Dubious Allegiance

by Don Gutteridge

  The gavel descended, the spectators looked thirstily towards the bar, and the witnesses appeared much relieved.

  Marc sat quietly on the bench, absorbed in thought.

  Marc was lying on his bed, reviewing the testimony in his mind and going over the events and conversations of the past three and a half days, when there was a tentative knock on his door. He opened it to discover Dingman’s youngest boy standing expectantly in the hall.

  “Yer bags, sir?”

  “But we’re not leaving till morning,” Marc said.

  The boy blushed. “Then you ain’t Mr. Pritchard?”

  “I am not. I’m Lieutenant Edwards.”

  The blush deepened. “Sorry, sir. It’s Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Lambert that’s leavin’ in half an hour.” He turned and went farther down the hall.

  Marc limp-trotted downstairs and found Dingman in his office, studying a heavily marked copy of his will. “I got them a fast two-man cutter from the village,” he told Marc without looking up. “There’re hopin’ to reach Brockville by ten o’clock.”

  Then on to Kingston in the morning, Marc thought. And out of his reach.

  When Marc made no move to leave, Dingman reluctantly looked up and offered more details. “Mrs. Brookner is gonna stay with us tonight. Doctor Mac give her a sediment to help her sleep. She’ll take the big coach in the mornin’, with you and her brother—and the coffin, of course. Will you be wanting supper soon?”

  But Marc was already out the door. He was still working out the details as he ascended the stairs, but he believed he now knew who his man was.

  Marc passed the boy as he struggled downstairs with Ainslie Pritchard’s luggage, and headed to the room at the far end of the hall. Lambert was still packing when Marc gave a single rap and entered. He was surprised, but that was all.

  “You’ve come to say good-bye,” he said. “Would you like a drink?” He indicated a silver flask on the dresser.

  “No, thank you. What I want is for you to sit down while I tell you a story, one that doesn’t have a happy ending, Monsieur Lam-bear.”

  There was a perceptible flinch followed by a soft sigh, nothing more. “So you’ve found out my little secret, eh?”

  “I’ve found out a lot of your little secrets.”

  Lambert sighed again. He dropped a shirt into his suitcase and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching with interest but no apparent alarm as Marc paced up and down before him.

  “I know all about you, monsieur. I first suspected you weren’t what you professed to be on the second day when I overheard you speaking joual, and I have been keeping a close eye on you ever since. You are a French Canadian, not a citizen of Cobourg or Upper Canada. You were born in the St. Denis district and no doubt have dozens of relatives there. It was not your wife’s family you were visiting, I suspect, but your own. And the extent of the devastation and carnage left you appalled and raging with hate against all things English, especially anyone in Her Majesty’s uniform.”

  “But I am a lawyer in Cobourg,” Lambert said without inflection or emotion.

  “I’ll come to that ruse in a moment. I have no proof yet, but I believe you are more than an outraged habitant. I think you’ve been playing at the spy-game, perhaps even as a double agent. You learned fluent English somewhere, probably in Vermont when you were very young, as you have no accent—”

  “Thank you. I do try.”

  “Most likely you have been moving about Quebec for at least the past month posing as an English-speaking lawyer from Cobourg, an obscure town suitably distant for your deceitful purposes. And I’m sure a clever fellow like you concocted a credible cover story. Any information thus gleaned by you would soon find its way to Papineau or his henchmen. But the glorious revolution went sour, didn’t it? There were terrible battles and unforeseen losses. Then the barn burnings and reprisals began. Half of your so-called leaders were in jail. You could not resist the urge to see for yourself. So you left Montreal or Quebec City and ventured up the Richelieu Valley, growing more bitter by the mile. Perhaps you found that a cousin had been killed in action, another one incarcerated, a third with a razed house and barn and his children starving.”

