Death on the Canal

By Allan McCarville

May 1870, Ottawa . . . A city of secrets
An invasion force is gathering south of the border. Those behind the invasion will kill to keep their plans secret.
A boy runs away from the orphanage. He has a secret that could cost him his life.
A body is found floating in the Rideau Canal just below Sapper’s Bridge. Twenty-four hours later, a second body is discovered along the canal’s towpath. The two men shared a secret that resulted in their deaths.
Detective Jacques Charlebois had transferred to the Ottawa Police to escape a troubled past, a past he would prefer to keep secret.
As Detective Charlebois strives to solve the murders, he discovers some secrets just won’t stay buried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allan McCarville
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990672040

Allan McCarville

Allan McCarville is an author and researcher who has a number of titles published in the genres of fantasy, crime thrillers and historical fiction. He and his family reside in Stittsville, Ontario where he does his best to make people think that he's normal. Apparently it's not working.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Saturday, 14 May 1870

The lockmaster, James Wallis, swore under his breath when he spotted the body nudged against the south side of lock number 8.

He would now have to notify the police, and the locks would remain closed until the body had been recovered. That meant a delay for the canal traffic waiting to proceed through the locks. The locks had just opened for the season, and he already had three steamships, plus three barges lined up in the layby waiting to proceed down through the locks to the Ottawa River, and two more steamers waiting to proceed up the locks. The first of the barges was already hitched to the team of horses that would tow it into the lock.

For a brief moment he considered pretending he hadn’t seen the body and opening the lock anyway. The body would eventually work its way through the locks until it ended up in the Ottawa River. Then it would be someone else’s problem.

Shouts from Sapper’s Bridge that crossed the canal slightly south of the lock put paid to the idea. He glanced up to where several pedestrians were pointing down and yelling. He acknowledged them and sighed in frustration. Saturday, May 14th, 1870 was not going to be a day he would soon forget.

***

Inspector Jacques Charlebois of the Ottawa Constabulary stood scowling on the side of the canal as the body was pulled out of the water. Two rowboats were working in tandem, securing a rope around the body and manoeuvring it to the side of the canal where it was pulled up onto the canal’s stone wall.

Charlebois was in his mid-thirties, his five-foot ten-inch frame was devoid of excess fat, and he had thick black hair with matching eyebrows that bridged a pair of steel grey eyes.

Charlebois had begun his police career in Montreal and had relocated to Ottawa the previous year. He had hoped that a change in location would provide him with a fresh start, but his demons followed him.

Charlebois was known to be a relentless investigator, however his reserved attitude and abrasive manner did little to endear him to his fellow officers. That was fine by him. The Chief Constable judged him by his performance, not by his popularity.

He approached the body, the boatmen and police constables hovering around the body giving way to provide him access. Charlebois knelt down beside the corpse, which was lying on its back, sightless eyes staring up at the cloudless sky.

Any hope he had about being able to attend tonight’s performance of Barnett’s Dick Turpin and Tom King at Her Majesty’s Theatre was dashed when he viewed the body.

The man had been stabbed in the neck; he was dealing with a murder.

Has Dr. Summer been notified? he asked, looking up at the police constables. Richard Summer was the coroner for Ottawa who worked out of the Protestant Hospital on Riverside Street.

Yes, sir, replied the oldest constable. Charlebois searched his memory for the man’s name. McMahon. Constable McMahon.

Anyone recognize this man? he asked.

The constables exchanged glances, but no one responded.

Charlebois glared at McMahon, who, as the most senior constable, would be the one most likely to know the identity of the murdered man. Constable McMahon. Do you recognize this man? he snapped impatiently.

McMahon glared at Charlebois for a moment then nodded. Yeah. His name’s Edward O’Malley.

O’Malley? The Eire Brotherhood O’Malley?

Aye, McMahon confirmed, a little surprised by Charlebois’s knowledge of a local gang. The Brotherhood’s number two man.

Hell’s teeth, swore Charlebois. The Eire Brotherhood was a gang that controlled the city wards of Ottawa, By, and St. George’s, encompassing the area of the city east of the Rideau Canal. The Queen’s Wharf located at the end of Sussex Street, where most of the steamers loaded and unloaded on the Ottawa River, was also in their territory.

Someone murdering the number two man in their organization was not good news.

Do you think a rival gang did this, or is something else going on inside the Brotherhood? asked Charlebois.

