Marc ran down the steps of Government House and across the lawn to the winding roadway that led up to King Street. His mind was not bubbling with the details of his new assignment, however; rather, he was wondering how he was going to get Colin Willoughby sober enough to present himself to Sir Francis by one o’clock.
FIVE
The Widow Standish, a handsome woman in her mid-fifties, for whom the word motherly had been coined, was on the veranda to greet Marc. She was wringing her apron as if to dry her hands, but they had not been near water since the breakfast dishes. “I tried to wake him, sir. Maisie and me both, one of us tugging at either arm, and him in his nightshirt only!”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Standish. I’ll take over,” Marc said as they hurried through the hallway towards the boarders’ rooms in back. “If you and Maisie would be kind enough to fill the bathtub and provide some fresh towels—”
Mrs. Standish looked abashed. “Oh, sir, there’s not a drop of hot water in the house. It’s too warm out for a fire, even in the summer kitchen.”
“I think cold water would be more helpful,” Marc said, and strode off to Willoughby’s room.
WHEN MARC DROPPED HIS FRIEND COLIN naked and stinking into the bath, one of Colin’s arms flapped, then the other, then both legs, and finally the whole body thrashed upwards. His eyes snapped wide.
“Jesus Murphy, where am I?”
“You’re in your own bathtub, but if you don’t get a grip on yourself you’re going to find your accommodations considerably less comfortable.”
As Willoughby grumpily tried to get the soap lathering in the cool water, Marc told him about the governor’s offer to make him temporary assistant to Major Burns and commander of the palace guard for the duration of Marc’s investigation. At first Willoughby had difficulty taking it in, due in part to his monstrous hangover, but Marc sensed there was something else, something deeper perhaps, that made it hard for him to grasp what had happened. He still looked like a man in shock.
“I’ll leave you to your toilette, Colin old chum. Maisie is dusting off your spare uniform, and Mrs. Standish has started a small fire in this wretched heat to boil you some coffee. So quit feeling sorry for yourself and buck up! You’ve only got half an hour to make or break your fortune.” He shoved Colin’s head playfully under the soapy water and was pleased to see the troubled young man bob back up—with a wan smile on his face.
DURING THE SHORT WALK up to Government House, Marc had time to explain briefly to Colin that the governor had taken the depositions regarding the shooting of Crazy Dan and had, pending their own statements, absolved them of any blame. This news did not have the spirit-boosting effect that Marc had expected, so he quickly told Colin about the governor’s plans to travel through the London district next week, plans that involved Colin in his new role.
“Do you mean to say that I’ll be in charge when we go west?” Colin said, his grey eyes brightening and some colour flushing into his pale cheeks.
“That’s right. And what’s more, you’ll be the governor’s secretary in all but name, as dear old Major Burns is able to do less and less each day.”
“And you will be fully in charge of the, uh, investigation?”
They were now stopped on the gravel path that wound its way up to the ornate veranda of Government House.
“It’s not a job I asked for,” Marc said carefully, “and indeed I was surprised that the governor insisted on my taking it after the fiasco up at Danby’s Crossing.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done it? Any trail to follow?”
Marc hesitated. Despite the governor’s own proposal to broadcast selected facts about the investigation, Marc felt that the less said to anyone the better. However, Colin’s sense of complicity in the death of Crazy Dan and the sight of the maimed body had obviously left him shaken and vulnerable—just at a time when he would need to be clear-headed and confident. The responsibilities being offered him could well be the making of him, as an officer and as a man. (The quick capture of the real murderer would do much to ease both their consciences.) And a true friend would not stint in such circumstances by withholding information.
“We think it may have been a disaffected American living up there.”
“Has the hue and cry been sent up?”
“Not yet. We’re pretty certain he’s gone to ground over in New York.”
“Ah, then there’s little chance we’ll ever see him again.”
“You may be right,” Marc said, hoping against hope that he wasn’t.
At this point the duty- corporal at the door waved them inside.
