“But such arguments carried no weight with Captain Brookner?”
“No.”
“Now, sir, tell us about the quarrel you had with the victim three nights ago in Cornwall.”
At this unexpected volley in the interrogation, the witnesses on the bench turned to stare at one of their own, Lieutenant Edwards, seated at the far end. But he was looking respectfully at the coroner.
“How do you know that?” Sedgewick gasped. A sliver of fear edged into his eyes.
“There will be corroborating testimony later on, sir, so if I were you, I would answer the question with scrupulous regard for the truth.”
“We’d both been drinkin’ a little too much that evenin’. We begun quarrellin’ over the usual things, the fact that I didn’t support the militia or agree with the barn burnin’ and all that. We were loud and very angry.”
“Did Brookner threaten you in any way?”
“I wasn’t afraid of him. He was all bluster.”
“I don’t mean physically, sir.”
Sedgewick now looked not only uncomfortable but perplexed. He paused while the coroner stared at him with unnerving patience.
“He told me that takin’ in and harbourin’ the Scanlon family could be looked on as treason.”
A curious mixture of groans and nods of approval animated the gallery.
“A serious charge, eh? And one that, if acted upon, posed a grave threat to your well-being?”
“He was all bluster! I didn’t take it seriously!” Sedgewick started to get up, stopped suddenly, then slumped back onto the witness stool.
“You are not denying, then, that you had a motive to extinguish this threat? And that such threat had been made just three days before the murder itself?”
Sedgewick’s response was barely audible, “No, I’m not.”
“Did you place a threatening note in your brother-in-law’s carriage?”
“I did not!”
“Are you now telling this inquest that, given the possibility that the man threatening to turn you in for treason might be assassinated by Miles Scanlon, the fugitive, that you went to the side hallway this morning and tried to talk him out of going for a walk in his bright green uniform?”
Sedgewick looked deeply insulted, but it was fear that gripped him and made his reply a tremulous one: “I did, sir. I love my sister dearly. I did not like or admire her husband. But she begged me to try to talk some sense into him—she’ll tell you so—and I did it for her sake, not his.”
With this heartfelt outburst, the witness was excused. The widow was now called to the stand. The suddenly hushed gallery watched her walk with dignity and purpose to the witness stool. Although she wore the familiar chiffon mourning dress, it was now unwrinkled, and the crepe scarf was folded demurely across her bosom and up and around her long, regal neck. The coroner turned a solicitous eye upon her.
“You are a woman of great courage with a severe sense of duty,” he said solemnly, “to accede to my request that you give testimony this afternoon, so soon after the shock of your husband’s death.”
“I wish not to delay these proceedings,” Adelaide said in a firm, almost mechanical tone. She had lifted the veil to reveal her tear-ravaged face, now dry-cheeked and steady with resolve. “I realize that they must take place, now or later, and I did not want to complicate the lives of those innocent persons who have travelled with me and offered me so many kindnesses. Which I have not always had the courtesy or will to acknowledge.”
“Yes, madam. We understand that this is your second bereavement in less than a week. I have just a few brief questions for you.” He turned to face the gallery. “Before I begin, however, I want to say that the reason I was probing for motive in this case is that it has occurred to me that, while Miles Scanlon is a prime suspect with motive, means, and plenty of opportunity—and may well have fired the fatal shot—it is conceivable that some other person or persons—with suitable motivation—might have conspired with Miles Scanlon to murder Captain Brookner. They might have used Scanlon as a convenient stand-in and perhaps even an unwitting scapegoat.”
This statement stirred the gallery so thoroughly that the coroner had to bang his gavel three times, shivering the water in the glasses thereon and spattering ink across his clerk’s pristine parchment. The witness showed no particular response.
“It is further conceivable that, failing an outright conspiracy, someone with sufficient motive might have found it expedient merely to let Miles Scanlon know when and where Captain Brookner might be on display, as it were.”
The spectators absorbed this astonishing but cogent theory, and added commentary among themselves in a rustle of whispers.
“Now, Mrs. Brookner. I have information that you also quarrelled with your husband, as recently as last night.”
The gallery was more shocked than the witness, who answered calmly, “Yes. My husband and I quarrelled often. Over many things. We are both strong-willed, I am afraid.”
“And which of those many things did you quarrel about last night?”
“Randolph thought I showed excessive and unbecoming grief during the obsequies for my sister in Montreal.”
“That seems somewhat callous, does it not?”
“I would not call my husband callous. He was set in his convictions and beliefs and he had a surplus of both. To remind me of my folly, he removed his mourning band the day after the funeral. I accused him of disrespect for the dead.”
“Did you quarrel about anything else?”
“He upbraided me for correcting him in front of the other passengers. It was a subject we argued about many times.”
“And you are a woman who does not easily let inaccuracies in conversation go by unnoted?”
“I have tried to do so. But, of course, I was angry with him over his removing the armband.” There was the slightest trembling of the lower lip, but she quickly mastered herself.
“Let us move on to this morning. You awoke after your husband?”
“Yes. About nine o’clock. He was already dressing.”
