Death of a Patriot

by Don Gutteridge

  Kingsley Thornton knew he ought to intervene on several counts, but he seemed as mesmerized by the sudden turn in the proceedings as everyone else.

  All the stuffing abruptly went out of the colonel’s pomposity. His gaunt body collapsed into his suit.

  Merciless, Dougherty moved in for the kill. “Now, what has all this got to do with the poisoning of Caleb Coltrane? Well, sir, I submit that it was this letter that so terrified you, that was secreted by Major Coltrane and used to blackmail you into treating him more like a minor potentate than a captured criminal. And that, weary of his demands, you initially used the duel to try and have your sergeant do away with him and take the blame. And when that failed, you yourself poisoned him!”

  Thornton had finally found his feet. “May I remind Mr. Dougherty that the witness has not admitted to actually composing the letter. We have only his wife’s testimony to that effect.”

  “Mr. Thornton is right,” the judge said.

  “Well, then, let me ask the question again,” Dougherty said. “Did you write out this letter as we now see it, and then ask your wife to copy it exactly as written? Because, if you didn’t, then we must assume that your wife did it on her own and that, in conjunction with the letter we found hidden in her dress, she could very well be charged with aiding and abetting treason.”

  Stanhope raised his head with agonizing slowness, but it was not to stare down his accuser. He peered past Kingsley Thornton until his eyes found those of his wife. In his face was a look of infinite regret.

  “Did you compose the letter, sir?”

  “I did,” Stanhope said with surprising force.

  “And did you decide to murder Caleb Coltrane to end the torment of his increasingly outrageous demands?”

  Some of the old regimental fire leapt back into Stanhope’s eyes. “He deserved to die. He was evil incarnate. For the first week or so he behaved as if he were a gentleman and an officer. Then, as soon as his books and snuff boxes arrived, he announced that he had the coded letter somewhere nearby, that his agents would know where to find it in the event of his death. He was then confident of rescue by the Hunters, but in the meantime he expected me to supply everything he asked for. I had no choice but to give in. He was insufferable, a braggart and a liar. He alienated the affections of my beloved daughter and drove a wedge between her and her mother.”

  Dougherty spoke over the growing murmurs of the astonished onlookers. “So when the idea of the duel surfaced, you tried to turn it to your advantage, hoping Billy, with a live bullet in his pistol, would do Coltrane in?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t want either of them hurt at that time.”

  “Not until after the Twelfth Night Ball anyway.”

  “Coltrane told Bostwick he wouldn’t harm the boy, just give him a proper scare. And Billy had never fired a pistol in his life. The odds were he couldn’t pot Coltrane if he’d been given five free shots. But I took no chances. Bostwick was supposed to supply two blank pistols, but the drunken fool got my instructions confused.”

  “So when did you decide to resort to poison? And why, after suffering his demands for so long?”

  Stanhope’s voice was now eerily calm, as if a decision long delayed had been taken at last. “It was Wednesday evening. Bostwick was nervous about being arrested for his part in the duel, so I gave him his back wages and he left. Farquar MacPherson came to complete the financial rearrangements that would save my business. Just before Lardner left, however, he slipped me a note from Coltrane. It demanded my immediate presence below. I went down and let myself in with the master key. What he wanted was for me to let him escape. He seemed to suspect that his mates in Detroit had forsaken him, and my help was now essential if he were to avoid the noose. I stalled by saying I might be able to rig up something by the next Monday.”

  “That is, after your triumph at the gala on Saturday?”

  “More or less.”

  “During which escape attempt you might be given the opportunity to shoot him with impunity?”

  Stanhope’s expression confirmed that such a serendipitous notion had entered his mind. “But he insisted that it be arranged for the next day or Friday at the latest. I demanded the letter. He said he would tell me where it was when he was free and clear. I did not trust him. I could not release him and have him retain that damning letter. Bostwick and I had searched his chamber three times while he was asleep: he was a heavy sleeper. But the next day he would laugh at our futile efforts. I came to believe it was in the hands of a Hunters’ agent in the city. I also knew he was too wily to let me shoot him in the back. He was more likely to shoot me with the pistols he demanded.”

  “So he had to die, even if it meant tarnishing the honours expected Saturday.”

  “Yes. I felt then that I would be doing my fellow citizens a favour. I would say he committed suicide. It was all I could think of. I was distracted and desperate.”

  “How did you get the poison in the snuff box?”

  “As I said, he was a heavy sleeper. Bostwick, who often slept in the anteroom, was gone. I got strychnine from the gardener’s supply in the summer kitchen and put it in an empty packet that had contained my sleeping draft. He usually didn’t take snuff until an hour or so after his breakfast. He snorted it like a horse, not a gentleman. I figured he would be dead by ten o’clock, before Alderman Tierney arrived. But he wasn’t.”

  “So putting the blame on Billy McNair was just a chance opportunity?”

  “I didn’t think he would be convicted, he was a popular—”

  “But you did slip the packet into his coat?”

