With Marc providing necessary ballast, Mac leveraged himself down until his massive bulk just seemed to settle into the snow around Brookner’s upper body. He whistled, stridently enough to wake dogs throughout the township.
“Jesus Christ on a donkey! What a mess! We ain’t had a real murder like this in the region for four or five years, not counting the aftermath of the odd grog-shop fisticuffs or some gelding getting revenge on its master with a well-aimed hoof. But this chap’s been shot by somebody who truly wanted him dead—and quickly, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Marc watched with fascination as the coroner removed his furry gloves and applied a set of surprisingly nimble fingers to examining the wound and the area around it. “He fell immediately into this ice bath, I’d say. There’s still very little bleeding. He might’ve lain here like this for days, unchanged.”
“How was he shot?”
“Small lead ball from a pistol, from the size of the wound. Entered the back of the head just below the left ear and came out through the right temple, taking some of the brain with it. The running water’s washed most of the brain-matter away.”
“So he was likely shot somewhat from below.”
“Well, he looks like a very tall man, almost as tall as you or me. Few killers could have shot down at him.”
“Can you tell how far away the killer was when the shot was fired?”
“Well, I don’t see any splash of powder—the water’s done a job on the hair—but even so, I’d guess from the size of these holes and the force of the blast that we’re looking at three or four feet, no more.”
Marc gave that some thought while Mac continued his probing: “I’d say, then, that the killer came up behind him, perhaps stepped onto the path from behind one of these spruce trees, and simply fired before Brookner could react.” Marc surveyed the other side of the path. “There are no prints back here anywhere. That means the killer must have come up silently behind him and fired just as he turned. That’s possible because Brookner was a stiff-necked, stubborn creature, an easy target for this type of ambush.”
Mac chuckled sonorously. “Well, he isn’t stiff yet. Petrified a bit from this chilly shower, but no rigor mortis.”
“Not surprising. Four of us saw him head out for his walk about twenty minutes before Sedgewick and Pritchard found him.”
“You don’t suppose the two of them—”
“Not a chance. Pritchard is a rather silly Englishman who knew none of us before we set out together. Sedgewick didn’t like his brother-in-law, but he was with me when the victim left for his walk. It certainly points to someone who may have been stalking Brookner for the last day or two.”
“Tell me about it.”
Marc gave the coroner a brief account of the threatening note, Brookner’s involvement in the capture of the Scanlon brothers, Miles Scanlon’s subsequent escape, and Brookner’s imprudent behaviour in the face of legitimate danger.
Mac put both hands in Marc’s and hauled himself up out of the creek. He didn’t bother brushing the snow off his flanks or haunches. “Well, he’s paid a high price for his arrogance. Now tell me, before we go back in, where everybody was during the twenty minutes from the time Brookner left the building till he was found here.”
Again, Marc gave him a brief account. At nine o’clock or so, he had joined Sedgewick, Pritchard, and Lambert for breakfast. Ten minutes later, perhaps, Brookner came downstairs, argued for half a minute with Sedgewick in the side hallway, then left on his own. No more than five minutes later, and just after Lambert and Dingwall left for his office, Mrs. Brookner arrived looking for her husband. Learning he had already left, she joined the others for breakfast. Perhaps ten minutes after that, Sedgewick and Pritchard went to fetch the wayward captain and found him dead—apparently murdered only minutes before their arrival.
“It looks to me as if Miles Scanlon is our main suspect,” Mac said, pointing out the obvious.
Marc said nothing, however, about the attempt on his own life during the night. He might eventually do so, but his instincts told him that the two incidents were unrelated, and he did not want one complicating the other needlessly. His own stalker would surely strike again, and further opportunities would open up for catching him in the act.
