Solemn Vows (9 page)

“Willoughby is a good man, certainly. He has done much of the detailed, day-to-day work on security …”

Sir Francis caught the reservation in Marc’s assessment. He smiled paternally. “You don’t have to be coy about Willoughby, Marc. I know all about his checkered past. I am a friend of his good father, and it was I who agreed to bring him out here with me. He is still young enough, I hope, to find himself as a man, and what better means could there be for doing so than taking on a new profession in a new country? In fact, my original intention was to put him in charge of my security and work him in as military secretary eventually. He is, as you know, well educated and highly intelligent.”

“Why did you not do so?”

“First, a few days after our arrival, he got himself disgracefully drunk and ran about Government House frightening the maids and throwing wild punches at anyone trying to restrain him—all this while babbling incoherently about his ‘faithless Rosy’!”

“The woman who left him at the altar,” Marc said.

“Indeed. Then, while I was reconsidering the matter, I read Sir John’s report on your splendid work in the Cobourg investigation and his unequivocal recommendation that I take you on as my aide-de-camp.”

“Well, Willoughby has begun to adjust nicely in the past few months, has he not?”

“Thanks to you, lad. And to Mrs. Standish’s cooking. There’s even a rumour that he may have himself a lady friend.” Sir Francis raised one eyebrow.

“Truthfully, sir, I’ve seen no sign of it, but, until yesterday, he had seemed much more optimistic and friendly, less given to moodiness.”

“Yes, I heard about yesterday from Hilliard, who let the cat out of the bag, I’m afraid.”

“It was the sight of the body, sir. Crazy Dan was hit with a full volley. The corpse was a mess. Several of the men were sick.”

“I know all about that sort of thing, alas. I was at Waterloo—a slaughtering ground. Mind you, I was with the engineers and not in the main battle at all, but I was close enough, nonetheless. He’ll get over it, as far as anyone ever does.”

“He’ll be happy to hear your news, sir. I think keeping him active and giving him more responsibility is just the tonic he needs.”

“Then why don’t you send him in on your way out.”

Marc paused before answering.

“He is at his post, is he not?” Sir Francis narrowed his gaze.

“In fact, sir, I could not rouse him before I left at ten-thirty.”

Head’s blue eyes blazed with a cold, steady fire. “Well, Lieu tenant, please return home instantly and inform Lieutenant Willoughby that he is to report to this office by one o’clock ready for duty. If he fails to do so, he will find himself sulking in the brig!”

“Yes, sir!” Marc jumped to his feet, knocking over his empty coffee cup.

The noise woke up Major Burns, who had been peacefully asleep for the last part of the interview—the quill frozen in his arthritic grip.

Sir Francis got up and drew the pen tenderly from the Major’s fingers. “I may need both you and Willoughby soon,” he said to Marc at the door.

Then, as the governor walked Marc into the anteroom, he snapped at one of his underlings, “Corporal, help Major Burns to his rooms.”

Marc ran down the steps of Government House and across the lawn to the winding roadway that led up to King Street. His mind was not bubbling with the details of his new assignment, however; rather, he was wondering how he was going to get Colin Willoughby sober enough to present himself to Sir Francis by one o’clock.

T
he Widow Standish, a handsome woman in her mid-fifties, for whom the word motherly had been coined, was on the veranda to greet Marc. She was wringing her apron as if to dry her hands, but they had not been near water since the breakfast dishes. “I tried to wake him, sir. Maisie and me both, one of us tugging at either arm, and him in his nightshirt only!”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Standish. I’ll take over,” Marc said as they hurried through the hallway towards the boarders’ rooms in back. “If you and Maisie would be kind enough to fill the bathtub and provide some fresh towels—”

Mrs. Standish looked abashed. “Oh, sir, there’s not a drop of hot water in the house. It’s too warm out for a fire, even in the summer kitchen.”

“I think cold water would be more helpful,” Marc said, and strode off to Willoughby’s room.

W
HEN
M
ARC DROPPED HIS FRIEND
C
OLIN
naked and stinking into the bath, one of Colin’s arms flapped, then the other, then both legs, and finally the whole body thrashed upwards. His eyes snapped wide.

“Jesus Murphy, where am I?”

“You’re in your own bathtub, but if you don’t get a grip on yourself you’re going to find your accommodations considerably less comfortable.”

As Willoughby grumpily tried to get the soap lathering in the cool water, Marc told him about the governor’s offer to make him temporary assistant to Major Burns and commander of the palace guard for the duration of Marc’s investigation. At first Willoughby had difficulty taking it in, due in part to his monstrous hangover, but Marc sensed there was something else, something deeper perhaps, that made it hard for him to grasp what had happened. He still looked like a man in shock.

“I’ll leave you to your toilette, Colin old chum. Maisie is dusting off your spare uniform, and Mrs. Standish has started a small fire in this wretched heat to boil you some coffee. So
quit feeling sorry for yourself and buck up! You’ve only got half an hour to make or break your fortune.” He shoved Colin’s head playfully under the soapy water and was pleased to see the troubled young man bob back up—with a wan smile on his face.

D
URING THE SHORT WALK
up to Government House, Marc had time to explain briefly to Colin that the governor had taken the depositions regarding the shooting of Crazy Dan and had, pending their own statements, absolved them of any blame. This news did not have the spirit-boosting effect that Marc had expected, so he quickly told Colin about the governor’s plans to travel through the London district next week, plans that involved Colin in his new role.

“Do you mean to say that I’ll be in charge when we go west?” Colin said, his grey eyes brightening and some colour flushing into his pale cheeks.

“That’s right. And what’s more, you’ll be the governor’s secretary in all but name, as dear old Major Burns is able to do less and less each day.”

“And you will be fully in charge of the, uh, investigation?”