MARC AND COLIN WROTE DOWN their separate accounts of the “tragic incident” (as everyone in Government House had begun to refer to it) and signed them. Marc decided not to delay beginning his own work a moment longer. He set off for Somerset House on Front Street to interview Ignatius Maxwell, who from all accounts was a brutally frank judge of men. He didn’t get far. In the foyer, he was stopped and handed a message that instructed him to meet with someone called Horatio Cobb, police constable, at six o’clock in the Crooked Anchor, a sleazy tavern on Bay Street north of Market. Marc was due to have supper with Eliza Dewart-Smythe and her uncle Sebastian at seven and, as he was beginning to feel he might at last have found a woman who would help him get over his disappointment with Beth Smallman, it was imperative he be there on time. Since he also planned to visit Mackenzie at his newspaper office that afternoon, he decided to stop briefly at Mrs. Standish’s for a cold midday meal with a glass of warm ale. Then he headed down the half-block to Front Street and walked briskly eastwards under a pleasant June sun. He began to whistle.
The investigation had begun.
SOMERSET HOUSE WAS BY NO MEANS the only mansion of note in this prosperous area of the city, where many of its successful merchants, lawyers, bankers, churchmen, and privy councillors lived—as well as a few of those less distinguished members of the Family Compact who, by dint of birth or marriage, managed to maintain both status and the requisite bank balance. But Maxwell’s house was the grandest on its block, with an unobstructed view of the bay and the islands beyond. The building itself was as pretentious as it was presumptuous—all stuccoed quarrystone and slate, neo- Gothic turrets and chimneys wishing they were belvederes, and a carved portico at the entrance to a legendary ballroom fit for princes (should they ever deign to come). Marc walked past the portico without admiring its rococo cherubim, going on to the more plain visitors’ entrance off York Street, which was adorned with a morbidly black wreath and an ornate door knocker.
A butler in mourning clothes listened as Marc stated his name and asked to see the receiver general. After waiting in vain for Marc’s card, the butler trundled off down an unlit corridor. It was a good five minutes before he returned and wordlessly led Marc down the same corridor. A door was discreetly opened and, as Marc followed the butler’s nod into the room ahead, the servant said in a low, conspiratorial tone: “Lieutenant Edwards, ma’am, as you instructed.”
Before Marc could quibble or retreat, the door was closed behind him, and he found himself alone in a sunlit sitting room with Prudence and Chastity Maxwell. Chastity had either just rushed here or was in the midst of working up a rage, for both her cheeks were crimson and her eyes were blazing. Prudence, if she had been engaged in a heated exchange with her daughter, had recovered with remarkable speed and aplomb, for she rose gracefully, batted her heavy lashes at Marc, smiled, and said, “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Do come in. Iggy’s out just now, but due back within the quarter- hour. I’ve instructed Jacques to let us know the second he steps through the front door.” She put out her ungloved hand—though the rest of her costume was formal enough (as befitted mourning attire) and composed of several layers of cloth that shimmered and rustled gloomily. She turned to Chastity. “You remember Lieutenant Edwards, do you not, darling?”
Chastity blushed just as her cheeks were cooling from whatever contretemps she had been having with Pr
udence. “Of course, Mama.”
“You are not a gentleman who can easily be forgotten,” Prudence said to Marc, and she motioned him to sit. Marc nodded and took a chair across the room from his hostess.
Chastity did not sit. “Please excuse me, Lieutenant, but I was just on my way out—”
“Not to meet that man, you most certainly are not,” Prudence hissed without seriously undermining her smile.
Chastity now looked more exasperated than angry. She gave Marc a sidelong glance that implied, “You see what I have to put up with” and said to her mother, “I told you I am meeting Angeline and we are taking her carriage down to the new millinery shop on King Street. I must have a black hat for Uncle’s funeral on Friday.” Then without waiting for any further remonstrance, she smiled beatifically at Marc and left by the far door.
