Unholy Alliance

by Don Gutteridge

  Cobb grinned. “You like to take yer time about interrogatin’, don’t ya?”

  “Never begin until you know all you can – ”

  “In advance of yer questionin’,” Cobb finished up with a chuckle.

  “So, let’s get to it,” his mentor said.

  ***

  As they stepped out into the rotunda and turned towards the front of the house, they heard the door to the servants’ wing open. Priscilla Finch came trotting past them balancing a tray of buns and tarts.

  “Miss Finch,” Marc said to her, “could we have a word, please?”

  Priscilla looked as if a word with the policemen or any other male was the last thing she wished, but she stopped at the entrance to the dining-room, drew her tray up to her chest, and waited, dutifully. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and made a vivid contrast with the washed-out white of her face. All her prettiness had vanished. Obviously the shock of finding the butler dead and cold in his office had deeply affected her.

  “I know you’ve had a terrible shock, miss,” Marc said as Cobb gallantly took the tray off her hands (and palmed a tart as he did so). “But I really do need to know something that you may be able to help me with.”

  “I-I’ll try my best, sir,” she stammered, unable to control the trembling of her lower lip.

  “Mr. Macaulay asked you and Bragg to prepare the bathroom for possible use later last evening, did he not?”

  “Yessir,” she said warily. “We try to be a-bed or in our quarters before nine-thirty if possible, as we’re often up a five-thirty or six in the mornin’.”

  “Bragg would have made sure the boiler was full of hot water and you, I presume, would bring up a fresh supply of towels and soaps?”

  “Yessir. I did that about seven o’clock. Mr. Bragg was to come up a bit later an’ stoke up the stove.”

  “Did you place any soaps or salts on the little shelf above the tub?” Marc asked, recalling, as he did so, the layout of the room he had been shown on Wednesday.

  “Matter of fact, I did, sir. Several bars of perfumed soap and a big jar of bath salts.”

  “Please, think carefully before answering: did you notice whether or not Mrs. Macaulay’s spare bottle of laudanum was on that shelf?”

  “I don’t haveta think, sir. It was there at seven o’clock. I recall ‘cause I reached over the tub an’ had to shunt it aside a bit in order to get the pot of salts to sit there properly.”

  “Thank you, Miss Finch,” Marc said, and nodded at Cobb to return the tray. Priscilla took it eagerly and disappeared into the dining-room.

  “That was serendipitous, Cobb,” Marc said. “We now know the laudanum was there at seven. I believe we can take Miss Finch at her word – for now. So, sometime between seven and, say, twelve-thirty in the morning, someone in this house slipped into the bathroom and removed it. All our guests knew where it was because Macaulay announced its whereabouts at supper, and certainly the servants would know.”

  “You want me to head downstairs an’ start in on them?” Cobb asked around a mouthful of mince tart.

  “Yes. I’m setting up in the library. Meet me for luncheon at one o’clock. That should give us time to complete the interviews and jot down some preliminary remarks and conclusions. Then we’ll go into the library and compare notes. With any luck, we’ll develop one or two leads that will dictate our afternoon activities.”

  “I reckon we’re gonna need a little luck, Major.”

  ***

  Marc could not bring himself to treat Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks as murder suspects, so he asked Macaulay to bring them into the library together. In addition to the matter of the murder itself, the three friends and political colleagues were acutely aware of the complications it would bring to their deliberations here. However, as tempting as it was to plunge directly into a discussion of these complications, they resisted the urge admirably. Robert and Hincks sat down at one side of the conference table and quietly faced Marc in his role as investigator.

  “Graves Chilton was found in his office early this morning,” Marc began, “poisoned by some sherry he had drunk that had been laced with laudanum. We have reason to believe the laudanum came from the bathroom off the rotunda, and was removed from there after seven o’clock last night. Although it is possible that Chilton committed suicide, all the circumstances point to deliberate murder, carried out by some person who shared a drink with him some time after midnight.”

