Free Death in the Age of Steam by Mel Bradshaw Page A

chatelaine, disliked large gatherings and would have wiggled out of this one even if she had been in town. And what did Harris think had become of her anyway?
    He said he intended to find out—but confessed he had lost touch with her. He lacked current information regarding her interests, character and friends.
    Mrs. MacFarlane stared out at the shadowy carpet of grass. “That’s not a good start,” she said softly.
    â€œDo you know any old schoolmates she went on nature rambles with?”
    â€œNot one. She may have mentioned a name or two, but as they married, those friendships seemed to wither . . .”
    â€œWhat current friends do you know of?” asked Harris.
    â€œI couldn’t see that she had any, or family either apart from her father and husband.”
    Other guests were coming out to escape the heat of the lamps, but remained beyond earshot.
    Harris dropped his voice anyway. “Was there discord between her and Mr. Crane?”
    It was too dark to read Mrs. MacFarlane’s face. When she didn’t speak, he repeated the question.
    â€œI’m not sure I should tell you if I had noticed anything of the sort, but the fact is I didn’t.”
    â€œHow often did you see her?” Perhaps, thought Harris, not often enough to tell.
    â€œOnce a week or so. She made quite a friend of Elsie.”
    Harris said he understood. “And when did you see her last?”
    â€œSunday morning at church,” replied his hostess, “at the Cathedral.”
    â€œTwo hours at most before her disappearance!” Harris exclaimed. “Did she say anything that casts light on that event?”
    â€œWell, she—her father had died just the night before, remember. You could tell it affected her deeply. You’ll want to know when she first came here. I believe it was soon after her marriage. Our husbands had business dealings—to do with ships or trains, I suppose. Isn’t it always one or the other? Or telegraphs.” The mistress of the house was back in stride, one thought briskly pulling the next. “As for Theresa Crane, she and I shared cultural and charitable interests, though I believe she regarded art as a minor recreation, something to do when your brain is tired. Even botany began to seem frivolous to her. Medicine attracted her more.”
    â€œWas she ill?” asked Harris.
    â€œNo, indeed. Not that I could see, at least, but she felt for those that suffer. We discussed the institutions Toronto is having to build to cope with its prosperity. The casualties of prosperity, that is. You know the places I mean. The new General Hospital, the Roman Catholic House of Providence, the Lunatic Asylum—”
    â€œThere you are, Kate,” an elderly lady called from the doorway. “Our carriage is out front, but I couldn’t leave without . . .”
    While Mrs. MacFarlane was saying good night to the early leavers, Harris waited to see if there would be an opportunity to resume the interview. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to show even polite interest in other topics. He pretended to inspect the oil paintings that lined the reception room.
    â€œAre you an admirer of Mr. Paul Kane?” Kate MacFarlane was again beside him, pointing out features of an eighteen-by-thirty-inch canvas he had taken in only as tepees and canoes. A Lake Huron encampment, she said. Such and such reclining figure could of course be traced to classical models, but no one who had lived on the upper lakes ever questioned the scene’s essential truth.
    Crane had lived there once. Harris asked if she could think of anything that might have drawn Theresa in that direction.
    â€œNo. Nor in any other. I’m baffled.” She glanced around in case she were needed elsewhere. “Look, Mr. Harris, I do approve of your trying to find her. Private initiative is the only way
anything
gets done, but Mr. MacFarlane has just this