Death of a Patriot

by Don Gutteridge

  Cobb was already out the double door.

  Fortunately for them, Mohican, or Rungee or whoever he was, could not move through the agitated throng with any speed, nor could he get the attention of anyone who might intercept the fleeing foreigners. Marc and Cobb were able to reach their sleigh unimpeded. Marc mumbled some excuse to the lad tending it and tossed him a shilling. Without looking back, they skidded off towards the high road to Detroit.

  “If that bugger gets on his horse,” Cobb said, as they raced northward under the bright moon and companion stars, “he’ll catch us up in a wink.”

  “Maybe,” Marc said, snapping the reins above the frightened filly. “But there’s been so much traffic back there, he won’t know whether we’ve gone north or south, or even west along the side road. Let’s hope no one at the inn spotted us leaving.”

  A few minutes later they slowed for one of the checkpoints, but they were waved through without delay.

  “There could be a whole posse after us, Major.”

  “If so, we’ll hear them before they see us. There are farm roads and logging paths all along the route. We can turn off and hide out in the hinterland if we have to.”

  “You bring yer tinderbox?”

  Marc nodded, but as it turned out, they did not need it. An anxious hour passed, but they approached the flat plain just below Detroit without incident. Marc let the filly slow to a trot. “We’ve run her as hard as we dare, Cobb; we won’t get far with a dead beast between the poles.”

  After several minutes of sedate progress, Cobb said, “Well, what do you make of all that Yankee palaver and screechifyin’?” The tone was casual but the implication clear: why did we just risk our necks?

  “I think we learned a great deal of importance to Billy’s case.”

  “We did?”

  “First, Mohican was the man I observed spying on Chepstow the day before the murder.”

  “And the fella that my snitch Nestor said he saw in the Cock and Bull talkin’ to some Americans.”

  “Exactly. But if he got in to see Coltrane as he claimed back there, why was he still skulking about the place last Wednesday?”

  “You think he was lyin’?”

  “No. I remember seeing the name ‘E. Mohican’ in the sign-in book and thinking it was a joke.”

  “I didn’t see much humour back there.”

  “It’s conceivable,” Marc went on, “from what we just saw and heard, that Hunter Pathfinder coveted the presidency of the Michigan Lodge so much that he preferred to see Coltrane—Hunter Bumppo as they so quaintly dubbed him—go to trial and be hanged.”

  “You think Rungee might’ve been there to stop him from gettin’ away?”

  “I do. And perhaps more.”

  “Ya mean that be-seein’-ya business about the election?”

  “Right. If the membership, who obviously preferred Coltrane to Pathfinder, were prepared to force a vote for president during these mid-month meetings—while Coltrane was still alive—he could, under their constitution, be elected while in absentia.”

  “So you figure Pathfinder and his cronies wanted him dead before that could happen?”

  “We have to consider that, yes.”

  “Then the mysterious Mrs. Jones you told me about could’ve been Rungee, with a vial of strychnine for his fellow Hunter to snuffle. Coltrane wouldn’t likely be suspicious of one of his own, would he?”

  “True, but I can’t see Mohican with a limp and a burn scar posing as a lady from Streetsville, however much he’s a master of disguise. He would have no idea whom he might have to deceive to get into the cell, even if he did spot Jailer Bostwick hightailing it the evening before the murder. After all, the usual protocol of visits included a close screening by Gideon Stanhope before the event, and Mohican, it seems, had already come there once and passed muster. I don’t see any way you could disguise a facial scar that grotesque.”

  “He could’ve seen the colonel go out to his tailor’s on Thursday mornin’.”

  “Right. But even Shad was likely to recall that scar and sound the alarm.”

  “Too bad, then.” Cobb sighed. “Because he’d be a good bet fer the killer. Even King Arthur might prefer a Yankee cutthroat to a local hero.”

  “But don’t forget that Mohican wasn’t working alone. We have Nestor Peck’s account of his rendezvous with known republican sympathizers in downtown Toronto.”

  “What’re you drivin’ at?”

  “Mrs. Jones could have been any one of a dozen confederates willing to do Mohican’s bidding—perhaps even a woman.”

