Solemn Vows

by Don Gutteridge

  My God, Marc thought, I must be having a bad dream.

  “I must ask you about your parentage and prospects, Lieutenant, because, whether you know it or not, Eliza is the sole living heir of her generation in the Dewart- Smythe family. She stands someday to become a very wealthy woman.”

  “I did not know that. We talk of many things, but not money.”

  Uncle Sebastian gave a skeptical cough but carried on. “Money must be talked of or it will speak for itself. Now I understand that you are the adopted son of a reasonably prosperous country squire named Jabez Edwards—whom you affectionately refer to as ‘Uncle.’”

  Marc wondered where this was leading. “That is right. Apparently I called him that before—”

  “And who, then, were your real parents?”

  “Thomas and Margaret Evans. My father was the game-keeper on the estate. They both died of cholera when I was five.”

  “But you were officially adopted and raised up as Jabez Edwards’s own in the County of Kent?”

  “I was.”

  “Adjacent to the lands of Sir Joseph Trelawny?”

  “That is so.”

  “And you are the sole heir to the Edwards estate?”

  Marc smiled inwardly. His parentage would have disqualified him as Eliza’s suitor except for the fact that he had been given a reputable surname, seemed likely to inherit a minor estate, and had rubbed shoulders with the petty aristocracy next door. “Not quite,” Marc said slowly.

  “What do you mean, not quite? You either inherit or you don’t.”

  “The land is entailed to full-blooded Edwards’ heirs, the sons of his younger brother, Frederick, who lives in France. There was a younger sister, Mary, who would have been my aunt, but she died before I was born.”

  “So you inherit nothing?”

  “Not quite. Uncle Jabez invested his own money wisely in stocks, and I am promised whatever they have yielded, at his death.”

  “No land, then, and an indeterminate sum of money?”

  “That is the case. But you must rest assured that any motive I might have for asking Eliza to marry me—were I to do so in the near future—would not include seeking her fortune.”

  “Well, we shall see, shan’t we?”

  “Are you forbidding me to see her, sir?”

  “Not at all. But I must insist that you call on her only when invited and then only in the afternoons. There will be no more late- evening tête- à- têtes. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Marc realized that the old tyrant was serious about all this, and that, as a lifelong bachelor, keeping watch on a beautiful and vulnerable heiress (and one he obviously adored) was not easy.

  “Now, which of us is going to tell Eliza?” the old man said.

  WHEN MARC DRAGGED HIS EXHAUSTED BODY up the three steps onto Mrs. Standish’s veranda, he was greeted by Colin Willoughby peering out the doorway.

  “Christ, but you look like a fox who’s spent a day in the kennels,” Colin said. He was dressed only in his nightshirt, with an expression of immense satisfaction—almost a smugness—masking evident fatigue and strain.

  Marc was so tired he could muster only a noncommittal grunt in response.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, old boy, but I was instructed by the governor to command your presence at Government House the moment you returned.”

  “Tell him I’m dead,” Marc moaned.

  “Now, who’d want you dead?” Colin forced a laugh.

  The uncle of a girl I know, Marc smiled grimly to himself.

  SIR FRANCIS WAS ALMOST AS EXHAUSTED as Marc, but each went bravely through the motions of doing his duty. Marc gave the governor a synopsis of his activities at Maxwell’s, Mackenzie’s, and the Crooked Anchor.

  “This Cobb sounds like a crude but cunning devil,” Sir Francis said with a nice balance of admiration and revulsion. “Chief Constable Sturges assured me that he was his best man, but then that is a relative statement, eh?”

  “I feel that almost everything depends upon his apprehension of Philo Rumsey,” Marc sighed. “It seems most probable at this point that Councillor Moncreiff was shot by a hired assassin in order to make a political point of some kind. I believe we can rule out any personal motive whatsoever. Which means, I am afraid, that until we get hold of Rumsey alive, we have no way of discovering who engaged him and for what reason—short of interviewing every malcontent and opponent of the government in Upper Canada.”

  “Perhaps this Constable Cobb will be able to trace Rumsey’s recent movements and link him with the sponsor of this crime.”

