Marc’s instinct was to take two steps towards the seething man in the tunic and, sabre or no sabre, thrash him till his moustaches dropped off. But he caught sight of Almeda out of the corner of his eye.
“Please, Mr. Edwards . . .”
Marc bowed to her and walked briskly out of the room.
Behind him came the trumpeting umbrage of the upstaged colonel: “I don’t want to see you in or near this house again! You are not to speak to my family or my servants, or I’ll have the law on you!”
As Marc let himself out, he noticed the butler hovering anxiously near the sitting room door.
“And I hope they hang the young hothead!” the colonel roared.
TWELVE
Robert nibbled at the last of the macaroons. A tasty luncheon had been brought in from the other side of Baldwin House, and its remnants lay forlorn on the silver serving tray.
“All right, Marc, indulge me while I play defense counsel summing up what we know and what we think we know. Stop me when you think I’ve got it seriously wrong.”
“That should help me write up a proper chronology for Dougherty,” Marc agreed. “Go ahead: my pencil is poised.” Over lunch Marc had reprised the drama at Chepstow, and they had mulled over the information Billy had provided.
Robert cleared his throat, focused his gaze on an imagined jury, and began: “This entire sequence of events, of cause and effect, started late last February when Gideon Stanhope, importer of dry goods, enlisted in the St. Thomas militia while on one of his periodic visits to his brother. To his surprise and delight, his unit is involved in the action at Pelee, where he is slightly wounded and comports himself well enough to be hailed, on his return to Toronto, as a hero, indeed as the Patriot of Pelee Island. He may not have been aware of it, but at the same battle his wife’s cousin, Caleb Coltrane, is fighting on the other side and, according to his own testimony, distinguishes himself so conspicuously that it is he who is crowned the Pelee Island Patriot.”
“Perhaps it was those two who should have had the duel,” Marc observed.
Robert chuckled and continued. “Having gotten a taste for military conflict and its attendant honours, our Mr. Stanhope leaps at the opportunity to form one of two proposed new militia regiments here in Toronto. He is eminently successful, enlisting competent and committed officers and men. He spends the summer training them, during which time he gets to know and like Billy McNair, his most accomplished sergeant.”
“Meanwhile,” Marc said, “back in the spring . . .”
“Quite right. In April or May, the Stanhopes go together to St. Thomas to visit the in-laws. Almeda Stanhope seizes the opportunity to slip over to Detroit to call upon her cousin, Gladys—”
“Dobbs,” Marc prompted.
“—whom she hasn’t seen in some years. Gladys’s brother, Caleb, a major in the liberation army and big man in the local Hunters’ Lodge, happens to be there at the same time. Caleb had a passionate affair with Almeda when they were teenagers, and he attempts to rekindle the flame when he discovers her staying at his sister’s house.”
“A house that appears to have been used by Coltrane as a base of operations, since we know that his library and snuff box collection were sent to Chepstow from there and are on their way back there as of yesterday.”
Robert nodded. “Precisely what form this renewed affair took is still an open question. What we do know is that Coltrane wrote to his Duchess, expressing his undying love and indicating that, since her husband had discovered their liaison—”
“Probably because he himself revealed it, or possibly but less likely, if there were other letters lying about to be discovered, the colonel stumbled on one.”
“Either way, Coltrane initiates a scheme to extort money from her husband. She tells you that most of this is wishful thinking on Coltrane’s part, but we can assume from Billy’s story that at least one compromising love letter, however circumspect, was sent from Almeda to her admirer in Detroit. That letter, we can be fairly sure, was kept by Coltrane, either because he did care for Almeda or because it was critical to his blackmail scheme.”
“For example, if the American Patriots were inexplicably to lose the battle of Windsor and he were to be captured,” Marc filled in.
“A fine lover, eh? Anyway, we can now pick up the story at Windsor in December. Again, both ‘patriots’ distinguish themselves in the conflict, but as Coltrane organizes a strategic withdrawal of what remains of his squad, he is spotted by Captain Muttlebury of the Windsor militia and his sergeant, Billy McNair.”
“Who has, along with Stanhope and four other NCOs, been attached to that regiment since early November to assist in their training.”