“In his parade uniform?”
“I’m afraid so. Jacket, breeches, boots, greatcoat—everything military except his ordinary fur hat. I begged him not to go out. After that death-threat was found, I pleaded with my brother to forget his differences with Randolph and try to dissuade him from such foolhardy bravado. But Randolph was stubborn and proud.”
“So we’ve been assured. Did you follow your husband downstairs?”
“I wasn’t dressed. I threw on my clothes. I didn’t have time to pin up my hair properly. I’d been crying much of the night over the loss of my dear sister. I looked a wreck. . . .”
Murmurs from the gallery denied that this could ever be so.
“Was your husband gone when you did get downstairs?”
“Yes. It couldn’t have been more than four or five minutes later, but he had gone out the side door, or so my brother and Mr. Pritchard told me.”
“And you did not think to go immediately after him, knowing the reality of the danger to his person?”
“Not right away. It was very cold out and snowing a bit. I had no coat or hat.”
“But you did subsequently persuade Mr. Sedgewick and Mr. Pritchard to do so?”
“Yes, using the excuse that the coach had to leave by ten o’clock if we were to reach Gananoque or Kingston by this evening.”
“Let me review these times, then, just to get them straight. Your husband left your room, fully dressed for the outdoors, at about nine-ten or so. He arrived downstairs, we’ve been told, about fifteen minutes past the hour, observed by all those at breakfast with a clear view across the foyer. Mr. Sedgewick spends less than a minute, say, trying to discourage the captain from going out. He does go out, however, a little after quarter past nine. You arrive downstairs less than five minutes later and join the others at the breakfast table.”
“Yes, though Mr. Lambert was heading down the back hall just as I arrived.
”
All eyes swung towards Charles Lambert, who had been sitting stolidly on the witness bench, staring straight ahead as if preoccupied with more weighty or more pertinent matters. He continued to do so.
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Brookner. We will hear testimony on his whereabouts in due course. What we have so far, then, is this: I have retraced the route Captain Brookner took this morning and, walking at a steady pace, I found it took ten full minutes to reach the spot where he was shot. However, your husband was accustomed, was he not, Mrs. Brookner, to stroll along in leisurely fashion enjoying the scenery?”
“That is right. He would march along for a bit, then pause to take in something that caught his eye, especially if he were in a new place.”
“In all likelihood, then, it may have taken him fifteen to twenty minutes to reach that fatal spot. Which would bring him there about nine-thirty or nine thirty-five. You arrived at the breakfast table about nine-twenty. How long were you there before you asked Mr. Sedgewick to follow your husband?”
“Not more than five minutes. Mr. Pritchard had had time to fetch me some coffee from the sideboard.”
“That means that Sedgewick and Pritchard, who took several more minutes to fetch their coats and boots, began to follow after him at about nine-thirty or so. They were obviously in a hurry. They must have reached him by, say, nine-forty or nine forty-five—not more than a few minutes after the shot must have been fired, but far enough away not to have heard the report of the pistol. A minute or two sooner and their presence might have prevented this tragedy.”
The gallery took this in. Adelaide looked stoically ahead.
“It seems improbable, if not impossible, then, that anyone seated at the breakfast table from nine-fifteen to nine twenty-five could have fired the fatal shot.”
Again, all eyes swung to scrutinize the only member of the travelling party who had not been present during these critical minutes. Charles Lambert looked down, fingers clasped tightly.
Adelaide Brookner was excused with thanks. She walked through the crowd and out of the room, with Mrs. Dingman one solicitous step behind her. The next witness was Charles Lambert. It took four gavel raps to quell the muttering and morbid speculation.
The coroner began by leading Lambert over some familiar territory, so that it was soon ascertained that he had not known or ever knew of Randolph Brookner until meeting him at the hotel in Montreal and joining his travelling group.
“Did you have any reason for disliking any member of the Queen’s regulars or Her militia?”
“No, sir. I am a loyal citizen.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Marc had not yet told the magistrate about Lambert’s true identity, partly because the information had been given to him in confidence by an officer of the army and partly because he thought it would throw a red herring into the proceedings. If, as a Quebecker, Lambert wished revenge for alleged atrocities, it was Marc who would have been the target, not Brookner.
“Please tell this inquest at what time you left the breakfast table, and why.”
“Mrs. Brookner was just coming downstairs when Mr. Dingman and I left for his office.”
“That would make it close to nine-twenty?”
“I believe so.”
“Who suggested that you go there, you or Mr. Dingman?”
The spectators leaned forward to hear the witness’s response to this potentially incriminating query.
“I did,” Lambert said very softly.
“And did you go straight to Dingman’s office?”
Lambert hesitated again. “No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“The office is at the far end of the hall near the rear exit of the building. When we got there, I realized I would need one of my law books to facilitate the business Mr. Dingwall had been asking me to attend to ever since my arrival here.”
“Which was?”
“To help him rewrite a complicated will involving previous entailments on this valuable property, and several new codicils as well.”
“But no-one at breakfast reports seeing you return to the foyer to mount the stairs to the guest-rooms above.”
