Solemn Vows (14 page)

“I recall that stratagem, but—”

“The hardest body to fool into thinkin’ you’re drunk is another drunk,” Cobb said, as if conveying an obvious truth
to a particularly obtuse pupil. “And the joint was full of drunks.”

“What did you manage to accomplish, then, before you decided to play the drunkard?”

“Wilkie and me spent the early part of the evenin’ settin’ up our surveillance.”

“And?”

“And it’s all set,” Cobb snapped.

“I require the details.”

Cobb arched his eyebrows, thick as a pair of cigar butts.

“I am expected to make a full report to the governor in an hour,” Marc said.

“Well, then, you can tell him from Horatio Cobb that it’s all set: if that bastard Rumsey so much as shows the end of his pecker up there, we’ll know what shade o’ purple it is!”

“The governor is not interested in the culprit’s appendages—”

“Figure o’ speakin’, sir. Give the good governor my regrets, but tell him if I was to give away the details of my spies, agents, and snitches, no criminal of any kind would ever be caught in this town. He’ll have to take the word of a lowly constable, and that’s the sum total of it. And so will you. Sir.”

“There’s no need to get agitated; I’ll find a way to explain it to Sir Francis. The important thing is that we’re prepared to take Rumsey if he returns to Danby’s Crossing. And by tomorrow or Saturday we should have some word on how matters stand in Buffalo.”

“You figure that’s where he’s holed up?”

Marc nodded. “Now what about your morning’s work among the shopkeepers on the square? Did you see Phineas Kimble?”

Cobb may have blushed, but it was impossible to tell. “I didn’t quite get around to that.”

“What do you mean, not quite?” My God, I’m beginning to sound like Uncle Sebastian, Marc thought.

“I only woke up an hour ago. I found I’d been sleepin’ in the bush, beside my horse, thanks be to Jesus.”

Marc now noticed that Cobb’s peddler’s outfit was not only rumpled but littered with bits of stick and grass.

“So you’ve blown your cover already!”

“Not quite, Major. I simply galloped back down here as fast as I could. I knew you needed to know what Wilkie and me did about the surveillance.”

“Well, then, I’ll just have to go up there myself. We need to get background information on Rumsey because even if we’re lucky enough to capture him, there’s no guarantee he will talk.”

“You could try a little torture, Major. I hear tell that’s what they do down in them dungeons you English folk have tucked underneath yer castles.”

Marc glared at him.

“But you won’t need to make the trip, Major. I’m gonna get myself some ale and a plate of smoked fish, courtesy of the house, and then I’m headin’ back up to Danby’s.
Nobody’s seen me crawlin’ out of the bush yet, so that’s what I’ll do, tryin’ my best to look hungover, mind. I’ll meet you at the Tinker’s Dam way up on Jarvis Street, say, about seven tomorrow evenin’? That is, if you ain’t too busy otherwise.”

“But that’s practically in the countryside!”

“And safe from pryin’ eyes, eh?”

Marc smiled reluctantly. “You’ve done good work thus far, Constable Cobb. I’ll meet you there at seven. But there is one other minor matter that the governor wishes you and me to address.”

“And what might that be?” Cobb pulled the curtain aside and signalled to the tapster.

“The governor is exercised about a person calling himself Farmer’s Friend, who writes a weekly letter in Mackenzie’s new paper, the
Constitution
. These letters, Sir Francis feels, might be having an adverse effect on the election here in York County—”

“Where Mackenzie just happens to be runnin’.”

“That is irrelevant. What I’ve found out is that the writer is not Mackenzie or one of the other candidates but a genuine farmer. And this seems to be the problem.”

“Ya mean he’s tellin’ the truth.”

“Well, his version of it, I suppose. Anyway, it occurred to me that those sources of yours might be able to give us a name or a lead to the author’s identity. Apparently these letters have stirred up a lot of comment locally, so there may be loose tongues about here in the taverns and—”

“You’re hintin’ that since I spend some time in them, I might be able to call on a snitch or two?”

“Something like that. But, of course, you still must focus your principal attention on the Moncreiff murder. In the meantime, I’ll go up to Government House and report to Sir Francis.”

