Solemn Vows

by Don Gutteridge

  The next stumble was not only louder, it was right outside the door. And it was followed by a singularly primal, male grunt.

  “Jesus! I thought he’d gone. You better get out of here fast.”

  “How?” Marc said. He looked wildly about him. There were one door and two windows too high and narrow to be of use. Under the bed was a possibility, but hiding there could be more daunting than merely confronting a cuckolded husband.

  “He gets into such terrible rages,” Prudence said, and there was genuine fear in her voice.

  Just before blind panic seized him, Marc had one rational thought: at least the governor must have recovered.

  “The closet!” Prudence screamed through her teeth. “It runs all along that wall over there. Get inside. Quick! Please!”

  Marc sprinted for the closet, deep in the far shadows of the room, pulling his tattered uniform together as best he could. He fumbled about for a door handle, found one, yanked the door open, and practically somersaulted into the silks and brocades and other gauzy attire exclusive to the female sex. He eased the door shut just as the interloper clumped into the room.

  “Ah, darling. You see how ready I am for you? What took you so long?”

  Marc had to admire the lady’s aplomb.

  Maxwell—no doubt thwarted earlier in his pathetic attempt to seduce the young woman from Brantford—had apparently decided to offer his favours to his long-suffering wife. Marc heard a thick body thump onto the bed, followed quickly by a slurred moan, then a muffled male gurgle: “My God, you are ready!”

  Well, Marc thought, as he thrashed softly among dresses and shifts and petticoats like a bumblebee in a web and tried not to listen to the groans and wheeze of the aging fornicators: this is surely the ultimate humiliation. It was at that moment that he realized the latch on the outside of the closet door had slipped back into place during his frantic entry. He was trapped.

  “Ah, yes, lover, yes, yes!”

  The room beyond fell suddenly and blessedly silent. Moments later a pair of mismatched snores vied for supremacy.

  Desperately, Marc searched along the length of the closet, trampling on dresses as he did, but none of the other doors had been left unlatched, and none could be opened from the inside. He could force one of them open, but the noise might waken one of the spent lovers, and with his luck he knew which one it would be.

  He was here for the night. Or longer.

  Deciding that he might as well try to sleep—at least it would be Prudence or her maid who would open one of these doors in the morning—he sat down and lay back against the rear wall and was just beginning to take note of the fact that his bladder was alarmingly full when the wall abruptly gave way. He found himself lying flat on his back and staring up at what had to be the ceiling of another room. The adjoining room! He nearly laughed aloud for joy! Prudence’s closet obviously served the occupants of both chambers. He had fallen through an unlatched door on the opposite side.

  A tight but definitely female squeal brought him upright and twisting around to see whose privacy he had now invaded. The squeal erupted again, as if a maid had just identified a mouse in her bed.

  Marc slammed his eyes shut, but not before—in the light of several candles—they had taken in the essentials of a young woman standing naked in front of her four-poster bed.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Maxwell,” Marc whispered, though he wasn’t sure why. “I can explain everything tomorrow, if you’ll just pull a robe on and show me the door.”

  There was no answer. Was she terrified? With good cause, he thought. Finally he detected a faint rustling noise, waited for thirty seconds, then opened his eyes just a slit.

  Chastity Maxwell remained frozen not ten feet away, her youthful beauty caught nicely in the candle’s glow. She was staring at him. There was fear or concern of some kind in her gaze, but she made no move to cover her breasts or the golden thatch at the vee of her thighs. What on earth did she want? Marc’s heart sank. Not again!

  Still she said nothing but began to jerk her head furiously and roll her eyes to a low window on the outer wall, which was wide open to the midnight breeze. On the third or fourth swivelling of head and rolled eyes, Marc got the point. She wanted him to go out through the window quietly, afraid no doubt that her mother might have heard her suppressed shrieks and taken it upon herself to come staggering in from the hall to beat back the barbarous threat to her daughter’s maidenhead. Marc smiled his understanding, and Chastity continued to watch him silently as he crept over to the window, hoisted himself up onto the wide ledge, twisted around so that his legs hung down outside, ready to cushion his drop to the ground, and began to lower the trunk of his body over the outside sill—while trying not to stare at the beautiful young woman standing there like Galatea, nude before Pygmalion. Just as Marc was about to drop, Chastity moved back to the bed. At the same time, a second un-clothed figure unfolded itself from under the flounce around the lower part of the four-poster and rose up over her.

