The Hunt for the North Star
Page 15
People of influence, MacLea thought. Members of the Assembly and the Executive Council. People who knew a great deal about the war and its conduct. The sort of men Polaris would know.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘Scott, Strachan, Beikie. How do you know who all these people are?’
‘I don’t,’ said Thomas. ‘Hill does, but sir, don’t ask me how, because I don’t know. Anyway, Mr Street is one busy man.’
‘All right. Tell Carson and Hill to keep a very close watch on him, and pick up whatever gossip they can. Try and find out who he sees most often. What about Fanning?’
‘You asked me and McTeer to watch Fanning,’ said Abel Thomas. ‘Was that because you reckoned he was the most slippery, sir?’
‘Yes.’
Thomas nodded. ‘Well you were right,’ he said. ‘He knows we’re watching him. I reckon he spotted us pretty much straight away.’
‘Damn,’ said MacLea.
‘I’m sorry, sir. We were as careful as we could be, but Mr Fanning was already on the alert before we came along. In fact, sir, me and McTeer, we think someone else might be watching Mr Fanning too.’
‘Have you seen anyone?’
‘No, sir, not yet. But Mr Fanning sure knows how to give people the slip. When he went out this morning, we followed him to Market Street, but once he got in among a crowd of people, he doubled back and lost us. There were too many footprints for us to pick up his tracks. We searched all the back streets, but we never found him. We only spotted him again about an hour ago, when he came back to his house.’
‘So he has been out all day,’ said MacLea quietly. ‘Seeing God knows whom, and doing God knows what.’
‘McTeer and me will swap places with Miller and Croghan,’ said Thomas. ‘They’re better trackers than us.’
MacLea shook his head. ‘Miller and Croghan could track a bat by its squeak, but you and McTeer have the quickest wits. Fanning is being bloody mysterious, and I want to know why. Sniff around, listen to the clack, and learn everything you can.’
Thomas nodded. ‘Mr Street and Mr Fanning. Could one of them be our man, sir?’
‘Too soon to tell,’ MacLea said. ‘But I’m betting at least one of them has something to hide, and I’d like to find out what that is.’
He paused for a moment and looked at Thomas. ‘One more thing, Corporal. Be careful. Fanning knows you are watching him. If he is connected to Polaris, this could get dangerous. Go carefully and tell the others to do the same.’
* * *
Overnight the temperature plunged, and the air the next morning was bitter. The cold stung their eyes, producing tears that froze on their lashes, and the slightest exhalation of breath sent clouds of steam swirling in the air. Cloaked and muffled, MacLea and Murray walked through streets rutted with ice to Mahlon Burwell’s house.
Burwell received them in a bath chair before an enormous fire, his body wrapped in robes and blankets. ‘Rheumatism,’ he explained as they were ushered in. ‘I spent too many long years in the wilderness, out in all weathers, and the cold has got into my joints and bones. I can’t shift it.’
‘Have you considered moving to a warmer climate?’ MacLea asked, taking a seat while a servant poured coffee.
Burwell gave a little bark of laughter. ‘We’re all heading somewhere warmer soon enough,’ he said. ‘Come spring, the Yankees are going to blow us straight to hell. I suppose you’ve come to ask me about Wilson.’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not all that well. I helped him with some land deals about five years ago.’
‘Near Port Talbot?’ asked Murray.
‘That’s right. Tom Talbot, the big man down there, asked me to handle it. Said he owed Wilson a favour, something to do with some negotiations on the Grand River. Wilson had connections with the Mohawks there, and interceded on Talbot’s behalf. In return, I helped Wilson acquire the lands he wanted. That was about it.’
MacLea asked the question he’d asked everyone. ‘Did you know Wilson was a traitor?’
Burwell shivered and pulled the blankets more tightly around him, although the fire was only a few feet away. There were beads of sweat on his face. ‘It never crossed my mind. I was as shocked as the next man when I heard. I feel sorry for his poor wife.’ He looked across at MacLea. ‘Has she been told?’
