The Hunt for the North Star

by The Hunt for the North Star (retail) (epub)

  ‘Just before Christmas, ma’am.’

  ‘And have all the letters been delivered?’

  ‘All letters to persons living in town have been delivered by hand, as is the usual practice.’

  ‘But there are others?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ the clerk admitted. ‘Sometimes we receive letters to people living some distance away. We keep those back until the recipients call into town.’

  Josephine saw her opening. ‘Then my letter must have become mixed up with those awaiting collection. It is possible that no one recognised my name. I have only been in York a short time.’

  The clerk frowned. ‘It is possible, ma’am. Could you please tell me your name?’

  ‘Madame Lafitte,’ said Josephine. ‘I am a guest of Mr Selby and his daughter. Let me see the letters, please. I will recognise my friend’s handwriting immediately.’

  The clerk looked doubtful. Josephine reached into her reticule and took out a silver crown, which she laid on the counter. The clerk considered the coin for a moment, then picked it up and dropped it in his pocket.

  ‘Be pleased to accompany me, ma’am,’ he said.

  Another door let them into a small back room, with an iron-bound strongbox against one wall and a row of pigeonholes on the other. In the middle of the room sat another big cast-iron stove, and next to it a table with several wooden boxes full of letters, each labelled with the name of a town in Upper Canada. Josephine walked to the box marked NIAGARA and rifled quickly through the letters inside, checking the addresses. Suddenly her heart began to beat more quickly. At the bottom was a thick packet addressed simply to The Quartermaster, Fort George.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ said the clerk, coming to take the box from her. ‘These are outbound letters, going to Niagara. All the incoming letters have been sorted and placed here, in the pigeonholes. You said your name was Lafitte? I shall check under the letter L.’

  He took a handful of letters out of one of the pigeonholes, white and buff folded paper with wax seals, and showed them to her. ‘None is addressed to you, ma’am. Do you recognise the hand on any of them?’

  ‘No.’ Josephine sighed. ‘Perhaps you are right, and she really is ill. I must write to her and enquire after her health. Tell me, when does the next post go to Niagara?’

  ‘Tomorrow, ma’am.’

  Josephine nodded. ‘Oh, and another thing,’ she said. ‘I am also expecting a letter from Kingston. When does the next post come from there?’

  ‘The last Kingston post arrived only yesterday, ma’am. The next one won’t be for another week at least. But if anything comes for you, I shall ensure it is delivered promptly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling and handing over another crown. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘Not at all, ma’am. Do please call again if ever you feel we can assist you.’

  * * *

  ‘Moses has brought another message from madame,’ said Abel Thomas when he and MacLea met at the end of the day. ‘There is a letter in Dunne’s office that she must see, urgently. The post goes to Niagara tomorrow. That means she needs to get hold of that letter today.’

  ‘Does she want us to break in and steal it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said the ex-slave. ‘She wants us to help her break in so she can read it herself.’

  The snowfields around them were blue with dusk. Out on the ice the fishermen were busy cutting fresh holes and lowering their lines into the black water beneath. Fires glowed here and there, bright in the gloom. The fires kept the fishermen warm and also, in theory, attracted the fish, curious to see what the light was.

  ‘She doesn’t want much,’ MacLea said. ‘All right. Who is good with locks?’

  ‘Hill, sir,’ said Thomas without hesitation.

  ‘That will be his Sunday school training again. How do we get a message back to madame?’

  ‘Moses is waiting, sir. He’s seeing Marie again in an hour or so.’ Thomas smiled. ‘I think he’s getting sweet on her, sir.’

  ‘Tell him to keep his mind on the job,’ MacLea said sharply.

  ‘I’ll remind him, sir. There’s one other thing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve been snooping around like you said, sir, trying to pick up gossip. I’ve befriended the landlord out at the Half-Way Tavern. You remember him, sir? The big fellow? He speaks well of you.’

