Despite the obvious jeopardy Marc’s fatigued sleep had placed him in, it had left him feeling rested, alert, and ready to discover who was trying to murder him—and why. That he was the intended victim was no longer in doubt. Stiffly but with great determination, he walked over to the window and peered out. The snow was falling gently, drifting down with just the whisper of a breeze to suggest it was in motion at all. Marc could actually see a hazy outline of sun above the shadowed treeline to the southeast. Looking directly down, he noticed for the first time that a wooden ledge, about a foot and a half across, ran along the width of building between the two floors, all the way to the rickety fire-stairs, now mantled with snow like a derelict scaffold. He could see footprints—two sets probably, one going and one coming—stretching along the ledge to the fire-stairs. The assassin must have come up those stairs, or out onto them from the inside hall, and shuffled along the ledge to his unbarred window. From there, if one were bold or desperate enough, it would be simple to ease open the window, enter, and do the deed.
Marc noticed also that it seemed to be about nine o’clock, from the position of the sun, and that the footprints on the ledge were three-quarters filled with fresh snow. Thus, he could not determine their true size or imprint, though he guessed that they were made by a small or medium-sized person, certainly not a large man.
Dismantling his booby-trap, he went out into the main hall. He could detect no sounds from the other rooms. No doubt everyone but he was down in the dining area having breakfast. Well and good. He went to the smaller hall, where it met the main one, and followed it back to the rear exit. Again, he stopped to listen and heard no-one. He eased open the rear door, ignored the sudden chill of the January morning, and examined the landing. It was dotted with bootprints, as if someone, or more than one person, had stomped about there—impatiently? to keep warm? to get up enough nerve? These imprints were also drifted in with snow. Several pairs of prints were visible leading up and down the stairs and, at ground level, veered off in several directions. He realized that the hotel staff might use this back entrance in the course of their duties, and so it was really impossible to tell if the assassin had climbed these stairs to reach the ledge or had got to it from inside the inn.
A few yards behind the building lay several barns and sheds, with well-trod paths leading to and from. Still, intent on considering all angles, Marc walked down the steps, creaking and shuddering, and followed various sets of near-obscured prints, ending up either at one of the sheds or on a much-frequented path that led into the woods towards the creek, where Brookner had been promenading earlier last evening. Marc did not pursue these farther, as any prints there could have easily been those of staff or guests or locals enjoying the scenery. Besides which, Marc was no tracking scout.
Mildly discouraged, he went back up the fire-stairs to the second floor and scanned the carpet of the rear hall in search of wet stains. He ran his hand along its surface, feeling for dampness. He found none. But if the murder had been attempted as early as midnight, say, any telltale signs of snow having been brought back in on the assassin’s boots might be lost. He upbraided himself for sleeping in. The only conclusion he could draw at this point was that the intruder had used the ledge and the landing. How he got there was anybody’s guess.
Back in his room, Marc took time to scrutinize the “wound.” It was a precise incision, very thin and slightly wavy, the work of a flensing-knife, perhaps, or an extremely thin dagger. Other than that, he could find no other clues. His trunks had not been opened or searched. Nothing else seemed out of place.
The next question was whether or not he should reveal this attempt to the others. If the culprit were an outsider, they could well have seen or heard something of importance. On the other hand, if it were Lambert, for instance, Marc thought he would be wise to keep his counsel and merely watch. Perhaps his sudden appearance at breakfast, like Banquo’s ghost, might be enough to startle the killer into giving himself away in some manner. But if that failed, would another attempt then be made? The opportunity for it now seemed remote, as the group would be travelling together all day, with the outside possibility of reaching Kingston by late in the evening. However, if they only made Gananoque and had to put up as a group for one more night, Marc would have to come clean or be extraordinarily cautious. He decided to watch and wait.
Marc wheeled sharply to his left at the bottom of the stairs and strode across the foyer to the open dining area and the table where several of the entourage were seated at breakfast. “Good morning!” he boomed cheerfully, but his eyes darted about, seeking signs.
Pritchard, Sedgewick, and Lambert looked up from their coffee and newspapers. The Brookners were not present. What on earth was going on with those two? Marc had heard no sounds from their room. Down here, though, it was plain that his abrupt entrance had made no particular impression on any of the gentlemen. Lambert barely glanced up from his paper to nod a surly hello. Pritchard, addicted to bonhomie, smiled and stood up almost halfway to greet him. Percy Sedgewick said “Good morning” to Marc as if he were genuinely glad to see him.
“Here’s my newspaper, Lieutenant,” Pritchard said. “I’ve finished with it. I’ll get Dingman to bring in some fresh supplies. There’s quite a good pot of coffee on the sideboard.”
“You’re most kind,” Marc said.
“I trust you’ve had a solid night’s sleep,” Sedgewick said. “Did you happen to see anythin’ of Addie or Randolph? They’re awfully late, and the captain usually goes for his fool walk long before this.”
“Perhaps I should go and knock on their door,” Marc offered.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to sound no alarm,” Sedgewick said quickly, colouring slightly. “You go ahead with your breakfast. I’ll slip up in a few minutes if they’re not down soon.”
