Vital Secrets

by Don Gutteridge

  Marc was puzzled by this selection because Merriwether was famous for his role as King Claudius, not the younger Hamlet, usually played by Beasley. Hamlet’s role here had been clearly assigned to Marc, but as far as he could tell from the program notes scribbled hastily by Mrs. Thedford, in the other scenes from the play surrounding this one, Beasley would take his customary role and Armstrong would do Claudius. Besides being an unusual and potentially confusing arrangement, it seemed to Marc to be exceedingly risky since, as Hamlet, he would be beardless and made up to look like the young man he actually was. The odds of someone in the audience recognizing him or guessing that this Hamlet was not the forty-five-year-old Merriwether were surely increased. But he had little choice. His morning would be taken up with interviewing Thea about the laudanum, writing a report for Sir Francis, and talking to Rick before handing it in. So he sat himself down and began to commit the Bard’s iambics to memory.

  AT TEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING, with his report sketched out and under his arm, Marc slipped past Ogden Frank into the empty taproom. He opened the door to the theatre, startled Wilkie awake, and asked him to bring Thea Clarkson down to the hotel dining-room. Moments later, Thea, Wilkie, and Cobb arrived simultaneously. Wilkie scuttled back to his sentry post. Marc mouthed the word laudanum at Cobb, who shook his head slowly. Marc then turned to Thea, who looked very nervous, wondering no doubt what new calamity was about to strike. He got right to the point. “We have discovered, Miss Clarkson, that you purchased a quantity of laudanum from Ezra Michaels’s shop on King Street last Saturday afternoon.”

  Thea went white, then red. She stared at the table and said nothing.

  “As you know, Tessa Guildersleeve and Ensign Hilliard were drugged with laudanum. The empty bottle, which is unquestionably the one you purchased, was found in the hall upstairs near Tessa’s room. We know you couldn’t have committed the murder yourself, but as the supplier of the drug, you must be considered—”

  “I had nothing to do with that!” she cried. “Nothing! Why are you doing this to me?” She laid her head in her arms and wept wearily.

  “All we need to know,” Marc said soothingly, “is whether you have any plausible explanation for why you purchased laudanum last Saturday.”

  Thea’s tears slowed and stopped. Summoning her strength, she raised her head and faced her tormentors. “I bought the laudanum in order to kill myself.”

  “I don’t understand,” Marc said lamely.

  “I’m carrying Jason’s child, and the bastard refused to marry me. He wasn’t even man enough to admit it was his.” Her voice was thin, but very cold.

  “But you couldn’t go through with it.”

  “I would’ve,” she said. “But when I got back here, I found I’d lost the stuff somewhere. You can believe me or not. I don’t give a damn anymore.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Marc said. Cobb could only look at him in astonishment.

  WHEN THEA HAD BEEN PUT INTO the solicitous care of Madge Frank, where she was to remain for the time being, Cobb lit up his pipe and said to Marc, “You sure she didn’t just happen to drop that loud-numb near somebody who didn’t like Merriwether any more’n her?”

  “What I think is that Thea Clarkson is much more likely to harm herself than anyone else. What we know for certain, though, is that we still have a vial of laudanum unaccounted for.”

  “She could’ve dropped it anywheres between here an’ Michaels’s place.”

  Marc sighed. “And there’s still no way to link it to Merriwether himself. By the by, did you and Mrs. Cobb enjoy the performance last night?”

  “Yes, we did, though I kept thinkin’ I was gonna fall outta that apple-box an’ land on somebody I oughtn’t to! But them Yankees can sure sing an’ dance! I figured Missus Cobb’s foot-tappin’ would wake the dead at Lundy’s Lane!”

  “Well, I want you up there again this evening, and Dora, too, if she so wishes. I want you as my eyes and ears in the theatre proper. I’ll assign Wilkie to watch the dressing-room area.”

  “Even if we manage to fool the traitors inta believin’ you’re Merriwether, how’re you gonna know where an’ when they’ll get a message to you about a round-a-view?”