“What are we to do with this younger generation, Lieutenant?” Prudence said to Marc, who she had apparently decided was old enough not to be included in it.
Marc smiled noncommittally. “Is there something in particular you wished to discuss with me?” he asked warily, thinking of several dubious possibilities.
But either Prudence had scant recollection of yesterday’s encounter in Danby’s Inn or had determined to pretend that it had never happened. She was clearly playing the lady and mistress of the manor. “As a matter of fact, sir, I was hoping to ask a favour of you in regard to my daughter. But first, would you like some coffee, or a sherry?”
“Nothing, thank you, ma’am. I will of course be happy to be of service in any way that I can, though I must tell you candidly that almost all of my time is now taken up with investigating the dreadful business of your brother- in- law’s death.”
The rouged eyelids dropped down for a respectful second. “Yes, I understand. As you see, our entire household has felt its effects. And while Langdon and I were not close in recent years—you know how families can drift apart even when they live cheek-by-jowl—we are grieving deeply for him and for my devastated sister-in-law.”
“Please convey my condolences to the family.”
“Thank you. You are an exceptionally sensitive young man.” Prudence opened her eyes wide and gave him a frank, ungrieving appraisal.
Marc cleared his throat. “Since I have you here now, ma’am—” and sober, he thought unkindly.
“Prudence, please.”
“—I was hoping you might give me your insight, as a family member, into Mr. Moncreiff’s personality or into any, ah, personal problems he may have been experiencing of late. You see, improper as it is to be probing thus while the family is still in shock, I need to discover a motive for the shooting. People don’t kill other people without a powerful reason to do so.”
“I understand. And, in fact, I have spent this morning considering what such a reason could be. Many years ago Langdon was a dashing young man, and I was pleased when he married Flora. But for the past ten years he has led what I can only describe as a dull and directionless existence. He has very few opinions and those he has are calculated to offend no one. He does not attend society balls or fêtes and, until Sir Francis begged him to become an Executive councillor or whatever they’re called, he had contributed nothing to the province except two daughters and a disheartened wife.”
Marc was not sure how to put his next question. “Was she bored enough to, to—”
“—find herself a more accommodating man?”
This time Marc blushed, and Prudence watched him redden and then pale—never taking her eyes off his face. She gave him a rueful smile. “It does happen, you know, even here a long ways from Sodom and Gomorrah. But the answer is no. And I do know my sister-in-law in that regard.”
“Thank you for your candour, ma’am.” Marc rose. “I’m afraid I have several more urgent appointments this afternoon. Would you tell Mr. Maxwell that if it is convenient, I shall call back at four o’clock. You can send word to Mrs. Standish, my landlady.”
Prudence spread one hand across her bosom in either a gesture of modesty or an attempt to call attention to its generous curvature. “But I haven’t had a chance to ask that favour of you.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Please, there is plenty of time for that.” Marc remained standing.
Prudence got up and rustled across to him, but there was nothing predatory in her movement. In her face there was genuine concern: “I am positive that my daughter is illicitly consorting with one of the guardsmen up at Government House.”
“Are you suggesting that there have been improprieties?” Marc said, taken aback.
“I only suspect so. I can get nothing out of the girl except self-righteous denials, which of course merely deepens my suspicions.”
“Has she been seen with one of my men?”
“Not in any compromising situation, no. But she’s been hanging about with Angeline Hartley since that creature came here in January and—”
“Sir Francis’s ward? Surely you—”
“I don’t think anything, but I know she’s a wild thing, not yet out of her teens, she has the run of the governor’s open carriage, and the two girls have been seen riding up in College Park with unidentified officers.”
“Unchaperoned?”
“Well, not exactly. The governor’s elderly coachman and a groom are always with them, but that hardly counts. It’s the secret comings- and-goings that are the real problem. Like this trip to the King Street millinery today, and two or three such ‘stories’ every week. I’m positive Chastity is having clandestine meetings where she may be getting up to all sorts of shenanigans.”