“Yes, I hate to be impolite about it,” Pritchard said, “but we need to leave here within the hour if we’re to attempt Kingston.”
“Addie’s been upset with her husband over his boastin’ and his damn fool walkin’ out in his tunic,” Sedgewick said. “I heard them arguin’ about it last night.”
Among other things, Marc thought.
“She thinks he’ll get himself shot by vigilantes or else catch pneumonia.”
“I thought I’d catch my death last night,” Pritchard chortled. “How about you, Lambert?”
Charles Lambert continued to study his newspaper.
Just then they heard a clumping of boots on the stairs across the foyer, and turned as one to see Captain Brookner fully dressed and ready for his constitutional. No-one was particularly surprised that he did not greet them, but rather wheeled and headed away towards the side door.
“For Christ’s sake, Randolph, listen to your wife for once in your life!”
Sedgewick’s uncharacteristic outburst startled everyone, including Brookner, and brought Murdo Dingman motoring dangerously down the hall from his office. Sedgewick followed up his brief advantage by leaping up and trotting across the foyer to the hallway where Brookner had stopped and merely half turned to wait for him, in his customary haughty manner. The two began arguing, sotto voce, to the embarrassment of the breakfast table. Suddenly, Brookner pushed Sedgewick away and stomped out into the morning.
Red-faced and obviously unused to dealing with such situations, Sedgewick trudged dolefully back across the foyer.
“You did your best,” Pritchard said. “But a man must determine his own fate,” he added sententiously.
Sedgewick sighed and sat down. He was sweating.
Dingman decided it was time to defend the honour of the inn. “I can insure you, sirs, that the ground and previews of this establishment are as safe as a mouse in its hole. We are all loyalists in this township. We adulterate the young Queen.”
“For which I’m sure she shall be grateful,” Pritchard said with some amusement, “when she hears of it.”
Lambert looked up from his steady perusal of the Brockville Recorder and said to
Dingman, “I could help you with that last will and testament now, if you have a moment.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Lambert. Mrs. Dingman’s been after me to do somethin’ about it fer ages, and when I learned you were a solicitor—”
“May we go to your office now?” Lambert asked with great politeness.
“Indeed, sir, indeed.”
Lambert got up, nodded to excuse himself, and then he and Dingman disappeared around the corner into the rear hall from which they could access the proprietor’s office. At that same moment, Adelaide Brookner came across the foyer towards them, looking, to everyone’s astonishment, flushed and flustered.
“Has he gone off?” she asked her brother.
She was a changed person, and they all stared. Her hair was dishevelled, her blue eyes underscored with black smudges, as if she had not slept or slept badly. Her mourning dress was rumpled, and the black scarf she used to cover the upper reaches of her bosom and neck had been stuffed carelessly in place and flung haphazardly under her chin.
“I tried to stop him, Addie, but he’s worse than ever.”
Adelaide gave her brother a grateful smile. Then she addressed Marc and Pritchard. “I apologize for my appearance. My husband and I, as you may well have heard, had an argument last night. I did not sleep well. I don’t think Randolph did either. We only woke up about fifteen minutes ago. My husband began dressing for his morning walk, and we quarrelled again. When he marched out, I just threw on my clothes. Foolishly, I still thought I might stop him or persuade you to—”
“No need for apologies, madam,” Pritchard said gallantly, though he was quite flummoxed by all this ungentlemanly and unladylike behaviour among the colonials. “I’ll fetch you some hot coffee.”
“That would be kind of you.” She sat down with a sigh beside her brother.
Marc was wondering what really had transpired up there last night. If Adelaide had lain awake, as well she might have after the altercation, then she may have seen the assassin shuffling along the ledge right past her window. Also, it was clear now that both husband and wife had been asleep during his investigation of the footprints on the landing and beyond.
Adelaide sipped at her coffee, bringing it all the way up to her lips, as if it were too much effort to bend down to it. Closer to her now, Marc could see the dried runnels where copious tears had fallen. She caught him staring.
“It wasn’t just the argument,” she said with quiet dignity. “I haven’t been able to weep for Marion since the afternoon of the funeral. Then, later last night, it all came pouring out.”
“Maybe I should go after Randy,” Sedgewick said to Adelaide. “We do need to leave very soon.”
“You’ll only antagonize him.”
“Then I’ll go along with you,” Pritchard said. “I believe I can make the man see reason. Neutral party and all that.”
Marc rose to join them.
“Please, stay,” Adelaide said, and Marc sat down.
The other two trotted upstairs to get their coats and hats, and came back down less than a minute later. They hurried out the side door.
Marc took the opportunity to go to the kitchen and request more hot food and fresh coffee. When Brookner came back, they would have to hurry him along. Lambert, apparently, was still closeted with Dingman, going over codicils and the like.
“The food will be right in. We need to eat well. It’s seventy miles or so to Kingston. You’ll no doubt be relieved to get home.”
Adelaide smiled, and swallowed hard. Her hands were moving restlessly in her lap.
When the food arrived, she poked at it listlessly. But it was obvious that she did not wish to carry on a conversation.
Some minutes later, the side door was flung open. Sedgewick stood in the doorway, waving for Marc to come over.
