The Hunt for the North Star

by The Hunt for the North Star (retail) (epub)

  ‘Straight back home, sir.’

  ‘Has there been any sign he knows we burgled the office last night?’

  ‘No, sir. This is the first day we’ve been watching him, but so far as Miller and Croghan can tell, it was business as usual.’

  Something about this piece of news bothered MacLea, but he could not work out what it was. Walking back into town as the stars began to blossom in the sky, he passed the Boydell house on Ontario Street, and on a sudden thought, knocked at the door. A footman admitted him to the hall and went to call his master.

  ‘Good evening, John,’ said Boydell, coming smiling into the room. ‘You caught me just in time, I was about to go and dress for the ball. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I am hoping you can satisfy my curiosity,’ said MacLea. ‘Mrs Dunne, Mr Dunne’s mother. What do you know about her?’

  Boydell pursed his lips. ‘Not a great deal, if I am honest. I have met her three or four times, no more. Patience sees more of her than I do. She is also a member of the Loyal and Patriotic Society, you see.’

  ‘Will she be at the ball tonight?’

  Boydell laughed. ‘She is a devout Scotch Presbyterian, who disapproves of all forms of entertainment. Balls, music, dancing, cards, all are instruments of sin. Jordan’s Hotel is itself a den of vice and iniquity.’

  ‘It sounds like she would have got along well with my father,’ said MacLea. ‘I have been thinking that the name Dunne sounds familiar, but I cannot recollect why.’

  ‘It’s a fairly common name in Scotland, I am told.’

  ‘It is. Do you know when Dunne and his mother came to Canada?’

  ‘About five years before we did, I think. He was already well established when I arrived. He won a contract to transport freight and post from New York to Montreal, but he sold that some years later to concentrate on the route to York and Niagara.’ Boydell paused. ‘That’s about all I know. I have to say that Dunne is not the sort of man I care to socialise with.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because frankly, he is quite unpleasant. He is a man of frequent rages and obsessions. His pursuit of poor Elizabeth Selby was truly repugnant to watch. He persisted in forcing his attentions on her until the poor girl became quite afraid of him, and when she summoned the courage to knock him back, he defamed her using the most vile language. No, Elijah Dunne is not a man I care to have under my roof. Patience feels the same.’

  MacLea nodded. ‘Thank you, James. I am grateful.’

  ‘Not at all, old fellow. See you at the ball.’

  * * *

  Silently, invisibly, the minutes ticked away towards midnight.

  The ballroom at Jordan’s Hotel was full of light and sound. Men in formal coats and uniforms, women in brilliant gowns and jewels waltzed beneath the reflecting glare of the chandeliers, laughing and talking, while music filled the air around them. MacLea watched Josephine, the most plainly dressed woman there in a simple dark gown that did absolutely nothing to dim her beauty, talking with Elizabeth Selby. Kramer the Austrian musician stood not far away, watching her from under lowered eyelids and smiling a little. Elijah Dunne watched her also, and he was not smiling. Across the room, James Givins stood talking to a couple of red-coated officers, and he too was watching Josephine from the corner of his eye.

  ‘A splendid occasion, Captain MacLea,’ said Prideaux Selby. He sat in an armchair against the wall near the fire, one hand resting on his stick. ‘Let us hope 1813 brings us better news and better fortune than the year just past.’

  ‘I shall pray that it does, sir.’

  Robinson was on the far side of the room, talking low-voiced with James Boydell. Every so often he glanced in MacLea’s direction. MacLea wished he would stop doing this. He turned his head a little and saw John Fanning the Assemblyman watching him too. Everyone is watching everyone else, he thought.

  Caleb Street, brilliantly dressed in a maroon coat with gold braid, was dancing, smiling at his partner as if he had not a care in the world. He is a good actor, MacLea thought. He must be, to have kept up the pretence for so long. Alec Murray was waltzing with Charlotte Lawrence in his arms. Both of them were smiling too, but he could see Alec was as alert as MacLea himself. MacLea watched them for a moment, then concentrated on Street. He is giving up everything, the captain thought, all his wealth and position to go on the run. He is paying a heavy price.

  The music ended. The little orchestra sat for a moment, the violinists tuning their instruments. MacLea turned to find Patience Boydell at his elbow. ‘I am free for the next waltz, Captain,’ she said, smiling.

  He bowed to her. The music began and they danced, she light as a feather, her hand resting on his arm. Murray and Charlotte Lawrence waltzed past them in the crowd, talking and laughing. Kramer was still watching Josephine, with a gaze that reminded MacLea of a hawk contemplating a field mouse.

  ‘Will Mr Kramer play for us?’ MacLea asked his partner.

  ‘He has promised to lead the orchestra in a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” at midnight,’ Patience said. ‘Does that not appeal to your Scottish heritage, Captain?’

  ‘My father didn’t believe in music,’ said MacLea.

  ‘Oh? What a curious thing to say. It is like not believing in the sky, or the sun.’

  MacLea smiled. ‘You are taking me too literally, ma’am. He believed that music was the work of the devil and listening to music was an act of sin. Devotional hymns sung on a Sunday were the only exception.’

  ‘And you, Captain? Do you feel the same?’

  ‘No. I enjoy music when I hear it,’ said MacLea. ‘But I cannot claim to know much about it.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we shall educate you,’ Patience said, and she smiled again. ‘We are having a musical evening at home next week. Will you come?’

  ‘I would be delighted. Do you often hold such events?’

  ‘Oh, as often as we can. We are cut off from the world by winter, you see. We must make our own entertainment.’