  “That’s the Achilles’ heel of my plan, I’m afraid. But the rebels or whoever they are know the guns are here in Toronto, and they believe for now that Merriwether is alive and waiting for the second message: they’ll deliver it all right. I’ve just got to be alert enough to recognize it when it comes.”

  “You gonna take that report up to the governor?”

  “Yes, but I’m going to see Rick first. There has to be some detail he’s forgotten: I’ve got to try and help him recall it.”

  “I better come with ya.”

  They slipped out the back entrance to Frank’s quarters into the alley there.

  “You don’t haveta come to supper, ya know,” Cobb said. “You got more’n enough on yer plate as it is.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  SET BACK FROM KING STREET AMONG the autumn vermilion and gold of maple trees and with its cozy gables, its homely chimney-pots and rambling verandahs, Government House looked more like the estate of a country squire dozing in the Dorset sun than it did the seat of power and nerve-centre of a troubled British colony. The duty-corporal recognized Marc and led him and Cobb into the foyer.

  “Where are they keeping Hilliard?” Marc asked.

  “In the old pantry at the back, sir,” the corporal replied, then added in a lower voice, “but it ain’t locked.”

  “Good. Cobb, would you mind waiting here with the corporal? When I’m finished with Rick, I’d like you to accompany me when I present this report to the governor. Your corroboration will be helpful.”

  “I c’n manage the ‘helpful’ part,” Cobb said, and the corporal smiled.

  It was now about eleven o’clock. Before leaving the theatre, Marc had gone upstairs with Cobb and reviewed with each of the actors a written summary of the testimony they had made to him during the interviews on Tuesday morning. He then had each sign the document, with Cobb as witness. Marc knew he wasn’t a surrogate justice of the peace, but he needed the semblance of notarized legality if he were to lay out for Sir Francis the apparent scenario of the murder and then point out the anomalies, such as they were. (Thea had been resting and so was excused, but since Cobb had been present during both interviews with her, Marc was not concerned.) He had hoped to have linked Merriwether to the laudanum, but that was now a lost cause. Though the villain most likely had found or purloined it from his distraught mistress, there was no proof of this. Marc realized also that, distracted as he was by the gun-running business and the deteriorating situation in Quebec, Sir Francis would not give Rick Hilliard’s case his usual close attention. Rick would simply have to help himself.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Lieutenant Spooner had popped out of his office next to the governor’s and sprung to a quivering halt in front of Marc.

  “I have a report to deliver to Sir Francis, after which we have details to work out regarding this evening.”

  “Well, then, I will be happy to accept your report on behalf of the governor.”

  “I must hand it to Sir Francis in person, Lieutenant. There are additional explanations and comments that are necessary to his full understanding of the situation.”

  “Be that as it may, Lieutenant, you will not be able to see the governor today. He’s gone down to the Legislature for emergency meetings with the Executive and the Legislative Council. You have no choice but to give the report to me. Moreover, I have been placed in charge of tonight’s operation.”

  Marc was not prepared for this. While he knew Sir Francis had never forgiven him for what he took to be a personal betrayal, he also knew that the governor liked to be informed directly of matters that concerned him and would, despite everything, be willing to accept Marc’s word in regard to statements of fact and reasoned judgements. “All right, then,
” he said graciously, suppressing his rising anxiety, “I’ll give it to you just as soon as I have interviewed Ensign Hilliard. His testimony was given while he was in a state of exhaustion and not yet recovered from having been drugged. It would be unfair to him, and improper of me, not to have him corroborate my notes.”

  “Oh, I don’t think anything as elaborate as that will be necessary,” Spooner said with a smug smile.

  “Are you refusing me access to him?”

  “No, you may see him anytime you like.” The smirk oozed and widened. “And you may put any gloss you wish upon the ensign’s actions; it won’t matter a fig.”