Marc took one last look at what remained of the proud and audacious captain. The tumble into the creek had caused the upper buttons of his greatcoat to come open, so that the top of his militia-jacket with its gold chest-bars was just visible. His officer’s boots, polished to an ebony gleam, lay out of the water upon a shelf of ice, as they would have if he had fallen on the field of battle. The rest of him lay almost fully submerged in the chattering stream whose effervescence seemed to be keeping him afloat and continuously bathed. But the greatcoat itself—his pride and joy, freshly purchased, no doubt, just for the expected rebellion—was now waterlogged and threatening to pull the body down. Its bright green sheen had succumbed to the insistent waters, which left it soggy, darkened, even shabby. It was a sad end.
“So the only one of your crowd who was actually out of sight of you or any of the others during the critical twenty minutes was this Charles Lambert fellow?”
“That’s right,” Marc said, his puzzlement showing. “He was. We saw him and Dingman go around the corner into the hall leading to the door of Dingman’s office. They were supposed to be discussing a will.”
“Where is the office? I don’t quite remember.”
“It’s at the end of the centre hall, just beside the rear exit.” Marc’s eyes widened. “It’s possible Lambert didn’t actually go into the office with Dingman.”
“Well, we’ll just have to check that out with Proprietor Dingman, won’t we?”
“In addition to double-checking everyone’s whereabouts. And, may I suggest, Mac, that you not exclude me as a suspect.”
“Ah, that I haven’t, Marc, though I have given the notion a low probability. But we shall soon hear everybody’s tale in detail under oath. I’m going to have Dingman’s lads put this corpse into the back of my sleigh. Then I’m going to drive it to my surgery, where I can get it up on a slab and second-guess my own conclusions. Then I’ll have it boxed for the grieving widow to take back home to kith and kin, should they be concerned for it. I’ll have all this accomplished by one o’clock, after which I shall enjoy the fine luncheon my chatelaine will have prepared for me, washed down with a half litre of ten-year-old Burgundy. And because most of the witnesses and potential culprits are now here and hoping to depart soon, I shall hitch up Prometheus and return to Mr. Dingman’s taproom for the coroner’s inquest—at three o’clock sharp.”
“But shouldn’t you consult the magistrate first?”
MacIvor Murchison, Esquire, grinned like a moose in a mayflower swamp: “I am the magistrate,” he said.
After the initial shock of discovery, Marc had no opportunity to study the reactions of his fellow passengers to the murder of Randolph Brookner. Adelaide remained closeted with Mrs. Dingman; Sedgewick and Lambert retired to their rooms (with luncheon being sent up); and Pritchard, ever eager to converse, found himself alone in the lounge. Of the four Marc would like to have questioned a little more closely, Pritchard, alas, was the only one who had no motive. Nevertheless, Marc did go into the lounge to take lunch there with the perplexed wine merchant.
“I was warned that the colonies lacked many of the civilities it has taken the mother country centuries to accumulate and refine,” he was saying to Marc through his cigar smoke. “But I never expected to be accosted by hooligans on the Queen’s highroad or discover a travelling companion brutally slaughtered a few paces from his hotel. I haven’t stopped trembling since I came upon that gruesome sight.”
“You and Sedgewick found the body together, I understand.”
“Yes. I was no more than a step behind him, but it was I who had the misfortune to first look down into the creek.”
That confirmation, as Marc had suggested to the coroner-magistrate, a
ppeared to let both Pritchard and Sedgewick off the hook, unless they had, improbably, conspired together to kill Brookner.
“I would go easy on those brandies, old chap,” Marc said, getting up. “The inquest begins in less than two hours.”
“So I’m told,” Pritchard said, “in the taproom!”
After lunch, Marc took it upon himself to interview the kitchen staff, who might have seen something or someone from one of the windows facing the stable and woods. But no-one had noticed Brookner or his stalker on the path about 9:15 or later. The stable-hands had all been indoors at the critical time and could not help. Nor had anyone, inside or outside, seen anyone lurking about the premises last night or earlier this morning. Marc re-examined the footprints between the woods and the back and side of the inn. No clear pattern emerged. He sat down and prepared a written report for the coroner and had it sent off to Mac in Prescott. Perhaps the inquest itself would turn up some useful information.