  “From all accounts, sir, Rumsey was a loner, a man who disappeared at will into the bush to hunt—or whatever.”

  “And you would rule out any direct involvement of the radical left?”

  “Yes, sir, I would. Mackenzie convinced me that it would be suicidal for Reformers to have been involved. They may be fanatic, but they are a long ways from being stupid.”

  Sir Francis suppressed a yawn and turned the gesture into a nod of assent. “While you were there, Lieutenant, did you have a chance to inquire about the identity of Farmer’s Friend?”

  “I did, and Mackenzie refused to tell me.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “But he did say that the writer is a real person with an intimate knowledge of his subject.”

  “That’s precisely the problem, alas.” This time Sir Francis let the yawn take its full course. “Come to see me tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll explain more about Farmer’s Friend. In the meantime, if you see Cobb, you might assign him to make discreet inquiries about the matter. I understand these new constables keep an ear close to the boardwalk.”

  “Or the bar,” Marc said. “I think that’s a good idea, sir, provided it doesn’t interfere with his duties in the Moncreiff investigation.”

  “That is understood, of course.”

  At the door of the office, Marc said casually, “How did Colin get on with his new assignment?”

  Sir Francis smiled through his fatigue. “Considering he had the granddaddy of all hangovers, splendidly. He took the bit in his teeth and began planning the security arrangements for our proposed swing through the London district next week and, with Major Burns’s heroic assistance, got through a mountain of correspondence before dark. Which left me free to deal with the incredible fuss over the assassination. The funeral is to be held on Friday.”

  “Military?” Marc said with apparent disinterest.

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” the governor said. “The family insisted.”

  “Well, I’m delighted to hear that Colin is doing well.”

  “We may bring him back into the fold yet,” Sir Francis said. “If so, his father will be the happiest man in England. And I shall be sure to let him know just who did the most to help his son.”

  “I’m just trying to be a good friend,” Marc said with no attempt to be immodest.

  “Something we all need,” Sir Francis said.

  SEVEN

  Marc spent an anxious Thursday morning sweating in his tiny office at Government House, while the place hummed with activity he could take no part in. By eleven o’clock more than a dozen dignitaries—including Chief Justice Robinson, the attorney general, the solicitor general, and the bankers, merchants, and barristers who made up the appointed Legislative Council and the six- member Executive—had paraded into the governor’s suite to report on the state of the State, offer unsolicited advice, and propound exotic theories as to the motive for the crime. On several occasions he noticed Colin Willoughby either rushing past him or else locked in earnest colloquy with Hilliard in the vestibule. It was just before twelve when word came to him to meet with Cobb within the hour—this time at the Blue Ox.

  Marc decided to ride down to the rendezvous, as the Blue Ox was a low- life tavern, frequented by sailors and their colleagues, at the east end of Front Street (still called Palace by some) beyond the Market Square at Frederick. He could leave his horse safely at
one of the market stalls and proceed the last block and a half on foot.

  As soon as he had stepped into the maelstrom of pipe smoke, boozy breath, and raucous chatter, the barkeep caught his eye and pointed to a curtained-off table in the corner most distant from the light of day. Marc made his way through the gloom, drew aside a curtain, and sat down opposite Cobb, who was puffing asthmatically on a short- stemmed clay pipe.

  “Too early for ale, Constable?”

  “A tad, Major. But I had enough last night to last me fer a while.”

  “But you were on duty last night,” Marc said sternly.

  “As I recollect, Major, the purpose of my visit to Danby’s saloon was to give the appearance of a drunken peddler too tanked to make it home.”

  “I recall that stratagem, but—”

  “The hardest body to fool into thinkin’ you’re drunk is another drunk,” Cobb said, as if conveying an obvious truth to a particularly obtuse pupil. “And the joint was full of drunks.”

  “What did you manage to accomplish, then, before you decided to play the drunkard?”

  “Wilkie and me spent the early part of the evenin’ settin’ up our surveillance.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s all set,” Cobb snapped.

  “I require the details.”

  Cobb arched his eyebrows, thick as a pair of cigar butts.

  “I am expected to make a full report to the governor in an hour,” Marc said.

