Solemn Vows (17 page)

Before going over to Government House to report Cobb’s news to Sir Francis, Marc walked briskly through the Saturday sunshine to Eliza’s place. There he found Constable Ewan Wilkie, who had taken over Cobb’s patrol area and had returned to the scene of the break- in to examine it in daylight. He seemed pleased to see Marc, probably because he provided a neutral party to place between himself and Uncle Sebastian’s unchecked contempt. The thieves, whoever they were, had been professional to a fault. A door to one of the storerooms had been jimmied with a minimum of noise or damage. They had chosen an entrance off a shadowy alley and, somehow knowing the merchant’s routine, had moved in undetected just after closing time and selected only a few tuns of the most expensive wine. The fresh ruts of a cartwheel suggested they had boldly parked a wagon on the street and, as darkness fell, had rolled the tuns onto it, covering the booty with a sailcloth or such, and then trotting off at a sedate pace for their lair.

Wilkie, a stolid man who blinked a lot, blinked at Uncle Sebastian and summed matters up succinctly: “I reckon, sir, you’ll have to get yerself a night watchman.”

This advice did little to modify the good merchant’s contempt. And Marc decided that it was an inopportune time to ask after Eliza’s health. So he and Wilkie left together and walked down Yonge Street. Just before they got to King, Wilkie said, “By the bye, sir, Mr. Cobb wants to see you.”

M
ARC MET
C
OBB AT THE
C
OCK AND
B
ULL
on York Street about eleven o’clock. For the first time Cobb looked just slightly abashed. Something had gone wrong.

“You didn’t find out who Farmer’s Friend is, I take it,” Marc said, unable to keep the critical tone out of his voice.

“’Fraid not, Major.”

“Did this Clegg fellow show?”

“Yup, just like he said,” Cobb replied. “I got to his house down on Front Street just as the sun was comin’ up over the Don. Out he waltzes a few minutes later and starts headin’ west into the city proper. I was able to keep myself well hidden behind bushes until he arrived at Market Square, where the farmers’d already begun settin’ up their stalls and barrows. It was busy enough fer me to mix in with the crowd, seein’ as I wasn’t in uniform.”

Marc refrained from pointing out that his beet- sized nose, spiked hair, and bottle shape might provide something less than perfect anonymity.

“Well, all of a suddenlike, he starts to pick up his pace, and I do the same. But there’s three dozen stalls around us,
and people start jostlin’ me, and before I know it, Abner Clegg’s vamoosed.”

“You lost him?”

Cobb looked hurt. “I don’t give up that easy, Major. I circled ’round the Market Square, checkin’ all the streets in and out. No sign of him or his shadow. So I head up towards Mackenzie’s shop on Church Street, duckin’ in and out of alleys careful- like, and pretty soon I spot him comin’ out of the printin’ place.”

“He had delivered the letter?”

Cobb ignored the impertinence of the interruption. “So I follow him down here to this dive. I send a message to you, and then wait outside fer him to leave. But all the time I’m thinkin’, like I always do, and I reckoned he wasn’t outta my sight after the market fer no more’n a quarter- hour, so he must’ve picked up the letter from one of the houses or shops within, say, three blocks of Mackenzie’s.”

Marc made no comment on this unhelpful bit of deduction. Finally, he said, “Why the secrecy? All this cloak- and- dagger manoeuvring? Surely most letter- writers deliver their material themselves or have a friend do it or pay a street urchin a penny to carry it—or, if all else fails, use the mails.”

“Beats me, Major. But I don’t suppose you’re interested in hearin’ the actual end to my story?”

Marc heaved a deep and resigned sigh. “I’m all ears.”

“Clegg’s got a mouth twice the size of his brain, lucky fer us. He starts braggin’ in here—in front of my chief
snitch—about how he figures he was bein’ trailed this mornin’, and just to make sure it don’t happen again, he’s arranged with his client to pick the letter up next Friday instead of Saturday.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing,” Marc said as kindly as he could.

“And I’ll be there like a—”

“I’m sure you will,” Marc said.