They were now stopped on the gravel path that wound its way up to the ornate veranda of Government House.

“It’s not a job I asked for,” Marc said carefully, “and indeed I was surprised that the governor insisted on my taking it after the fiasco up at Danby’s Crossing.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done it? Any trail to follow?”

Marc hesitated. Despite the governor’s own proposal to broadcast selected facts about the investigation, Marc felt that the less said to anyone the better. However, Colin’s sense of complicity in the death of Crazy Dan and the sight of the maimed body had obviously left him shaken and vulnerable—just at a time when he would need to be clear-headed and confident. The responsibilities being offered him could well be the making of him, as an officer and as a man. (The quick capture of the real murderer would do much to ease both their consciences.) And a true friend would not stint in such circumstances by withholding information.

“We think it may have been a disaffected American living up there.”

“Has the hue and cry been sent up?”

“Not yet. We’re pretty certain he’s gone to ground over in New York.”

“Ah, then there’s little chance we’ll ever see him again.”

“You may be right,” Marc said, hoping against hope that he wasn’t.

At this point the duty- corporal at the door waved them inside.

M
ARC AND
C
OLIN WROTE DOWN
their separate accounts of the “tragic incident” (as everyone in Government House
had begun to refer to it) and signed them. Marc decided not to delay beginning his own work a moment longer. He set off for Somerset House on Front Street to interview Ignatius Maxwell, who from all accounts was a brutally frank judge of men. He didn’t get far. In the foyer, he was stopped and handed a message that instructed him to meet with someone called Horatio Cobb, police constable, at six o’clock in the Crooked Anchor, a sleazy tavern on Bay Street north of Market. Marc was due to have supper with Eliza Dewart-Smythe and her uncle Sebastian at seven and, as he was beginning to feel he might at last have found a woman who would help him get over his disappointment with Beth Smallman, it was imperative he be there on time. Since he also planned to visit Mackenzie at his newspaper office that afternoon, he decided to stop briefly at Mrs. Standish’s for a cold midday meal with a glass of warm ale. Then he headed down the half-block to Front Street and walked briskly eastwards under a pleasant June sun. He began to whistle.

The investigation had begun.

S
OMERSET
H
OUSE WAS BY NO MEANS
the only mansion of note in this prosperous area of the city, where many of its successful merchants, lawyers, bankers, churchmen, and privy councillors lived—as well as a few of those less distinguished members of the Family Compact who, by dint of birth or marriage, managed to maintain both status and the
requisite bank balance. But Maxwell’s house was the grandest on its block, with an unobstructed view of the bay and the islands beyond. The building itself was as pretentious as it was presumptuous—all stuccoed quarrystone and slate, neo- Gothic turrets and chimneys wishing they were belvederes, and a carved portico at the entrance to a legendary ballroom fit for princes (should they ever deign to come). Marc walked past the portico without admiring its rococo cherubim, going on to the more plain visitors’ entrance off York Street, which was adorned with a morbidly black wreath and an ornate door knocker.

A butler in mourning clothes listened as Marc stated his name and asked to see the receiver general. After waiting in vain for Marc’s card, the butler trundled off down an unlit corridor. It was a good five minutes before he returned and wordlessly led Marc down the same corridor. A door was discreetly opened and, as Marc followed the butler’s nod into the room ahead, the servant said in a low, conspiratorial tone: “Lieutenant Edwards, ma’am, as you instructed.”

Before Marc could quibble or retreat, the door was closed behind him, and he found himself alone in a sunlit sitting room with Prudence and Chastity Maxwell. Chastity had either just rushed here or was in the midst of working up a rage, for both her cheeks were crimson and her eyes were blazing. Prudence, if she had been engaged in a heated exchange with her daughter, had recovered with remarkable speed and aplomb, for she rose gracefully, batted her heavy
lashes at Marc, smiled, and said, “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Do come in. Iggy’s out just now, but due back within the quarter- hour. I’ve instructed Jacques to let us know the second he steps through the front door.” She put out her ungloved hand—though the rest of her costume was formal enough (as befitted mourning attire) and composed of several layers of cloth that shimmered and rustled gloomily. She turned to Chastity. “You remember Lieutenant Edwards, do you not, darling?”

Chastity blushed just as her cheeks were cooling from whatever contretemps she had been having with Prudence. “Of course, Mama.”

“You are not a gentleman who can easily be forgotten,” Prudence said to Marc, and she motioned him to sit. Marc nodded and took a chair across the room from his hostess.

Chastity did not sit. “Please excuse me, Lieutenant, but I was just on my way out—”

“Not to meet that man, you most certainly are not,” Prudence hissed without seriously undermining her smile.

Chastity now looked more exasperated than angry. She gave Marc a sidelong glance that implied, “You see what I have to put up with” and said to her mother, “I told you I am meeting Angeline and we are taking her carriage down to the new millinery shop on King Street. I must have a black hat for Uncle’s funeral on Friday.” Then without waiting for any further remonstrance, she smiled beatifically at Marc and left by the far door.

“What are we to do with this younger generation, Lieutenant?” Prudence said to Marc, who she had apparently decided was old enough not to be included in it.

Marc smiled noncommittally. “Is there something in particular you wished to discuss with me?” he asked warily, thinking of several dubious possibilities.

But either Prudence had scant recollection of yesterday’s encounter in Danby’s Inn or had determined to pretend that it had never happened. She was clearly playing the lady and mistress of the manor. “As a matter of fact, sir, I was hoping to ask a favour of you in regard to my daughter. But first, would you like some coffee, or a sherry?”

“Nothing, thank you, ma’am. I will of course be happy to be of service in any way that I can, though I must tell you candidly that almost all of my time is now taken up with investigating the dreadful business of your brother- in- law’s death.”