  From their expression it was clear to Marc that his colleagues had already gleaned most of this information.

  “You’ll need to know whether we saw or heard anything pertinent to the matter,” Hincks said.

  “Yes. We all had supper together at seven-thirty, and then drifted to the parlour and billiard-room shortly before nine, except for Tremblay and Bergeron, who went into the northwest wing. A few minutes later I was called away home – Beth is fine and the baby still due, by the way – and Macaulay has assured me that everyone except the butler had cleared this section of the house by ten o’clock. We presume Chilton tidied up, then went to his office and opened up the estate’s ledger, though it appears he decided to take whiskey from his flask rather than work on the accounts. However, he may have been using a pencil to make notes of some kind in the ledger, for we found evidence that three pages had been removed from it, presumably taken away by the killer.”

  The sinister implications of these latter actions were not lost upon Robert and Hincks, but Hincks said simply, “I was exhausted and went straight to my room. I was asleep by eleven and did not wake up until roused by the commotion this morning. That isn’t a lot of help, I’m afraid.”

  “I also went straight to my room, but I did not sleep right away,” Robert said. “Louis and I had a frank talk in the parlour – his English, thank Heaven, being better than my French. When we learned that your Beth was likely in labour and that you might not be able to rejoin us for at least a day and perhaps not at all, Louis and I decided on a strategy to formulate a written agreement to seal our alliance. We would each go to our room and write out, as best we could, the main points of convergence from our two days of talks – me in English, he in French. If you did return, we two would meet with you for an hour, have you go over the two drafts with us, and make a fair copy of each. I would date and sign the French document, Louis the English one. If you did not return, Clement Peachey from my chambers would be conscripted to play your role.”

  Marc wanted to talk about this intriguing development, but said instead, “So, you were at your desk for some time after ten o’clock?”

  “I was – until about midnight. I left only once to visit the water-closet a few steps down the hall.”

  “Did you hear anything? Anything at all?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Just before twelve, as I was about to get into bed, I heard footsteps in the hall on the floor above me – one person, I’d say, walking slowly down towards the stairway. What I actually heard was the creaking of the floorboards under the hall carpet.”

  “That’s very helpful, Robert. You see, we think some person came to Chilton’s office about that very time. I need to know who it was.”

  “My God!” Hincks cried. “I hope you’re not suggesting one of our Quebecers was involved?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Francis – really. If someone from our floor or theirs was out for a stroll, unable to sleep perhaps, they could be a material witness, could have seen or heard something vital that will itself point us to the killer. Without some hard facts to go on, Cobb and I are helpless. So, Robert, could you tell from the sounds which of the rooms this midnight stroller might have come from?”

  Robert thought about this. “Well, the creaking started at my end of the wing, of that I’m certain.”

  “Maurice Tremblay is in the room above yours,” Marc said. “I’ll need to quiz him closely on the matter.”

  “He isn’t happy with our accord,” Hincks said meaningfully.

&nbs
p; “True,” Marc said, “but I’m not jumping to any conclusions.”

  “And a good thing none of us is,” Robert said. “This incident could jeopardize everything we’ve achieved so far – or do worse.”

  “You’ve given me more than I expected,” Marc said. “There is just one more thing. The doctored wine was an expensive Amontillado sherry, not from Garnet’s cellar. Do you have any idea where Chilton could have got it?”

  They had no idea whatsoever. They had seen no evidence that any of the guests had brought in their own supply of spirits.

  “Before we let you get on with the investigation,” Robert said as he started to get up, “could we ask whether or not you might find an hour sometime before the end of the day to meet with Louis and me?”

  “Yes, of course. How about seven o’clock, here in the library? By then I hope Cobb and I will be close to solving this case.”

  “We need to get the documents signed,” Hincks said, “in spite of these desperate circumstances.”