W
HEN THE DUTY-CORPORAL USHERED HIM
into the governor’s office, Marc was mildly surprised to find Sir Francis seated at his desk next to Willoughby, shoulder to shoulder and obviously putting the finishing touches on one of the speeches planned for the progress through the radical ridings of the London district. Sir Francis glanced up at Marc with his usual welcoming smile and impeccable manners, but Colin was so engrossed in his work that he seemed not to have realized anyone had entered the room. Sir Francis directed Marc to the chair usually reserved for Major Burns (prostrate, apparently, with a rheumatic attack), and the corporal slid another up behind his commander opposite Marc.

“I’ve asked Lieutenant Willoughby to work into the night if necessary to get the wording of my Brantford speech exactly right. Tomorrow being the Sabbath, we have only a few hours left to get everything perfected for our assault
on the western ridings. And as you know, Marc, my success there is critical to the outcome of the election.”

“I believe so, sir.”

Willoughby’s constant scratching and blotting were an irritation, but Colin himself seemed oblivious to the conversation going on no more than ten feet from him. Not once did he look up to greet Marc, and Marc realized with a guilty start that he himself was both hurt and jealous. He wanted Colin to do well, but not well enough to supplant him. He felt that his protégé ought to show some gratitude or at least acknowledge that Marc had played a part in his rehabilitation.

“It is vitally important that we win seats in all regions of the province,” Sir Francis was saying. “Our triumph must not be in numbers alone. I want troublemakers like Mackenzie and Peter Perry and Marshall Spring Bidwell driven from the field.”

But not humiliated, Marc wanted to say.

“Young Hilliard is doing a splendid job in helping Willoughby with the security of those travelling with me—including my son. You have trained the ensign well, Marc.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ll also be pleased to know that I am taking along in the official party the receiver general, Mr. Maxwell, and Colonel Allan MacNab. I want not merely to show the flag but to flaunt it!”

Certainly the inclusion of MacNab would have that effect.
MacNab was a high Tory, who had been instrumental in having Mackenzie expelled from the Assembly for the third time, in 1832. He was also a symbol of loyalty to the Crown and of the rise to wealth and power of the native- born. He had fought bravely as a militiaman in the War of 1812 and had become on his own merit a successful lawyer, legislator, merchant, and land speculator. The sight of him sitting beside Sir Francis in full regalia would undoubtedly raise hackles and tempers.

“About the investigation, sir,” Marc said diffidently.

“My word, yes. Of course, that is why you have come, isn’t it?”

When it seemed clear he was to make his report in Willoughby’s presence, Marc began. As was his custom, Sir Francis listened without interruption as Marc gave him chapter and verse of Cobb’s prodigious discoveries at Danby’s Crossing and elsewhere.

“Excellent work, Lieutenant. If all this information proves out, it appears we have identified the man who pulled the trigger and established that he was most probably a paid assassin. This corroborates the edited account I have already released to the public. And when we capture the blackguard, we’ll know who is really behind the murder, and why.”

“That is what I believe, too,” Marc said. “But it begs a more serious question. Should we set up a general hue and cry with a warrant issued and all military and police personnel given a description of the man—”

“What does he look like, by the way?”

“Constable Cobb did not relay that detail to me, sir, but I am sure he could at a minute’s notice.”

Sir Francis looked thoughtful for a moment. “I sense you do not wish to raise the alarm immediately?”

“If Cobb is right, sir, the odds are that Philo Rumsey has not gone back to Buffalo but is camping out in the bush. Why he would do so, except that his wife and children are still in Danby’s Crossing, we don’t know. But if the alarm is raised everywhere, he may well panic and cross the border—forever.”

“So we might be better off alerting our people along the border—at Fort George, Fort Erie, Fort Henry, and even Fort Malden—and leave it at that for now?”

“I believe that is the more prudent plan, in the circumstances. There is no likelihood of Rumsey assassinating anyone else, as he himself has no political motive.”

Sir Francis watched Willoughby’s quill- scratching for almost a minute. “All right, Lieutenant, we’ll do just that—for a few days at least. But you do realize that our decision is based on our acceptance of the evidence gathered by one lowly police constable.”

“I do, sir,” Marc said, keeping his own doubts to himself.

“It does seem amazing that this Cobb—who, I was told by Mr. Sturges, comes from a farm family near Woodstock—could have found out so much so quickly.”

