Death in the Age of Steam by Mel Bradshaw Page A

himself, he had joined Robert Baldwin in trying to outlaw the Orange Order back in the days of Governor Metcalfe. Sheridan’s rhetoric at the time, moreover, had been far less temperate than Baldwin’s. But dislike was one thing, murder another. Besides, this dispute was thirteen years old. Drunken brawls might be a Toronto Orange tradition. Long-nurtured grudges and stealthy vendettas, as far as Harris knew, were not.
    Nor did Small appear to have foul play in mind.
    â€œNatural to be sure,” he replied. “As natural as quack medicine. I’m just not convinced it resulted inevitably from his illness.”
    Harris asked who had been Sheridan’s physician.
    â€œAn old friend,” said Small through clenched teeth. “Hell, Chris Hillyard was already old in ’23 when Willie Sheridan first came to this country.”
    â€œI’m surprised Sheridan never made us acquainted,” Harris observed.
    â€œWell, in fact Hillyard did retire for a few years, disappeared to the Indies, and then committed the capital error of coming back. He likely gave Sheridan a purgative thinking it was a sedative.”
    Such bitterness, not typical of his pleasure-loving friend, Harris attributed to the sudden weight of sole responsibility for the affairs of the partnership. Feeling oppressed, Small required an oppressor—which did not of course mean he was wrong about Hillyard. In any event, Small’s frown melted away when a girl with sleeves pushed up to her elbows showed them from the inn door to a white-clothed table and set a bottle of red Bordeaux before them.
    The Trafalgar House was a small hotel with an oenophilic owner and an indifferent cook. Harris contented himself with bread andcheese to accompany his glass of wine, while it took Small the rest of the bottle to wash down his portion of boiled beef.
    â€œCould anyone else have killed him?” said Harris as soon as they were alone. “Possibly
not
by accident.”
    â€œWhoa, what kind of question is that?” Small took a steadying drink.
    â€œWell—had he received any threats? Did anyone come to the office—I don’t know—brandishing a revolver?”
    â€œThere were times I came close to brandishing one myself,” Small replied. “And he certainly made enemies, but apart from the Orangemen—which is to say, apart from the police, the fire department, the carters, the innkeepers and the politicians—any enemies he made he made into friends again right after. My money stays on the medico. But what’s
your
interest, Isaac? Why so keen?”
    Harris shrugged stiffly.
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” said Small, wiping his mouth on a corner of his napkin. “Then what’s this about threats against her father?”
    The two seldom spoke of Theresa, whom Small had courted for eight weeks and Harris for considerably longer—so much longer as to not seem a fit subject for raillery.
    After two false starts, Harris explained his belief that Sheridan’s death and Theresa’s disappearance must be linked. He spoke also of his own researches to date and of his unsatisfactory interviews with Crane and Vandervoort.
    Small leaned forward. “You won’t take advice on this subject, I know.”
    â€œLikely not.” Jasper’s most recent advice—only half facetious—had been that to circulate the blood and reset his compass what Harris needed was to visit a whorehouse, a good one. Jasper knew just the place. On the whole, Harris found he dreaded Small’s advice.
    â€œLet me just say, Isaac, that involving yourself in the search for Theresa can do you no good.”
    â€œThat’s not the—”
    â€œNo, listen—”
    â€œShe has been missing four days,” Harris in turn broke in. “All I want is to know she’s safe.”
    â€œWe all want that,” said Small with murderous mildness, “and then again, suppose