  Marc sat back down and motioned for them to sit again. “We have a more serious problem,” he said, “one I was going to tell you about later today.” Reluctantly he informed them of the coroner’s decision to give the police until noon on Monday to charge someone with the murder before he made the incident public and set a date for an inquest, in effect putting Elmgrove in quarantine and threatening to expose its secret doings to general scrutiny.

  Hincks gasped at this last revelation. Robert sank back in his chair.

  “Well, then,” Hincks said when he had recovered from the shock, “we’ll just have to get LaFontaine’s signature on the accord before he and his colleagues learn of this potential catastrophe.”

  Robert put a hand over Hincks’s wrist. “Francis, that cannot happen. The alliance we are seeking to build can only work if it is founded upon absolute trust and pursued in that spirit. Louis, Marc and I will go ahead with the business of finalizing the documents, as planned, but when we’ve finished and before any signature is appended, I’d like everyone concerned brought in here and the coroner’s edict explained in full. Then we’ll see what can be done.”

  Hincks started to protest, but settled for a deep sigh. “Damn. We were so close.” Then he brightened a bit and smiled at Marc. “But you’re going to find us a murderer by seven o’clock, aren’t you, my friend?”

  ***

  Daniel Bérubé was next. As usual, he preferred talking to listening. “My God, Edwards, I hope this dreadful business doesn’t upset all our plans. We’ve got to get these provinces moving again or we’ll all starve! Just the thought of a decent set of canals and roads and a government interested in making money instead of hoarding other people’s gives me the shivers. I feel sorry for this wretched butler, of course, but hundreds have already died for our cause and thousands more have suffered terribly – ”

  When Marc finally settled him down enough to get a few words in edgewise, he learned that Bérubé, like Hincks, had gone straight to bed following their billiards game and fallen instantly asleep. He had heard nothing, and was very sorry he could not be more useful.

  Macaulay brought Erneste Bergeron in next. While he looked worried, anxious even, the purple bags under his eyes had disappeared.

  “You slept well, then?” Marc inquired. “At last.”

  “Yes, sir, I did. I had to be wakened and told the unhappy news about the butler. I am still in a state of disbelief.”

  “So you went to your bedchamber right after supper, about eight-forty-five?”

  “Well, I did and I didn’t. I fetched my night-clothes and went into the bathroom to have a good relaxing soak. The servants had left everything prepared, so I drew my own bath and lay in it for a good half-hour.”

  “You’ll recall that Mr. Macaulay mentioned his wife’s laudanum as a possible sedative for you?”

  “Of course. But I felt so mellow there in the bath – and sleepy – that I decided not to avail myself of it, but go straight to bed.”

  “But did you by any chance notice whether or not the vial of laudanum was on the shelf?”

  “Oh, yes. It was there all right. I had it in my hand, but put it back.”

  So, Marc thought, Priscilla Finch was telling the truth. The killer must have removed the drug some time after nine-thirty – possibly much later and just before heading up the main hall to Chilton’s office.

  “One final question,” Marc said. “We’re hoping to trace the source of a bottle of sherry found at the scene of the crime, a vintage Amontillado.”

  “Was that where the poison was?” Bergeron asked, going suddenly pale. Perhaps the grim reality of the butler’s death had just struck him, unawares.

  “Yes. But we don’t know where the Amontillado originated as it didn’t come from our host’s cellar.”

  “I’d like to help, Mr. Edwards, but I don’t have the foggiest notion where the butler could have got it.”

  Bergeron had nothing more to add, but he had been helpful. Moreover, like Bérubé, he had given no indication that he was being treated as a suspect. For which Marc was grateful.

  ***

  Maurice Tremblay was not pleased to be ushered into the library by Garnet Macaulay. Even before he sat down, he glared at Marc and said, “We were not told you were a policeman as well as a translator.”

  “I am neither a policeman nor a translator,” Marc said evenly. “As you know I am a barrister who speaks French and supports the Reform party.”

