Marc nodded, and finished the last of his coffee. It was cold.
“And I fully believe that the fact that I was appointed by a Whig government—and was not automatically accorded membership in that claque of bankers, lawyers, and men of property they call the Family Compact—has made it not only more difficult for the fanatics on both sides, the Orange lunatics and the so- called Clear Grits, to label me partisan but also has given me credibility on the hustings and at the levees.”
“Quite true, sir.”
Sir Francis leaned back in his wing chair and took a deep breath, aware perhaps that he had just delivered a rostrum speech to two seated confederates in a small room. Then with a twinkle he said, more reflectively, “Oh, I know how many of those who now gather round me and cling to the royal hem once sniggered at my appointment: a half- pay major—down on his luck doing a hack job as commissioner of the poor law—daring to replace the dashing Sir John Colborne, high Tory and hero of Waterloo. But their skepticism then and their sycophancy now neither deters nor influences me. I was sent here by Lord Glenelg with a specific mission. And I intend to accomplish it. Let your farmers in York rant for a while. They’ll come onside after the election, you’ll see.”
But would they? Marc wondered. It was imperative that the governor have a less fractious Assembly if he were to begin to address the farmers’ many grievances, but a Constitutionist sweep at the polls could have unforeseeable consequences. As Marc had learned in January during his investigation in Cobourg, the Upper Canadian farmer was righteously bitter, politically astute, and increasingly willing to take bolder, riskier action.
“Now, Major, if you’ll take up your pen, I wish to sit back and hear Lieutenant Edwards’s report on the assassination of Councillor Moncreiff. From what Dr. Withers intimated, you were about to follow up several promising avenues as he left you.”
With the tragic business of Crazy Dan apparently closed, Marc recounted in precise detail his visit to Phineas and Sarah-Mae Kimble, his search of the attic room above the harness shop, and his discovery of Philo Rumsey’s likely involvement. Sir Francis listened without interruption, his face impassive, while Major Burns scratched away with his quill pen.
“Excellent work, Lieutenant,” Sir Francis said when Marc had finished. “Outstanding work. Sir John’s opinion of you, I see, was understated.”
“Thank you, sir, but I am afraid we’re only partway there. Until we apprehend Philo Rumsey and question him, we cannot be certain that what seems obvious is actually true.”
“It usually is, in my experience. But I take your point.”
“And while I’m pretty certain it was Rumsey who pulled the trigger, or else a close confidant, there is the puzzling question of motive. Why would an out- of- work harness- maker who prefers to hunt deer murder Councillor Moncreiff in such a public place and in such a public manner?”
“A pertinent question, eh? Especially as we are in the middle of an election campaign and the murdered man was a member of my cabinet, so to speak.”
“The possibility of this being a politically motivated killing seems likely, does it not?”
“You think the radical Reformers might be behind this atrocity?”
Marc did not reply. While he feared such a possibility for what it might do to the stability of the province, he had an even deeper fear, one that had occurred to him again as he had been making notes this morning in preparation for this interview. “Have you considered, sir, that Councillor Moncreiff may not have been the target?”
Sir Francis leaned forward and Major Burns dropped his pen. “What do you mean? You’ve just said this Philo fellow was a hunter and an expert marksman with a rifled weapon. Surely he knew at whom he was shooting.”
“Well, sir, it only occurred to me an hour ago as I was re-picturing in my mind the sequence of events just before the shot rang out.”
“And?”
“And instead of rising from your seat as you appeared about to do, you dropped a paper and bent down to retrieve it.”
No one spoke for several long seconds. Then Sir Francis laughed. “Nonsense! No one would dare assassinate the King’s representative. No British governor has ever been put at such risk, even in uncivilized places like the penal colonies of Van Diemen’s Land. It is simply unthinkable—a preposterous notion!”
“I agree, sir, that it is difficult to fathom a British subject committing such an act, but the shooter in this case is a transplanted American with brothers currently in the U.S.army. Moreover, he is poor and disaffected; he may even be deranged. God knows who might have put him up to such a desperate business.”
“All of which are relevant points, no doubt. But you are barking up the wrong tree, young man. Meantime, we do have a gentleman dead of a gunshot wound. It was Moncreiff who was actually murdered, so surely it would make sense to begin at least with the assumption that he was the intended victim and work out from that not- unreasonable position.”
“Yes, sir. I am quite prepared to do just that.”
“Good. And let’s have no more foolish talk of de facto regicide. It’s too early in the morning.” His eyes bounced momentarily.
Marc carried on. “What I propose to do, then—with your approval, of course—is to discover if there is any connection between Councillor Moncreiff and Philo Rumsey. Perhaps some action recently taken by your new Executive Council affected Rumsey or his family negatively. Perhaps it was something a previous council did, and Rumsey decided to take revenge at the earliest opportunity. I recall that your itinerary for the York Township address and the names of the accompanying contingent were published in the Upper Canada Gazette a full ten days before the event.”