  “Well, then, you can tell him from Horatio Cobb that it’s all set: if that bastard Rumsey so much as shows the end of his pecker up there, we’ll know what shade o’ purple it is!”

  “The governor is not interested in the culprit’s appendages—”

  “Figure o’ speakin’, sir. Give the good governor my regrets, but tell him if I was to give away the details of my spies, agents, and snitches, no criminal of any kind would ever be caught in this town. He’ll have to take the word of a lowly constable, and that’s the sum total of it. And so will you. Sir.”

  “There’s no need to get agitated; I’ll find a way to explain it to Sir Francis. The important thing is that we’re prepared to take Rumsey if he returns to Danby’s Crossing. And by tomorrow or Saturday we should have some word on how matters stand in Buffalo.”

  “You figure that’s where he’s holed up?”

  Marc nodded. “Now what about your morning’s work among the shopkeepers on the square? Did you see Phineas Kimble?”

  Cobb may have blushed, but it was impossible to tell. “I didn’t quite get around to that.”

  “What do you mean, not quite?” My God, I’m beginning to sound like Uncle Sebastian, Marc thought.

  “I only woke up an hour ago. I found I’d been sleepin’ in the bush, beside my horse, thanks be to Jesus.”

  Marc now noticed that Cobb’s peddler’s outfit was not only rumpled but littered with bits of stick and grass.

  “So you’ve blown your cover already!”

  “Not quite, Major. I simply galloped back down here as fast as I could. I knew you needed to know what Wilkie and me did about the surveillance.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just have to go up there myself. We need to get background information on Rumsey because even if we’re lucky enough to capture him, there’s no guarantee he will talk.”

  “You could try a little torture, Major. I hear tell that’s what they do down in them dungeons you English folk have tucked underneath yer castles.”

  Marc glared at him.

  “But you won’t need to make the trip, Major. I’m gonna get myself some ale and a plate of smoked fish, courtesy of the house, and then I’m headin’ back up to Danby’s. Nobody’s seen me crawlin’ out of the bush yet, so that’s what I’ll do, tryin’ my best to look hungover, mind. I’ll meet you at the Tinker’s Dam way up on Jarvis Street, say, about seven tomorrow evenin’? That is, if you ain’t too busy otherwise.”

  “But that’s practically in the countryside!”

  “And safe from pryin’ eyes, eh?”

  Marc smiled reluctantly. “You’ve done good work thus far, Constable Cobb. I’ll meet you there at seven. But there is one other minor matter that the governor wishes you and me to address.”

  “And what might that be?” Cobb pulled the curtain aside and signalled to the tapster.

  “The governor is exercised about a person calling himself Farmer’s Friend, who writes a weekly letter in Mackenzie’s new paper, the Constitution. These letters, Sir Francis feels, might be having an adverse effect on the election here in York County—”

  “Where Mackenzie just happens to be runnin’.”

  “That is irrelevant. What I’ve found out is that the writer is not Mackenzie or one of the other candidates but a genuine farmer. And this seems to be the problem.”

  “Ya mean he’s tellin’ the truth.”

  “Well, his version of it, I suppose. Anyway, it occurred to me that those sources of yours might be able to give us a name or a lead to the author’s identity. Apparently these letters have stirred up a lot of comment locally, so there may be loose tongues about here in the taverns and—”

  “You’re hintin’ that since I spend some time in them, I might be able to call on a snitch or two?”

  “Something like that. But, of course, you still must focus your principal attention on the Moncreiff murder. In the meantime, I’ll go up to Government House and report to Sir Francis.”

  “You don’t want to eat first?”

  The tapster was heading their way with a tray of drink and food.

  Marc stood up. “I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.” As he stepped out of the curtained stall, he let in a glimmer of daylight. “Constable, where did you get that black eye?”

  “Got into a bit of a brawl at Danby’s,” Cobb said proudly. “Had to make it look real, now, didn’t I?”

  MARC WAS BACK in the governor’s office at two o’clock. Sir Francis sat behind his desk, looking tired but determined. Major Burns shuffled several papers—notes or reports of some kind—then leaned back as far as he dare to catch the slight breeze from the open window behind him.