  Marc felt a sudden alarm. “What in hell do you mean, sir?” Spooner, who had been teetering heel to toe with hands locked behind his back for balance, now brought the latter into view. In his right hand he held an official-looking document. “I have here an affidavit, duly signed and notarized just minutes ago before Magistrate Thorpe.”

  “An affidavit signed by whom?”

  “By your Ensign Hilliard, of course. Who else?”

  “You interviewed him without my permission? Sir Francis put me in charge of the investigation, not you.”

  “I didn’t say boo to him. I didn’t need to. He called me in and asked for a magistrate.”

  “That’s not possible.” But, of course, it was.

  “It seems our young swain was materially moved after his visit with that little trollop from the theatre.”

  Marc heard Cobb gasp behind him. “Tessa?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “She came flying in here a short while ago, wide-eyed and demanding to see the man who had tried to save her from a fate worse than … whatever. What could I do? My heart is not made of stone. I let her have a few minutes alone with him. Then I had her escorted back to the theatre: you must have passed her en route.” Spooner was enjoying himself immensely.

  “You had no authority to do so!”

  “Perhaps not, but I doubt very much if Sir Francis will quarrel with the result of my decision.”

  Marc knew Hilliard well and was not surprised when Spooner delivered the coup de grâce. “He signed a confession. It’s all over.”

  Marc’s furious glare rocked Spooner back on his heels, but he gave no further ground. “I still want to see him.” Marc struggled to control the anger building in him: this was no time to lose his composure.

  “If you attempt in any way to have Hilliard withdraw his sworn statement or otherwise obstruct the course of justice, sir, I’ll have you court-martialled.”

  “Are you questioning my honour, sir?”

  Spooner took a step back, the flush of triumph fading from his face: images of a foggy meadow at dawn, pistols poised, and “seconds” holding their breath flitted before him. “Go in there and do as you like, then. It won’t matter. He’s finished. And then present yourself in my office—without your henchman. We have more important business to discuss.”

  • • •

  IF MARC HAD EXPECTED TO FIND his friend haggard and anxious after his ordeal, he was soon disappointed. Rick was sitting on a stool in the windowless room reading what appeared to be a novel by the light of a single candle. When Marc entered, Rick looked up and grinned a welcome that might have been meant for the happy arrival of a delinquent brother. “Marc, I’m so glad you’ve come. The most wonderful thing has just happened, and I need to tell it to the world!” He was beaming. The lines and pouches deposited on his face from two sleepless nights and endless hours of unceasing worry had been drawn into the service of a smile that, however transitory, was nonetheless genuine.

  “What in Christ’s name have you done?” Marc said before he could stop himself.

  “I told you she was an angel, didn’t I? Did you see her leaving?”

  “You’ve as good as written your signature on a gibbet,” Marc said, still boiling, “and I’ve been working my balls into a sweat over you for the last thirty-six hours.”

  Rick looked wounded, but rallied instantly with another ingratiating and infuriating smile. “But I killed him to save her, don’t you see?” The smile turned beatific.

  “Are you telling me that you now have remembered smashing Merriwether on the skull and driving your sword through his chest while he lay stunned and helpless on his back?”

  “I have no memory of doing either. But I must have, mustn’t I?”

  “Then, for the love of God, tell me what you do remember.”

  “I’ve put it all down in the affidavit.”

  “Humour me.” Marc’s emotions were oscillating between anger and fear, and he fought to keep his mind clear and focussed on the task ahead.

  “As I told you Monday night in the tavern, I fell asleep on the settee with my flies open. When I woke up, I felt something sticky all over me, like blood.”

  “You couldn’t see it?”

  “Not till I stood up in the moonlight.”

  “Beasley swore he saw some light coming from the doorway.”

  “Well, I think the little candle on Tessa’s night-table was still lit, but I was staring straight ahead at what I had done.”

  So much for that discrepancy. “But how do you know you did it if you have no recollection of it? Could you stab someone so forcefully and have no inkling that you’d done it?”