  “I—I had it in my tunic, I really just forgot about it, and—”

  “Mr. Dougherty,” the chief justice broke in finally, “I don’t really think we need to go on. This is not Mr. Stanhope’s trial.” He looked pointedly at Kingsley Thornton.

  Thornton shook his head, like a man in shock or one appalled at the news he would be taking to his governor. “In view of what we have just heard, milord, the Crown is prepared to withdraw the charges against William McNair.”

  The courtroom burst into applause, and the judge made no move to quiet the demonstration. Gideon Stanhope let his head drop to the railing in front of him. Then he raised it slightly, searching for his loved ones.

  Doubtful Dick’s record remained intact.

  NINETEEN

  Later that afternoon, all those concerned with the triumphant defense of Billy McNair gathered in the comfortable and spacious drawing-room of Baldwin House to celebrate the defendant’s release from prison and partake of a high tea in the traditional English manner. Young Billy, bathed and suitably reattired, arrived with his mother, his fiancée Dolly, and her parents. Rose Halpenny donned a dress she thought she would never have occasion to wear again, and showed up with Beth in tow fifteen minutes before everyone else. Robert Baldwin was joined in his hosting duties by his sister-in-law, and Clement Peachey and the legal staff walked across the hall for a rare visit to the domestic quarter of the premises. A cutter with two horses at its head was dispatched to pick up Horatio and Dora Cobb, who gave only nominal resistance to the unexpected invitation. The commandant of the defense corps, however, was too exhausted to attend, though the prospect of fine food and chilled champagne made his eyes water. He was driven home and tucked into his wing chair by his wards, who surprised and delighted the assembly by joining the festivities a few minutes later. Among the notables, only Marc was missing.

  He had just put Rose and Beth into their sleigh in the lane behind Smallman’s when Annie Brush, the apprentice seamstress, poked her head out the door and called out that an urgent message had come for him. Marc took the note and read it with some disappointment and much puzzlement. It was from Magistrate Thorpe, informing Marc that Gideon Stanhope had made a full confession and had been formally charged. And, for reasons not given, wished to see the lieutenant right away.

  “I’ve got to go to the Court House for a minute,” he said to Beth.
“You and Mrs. Halpenny go on ahead. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  And so, while the champagne flowed and the hors d’oeuvres were nibbled at Baldwin House, Marc found himself in the magistrate’s study in the presence of James Thorpe and the newly charged felon. Stanhope’s confession seemed to have lifted some burden from his shoulders, for he had regained his upright posture, and in his face there lay a resigned and calm sort of dignity. He nodded politely to Marc but swung his attention immediately back to Thorpe, whom he gazed at with a fixed stare. Something had been exchanged between the two men besides courtesies.

  Thorpe did not keep Marc in suspense long. “Thank you for coming, Marc. I know you are expected elsewhere.”

  “That’s perfectly all right, sir. Is there a service I can perform for you now that I’m here?” He suspected that his summons must be connected to the charges or some anomaly in the confession. But the note had said it was Stanhope who wished to see him.

  “Yes, there is. Colonel Stanhope has requested of me that he be allowed to return briefly to Chepstow to retrieve his uniform and say farewell to his wife and daughter in familiar surroundings. I have acceded to this wholly reasonable request and have cleared it with Chief Sturges. He has kindly provided a sleigh for transportation, and Wilkie and Brown will act as driver and guard. The colonel also wishes you to accompany him in the sleigh and inside his home. He feels that as a former soldier and wounded veteran, you would be the most appropriate person to do so, and, moreover you are a man he can give his parole to with all his heart.”

  Stanhope looked to Marc, but there was no pleading in his face, merely hope. Thorpe’s demeanour intimated to Marc that the magistrate thought the favour was the least they could do for a man who had, despite the obvious shortcomings of his actions, fought at Pelee Island and Baby’s orchard with consummate courage and dedication. It was the putative treason, of course, that weighed most heavily upon the magistrate and the public, not the poisoning of a creature no better than a rat or a wolf.

  “You would like us to leave right away?” Marc said.

  “Good man,” Thorpe said, getting up. “The constables are waiting outside.”

  • • •

  They drove through the darkening streets at a sedate pace and without attracting much attention. Those on the sidewalks or trampled paths who did remark their passing seemed more intrigued by the sight of two constables perched like liveried postilions on the bench of the cutter than by the nondescript pair of gentlemen in the plush seat behind them.

  “You must believe me, Lieutenant, when I tell you that I did not deliberately leave those two crates of ordnance at the fort near Windsor.”

  They were moving west along Hospital Street towards Chepstow. The odour of woodsmoke from Walmsley’s clay works, a blacksmith’s stuttering hammer, and a donkey treading a creaking mill outside the tannery suggested that life in the city had found its customary groove once again. Snowflakes fluttering out of the early-evening darkness brushed their cheeks and melted there, like tears.

  “I must admit, Colonel, that I did wonder about your endangering the lives of your own men and even risking the mission you had dedicated yourself to achieving in Essex.”