  “Oh, I get it. This Jones person gets into the cell and—”

  “Uses a password or code to identify herself as a Hunter or associate, and, with Coltrane’s guard relaxed, plants the poison. I’ll wager that even the request for a visit relayed to Coltrane by Shad itself contained a coded message that would have gained her instant access. You’ve just seen how obsessed these people are with pseudonyms and passwords and the like.”

  “But how does any of this help Billy?”

  “What we’ve unearthed here is another plausible alternative to the story that the Crown will present to portray Billy as the killer. I’ll suggest that Dougherty call me as a defense witness, and I’ll then be able to recount my sighting of Rungee at Chepstow and how what I witnessed here tonight makes it conceivable that there was a Hunters’ conspiracy to eliminate Coltrane—for crass political gain. And of course, I have you to corroborate the details.”

  Cobb gulped but did not otherwise respond.

  “With the reciprocal love letters between Caleb and Almeda Stanhope—both of them now in our possession—Dougherty will be able to offer the jury two plausible alternative theories. It doesn’t matter, for Billy, whether the colonel or his agent or Mrs. Jones actually did the deed. Any Toronto jury will be sympathetic to Sergeant McNair, so the presentation of credible alternatives should be enough to get him acquitted.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t see them anxious to hang their own Pelee Island Patriot either. I think we oughta push this Rungee business.”

  “Well, partner, we aren’t lawyers yet. We’ll leave those decisions to Robert and Doubtful Dick.”

  At this point the glow of lamplight from the houses on the outskirts of Detroit was happily visible.

  “I think we made it, Major. And by the way, where do you suppose them Hunters came up with all those fancy names?”

  “Pure fiction,” Marc said.

  • • •

  At the hotel, Marc proposed they return to Windsor without delay. Cobb readily agreed to collect their belongings from the hotel, while Marc tended to the horse, which had already suffered a hard run in severe cold.

  Marc led the filly to the barn behind the main building. All the stableboys were either asleep or AWOL, so Marc went inside, found a thick wool blanket, scooped some oats into a feedbag, and came back out. He put the blanket over the shivering horse and hung the feedbag on her. The snow on the ground had already provided her with drink, but Marc looked around for the water trough anyway. He was just lifting a pailful when he felt a cold poke on the back of his head.

  “That’s a pistol agin yer skull, Mr. Edwards. One flicker and you’re a dead Englishman.”

  Marc did not need to turn his head to know that the man behind him was Hunter Mohican. He recognized the voice that had delivered the details of Coltrane’s fate an hour and a half earlier. Marc stiffened, set the pail down carefully, and waited.

  “They told me some English pouf’d been seen sniffin’ around Gladys’s place. They reckoned you was some bigwig who’d do us a great favour. But I had my doubts, and now I see I was right. I seen you back in Toronto and spotted you in a second in the hall. It takes an awful lot to fool a Mohican.”

  “What is it you want of me, Mr. Rungee?” Marc said, staring towards the hotel, where he expected Cobb to emerge at any moment. “I have not come here to do any harm to the Hunters. In fact, I’m trying to discover who rea
lly did—”

  “Shut yer gob or I’ll send ya flyin’ to Hades now instead of later.”

  Marc said nothing. There was no sign of Cobb, and Marc was actually glad that his friend was delayed. Rungee had surely brought other Hunters with him, and they could be lurking anywhere in the vicinity.

  “That’s better. Now I want ya to turn slowly and walk ahead of me back to the barn. If you try to look back at me, I’ll blow yer eyes out.”

  Marc did exactly as he was told. He could hear Rungee padding three or four feet behind him, cunningly out of arm’s reach. Any attempt by Marc to whirl about in an effort to disarm the man would be futile and likely fatal.

  “Stop right there. Stand beside the horse and look towards the hotel. I’m goin’ to sidle back to the corner of the barn where I can watch you and blow yer brains out with one shot. I got another pistol in my belt, just in case.”

  Marc heard Rungee shuffling back ten feet or so to the edge of the barn, where heavy shadow would keep him out of the bright moonlight.