  ‘I remember him as the purveyor of the worst firewater in Upper Canada,’ MacLea said. ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘It’s about Caleb Street, sir. As you can imagine, he doesn’t normally frequent places like the Half-Way. The bar at Jordan’s is more his kind of watering hole. But a little over a month ago, he did come out to the Half-Way one morning, and he met someone there.’

  ‘Who?’ asked MacLea.

  ‘The landlord didn’t know who this man was, hadn’t ever seen him before. But he was a well-set-up fellow, tall and dark-haired. Nicely dressed, the landlord said, but he also looked like a man of his hands. He had a little scar on his forehead, just over one eyebrow.’

  MacLea nodded. ‘Well done. I’ll talk to Robinson tomorrow and see if we can identify this man. Tell Crabbe to pass on a message. Her mistress should meet us at the office at nine o’clock tonight. Then get the men together. Sergeant Murray and I will go into the office with madame and Hill. The rest of you will make sure we are not disturbed.’

  * * *

  Nine o’clock. The temperature stood at thirty degrees below zero on the Fahrenheit scale, and although the wind had died away, the air was painful to breathe. A faint glimmer of starlight filtered down through a thin layer of cloud, reflecting off the snow. The lights of a few buildings could be seen nearby, but around Dunne’s office on Front Street all was shadow. As MacLea and Murray approached, some of the nearer shadows moved.

  ‘Evening, Captain,’ said Abel Thomas, low-voiced. ‘I’ve got Hill here with me.’

  ‘Where are the others?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘Scattered around, sir, on sentry duty.’

  ‘Is there a nightwatchman inside?’

  ‘I think so, sir. At least, there’s a light in one of the rooms.’

  That complicated things, but it was not unexpected. People sent valuables through the post: bonds, bills of exchange, sometimes even gold. The office was bound to be guarded.

  ‘Hill, can you get us in there?’

  ‘Reckon I can, sir,’ said Hill cheerfully. Something metallic clinked in his gloved hand.

  ‘All right. All we need do now is wait for Madame Lafitte.’

  Another shadow moved. ‘She is here,’ a familiar voice said quietly. ‘Did I hear you say there is a nightwatchman? What are you going to do about him?’

  ‘I reckon we have two options,’ said Murray. ‘Bribery or force.’

  There was a little pause. ‘I must see that letter,’ Josephine said.

  MacLea motioned to Hill, and the two of them moved towards the door, followed by Murray and Josephine. All four were hooded and cloaked, with scarves over their faces so only their eyes could be seen. Even though they were moving as quietly as possible, the crunch of their boots on the snow still sounded painfully loud to MacLea’s ears.

  Hill knelt before the door and inserted some metal implements into the lock. Thirty seconds or so passed, and then the lock gave a sudden click. ‘All set, Cap’n,’ he whispered.

  MacLea pulled his pistol out of his cloak and cocked it, then eased the door open. The room inside was dark and still warm. They slipped in quietly and MacLea closed the door. At the back of the room was a thin line of light, the glow of a lamp emanating from under another door. ‘That way,’ whispered Josephine.

  Slowly and silently, trying not to bump into the furniture in the dark, they made their way towards the light. MacLea raised his pistol, then eased the door slowly open. He expected a shout, a call of alarm, perhaps even a gunshot, but instead there was only silence. He lowered the pistol and looked at the scene before him.


  A single lamp burned on the table. In its light he saw a man in a worn blue coat sitting in a chair beside the stove, sound asleep. A short-barrelled blunderbuss lay on the table, next to a half-empty rum bottle. The man’s snores were the loudest sound in the room.

  ‘Dead drunk,’ murmured Murray.

  ‘What if he wakes up?’ Hill asked.

  ‘Then we’d better keep him quiet a little longer,’ said Murray. He looked at MacLea and read the expression on the captain’s face. ‘I’ll do it. I’m not as squeamish as you.’

  Murray walked across to the nightwatchman and raised his own pistol, then brought it down sharply. There was a dull thud as the barrel connected with the man’s head, and he slid sideways and fell unconscious to the floor.

  ‘Serves him right,’ commented Murray. ‘Drunk and asleep on the job? You really can’t get the help these days.’