“I hope nothing’s wrong,” Adelaide said, getting up.
“Please, stay here, Mrs. Brookner.” Marc rushed over to Sedgewick. Pritchard was peering over his shoulder, white as an Easter lily. His jowls were quivering.
“Come with me quickly, Lieutenant,” Sedgewick said. “No time for your coat. Something dreadful’s happened.”
“Lead the way,” Marc said, fearing the worst.
Pritchard was apparently supposed to look to the lady, but whirled and followed them, in a total daze.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he gasped.
“Then go back and sit with Addie.”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell her, could I?”
Sedgewick sighed, and then decided simply to lead Marc directly to the dreadful happening without further conversation. They walked quickly past the barn and sheds, following the path into the woods that Marc had observed earlier. The recent snow, still falling faintly on the path, was marred by a number of bootprints and scuffs, from Brookner’s boots most likely, and those of Sedgewick and Pritchard having come after him and then retreated. They soon came upon the creek, frozen over and blanketed with the winter’s accumulation of snow. The path paralleled the curves of the creek for a hundred yards or so with spruce trees on their left and the creek-bed on their right.
“We followed his tracks—they were the only ones to come this far—right to this here bend,” Sedgewick was saying to Marc at his heels. “And then we heard the bubblin’ sounds of the spring-water Randolph mentioned last night, and we thought—”
“I can’t go a foot farther,” Pritchard said, halting behind them.
“The footprints stopped, got all muddled, as you can see, and I couldn’t figure out why they stopped so sudden. It was Pritchard who looked down there and saw him.”
Marc turned to look down over the creek-bank, noting that the snow was matted down, and there in the creek itself, where he had tumbled, lay Captain Randolph Brookner. His eyes were wide open, aghast at the last thing they ever saw. He was very dead. He had landed in the only running water in the township, a frothing, spring-fed rivulet of blue-black water only a yard wide and several more in length. The body was almost fully under water, on its side, and facing Marc. An icy stream bathed his bare head and poured over the hole in his temple where a lead ball had entered or come out, killing him instantly. Little blood was evident. The fancy fur hat lay in the snow nearby. He had either fallen or been shoved into the water. Certainly he had been murdered in cold blood.
* * *
Marc hurried along the path in the considerable wake of Dr. MacIvor Murchison. Barely an hour had passed since the grisly discovery. A lad had been dispatched on mule-back to fetch the esteemed county coroner from his palatial abode in Prescott, and he had arrived a half hour later in his one-horse sleigh. The solitary horse had to be of draught size as MacIvor Murchison was a man of intimidating weight and girth, in addition to being a fellow of formidable height, means, and gait. His first duty had been to minister to the distraught widow, who was soon under sedation in the care of Mrs. Dingman in her quarters. The witnesses and other interested parties were ordered to sit in the dining-room or lounge and keep the peace. Murdo Dingman, uncertain as to which division he belonged, fretted and fumed on principle. When Marc mentioned to the coroner that he had been involved in no less than three official murder investigations, he was instructed to follow along when Murchison marched out the side door to view the body “in situ.”
Wearing floppy, flat overshoes ideally suited to trudging through snow when they were carrying three hundred pounds, the coroner with his long assured strides was keeping well ahead of Marc’s limping pace.
“It’s to your left about a hundred—”
“I know the terrain, laddie. You concentrate on keeping up, eh?” Murchison had a voice that could have outclassed a foghorn, and didn’t seem interested in modulating it in any way for the benefit of his audience or good manners. The first sight of him filling the front entrance of the Georgian Arms had left Marc speechless. He had a huge head, side-whiskers like two stooks of fraying wheat, tufts of ginger hair sprouting irreverently from his scalp, and loose, dark featur
es—all flap and crevasse—with eyes as burnished and staring as a pair of swollen hickory nuts. His brown tweed suit hung over his flesh with all the subtlety of an awning, and when he added a greatcoat more capacious than an army-tent and a beaver flapped-cap, he resembled nothing less than a badly tailored bull moose in moulting season.
In short order they came upon the corpse of Randolph Brookner.
“This place looks like it’s been trampled by a camel caravan,” he muttered loudly. “We won’t find our killer’s boots among this stew.”
“Exactly what I concluded,” Marc said. “After I sent Sedgewick and Pritchard back to the inn to break the news to Mrs. Brookner, I carefully surveyed the perimeter. We’ve had intervals of fresh snow all night but not enough, I think, to completely obscure any marks made in the deep snow beyond this path and the high ground. I found nothing. It looks as if the killer used the path and came from the vicinity of the hotel or one of the many sheds behind it. What do you think, sir?”
The coroner, who was teetering over the bank to get a better view of the body, swivelled his big head around without moving his torso, like a ruffled owl, smiled at Marc, and said, “Most likely. And don’t call me sir. Around here I’m known as Mac to my equals and, to those obsessed with formality, as Doctor Mac. I answer to both, but you call me Mac and I’ll call you Marc.”
Marc nodded.
“Now take ahold of my hand, laddie, I’ve got to go down to get a closer gander at the poor bugger.”
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