  “Before I hear your report, Lieutenant, I have some interesting news for you,” Sir Francis said. “I have just received a deposition from Magistrate Thorpe up in York Township, taken from a farmer named Luke Bethel.”

  “He was the man I spoke with after Crazy Dan was shot,” Marc said with some surprise.

  “That’s the one. And according to his sworn testimony, Crazy Dan’s gun was still in his grip with his finger on the trigger as he lay dead on his doorstep. Bethel admitted under close questioning from Mr. Thorpe that he saw Crazy Dan raise the gun just as he came over the rise below the cabin, but cannot say whether it was pointing at anyone in particular. He says also that, although attempts were made to warn you that Crazy Dan was harmless and the gun stoppered, these were not successful, and therefore the troops could not have known these critical facts before discharging their weapons.”

  “That is all true,” Marc said, marvelling at Luke Bethel’s honesty in the face of much temptation to behave otherwise.

  “It seems to me you made quite an impression on Farmer Bethel.”

  “Quite the reverse, I’m afraid.”

  “In any case, this affidavit will go a long way to justifying my decision not to hold a formal inquest.”

  While Marc was relieved at this unexpected turn of events and heartened by Bethel’s integrity, he was less than reassured by the governor’s cavalier decision not to hold the inquest. Too often, it seemed, the governor dealt high- handedly with volatile political situations that required insight, diplomacy, and judicious decision-making. Marc brushed aside this thought, however, and dutifully brought Sir Francis and Major Burns up to date.

  “Thank you,” the governor said when Marc had finished. “That is encouraging. We’ll meet again tomorrow before the funeral, if there is anything further to be discussed, and later on after you’ve talked with Cobb at seven.
Now, Major, would you mind giving Lieutenant Willoughby a hand in his office?”

  Major Burns nodded assent, rose stiffly, and left the room.

  “I have another matter I wish to discuss with you privately,” Sir Francis said conspiratorially, and Marc wondered what was coming next.

  “It’s about Farmer’s Friend.”

  “Ah,” Marc said, relieved. “I’ve put Cobb on his trail. If there is a trail to be found, he’ll find it.”

  “I hope so. But what I wish to do, in the few minutes I have you alone, is explain to you more fully why I think this matter urgent.”

  “My duty is to carry out your commands, sir, not to question them.”

  Sir Francis smiled wryly. “Well said. I wish more of the people’s representatives felt that way. Nonetheless, I do want to explain to you why I am so serious in my concern over Farmer’s Friend. After all, we have an angry, dissolved Assembly, an Executive that resigned in protest, and a contentious election campaign in progress, not to mention a political assassination.”

  “Well, sir, I did wonder at the timing of your request.”

  “As any thoughtful human being would have. But it is precisely the timing that is most significant here. As you know, this Reform mouthpiece”—and Sir Francis tossed last Monday’s edition of Mackenzie’s newspaper rudely upon the desk between them—“this demagogic puffery is the common currency of journalism in this province. Its gross hyper-bole—matched, alas, too often by the Conservative press—is so extreme, so distanced from fact or possibility, and so outrageous that readers of every stripe, supporters or detractors, have become inured to it. That is, as you know, one of the reasons that I decided to take to the hustings myself and deliver to the ordinary, loyal Upper Canadian the kind of plain talk he has not heard now for more than a decade.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Moreover, the so-called ‘letters’ sent by the quire to the popular press every week are cut from the same hyperbolic cloth and fall upon the same deadened ears. But five weeks ago the Constitution started to include a letter each week from this Farmer’s Friend, and what has been different about it—and indeed more compelling—is that it, too, speaks in plain language and gives the dangerous illusion that its author has no political agenda except to recite the facts and have them make their own point unaided by bombast or political cant. What is more, each letter is in the form of a story, a kind of parable, which purports to illustrate the effects of various official policies upon ordinary folk. I have had three members of the Legislative Council in here today complaining of the influence these letters seem to be having upon the very moderate majority we are endeavouring to bring over to the Constitutionist side. Someone, most likely Mackenzie, has begun printing these meddlesome parables as broadsheets and flinging them about the hinterland like snowflakes.”