“They were not the only stairs, sir.”
This brought the gallery to rapt attention.
“I see. Go on.”
“Because Mr. Dingwall and I were already at the rear of the building, I decided to slip out the back door, go up the outside fire-stairs, and reach my room that way. I had no coat or hat, but I did have my boots on.” When Doctor Mac lifted one skeptical brow, Lambert added, “It just seemed the most convenient way of doing so.”
“And you returned in the same manner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“While you were outside, did you notice anyone at all using the path to the woods?”
“No-one.”
“You went straight up and came right back?”
“Yes. I couldn’t have been gone more than five minutes. Mr. Dingman was waiting for me in the office the whole time.”
“Which would bring you back there about nine twenty-five?”
“That seems about right.”
The spectators sighed as one. Here was another likely suspect, dark and mysterious, with a perfect alibi. Lambert could not have trailed Brookner to the creek, shot him, and scampered back to Dingman in five minutes. The witness stepped down, looking relieved.
Interest picked up instantly, however, when Murdo Dingman was called forward.
It was soon determined that Dingman could not corroborate earlier testimony about the goings-on at the breakfast table because he had been closeted in his office with the entrails of his last will and testament before him on his desk. He had come out hoping to ask Lambert to return with him to his office, and had been happily surprised when Lambert had suggested such a move himself.
“But Mr. Lambert did not go immediately into your office?”
“No, sir. He pardoned himself and went out the back door to fetch one of his law tombs.”
The coroner blinked hugely, but said nothing.
“I went in and sat waitin’ for him.”
“Please answer these next questions carefully. Mr. Lambert has testified that he was away—and outside the building—for no more than five minutes, and that he thus returned to you by nine twenty-five. First of all, do you have a clock in your office?”
“I do, Your Honourable. Made in the United States. Keeps perfect time.”
Some skepticism at this latter claim was evinced by the gallery.
“So, is it your testimony that Mr. Lambert returned by nine twenty-five?”
Dingman looked suddenly stricken. He glanced about him for assistance but could find only sixty pairs of eyes interrogating him with heartless inquisition.
“Could be,” he mumbled.
“You are saying that you are not certain?”
“Yes. No. It’s just—”
“Surely you can tell us if it was closer to five minutes than, say, twenty. For if it were the latter, Mr. Lambert would not have an iron-clad alibi for the time of the murder.”
Charles Lambert did look up at this remark, and was studied minutely for his reaction: it seemed to be a combination of startlement and resentment.
“Could be either,” Dingman said, staring at the arabesques his fingers were executing. “You see, I was so absorbent in thinkin’ about my will, with all its detailments and its codpieces—”
The courtroom erupted with unconstrained laughter. The coroner struggled valiantly to be unamused.
Bewildered by this inexplicable outburst, Dingman soldiered on doggedly. “Whenever I’m readin’ or thinkin’, I find I lose track of time. But I remember Mr. Lambert did come in with snow on his boots, before all the fuss started up in the foyer.”
“And that’s the best you can do?”
“It is, sir. And I blame it all on my last will and testimony.”
“Then that will have to do,” said the coroner with a razor-thin smile. “Yo
u may step down.”
“But I ain’t up, Your Honourable.”
* * *
Pulling flaps of cheek, brow, and jowl into more solemn conjunction, MacIvor Murchison read into testimony his own pathologist’s report, which added nothing new to his initial findings earlier in the day. He next informed the witnesses and gallery that Lieutenant Edwards, who was by dint of elimination to be the next witness summoned, had provided the inquest with a detailed deposition, which testimony tended to corroborate much of that presented by the other witnesses. Nothing they had said prompted him to call forth the good lieutenant for further enquiry. This announcement caused much disappointment and vocal complaint from the spectators, but the coroner waited patiently for silence. After which he informed them that he was ready to offer his preliminary findings, without a recess. Digby Parsons pushed several parchment-like sheets of paper in front of his master, who took five lengthy and dramatic minutes pretending to scrutinize the indecipherable notes of his earnest clerk. Then he brushed back the errant wig, which had gradually taken root in his eyebrows, and began.
“It is clear that the most probable suspect in the murder of Randolph Brookner is the man with the strongest motive, the relevant means, and plenty of opportunity. As magistrate for this county, I have been kept informed of any sightings or successful captures of rebel fugitives in this region. I can tell you today that Miles Scanlon has been seen by more than one dutiful citizen of this township no farther than five miles from this courtroom, as late as the day before yesterday. That he is the most logical one to have fired the fatal shot is the tentative conclusion of this summary inquest, and, in my role as magistrate, I am going to issue a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of murder, in addition to the charge of sedition. That is not to say that some other individual may not have conspired with Scanlon, in whole or in part, but until the latter is apprehended and brought before this inquest, the coroner declines to point a finger at anyone in particular. Needless to say, these proceedings are merely prorogued, to be continued when circumstances dictate. All those who have been travelling with Captain Brookner will be subpoenaed to appear at a time and place to be determined later. In the meantime, all are free to go.”
Dubious Allegiance Page 19
