Solemn Vows

by Don Gutteridge

  “How can we be certain, sir,” Hilliard said, “that the old geezer didn’t hide the murder weapon in his cabin or toss it away somewhere in the bush? We don’t know for sure that this old crock of a gun was the one he had in his hand when he fell out of the tree.”

  “Yes,” said Willoughby, a burst of hope rising in his stricken face. “If he was really crazy he might have—”

  Luke Bethel cut him short. “Crazy Dan hasn’t taken that musket out of his right hand in the past twelve years.”

  “What do you mean?” Marc said, glancing down and noting that the dead man’s fingers were still seized in a gripping rictus.

  “Crazy Dan come into these parts in 1816, after the war with the United States. He homesteaded about a mile south of here. Never married. Kept to himself, but was never unfriendly. He was said to be some kind of hero at the Battle of Lundy’s Lane. One day he come into the general store—not in Danby’s Crossing but the one on Yonge Street below the tollgate—and said he’d killed fifteen good men with the gun he was totin’. He swore he wouldn’t ever kill a livin’ thing again, not a steer nor a chicken, and he vowed to carry the musket with him everywheres—unloaded and detriggered—to remind people of the evils of war.”

  “My God,” Ensign Parker exclaimed from the rear where he had been violently sick. “We’ve shot a hero of Lundy’s Lane!”

  “He was fightin’ on the American side,” Bethel said.

  “Well, then, if everybody knew this, why were people in the crowd yelling at him to stop and egging us on after him?” Marc said, suddenly confused.

  “Only a few of us in this region actually knew Crazy Dan. Even after he gave up the farm and moved out here five or six years ago, whenever he did go to town—which wasn’t often ’cause his old neighbours brought food for him up here—he went to the Lansing junction up north on Yonge Street. Everybody up that way knew the old guy, and knew he was harmless.”

  “Then how on earth did he get to Danby’s and climb a tree while surrounded by a hundred people?”

  Bethel shrugged. He turned to the others. “We don’t rightly know. Maybe he just followed some of the youngsters and joined them up there in the tree. He sometimes borrowed old Frawley’s pinto, so that’s how he got himself into town. He coulda been there all night. There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to what he might do or what might’ve got into his head. Me, I figure that gunshot spooked him, made him think he was back at Lundy’s Lane.”

  “But you were there!” Marc said. “Why didn’t you warn us?”

  “That’s just it,” Bethel said. “I did. I was yellin’ ‘Stop’ at you from the minute you left the square. But your horses were too fast for us. We couldn’t catch up to you.”

  Marc sighed. “We did hear you, but we assumed you were shouting at the culprit.”

  “We’re used to havin’ our advice ignored,” someone from the group of farmers remarked. It was Alvin Chambers, who had hung back until now.

  “But you, sir,” Marc said sternly to him, “were standing three feet away from me at the edge of the bush back there, and failed to inform me of what or whom I might expect to see when I arrived here. I demand that you explain yourself.”

  Bethel gave Chambers a puzzled look before the latter replied: “We are not in the habit of takin’ orders from the military or the grandees of the Family Compact, especially when they’re given in a patronizin’ tone. We don’t tug our forelocks in this province—sir.”

  “I could have you haled before a magistrate,” Marc snapped.

  “And I’ll tell him I was in the process of informin’ you about Crazy Dan when you hopped on your high horse and galloped away.”

  “Well, I only hope you’re pleased with the results of your umbrage,” Marc said, glancing pointedly at Crazy Dan’s bullet-ravaged body.

  “Sir, I still think we ought to have a look inside the cabin,” Hilliard said. “Just to be sure.”

  “You’re right, Ensign.” Marc nodded to Bethel, and the two of them went into the old fellow’s hovel.

  It was a stinking shambles. Marc’s gorge rose as they picked gingerly through the detritus and ruins of one man’s life. There were no guns or bullets or powder or any indication that there ever had been. No animal skin adorned the floor or walls. No bone had been gnawed and discarded: the rotting food was entirely vegetable. Crazy Dan had kept his vow.

