“Who?”
“I’ve identified the culprit,” Marc said, releasing each word carefully, “but so far I don’t have enough evidence, and until I do I am honour-bound to keep the name to myself.”
“I understand,” she said, implying more than mere agreement.
“But as soon as Elijah is arrested, we’ll have the means to establish the whole truth, and justice will be fully served. Joshua’s murderers will not go unpunished.”
Beth smiled wryly, the hurt hidden in the humour: “It’s been some time in this province since justice has been served.”
Marc could find no words to deny it.
Putting a hand on his wrist, she said, “It’s not your fault—the bush, the politics, the mess we’re in. You’ve done me a great service, so great that nothing I can do or say will ever be enough to repay you.”
Marc knew this was not so, but offered no suggestions.
“You’ve given me answers to questions that would’ve plagued me—perhaps for the whole of my life. You’ve given me back the father I loved more than any other, a man who did not wander foolishly to his death in a blizzard but died for what he was, what he stood for. And you’ve given me back a husband I can mourn and remember as I ought to.”
“I did my duty,” Marc said, “that is all.”
For the moment they both accepted the lie.
Marc shook hands with Aaron, and Beth accompanied him to the back door, where the colonel’s horse waited.
“I’ll write Erastus and James in detail as soon as I can, but I’d be obliged if you would, in the meantime, extend my sincere thanks to them for their many kindnesses.”
“They’ll want to know about Elijah.”
“Yes. You may tell them anything I’ve revealed to you.”
“Still, they’ll be disappointed not seeing you off.”
“Yes. I’ve grown quite fond of them. I have never made friends quickly, but this week has been like no other in my life.”
“Your long and interestin’ life.”
“My short and boring life.”
“Till now,” she said, smiling.
“You won’t be able to run this farm on your own,” he said softly.
“I know. But we’ll be all right just the same.”
“You could come to Toronto. Open up a shop.”
“You mustn’t talk like that. We’re only allowed one hope at a time. You must go back to your regiment. I need time to grieve, and reacquaint myself with God after our recent quarrel, and be a mother to Aaron, who’s never had one.”
“I understand,” Marc said, though he didn’t. “But I’ll come back, just the same.”
“Hush,” she said, laying a finger on his lips. “Don’t make promises you may regret having to keep. Remember, you’re still a Tory at heart and I am not.”
Before he had a chance to argue his case, she eased the door shut.
He waited for the latch to click into place before he took three reluctant steps to Colonel Margison’s second-best horse, which was already dancing with traitorous thoughts of an open road and the company of its own kind somewhere at the end of it.
EPILOGUE
Elijah Gowan was apprehended a week later, cowering and bewildered in a pantry off the summer kitchen of his cousin’s house. He was eager—proud even—to make a full confession, viewing his actions as righteous and necessary. Moreover, he readily implicated Philander Child. In fact, he had kept the note he had removed from Joshua’s body (telling Child that he had destroyed it)—the one in the magistrate’s own handwriting. Gowan’s trust in his benefactor, it seemed, had not been total: the note was his insurance against betrayal.
It was a clearly worded missive in which Child explained that he had been approached by a mysterious stranger who wished to remain anonymous and who had information concerning the death of Jesse Smallman. The informant would agree to meet only in a safe, neutral spot—the cave at the end of the old Indian trail beside the lake. It was enough to lure Joshua to his death.
Child was subsequently arrested and bound over at Kingston to the spring assizes.
Marc’s own actions and his report to Sir John Colborne, who forwarded it to Sir Francis Head, the newly arrived lieutenant-governor, had two immediate consequences for the young ensign, one happy and one not. Marc was promoted to lieutenant on Sir John’s enthusiastic recommendation, for which he was more than grateful, but that gentleman also suggested that Sir Francis put him in charge of security for Government House and make him his aide-de-camp. Both of these honours were regarded as promotions and were the cause of much envy among his fellow officers. Marc, however, saw the new posting as an insuperable obstacle to his being transferred to Quebec, where rebellion and true military action were thought to be imminent.
