Cobb returned, leading Marc’s mare. “I’ll put you in the cart, Major—where ya aren’t liable to fall out—and do my best to walk this donkey gently home.”
“The mare will follow along,” Marc said as he allowed Cobb to hoist him into the box of the cart. There was no driver’s bench, as the butcher who owned it simply led the donkey through the narrowest of alleys in the town, delivering his wares to the back doors of inns and taverns. Cobb grasped the halter, and the tiny entourage started down the road towards the city limits.
“So, Major, how in heaven’s name did you succeed in comin’ all the way out here to try and get yerself killed?”
“Your story first,” Marc said. He was still too numb to talk with any semblance of coherence. “How did you manage to arrive just in time to save me—again?”
“It’s a bit of a tall tale, Major, but at the rate this ass is hoofin’ it, we got all the time we need.” Without turning his head, Cobb told his story. “It all started around five o’clock. Me and the missus and the little Cobbs was just tuckin’ into a joint of rare beef when Wilkie comes poundin’ on our door. ‘Mistress Cobb,’ I say, ‘we’re in fer trouble, mark my words.’ And so it come about. Seems that young Maisie Pollock’d come rushin’ into the station house with her hair a-flyin’ and her eyes as big as a guinea hen’s, and when she catches her breath, she sobs out a tale of terror and violence.”
Cobb paused to give Marc the opportunity to say sharply, “Has anything happened to Mrs. Standish?”
“Calm yerself, sir. Everybody’s okay—now. Seems that Lieutenant Willoughby come home about four-thirty in a wild and unmannerly state, which is a polite way of sayin’ he was pissed and belligerent. He was swearin’ like a Trojan and talkin’ to himself, and when the widow tried to calm him down, he pushed her into a laundry hamper and called Maisie a lewd name, which she refuses to repeat, and then stomped off to his room. And just when they think he might be gonna sleep it off, they hear the most godawful crashin’ sounds and the most dreadful cursin’—mostly yer name bein’ taken in vain—and by the time they get up a nerve to have a gander, he comes staggerin’ out of there like a ravin’ loonie, knocks Maisie on the cheek with an elbow, and roars out of the house. The room is a shambles—bedclothes ripped and scattered, drawers pulled out and smashed, feathers tore out of the mattress. Wilkie and me saw this fer ourselves when we got there. So there’s nothin’ to be done but to give up the best part of our Sabbath and go huntin’ fer the lunatic.”
“Is Maisie all right?”
“Nothin’ a kindly nod from yer direction won’t cure,” Cobb said, still looking ahead at the moon-washed fields between them and town. A few paces later, he took up his story again. “In the state he was in, we thought Willoughby could do some awful harm to anyone in his way. We know most of the taverns he frequents, so Wilkie and me divvy them up and go lookin’ in them one by one. But there’s not a whiff of him anywheres, and nobody admits to seein’ him. So we finally give up, and Wilkie goes home to his family, but I figure I ought to take one more peek to see if the widow’s okay, figurin’ that Willoughby might’ve circled back there. But everythin’s calm, the women’re tidyin’ up the room, and they mention you’re up at the barracks, so I plan on hikin’ out there to let you know what’s happened and ask you to keep a close eye on the widow and Maisie.
But, of course, I spot you gallopin’ past me like a runaway colt, and I holler after you, but you’re spooked or somethin’—and I start thinkin’ maybe you and Willoughby have been bad boys together, so I commandeer the nearest vehicle, this butcher-cart parked outside Gandy Griffith’s house, and I light out after you. Except it’s damned hard to get a donkey to trot and to steer him whilst jouncin’ in the back. I see you’re keepin’ to Front Street, so I tag along as best I can. Then I lose sight of you, but when I get to the end of Front Street, I can see yer dust way down the brewery road, and I figure you’re headin’ fer Turner’s or the wharf. When I get here, with half my teeth loose, I mosey about and finally spot yer horse tied up behind. I go in, and hear voices. I light a lantern and head fer the noise. And that’s about it.”
“Thank you,” was all Marc could say, knowing it was not half-enough.
“But you ain’t heard the best part yet,” Cobb said, and Marc could hear the wink in his voice. “The widow found this while she was tidyin’ up.”