“Right. Muttlebury, we learn later, was in charge of removing a number of crates of rifles and ammunition from a nearby abandoned fort or redoubt. But despite being shown by his colonel where they were buried, he managed to miss at least two crates. This occurred a week or so before the Windsor skirmish. Muttlebury’s mistake results in Coltrane’s being able to arrange an ambush with fresh rifles and ammunition, during which poor Muttlebury is killed, along with Corporal Melvin Curry, Billy’s childhood friend and bosom pal. Billy finds the treacherous Coltrane bleeding to death nearby. He behaves admirably despite his outrage at the ambush—”
“A point I’m certain Dougherty will exploit,” Marc added. “Perhaps we should subpoena the official battle reports for that day.”
“I agree. I’ll put Peachey onto it. Now, where was I?”
“You’ve got Billy kneeling beside a wounded Coltrane.”
“Right. It is Billy, then, who uses his fiancée’s gift, her silk kerchief, to apply a tourniquet to Coltrane’s arm and save his life. Again, still acting with the utmost military discipline, Billy searches the commanding officer’s kit and discovers important military papers, which he keeps to present later to Colonel Stanhope. He also spots a love letter of sorts, written by what appears to be the major’s mistress. Believing it to be personal and private, he tucks it safely inside the unconscious man’s blouse. Back at their camp, Billy watches as Coltrane’s wound is cauterized, and he observes that the love letter is put between the leaves of the fellow’s leather-bound Bible.”
“The same Bible I observed on Coltrane’s desk at Chepstow,” Marc said.
“Time now for some critical interpretation. The letter from Coltrane to Almeda, which we possess, when set beside an equally compromising letter from Almeda to Coltrane, presents compelling circumstantial evidence that there was a de facto affair between the two. And a comparison of their respective handwriting would be almost as persuasive to a jury as signatures would.”
“Could that be why the colonel was in such a hurry to ship Coltrane’s effects back to Detroit?”
“Why not just destroy them?” Robert asked.
“Too risky, at least until Billy was safely convicted. Nor would Sir George be pleased at an act guaranteed to rouse the Hunters’ indignation further. After all, the governor’s recast trial is meant to calm the waters in the republic. No, I think the colonel had to take a chance that anything still hidden in those effects would stay there undisturbed in Gladys’s house.”
“More important though, Marc, is the galling fact that we have only one of the two letters. Even if we can find samples of Coltrane’s writing here in Toronto—one of our newspaper editors should have a screed or two of his lying about—we have nothing but innuendo without corresponding epistolary proof from Almeda or an admission by her under oath.”
“Of which there is almost no chance, since she can’t be forced to testify against her husband.”
“Nevertheless, the story does continue. Stanhope, having been bled for money by one of the enemy, decides to take personal charge of Coltrane so that he can keep an eye on him till he’s hanged. If he did search Coltrane’s kit and effects for evidence implicating him in what is tantamount to treason, he missed finding Almeda’s letter in the Bible back there in Windsor. Perhaps Coltran
e himself was surprised when it fell onto his desk during a quest for religious comfort. We can readily assume that, having it still in his possession, he found a secure place to hide it, among his books most likely. I surmise he made an exact copy of it and began to threaten the colonel again, who must have gone once more to his wife for corroboration. But this time he was being blackmailed not for cash but for favourable treatment at Chepstow. The kowtowing and coddling were obvious to anyone who went near the place.”
“The colonel must have been frantic with worry,” Marc said. “Not only was the grandest night of his life fast approaching—the Twelfth Night gala where he is to be decorated—but there was the constant threat of his being exposed as a cuckold or worse. Not to mention his only child is visiting the cozy chamber every day and spending an hour or more closeted with the villain. All the while he has to pretend that nothing is amiss, to grin and bear it. He forbids his wife to go near the cell, but it seems that Coltrane is enjoying the daughter more anyway.”
“Do you think the wife may have been jealous?”
“I considered that, Robert, but her demeanour this morning and the scrap of dialogue I overheard on Wednesday strongly suggest that she was primarily concerned for Patricia’s reputation and well-being.”