  “Look at this, would ya?” Bethel whistled under his breath.

  Marc came over to him. On a stump table in one corner lay five pieces of hardwood in various stages of being carved. Marc picked up what appeared to be the only finished figure: no bigger than a baby’s fist, it was an exquisitely rendered bird in flight. He held it up to the light in the doorway. “It’s a dove,” he said.

  “For peace,” Bethel said.

  As Marc and Bethel left the hut, Willoughby and the others looked at Marc. He shook his head slowly. Then he turned towards the farmers: “I’ll report everything that happened here directly to Sir Francis, and he’ll take matters into his own hands. Will you see that this man is given a proper burial?”

  “We will,” Bethel said.

  “Damn right,” Chambers said. “Out here, we take care of our own.”

  AS THE GOVERNOR’S GUARD RODE BACK towards Danby’s Crossing less hurried and much less assured than they had been riding out, Marc’s mind was in turmoil. Within the space of an hour, he had witnessed a respected citizen and member of the government murdered; he had organized a pursuit with dispatch and discipline; he had drawn judiciously upon the advice of his men and the local folk (with one forgivable exception, perhaps); he had improvised a plan of attack-and-capture that failed only because no one could have foreseen that the musket aimed point-blank at him was not really lethal and its possessor not really an assassin; he had put his own life on the line twice; and, alas, he had contributed to the death of an innocent man, a harmlessly demented veteran of the wars who carved miniature doves.

  Marc’s heart ached, not because he would soon have to face his superior and make his awkward explanation, and not because he would have to bend the truth just a little to protect his men, whose own motives could not be questioned, but because at the last millisecond before his men fired, Marc had known the old fellow was innocent. That was the tragedy of it all.

  Not the least of his problems now was the bald fact that someone other than Crazy Dan had murdered Langdon Moncreiff. Not only was the felon at loose, but in their haste to pursue the obvious suspect they had given the real assassin more than an hour to make his getaway. Moreover, any clues he might have left around the square were certain to have been trampled by the curious spectators. The trail would be stone cold. And because Moncreiff was a member of the Executive Council (and all the controversy associated with that body and its relations with the governor), such an arrogant and outrageous assassination could not go unpunished. What is more, time would be short, for the first polling in the upcoming election was less than two weeks away. Marc dearly wished to curse the Fates, but he knew it would be a waste of good breath: the fiasco of the afternoon had been of his own making.

  When they rode up to the hitching posts in front of the Danby’s Inn, Marc noticed right away that the governor’s carriage was gone. He looked quickly over the square. Fewer than a dozen people remained, most of them moving purposefully from shop to shop or gathered on the wooden sidewalk, gossiping. A few youngsters of indeterminate gender hovered about the deserted hustings: curious and delightfully appalled. Marc waved his weary troop towards Danby’s saloon, and then entered the lobby of the inn proper.

  Angus Withers rose from one of the settees and greeted Marc with a gruff smile. “Did you catch the bugger?”

  “He’s dead,” Marc said.

  “Good. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  Marc led him back to the settee and sketched out the near-farcical events regarding the shooting of Crazy Dan.

  “You’ll have
to tell Sir Francis immediately,” Withers said with a snap of his jaw.

  “Why did he leave?” Marc said.

  “He felt it was his personal responsibility to inform Mrs. Moncreiff of her husband’s tragic death. Maxwell went with him—and in such a godawful rush he left the women behind. I stayed, of course, to give the body a careful going over.”

  “Why did Mr. Maxwell leave his wife and daughter out here?”

  “Well, he is Moncreiff’s brother-in-law, you know. Mrs. Moncrieff is his sister.”

  Marc raised an eyebrow.

  Withers grinned thinly. His thick, permanently arched brows gave him a look of perpetual surprise—part amusement and part censure. “Didn’t know, eh? If you’re going to serve the panjandrums of the Family Compact, as I do, then you’ll have to get to know who’s related to whom on the royal tree and who wants to be related to whom.”

  “I’m learning, sir.”