“Yes, that was part of my strategy to win the ordinary folk over to the King’s side, even before I officially dissolved the Assembly: to publicize my addresses widely and to include selected legislators to sit with me on the platform and share the limelight.”
“Rumsey had, then, forewarning and the time to set up his alibi in Buffalo,” Marc said. “In that regard, we’ll have to have someone, from Fort George perhaps, slip across to New York State and check out Rumsey’s dying mother.”
“And try to ascertain whether Rumsey had connections with any republican fanatics over there. He might be a member of one of the Hunters’ Lodges, the ones I read about in Sir John’s report of your first investigation in January.”
“That is always possible. But from the looks of his cabin and the wretched state of his family, I’d say not likely.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll send a request to Fort George to have the Rumsey clan checked out.” Sir Francis gave a little sigh. “I suppose, though, we’ll have to face the fact that if he did murder the councillor, he may decide to stay in Buffalo or go farther inland where we’ll never catch him.”
“I don’t think so, sir. His wife and six children are near to starvation. I believe he’ll be back in the province within the next few days or so.”
“But if he is that indigent, then I suppose you’ll have to consider the possibility that someone might have paid him to murder Moncreiff.”
“In which case there could be a personal motive.”
“And that means you’ll have to look into Moncreiff’s private life.” Sir Francis grimaced. “An unsavoury task, and one that will demand the utmost tact. Which is why I want you to undertake it. What do you propose to do first?”
“Well, sir, we need to have Rumsey’s cabin watched day and night. As a hunter and long-time resident, he knows the area and the bush around it. He won’t stroll across the square at Danby’s Crossing and wave to his friends. Phineas Kimble, the harness- maker, will need to be questioned again, and anyone else up there who knew Rumsey, to get as much background information on him as we can. I myself will interview Councillor Moncreiff’s brother- in- law, Ignatius Maxwell, and discreetly explore the victim’s recent personal life and his political connections. And I thought of doing something un-orthodox in order to discover how he was
viewed politically by the Reformers.”
“Unorthodox?”
“Yes. I was hoping to obtain your permission to interview William Lyon Mackenzie.”
Mackenzie was the leading Reformer, a rabble-rousing firebrand, and editor of the Constitution, a weekly newspaper whose pages routinely excoriated the government and its leadership.
Sir Francis flinched. “That man’s a fanatic. What he won’t prevaricate he’ll equivocate. You’d be wasting your time and putting the investigation at risk.”
“I met him back in January, sir. In fact, I saved him from a tar-and-feathering, and we had a brief conversation. I know he trusts me, and I believe he will give us a perspective on the councillor’s political status that might prove invaluable.”
Sir Francis began to fidget with his coffee cup. The sun had risen close to its zenith and no longer flooded the room. “All right, you may go ahead. And while you’re there, I want you to ask him to provide me with the name of a very irritating letter- writer who’s been filling the pages of the Constitution with tripe and nonsense now for the past month—someone who hides like a coward behind the pseudonym of ‘Farmer’s Friend.’”
“I’ll ask him, sir.”
Sir Francis detected the note of skepticism in Marc’s response. “Tell Mackenzie that I wish only to discuss the issues raised in these letters with their author—as part of my assiduous and continuing effort to understand the long- time grievances.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“More important, it seems obvious that you are going to need some assistance, especially if you expect to carry out your proposed work within the next day or two. And I’m referring to expert help, not the enthused amateurism of your junior officers or NCOs.”
“Where would I get such assistance?”
“When Toronto became a city two years ago, the municipal council established a five-man constabulary modelled on the force that was set up by Robert Peel in London in ’29.”
“The bobbies?”
“That’s right. While they are still nominally supervised by the magistrates, they act on behalf of the city council, as a unit, as a kind of independent police force, with specific duties and designated territories. I know the chief constable, Wilfrid Sturges, quite well, as he was a sergeant- major in Wellington’s army. He spent three years on the London force before emigrating here last year to help establish the Toronto constabulary.”
“And you think he’ll be able to help us?” Marc was dubious.
“Indeed. I’m going to send a message to him within the hour and request that he offer his best man to you today, to be attached solely to you and your investigation.”
“That is most kind of you, sir, but I feel obliged to point out that the murder took place outside the city limits in the Township of York, where the Toronto constables have no authority.”
Head frowned almost imperceptibly. “It is not authority I am interested in, but expertise and local knowledge. I have declared this assassination to be a concern of the military and hence to be placed under the jurisdiction of the military, who in turn take their orders from me.”
“I see, sir.”
“And, Lieutenant, I hope you can see also that those of us who bear the heaviest burdens of power and responsibility must occasionally ride roughshod over the petty rules and small- minded regulations confected by bureaucrats to keep themselves amused.”
Marc smiled. “That is the reason I abandoned the law, sir.”
Sir Francis smiled also, but his smile was more like that of the fox that had just surprised himself at his own cunning, as he said, “In the meantime, while we are quietly checking out Rumsey and watching his house in the township—the full hue and cry would send him to cover forever—I will tell the Executive Council, who will in due course tell just about everyone else in the province, that we have a prime suspect in our sights, and that it appears he was a hired killer.”