“Well, he did fail in one respect, sir,” Marc said. And he
gave the governor an account of Cobb’s misadventure with the letter courier.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. I was hoping to come face to face with Farmer’s Friend before setting off for the west,” Sir Francis said, then added, “Don’t you find it odd that Cobb could tease out so much useful information up at Danby’s and in the taverns of the town, and then allow himself to be led astray by some nondescript like Abner Clegg—in his own patrol area?”

“What are you suggesting, sir?”

“Only that these constables were not selected from former militia members, who might have brought some experience to the occupation. They were patronage appointments made by Toronto aldermen sympathetic to the Reform party and headed by a Reform mayor.”

“You think Cobb may have allowed his political views to influence his duty in this particular case? Because he owes his appointment to Mackenzie?”

“I am suggesting that it is a possibility.”

“In this business of the letters, you mean?”

Sir Francis sighed. “I hope to God it’s in this instance only.”

“I’ll do the job myself, then,” Marc said quickly, “next Friday morning. I’ll have the letter-writer’s name for you by Friday noon.”

“And with any luck you’ll have Rumsey in irons,” Sir Francis said warmly. Suddenly he clapped a hand on Marc’s
shoulder and began leading him towards the door. “Now I have a much more pleasant assignment for you. The coachman I usually employ to drive my ward about town—and to keep a close watch on her—is ill today, and Angeline has her heart set on a shopping trip. I’ll have one of my grooms drive the team, but I would feel more at ease if you were to escort her. It will take less than an hour of your time.”

“I would be happy to do so,” Marc said, suppressing his chagrin as best he could.

At the door Marc turned around just far enough to catch Willoughby’s eye. Colin was smiling.

A
NGELINE
H
ARTLEY, THE GOVERNOR’S WARD,
was petalled entirely in pink, from her floral hat to her frilled and beribboned frock to her dainty boots and the bloom of her parasol. Even her face shone pink with the first blush of womanhood—a state she wished, devoutly and often, to enter permanently. She was all of seventeen, and nothing set her heart aflutter as much as a young man in uniform. The image of Lieutenant Edwards—tunicked and tall and handsome—was not so breathtaking, however, as to strike her dumb. Quite the opposite. She babbled non- stop in Marc’s ear all the way down fashionable King Street. About what Marc was not able to decipher exactly, but, then, it was the passion and intensity of her girl-chatter that mattered most. When they passed Bay Street, Angeline stopped
talking, sat upright (she had been teetering coquettishly towards her escort’s shoulder from time to time), arched her parasol jauntily, and with a gloved hand waved to the throng of onlookers she imagined must be watching in undisguised envy.

“Do stop here, Coachman!” Angeline called, and the young groom drew the open carriage to a halt. “This is one of the shops where I purchase my dresses and gowns,” she said to Marc, who had stepped down and offered her his hand. She held it as long as she dared, then moved across the boardwalk to Miss Adeline’s.

“I’ll wait for you here,” Marc said, touching the brim of his shako cap.

“I shan’t be long, Lieutenant,” Angeline burbled, then twirled prettily and entered the shop.

A minute or so later, the shop door opened, but it was not Angeline who emerged. It was Prudence Maxwell. And if Angeline was a spring flower, Prudence was a late- summer rose or gladiola. She had packed the overblown bloom of her flesh into a low- cut bodice and blinding- yellow skirt. All about her hung an air of over- lush ripeness. When she spotted Marc, she stopped abruptly and aimed a thick- lipped smile in his direction.

“Why, Lieutenant, how nice to see you once again.”

“Madam,” Marc said, bowing briefly.

“My, what onerous duties Sir Francis puts upon you!” she laughed. “How are your ears?”

Marc acknowledged the reference to Angeline with a slight smile. “They have survived, ma’am—so far.”

“Well, I do hope they last until next Saturday.”

Marc looked puzzled.

“Good gracious, doesn’t that old fuddy-duddy up at Government House tell you anything? The whole town is agog with the news, Lieutenant. We are holding a gala at Somerset House next Saturday evening—to welcome Sir Fuddy- Duddy home from the wars and celebrate the coming triumph in the elections. Every officer at the rank of ensign and above has been invited. Your invitation must be on your desk by now.”

“That is pleasant news indeed, and I must apologize for not noticing the invitation. But as you can see, I’ve been kept occupied away from my office.”