McMahon was taken aback by Charlebois’s question. The man was not known for seeking the opinion of subordinates.

Well, McMahon began, there is a gang on the west side of the canal whose membership is different from the Brotherhood. The Eire Brotherhood are mainly Irish Catholics with a few Irish Presbyterians thrown into the mix. The west side group calls themselves the Loyalist Society and their membership is historically English and Protestant.

What? No French Canadians? remarked Charlebois, displaying a rare grin as he straightened up.

Lots, answered McMahon. But they’re not active members of either gang. Back when the canal was first built, Ottawa was known as Bytown. The canal was a dividing line between Lower Bytown, which was mostly Irish, Catholic, and poor, and Upper Bytown, which was English, Protestant, and affluent. There was some tension back then; much of it stemming from the ’37 rebellion. In fact, there was even a riot back in ’49. Things are a lot calmer now, but some animosity remains between the Brotherhood and the Society. In the past few years clashes between the groups have been sporadic. A few turf battles but nothing as violent as murder. McMahon glanced at the body. At least until now, he thought.

Charlebois’s eyebrows crunched into a thoughtful frown. Was this an escalation of violence between the gangs, or a power struggle within the Brotherhood? Neither bode well for the city.

O’Malley have family? asked Charlebois.

Yes, replied McMahon rather reluctantly, guessing that Charlebois was about to assign him the unpleasant task of notifying the family. The detectives typically passed that disagreeable duty on to the uniformed constables. Wife and several children. They have a dwelling house over on Theodore Street.

I’d appreciate it if you could bring me there, Constable, said Charlebois. We need to notify his wife.

We? repeated McMahon. Was the inspector actually going to carry out a notification?

Charlebois noticed the surprise that McMahon failed to hide. Yes, we, he verified. I will advise her that we might have found her husband’s body. We need to watch how Mrs. O’Malley reacts to the news.

Do you think his wife had something to do with this? asked McMahon inclining his head towards the body.

Charlebois shrugged. You never know. She wouldn’t be the first woman to arrange to knock off an abusive or cheating husband. We need to keep all lines of enquiry open for now. Do you know the woman?

McMahon shook his head. No, sir. I know who she is but have never met her.

Charlebois turned his attention to the lockmaster. Get a blanket to cover the body, he told him. He looked up at the crowd that had gathered on the bridge then focussed on the other two constables. One of you wait here until Dr. Summer arrives. I want the other one to clear away that crowd of gawkers up there. This isn’t a damn sporting event, he snarled. Once the coroner gets here, start looking along the canal for traces of blood or a knife. Also, talk to anyone on those steamers in the layby. Find out if they saw anything.

Whoever done this might have thrown the knife into the canal, blurted out the youngest constable, who immediately regretted speaking when Charlebois turned and glowered at him.

Thank you for stating the obvious, Constable, barked Charlebois, giving the young man a hard stare. The young constable, not yet out of his teens, wilted under the glare. Charlebois was reminded of another young constable in Montreal, one who died far too young.

What’s your name, Constable? asked Charlebois.

D…Dunlop, sir, stammered the young man.

Well, Constable Dunlop, you’re right, said Charlebois in a kinder tone. Our murderer may have tossed the murder weapon into the canal. That’s why we’re going to have the men in those rowboats start to drag the canal.

Dunlop was unsure if he was expected to acknowledge his superior’s last remark so he decided it would be wiser to say nothing.

Charlebois glanced up at the people lining the bridge. I want you to get on up there and clear away that crowd, he ordered.

His eyes swept over the crowd. Was one of them a murderer, he wondered. It was not unknown for a perpetrator to return to the scene of his crime, curious to watch the fallout of his deed. He turned on his heel and strode off to give instructions for dragging the canal before he and McMahon left to visit Mrs. O’Malley.

On the bridge, a man instinctively stepped quickly back from the railing when he saw Charlebois turn to look up at them. He knew that with the sea of faces, the police detective would not be able to single him out. Nevertheless, he felt safer when he fell back into the mass of humanity crowding Sappers Bridge.

O’Malley’s murder complicated their plans, and the ensuing police investigation was a complication he didn’t want or need. Nevertheless, there had really been no choice in the matter. Allowing O’Malley to live was just too risky to their plans.

The man turned and walked back towards the Parliament Buildings. There was still one more loose end to be taken care of.