  “Anyway, to answer your question, the receiver general had urgent business in the city, beyond consoling his sister. More to the point, he often finds Mrs. Maxwell and his daughter more ballast than he needs for most occasions. He practically leapt into the vice-regal carriage and into the governor’s lap. But don’t look so worried. Mr. and Mrs. Danby have been entertaining the abandoned females, in a pathetic effort, I presume, to compensate for the social catastrophe of the afternoon.”

  “How will they get home?”

  “Danby has offered to take us in his barouche to Yonge Street, where, if his horses are as well bred as he claims, we’ll arrive in time to catch Weller’s coach from Newmarket.”

  “And the body?”

  “Sir Francis will arrange everything in that regard. I shouldn’t be surprised if the dear old soul is given a state funeral—considering the circumstances.” He raised his brows to their limit. “By the way, even though he assumed that you would capture the assassin, Sir Francis did ask me to convey his distinct wish that you, and you alone, were to be put in charge of all matters pertaining to Moncreiff’s death. Furthermore, he wants a full report from you tonight, even if you have to wake him.”

  “I see,” Marc said, though he wasn’t sure that he did. There were city and county magistrates and, he had heard, a special Toronto constabulary modelled on the London “bobbies.” “This is surely not a military affair, sir?”

  “Ah, one more thing you have yet to learn. Although he was barely robust enough to lift a pen or his wife’s skirt, Langdon Moncreiff was a major in the people’s militia, that vast weaponless fighting force that alone stands between us and pandemonium in the radical townships.”

  “Well, whatever the reason for the governor’s trust in me, I still have a murder to solve, don’t I?”

  “I’m afraid you do.”

  “Then I’d better get at it.”

  “Before you do, Lieutenant, our ‘Ariadne’ and her off-spring desire you to pay them your respects. They’re in the sitting room, through that door.”

  “AH, IT IS SO KIND of you to see us, under such dreadful circumstances.” Mrs. Maxwell beamed at Marc from her reclining position on a sofa. “Chastity, my dear, you will remember Lieutenant Edwards from the governor’s ball at the Grange last, ah, when was it?”

  “October,” Marc said, bowing slightly to acknowledge the younger woman.

  “My, what a prodigious memory you have, young man, doesn’t he, sweetie?” Mrs. Maxwell turned up the beam in her dark eyes slightly, then dropped her gaze to her extensive bosom in a parody of coquettishness.

  “Miss Maxwell and I danced the galliard, as I recall,” Marc said.

  “So we did, Lieutenant,” Miss Maxwell said without a blush or dropped eye.

  “In what way may I be of assistance in this tragic business, Mrs. Maxwell?” Marc said with more politeness than he felt. “I have just learned from Dr. Withers that Councillor Moncreiff was your brother-in-law. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, and pulled a lace hanky out of the folds of her elaborate skirts, but it found no tear to wipe away when it reached her left cheek. “And do call me Prudence, otherwise I shall begin to think myself old, and beyond those pleasures reserved inexplicably for the young.”

  Chastity quickly changed the subject. “We thought you might wish to ask us a few questions about dear Uncle Lang-don.” Her voice caught in her throat, and cracked. Marc offered her his own handkerchief, and she sat down wearily on a sofa across from her mother. Chastity Maxwell was as lithe as her mother was sumptuous, with pale-grey eyes and flaxen hair. Her angular features, like her father’s, revealed more character than beauty. Last October at the Grange she had tripped her way through the intricate galliard with Marc, and though not truly attracted to each other (who knew why in such matters?), they had enjoyed the pleasure of the dance. Unfortunately, Marc’s card had been filled, as it invariably was, and they had not danced together again.

  Marc turned to Prudence and soon became aware that the blush on her cheek was not only rouge but also the aftereffect of drink. Behind her on a tea trolley sat a near-empty decanter of red wine and a single smudged goblet. The Danbys had been entertaining the visiting grandees with vehemence.

  “What I need to know, ma’am—”

  “Prudence, please—though my mama always said I had none to speak of.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might wish to kill your brother-in-law? Did he have political enemies? Rivals who might be jealous of his recent appointment to the Executive Council?”