  ‘With luck, when he wakes up, he’ll think he fell over and bumped his head,’ MacLea said. ‘Josephine, are you all right?’

  She was shivering, as she did when nervous, but her eyes smiled above her scarf. She walked across to the table and examined the box labelled NIAGARA. ‘Locked,’ she said. ‘Of course, they lock the post boxes for safe keeping when the office is closed. Mr Hill, might we trouble you once more?’

  The lock was a simple one, and Hill needed only seconds to open it. Josephine pulled out the packet and held it up to the lamplight. ‘It is addressed to the quartermaster at Fort George,’ she said. ‘That is Hammond, my old contact. And that in turn means he is still using Hammond.’

  ‘What are you hoping to find in that packet?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘First, my own coded dispatch, which I left for collection yesterday.’ Josephine reached into the pocket of her cloak and took out a small knife with a plain black wooden handle and a very thin blade. She laid this on top of the hot stove. ‘And second,’ she said, ‘another similar dispatch, this one from the agent in Kingston.’

  ‘And who is sending these packets to Hammond?’ MacLea asked. ‘Not you.’

  Josephine shook her head. ‘There is another middleman somewhere, another link in the chain. I leave my letters in a secret place, and someone collects them and forwards them to Hammond, who passes them on to him. I suspect this middleman is also receiving letters from the agent in Kingston, then packaging them up with mine and possibly those of other agents we don’t know about. The whole packet then goes through the post to Hammond.’

  Murray considered this. ‘Isn’t that risky? Forwarding all the dispatches in the same packet?’

  ‘On the other hand, there are fewer packages in circulation, thus reducing the odds of one being intercepted. This is called hiding in plain sight, Mr Murray. It is one of the best forms of disguise.’

  She picked up the knife again and tested the flat of the blade with her finger. ‘Just right,’ she said. ‘Too cold, and the wax will crack or crumble, making it obvious that the seal has been tampered with. Too hot, and the blade melts the wax, with the same result.’

  Carefully she slid the knife blade under the seal on the outside of the packet, then lifted it intact from the paper and set it to one side. Opening the packet with deft fingers, she drew out the papers and held one up in the lamplight. ‘Mine,’ she said.

  No one else said anything at all. Josephine picked up a second document and studied it for a moment, then used the warm knife again to remove its seal and opened the folded paper. ‘Code,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Another grille cipher?’ MacLea asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No. This is an alphanumeric code, with combinations of numbers representing letters but in scrambled order. It is considered to be unbreakable.’

  MacLea’s heart sank. ‘Then you cannot decipher it?’

  The corners of Josephine’s mouth twitched a little. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can read it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because I devised the code myself,’ she said calmly. ‘Back when I was with him. It is the same code I use in my own letters.’

  Silence fell. Josephine held the paper in the lamplight and read it slowly, her brow furrowed a little. MacLea waited, watching her, listening to the distant sound of boots in snow. Hill and Murray watched her too. The tension in the little room began to rise.

  ‘Careless,’ she said eventually. ‘Very careless indeed.’ She replaced her own letter in the packet and held the letter from Kingston in her hand for a moment, thinking. Then, to MacLea’s surprise, she folded it and put it into her pocket.

  ‘Won’t they notice it is missing?’ he asked.

  ‘Not immediately. And I have had an idea.’

  MacLea was still puzzled. ‘The agent in Kingston. Do you know who it is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Josephine.

  Dimly from outside came a harsh grating sound like a file rasping on metal, repeated over and over: the danger call of a whiskey jack.

  MacLea whirled towards Hill and Murray. ‘Go, both of you. Cover the door. Don’t shoot unless you have to.’ They nodded and ran out of the room. Josephine was already using the warm knife to reseal the packet. She replaced it in the box marked NIAGARA, and MacLea grabbed her arm and pulled her through into the main office. Hill crouched by the open door, musket raised; Murray was already outside. ‘Someone is coming,’ MacLea hissed. ‘Hurry!’