  “Now when that fat fella with the bum wing comes out, you just wait till he comes over here. If he calls out, you say somethin’ real friendly—if ya wanta live a little longer.”

  “What are you planning to do with us?”

  “I’m marchin’ the two of you up to the Pathfinder’s place. He’ll wanta know everythin’ you know, and when he does, I’ll have the pleasure of shootin’ ya and tossin’ yer bodies inta the nearest ditch. We got a lot of bad people runnin’ around our streets at night, so the vigilante brigade won’t be surprised to find a rich bitch like yerself robbed and shot.”

  “You’ll have to get me and my associate past Brady’s Hundred first. Are you planning to march us up Woodward Avenue with your pistols drawn?”

  Marc waited for a response, even as his eyes never left the side door of the hotel. But none came. In its stead was a sharp crack, as of wood splitting, followed by a soft thud. Then silence. Marc dared not turn around to investigate.

  “You c’n take a peak now, Major. The fractious is all over.”

  Marc turned to find Cobb standing over the felled body of the yellow-tressed Mohican, with half a stout branch in his good hand. The other half, having served its purpose against Rungee’s skull, lay at his feet. Cobb set his section of the club down and picked up the loaded pistol.

  “One of these days, it’ll be your turn to rescue me.”

  • • •

  While Cobb kept a lookout, Marc disarmed the unconscious assailant and bound him hand and foot with his own scarves, then used one of his mittens for a gag. Next he detached a wallet from the fellow’s belt and rummaged through it.

  “Hurry up, Major. There’s bound to be more of these villains hereabouts.”

  Marc held several papers up into the moonlight. “His name is Ephraim Runchey.”

  “Nestor Peck’s hearin’s about as sharp as his brain,” Cobb said, throwing their bags up onto the sleigh.

  “What’s this?” Marc whistled.

  “Whatchya got?”

  Marc threw the horse blanket over Runchey and dragged him a little ways into the barn. He dropped the wallet on the body, just now beginning to groan and squirm, and came back to the cutter with the papers in his hand. “He’ll keep there till the grooms hear his groans.” He handed Cobb one of the sheets he had taken from Runchey.

  Cobb scanned it in the imperfect light. “It’s just a bunch of scrambled-up letters,” he said. “Unless it’s Greek or somethin’.”

  “Almost,” Marc said, climbing up next to Cobb and urging the filly cautiously out onto the deserted street. “It’s scrambled letters all right. Two columns of them on each page and two words in each item.”

  “A list of some kind?”

  “Yes. And I’ll fry my hat and eat it if, when I break this code, I don’t find we have in our hands the nominal roll of the Michigan branch of the Hunters’ Lodge.”

  “Now all we gotta do is make it safe back to Toronto with all this stuff and our skins still stickin’ to our bones.”

  Marc urged the filly into a full trot, and they sped down towards the river that provided a border between the fledgling colony and the redoubtable republic of America. No one followed. Even the wind had died, so that they were able to make their way across the ice bridge in relative comfort.

  As the welcoming lights of the village of Windsor came into view, Marc said to Cobb, “Well, what do you think of the great American experiment, now that you’ve seen it up close?”

  Cobb gave the question a moment’s reflection, then said, “I figure they could do with a tad less liberty.”

  SIXTEEN

  It was sometime after one o’clock Friday afternoon when Marc and Cobb raced along King Street towards the heart of the capital city. Cobb had divested himself of his wrist splint and the valet’s obsequious demeanour. The lord’s wig was packed away in the great man’s leather grip. The two men were exhausted but exhilarated. They had come back with the prize they had sought and more. Cobb drew the team up in the service lane behind Smallman’s.

  Beth was at the back door to greet them. She hugged Marc, then Cobb, who was too startled to resist or blush, then Marc again.

  “We were so worried,” she said to Marc, meaning herself, of course, as she fought back uncharacteristic tears.

  “You’re all right, though?” he said, meaning the baby.

  “We’re both fine. Really. Now come on in. There’s still a bit of soup left from our lunch.”