Out of the big pocket of his coat, Cobb drew a bushy, black beard.
“Well, that’s the precise piece of physical evidence we need,” Marc said. His mind had miraculously cleared, and he was thinking hard—despite the drum roll of a colossal headache.
“It’s an actor’s beard,” Cobb added. “You can feel the glue ’round the edges. I’m told you gentry-men back ’ome are given to puttin’ on theatricals.”
Marc decided it was time to fill Cobb in on as many of the details about the murder as he could ethically reveal. He began by describing Willoughby’s certain but unprovable complicity in the death of Crazy Dan. He then explained—to Cobb’s intermittent “ums” and “ahs” of surprise or confirmation—that he himself had been the target of Rumsey’s bullet, but that when he and Sir Francis had both bent down to retrieve his speech, the bullet had struck Moncreiff instead. Marc did not mention that he had assumed, for a day, that the governor had been the intended victim, nor his misreading of the scorched remnant of Rumsey’s note.
“I thought you two was friends,” Cobb said when Marc’s narrative stalled.
Marc told him about Willoughby’s jealousy, touching briefly on his reluctant romp with Prudence Maxwell and not at all on his encounter with the misnamed Chastity. He also let Cobb know that Sir Francis was the one who had ordered the investigation closed, being happy with the results as they stood and pooh-poohing any suggestion that Rumsey was a paid assassin.
“Well, now we know he was paid,” Marc concluded, “and by whom. And we have all the proof we need in that regard, and the attempt on my life here will confirm that it was I who was the target all along. We shall go together to Government House, wake up Sir Francis, and give him the complete story, the whole unvarnished truth.”
Cobb was silent for a long while. They were drawing near to the first houses on Front Street, where windows glowed with the warm light of the lamps within.
“I don’t see that we got proof of anythin’,” Cobb said at last.
Marc was flabbergasted. “But you are my witness, Constable. You saw Colin Willoughby try to kill me. You found me bound hand and foot with this goose egg on my skull!”
“What I seen, Major, and what I believe are not quite the same.”
“In what way? What on earth are you driving at?”
“Just this, Major. All I actually saw from the floor of the brewery was someone who might’ve been Willoughby standin’ wild-eyed over you. You were tied up, as I found out when I got up there. I yelled at everybody to stop whatever they was doin’—until I could climb up and see fer myself. Then I start up the ladder and I can see nothin’ but the ladder and the dark. Nobody up there is sayin’ a word. Just as I start to peek over the top rung, what do I see but you rollin’ like a croquet ball and smackin’ Willoughby a crack on the legs that sends him tumblin’ into the brew.”
“But he had a pistol out and was going to shoot you. I saved your life!”
“I believe you, Major, and I’m grateful, too. I won’t forget it.”
“But?”
“But all I really saw was the black shape of Willoughby fallin’ over the rim of the vat. We’ll probably find the pistol with him when they drain the vat in the mornin’. Which’ll only go to show that he had his officer’s pistol with him—not who he was aimin’ it at.”
“All right, Constable,” Marc said coldly. “Tell me what point you’re really trying to make.”
“There’s no cause to sulk, Major. But what I’m thinkin’ is this. You and me have a pretty clear notion of what happened, then and now. But how might all this look to other peopl
e? The widow sees Willoughby in a lather and cursin’ you by name. That suggests there’s bad blood between you two. I see you racin’ off to the brewery so het up you don’t hear me hollerin’ at you from thirty feet away. When I get here, half an hour later, I find you two up on the catwalk. You’re tied up: by Willoughby or by the robbers you may’ve surprised. Maybe Willoughby was plannin’ to get revenge on you, but it’s only your story that he intended to toss you into the vat: maybe he was aimin’ to tickle you within an inch of yer life—in a manner of speakin’. What I do know is only what I seen: and that was you whiplashin’ Willoughby inta the beer-mash where he drowned.”
Against his better judgment Marc was beginning to understand where Cobb was taking this scenario. In a curious way he was perhaps trying to protect Marc—the man who had, as he well knew, just saved his life at the risk of his own. Nonetheless, he felt compelled to say, “But it was Willoughby who had the motive. I had no reason to kill him.”