  Marc could see that he was beginning to penetrate the veneer of indifference that Lambert, with his lawyer’s training, had managed to keep in place. Something like pain shot through his eyes, and one corner of his mouth curled downward. He tried out an ironic smile: “You should have been a barrister, not a soldier.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” Marc said, turning too suddenly on his gimpy left leg and stumbling. “You may or may not be a lawyer—I considered trying out a few Latin legal phrases on you, but I didn’t want to expose my hand too soon—but after the debacle at St. Eustache and the failure of the invasion from Vermont, you were a spy without a constituency. Your dream of a French nation was dead, ashes in your mouth. Your own home ground was in ruins. The only choices left were abject mortification or the joy of revenge. And you chose the latter: any man worth the name would have done so.”

  “I have never denied being in St. Denis.”

  “True, but by the same token, you’ve never set foot in Cobourg.”

  “Oh?”

  “You could not have set up shop there four months ago and not run into Major Barnaby. His surgery is on King Street, known to the whole county. And the hotel down by the wharf is the Lakeview not the Lakeside. Moreover, it was the larger and more prosperous Cobourg Hotel that you should have been able to recommend to Pritchard, if you’d ever laid eyes on it. That was all the proof I needed to expose you as a fraud. And one intent on exacting revenge whenever the opportunity arose.”

  “You’re suggesting that I arranged to ride into enemy territory in a coach with two military men in order to turn my rage on them?”

  “I am. Moreover, I have not discounted the fact that you may still be operating under orders from the exiled rebels abroad. Even though the cause is clearly lost—there will be ten thousand British regulars in Quebec by the end of this month—it hasn’t been utterly abandoned. I intend to have you detained at Fort Henry and interrogated by the army there: you could well be on a dangerous mission to Toronto or beyond. Your luggage and person will be thoroughly searched.”

  “So you’re accusing me of espionage and indulging in a little murder on the side?”

  Marc ignored the sarcasm: he was in full flight, doing what he might have done had he not taken up soldiering. “It’s the murder that concerns me most, simply because it is me you have been trying to kill for the past three days.”

  That cold, blunt remark extinguished any lingering sarcasm. Lambert’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

  “Don’t bother denying it, for I’ve worked out all the salient details. First of all, I believe that Montreal was your base of operations. It was a logical choice. You would know or have contact with compatriots from all walks of life there. You knew or were friends with an aide at the temporary military hospital, a woman named Isabelle LaCroix.”

  Lambert continued to stare, open-mouthed.

  “My own foolish comrades bruited about the streets of Montreal that one Marc Edwards had done the enemy harm at St. Denis. When you returned from that region, about a month ago, you soon learned that this ‘hero’ lay unconscious and helpless nearby. I suggest that you bribed or suborned Miss LaCroix to stab me one night with an old bayonet you no doubt supplied her. Having failed, and in danger of discovery, she wisely slipped away two days later, to the protection of her countrymen. But you did not give up easily. Your intelligence network probably informed you of the date and means of my departure, so you got yourself a seat in Brookner’s coach and began plotting. The months you spent playing the double-spy game allowed you to perfect the poker face: we just thought you a morose and misanthropic character and paid you little heed. Or so you assumed.”

  Lambert’s lips began to twitch.

  “Your initial opportunity came on that first day when we ran up against the b
arricade, set there by rebel habitants, though I doubt they knew they were helping one of their own. In fact, as a maudit Anglais yourself, you risked being shot by those marauding gangs. Nevertheless, when you observed me limping off towards the river, while the others went to the other side of the road, you saw your chance and seized it. You kept a pocket pistol, I believe, in your big overcoat, and you followed me till I was well away from our party. But it was snowing and you had only one shot to make, and you missed. While I lay waiting for a second blow, you returned to the coach by a roundabout route. If I had revealed the incident to Brookner, the presence of vigilantes in the area would have readily and conveniently explained the ambush. I accepted such an explanation myself until yesterday afternoon, when I received word of your true identity. But you are a clever and patient man. You knew there would be further opportunities.”

  Lambert, lips quivering, remained speechless.

