“Yes,” Marc said, rising and shaking Lambert’s hand. “We live in terrible times.”
* * *
Charles Lambert and Ainslie Pritchard left the Georgian Arms soon after. Adelaide Brookner remained in the care of the Dingmans. Percy Sedgewick took supper in his room and then went into the Dingmans’ quarters to offer comfort and support to his sister. Marc ate alone in the lounge, envying the roars and whoops of boozy laughter coming across the foyer from the taproom, now denuded of its legal trappings. Then he went up to his room and lay down on his bed. He had a lot of thinking to do.
If, as it now seemed, it was Miles Scanlon who shot Brookner, then there was still a stalker out there somewhere. While it was conceivable that Scanlon may have been the one to have climbed through Marc’s window in a case of mistaken identity, it had not been Scanlon back there in the Montreal hospital, and no-one could have mistaken Marc, in mufti, for the fulltunicked Brookner in the woods beside the St. Lawrence. He decided to err on the side of caution. He borrowed a hammer and nails from Dingman’s boy and nailed the window of his room shut. Once again he shoved the bed up against the door, then made himself a pallet of goosedown comforters on the floor well away from the door and window. He loaded his pistol and placed it on his chest. He lay fully clothed, waiting for sleep.
It did not come easily.
A strange new notion entered his head, triggered by something that had happened earlier on their journey. From that inkling, a train of thoughts—erratic, vague, but persistent—began to move towards some possible, if astounding, conclusion. He went over a dozen events, conversations, and gestures, putting the pieces together this way and that. If his theories were valid, was there any way to prove them?
Just as he was falling asleep, he thought of a way.
The Brookner coach, now missing three of its original passengers, left the Georgian Arms at 11:30 on the morning of January 21. A light snow was falling; the air was crisp; and the sleigh’s runners glided merrily. Gander Todd, none the worse for wear for having spent four nights sleeping in stables next to the horses, whipped his charges mildly and harangued them harshly. Earlier, the widow Brookner had emerged at last from the ministrations of Mrs. Dingman, clothed still in her mourning dress, though it now did double duty. Holding her right arm solicitously, her brother had led her unsteadily across the foyer and out to the waiting carriage. Murdo Dingman attempted to assist at her other elbow but was shrugged off curtly. Marc held the door open. From beneath her veil Adelaide bade him a polite “Good morning” and thanked him for his many kindnesses. Once inside the coach, Marc sat opposite Sedgewick, who took up the near seat by the window, facing ahead, and his sister was placed beside him.
As the coach pulled away, she fell back against a pillow and appeared to be staring out at the snow. She held that silent, solemn posture until they reached Prescott about twenty minutes later. Sedgewick gave Marc a rueful sort of smile, but had nothing to say, lacking the casual talk of Ainslie Pritchard or the need for it.
Unbeknownst to either Adelaide or her brother, however, was the fact that before coming down to the coach, Marc had deliberately remained behind in his room. It was only when he was certain that Sedgewick had finished packing his own things and those of both Brookners and had gone down to fetch Adelaide that Marc ventured into the hallway. He did not go immediately downstairs. The keystone to the theory he had developed before falling asleep lay in the room next door, and he had entered it with great anticipation. Five minutes later, he had found what he expected to.
As instructed, Gander Todd pulled up at the side lane of Doctor Mac’s residence, where his surgery attached itself to the grandiose country home. Two stout lads were waiting for them. Sedgewick and Marc got out, leaving the widow sitting stoically inside, and watched as the pine box containing the remains of Randolph Brookner was hoisted up onto the roof of the coach and secured thoroughly with ropes and a leather belt.
During this operation, which took just under ten minutes, Marc was hailed inside by MacIvor Murchison, who insisted on his taking a quick brandy to “ward off the morning chill.” They chatted briefly about the inquest, and would have continued further if Marc had not been called back to the coach. The coffin had been secured, and, if they were to make Gananoque by nightfall, they had to leave right away. Marc shook hands with Doctor Mac and left.