* * *
Dr. MacIvor Murchison arrived before the porticoed entrance of the Georgian Arms like the potentate of some far-flung pocket of empire. The one-horse sleigh, ribald with bells and jangling chains, glided to a graceful stop at the behest of a rail-thin gentleman, who set the reins down with a silky gesture, stepped smartly to the ground, then held out a suede-gloved hand to assist the magistrate out of his elevated seat. Although no general notice of the proceedings had been broadcast, somehow word had leaked out and the big tavern-room had begun to fill up with gawking, dry-throated devotees of the court shortly after opening time at two o’clock. The presiding justice, however—much to the chagrin of the gathering crowd—ordered the bar closed until the inquest was concluded, in keeping with the dignity and sanctity of British jurisprudence. The presiding official himself, of course, had taken on sufficient quantities of fortifying liquors well before his ostentatious arrival.
Murdo Dingman bellied his way through the considerable throng outside the inn to greet Doctor Mac and welcome him to court, as it were. “I have arranged everything just as you constructed me, your honourable,” he boomed, acutely conscious of the gallery watching. “There’s plenty of chairs in neat little rows and my best table up front with the big, padded captain’s chair for your gracious to be seated upon.”
His Honour nodded in curt acknowledgement of these amenities. “And a chair for my clerk here, Mr. Digby Parsons, with pen and ink?”
Parsons stared at Dingman with his long, horse-like face.
“Already done, sir. You’ve brung your own paper?”
“We have, Mr. Dingman. We have.”
And without further clarifying dialogue, the cavalcade of three swept through the awed crowd into the foyer, where they made a right wheel into the re-rigged tavern.
By three o’clock, when Digby Parsons rapped the gavel on behalf of the coroner upon the deal table before him, the makeshift courtroom was jammed, with a standing overflow crowd in the foyer beyond the opened double-doors. As many women as men were in attendance, a fact that invariably puzzled and appalled new arrivals from the more proper domain of Her Majesty’s kingdom. What they would have observed on this particular afternoon was a spacious taproom from which all tables but one had been removed and the orphaned chairs set up in respectable ranks facing the official dais at the front. Behind it, his bulging bulk having been shoe-horned into its padded chair, sat the coroner-magistrate draped in a tattered red cape with furred collar and sporting a moth-infested wig, which teetered on the random tufts of his delinquent hair. To the right the clerk sat with poised pen and parchment before him. To the left was the witness chair, a spare bar-stool. Farther left, beneath the tavern windows, a bench had been cleared for the assembled witnesses, who looked on anxiously.
MacIvor Murchison opened the proceedings by announcing that what followed would be a preliminary and a summary hearing: to wit, without a jury. And the findings, should there be any, would be tentative and non-binding.
The clerk then swore in the first witness, Ainslie Pritchard.
Any notion, previously held, that these proceedings would be marked by a foolish and dismissible country-bumpkinness quickly evaporated, as Pritchard seated himself on the edge of the stool and turned to look into the sharp intelligence of the coroner’s eyes. As Doctor Mac closely questioned the initial witness, the murmurings and whispers in the room died away and were replaced by a silence that was part awe and part reverence, but principally the intense curiosity of the disinterested in other people’s miseries.
“How long had you known the victim?”
“We met five days ago in Montreal. We were staying at the same hotel. We met at breakfast. Captain—”
“I believe you’ve answered several questions I haven’t yet asked.”
“Sorry, Your Worship.”
“You yourself are newly arrived in Canada?”
“Yes, I’ve been here less than a month. I came up to Quebec City from New York. I’m in the wine-importing business.”
“Yes, yes. That is all very interesting, sir, especially to those with a fine palate, but I am trying to determine whether or not you had any conceivable motive for doing away with Captain Brookner.”
Pritchard was aghast. “Good gracious, no! I merely agreed to help share the costs of a private carriage that Brookner hired to take us as far as Kingston.”
“Thank you for your forthrightness, Mr. Pritchard. It is certainly hard to imagine a motive for murder on your part, unless the carriage-ride was inordinately bumpy.”