“You don’t want to eat first?”

The tapster was heading their way with a tray of drink and food.

Marc stood up. “I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.” As he stepped out of the curtained stall, he let in a glimmer of daylight. “Constable, where did you get that black eye?”

“Got into a bit of a brawl at Danby’s,” Cobb said proudly. “Had to make it look real, now, didn’t I?”

M
ARC WAS BACK
in the governor’s office at two o’clock. Sir Francis sat behind his desk, looking tired but determined. Major Burns shuffled several papers—notes or reports of some kind—then leaned back as far as he dare to catch the slight breeze from the open window behind him.

“Before I hear your report, Lieutenant, I have some interesting news for you,” Sir Francis said. “I have just received a deposition from Magistrate Thorpe up in York Township, taken from a farmer named Luke Bethel.”

“He was the man I spoke with after Crazy Dan was shot,” Marc said with some surprise.

“That’s the one. And according to his sworn testimony, Crazy Dan’s gun was still in his grip with his finger on the trigger as he lay dead on his doorstep. Bethel admitted under close questioning from Mr. Thorpe that he saw Crazy Dan raise the gun just as he came over the rise below the cabin, but cannot say whether it was pointing at anyone in particular. He says also that, although attempts were made to warn you that Crazy Dan was harmless and the gun stoppered, these were not successful, and therefore the troops could not have known these critical facts before discharging their weapons.”

“That is all true,” Marc said, marvelling at Luke Bethel’s honesty in the face of much temptation to behave otherwise.

“It seems to me you made quite an impression on Farmer Bethel.”

“Quite the reverse, I’m afraid.”

“In any case, this affidavit will go a long way to justifying my decision not to hold a formal inquest.”

While Marc was relieved at this unexpected turn of events and heartened by Bethel’s integrity, he was less than reassured by the governor’s cavalier decision not to hold the inquest. Too often, it seemed, the governor dealt high- handedly with volatile political situations that required insight, diplomacy, and judicious decision-making. Marc brushed aside this thought, however, and dutifully brought Sir Francis and Major Burns up to date.

“Thank you,” the governor said when Marc had finished.
“That is encouraging. We’ll meet again tomorrow before the funeral, if there is anything further to be discussed, and later on after you’ve talked with Cobb at seven. Now, Major, would you mind giving Lieutenant Willoughby a hand in his office?”

Major Burns nodded assent, rose stiffly, and left the room.

“I have another matter I wish to discuss with you privately,” Sir Francis said conspiratorially, and Marc wondered what was coming next.

“It’s about Farmer’s Friend.”

“Ah,” Marc said, relieved. “I’ve put Cobb on his trail. If there is a trail to be found, he’ll find it.”

“I hope so. But what I wish to do, in the few minutes I have you alone, is explain to you more fully why I think this matter urgent.”

“My duty is to carry out your commands, sir, not to question them.”

Sir Francis smiled wryly. “Well said. I wish more of the people’s representatives felt that way. Nonetheless, I do want to explain to you why I am so serious in my concern over Farmer’s Friend. After all, we have an angry, dissolved Assembly, an Executive that resigned in protest, and a contentious election campaign in progress, not to mention a political assassination.”

“Well, sir, I did wonder at the timing of your request.”

“As any thoughtful human being would have. But it is precisely the timing that is most significant here. As you
know, this Reform mouthpiece”—and Sir Francis tossed last Monday’s edition of Mackenzie’s newspaper rudely upon the desk between them—“this demagogic puffery is the common currency of journalism in this province. Its gross hyper-bole—matched, alas, too often by the Conservative press—is so extreme, so distanced from fact or possibility, and so outrageous that readers of every stripe, supporters or detractors, have become inured to it. That is, as you know, one of the reasons that I decided to take to the hustings myself and deliver to the ordinary, loyal Upper Canadian the kind of plain talk he has not heard now for more than a decade.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Moreover, the so-called ‘letters’ sent by the quire to the popular press every week are cut from the same hyperbolic cloth and fall upon the same deadened ears. But five weeks ago the
Constitution
started to include a letter each week from this Farmer’s Friend, and what has been different about it—and indeed more compelling—is that it, too, speaks in plain language and gives the dangerous illusion that its author has no political agenda except to recite the facts and have them make their own point unaided by bombast or political cant. What is more, each letter is in the form of a story, a kind of parable, which purports to illustrate the effects of various official policies upon ordinary folk. I have had three members of the Legislative Council in here today complaining of the influence these letters seem to be having upon the very moderate majority we are endeavouring to
bring over to the Constitutionist side. Someone, most likely Mackenzie, has begun printing these meddlesome parables as broadsheets and flinging them about the hinterland like snowflakes.”