They rode on, the three of them, with the corpse above, in a silence that was increasingly uncomfortable. Marc closed his eyes and feigned sleep. Sedgewick stared ahead out of one window and Adelaide the other. There was nothing to see but the slanting snow and the ghostly billowing of evergreens through the haze. An hour later, Todd stopped the coach in front of a log hut that served grog and sometimes lukewarm soup to passers-by. The privy behind it was free.
When they made to depart again, Sedgewick, who seemed unaccountably nervous or perhaps merely embarrassed, announced that he was going to sit up on the bench with the driver for an hour or so. Adelaide nodded and got into the coach on her own before Marc could offer any assistance. They sat cattycorner to each other. Marc let ten minutes go by before he began.
“Like the coroner and everybody at the inquest yesterday, I concluded that, outside of Charles Lambert, no-one in our party could have committed the murder of your husband. I confronted Lambert before he left last night and came away convinced that he was not the killer. For a while I was even more compelled to accept the obvious: that Miles Scanlon had killed Captain Brookner to avenge the harsh treatment of his family. But just to play devil’s advocate, as I mulled matters over in my room last night, I started with the seemingly bizarre notion that one of us was the murderer. I didn’t do it. Pritchard was never a serious suspect. Lambert exculpated himself. That left you or your brother.”
Marc peered over at Adelaide. She had not turned towards him, but a perceptible stiffening of her posture indicated that she was listening intently.
“But how was it possible, I asked myself. First of all, I had to establish powerful motives for one of you or both. Your brother feared that Randolph would go through with his threat to have him charged with treason. Even if the charge were a flimsy one, in the post-rebellion atmosphere around here, Percy’s day-to-day life would be poisoned by suspicion. Your husband made the threat, I am convinced, because Mr. Sedgewick had in his turn made physical threats upon your husband’s person—in his laudable efforts to stop Randolph from beating you.”
Adelaide twisted her head slightly in his direction, but nothing could be seen behind the veil.
“I don’t know how often he has done so, but I’m sure he did it surreptitiously so that no bruises were visible. After all, he was a respectable merchant, a church elder, and a proud militia officer. But abuse you he did. I recalled how you flinched whenever anyone touched your left arm. Most probably he was an arm-twister, turning it in his iron grip until you cried out. Later, I noticed that you kept that crepe scarf curled well up under your chin—to hide more bruises, no doubt. The reason for his anger also seemed obvious: you are more intelligent than he was; you are proud; and you are independent. Your very presence, let alone any public correcting of his faux pas, was a rebuke to his vanity and his foolish ambitions.”
She turned back to stare out the window, as if to underline the very traits he had just ascribed to her.
“What puzzled me was why you might have chosen this particular time to lash out. But the death of your dear sister and Randolph’s callous flouting of the traditions of mourning may have been the last straw. Or, by the same token, these insults may have driven your devoted brother to some sort of precipitate action on your behalf. Thus, it turns out that you both had motive and immediate provocation. Still, I was sitting next to the pair of you when the fatal shot was fired. While it was logical to enlist Miles Scanlon to do the job, neither of you appeared to have had the opportunity to arrange it.”
Marc paused until the coach had finished jouncing over a rough patch of rutted road, then continued. “H
ow could either of you have fired that shot? For some unexplainable reason, a picture popped into my head. Back at Morrisburg, when I was supposedly out for a walk airing my uniform, I was actually assisting some friends to cross the river. One of them, a man, not wanting to be recognized, had dressed up as a woman, wig and all. Then a second image leapt up beside it: you and your husband as I first saw you, when I mistook you for your husband’s sister, not his wife. Percy remarked that such a mistake was not uncommon. You and your husband are both tall, walk erect, and have similar fair features.”
Adelaide turned again to scrutinize him through her widow’s veil, but said nothing. Her breathing seemed more rapid though.