Chapter 2

Saturday 14 May 1870

An expression of dread crept across the face of Kathleen O’Malley when she saw two men on her door stoop, one of them wearing a police constable’s uniform.

It’s Eddie, isn’t it? she gasped, clutching her breast. Her knees gave out and she would have collapsed if Charlebois and McMahon hadn’t grabbed her. They gently guided the woman past the door into the first room they saw, which was evidently the parlour. A young girl, who Charlebois guessed was about sixteen, jumped up from the armchair she was sitting in and ran to her mother.

Mama? What’s wrong? she cried.

Maggie, please take the children upstairs, Mrs. O’Malley instructed in a strained voice. For a moment it looked like the girl was going to object, but she obviously understood something was wrong and her mother needed some privacy.

Yes, mama, she said and left the parlour, going to round up her younger siblings. Charlebois could hear her calling names and it wasn’t long before a procession of six children, with Maggie in the lead, filed past the door heading up the stairs, each of them looking into the parlour with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Philip! called Mrs. O’Malley to a boy tagging behind the others who looked to be around ten. Go to the sheds and fetch Fergus. Tell him to come home and have him find Seamus and bring him too.

Yes, mama, the boy replied and darted away.

Mrs. O’Malley regarded Charlebois and McMahon uncomprehendingly, obviously in a state of shock. Fergus is me oldest boy, she said, as if an explanation was needed. He’s fifteen and works at the canal sheds. He’s a good boy. Seamus is my brother.

Charlebois guessed Mrs. O’Malley was in her early forties, her brown hair, with strands of grey already making their presence known, was held in place with pins. She wore a slightly stained smock over a plain, brown dress. Despite her age, she was still an attractive woman.

McMahon asked, Can we get you something?

Mrs. O’Malley blinked as if she didn’t understand the question then slowly nodded. Please, she answered pointing to a cabinet. Gin.

McMahon arched an eyebrow and glanced questionably over at Charlebois who nodded imperceptibly. He found the bottle, rummaged through the cabinet for a glass, then placed it and the bottle on the coffee table in front of her.

He’s dead, isn’t he? Mrs. O’Malley asked as she poured herself a glass of gin. My Eddie’s dead? I knew something was wrong when he didn’t come home last night. Her hands were shaking, and McMahon reached over and steadied the bottle for her.

I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Malley, said Charlebois. We pulled the body of a man out of the canal a couple of hours ago. We have reason to believe it’s your husband, Edward. We will need you to formally identify the body.

She downed the gin in one gulp then poured a second, but only stared at it. He shouldn’t ‘ave gone, she said without taking her eyes off the glass, a tear running down her cheek.

Should not have gone where? asked Charlebois.

Pardon? stated Mrs. O’Malley, her head jerking up. She regarded Charlebois uncomprehendingly for a moment before replying. Ah. Pub. He shouldn’t ‘ave gone to the pub last night, she answered.

Which pub was it? asked Charlebois. When did he leave?

The Queen’s Crown Pub, she replied.

Charlebois glanced over at McMahon. I know it, sir, McMahon advised him.

And at what time did he go there? repeated Charlebois.

After dinner, responded Mrs. O’Malley. He went out about eight o’clock.

Is that normal for your husband? inquired Charlebois.

The woman pulled a hankie from the pocket of her smock, dabbed away tears and gave what might have been a shrug. Not sure what you mean by normal, Inspector, she said. It’s not like Eddie would go out every night. He did like to go for a brew with the lads after work from time to time.

And where did Mr. O’Malley work?

Riverside Freight, replied Mrs. O’Malley. He was a . . .um, coordinator.

Her struggle to describe her husband’s trade did not go unnoticed.

He was about to ask more about O’Malley’s occupation but was interrupted by the sound of boots stomping across porch boards followed by the door opening. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the parlour from the hall.

Kate. Are you okay? he asked, eying Charlebois and McMahon suspiciously. Why are the police here?

And you are? asked Charlebois before Mrs. O’Malley could respond to the man’s question.

Seamus Reagan, the man said. I’m Kathleen’s brother. What’s this about? he persisted. I recognize Constable McMahon, but who are you? he asked Charlebois.

Charlebois could see the family resemblance even though Seamus was a couple of years older than his sister. He was also somewhat surprised at how quickly the man had arrived, seeing as how it had only been a few minutes since Mrs. O’Malley had sent her boy to fetch him. Either the boy could fly or Seamus Reagan had already been on his way to the O’Malley home.