‘Yes. What about you, Mr Burwell? You still have land in America, and I gather you receive income from it, too.’
‘Of course I do. I spent years building up my business. I’m not going to let this damned stupid war ruin it.’
MacLea nodded. ‘Wilson was planning to start an insurrection against the Crown in the Niagara peninsula. Did you hear any rumours about this? Anything at all?’
Burwell shook his head. ‘To be honest, I have trouble believing it. Only a fool would try to start a revolt in Niagara.’
MacLea and Murray glanced at each other, remembering what Street had said. ‘Why?’ asked Murray.
‘Because it’s the wrong damned place,’ said Burwell. ‘But then again, I may be overestimating the intelligence of the Yankees. The way their generals have been running the war so far, you wouldn’t rule anything out.’
‘What do you mean, it’s the wrong place?’ asked MacLea.
‘I’m a surveyor, Captain. I spend a lot of time travelling around, so I know quite a lot about what the country looks like. That in turn means I’m a pretty good amateur strategist. And I can tell you that from my point of view as an armchair general – or bath-chair general, if you prefer – the Americans are going about this war all wrong.’
‘Go on,’ said MacLea.
‘They’re obsessed with the Niagara peninsula. They’ve tried over and over to invade there, and for what damned reason? They could take Fort George and Fort Erie, but what good would it do them? Sure, we’d be cut off from Lake Erie, but so what? We could still run supplies overland, down Dundas Street to Amherstburg and then to Procter and Tecumseh and the army out west. In order to cut that road, the Americans would have to fight their way north from Niagara, through forests and swamps, with nothing more than a few Indian trails to guide them. And we have the Indians on our side, and they’re masters of forest warfare. It could take the Americans weeks, even months, to get as far as Dundas Street.’
‘Then what should they do instead?’ asked Murray.
‘Isn’t it obvious? Kingston, at the other end of Lake Ontario, is the largest town and port in Upper Canada. It’s our main naval base, and it also commands both the head of the St Lawrence River and the main road to Montreal. All our supplies and reinforcements from the east come down one of those two routes. If the Yankees take Kingston, they can choke off our entire line of supply. The rest of Upper Canada would be forced to surrender, or face starvation.’
‘Very well,’ said MacLea. ‘Let’s come back to Wilson and the rumours that he was intending to rebel. What do you think this means?’
‘It could be one of two things,’ said Burwell. ‘First, it is quite possible that some blethering idiot, or a Yankee general – a distinction without a difference – is still so obsessed with Niagara that he is planning another attack there, and he encouraged Wilson to launch a local revolt in support, to tie down our troops. Second, and in my view much more likely, the rumours are a bluff. They want us to think they are planning another attack at Niagara so we’ll strip troops from the garrison at Kingston and send them to the peninsula. Once that is done, the real American blow will fall where it should have fallen all along: on Kingston itself.’
He shivered again, looking into the flames. Robinson had said he was thirty, but he looked twenty years older. ‘And if that is the case,’ he added, ‘then the Americans will have won. And we will all be prisoners, or dead.’
* * *
‘My turn to ask you,’ said MacLea half an hour later, when they had returned to the hotel. ‘What did you think?’
‘His illness seemed genuine,’ said Murray.
‘He pretty much spelt out the Americans’ best strategy for us and told us what he thought they ought to do. It made sense. Mind you, it could all be a feint. He’s pointing us towards Kingston so we’ll stop looking at Niagara.’ Murray frowned. ‘I don’t know, though. I am inclined to believe he is genuine. And that’s not something I often say about a politician.’
MacLea nodded. ‘We still haven’t heard from Fanning.’
‘No. Do you think he’s ignoring us?’
‘From what Thomas said, it’s quite likely. I’ll write to him once more. If he still fails to respond, we’ll pay him a call anyway. I’m only willing to be polite for so long.’
* * *
On the afternoon of the 23rd of December, John Fanning finally responded. The note delivered to Whitworth’s Hotel was curt: Come to my house at 11 a.m. tomorrow. I can spare you half an hour, no more.
