The Drowned Man

by David Whellams

  “Do you know if he’s been charged? Has he applied for bail?”

  “Yes. Charged, that is. I don’t know how the bail process works.”

  Renaud appeared nervous. It occurred to Peter that his new friend might have an inside source for information about Leander Greenwell.

  “Peter,” Renaud said, “in the interests of complete honesty, I have to tell you that I once met Greenwell. It’s not surprising, since academic historians sometimes need the services of antiquarians . . .”

  “Is there something in particular I should know?”

  “Yes. When I heard that Greenwell was back, I went to his store to see if I could talk to him, but he had already been taken into custody. I was just being nosey.”

  Peter let it pass. He was in the mood to relax, in spite of Pascal’s fervour to get at the letters. And so Peter launched into his own update, keeping it light and sanitizing the forensic details. The professor listened patiently, content to serve as Peter’s sounding board. He felt privileged to be invited inside a police investigation.

  Peter punctuated the end of his story with a swig of beer. “Okay, Pascal, who’s this nefarious colleague of yours?”

  Renaud swished the last ounce of his beer around the bottom of his glass before setting it on the table with a thump. “Professor Olivier Seep, and what I am telling you is no more than rumour and supposition. He lectures in history at UQAM, the University of Quebec at Montreal, and he aspires to be the academic champion of the separatist movement. To some extent, he placed this label on himself, which tells you about his ego. Everyone expects him to run for a seat in the Assemblée in the next provincial election. You must understand that he and I teach at different institutions. He is not my rival in the movement, though we despise each other, to say the least.”

  “Why the hostility?” Peter said.

  “In the separatist version of history, Peter, remember that everything is a grievance and nothing is forgotten. Professor Seep puts an intellectual gloss on the repetition of ancient grievances and that suits the purists in our movement just fine. As an academic, he should know better than to let old stories turn to engraved stone. But he musters up anger and false sincerity, and that plays well to the choir. Two nights ago Seep gave a speech to a small group — but not so small that the press refused to attend when he notified them — in which he asserted that the English government in Montreal in 1864 was prepared to summarily execute French-Canadian activists for treason, la trahison. He said that he had seen a letter. A colleague told me later that Seep claims to have seen three letters. The Booth correspondence?”

  Peter shrugged, then smiled, knowing that Pascal couldn’t wait any longer. “Okay, Pascal, shall we look at these imaginary letters?”

  He ushered Peter to the dining room table. Each man sat with a copy of the reassembled letters in front of him. They read them in chronological order, although it soon became evident that it was the third one that Professor Seep had cited.

  Number 1: October 23, 1864, John Wilkes Booth to Sir Fenwick Williams

  Dear Sir:

  My sincerest regards. As one who has traveled throughout the States, both North and the sovereign South, and is presently visiting Montreal . . . I write to you, this date, with important information. I am a son of the South dedicated to resist the oppressors from the North. Let me say, Sir, that there is yet time for Britain to honour its common ground with the Confederate States.

  My attention has been drawn to certain agitators in your midst who have cultivated the seditious interests of illegitimate groups in the Canadas. I speak these truths as one representing the Government of the CSA in Richmond, Virginia. Please note that my brief has been to gather information only regarding sympathies in the Border States and in the Northwest, supplemented by reconnoitres of prisoner of war camps in New York.

  While engaging certain figures in Montreal, which include Canadian patriots sympathetic to the aims of the Glorious South, I have been approached by French-Canadian “patriots” who claim to seek common cause with the Confederacy. These latter overtures interest neither me nor Jeff Davis, but they should concern your Office, as they are violent in their aims and executions . . . Plans are under way to launch violent . . . against your person, and to employ Greek Fire against militia barracks.

  My reasons for this disclosure are honorable. The aim of the South has never been to undermine the stability of the Canadas, rather mine is to alert you to the impending threat from Separationists in your midst. I may be reached at the St. Lawrence Hall Hotel.