“But if they are not distorting the truth, sir—”

The governor’s eyes tightened. “Dammit, man, they are telling only one part of the truth. I haven’t the slightest doubt that these ‘real-life’ tales are true—for that’s where their power to persuade lies—but to go on and on about the evils of the Clergy Reserves and the failure of the banking system to support the individual farmer or gripe about money being wasted on the Welland Canal that could have been used to improve roads is to ignore the good our policies have also done: we have to have money to support the established clergy, do we not? If they do not get it from the reserve lands, it will have to come from the farmer’s own pocket. And if our richest citizens did not selflessly put up their own capital to establish banks, there would be no banks at all!”

“And you feel the letters from a single malcontent could be significant in the election?”

“My task, Lieutenant, is to make certain that by every legal means possible the Crown and the justice it embodies prevails at the polls. I wish to overlook nothing that might be detrimental to our cause. At the moment, for example, the murder of Councillor Moncreiff is working in our favour. There is fear and outrage among people of all classes.”

And a convenient Yankee scapegoat, Marc thought, but it was a thought that did not make him happy. “Do we not, sir, have to respect the right of citizens to send letters to the press anonymously, provided they are not libellous?”

“Of course. And as I intimated briefly yesterday, I wish only to invite this person here to have a heart- to- heart talk. I feel that in doing so I may discover, shall we say, more subtle ways in which to frame my plain talk as we head into the London district next week. I have no wish to staunch the flow of the letters themselves.”

“May I have copies of these letters, sir? There may be some clue or other in them that could lead eventually to identifying their author.”

“Indeed you may. I had Major Burns clip them out for you.”

W
ITH NOTHING TO DO BUT WAIT
for Cobb’s report tomorrow evening and for any news from Buffalo, Marc sat in his office and read over the letters penned by Farmer’s Friend. As described by Sir Francis, they were written in simple, compelling prose. Each was in the form of a story, complete with touching dialogue and an ending pathetic enough to wring tears out of Diogenes. Each parable focused on one grievance and a single example of its devastating consequences.

One letter dramatized the struggle of a farm couple to better their lot by investing their tiny store of hard- won
capital in a gristmill. The mill, already serving their township, was owned by an elderly bachelor with no family in North America, who promised the couple that they could “buy him out” when he was ready to retire. When that day arrived last fall, he moved in with the couple and their five children and, on condition that they look after his simple needs until he should die—in addition to a cash payment equal to half of their life savings—he turned the operation over to them. The new miller and his eldest sons immediately spent the rest of their savings on needed improvements to the machinery. What they didn’t know until several months later was that there was a lien on the property. The original owner had taken out a mortgage with the Investment Bank of Toronto and had been paying it off in quarterly sums. He assumed this would be no burden to the enterprising couple, but what he hadn’t done was read the fine print of the contract he had signed.

On January 1, 1836, the outstanding sum became due and payable in full within thirty days. All this usually meant was that the mortgage would be renegotiated at the current interest rate. But the bank, a well- known institution backed by a group of wealthy members of the Family Compact, refused to renew the mortgage and offered no explanation. The couple desperately tried to arrange a mortgage with the other two banks in the province but, again, were summarily and inexplicably rebuffed. A month later the Investment Bank foreclosed and took over the mill. Lo and behold, a
nearby landowner, with direct links to the Tory faction in Toronto, bought the mill, appropriated the improvements, and set up a thriving business next door to the beleaguered couple. To no one’s surprise, the Investment Bank had provided the mortgage money for the transaction. The disenfranchised couple was left with no savings, no mill, and no intention of turning the old miller into the streets (refusing even to take a cent of the money he offered them).