellington Streets. He decided to wander north on York Street and soon found himself at the Shakespeare Hotel. A bell tinkled when he opened the door. For fifty cents he secured a room. It was clean and neat. He ate supper at a restaurant on King Street and later, he marvelled at the number of people out walking after dark.

  The next morning Leonard took breakfast at a coffee house near the hotel and set out to find the Globe building. This turned out to be an impressive three-storey brick affair on King Street East, topped by a large globe that rested on a parapet anchored with ostentatious cornices. Its first two floors extended to the height of all three floors of neighbouring buildings. Altogether, the suggestion was one of worldliness, if not Victorian splendour. There was no doubt the newspaper it housed was well established and knew what it was doing.