“Moving on, then, we come to Billy’s fateful decision to look the devil in the eye, right in his den. Billy visits Coltrane, they exchange views, argue, and Billy makes an ill-conceived threat to go public with a false account of the battle, in which Coltrane would appear as a coward and a cunning bastard. Coltrane bridles, challenges Billy to a duel, and the silly lad accepts.”
“Which brings us to the issue of how an imprisoned soldier can arrange a duel with pistols in the yard outside his cell.”
“One word will suffice.” Robert smiled. “Bostwick. We know that Bostwick and Stanhope have been associates for some time, and that the former was made the colonel’s adjutant, despite having a reputation as a heavy drinker. With or without Stanhope’s approval, Bostwick secures two duelling pistols and then acts as umpire and second for both men the next day.”
“It would help throw suspicion on the colonel,” Marc suggested, “if we could prove that he sanctioned the duel himself. We can show that he considered Billy his protégé and therefore hoped that the lad might be lucky enough to kill his enemy.”
“But Cobb will testify that the colonel arrived after the event, enraged at the proceedings.”
“A good piece of acting?”
“By the next evening, however, Bostwick is dismissed in disgrace.”
“So the colonel will claim. For all we know though, Bostwick might be holed up in some comfortable county inn sniffing French brandy. Cobb has his snitches out looking for the drunken lieutenant—thankfully, something he felt he was able to do for us without compromising his duty.”
“Excellent. But to continue: Billy is arrested, makes a public death threat against Coltrane, and is jailed. The rest of the story you know at first hand.”
Marc sighed. “I do, and we’ve been over the variables and possibilities several times.”
“What about Stanhope’s surprise visit the evening before the murder? Do you really think he planted the poison then?”
“It doesn’t matter for our defense, does it? The strategy is to throw plausible suspicion elsewhere and dilute the circumstantial evidence.”
“Well, I see you’ve been reading your Blackstone and Phillipps these past few months.” Robert was pleased and amused in equal portions. “You are quite right. It appears as if we’ll never be able to discover or prove who did it, and if Billy is acquitted, no one besides Sir George will care. Coltrane’s life was nasty, brutish, and short, to quote Hobbes.”
“Well, then, Bostwick is a prime candidate for suspicion, isn’t he? Perhaps acting on his commander’s orders, he pretends to leave in a huff, slips back in—he possesses a full ring of keys for Chepstow—and while Coltrane sleeps, puts strychnine into one of the two snuff boxes. Then he heads for cover. And the colonel plants the packet in Billy’s coat during the mêlée in the hall.”
“Very possible. But an even more likely candidate is the mysterious Mrs. Jones, the last visitor before you and Billy arrived. Shad, unfamiliar with the jailer’s job he has just been assigned, lets the woman get by him with no particular quizzing of who she is or why she’s there. And once in, she distracts Coltrane long enough to salt the snuff with coyote bait.”
“She would have needed a plausible excuse to obtain Coltrane’s permission and to lull him into a false sense of security. He was pompous but no fool.”
Robert agreed. “Which suggests she was working for the Hunters, not Bostwick.”
“Bearing a password or entry code of some sort.”
“His own people wishing him dead, as a martyr to the cause, so to speak?”
“With the added attraction of said martyr appearing to have been assassinated by an agent of the Queen.”
“You really must find a way to question Shad further—at the risk of being bayoneted by the colonel.” Robert pressed the remaining crumbs of macaroon onto his index finger and licked it contemplatively.
“They might also see Coltrane’s upcoming trial as a common murderer as a form of humiliation for the Lodges and a staged triumph for their arch-enemy, Sir George Arthur. Coltrane himself no doubt still expected to be rescued by his compatriots, so he would certainly agree to see one of his own.”
“But didn’t Shad tell you Mrs. Jones might have been there before?” Robert was flipping through the pages of notes that Marc had compiled so far.
“He seemed confused or flustered about the entire matter. Perhaps he was just trying to cover up for his own insecurity as jailer. Only he could clarify this for us or give us a more detailed description of exactly what happened. But my own ineptness earlier this morning seems to have foreclosed that option.”