That same afternoon, MacLea walked across the snowy fields to meet Abel Thomas again. ‘Moses brought a message from Marie, sir,’ the young corporal said. ‘You’re about to receive an invitation to Christmas dinner from Miss Selby. That’s all she said.’
Josephine was staying at the Selby house; that meant she would be present at dinner. Presumably there would be other guests as well. Even so, it should be possible to talk to her, if only for a short time.
‘Good,’ said MacLea. ‘Any other news?’
‘Mr Fanning disappeared again this afternoon,’ said Thomas. ‘Only for a couple of hours this time, but we don’t know where he went.’
‘He has finally agreed to meet Alec and me tomorrow,’ said MacLea. ‘Perhaps we’ll ask him.’
He walked back towards York through the gloaming, the trees blue shadows in the gathering gloom, thinking about Josephine’s message. The image of her in his mind was vivid and bright. Let her be well, he thought. Let her be safe. I don’t really care about anything else, so long as she is safe.
He reached the Half-Way Tavern, its lights glowing brightly. Still thinking about Josephine, he walked past the big building and turned the corner into Market Street. The wind was rising, and a sudden gust struck him, sucking up particles of frozen snow and throwing them into his face. His boots slipped on the ice and he stumbled and nearly fell.
In the same moment, something hissed in the air past his head, nearly grazing his cheek. Startled, he saw a knife clatter onto the ice ten feet ahead of him and go skidding away into a snowdrift.
Just for a second, he froze, but then instinct took over. He wheeled around and saw a figure in a dark cloak, dimly glimpsed through the snow, perhaps thirty feet away. ‘Halt!’ he shouted. ‘You! Stand where you are!’
In response, the man whipped out a pistol and raised it and fired, all in one motion. MacLea ducked and heard the hard thud of a ball smacking into the wooden wall of the tavern a few inches from his head.
The other man turned and ran. Pulling out his own pistol, MacLea ran after him, boots sliding on the snow and ice. They raced past the big house belonging to Beikie, the sheriff, and across the open fields beyond towards the cemetery. Fast though he ran through the snow, MacLea could not gain on his assailant, who clearly knew the area better than he. He could feel the cold air rasping in his chest and burning his lungs.
Dark shapes ahead in the snow: the ramparts of the fort. The gates stood open, and he could see sentries standing on the walls, huddled against the wind. Within a few moments, the fugitive had reached the gate and run inside.
MacLea followed him. The fort was a ramshackle collection of huts and barracks, all half blotted out by snow. There was no sign of the man he had pursued; he had vanished. MacLea stopped and called to sentries on the ramparts.
‘Did you see someone come through the gate just now? A man on foot, running hard?’
The sentries stared at him. ‘No, sir,’ said one. ‘Didn’t see nothin’, sir.’
They were probably half asleep, MacLea thought, and who could blame them in this filthy weather? He looked around the fort again, but saw no sign of movement. He considered calling for the officer of the guard and instigating a full-scale search, but he knew it was too late; by now the fugitive could have reached the west gate and be making for the shelter of the forest. Tucking his pistol into his cloak, he retraced his steps to the Half-Way Tavern.
Several men were standing outside the tavern examining the bullet mark in the wall. One of them was the landlord, a pot-bellied barrel of a man in a heavy wool smock with an apron over it. ‘What’s happening?’ he demanded. ‘Did someone fire a shot?’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea, quickly hiding his pistol in the folds of his cloak. ‘Damned fool nearly took my head off.’ He pointed at the scar on the wooden wall. ‘At least he missed your windows.’
‘If he had hit one, I’d have bloody well made him pay for it,’ said the landlord. ‘Did you see who it was?’
MacLea shook his head. ‘Somebody out shooting for the pot, probably. Saw a squirrel and got overexcited.’
The landlord nodded. ‘It’ll be some kid. They never look where they’re shootin’.’ He paused and peered at MacLea through the gloom. ‘Say, ain’t you that fellow from Queenston? Cap’n MacLea? Well I’m damned! Come on in and have a drink, sir! It’s on the house.’