I’m Inspector Jacques Charlebois, Mr. Reagan. We recovered a body from the canal this morning, Charlebois advised Reagan. We have reason to believe it’s Edward O’Malley.

Mrs. O’Malley emitted an audible sob. Reagan pulled up a chair and sat next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. Are you sure it’s him? he asked, his eyes shifting from McMahon to Charlebois.

We will need Mrs. O’Malley to identify him, answered Charlebois, but we’re pretty certain it’s Edward O’Malley.

I’ll go with you Kate, Reagan promised his sister.

Mrs. O’Malley reached up for Reagan’s hand and silently nodded her thanks.

When did you last see your brother-in-law? Charlebois asked Reagan.

Yesterday at work, the man replied. We left about the same time around six.

You both work at Riverside Freight?

Reagan nodded in the affirmative.

Where did you go after work? Charlebois wanted to know.

Eddie went home, Reagan informed him. I went to the Queen’s Crowns for a brew.

Mr. O’Malley didn’t join you?

No. Not yesterday, said Reagan. Sometimes he joins me and the lads for a drink but yesterday he went directly home from work.

How late did you stay at the pub? asked Charlebois.

Reagan’s face creased into an irritated frown. Why do you want to know that? he demanded. Then the frown disappeared and understanding dawned on him. Detectives don’t normally do notifications. Eddie was killed, wasn’t he? Murdered.

He was, admitted Charlebois.

You think it was me that done it? That why you’re asking all these questions? Reagan was agitated but Charlebois was unsure if it was due to nervousness or something else. It was his experience that most people tended to be nervous when being questioned by the police whether they were guilty of anything or not.

We are early in our investigation, Charlebois informed him. We need to get a picture of Mr. O’Malley’s habits and friends, and where he’s been during the day before he was killed. So, Mr. Reagan, what time did you leave the pub last night?

I left about half seven, he grumbled. I went home to the missus. Stayed there all night.

We’ll need the names of those who were with you last night, Charlebois advised him.

Reagan merely nodded but Charlebois could tell the man was not happy about providing the names. As Reagan began to rhyme off names to McMahon, Charlebois turned his attention back to Mrs. O’Malley.

I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. O’Malley, he stated. We’ll advise you when you can go to the morgue to identify the body.

Mrs. O’Malley nodded vacantly. Charlebois wasn’t sure she heard him, or if she did, whether or not she understood him.

McMahon approached Charlebois, having finished writing down the names provided by Reagan. I have the list, sir, he advised Charlebois. Anything else?

Charlebois shook his head. No, Constable. I believe we’re finished here for now. Let’s take a walk up to the Queen’s Crown Pub. Both men once again expressed their condolences then left the house, guided to the front door by Reagan.

After they had left, Reagan returned and embraced his sister again. I’m sorry about Eddie, he said. I should not have let him go alone.

Not your fault, sobbed Kathleen. Eddie didn’t want to involve you.

He never said who he was going to meet or why? asked Reagan.

Kathleen dabbed her eyes. No. But he was troubled about something the last few days. Didn’t tell me what it was. She glanced up at the ceiling. Her children had to be told their father wasn’t coming home. I better gather the children, she said, her voice heavy with reluctance and grief.

Kathleen went and called up the stairs for the children to come down. The response was immediate, footsteps sounding down the stairs. The children’s usual exuberance was subdued. They knew something wasn’t right in their home.

Reagan looked at an empty chair, one that had been Edward’s favourite. He, too, had sensed that something was troubling Edward the last few days, but his brother-in-law wouldn’t confide in him.

Whatever it was that was bothering Edward, it had cost him his life.

Chapter 3

Saturday, 14 May 1870

I think they’re hiding something, suggested McMahon as he and Charlebois made their way towards The Queen’s Crown Pub.

I’m certain of it, Charlebois agreed. They definitely know more than they were letting on. Seamus Reagan’s arrival so quickly after we got there is suspicious. Neither did he appear surprised to hear that his brother-in-law was dead.

Seamus is the head of the Brotherhood, said McMahon. Anything happens on their turf; he would know about it. He was probably aware that Edward O’Malley was dead same time as we did, maybe even sooner. That’s likely why he arrived when he did. He was already on his way to see his sister.

Convenient that the number one and two men in the Brotherhood are family, remarked Charlebois. How did he and O’Malley get on?.