  They fled through the door and into the night, boots slipping on the ice, not stopping until they were around the corner behind the warehouses. There they halted in the deep shadows, scarves still covering their faces to keep them from sucking in too much of the lung-burningly cold air. MacLea looked around. ‘Where is Hill?’

  ‘Here he comes,’ whispered Murray. A dark shape flew around the corner and stopped, leaning against the wall and panting.

  ‘What the devil were you doing?’ hissed MacLea.

  ‘Lockin’ the door behind us, Cap’n. I figured if he found the door open and the watchman with a dunt in his head, he’d figure out somethin’ was wrong right away. This way, he won’t be sure.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Mr Dunne,’ said Hill. ‘That was him, comin’ back to his office.’

  ‘Dunne? What’s he doing here at this time of night?’

  ‘I think I might be able to guess,’ said Josephine, her voice husky with strain and cold. ‘I said I knew who the spy in Kingston is. I don’t know his name – they weren’t that careless – but I know what post he holds. In the letter, he says he has access to the correspondence of Colonel Vincent, the commander at Kingston, and of all the other officers in the garrison and shipyard as well as the town worthies. That means he is employed in the post office at Kingston. Therefore, he is one of Elijah Dunne’s men.’

  * * *

  Out in the darkness, a snowy owl hooted enquiringly. Hill put his hands to his mouth and returned the call, and a few minutes later the rest of the men came slipping through the shadows behind the warehouses. ‘Mr Dunne ain’t happy,’ said Crabbe. ‘We could hear him inside the office, shouting and ranting like anything.’

  Berating the hapless nightwatchman, MacLea thought. Poor fellow. On the other hand, Alec was right. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep on the job.

  ‘Miller, Croghan, wait here,’ he said. ‘When Dunne leaves, follow him. Report his every move to Corporal Thomas, just as before.’

  ‘What about Mr Burwell?’ asked Miller. ‘We were watchin’ him.’

  ‘Burwell is of no consequence. Dunne is your target now. The rest of you, well done. Go get a hot drink and some rest.’

  The men dispersed into the shadows. Alec Murray retreated discreetly, leaving MacLea alone with Josephine. ‘What are you going to do with that letter?’ he asked.

  ‘That depends,’ she said. ‘What will you do about the man in Kingston?’

  ‘Inform Robinson and ask him to pass word discreetly to Colonel Vincent. Thanks to you, it will be easy enough to find the spy. We should have him behind bars within the week, ten days at most.’

  ‘I sha
ll wait until I receive word of his capture,’ she said. ‘Only then will I destroy the letter. It will be as if it had never existed. And from now on, I shall be their only source of information about Kingston. I can say what I like.’

  MacLea knew the answer, but he had to ask. ‘And what will you do if we don’t capture the spy?’

  ‘I will find a way to forward the letter,’ she said. ‘And I will change my own story as well, and say I was mistaken. I will confirm that the garrison at Kingston is weak, a few companies of infantry at most, and a determined American attack could take the place easily. I am sorry, John. But it is necessary.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know Colonel Vincent, and he will do his best to find the Kingston agent.’

  A silence fell. They looked at each other. ‘Shall I walk you home?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I can look after myself.’ She turned and walked away, a ripple of darkness disappearing into the deeper night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  New Year’s Eve dawned cold and bright. That morning, while the winter sun was still struggling over the horizon, MacLea called on John Beverley Robinson. ‘I am sorry to intrude on you so early, sir. But I fear the matter is urgent.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Robinson. He indicated the table before him. ‘Have you eaten? There are eggs and trout and devilled kidneys on the sideboard, and Cook can make some more toast.’

  MacLea shook his head. ‘I breakfasted at my hotel, sir.’

  ‘Well, have some coffee anyway. Take a seat. Rogers, a cup of coffee for Captain MacLea, and then you can leave us.’

  The servant came forward and poured a cup of coffee, setting it silently in front of MacLea, then bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘The Americans have an agent in Kingston,’ MacLea said. ‘Probably only a low-level watcher, but he is sending information about the weakness of the fortifications and garrison.’