“The question, then, of a possible disguise entered the equation I was trying to work out. Certainly neither you nor your brother was in disguise at breakfast. But what if the murder did not take place at nine thirty but earlier, say at seven thirty or eight? The body was found submerged in ice-water. There was no way to determine when the fatal wound might have been suffered. If so, then the killer, if it were one of us, had perhaps two hours to play with, to cover his or her tracks, and to establish a foolproof alibi. Moreover, I found it hard to believe, right from the outset, that Captain Brookner would sleep in until nine. I believe he got up at seven or so and immediately prepared to promenade himself down that scenic path for Scanlon or anyone else to try taking a shot at him. But it was not Scanlon. Someone from our group followed him. It was easy to come up behind him undetected and blow his brains out.”
“I could ask Percy to stop this coach,” Adelaide said, in what was meant to be a cold and intimidating tone but came out more world-weary than menacing. Marc simply continued his narrative.
“While Scanlon would be the obvious suspect, none of us had any real idea where he might have been yesterday morning. Perhaps he had escaped to New York. So rather than leave it to such unpredictable and potentially incriminating possibilities, a more practical and ingenious deception was devised. If those at breakfast could be witness to the captain leaving the inn—very much alive—at nine fifteen, then alibis would be established and the entire investigation of the murder sent askew. The risks were minimal: if the body were discovered before nine, then the planned ruse could simply be abandoned with no-one the wiser. But the risk seemed worth it.”
Marc paused, took a deep breath, and plunged towards his denouement. “I remembered that your husband was obsessively vain about his uniform. Two parts of it appeared to be brand new, as if he had bought them specifically to show himself off during your days in the big city, among the regulars from the Royal Regiment. Your brother suggested in court that the greatcoat was acquired recently: it almost glistened in the sunlight, as did his boots. I believe both were purchased in Montreal. And the hat he wore was much like mine or Pritchard’s or your brother’s. All this meant that an extra greatcoat and an extra pair of boots were available, both older and somewhat tawdry, but that was a chance the killer or killers had to take if the ruse was to work. I say killer or killers because I still do not know whether it was actually you or your brother who pulled the trigger. But one of you certainly did.”
Again, Marc waited in vain for a direct response.
“I soon realized that it would take both of you to execute the deception. For if Percy had not been in on the game, he would have seen right away that you—dressed in your husband’s old greatcoat and boots and wearing your brother’s hat—were not Captain Brookner. We might have been fooled, but not Percy. I suspect that you planned it together. In any event, you brazenly clumped down the stairs, having waited anxiously, I’m sure, for me to wake up and go down to breakfast. I was to be your most incontrovertible witness, wasn’t I? You must have been puzzled and not a little frightened by my bizarre movements, but at last I did go down, and you were able to follow, disguised as your husband. All those at the breakfast table were aware of the captain’s departure. Once outside, you did not go down the path to the creek, but just wheeled behind the inn, mounted the fire-stairs, and returned to your room, doffing the coat, hat, and boots, and then coming down to breakfast as yourself, no more than four minutes after your husband had apparently left on the twenty-minute trek to his death. You joined us to secure your own alibi, and adroitly explained away your dishevelled state as grief over your sister’s death. The only real risk here was that one of the stablemen or maids might see you back there, but, as it turned out, they didn’t.
“There was one other possible danger, though. What if Pritchard or one of us at the table had called out or moved to stop you from going out? To forestall this, I believe you arranged for Percy to rush over and appear to restrain his brother-in-law. You and he then pretended to have a whispered arguement, he was brushed aside, and out you went. A perfect plan. Why would I or anyone else suspect that Percy was playing some devious game? Especially when even the coroner himself was satisfied that nine thirty or so was the time of death. You and your brother must have been pleased at the outcome of the inquest. Even the business with Lambert and Dingman was an unexpected gift.”
Adelaide did not raise her veil, but she spoke nonetheless. “You have a remarkable mind, a nice conscience, and a penchant for kindness—the very sort of man I foolishly thought my husband would be. But then we all marry too young.”