  So, while Rose Halpenny and her girls fussed over Constable Cobb, plying him with food and drink and draping his coat over a rack by the stove, Marc and Beth sat nearby holding hands and reassuring each other that a five-and-a-half-day absence had not altered their universe in any material way.

  “Is Patricia still here?” Marc asked, after they had quickly worked through the health and status of Charlene, Jasper Hogg, Briar cottage, and its environs.

  “Oh, no. She went back home on Sunday afternoon. By the time I got to see Almeda, the colonel had relented. Of course, by then the ball was over and—” Beth stopped. “You’re looking pretty antsy,” she said. “You have to get going?”

  “I hate to, I really do, but the information we found in Detroit is vital to Billy’s defense, and I’ve got to get it to Robert.”

  “Billy’s holding up well. Dolly sees him two or three times a day. They’ll be happy to hear your news.”

  “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll head straight down to Baldwin House and —”

  Beth interrupted. “He won’t be there. He’s at the Court House.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the trial started today.”

  “I know, but they’ll still be empanelling the jury.”

  “They did that this morning. Robert come by an hour ago, to see if you’d got back, and said the Crown was calling their first witness at one o’clock. They’re at it now.”

  Marc pulled Cobb’s coat off the rack and tossed it in his direction. “We’ve got to go, Constable. Pronto!”

  • • •

  While Cobb continued on to Frank’s livery stable, Marc ran up the cleared path to the main Court House door and dashed into the foyer. The courtroom lay straight ahead, and Marc brushed by the sentry, jarring Wilkie awake, and slipped inside. The place was jammed with the curious, the prurient, and those who had come to see what justice there could be in trying a bona fide hero for exterminating a killer, a vandal, and an incorrigible republican. Marc spotted Clement Peachey, Robert’s associate, sitting on a rear bench. Peachey nudged his neighbour farther along the pew and signalled for Marc to squeeze in beside him.

  “You shouldn’t really be here,” Peachey whispered. “You’re on the Crown’s witness roster.”

  “Funny, but I haven’t received a subpoena in that regard,” Marc said with a wink. Then they both turned their attention to the trial of Billy McNair, which was in progress before them.

  Cupping his hand over his mo
uth, Peachey said, “The coroner’s evidence about the poison and the medicine packet’s been completed.”

  The Crown’s attorney was now questioning his second witness: Gideon Stanhope. Marc’s heart skipped a beat. Acting for the Crown was Kingsley Thornton, with his tall, impeccably erect bearing, a white sheaf of hair under the barrister’s wig, and the clear and theatrical voice capable of chilling ironies and subtle stratagems. Thornton’s penetrating gaze alone could strip a witness of pretense, will, and dignity. He’d had twenty years of distinguished service at the Old Bailey on both sides of the aisle before emigrating to Upper Canada and retiring on an estate north of the city in order to be close to his son, daughter-in-law, and five grandchildren. He was a member of the Legislative Council and had been confidant to three governors. While inactive as a barrister, he maintained his membership in the Law Society, and Marc had encountered him at meetings of the law clubs for apprentice lawyers. His presence here was not merely intimidating to the defense, it bespoke the governor’s intention to get a conviction in a case he considered vital to the political interests of the province—which just happened to coincide with his own.

  “Colonel Stanhope, we come now to the strange business of the duel that took place three days before the murder. I want you to tell the gentlemen of the jury in your own words what happened that fateful morning, insofar as you were involved.”

  Marc turned his attention to Gideon Stanhope, standing upright in the witness-box and seemingly hanging upon each syllable uttered by the prosecutor. He was not in uniform, though his expensively tailored clothes and stiff posture still projected an image of affluence, authority, and self-possession.

  “I had risen at dawn, as is my custom since I became a soldier and an example for the men I lead. I had completed my toilet, donned my tunic, and was heading for my study when my butler—”

  “That would be Mr. Absalom Shad, from whom we shall hear testimony later on?”

  “The same. He was half-dressed and extremely excited. He said there was a commotion in the garden and that pistols had been fired. We dashed for the stairs to the cellar and the door to the garden.”