Chapter Eleven
When MacLea returned to his hotel room, Murray was waiting for him. ‘Where have you been? I was just about to send out a search party.’
Briefly MacLea told him what had happened. Murray whistled softly. ‘Sounds like we’ve rubbed someone up the wrong way. Do you think it was just a warning? Or were they really trying to kill you?’
‘It’s a good question,’ MacLea said. ‘The pistol shot was a little wild, but the knife didn’t miss by much.’
‘Did they follow you to the meeting with Thomas?’
‘No, I’m sure they didn’t. They’re watching this hotel, of course. I suspect someone saw me leave, tracked me as far as the tavern and assumed I was going to the fort. He reckoned I would be coming back by the same route, and decided to wait for me. He took a chance, missed, and then legged it before I could catch him.’
‘Why take a shot at you now? We’re agreed Burwell is an unlikely suspect, and so is Stinson. And Street seemed interested in cosying up to you, doing you favours and so forth, so why would he want to kill you?’
‘Maybe it wasn’t any of them,’ said MacLea, sitting down on the bed. A folded letter stood propped on the side table, sealed with red wax. He broke the seal and read the message quickly. It was the dinner invitation Thomas had mentioned: Miss Elizabeth Selby desires the presence of Captain MacLea at dinner, at 3 p.m. on the 25th inst.
‘Did you receive one of these?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ said Murray. ‘Is this Josephine’s way of setting up a meeting?’
‘It would appear so,’ said MacLea. With an effort, he forced the image of Josephine from his mind. ‘Right. Let’s decide how we are going to approach Fanning.’
* * *
That same evening in the Selby house on Frederick Street, a footman knocked at the door of the library, where Josephine sat reading. ‘A letter has arrived for you, ma’am,’ he said, bowing.
Josephine took the waterproof packet and saw her own name written on the front. She recognised Colonel Beauregard’s handwriting at once, and a shiver of pure fear ran through her. It had been years since she had last seen Beauregard, but the memory of what he had done to her would not fade. Fighting down a swirl of nausea, she broke the seal and took out the letter within.
It was in code, of course, but she knew the code well by now.
I am in receipt of your dispatches. You speak of heavy British reinforcements going to Kingston, but I am not convinced of this. You must interrogate your sources again, and more closely. Give me details, if I am to believe you. And remember, if you are playing me false, what you suffered at my hands before will be a
s nothing compared to what awaits you.
She rose and fed the letter to the fire, watching it melt into flame until its ashes cascaded across the glowing logs. Looking down at her trembling hands, she willed them to be still. I submitted my spirit to you once, she thought. I will never do so again.
* * *
Fanning had invited MacLea and Murray to his house, the same place where Magnus Fraser had met his fate. MacLea studied it as they approached, but there was nothing unusual to see; just a big, handsome clapboard house of the kind favoured by the moneyed classes of York. There were several tall spruce trees in the garden, their boughs heavy with snow, and an apple orchard beyond, bare limbs black against the white background.
The house showed no trace of the violence that had recently taken place. Fanning received them in the drawing room. He was tall and slender, a plain-featured man in his early thirties, dressed with a simple old-world elegance in a black coat and snow-white shirt and neckcloth. Robinson had mentioned that he was married, but MacLea saw no sign of a wife. Perhaps he had left her in Niagara, not wishing to bring her to a house where someone had so recently been brutally murdered.
Someone else was with him: Elijah Dunne, the red-haired freight forwarder, dressed in severe black. He smiled when he bowed to MacLea and Murray, showing a mouthful of slightly yellowing teeth. His smile reminded MacLea of the crocodiles he had seen basking on the banks of the Nile during the Egyptian campaign twelve years ago.
‘A pleasure to see you again, gentlemen,’ Dunne said. ‘I trust you are enjoying your stay in York?’
‘It is proving most interesting,’ said MacLea.
Dunne smiled again and turned to their host. ‘Thank you, Fanning. My offer remains on the table. Consider it carefully, and let me know when you have reached a decision.’