  Prudence Maxwell laughed, a snorting sneeze of a laugh that she belatedly turned into a ladylike cough, which gave her a plausible excuse for waving her hanky about. “No, no, you won’t find anything in that direction. And even though Chastity and I have seen little of him and his wife Flora in the past few years—now that’s another story and one that has no bearing on the dreadful events of this day—I did know him very well in his youth. And it is my considered view that Langdon could never work up an opinion strong enough to make a monkey fart, let alone a decent enemy or two. Now if it’d been my Ignatius shot, God forbid, I could’ve given you a dozen names.”

  When Marc looked shocked at this, she added with relish, “How else do you think the man got rich and feared by lesser men?”

  “Mother, please stop. You’re overwrought.”

  Prudence turned to her daughter, squinted grotesquely, as if she had momentarily lost her sight or had failed to recognize the young woman across from her. Marc saw now that she was very drunk, but just as he stepped over to offer her some assistance, she winched her eyes wide open and leered up at him. Her voice was a loud slur: “Hell, honey, I ain’t been wrought over in a long, long time.”

  Chastity was up instantly, her tears forgotten. “I’ll call Mrs. Danby and the maids,” she said briskly to Marc. “We’ve got to get her to a bed. Our coach arrives in less than an hour.”

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “I’m used to it.”

  MARC WAS SEATED on the front bench of the hustings exactly where he had been sitting when Moncreiff was shot. The platform was no more than four feet above ground. And though Moncreiff had been snoozing upright in the second row, he could have been seen by any marksman at or above the level of the hustings floor. Luke Bethel out at Crazy Dan’s cabin had claimed the shot had come from the other side of the square, which must mean the eastern side. The boardwalk that surrounded the square was a foot high, and at least a dozen people had been standing on benches in front of the shops: that extra elevation could have been enough. If so, then anyone near the general store, the livery stables, the blacksmith’s, or the harness shop—or in the alleyways in between—might be a witness. He would need to question every merchant and tradesman who had been standing within or near their shops at the time of the shooting. Even then, the presence of so many strangers could easily make any interrogation fruitless. Add to the mix the probability that ninety per cent of the onlookers were Reform sympathizers who would be disinclin
ed to answer questions from military investigators about the death of a Tory.

  While Marc was willing to take Prudence Maxwell’s dismissive description of her brother-in-law at face value, she was unlikely to know much about his political or financial affairs—or his personal peccadilloes for that matter. Like it or not, he would have to probe into the man’s life in a manner that was sure to enrage the power-brokers in the Family Compact (of which Moncreiff was a nominal member) and ruffle feathers just about everywhere else.

  “Would you care for a smoke?” Angus Withers sat down beside Marc and offered him a cigar similar to the one he was puffing on.

  “No, thank you.”

  “I find a good smoke helps me think. Either that or it just anaesthetizes the thought processes to the point where I don’t give a damn any more.”

  “I wanted to ask you, Dr. Withers, about the wound, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s why I came out. The ladies and I—well, only one of them can be legitimately termed so—have to be off for Yonge Street in half an hour.”

  “What was the angle of entry? It might help me determine the vantage point of the shooter.”

  “Unless the poor devil was lying sideways on his bench—”

  “He wasn’t. He was dozing, but otherwise perfectly upright.”

  “Then the bullet struck him just under the right shoulder, broke through a couple of ribs, ripped out his lungs, and exited through the fleshy muscle above the left kidney. Only the lungs were hit, no other organ.”

  “So he had to have been shot somewhat from the side, the right side.”

  “And from a point considerably above where we are now perched.”

  While Dr. Withers worked on his cigar, Marc scrutinized the eastern edge of the square. There was only one place the gunman could have been for that trajectory, and, even then, he would have to have been a crack shot. If indeed Langdon Moncreiff had been the target.

  “Thank you, Doctor. At least I know where to begin.”

  And with that, Marc strode deliberately towards the harness shop.