“We could subpoena him, though. Or, as he’ll be a key witness for the Crown, Dougherty could get at this business on cross-examination. I’ll make a note of it.”
Marc took a deep breath. “I suppose, also, to be absolutely thorough, we have to consider Patricia.”
“Motive?”
“None, alas. Beth’s reading of Patricia is that she was besotted with Coltrane and devastated by his death.”
“You’ve done excellent sleuthing, Marc. I’ll finish writing up notes on our conversation here and take them over to Dougherty.”
“But I’m still putting my money on the colonel,” Marc said, not ready to leave this discussion just yet. “If he isn’t the killer, he’s mixed up in the murder in some way. And if anyone knows more about Stanhope’s possible involvement, it’s Bostwick. He may be crucial to our strategy of pointing the jury to alternative suspects.”
“Plus, if we could somehow unearth one or more of Almeda’s love letters to Coltrane, Dougherty would have a mother lode to mine in court.”
Marc rose, suddenly excited. “Well, Robert, I know where to start looking for them.”
“You do?”
“Detroit. The colonel no doubt rifled through Coltrane’s possessions before he shipped them off yesterday. But Coltrane was exceedingly clever, and the letter he brought with him to Chepstow was his very lifeline. I’m sure he hid it well enough to fool the likes of Stanhope. Moreover, if the colonel had found it after the murder, would he have been in such a rush to have the books and claptrap boxed and sent packing to Michigan? I’m convinced that he didn’t find it and wanted to make sure no one else in the province did.” When Robert made to object, Marc added, “It’s probable there are other love letters from Almeda in her cousin’s house.”
“I see. What you say makes sense, but Detroit’s two and a half days away over land.”
Marc didn’t hear this well-meant demurral. “Remember, too,” he said, “that the Michigan Hunters are congregated in Detroit, and if this Mrs. Jones or the lurking stranger with the limp was in fact one of their agents, we need to find out som
ehow whether there was a death warrant placed by the Hunters on one of their own.”
“But you wouldn’t dare venture into that wasp’s nest over there! Not on your own!”
Marc smiled cryptically. “I don’t intend to go alone,” he said.
• • •
“Missus Cobb, I’m outta ice!”
No response from the kitchen, other than a banging of pots and pans in what Cobb considered a needlessly noisy manner. Cobb tossed the cold, soggy towel on the floor. “Missus Cobb! I’m sufferatin’ in here!”
Dora Cobb ambled in a few minutes later carrying a fresh towel stuffed with ice chips. “The louder you declamour, Mr. Cobb, the slower I waltz. I figure even you could deduct that.”
“Well, it ain’t you whose noggin feels like an earthshake!”
Dora edged her ample bulk to her husband’s side and examined the wounded man’s brow. “You don’t need no more ice, luv. That bump ain’t no bigger than the wart on the peak of yer nose!”
“It ain’t the bump that’s thrombosin’, it’s my whole damn head!”
“Well, shoutin’ and gripin’ ain’t likely to be of much help.” She plopped the fresh ice pack onto the aforesaid bump.
“Why don’t ya just hit me with a hammer!”
“I would if I had one handy.” With that riposte, she wheeled about and trotted out of the sickroom.
Cobb had been home and disabled now for a mere twenty-four hours, and already his sweet temperament had begun to fray and snap. The children, bless them, had done their best to keep him amused. After school, they had tiptoed into the room and with his enthusiastic approval had performed one of their many dramatic duets just for him. Like their grandfather, they had taken to plays and play-acting from the moment they had discovered speech and the power of gesture. He requested their series of scenes from The Taming of the Shrew, those jousting duets between Petruchio and Kate, in which the dominant gender of the human species invariably prevailed. The facility with which eleven-year-old Delia and ten-year-old Fabian delivered the ancient Elizabethan verse and their prodigious memory never ceased to amaze their father. “You sure ya didn’t find ’em under a cabbage patch?” Cobb had said more than once to Dora. Their prowess in school also justified, in Cobb’s mind, his abandonment of his parents on their farm down past Woodstock. He couldn’t picture these two fair-haired and fine-boned children and their precocious intelligence meting out their days behind a plough or hoe.
Death of a Patriot Page 17