  It was Hilliard.

  Marc was so shocked he forgot to brace his legs and feet, and as a result he crashed heavily to the ground twelve feet below.

  A needle-sharp pain shot up the length of his right leg, and he collapsed in a heap. The unmuted scream he let out might have awakened the soundest of sleepers. Grimacing and cursing silently, he listened for any signs of disturbance within the great house, but all was quiet. He rolled over into a sitting position. He was in a garden, and somewhere close by he could make out a street lamp. He was home free. But when he tried to get up, his right ankle rebelled, and gave way under his weight. It was seriously sprained. He was not sure he could walk, or even limp. My God, was this the final humiliation? Was he going to have to crawl to Mrs. Standish’s on his hands and knees?

  “Require some assistance from the local police?”

  Marc looked up into the shadowy face peering down at him. The nose glowed like a beacon, and never had Marc been so happy to see it. “Cobb!”

  “That’s what the wife calls me when she’s in the mood,” Cobb said, tucking his truncheon back into his belt. “I pert near split yer noggin with this here, Major. Took you fer the burglar that’s been upsettin’ rich folks down here.”

  “Would you mind helping me to my feet?” Marc said. “I’ve turned my ankle.”

  Cobb leaned down and pulled Marc up, then held him as he tottered and swayed.

  “I don’t think I can get home on my own,” Marc said.

  Cobb was appraising the dishevelled state of Marc’s clothes. “You do this often, Major? Drop out of strange windows in the middle of the night?”

  “Only when I can’t find the door.”

  “Why don’t you just put an arm around my shoulder and we’ll see if we can find the door to the widow’s place.”

  “Thank you, Constable.”

  “’Course, with me gone, the burglars down here’ll think Boxin’ Day’s come early.”

  They had barely shuffled half a block when Cobb paused to catch his breath, then said, “Say now, Major, where’d you leave yer hat?”

  THIRTEEN

  It was nine o’clock on Sunday morning when Marc woke up after a deep, dreamless sleep. Even so, his whole body ached. He realized now how utterly exhausted he had become in the ten days since the governor had narrowly missed being assassinated. The throbbing in his right ankle reminded him, despite his best efforts to blot out the memory, of the débâcle at Somerset House, and his astonishment that it was Hilliard, not Colin Willoughby, who had been courting both Chastity (the second misnomer in that family) and disaster. With a supreme exercise of will, Marc raised himself up and stepped down onto the rug below. His yelp was piercing enough to bring both Mrs. Standish and Maisie flying to his rescue.

  “It’s all right,” he insisted, not a little abashed at being observed standing at his bedside in his cotton nightshirt. “I twisted my ankle last night.”

  “That must’ve been some dance,” Mrs. Standish said. “Maisi
e, run down to the wharf and buy some ice.” To Marc she said, “You’ll have to ice that swelling for a couple of hours at least. You should’ve had it looked to when you come in last night.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you—ouch!”

  Mrs. Standish had both hands on his wounded ankle. “Well, it ain’t broken—just sprained. So we won’t need the doctor.”

  “Did Colin come in after me?”

  “Ain’t put his head to the pillow yet,” Mrs. Standish said reprovingly, and waved Maisie off on her errand.

  Marc was not unhappy with that news: whoever Willoughby’s lover was, she would provide some necessary consolation, diversion, and, possibly, perspective.

  Later, Marc was served breakfast in bed by an enthusiastic Maisie, who peered up at him with worshipping eyes whenever she felt he was not looking. Then the two women dressed and went off to St. James’ to hear “the dear Reverend Strachan” fulminate against the enemies of the Mother Church. Marc fell asleep again.