The gallery reacted with appreciative titters and one muted guffaw. The coroner glared at the offenders, but couldn’t keep an acknowledging smile from curling the corners of his lips.
“Tell the inquest, if you would, the exact circumstances of your discovery of the body.”
With the spectators glued to his every word, Pritchard told the inquest of the morning’s events, beginning with Brookner’s boisterous entrance in the side hall just before 9:15 (there was a chiming clock in the foyer striking the quarters) and concluding with the ill-fated pursuit that culminated in the “hideous sight” in the creek-bed. From his seat on the witness bench Marc noted that, although nervous, Pritchard gave what seemed to be an accurate and credible account. It was Marc’s view that Pritchard, without motive or opportunity, was an innocent in the case.
“Did you see any blood flowing from the wound?”
“No, sir, though I didn’t really get too close to the body.”
“Any sign of the victim’s brain-matter on his forehead or cheek?”
A collective gasp seized the gallery.
Pritchard blinked and gulped. Finally, dry-mouthed, he said, “There was icy water running down his entire face. He was . . . washed clean.”
“Thank you, sir. I do not mean to be overly gruesome, but I need to know whether or not Captain Brookner had been shot just before your arrival or a little earlier. But it appears as if the cold spring-water into which he tumbled has wiped away much potentially useful evidence. I take it that you did not hear a shot, then?”
“No, sir. There was little wind; it was very quiet and peaceful. We would’ve heard the slightest noise.”
“Like someone thumping off into the bush?”
“Yes. But we heard nothing. It was deathly quiet.”
The coroner’s swift and baleful glance precluded any tittering at Pritchard’s unfortunate pun. The witness was excused. Percy Sedgewick was then called and sworn in by the abstemiously thin Digby Parsons. The coroner led Sedgewick through the same events attested to by Pritchard, confirming all of them. He expected to be dismissed, but MacIvor Murchison had a few more questions.
“You’ve told us, Mr. Sedgewick, that you went over to the victim in the hallway on the far side of the foyer and tried to dissuade him from taking his morning walk. Tell us why, sir.”
“Because my brother-in-law had received a death-threat the previous day at Morrisburg.”
Again, the gallery reacted and had to be silenced.
Sedgewick provided the details of the note found pinned to the seat of the carriage. He described, as delicately as he could with his limited facility for language, Brookner’s refusal to take the least precaution and his insistence on flaunting his military status by remaining in the full uniform of the Glengarry militia.
“And this was a brightly coloured, easily recognizable uniform?”
“It was. The coat was brand new, bought in—”
“So he was a bit like a deer wearing a scarlet blazer while foraging in a farmer’s wood-lot?”
The appreciative laughter was allowed to rise and fade on its own.
“I’m afraid so. And it cost him his life.”
The coroner nodded gravely, knitted his intimidating brows, and said, “Now tell this enquiry about the Scanlon brothers.”
Again, with the gallery hanging on every word, Sedgewick recounted, without gloss, Brookner’s capture of the Scanlon brothers—rebels all—and his curt treatment of their family.
“And was the Scanlon barn burned by the militia under Captain Brookner’s command?”
Sedgewick hesitated, obviously uncertain how to answer. He looked over at Adelaide, who had sat veiled and still throughout this early testimony. She bowed her head. Was it a nod or a refusal to be drawn in?
“The militia had specific orders to do so. There was a warrant out for the three Scanlon men.”
“Nonetheless, the barn got razed, and the women and children were forced to flee?”
“Yes. I . . . I took them in.”
“I see.” Doctor Mac’s thick brows converged. “And was your brother pleased with this act of mercy on your part?”
Sedgewick stared at his fingers.
“You must answer truthfully, sir. I am obliged to get to the question of motive.”
“But I had no chance to harm him!”
“We’ll come to that in a moment. Please answer my original question.”
Sedgewick swallowed hard. “Randolph was furious. He always thought me soft on the rebels. I wasn’t, really. I’ve been a loyal citizen all my life. But these people, the Scanlons, were farmers like me. We suffered the same troubles. They just wanted their grievances taken seriously.”
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