“But if it is one of my officers, ma’am, and I have no inkling of any such affair to date, I am certain nothing improper would occur. Indeed, my officers, all of whom I know well, would be honourable and proud enough to present themselves to you and Mr. Maxwell before courting your handsome daughter.”
“And I am sure of that, too, Lieutenant. But Mr. Maxwell is very particular about who ought to be allowed to ‘court’ his daughter, as you so quaintly put it. Mr. Maxwell is very possessive of his possessions, and I am afraid that junior officers are not included on his roster of suitable suitors.” The look that Prudence now gave Marc suggested strongly that she, too, was deemed one of her husband’s possessions.
“Ah, I see. However honourable this suitor might be, Miss Maxwell knows in advance that he would be discounted.”
“You have considerable knowledge of the ways of the world,” Prudence said and, she did not need to add, of women.
“What do you think that I could do to help you in this matter?”
“The first thing I need to know is who. I am willing to intercede on my daughter’s behalf with Ignatius, but only if I know who the young man is, and whether he’s worth the trouble it may bring down upon my head.”
“Then I will make inquiries and let you know the moment I have found anything out.”
“Thank you so much.”
Prudence held out her hand and, as Marc took it to give it a mannerly kiss, she squeezed his fingers hard. By the time he looked up in surprise, however, she had turned her face away. At that moment Jacques put his head in the doorway and said, “The master will see you now in his study.”
“I CAN’T BELIEVE ANYONE WOULD WASTE a bullet on dear old Monkee, let alone pay someone else to do the job.” The Honourable Ignatius Maxwell, receiver general of Upper Canada and man of substance, sat in a thronelike leather chair opposite Marc before a flower- filled bay window overlooking York Street. He spoke with the deep voice and easy authority that comes from long years of unchallenged privilege, and every once in a while he took a puff on his cigar, which otherwise he used as a rhetorical prop. He was ruggedly handsome, despite the paunch beneath his silk blouse, with a crop of studiously unkempt reddish-blond hair and a pair of wispy mutton chops that framed his face like pale parentheses. His unoccupied hand rested in the pocket of his moleskin smoking jacket, cut in the latest London style.
“It appears, however, that someon
e did just that,” Marc said, marvelling at how quickly the governor had begun spreading the news of a possible hired gun.
“So I’ve been told up at Government House. Some Yankee republican by the sound of it.” He flapped at the air with his cigar. “Still, it makes no sense. Even if one of the Clear Grit radicals was mad enough and rich enough to arrange such an assassination in the midst of an election, why would they shoot a harmless codger like Monkee?”
“That’s what the governor has asked me to find out. Was Councillor Moncreiff indeed harmless? A threat to no one?”
“The man had no political ambitions. I’m sure that you already know that the governor selected Monkee for the council after the disgraceful resignation of those radicals and traitors back in March precisely because, as a nominal Tory but one notorious for holding no fixed opinions, he would be a threat to no cause whatsoever. Nor for that matter would he be of any service to one. He was simply a body to fill up a chair and not open his mouth except to say ‘Thank you.’”
“Is that not perhaps being a little too harsh?”
“Harsh, maybe, but true nonetheless. Monkee himself was delighted. That’s the whole sad truth of this business. For the first time in years he looked forward to getting out and about. He volunteered to accompany us up to Danby’s Crossing.” Maxwell stared at his cigar as if he expected it to provide him with an explanation of the inexplicable.
“Then I feel that we must examine the possibility that your brother- in-law was murdered for some personal reason. And since I cannot yet see any connection between him and the man we suspect of actually pulling the trigger, I am forced to explore the hypothesis that someone with a personal grudge did the hiring of the assassin.”
Maxwell gave Marc a look of pure contempt, and merely harrumphed. Marc waited patiently. “No one held a grudge against Mr. Moncreiff, unless it was Flora, and she blamed only herself for having been attracted to his good looks when she was old enough to have known better.”
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