  “I trusted it would not come to that. We knew from our intelligence that General Bierce intended attacking near Windsor or Sandwich, though we weren’t sure when. We knew that Caleb Coltrane was one of his officers. I planned to kill Coltrane in battle long before he got inland or near the fort I assumed we had emptied, or else die in the effort. Either way, the business of the weapons was moot.”

  “But it turned out that it was your protégé who brought him in—alive.”

  “Yes. At first I was delighted because Sergeant McNair was well trained and knew enough to strip Coltrane of his papers and bring them straight to me. The map to the fort showing the positions of the buried crates was among them, and I promptly destroyed it. But I suspected that Coltrane was cunning enough to keep back the coded letter.”

  “Even though you tried to lessen its potential danger to you by having your wife write it in the guise of an adulterous confession.”

  The colonel continued looking straight ahead. This near monologue was not about expiation but explanation, about setting the record straight.

  “Yes. Coltrane began his ugly scheme by threatening to brand me a cuckold. Then he offered money to forestall my becoming a bankrupt. I had the map of the weapons cache to trade for cash. The letter was intended to deal with both. And the silly bugger was addicted to codes.”

  He tried to smile at this but failed. “After his capture, I went to the infirmary and searched the major’s kit and his person but did not find it.”

  “It was placed in his Bible by the medic.”

  “Ah. Even so, I began to hope either that he would die of his wounds or that he no longer possessed the letter. But he recovered. We did not meet again until I heard he would be taken not to London but to Toronto, for a criminal prosecution. I volunteered to escort him, and when we got here, I suggested that I house the prisoner because both the military and civilian jails were full.”

  Marc had picked up on something. “Wait: you say you assumed the cache at the fort had been emptied?”

  “Exactly. When I heard what happened and had to enter it into my field report, I was devastated. You see, when we were ordered to remove the ordnance from the fort, I went around with my sketch and marked the spots with my sword in the earth. Poor Muttlebury missed the last two, and paid for it with his life. But it was I who was responsible for checking his work and counting the crates, and my only excuse is that I was distracted and anxious. I had supplied Coltrane with the map expecting him to find nothing at the fort. I was certain he and I were meant to settle matters on the battlefield.”

  “Did you, then, plan to imprison him at Chepstow in order to do there what you weren’t able to do in Baby’s orchard?”

  “Oh, no. I had only two thoughts. First I wanted to demonstrate, to all those who doubted, that a forty-seven-year-old dry-goods merchant was worthy of donning the tunic of a British officer by giving a despised enemy commander all the courtesies due him without prejudice. And I wanted to keep him where I could see him: he was as conniving and heartless as a starved pack rat.”

  “You extended simple courtesies; he made insatiable demands.”

  “Correct. He didn’t have to say a word about the fort or the arms cache or the alleged affair with Almeda, but he let me know that he had the coded letter in his possession and was poised to destroy me. I didn’t believe him at first, but he wrote out an exact copy in his own hand, right in front of me.”

  Marc felt strangely reassured by Stanhope’s revelations but also disquieted that he may have seriously misread the man. His head swam with fresh questions: Had he realized how far his daughter had been involved with Coltrane? Did he know that Almeda had very likely slept with Coltrane in Detroit? Did he order Bostwick to leave one pistol blank or two? Would he have allowed Billy McNair to be condemned in his place? But the cutter had reached Chepstow. On the way back, Marc intended to press for answers.

  The colonel opened the front door himself. No butler or maid greeted them in the dark vestibule.

  “Almeda and Patricia will be in the sewing room,” he said to Marc, and hesitated.

  “Please, go right ahead. I’ll wait for you here on the bench.” So the women had been forewarned, it seemed.

  The colonel nodded, took a deep breath, and eased the door partly open. He stepped inside and shut it behind him. Marc waited and listened. Above the colonel’s masculine tones, the higher voice of Almeda could be heard, then the softer, more callow sound of Patricia. There were no cries, no weeping, not a word that could be described as raised in anger or sorrow or recrimination. It seemed to Marc to be the sort of hushed murmuring of long acquaintances in the far pews of a church or the back rows of a burial service, not wanting their intimacy to obtrude or offend. Ten minutes passed. Still, no maid bustled about
upstairs or in the kitchens beyond the hall. No light showed beneath the door to the butler’s den.

  Finally, the sewing room door opened and the colonel came out, again closing the door firmly behind him. He was resplendent in his uniform. The red jacket with the green-and-gold militia facing had been freshly pressed. The leather belting gleamed, even in the gloom of the hallway. Someone had lovingly polished the battle-stiffened boots. Possessed now of a quiet dignity and devoid of the vanity that had contributed so much to his downfall, the colonel walked up to Marc and said simply, “My cap is in the study.” His gaze locked onto Marc’s, but the thoughts behind it were unreadable.

  Marc nodded, the colonel’s lips twitched as if anticipating a smile, and then he spun about and marched into his study at the far end of the hall. Marc sat bolt upright on the bench. Not ten seconds elapsed before he heard the plosive snap of a pistol shot. What surprised him was not that it had happened, but that he had done nothing to stop it.