  By midafternoon he felt strong enough to limp gingerly about the house and, eager to find something to occupy his mind so that he would not start mulling over “what if’s” and “might’ve been’s” in regard to his feelings for Beth and his attraction to Eliza, he decided to go to the officers’ mess at the garrison and while away the Sabbath in the pleasure of male companionship. He had initially considered going over to see Eliza, as her uncle was still away, but remembered in time his solemn promise to her Friday night that he would see her only once again: on the day of her departure. Anything else would have been unbearable for her, and probably for him. So, Maisie was sent to Government House to arrange for the chestnut mare to be brought down to him, and to enquire after Sir Francis. The governor had fully recovered from his temporary dyspepsia and was safely at home. At four o’clock, with minimal assistance, Marc mounted and rode off towards the fort, less than a mile from the city.

  IT WAS DUSK WHEN HE MOUNTED again and, pleasantly drowsy with good wine and serviceable food, trotted east along Front Street towards the town. In fact, he had fallen into a doze in the saddle, and the mare, without specific instruction, headed up John Street for the stables, and her stall. When Marc was finally jerked awake, he looked up to see that he was in front of Government House.

  “Good girl,” he murmured. “You took yourself home.” He nudged her around towards the stables, where he hoped to find a groom to lead the horse to his boarding house and return with her here. But just then the duty-corporal came hustling down the front steps to intercept him.

  “An urgent message for you, sir!” he puffed, holding out a sealed envelope.

  “From whom?”

  “I think it’s from Lieutenant Willoughby, sir. A lad from the city was paid to run it up here, and he says it is very urgent. I was just about to send a rider down to the garrison to find you.”

  “How long ago did it arrive?”

  “Maybe half an hour ago.”

  “Thank you, Corporal,” Marc said, taking the note and dismissing the messenger. As he opened the envelope and recognized the handwriting as Colin’s, Marc speculated as to the nature of any “urgency” his wayward friend might have got himself into: an irate husband with a primed pistol was the best bet. He read the note, but it was not what he expected. Not at all.

  Marc:

  Wilkie and Cobb are down at Enoch Turner’s brewery. They apprehended three thieves breaking into the premises. While they were questioning them, one of them, a fellow named Campbell or Kimble, suddenly said that he had some knowledge of Rumsey and the Moncreiff shooting. When Cobb pressed him, he clammed up and swore he would only talk to somebody high up with more authority. Cobb suggested you, and the villain agreed. Wilkie was dispatched to fetch you immediately. When he appeared at the widow’s house, he found me coming out. I told him I would go up to Turner’s while he went looking for you—and scribbled this note for him. Come as quickly as you can. This may be our only chance to find out who was behind the assassination.

  Colin

  Marc did not hesitate. He urged the mare to a full gallop and was soon speeding east down Front Street towards the brewery. The sun had almost set, but there was still plenty of misty, high-summer light.

  So, Rumsey had had an accomplice after all, Marc thought. He was not surprised, as he had suspected Kimble from the outset. Cobb had reported that Kimble had money troubles, and so his involvement with the murder and with these break-ins was no doubt driven by the need for cash. And it seemed certain that the information he could provide would lead to the naming of the instigator and the discovery of his motive. That this person was in all likelihood a member of the elite class, whatever his politics, would explain why Kimble was demanding to speak to a high-ranking official: the knowledge he possessed was deadly dangerous. For a brief moment, Marc felt a pang of jealousy: what if Willoughby—also a member of the governor’s staff—should prove to be that high-ranking person and get credit for solving the murder? Marc shook off the thought and dug his good heel into the mare’s left flank. Justice was the paramount concern.

  As Marc galloped past the last houses on Front Street, he looked up to see the great Gooderham windmill that marked the eastern entrance to the capital. It was turning slowly and steadily, a symbol, Marc thought, of humanity’s persistence and quest for permanence in an otherwise inhospitable wilderness. Marc was almost beginning to feel at home here. Soon Turner’s brewery stood before him, shadowed and unlit anywhere inside or out. It was Sunday, and no one would be about—except the police and the thieves they had caught in the act. Good old Cobb: he had proved himself yet again. Marc felt a twinge of guilt at having ever doubted his loyalty.