“Well, I expect Miss Dewart-Smythe will back up that part of the business—should ya want to involve her in this mess—but what about the scrap over Mrs. Maxwell? Would it be wise to air all that dirty laundry? And someone with a suspicious mind might think it was you who was worried about Willoughby takin’ yer job and yer woman away from you. You said yerself that Willoughby pleased the governor while you was off investigatin’.”
“But nothing happened with Mrs. Maxwell. I’ve told you that as an officer and a gentleman.”
“And I believe you, Major. Still and all, there’s a good chance yer fancy hat is lyin’ somewheres about Somerset House.”
“Prudence Maxwell will deny everything. Her husband is possessive and easily enraged. I think we have little to fear on that score.”
“Maybe so. But I’ve also heard his missus is quite a spiteful lady regardin’ matters of the heart. After all, you’ve gone and killed her lover.”
Marc felt a sudden pang of pity for Prudence Maxwell, for her despairing gambits into lust, for her loveless existence. He hoped that Chastity might manage to make something more satisfying of her life.
“And it’s said she holds the purse strings in that particular household,” Cobb added.
Despite his aching ankle and throbbing head, Marc found Cobb’s arguments aroused the latent barrister in him. “But all of this assumes that some person out there with influence or motive will press these matters. Is there any reason someone in authority should not believe the sworn testimony of a policeman and a British officer? I can assure you that the governor himself will be enormously relieved.” Of this Marc was certain, knowing as he did that Sir Francis still thought he himself might have been the target and that his mortal enemy might yet be plotting a second attempt on his life. The news that his aide-de-camp had been the intended victim and that the motive had been personal jealousy would come as a great relief. He would be able to get on with winning the election.
“It’s the governor I’m anxious about,” Cobb said. They were now stopped where the brewery road met Front Street.
“Well, you needn’t be. I can’t tell you why, but he’ll be relieved when I tell him the truth.”
“Maybe so. But think of this, Major: the polling starts tomorrow, and in most places goes on fer a couple of weeks. The governor wants nothin’ more than to crush all the folks who don’t agree with him. And so far, everythin’s gone his way. Law and order and loyalty’ve been his watchwords. Then along comes the cold-blooded shootin’ of Councillor Moncreiff, a man beloved by all, they say. Then, lo and behold, the governor’s personal investigator unmasks the killer, one Philo Rumsey, and he—oh lucky stars!—turns out to be a Yankee. Barely a week goes by before the governor’s own troop puts enough lead in him to sink a three-master—a perfect endin’ to this sorry tale. The assassin from Buffalo, where democratical demagogues’re as thick as herring, is hunted down and given rough justice by the wit and grit of the governor himself, the King’s very own representative.”
“Go on,” Marc said, but he already knew what was coming, and his heart was turning to ice.
“So along you come, draggin’ him out of bed to tell him he’s got the story all wrong. It ain’t the splendid one he’s been proclaiming from a dozen hustings and feedin’ blow by blow to the Tory papers. Oh, no, it’s a messy saga of love and jealousy between two officers. And these officers, oh my, turn out to be two of his own aides, and one them, alack-a-day, is the chief investigator of the Moncreiff murder, and what does he find out? After Rumsey is gunned down and hanged in effigy in ten counties, he finds out, long after the governor’s fairy tale’s been heard and conned by heart, that, by golly, there was no political connection at all. Rumsey was just a poor man with a big family who needed money to feed his starvin’ bairns. And these two aides of the governor—hand-picked by Sir Francis himself—have been hoppin’ in and out of the same beds, and end up facin’ each other down in a brewhouse, till one of them is tipped into the booze and drowns like a river rat.”
Cobb was right. The only physical evidence left was an actor’s beard, and that by itself meant nothing. Many of his fellow officers kept such props and, as he had once been, were enthusiastic thespians. The note that had brought him here was in shreds. Suddenly he thought of something he had overlooked. With rising hope, he said, “But the duty-corporal was given the note by a youngster and told it was from Willoughby and directed to me personally.”
“And where will we find this lad?” Cobb said, almost apologetically. “And the corporal didn’t actually see what was in the letter, did he? So as far as he’s concerned, it may’ve been a message to get you up to the brewery fer a gentleman’s showdown: a duel of honour—in a manner of speakin’. Besides, you’re still missin’ my point. Yer governor ain’t gonna want to hear what you got to say.”