  With Regards,

  John Wilkes Booth

  Renaud offered the first comment. “Many historians believe that Booth was plugged into the Confederate spy network but no one has ever suggested a formal mission from Jeff Davis. Otherwise, the tone is right: Booth is both arrogant and presumptuous.”

  One discrepancy amused Peter. Booth coined the term “separationists.” In her first iteration of the letter, Nicola had used “separatists.” Either way, Nicola was determined to paint them as extremists, even back to 1864.

  They proceeded to the next letter.

  Number 2: October 24, 1864, Jacob Thompson to Sir Fenwick Williams

  Dear Sir,

  I thank you for seeking my advice on the letter, inst., from one John Wilkes Booth, actor.

  Please be advised that said Mr. Booth does not speak for the Confederate States, either the offices of the Secretary of War, the Secretary of State, or President Davis. I and the other Commissioners from Richmond exclusively serve as the CSA’s emissaries in Canada, as we have represented in . . . to Governor General Monck.

  We do not encourage any division between England and any other legitimate country. Our instructions upon assuming our posts some months ago were to respect the neutrality of Britain in the continuing conflict, without abusing British and Canadian sovereignty. I will not treat with Separationists aiming to draw European powers into such factionalism.

  Mr. Booth is a fanatical actor who is attending in Montreal for the first time. He is without a diplomatic mandate, and should be ignored.

  Jacob C. Thompson

  Peter pointed to the second-last paragraph and the historian picked up on his thought. “You can see how defensive Thompson has become. It’s late 1864, the election is pending in the United States, and the Confederate commissioners have accomplished very little. The last thing Thompson cares about is French-Canadian revolutionaries. Certainly, Thompson’s denunciation of French-Canadian national ambitions is hypocritical.”

  They moved to the last letter.

  Number 3: October 26, 1864, Sir Fenwick Williams to John Wilkes Booth

  Sir,

  Your letter of October 23 has reached me. Without commentary on the merits of your asserted cause, though I feel compelled to point out it is in a situation of martial decline, the position of the Canadas and Britain is clear: neutrality in the conflict. Her Majesty’s Command will not tolerate insurrectionist actions of French radicals in Canada at any time . . . I can assure you that revolutionary acts against the government may amount to capital treason, if verified as active, and I will oversee the expression of such a French secessionist cause here.

  Yours respectfully,

  Sir Fenwick Williams

  British Military Commander, N.A.

  “What do you think, Pascal?” Peter said. “There’s that word ‘secessionist’ again.”

  “The third letter, Peter? This is thinner stuff. The prose, as Hilfgott writes it, doesn’t ring true. The presiding general in British North America merely states the official position of the colonial government. It’s a short letter. He brushes off the actor. The comment on capital treason is an abstract statement, phrased in the conditional. I am surprised at Olivier for making so much of it. But he is a true believer, capable of anything.”

  “I wonder if Seep might have seen
the original of the Williams letter,” Peter said.

  Pascal’s grin broadened. He was slightly drunk. “What do you think of the letters, Inspector?”

  It seemed that they had fallen into the habit of rhetorical repartee, and Peter did not answer directly. “I agree we should be careful about Hilfgott’s precision. In the Williams letter, the last one, he states, ‘I shall oversee the expression’ of the secessionist cause. Surely he said ‘suppression.’ I question Hilfgott’s accuracy there.”

  “Madam Hilfgott’s deliberate mistake?” Peter said.

  Both Seep and Hilfgott were manipulating the letters, the words of dead men, for their opposing causes, the separatist and the federalist. How were these two connected to murder?

  Peter began to pace the living room. It was time to face some tough questions. “The allegations by Booth of a terrorist plot aren’t supported by real evidence. You give no indication in your book that he was knowledgeable about his host city. What could Hilfgott take from those unsubstantiated claims, Pascal? What agitators? What seditious interests? And what did Booth care about Canada’s future, as you point out?”