“Could you not merely have divorced him?”
“I have not admitted murdering him, Lieutenant. Your theory is fantastic, but plausible enough, I suppose, if you like theorizing. What you lack is a shred of evidence.” She was speaking as if somehow she felt obligated to, the weariness still undisguised. But then, she had just suffered a double bereavement.
“True. But just as I fell asleep, I realized that you and Percy had one major problem after the fact. If, during the inquest and under interrogation, one of us suddenly had had doubts about seeing the real captain in that hallway—for example, if the coroner had thought to ask, ‘Did you actually see Brookner’s face?’—the first thing the magistrate would have done is gone looking for that spare coat and pair of boots, for the new ones were on the body in the creek and are now with your husband in his coffin. That was the only real evidence that could make a theory such as mine credible. The pistol, either Percy’s or a second one of the captain’s, was tossed deep into some snowdrift where it won’t be found, if ever, until spring. And I’m sure that hat was your brother’s. But you can’t throw a militia greatcoat with identifying insignia on it out into the snow. The boots could be left in the captain’s trunk, but not that incriminating coat. Both you and Percy would be suspects, so stuffing it in either of your suitcases would be risky. My instincts told me that you might try to leave it behind. So I went into your room after Percy had cleared it out this morning. It took about five minutes of poking and stomping about, but I soon found the loose floorboards under the carpet over by the dresser. They came up easily. And there was the coat, stuffed between joists and destined to remain there to provide nesting material for generations of mice.”
Adelaide let out a long sigh.
“Even if I had not found it there, I could have got a warrant to have your luggage searched at Gananoque. It gives me no pleasure to conclude that you and your brother conspired to kill Captain Brookner, a man each of you wished dead.”
“You must not blame my brother,” Adelaide said, as some feeling began to flow back into her voice. “It was I who shot Randolph. You wanted to know why I did it yesterday. Well, I’ll show you.” With that, she undid the top two buttons of her coat to reveal the camouflaging crepe scarf. Very slowly she unwound it from around her regal neck. Even in the uncertain light of the coach’s interior, what Marc saw there made him gasp in shock: purple-black bruising about her throat, with the imprint of fingers and thumbs grotesquely visible.
“He tried to kill you?”
“I don’t think he thought of it that way.”
“The night before last I heard you two quarrelling. I had already begun to suspect that he was an abuser, and I waited
for his slap or your cry. I raced out into the hall and stood—somewhat foolishly—outside your door. I heard nothing for a long while. Then your husband began snoring. I concluded I had been wrong.”
“Those were not snores. That was me gagging for breath. Randolph always thought I was being melodramatic. Once the fury passes with him, he’d pretend it didn’t really happen or wasn’t of any consequence. He turned his back and went to sleep, while I sat awake most of the night, knowing that sooner or later I would die in one of his rages. To suggest a divorce would be to publicly humiliate him and induce a tantrum that might prove to be the fatal one.”
“Did you plot to kill him then and there?”
“I knew he had a second pistol. He bought it when rumours of rebellion began to heat up last summer. He showed me how to load and fire it. I planned to follow him on his walk and shoot him, hoping that some faceless vigilante could be blamed. I prepared the pistol in the moonlight and hid it in among my clothes. But I fell into an exhausted sleep, and when I woke up, he was nearly dressed and ready to go out. I threw on my coat and boots and used the outside fire-stairs to gain a minute or two. By the time he reached that spot in the creek where the spring is, I was right behind him. He never once looked back nor to either side until that bubbling spring caught his attention, and he stood gazing at it. I almost lost my nerve, but my throat ached and my skin burned from his assault. I raised the pistol and fired. He fell into the cold water. I was surprised there was so little blood.”
A shudder passed through her body, but she did not lower her head. The veil swung delicately above her ravaged throat.
Dubious Allegiance Page 21