  “Ah, but I’d been drugged, Marc. I was confused. Some part of my brain must have seen that blackguard on top of my darling and brought me strength enough to smash him on the head with my sword-butt and then—this is what I wrote in the affidavit—I must’ve seen what he’d done to her and gone a bit crazy. But I was under the influence of the opiate, you see, and my motive was the purest one that any gentleman could have had.”

  Looking into the guileless and callow face of his young friend, Marc recognized that Rick was assuming he would be released eventually because of the laudanum and the chivalric impulse behind the homicidal deed. “Neither of those defenses will stand up for one minute in a court. You must face the truth, Rick. I know: I’ve studied the law. And unless you recant and withdraw your confession immediately, using Tessa’s visit to explain your quixotic behaviour, your affidavit alone will propel you straight into the hangman’s noose.”

  Rick peered up at Marc, suddenly serious. “I don’t wish to die, unless it’s in battle. But other than that kind of noble death, to die defending the honour of an innocent is surely a close second.” Rick’s eyes lit up again, pulling the sagging flesh of his face with them. “And you weren’t here, Marc, you didn’t see her, you didn’t hear her. She got down on her knees and thanked me from the bottom of her heart. She said I would live there forever. She wept for me—oh, they were the most beautiful tears of love and gratitude! And when she left, she gave me her favourite book to read and cherish. Look at the inscription. Is it not the most moving poetry you’ve ever read?” Rick held out the book and quoted from the inscribed flyleaf: “To my darling hero, Rick Hilliard; yours forever, Tessa.”

  Marc noticed the title on the spine: Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. He wasn’t surprised. He needed something sharp, cruel even, to shock Hilliard—the normally intelligent and ambitious ensign—back to reality. “You realize, Rick, that Spooner has suggested to Sir Francis that it was you who drugged Tessa for your own nefarious purpose and then savagely murdered Merriwether when he intervened? And so far, I have not been able to find evidence to wholly refute the charge. You will be hanged as a rapist and a killer, not as a hero out of the pages of Scott or Malory.”

  Rick took this in. “The corporal told me about Spooner’s theory. But Sir Francis knows me: he’ll never believe a story like that. And with my confession, why would he bother anyway?”

  “Because Merriwether is an American citizen. It just might suit Sir Francis’s political interests at present to have the American made the victim.”

  “But he painted them all as Antichrists during the election!”

  “That was then. Right now the governor may be more concerned to keep the U.S. government from financ
ing the local rebels he sees under every bush.” Marc was improvising this argument as he presented it, but he had to do something, even if it was underhanded.

  “I’ll take my chances on that score. Besides, I have Tessa’s judgement here in writing, and I’ll take the sight of her clutching my knees and weeping for me to my grave.”

  While Tessa herself will be on the steamer for Detroit tomorrow afternoon, Marc thought, but knew better than to try to tarnish the saint’s halo in the eyes of the idolater. Instead, he turned and left without another word. Spooner was right. It was finished.

  MARC ASKED COBB TO RETURN TO the theatre and make sure that Tessa was there. Wilkie was due for a tongue-lashing, but there was little point in chastising the girl or her warder: the damage had been done, and Hilliard was, after all, the author of his own fate.

  Marc then spent one of the most difficult half-hours he could remember in the service of his country. He and Spooner had to establish the ground rules for their attempt to ensnare the rebels in quest of Yankee rifles. Spooner began by admitting that he had surreptitiously placed a watch on the storage-shed and ice-house. While Marc was annoyed that such a move might already have alerted the rebels to the presence of the military and thus spooked them, he grudgingly accepted the necessity of ensuring that the guns were not simply carted off. Spooner wanted to surround the theatre with troops and have mounted officers nearby, but Marc convinced him to have both groups at least a block away and well hidden. An agent secreted in the loft of the livery stable, with Frank’s help, would be able to observe both sheds, the rear entrance to Frank’s quarters, and the alley beside the tavern. A second agent could be hidden in a market-stall directly across the road with a view of the tavern-entrance and of Colborne Street in front of the theatre.