Unholy Alliance

by Don Gutteridge

  “What is it?” Macaulay said.

  “It’s a routine letter from a Theodore Montgomery about Chilton’s stint at his estate last summer.”

  “Sir Theodore? He’s a high-court judge,” Macaulay said.

  “Then I guess we ought to believe what he’s written here at the end of a lengthy paean of praise. Listen to this: ‘Graves Chilton is the most competent, thoroughly honest and trustworthy servant I’ve ever had the pleasure of employing. Let me know when he’s available again. My only complaint is that every once in a while the light from a chandelier will bounce off his bald pate and damn near blind you! (ha! ha!)’.”

  “‘Bald pate’?” Macaulay said, as if he had misheard the phrase.

  “That’s what it says,” Marc replied, the truth having already dawned upon him.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Cobb said. “Our corpse’s got a head full of orange hair, thicker’n a mink’s crotch!”

  “What’s ‘goin’ on’,” Marc said, “is this: we’ve had a butler murdered in his office, but it wasn’t Graves Chilton.”

  ELEVEN

  “That can’t be,” Cobb said. “We searched his room and it was full of the butler’s belongin’s.”

  Macaulay could do nothing but look from Marc to Cobb, bewildered.

  “Then we’d better have a closer look,” Marc said to Cobb. “We’ve got to start by taking the judge’s comment at face value: the butler who spent several months in his home was a bald man named Chilton.”

  They went down the hall to the butler’s quarters, trying not to appear as dazed as they felt. Once inside, they turned out every pair of trousers, frock coat, morning coat and shirt to scrutinize the labels. Every one of them bore some reference to a London tailor or shop. They tore apart the monogrammed luggage in search of some telltale clue stuffed in a pocket or lodged in a crease: with no luck. These were unquestionably the belongings of one Graves Chilton, even if the man who had most recently possessed them was not.

  “Maybe we got the lord’s letter wrong – somehow,” Cobb suggested as he looked forlornly at the thoroughly dishevelled sitting-room.

  “I think we’ve got an even more puzzling mystery on our hands,” Macaulay said miserably.

  “Perhaps not,” Marc said. He was standing in the open doorway of the butler’s bedroom, holding a good-weather walking-boot in one hand. “I examined this boot this morning, looking for the maker’s stamp and hoping to find a laudanum bottle or some equally significant piece of evidence inside it. At the time I took this object here merely to be a black stocking jammed in the toe. But, as you can see, it’s not a stocking, it’s a – ”

  “Too-pate!” Cobb cried just as Macaulay gasped, “A hair-piece!”

  Marc dangled the limp object between a thumb and forefinger. “An expensive bit of wiggery,” he smiled, “to camouflage a vain butler’s bald head.”

  “It must have been hidden there by the murdered man when he found it in the stolen luggage,” Macaulay speculated. “Either that or he hadn’t got around to needing these particular boots.”

  “However it got here,” Marc said, “it corroborates Sir Theodore’s claim. And that means – ”

  “We got ourselves a poisoned im-poseur,” Cobb said, grinning.

  ***

  When they got back to the library, Macaulay and Cobb waited patiently for Marc to begin making some sense of this new, baffling development.

  “Now that we are ninety-nine percent certain we are dealing with an impostor,” Marc began, “the question arises: how did this come about? And after that: why?”

  “Well, I suppose this red-headed chap could have stolen Graves Chilton’s belongings, including any papers and letters, way back in England, and then boarded a ship for New York,” Macaulay suggested.

  “In order to steal the man’s position here at Elmgrove?” Marc said sceptically.

  “Well, now,” Cobb said, “I reckon it’s a cushy enough job hereabouts, but who’d risk robbery or worse just to get a job thousands of miles away in a foreign country?”

  While Macaulay may have had some objection to one or two particulars in Cobb’s statement, he had to nod his agreement with its main point.

  “Quite so,” Marc said. “I believe that explanation is merely a remote possibility. So, let us assume that the real Graves Chilton got as far as New York. We do have a letter in what is purportedly his own handwriting from that city. And I’m sure a comparison of that letter with the impostor’s handwriting in the ledger will tell us one way or the other.”