Ferris O’Hurley, the escaped peddler, never reached the border. He had unwisely decided to circle back to Perry’s Corners and liberate his donkey, still in the hands of its captors, and was caught trying—unsuccessfully—to persuade it to accompany him home. O’Hurley soon confessed to having “witnessed” Ninian T. Connors as he “assisted” Jesse Smallman to hang himself in his barn, following a violent quarrel over the spoils of their rum-running business. And while he admitted that he was aware of the American dollars that Marc had impounded, he maintained that all he was ever told was that it had come from the Hunters’ Lodge in New York State and that Connors was taking it to a group of Upper Canadians to aid them in their ongoing struggle against tyranny. Only Connors knew who the contact person was, and that secret died with him.
As Marc sat at his desk pondering these matters, he could not help feeling that his week in Crawford’s Corners had been somewhat more than an adventure. He had carried out a successful murder investigation. He had learned much about this odd colony and its extraordinary citizens. He had made some friends. He had met a woman to whom he would shortly send a long and, he hoped, persuasive letter.
He picked up his pen and began to write.
Turn the page for a preview of
Solemn Vows
The next exciting Marc Edwards mystery from
Don Gutteridge
Coming January 2011 from Touchstone
June 1836
Lieutenant Marc Edwards wiped the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his tunic, but not before a rivulet had slid into his left eye and two greasy drops had plopped onto the shako cap cupped between his knees. The afternoon sun of a cloudless June day was pouring a relentless heat down upon the hustings and its well-fed, overdressed occupants. Surely, Marc thought, the grandees of Danby’s Crossing (or pompous old Danby himself) could have had the foresight to erect the rickety political scaffolding under the shade of the maple trees drooping at the northwest corner of the square, or at least close enough to Danby’s Inn for its two-storey veranda to provide some merciful relief. Such was not the case, however—here or anywhere else in the backwater province of Upper Canada, where, it seemed to Marc, elections were considered life-and-death affairs, and high seriousness and bodily suffering prime virtues. And such discomforts invariably included a shaky platform groaning with dignitaries, each of whom managed to “say a few words” in as many sentences as were consonant with their social standing or the patience of the throngs.
At the moment, Garfield Danby, the self-appointed chairman of the day’s proceedings, was droning away at what he took to be a stirring introduction of the guest speaker, Sir Francis Bond Head, lieutenant-governor of the province, who was seated next to Marc directly behind the podium. As Marc gazed out at the dusty square and the several hundred people gathered there on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon in the middle of the haying season, he marvelled at their perseverance, their dogged insistence on hearing every word offered them, as if words themselves might somehow right their many grievances against the King’s representatives, grievances that had bedevilled the colony for half a generation.
Not two days ago, many of these same folk—farmers, shopkeepers, dray men, and their
wives or sweethearts—had stood in this same spot to listen to platitudes from politicians of both parties, right-wing Constitutionists (as the Tories were now styling themselves) and left-wing Reformers. And today they had come back to hear the most powerful man in the province, King William’s surrogate in this far corner of his realm. They came to listen and, from what Marc had learned about them in the twelve months since his arrival in Toronto, to judge. Hence their willingness to stand quietly during Danby’s ill-grammared maundering. Sir Francis would speak, eventually—if the heat didn’t liquefy them all before sundown.
Marc could hear the governor shuffling the several pages of notes he had prepared with the help of his military secretary, old Major Titus Burns, and of Marc, who was now his principal aide-de-camp. This speech, like all the others over the past week, would simply repeat his unvarying themes: public order before any redress of acknowledged complaints; a stable government to assure justice and to effect lasting reforms; a purging of extremists of both left and right (Sir Francis being, after all, a Whig appointment in a Tory domain); reiteration of His Majesty’s opposition to republicanism and the “American party” led by William Lyon Mackenzie; and a direct appeal to the common sense of the yeomen who peopled the colony and whose roots lay deep in the soil of the motherland. With Major Burns’s rheumatism acting up more frequently, Sir Francis had been calling more and more upon Marc, whose days as a law student had left him proficient in English, to help him in speech writing and, on occasion, to draft official letters to the colonial secretary in London, Lord Glenelg.
