Death in the Age of Steam by Mel Bradshaw Page B

you desert your bank and kill your horse galloping it all over the continent. I won’t speak of the worst outcome—but take the best case. Even if you find her safe and whole, you’ll be bringing her home to Henry. Can you swallow that?”
    â€œIf she wishes it.”
    Small studied his friend’s face. “Given the state of your feelings for her, you can’t be serious.”
    â€œYes, certainly, of course—but Crane is not above suspicion in all this. Why isn’t he looking for her himself?”
    â€œBusiness preoccupations, I would guess.”
    Harris took this as a further instance of Small’s contempt for sentiment. “You be serious, Jasper. Any normally affectionate husband would leave his immense wealth to look after itself for a week.”
    â€œNot so immense as all that. Have you not heard?”
    Harris had not. He had got in the habit of paying no more attention to Crane’s activities than he could help. Crane took his business to the Commercial Bank, and their ways seldom crossed. References to Crane in the press were generally laudatory.
    Railways he had built in the southwestern part of the province had, to be sure, suffered mishaps. Bridges had collapsed. Iron rails had split in the severe Canadian winter. Stoves had set fire to passenger coaches with fatal results. Deaths had resulted from the lack of gates at level crossings. By then, however, the customer had always paid and taken delivery of the line. Crane had fulfilled his contract and never seemed to come out the loser, not even in terms of reputation.
    But Small knew more than was in the papers.
    â€œHe has overreached himself,” the lawyer announced authoritatively. “He has committed too much of his personalcapital to risky or long-term ventures.”
    The Kingston to Cape Vincent railway car ferry was a case in point, said Small—who had sat at the same piquet table as the treasurer’s daughter. Loading trains on boats was to cost less than bridging the St. Lawrence. Wolfe Island did stand in the path of navigation, but Crane had allegedly taken up shares with both hands on the mistaken assumption that a canal across the obstructing land mass would soon be completed. Such miscues weren’t like him. Nevertheless . . . Untypically, also, he had undertaken railway contracts east of Toronto for shares instead of bonds or cash. That meant higher construction standards and worries about rising costs.
    â€œHis shrewdness has deserted him,” Small declared, “and—whether cause or effect—he’s desperate for funds. There are even rumours that he has touched friends for loans.”
    â€œNext you’ll be telling me he has lost money at the race track,” said Harris. “How long is he supposed to have been feeling the pinch?”
    â€œA year,” said Small, “fourteen months. And he never bets on horses—or drinks,
or
smokes,
or
swears. So much for the wages of virtue!”
    Harris thought back to Tuesday. The exquisite carriage in which Crane had taken them to the graveside was so new that the ship that had brought it from England might still be in the harbour. A bold purchase. And yet the most distinguished mourners had seemed to avoid Crane as they would not have done if he still smelled of success.
    â€œWhatever his difficulties,” said Harris, “he should still be more concerned about his wife.”
    Small smiled like a Buddha. Plainly, he thought Harris biased.
    Harris was, of course. “Are they happy together?” he asked.
    â€œLike any couple. I rarely see them together.”
    â€œWhen did you last see Theresa?”
    â€œFriday at her father’s. She had more or less moved down there from Queen Street East while he was ill. I was sitting in the old boy’s room, waiting for him to wake up from a nap,when she came in and shooed me out. She said I could tell the housekeeper to serve tea