McMahon sucked in a breath and shrugged. Got along well by all accounts, he replied. Given the nature of the Brotherhood, we do keep an eye on their activities, particularly their leadership. There’s never been any issues between Reagan and O’Malley that we’re aware of.

Just what is the Brotherhood? asked Charlebois. How does it tie into the Riverside Freight Company that both O’Malley and Reagan work for? I noticed that Mrs. O’Malley struggled to describe just what her husband did.

Well, in theory, the Eerie Brotherhood is an organization dedicated to looking after the welfare of its members, explained McMahon. Its members are mainly Irish, most of them descendants of the Irish workers that built the canal.

In theory? inquired Charlebois.

McMahon smiled wanly. The Brotherhood owns the Riverside Freight Company. Coincidentally, the officers of the Brotherhood – namely Seamus Reagan, his recently deceased brother-in-law and a few others, also run Riverside Freight.

Now, that’s noteworthy, nodded Charlebois. But there’s nothing illegal about the organization owning and operating a haulage company.

True, said McMahon, What is interesting, is that if you want your goods delivered to, or hauled away from, any steamship on the Ottawa River or on the canal, you have to use Riverside Freight.

Ah, a monopoly, observed Charlebois.

A monopoly, confirmed McMahon. The merchants and steamship companies routinely put out tenders but Riverside Freight is always the lowest bidder.

Charlebois stopped walking and looked at McMahon. That suggests that they somehow have inside information.

No doubt about it, agreed McMahon. A few companies have complained but we could never find anything or anyone to suggest collusion. Furthermore, if you want to work loading or unloading the steamships, or the rail cars for that matter, you need to be employed by Riverside Freight and part of your wages goes into the coffers of the Brotherhood.

Charlebois’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Let me guess, the contribution is not voluntary.

It’s not, verified McMahon. But no one has complained. Apparently, the amount charged is about ten cents a week. The lads working earn between $1.75 to $1.80 a day, so coughing up ten cents a week is an irritant but beats not working at all.

Let me get this straight, said Charlebois. The Brotherhood owns Riverside Freight. So, the profits from the haulage company go to the Brotherhood. On top of that, everyone who works for the company gives the brotherhood ten cents a week. How many people does the freight company employ?

It varies, replied McMahon. During the shipping season, between four and five hundred.

Charlebois whistled in amazement. Just what does the Brotherhood do with all that money? he asked as they started walking again. Between what the Freight Company makes and the contributions from the workers, the Brotherhood must be raking in thousands of dollars a year.

They’re well off, conceded McMahon. They do use some of the money to help out families of the members who have passed away, they’ve rebuilt or repaired members’ homes that were damaged or destroyed due to weather or fire, they have donated money to the church, and also to St. Joseph’s Orphanage Asylum. Still, they have amassed quite a significant treasury by all accounts.

The O’Malley’s home was a nice place, but it certainly wasn’t elaborate, Charlebois noted. One would have thought that as the number two man in the Brotherhood, his dwelling place would be more extravagant.

They’re smart enough to know that if the members of the Brotherhood thought that their executive was getting rich on the backs of the members, there would be a riot, said McMahon. I’m sure the various directors have set aside little nest eggs, but they’re not flaunting it.

Just what was Edward O’Malley’s role? Mrs. O’Malley had some difficulty explaining what the man did.

I noticed, chuckled McMahon. Basically, Seamus, as the number one man is responsible for arranging the contracts and so on. Edward was the one who made sure everybody adhered to the terms of the contract – and paid their ten cents each week.

An enforcer in other words, suggested Charlebois. If O’Malley did ensure everyone paid their dues, it could make him very unpopular, he said. We’ll need to have another talk with Mr. Reagan. We need to find out if there was anyone with outstanding dues. Debt collection might have gotten out of hand.

Aye, agreed McMahon. And one more thing sir, he said with a half-grin. The Queen’s Crown is owned by the Brotherhood. Thought you should know before we get there.

It wasn’t long before they reached The Queen’s Crown, a two-storey brick building near the corner of Cumberland and Stewart Street. The main entrance was on Cumberland, with a narrow alley running perpendicular to Cumberland on the building’s north side. As they walked past the entrance to the alley, Charlebois glanced down into it. He could see a loading dock and a door that he supposed provided the pub access to the alley for deliveries and a set of windows indicating