While Marc had chosen the action of a military life over the tedium of law, he was happy to sit at a desk and write because he was, by and large, in agreement with the governor’s sentiments and strategy. Even though Marc knew that the grievances raised by the ordinary citizens were valid, mainly as a result of the winter weeks he had spent at Crawford’s Corners and Cobourg where he had carried out his first investigative assignment, he had little sympathy for the Reformers. He believed, as did Sir Francis, that because these grievances were of long standing and had been noisily protested by the “republican” immigrants from the United States, the first priority was to calm the waters, reassert the King’s authority with a firm and fair hand, and then one by one deal with the people’s complaints in an atmosphere free of partisan rant and rhetoric. This message, cunningly couched in the rhetoric of regal prerogative, seemed to be having a positive effect on the electorate. (That the lieutenant-governor was by tradition supposed to be neutral in election campaigns was being conveniently overlooked.)
On the bench directly behind the governor, Langdon Moncreiff—the newly appointed member of the Executive Council—slumbered noisily. Above Danby’s drone and the rush of a sudden breeze through the far maple trees, the councillor’s snores rose as strident and nozzling as any hog’s. Sir Francis shuffled his papers again; Danby appeared to be running out of inspiration. The crowd below fidgeted in anticipation.
Remembering that he was on the hustings to ensure the governor’s safety, Marc put his shako back on, leaned forward, and scanned the village square. He knew that immediately behind the platform, where the path south began, two junior officers stood watch, their horses tethered nearby. Marc swept his eyes over Danby’s Inn, where the entire entourage, like a royal progress, had arrived at midmorning with flags flying and carriage wheels clattering. Ensign Roderick Hilliard, fresh-faced and keen to please, stood stiffly at the entrance and gripped his Brown Bess tightly. The platform dignitaries—including three merchants, a brace of lawyers, and a rotund banker—were less than twenty yards from the balustrade of the inn’s upper veranda. Hilliard gave Marc the briefest of nods. Beyond the inn, the wide corduroy road that led west to Yonge Street was fringed on the north with several tall maple trees, now sporting a dozen youngsters who had climbed among the branches to “get a gander” at the viceregal personage or simply to make a happy nuisance of themselves. Opposite the hustings, the general store and a sprawling livery stable merited only a cursory glance. On the east side, the smithy was now fireless and quiet, and in front of the harness shop next to it, the proprietor and his family stood in the sun, smiling as Danby wound up his introduction. Above the harness shop was an apartment with glass windows and, higher still, a gabled garret. Marc spotted nothing unusual.
Half-throttled by his own snores, Councillor Moncreiff let out a gasp and a purging cough before the snorts started up again. Marc suspected that the other self-invited platform guests were likely dozing as well. It was not yet three o’clock, but everyone here had already put in a full day. For those travelling in the governor’s retinue—Ignatius Maxwell, the receiver general and veteran Executive Councillor, his ample wife, and his debutante daughter, along with Langdon Moncreiff and the governor’s physician, Angus Withers, and their escort, Lieutenants Edwards and Willoughby, and a company of eight mounted and fully armed junior officers—the day had begun at nine o’clock outside the garrison at Fort York. After a lurching ride up dusty Yonge Street, past Blue Hill, Deer Park, and Montgomery’s Tavern at Eglinton, they had travelled the quarter-mile east to Danby’s Crossing.
Upon arrival, Sir Francis and the Toronto worthies had been greeted by the local gentry and their ladies (from as far away as Newmarket), several of whom had got into the Madeira sometime earlier. Danby had laid on a stultifying midday meal, with wine, several desserts, and cigars. If Sir Francis had been shocked by the presence of the ladies throughout the meal, by the ingratiating speeches of welcome, or by the port-and-cigar aftermath, he was too well mannered to show it. Marc and his second-in-command, Colin Willoughby, had led the troop into a back room, where more modest fare awaited them.
