The Widow's Demise by Don Gutteridge

finish!”
    Dingman had stopped in mid-sentence and was
staring at the source of the interruption. Marc moved uneasily in
his chair and craned to see who was doing the shouting.
    “We don’t want no Frenchman representin’ us
in Kingston!”
    “Shut up and let the man speak! He’s your candidate!”
    A pistol shot punctuated this exchange.
    “Murder!” somebody screamed, a woman’s voice
from one of the wagons.
    A scuffle now broke out near the tavern.
Several clubs were abruptly produced.
    “They’re armed!”
    The scuffle was spreading. Fists were flying,
clubs wielded. It was soon a full-scale donnybrook. Several of the
candidates’ supporters jumped up onto the platform and formed a
cordon around them. Marc leapt off and tried to bull his way
through the milling throng to the site of the disturbance. He was
pushed rudely aside. It was then that he noticed a man fleeing
around the far side of Danby’s Inn. Marc made it over to where his
horse was hitched, and mounted it. Behind him the riot continued
apace.
    When Marc got to the other side of the inn,
he saw the fleeing man clamber onto a horse and trot away down the
road towards Yonge Street. Marc gave pursuit. The fellow never once
turned to see if he were being followed, so Marc was able to get
almost upon him before his horse’s hoof-beats were heard. The
fellow swung around just in time to see Marc come up beside him and
grab his horse by the bridle. They both slowed to a stop.
    “What do you think you’re doin’?” the fellow
said. He had a shock of brown hair and a scraggly beard. His eyes
were bead-like and furtive.
    “I’m interested in that pistol you’ve got
tucked into your belt. I trust it’s been recently fired.”
    “That ain’t none of your business. Now let me
go or you’ll be sorry.”
    “What’s your name?” Marc said, pulling the
fellow closer.
    “I don’t have to tell you nothin’. Now let
go!”
    “I’ll let go when you tell me your name and
admit to firing off a pistol in order to start a riot.”
    “Go to Hell!”
    Marc reached over and grasped the fellow by
the collar, choking him. “Who are you?”
    The beady eyes darted here and there.
Gasping, the fellow said, “I’m D’Arcy Rutherford. What’s it to
you?”
    “That’s all I needed to know,” Marc said, and
released his grip.
    So, Humphrey Cardiff had not kept his word.
It was going to be a dirty tricks election.
     

FOUR

    Delores slipped on her robe and followed her lover
down the dark hallway. He knew the route well by now. He paused at
the back door and she fell into his arms for one last embrace. For
a precious moment she relived the passion that had taken place in
her bed a few minutes ago.
    “I must go,” he said. “I’ll be missed.”
    She released him reluctantly. He stepped out
into the night. She turned and made her way slowly back down the
hall. The letdown she felt after each encounter had already begun
to happen. Try as she might, she could not avoid it. It seemed
somehow necessary. For although she lived for these night-sessions
with her lover, she preferred, in the daylight, the company of
Lionel Trueman and Horace Macy. What was wrong with her? Was she
two women? Was it not abnormal to wish never to marry again? Yet
here she was with two suitors and one lover. Certainly her father
was puzzled and disturbed, though he did not, and would not, know
of these late-evening assignations. Only Vera, her maid, knew of
them, and she was discretion itself. The subterfuge was made easier
by the fact that her father slept in the other side of the house
and was a notoriously sound sleeper. Vera was both shocked and
fascinated by her mistress’s behaviour, but she could keep secrets.
And now that John Perkins was fired and gone, Delores felt even
more secure.
    She reached her bedroom. The silk sheets,
which had felt so heavenly on her bare flesh a while ago, now
looked merely rumpled and soiled. She didn’t remove her robe, but
lay down on the bed