  Something close to disdain appeared in Tremblay’s eyes. “I heard one of the servants refer to you as the Hero of St. Denis. You are a soldier, a British soldier. You fired your weapon at me two years ago. For all I know you may have murdered one of my friends there.”

  Marc was taken aback by the vehemence of the accusation. He kept eye contact with Tremblay as he replied, as calmly as he could, “I was an officer in the 23rd Regiment of Foot. I fought in the battle at St. Denis, not out of conviction but because it was my soldierly duty. I did not have several fingers blown off, but I was severely wounded. I resigned my commission. I changed my life. And I am here this week with my friends and your allies, Francis Hincks and Robert Baldwin.”

  “All that may be so,” Tremblay said, his sneer softening just a little, “but right now you are a policeman who sees before him a possible murderer.”

  “You are not a suspect, sir, but a potential witness who may help Constable Cobb and me solve this case and salvage the political achievements we’ve made since Wednesday. And I am not a paid policeman or investigator. I am occasionally seconded by the police to assist them in murder cases, as I was this morning. I could hardly say no, especially in circumstances where tact and judgement may be essential.”

  “Very well, then. Proceed with the fiction that I am merely a witness. I have nothing to hide in any event.”

  “I didn’t suppose you had. Now, first of all, tell me what you did when you left the dining-room at eight-forty-five last night?”

  “I thought this incident took place after midnight?” Tremblay said warily.

  “Did you go right to your room?”

  “No. If you must know, and I fail to see how it’s any of your business, I went up to my room for the purpose of preparing to take a bath.”

  “But Erneste beat you to it.”

  “Not exactly. He looked as if he needed it more than I did – he hadn’t slept much in three nights. I patiently waited until he had finished, and then ran my own bath.”

  “A little past nine-thirty?”

  “Probably.” Tremblay’s lip curled as he added, “Where is this going, Edwards? The butler wasn’t drowned, was he?”

  “He was poisoned with laudanum from a bottle removed by the killer from the shelf above the bathtub. Did you notice whether or not it was still there?”

  “You think I may have removed it, waited till the rest of you nodded off, and then went straight up the hall to the butler’s office and induced him to swallow it?”

  M
arc was beginning to seethe at these rude and contemptuous remarks, but held his temper long enough to say, “Please tell me whether you noticed it there while you bathed.”

  “I didn’t notice it and then again I did not not-notice it. In short, I haven’t the slightest idea whether it was there or not.”

  If Tremblay were telling the truth, then the last person to confirm its existence on the bathroom shelf was Bergeron, about nine-thirty. “Let me ask you another question, then. You were back in your bedchamber before your other two colleagues retired about ten o’clock. Did you see or hear anything later on? Any sound or movement in your hallway?”

  “How could I? I was asleep by ten-fifteen. I am a sound sleeper.”

  “You had no cause to leave your room in the night? To visit the water-closet, for example?”

  “Or commit a murder? And if I did so, I certainly wouldn’t confess the crime to you, would I?”

  “I repeat, sir, that you are not a suspect,” Marc lied. “I am asking you the question because I’ve been told someone on your floor did leave his room around midnight. That person may have seen or heard something he didn’t consider important at the time but in hindsight might be critical to this investigation.”

  “I fell asleep. Period.” Tremblay set his chin on his chest and dared Marc to continue.

  “I do have one final query. Did you bring any wine or spirits with you or see such anywhere in the house that did not come from Macaulay’s cellar?”

  Almost resigned to these apparent non-sequiturs, Tremblay sighed: “No and no.”

  Marc smiled and sat back. “You are not happy with the accord we are going to ratify later today, are you?”

  “Why should I be?” Tremblay snapped. “But I’m not foolish enough to poison my host’s butler just to throw a spanner into the works. If this is an example of your prowess as an investigator of crimes, we have no hope of catching the actual killer.”

  “I was asking merely because I heard you were planning to stand for the new parliament – as a Nationalist, as a Rouge.”