  “Your next move—diabolically clever—was to plant that death-threat in Brookner’s carriage. The tale of the Scanlon brothers and the real possibility that Brookner would be the target of the escaped brother, Miles, gave you a fresh opening, for not only were there vigilantes behind every bush but a vengeance-seeking rebel who might easily mistake one military greatcoat for another. Unfortunately, despite the captain’s urgings, I did not accommodate you by donning my tunic and shako. So you began to grow desperate. Here we were at Prescott, a day from Kingston and the breakup of the party. It was now or never. You knew that Brookner slept in the room next to mine. If I were found stabbed to death—a pistol would have been too noisy—it could be postulated that Brookner was the intended victim and Miles Scanlon the likely suspect. You must have been pleased, smug even, that I had not revealed the earlier attempt on my life. No-one knew that I was a potential target, except one of my fellow officers back in Montreal.”

  There was a rustling sound just outside the door. “Are you ready, Mr. Lambert? Our sleigh is waiting. Shall I send the lad up for your bags?” It was Pritchard.

  “Give us fifteen minutes!” Marc barked, and something in his voice got through to Pritchard, for he mumbled “All right” and shuffled off.

  “So we come to your penultimate act. In the middle of the night, with snow conveniently falling, you went out onto the fire-stairs, shuffled along the ledge past the Brookners’ room, then climbed into mine and drove a knife into the body on the bed. But it was a dummy you stabbed. You may even have realized it at the time and decided to get out while you could. If not, your calm reaction to my appearance at breakfast would have made an Old Bailey hack proud. By now you were, despite your icy demeanour, frustrated and enraged. If you couldn’t kill me, then you’d damn well kill somebody in uniform before the trip was over.”

  “I been sent up fer the bags,” a tremulous, adolescent voice called out from the hall.

  “Go away!”

  A hasty scampering ensued, then silence.

  Marc wheeled around and stepped closer to Lambert. “This morning at breakfast, you watched Brookner go out that side door, and when Dingman arrived a few minutes later, you saw a last chance present itself. You knew all about the rear doors and the fire-stairs. It was you who suggested that you and Dingman go to his office. You followed him into the back hall, then excused yourself on the pretext of getting a law book. You hurried outside and trailed Brookner down the scenic path you knew he’d just taken. You had your pistol on you, as I suspect you have at this moment. You crept up behind and fired into the back of his head.

  “As you rushed back along the path, you likely had to sidestep Pritchard and Sedgewick—they must have given you a bit of a fright coming up to the scene so soon after the event. But you found cover and returned unseen to Dingman’s office where you made some excuse about not finding or needing the law book after all. If Dingman, whom you knew to be an addled soul, were to testify that you were gone overly long, you could calmly dispute his claim. And, more important, you had no apparent motive for killing Brookner, while the notorious Miles Scanlon did. You couldn’t murder me, but you did manage to take some measure of revenge for the depredations of General Colborne’s troops. I will not be surprised even now if you were to pull out your pistol and try to finish the job, though I wouldn’t advise it.”

  To Marc’s great relief, Lambert did not draw his pistol. The trembling of his lips had reached a crisis point, and his mouth opened wide. Then he clutched both hands to his belly, rolled back onto the bed, and shook with helpless mirth. It took him fully a minute to stop laughing and regain control of his voice. Marc looked on, incredulous: Had Lambert gone mad, broken under the relentless pressure of Marc’s accusations?

  “You find all this amusing?”

  “You’ve just told the funniest, wildest, most preposterous tale I’ve ever heard. In fact, you’ve managed to get most of it completely backwards.”

  “What on earth do you mean? Don’t try lawyer’s tricks on me. They won’t wash.” But Marc was suddenly not as certain as he sounded.

  “Now it’s your turn to sit down while I tell you a story,” Lambert said, wiping his eyes. Cautiously, Marc sat in a nearby chair, but kept a wary eye on Lambert’s right hand.