Marc felt he had no choice but to break his oath to Sir Francis. “You must swear never to tell a soul, Constable, but the governor received evidence, now discredited, that he might have been the target. And he still thinks so. You are right in surmising that he does not want the Moncreiff-Rumsey version of the murder disturbed in any way. But for his own personal well-being, I feel obligated to tell him—with as much conviction and with what scant evidence we have—that he was not the target. I know him well enough to realize that he will not simply accept my word on that score: I shall have to lay out the full story, sordid as it is, and call on you to assist me. Please understand that I am not asking you to tell Sir Francis anything but the absolute truth—no more and no less.”
Cobb appeared to think about this remark for a moment, then said, “And he may believe us. All I’m sayin’ is he will never let such a story get out to the voters—or the Reform press.”
Again, Cobb was right. Sir Francis was aware of the erratic nature of Willoughby’s character and would certainly give Marc the benefit of the doubt regarding the nature of their conflict and its deadly outcome. But he would never, in the present circumstances, allow such tawdry details to become public knowledge. Mackenzie would have a heyday with it. He would no longer need Farmer’s Friend.
“And knowin’ the governor,” Cobb was saying, “he’ll probably make us swear on the Bible never to tell a livin’ soul.”
Yes—another solemn vow to withhold the truth in the cause of the common good. But Marc could not do it. He had had enough of vows to last him a lifetime. And what was an honest man to do when loyalties clash and cannot be resolved? “But we’ve got a dead officer drowned in a vat of beer with a cocked pistol,” he said wearily, as if such dilemmas were too vast or too minute to be bothered with.
Cobb was stroking the donkey’s nose. “I been considerin’ that,” he said. “If you decide not to tell the governor what really happened, it wouldn’t be hard to set up a story to explain Willoughby bein’ at the bottom of a vat.”
“And just how would we go about that?”
“Well, Major, after I help you home, return this butcher-cart, and take yer horse up to the stables, I could go
back to the brewery, jimmy the warehouse doors a bit, and roll a couple of kegs into the river.”
“What on earth for?”
“You’ll report Willoughby missin’ in the mornin’, and as this brewery is part of Wilkie’s patrol, he’ll be up here to look into the break-in, and whenever Willoughby’s body decides to float to the top or the brewers give the wort a good stir, it’ll look like Willoughby, drunk or not, came up here, fully armed, and surprised the robbers. And paid fer it with his life. He’ll be hailed as a hero. And the governor’ll have another officer to brag about, and Willoughby’s poor ol’ dad’ll be saved the grief of findin’ out his son was a perfect monster.”
“But what about Willoughby’s actions at the widow’s place? His movements tonight will be investigated, surely. Chief Constable Sturges will have heard of Maisie’s complaint. And the duty-corporal will remember my taking the note, even if he knew nothing of its contents.”
That made Cobb stop and think for a moment or so. Finally he said, “All you gotta do is say the note was an apology to you and Mrs. Standish. I’ll say, if anybody bothers to ask, that neither Wilkie nor me found Willoughby in our wanderings, but I did run into Lieutenant Edwards lyin’ in a field at the edge of town, a little drunk and a lot woozy from fallin’ off his horse. I then dash back to town fer help, borry the donkey-cart, and deliver ya safe to yer bed and board. Ain’t that the way it happened, Lieutenant Edwards?”
Despite his amazement, Marc managed to say, “But how would an officer like Willoughby get wind of a robbery?”
Cobb smiled. “I hear tell he spent a lot of time on the King’s business in the Blue Ox and other such waterin’ holes—where loose talk is as common as loose bowels. Even so, I can’t see any of this stuff really bein’ necessary. You’ve got to remember, Major, the folks that run this province are fond of takin’ the most agreeable and least irksome story as the truth.”
Once again Marc had underestimated the pure cunning of the native-born Upper Canadian. He was too exhausted to work out any specific rationalization for his decision, but he knew, deep down where most things in life really mattered, that he had no choice but to choose as he did. “All right, Constable. Let’s do it.”
Solemn Vows (Marc Edwards) Page 22