Willoughby had given Marc a look that said quite plainly, “Did we really leave England for this?” which made Marc grin. He liked Willoughby. The young man had arrived with the governor in January, suffering terribly from a luckless love affair. Sir Francis had taken Colin under his wing and had asked Marc to assist him. Marc found it easy to sympathize with the pain of unrequited love, as his own attempts to win over Beth Smallman, a widow he’d met in Cobourg, had had little success. None of his letters had been answered. Marc now glanced down at Willoughby, whose scrutiny of the crowd in the square was as keen as Marc’s had been upon the peripheral buildings. When Marc caught his eye, Willoughby nodded reassuringly and turned his eyes back to the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed Danby at last, “I present to you this afternoon, Lieutenant-Governor Sir Francis Bond Head!”
A gust of wind swept across the platform, and one of the sheets of notes fluttered out of the governor’s hand just as he was about to stand. He reached down to retrieve it before it reached the floor, as did Marc. There was an embarrassing collision of heads, followed by a loud cracking sound somewhere beyond them, a muted thud close behind them, then silence. Marc turned to see Councillor Moncreiff sit bolt upright and flick open both eyes—eyes that saw nothing. The old gentleman was already dead, his blood and lungs beginning to ooze through the gap in his waistcoat.
Marc froze. Then everyone seemed to move at once. Angus Withers threw his bulk over a crouching Sir Francis, the other dignitaries flailed for cover, Willoughby vaulted onto the platform, and Langdon Moncreiff’s body slumped to the floor. The confusion of noises struck Marc a second later: women screaming, men shouting, the governor hissing to his protector to get the hell off him.
“He’s dead,” Marc said to Dr. Withers and Sir Francis as they untangled.
Beside him, Willoughby went pale and the whites of his eyes ballooned. Marc steadied him, then leapt up onto the bench and peered across the crowded square. The throng had not yet panicked; they were either too shocked or too curious to move. The members of Marc’s contingent appeared to have recalled the training he had given them before the governor’s patriotic rallies had begun a week ago. Several of them were already mounted and scanning the crowd and buildings for the source of the gunshot or some glimpse of a fleei
ng assassin.
They had not long to wait. A man’s cry, sharp enough to carry over the excited mutterings of the crowd, soared out of a treed area on the northwest corner of the square. This was followed by the sounds of branches snapping and a body hitting the ground. Marc looked over in time to see a rough-clad farmer stagger to his feet, gaze around him with brilliant, stunned eyes, and then scurry towards the general store. In his right hand he carried a large hunting gun.
“There he is!” Marc yelled to two of the ensigns who had just ridden up to the hustings. “Apprehend him!”
The crowd now turned to face the latest commotion, and they, too, began screaming for someone, anyone, to block the assassin’s flight.
“Stop that man!”
“He’s getting away!”
But no one stopped him as the assassin dashed past the general store and down the side of the livery stables towards the trail that led into the back townships of York County. He had tied his horse just behind the stables and now he swung into the saddle and, gun in hand, raced away into the bush.
“Detail! Form up and pursue!” Marc called out to his men. “Willoughby, bring up our horses and we’ll follow.”
Willoughby was trembling. Marc gave him a furious shake, anxious that the governor not see what looked like cowardice in the face of danger. Willoughby was no coward: Marc would have staked his life on it. “We’ve got to go, Colin,” he whispered fiercely. “Now!”
Fortunately, Sir Francis, Dr. Withers, Ignatius Maxwell, and others on the platform were still crouched around Moncreiff’s body, and Marc was able to pull Willoughby away from the hustings. At last the frightened man began to take gasping breaths.
“I’m all right now,” he said to Marc as Ensign Hilliard trotted up beside them with the horses in tow.
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