  The brewery offices faced the road, and beside them was the warehouse complete with large double doors, where the teamsters would park their wagons for loading casks of beer and unloading barley, hops, and other supplies. On the far side of the warehouse, Marc knew, there was a platform that served as a pier on the Don River, where shipments of beer were loaded onto barges and drifted down to the Gooderham wharf on the lake. There they could be hauled aboard steamers or schooners bound for Cobourg or Burlington. To the west, and rising up two or more storeys, was the brewhouse proper, with its half-dozen chimneys above the malting kilns. Marc assumed that the thieves had been caught in the warehouse section, where they could, as soon as darkness came, load casks and kegs onto a boat of their own with little fear of being disturbed. Marc tied up the mare and hopped up onto the platform facing the river. It was very dark here on the eastern side of the brewery, even though in the west there was still light in the sky. He pushed open one of the doors and limped in, one hand on his sabre. His ankle throbbed like a headache but held his weight.

  “Cobb!” he called out in a loud stage whisper.

  No answer.

  He limped farther inside, but saw little except the blotchy outlines of kegs stacked one upon the other. Perhaps they were in the office section where there were lamps and chairs to aid interrogation. He tried to walk faster, but the pain in his ankle meant he was barely able to hobble down the dark hallway towards the owner’s office. When he finally got there, he found the room empty and silent. Which meant they must be in the brewhouse, where, he recalled, there were spacious windows that provided both sunlight to work by and cool air to make the men’s labour tolerable in the summer. Cobb must have taken them up there for the interrogation for some reason.

  With his limp growing more agonizing at every step, Marc made his way to the brewhouse doors and eased them open. A hazy mote-filled light permeated the vaulted room around and above him. Marc could make out the enormous oaken vats where the beer, in its final stage, was fermenting on its own time, and the series of wooden catwalks that connected them and allowed the brewmaster and his assistants to observe the progress of the wort. In behind them, but not visible, were the kilns—now cold and dark. The air was musky with the odour of yeast and hops, and the pleasant sting of fermentation.

  “Up here!�
��

  It was Willoughby. Marc breathed a sigh of relief, and headed for a ladder that would take him up to the first level of the catwalk system, where Willoughby’s voice had come from. Climbing up caused him excruciating pain, but he was determined to be in on the conclusion of this investigation: it had cost him more than any honest man should ever have to bear.

  “We’re up here, Marc. Everything’s under control.”

  Oh, no. Had they already got the information they needed? If so, then why was he being asked to climb up there? He got the answer a second later when something hard, blunt, and angry struck him on the forehead. He gasped, felt his limbs turn to water, and crumpled on the catwalk.

  WHEN HE WOKE UP, it was dark. The light from a single lantern swayed a few inches before his eyes, making whatever was behind it blacker still. He was propped up against something wooden. His head now throbbed in concert with his ankle. His feet were tightly bound together with twine, and his hands likewise, in front of him.

  “I knew you’d come,” Willoughby said. “And come alone. You’d never pass up a chance to further your overweening ambitions—at the expense of those you have the effrontery to call your friends.” The disembodied voice was hoarse, at the edge of exhaustion or uncontrollable excitation. It was seeded with incalculable bitterness and something far more feral, far more lethal. It was scarcely recognizable.

  “What the hell is happening?” Marc moaned and twisted futilely at his bonds. “What have you done with Cobb and Wilkie?” he asked softly and, for the first time, fearfully.

  “They’re a long way from here, you’ll be pleased to know.” Willoughby laughed, a low chortle. “And there are no thieves here. Just you and me. And in a few minutes, there’ll only be me.” Willoughby moved the lantern so that it illuminated both his face and Marc’s, as if he wanted to make sure that Marc could see the cold derision in his eyes that was already so vivid in his voice.