  “What then?” Cobb said.

  “The letter you received, Garnet, was penned in a New York Hotel, wasn’t it? And announced his safe arrival there. And told of his seasickness and the likelihood of his being delayed, if I remember rightly?”

  “It did,” Macaulay said, pulling the letter itself from the pile they had left on the table. “And he appended his proposed itinerary, one that would have seen him arrive in Kingston from New York State and, I quote, ‘on Tuesday with a view to my catching the stagecoach there and arriving at Elmgrove the next day, Wednesday the 16th’.”

  He handed the letter to Marc, who perused it closely. “The writing here is quite distinctive – slanted left and elongated.”

  “So he was plannin’ to get here a week ago Wednesday?” Cobb said to Macaulay.

  “Yes. But he didn’t actually arrive until late on Thursday, did he? He must’ve got delayed somewhere in New York State.”

  “Or delayed here in Upper Canada,” Marc said darkly. “It’s improbable that anyone would waylay a travelling English butler and steal his clothing and effects in order to carry on and take up the fellow’s duties in Toronto – and do the ambushing in an adjacent country. After all, Chilton was heading here anyway. Why not wait till he got closer?”

  “What are you suggesting, then?” Macaulay said.

  “It seems logical to me that Chilton was waylaid somewhere between here and Kingston in a move that was carefully planned by someone who expected him along that route. And this someone – our murdered impostor being the most likely candidate – wished to assume Chilton’s identity for reasons we have yet to determine.”

  “But how would the waylayer know the clothes would fit?” Cobb asked. “The real Chilton come from England. Our waylayer couldn’t’ve seen him till he got here.”

  “That may have been a happy coincidence,” Marc said. “All the impostor really required was the monogrammed luggage and the personal papers. He could have been prepared to supply his own clothing.”

  “Come to think of it,” Macaulay said, “I remarked to Chilton – to the impostor, that is – that his suits seemed to hang a bit loose on him. And he said, quite properly, that he had lost considerable weight due to his seasickness and travel fatigue.”

  Was he was able to convince you and your staff that he had been a butler in Sir Godfrey’s service in England?” asked Marc.

  “He was certainly very English!” Macaulay replied.

  Marc did not pursue the matter further because he realized that Garnet’s amiable and trusting nature had contributed to the ease of the interloper’s deception.

  “All this is well an’ good,” Cobb grumbled, “but we’re talkin’ here about somebody committin’ a hangin’ offence just to become Elmgrove’s butler!”

  “You think the real Chilton’s dead?” Macaulay said, greatly shocked.

  “He’d haveta be, wouldn’t he?” Cobb said matter-of-factly. “Stands to reason the impostor couldn’t carry on his business here with the genuine butler likely to pop up at any moment.”

  “This is appalling,” Macaulay said with a sharp intake of breath. “Two butlers, and both of them now dead.”

  “An’ we ain’t likely to find poor Chilton’s body till the snow melts,” Cobb pointed out. “If he was killed on the Kingston Road, his corpse would’ve been tossed inta the bush in a four-foot drift. By the time the wolves or coyotes get through with it, only the bones’ll
be left fer us to find.”

  “But why?” Macaulay said. “Why would someone go to such desperate lengths to get himself into this house?”

  There was a pregnant pause while the answer presented itself inexorably to each of them.

  It was Cobb who spoke first: “To spy on yer economical mash-a-nations?”

  “It has to be,” Macaulay breathed. “Somebody was prepared to kill in order to infiltrate our deliberations this week.”

  “Possibly,” Marc said slowly. “But that sort of operation would take a fair amount of planning. And remember, the impostor knew how to be a butler. Someone, probably more than one person, recruited him and arranged for the takeover of Chilton’s identity.” Marc looked at Macaulay. “Who would know you had hired a butler from England to replace Alfred?”

  Macaulay sighed. “Half of Toronto. I made no secret of it. I might even have told people in town when he was expected, more or less.”