“But why tip our hand in any way, sir?”
“Ah, I see, Lieutenant, that you have not yet mastered the fine art of the politician. If, for the moment, the populace believes the assassin to be a hired killer—and he may well be, do not forget—then who in the current political context is most likely to be suspected of hiring him to shoot a Constitutionist councillor?”
Marc saw, but he was less than impressed. Not only might the investigation be compromised by the premature release of vital information, but allowing the radical Reform group to be obliquely blamed for “hiring an assassin” was certain to harden, not soften, the divisions between left and right, and could severely skew the coming election. “Perhaps we’ll have the blackguard in irons within the week,” Marc said with little conviction.
“I want you to take all the time you need, Lieutenant. You are to devote every waking hour to this investigation. While there may be some short-term political gain in having the matter unresolved, any failure of the government, and hence of the governor, to apprehend the heinous assassin of a respected privy councillor would undo those gains and begin to cast doubt upon my promise to provide a period of peace and stability as the necessary prerequisite to addressing the people’s concerns.”
“And you yourself, sir, will need to be circumspect in your comings and goings until we know more about the nature and extent of this business.”
Sir Francis leaned back. “Then you don’t know me, Lieutenant. Not only do I have no intention of curtailing my public appearances, I have already put in train plans for an expanded trip into the London district, beginning next Monday.”
“You can’t mean that, sir? Those counties down there are the hotbed of radicalism. Half the populace are naturalized Americans.”
“Be that as it may, I intend to lead a delegation of Executive councillors to Brantford, Woodstock, and London—where I shall stand tall upon the hustings and deliver my message of hope and reconciliation.”
“But, sir, if I am to continue the investigation, then I’ll—”
“—not be able to organize the guard for my protection.”
“Precisely.”
“I will take Willoughby with me. In fact, starting this afternoon, Willoughby will replace you temporarily here at Government House as my assistant military secretary. I have a mountain of correspondence to get through before I set out next week.”
“Willoughby is a good man, certainly. He has done much of the detailed, day-to-day work on security …”
Sir Francis caught the reservation in Marc’s assessment. He smiled paternally. “You don’t have to be coy about Willoughby, Marc. I know all about his checkered past. I am a friend of his good father, and it was I who agreed to bring him out here with me. He is still young enough, I hope, to find himself as a man, and what better means could there be for doing so than taking on a new profession in a new country? In fact, my original intention was to put him in charge of my security and work him in as military secretary eventually. He is, as you know, well educated and highly intelligent.”
“Why did you not do so?”
“First, a few days after our arrival, he got himself disgracefully drunk and ran about Government House frightening the maids and throwing wild punches at anyone trying to restrain him—all this while babbling incoherently about his ‘faithless Rosy’!”
“The woman who left him at the altar,” Marc said.
“Indeed. Then, while I was reconsidering the matter, I read Sir John’s report on your splendid work in the Cobourg investigation and his unequivocal recommendation that I take you on as my aide-de-camp.”
“Well, Willoughby has begun to adjust nicely in the past few months, has he not?”
“Thanks to you, lad. And to Mrs. Standish’s cooking. There’s even a rumour that he may have himself a lady friend.” Sir Francis raised one eyebrow.
“Truthfully, sir, I’ve seen no sign of it, but, until yesterday, he had seemed much more optimistic and friendly, less given to moodiness.”
“Yes, I heard about yesterday from Hilliar
d, who let the cat out of the bag, I’m afraid.”
“It was the sight of the body, sir. Crazy Dan was hit with a full volley. The corpse was a mess. Several of the men were sick.”
“I know all about that sort of thing, alas. I was at Waterloo—a slaughtering ground. Mind you, I was with the engineers and not in the main battle at all, but I was close enough, nonetheless. He’ll get over it, as far as anyone ever does.”
“He’ll be happy to hear your news, sir. I think keeping him active and giving him more responsibility is just the tonic he needs.”
“Then why don’t you send him in on your way out.”
Marc paused before answering.
“He is at his post, is he not?” Sir Francis narrowed his gaze.
“In fact, sir, I could not rouse him before I left at ten-thirty.”
Head’s blue eyes blazed with a cold, steady fire. “Well, Lieu tenant, please return home instantly and inform Lieutenant Willoughby that he is to report to this office by one o’clock ready for duty. If he fails to do so, he will find himself sulking in the brig!”
“Yes, sir!” Marc jumped to his feet, knocking over his empty coffee cup.
The noise woke up Major Burns, who had been peacefully asleep for the last part of the interview—the quill frozen in his arthritic grip.
Sir Francis got up and drew the pen tenderly from the Major’s fingers. “I may need both you and Willoughby soon,” he said to Marc at the door.
Then, as the governor walked Marc into the anteroom, he snapped at one of his underlings, “Corporal, help Major Burns to his rooms.”
Solemn Vows (Marc Edwards) Page 6