  “I am what you see, Lieutenant: no more, no less. I speak both languages fluently, and I am, in a real sense, both English and French. I was born and spent my childhood on a farm near St. Denis. But unlike most Quebec families, my parents had but two children, my sister Sophie and me. When I was six, my father inherited money and land from an uncle in Vermont. We moved there. My father sold the farm and became a merchant. I was sent to the best English schools. My sister spent her summers in St. Denis with our cousins, but I soon became as English as I was French. I apprenticed law in New York City. It is English law I know, not the Code Napoleon. My sister fell in love with a local boy in the Richelieu Valley, married him, and moved back there to farm. When I was on business in Buffalo last year, I met my wife, Marie. She was visiting her aunt, but her home was in Kingston. She was of Scots Irish stock. Although I was raised Catholic, I had long ago fallen away from the Church. We were married last spring in a Presbyterian ceremony in Kingston. I was offered a junior partnership in the Cobourg law firm of Denfield and Potter. We arrived there early in October.”

  Marc, who had been listening with increasing interest and much chagrin, finally found voice to say, “But you can’t have known so little about—”

  “That is easily explained. Marie fell ill with a fever the day after we arrived. Our house was a mile east of the town. I was the one who nursed her. A doctor did come to see her and left medicines, but I was in the village then, informing my new employers that it would be some weeks before I could safely take up my post. Marie may have mentioned the doctor’s name, but if so, I must have forgotten it. We had a girl from town to help out, but I still refused to leave Marie’s side.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this? Why were you so secretive?”

  Lambert coloured slightly. “I do apologize. But you were correct about one thing. I had been to the Richelieu Valley, and what I saw there appalled and sickened me. I have not been fit human company since. I just did not feel like talking to anyone, even though my fellow travellers were congenial.”

  “But surely you must have harboured some resentment against me, an officer who was present at both assaults on the town.”

  Lambert smiled, and some of the personality he might have exhibited under more sanguine circumstances peeped through. “I’m afraid you got all that backwards as well.”

  “How so?”

  “Just as Marie was nearing a full recovery, I got a letter from my sister in St. Denis. A desperate letter. The rebellion had failed, but reprisals and acts of vengeance continued unchecked. My sister’s barn was destroyed and the few harvested crops looted. Even their cows had been shot and their horses’ tails cropped.”

  “You must believe me, Mr. Lambert, when I say that I was nearly as appalled as you at the behaviour of our troops. Sir John himself ord
ered—”

  “It wasn’t the troops or even the loyalists who burned Sophie and her husband out,” Lambert said sombrely. “It was her own cousins.”

  “My God!”

  “Incredible, eh? But Sophie and Guy had tried to remain neutral. They had friends and neighbours on both sides of the issue. But when the British army prevailed, the English began their barn-burning campaign, and the French, when they could, played turnabout. Either side might have gone after Sophie and Guy, but it was definitely her own kind who did the damage. They made a point of letting her know.”

  “What could you do to help?”

  “Not much. But I had some cash, a wedding gift from our father. I put it in a satchel and headed straight into the chaos of Quebec in the aftermath of the failed revolt and the aborted invasion. I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut and to adopt the manners and language most convenient to the situation. I was Lambert one day and Lam-bear the next.”

  “You could have been discovered and dealt with harshly by either side.”

  “Yes. But I did manage to reach my sister. The cash would prevent them from starving to death and would go a long way towards purchasing seed and replacing livestock, if and when things settled down. I stayed as long as I could. But I had to get back to Cobourg: the firm had granted me an extension to the end of this month only. That’s why I’m eager to be off this evening. And I want to embrace my dear Marie once more.”

  Marc could empathize with that desire.

  “You may search me and my bags if you like. You won’t find any weapons or coded messages.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Marc knew the truth when he heard it. He took a deep breath. “I must apologize, sir, in the most sincere way possible, even though I realize how weak my words will seem.”

  “Please, don’t. You allowed me to laugh again. I can now greet my bride smiling. And remember, it has been you who have been shot at and nearly stabbed, not me, and Brookner’s killer is still on the loose. You did your duty in St. Denis. I have no quarrel with that. I have tried to remain a loyal subject, but doing so is getting to be either an impossible or an inhumane act. Allegiance has become a relative term.”