  “And that he was named Chilton?”

  “I suppose so. Elizabeth and I socialize a lot in town and I do business there most weeks. Everyone asked about Alfred and how ever was I to replace him. Many of my Tory acquaintances would have known about Chilton, that’s for sure. In fact, knowing as I did that we were going to have our conference here this week, I went out of my way to suggest that everything out here was normal. The last thing I wanted to do was to appear secretive.”

  “I understand,” Marc said. “But we’ve got nothing concrete to go on here. The perpetrators of this fraud could be anyone opposed to our views and plans.”

  “An’ how are we gonna find the spy’s killer if we don’t know who he is or who he’s been workin’ for?” Cobb said.

  “We’re assuming he was a spy,” Macaulay continued, “but I don’t for the life of me see how this phoney butler could have determined what was being said in this room over the past few days.”

  “I can speculate how it was done,” Marc said. “The entrance-way to this room is recessed. The impostor could have stood within it with his ear pressed to the door and not have been observed by anyone farther down the hall or anyone crossing the rotunda. And since the butler was the only servant allowed in here to serve coffee or tea, there was little chance of his being taken by surprise from behind. If he did hear someone coming up the hall, all he had to do was bustle across to his office directly opposite – a perfectly natural action that would arouse no suspicion.”

  “But a lot of our discussion was in French and not always translated,” Macaulay pointed out.

  “It’s entirely possible that the impostor understood French and kept that fact well hidden,” Marc said.

  “So what do we do?” Cobb said, suppressing a yawn.

  “Always begin with what you know or have in hand,” Marc said. “We can be pretty sure that Chilton was intercepted between here and Kingston. My instinct suggests that it would be even closer to Toronto than Kingston. Chilton wrote Garnet that he was going to be travelling on Weller’s stagecoach. He would have had fellow passengers. He would have been aboard no earlier than Tuesday of last week and no later than Thursday, the day the impostor arrived here in his stead. The real Chilton, a completely bald Englishman of slim build, would have been noted by passengers and driver, and certainly by the hosts of various inns where the sleigh stops en route. Following the usual schedule, the passengers disembark at Cobourg and stay there overnight.”

  “So what’re you sayin’?” Cobb inquired, beginning to sense the possibility of some positive action in lieu of this endless palaver.

  “I believe we can discover exactly how far the real Chilton got on that trip. At some point he vanishes, and another chap pops up in his place. That can’t have happened without someone noticing when it occurred, even if nothing sinister was suspected at the time. With luck we’ll be able to pinpoint the precise location.”

  “Where there might be a body?’ Cobb said.

  “And possible witnesses to whatever happened. Even if we don’t find the body, we need to determine who the impostor was. Until we do, we won’t be able to track down the person or persons who collaborated with him.”

  “That may be the way to catch Chilton’s killers,” Macaulay said, “but we’ve got a bigger problem right here and now: to charge somebody with the impostor’s murder before Monday morning.”

  “I can’t believe they are not connected,” Marc said. “And I don’t want to speculate how until we have more hard facts.”

  “But how can we get the facts we need before Sunday night?”

  Marc looked at Cobb. “By retracing the itinerary of Weller’s stagecoach, all the way to Kingston if necessary.”

  “You want me to hit the road?” Cobb said with obvious delight.

  “I do, old friend.” Marc turned to Macaulay. “Could you provide Cobb with a fast horse and cutter for a couple of days?”

  “Certainly. I’ll give him Ben. He’s not fast but he can trot for miles without tiring or complaining.”

  “Good. I think also that you should go in plain clothes,” Marc said to Cobb. “You have no jurisdiction as a constable outside of Toronto anyway.”

  “Alfred’s clothes will fit,” Macaulay said, eyeing Cobb’s muscled belly. “They’re in a trunk in my room.”

  “What d’ya expect me to do once I get onto the Kingston Road?” Cobb asked.