  “Booth was a crazy man,” Renaud agreed.

  “But I don’t think that’s why Hilfgott’s so zealous about retrieving the letters. Rather, she’s the matching, mirror image of Professor Seep. She’s a troublemaker.”

  “Could it be that we’re in the presence of two more fanatics, Peter?”

  They needed a break. Pascal had overdone it on the beer and he went off to take a nap before his late afternoon seminar. Peter remained in the living room and mulled over his next strategic move.

  He called the Bonaventure Hotel and asked to speak with Mr. Malloway. It was an educated guess that his colleague would be at the Bonaventure, and he was right; the desk clerk confirmed that Malloway had registered. But the phone shifted to voicemail. At this point, Peter lost his nerve and dissembled. “Dunning, this is Peter Cammon. I’m in Montreal for a couple of days, on my way back to London. Please give me a ring.”

  He left his mobile number. He sighed as he finished his beer in the silence of the townhouse. There was no professional justification for his presence in Canada and Malloway would have every reason to resent a call out of the blue.

  CHAPTER 25

  Peter napped for twenty minutes. The telephone jangled him back to full awareness.

  “Peter, this is Dunning,” said the caller. Peter immediately tried to interpret the man’s tone. There was no evident hostility in those four words.

  “Thanks for calling back, Dunning. How have you been?” He tried for a neutral tone himself, with maybe a touch of the elder statesman.

  “Just fine. So, you’re in Montreal, Peter.”

  “On my way home in a day or two,” Peter said.

  “I arrived yesterday noonish. Where are you staying?”

  “It’s called the Saint-Henri section. I’m staying with a friend.”

  “I’m at the Bonaventure, as you know. Same spot you stayed in, wasn’t it?” he said, to show that he’d figured out how Peter had guessed his hotel.

  “I’d like a chance to brief you on Washington,” Peter said. He wasn’t seizing the agenda; rather, he was prompting Malloway to tell him what he knew.

  “I just hung up from talking to Henry Pastern,” Malloway said. “Is he competent, do you think?”

  Peter decided to drop a few names. “I think so. Rizeman is a good man at the top end and he will ride herd on Henry, as necessary. Ehrlich, the ME, has been helpful.”

  What happened next was either coincidence or the collision of two suspicious natures. Peter looked at the call display on his mobile and saw that the incoming number wasn’t the Hotel Bonaventure, though the sequence was familiar. He realized that it was only one digit from the number he had been given for Nicola’s office assistant. At the same moment, Dunning Malloway understood that the jig was up and he spouted, “Listen, Peter, I’m in a spare office at the consulate. I’m waiting for a meeting with Nicola Hilfgott in about an hour. Meanwhile I’m looking over her replications of the famous letters she’s so hot to trot about. Can you join us?”

  Peter didn’t balk but was wary of the potential for scapegoating. “Let’s be strategic,” he said. “The consul general and I don’t get along so well. It also may not work to your advantage. She’ll have talked to Frank Counter by now and she’ll know I’m off the case. Persona non grata. She won’t welcome you dragging me along.”

  “She’s a bit crazy, don’t you think?”

  “In what sense?”

  “For one thing, I can’t make head nor tail of these letters. Even less do I understand her obsession with them. Why don’t you come as my invitee? We’ll tag-team her.”

  “What are we aiming for?”

  “I’ll be open about it, Peter. I need to rein Nicola in. The retrieval of the letters is secondary and you can help me blunt Nicola’s obsessiveness on that subject.”

  But the letters should be important to Dunning, Peter reasoned. Fraud, theft, and murder tainted those historical documents. Nicola’s cavalier manipulation of several government agencies amounted to misfeasance. Possibly malfeasance, if she were somehow complicit in the purloining of the Booth letters. Peter was surprised by Malloway’s dismissive attitude to the letters. He decided to push harder: “Why doesn’t the High Commissioner yank her, send her home?”