  “Stop at every inn or wayside hutch you see and simply say you have been hired by friends to find a missing man, one Graves Chilton. Find out if they happened to have spotted a bald English butler on board the stage when it stopped there – a week ago Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday. At some point he is bound to have been noticed and then to have disappeared. When you find that point, use all your investigative skills to determine what might have happened.”

  “You said a couple of days?”

  “Yes. I’d like you to get back here by Sunday night, if you can, and no later than Monday afternoon. I’m hoping that Angus will grant us a day’s extension, given these new developments.”

  “But I couldn’t get much past Cobourg an’ be back by Sunday night,” Cobb said.

  “Right. But I really don’t think you’ll have to go any farther.”

  “So we just wait,” Macaulay said, “and try to keep our guests amused?”

  “I’m sorry, but I think that’s what we have to do. If we can confirm that the impostor was a deliberate plant, then we can reasonably assume that the motive for his murder was an attempt to silence him.”

  “But that means – ” Macaulay stopped himself.

  “Yes. One of our guests becomes the most likely candidate.”

  “Christ,” Macaulay sighed, “this is getting worse by the second.”

  “But we must not get ahead of ourselves. Cobb, I’d like you to leave at five tomorrow morning. With luck you could reach Cobourg by late afternoon or early evening. And, of course, you’ll need a place to sleep here tonight.”

  “You can take the butler’s quarters,” Macaulay said to Cobb. “I’ll have Struthers fetched and tell him to have the horse and cutter ready. I’ll have Finch pack you some linens and toiletries for the journey, and Mrs. Blodgett can prepare some food for you to take along.”

  “Thanks, Garnet,” Marc said. “You’ve been a tower of strength all day, and I appreciate it.”

  “So, if this imposin’ fella really was a spy,” Cobb said, “then we got an explanation fer them three pages bein’ ripped outta the lead-ger an’ carted off before they fell inta the wrong hands.”

  “I just wish we could be absolutely sure he was a spy,” Macaulay said.

  Marc’s face lit up. “I think we can determine that, Garnet. Right now.” He jumped to his feet. “Those pages may be missing and long burned, but the killer didn’t realize he may have left behind a trace element for us to read. Follow me!”

  With that, Marc dashed out into the hall, veered to his left, entered the parlour, scooted over to the fireplace, ran both hands across a charred log in the hearth, and th
en brushed past his astonished colleagues still in the doorway. They turned in time see him enter the butler’s office, and followed him in. There they were further astonished as he began to rub his blackened fingers across the open pages of the ledger, which lay exactly where they had left it this morning.

  “You gone an’ flipped yer wig?” Cobb said, coming up beside him.

  Then he saw what Marc was doing, and chuckled appreciatively. As the charcoal was rubbed gently across the blank page, the impressions left by a pencil having been pressed firmly upon the page above it (now missing) began to emerge.

  “A child’s trick,” Marc explained as the blurred outlines of letters and words became more and more visible. “We used it to leave secret messages for our friends.”

  “Can you make out what was written on the missing page?” Macaulay asked anxiously.

  “The impressions, as you can see, are not uniformly sharp and in places are not deep enough to be of any use, but, yes, I can make out quite a few words and phrases. And the handwriting here is not even close to that of the New York letter.”

  “Well, that seals it, then,” Cobb said. “We got two dead Chiltons on our plate.”

  “What about the content?” Macaulay said, leaning over Marc’s shoulder. “What was the impostor scribbling there?”

  Marc was moving his lips silently as he strained to bring some sense to what he was seeing.

  “These aren’t my accounts, are they?” Macaulay said.

  “No, they aren’t,” Marc said, whistling softly. “I can’t make out any entire sentences, but I can see enough to know that our impostor was recording the key points and conclusions of our discussions across the hall – in both English and French!”

  “Well, don’t that beat all,” Cobb said.

  Macaulay groaned. “This is terrible, terrible.”

  “But the missin’ pages are sure to be ashes by now,” Cobb suggested, not quite certain why Macaulay was distraught.

  “If the motive was to remove those pages and silence the spy who wrote on them,” Marc explained, “then our prime suspect has to be one of the negotiators, doesn’t it?”