  “He may. But, ironically, the thing that makes her vulnerable also gives her a measure of protection. Extracting her, or openly cashiering her, would raise questions — the British consul general in Montreal suddenly hustled back to London. You remember the James Cross affair?”

  Peter recalled his discussion with Pascal in the Russian restaurant. “In general terms.”

  Malloway was in a chatty mood, or else the small thrill of talking about his hostess on her own turf made him bold. “Were you involved, Peter?”

  “Not really. Before my time, too, you understand. But the Yard was on alert. MI5 contributed and the SAS would have been ready to go if called upon.”

  “Cross was the commercial attaché and trade commissioner in Montreal, pretty much the same position Nicola Hilfgott holds. It won’t do to have her pulled all of a sudden. By the same token we can’t tolerate her out there denouncing separatists. Charles de Gaulle in reverse.” Peter understood the reference: the president of France had famously chanted “Vive le Québec libre!” on a state visit to Canada, causing a major scandal.

  Peter heard a voice in the background. Despite its faintness, he recognized it as Neil Brayden’s. The words were unintelligible.

  Malloway’s side of the conversation was bland and self-conscious. “Okay . . . I’ll be there . . . Right.”

  Peter heard a door shutting, and then Malloway again. “Sorry about that, Peter. I’ll clear the way with Nicola for you to participate. I could really use your help.”

  Dunning Malloway had a narrow face and smooth skin that made him seem boyish, an impression that he tried to offset by sporting a thin moustache and an older man’s suit. Peter, watching him enter the consul general’s boardroom, was reminded of Malloway’s sartorial pretensions: he wore a summer suit from Davis & Son, complemented by a silk tie, Thomas Pink button-down shirt, and Italian loafers. Peter rose and they shook hands, just as Nicola Hilfgott thundered in.

  Nicola and Dunning quickly took chairs across the table from Peter. He was surprised that she had excluded Neil Brayden. He saw that she was determined to take charge from the outset. She at once turned red, as if she had hit an arterial switch, and expostulated, “Gentlemen, there has been a distinct lack of progress in this case. Let me say, Dunn, that I am not criticizing your office and, in fact, I am grateful that someone has been appointed full-time on the investigation.” Did she almost say “anointed”? “But we are no closer to finding the missing letters. I’m disgusted.”

 
; Peter immediately reassessed what was going on. Nicola must have delivered the same harangue at dinner the night before with Malloway, so why repeat it? Had she threatened Malloway? Had Tom Hilfgott served barbeque?

  “Do we agree that Leander Greenwell knows more than any other person about this case, both the letters and the death of Peter’s and my colleague?” Malloway said. His manner was smooth, but his query sounded rehearsed to Peter. Was he cuing Peter to express support, in effect, double-teaming Hilfgott using the professional interplay of two policemen? If so, Peter couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “If he has the letters, that’s all I need to know,” Nicola said. She voiced no sympathy for John Carpenter.

  Malloway continued. “I spoke with the RCMP’s ‘J’ Division in New Brunswick yesterday afternoon, as soon as I arrived. They paid a visit to Greenwell’s family cottage and took a look around.” He paused and looked over at Peter to make sure he was understood: Malloway was taking charge. “Greenwell’s cousin welcomed them in. No evident sign of the letters, or any facsimiles thereof. And, of course, Greenwell is in custody here.”

  Peter weighed Malloway’s judgement. Deroche would not react well to his calling in the Mounties. He remembered Pascal Renaud’s admonition: everything is different in Quebec, everything is political. Malloway must have known that his move could provoke the Sûreté. Peter concluded that he had called the RCMP as a sop to Nicola.

  “Where do things stand with Greenwell?” Nicola said. “Has he revealed where the letters went?”

  Already Nicola was growing tiresome; the interrogation of an accused was a delicate matter. Malloway and Cammon made eye contact, achieving unspoken agreement to limit their disclosures to the civilian in the room.

  Malloway spoke. “He has been charged with second-degree murder . . .”