  The music ended. He bowed to her, and she smiled, curtseyed and disappeared into the crowd. MacLea looked for Caleb Street but could not see him. He checked his watch. A quarter to midnight. The endgame had begun.

  Alec Murray walked past, a big, solid presence in his green uniform.

  ‘All ready?’ MacLea asked quietly.

  ‘All ready. The boys are waiting.’ When MacLea left the room to meet Street, Murray would give him five minutes before following him. Then he would escort Street outside, where the rest of the men were waiting to take him away to Robinson’s house. MacLea would join the attorney general in the ballroom and help him arrest Polaris.

  Murray walked on, heading towards the punchbowl.

  ‘There is an invisible force in the air tonight,’ said a voice from behind MacLea.

  The captain turned. Prideaux Selby had risen and was leaning on his stick, looking keenly around the room. The conversation and laughter and music continued undimmed, the chandeliers and lamps as brilliant as ever, the light sparkling off jewels and coats and powdered faces. But Selby was right: tension was humming in the air. Boydell and Robinson were still talking. Robinson looked tense.

  ‘Something is about to happen,’ Selby said. His eyes searched MacLea’s face. ‘Do you know what it is, Captain?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied MacLea.

  The old man nodded slowly. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  The time was five to twelve. MacLea looked across the room to Alec Murray, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Quietly MacLea walked out of the ballroom and made his way towards the foyer. The night clerk sat behind his desk, tapping his fingers and humming along to the music. ‘Can you give me the number of Mr Bennett’s room?’ MacLea asked.

  * * *

  In the room he had booked in the name of Bennett, Caleb Street sat listening to the music coming faintly from the ballroom at the far end of the hotel. His earlier calm had gone; he was tense and nervous now, shivering a little. I am committed, he thought. There is
no going back. But by God, MacLea had better keep his word. If he comes without the safe conduct or the promise of an escort, I will give him nothing.

  The music changed, so subtly at first that he barely noticed it. Then he realised that the music from the ballroom had faded away, and the sound he heard now came from somewhere else, quite close by. Light and ethereal, it seemed almost to float in the air. Higher and higher it rose, a thin, soft keening that reminded him of starlight on a winter night. Yes, he thought, if stars could sing, this would be the noise they would make. He surprised himself with the thought, for he was not a man given to whimsy, and then after a while he ceased thinking altogether and just listened, letting the music wrap itself around him and enter his mind and soul.

  Then the music stopped, and he suddenly felt unbearably sad, for the sound had been comforting, soothing his earlier tension and almost lulling him into sleep. And then, having cocooned his mind with beauty, the music flexed its talons and sprang.

  Bitter and hateful, softly shrieking with evil, the high keening sound clawed at him, shredding his nerves. He cried out and clutched his hands to his forehead, trying to make it go away, but again it lashed at him, harder and harder. He slid forward from his chair until he was kneeling on the floor, hands pressed to his temples. ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘In the name of God, make it stop!’

  It stopped.

  He knelt, panting and trying to gather his wits, and then he heard a soft knock at the door. ‘MacLea!’ he cried, stumbling to his feet. ‘Thank God! Get me out of this place! I’ll tell you everything, I swear it, just get me away from here!’

  Still gasping for breath, he flung open the door, and then stopped in pure terror. In front of him stood a figure cloaked in black, with a hood surrounding an evil face painted half black and half white. In the split second of life left to him, Street saw the dark eyes glittering with hate, and then the knife came up in a flash of silver and struck him in the chest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Down in the ballroom, they were singing to welcome in the new year.

  Should old acquaintance be forgot,

  And never thought upon,

  The flames of love extinguished,

  And fully past and gone.

  Is thy sweet heart now grown so cold,

  That loving breast of thine,

  That thou canst never once reflect

  On old long syne.

  On old long syne, my jo,

  On old long syne,

  That thou canst never once reflect

  On old long syne.

  The body lay in a pool of blood, spreading slowly across the wooden floor. When MacLea knelt down, he saw that Street’s lips were moving. ‘Music,’ he gasped.

  ‘What music?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘Music,’ the other man whispered. ‘The awful music. Pain. Such pain…’ He gave a long shudder, and then was still.

  MacLea looked up to see Murray standing beside him. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Polaris got to him before we did,’ MacLea said.

  ‘How?’ Murray demanded.

  ‘God damn it, Alec, I don’t know! Get Robinson up here, will you?’

  Murray returned a few minutes later with Robinson at his heels. ‘Jesus!’ said the attorney general sharply. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was too late,’ said MacLea. ‘I don’t know how, but Polaris was already waiting for him.’

  ‘He told you nothing?’

  ‘He said something about music. That was all.’

  The smell of blood was very strong in the air. Robinson swallowed. ‘We need to get him out of here. Mr Murray, there is a detachment of Royal Newfoundland Fencibles outside. Find their officer, and ask him to send men to remove the body.’

  MacLea put a hand on his arm. ‘No. Let’s not have rumours spreading before we must. My men are out there too, and we can count on them to be discreet. They will take the body away.’ Murray nodded and left.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Robinson. ‘Another murder so soon after Fraser’s death would frighten the people and have a bad effect on morale. And if word gets out that Street was a traitor, things will be worse still.’

  ‘We’ll have to tell people something,’ MacLea said. ‘Street cannot just disappear.’

  Robinson nodded. ‘We’ll say he died of natural causes. A seizure of the heart, perhaps. It could happen to anyone.’

  ‘In a hotel room on New Year’s Eve? People will wonder what he was doing here, and whether someone else was with him.’

  ‘Let them assume what they like,’ said Robinson. ‘I would prefer people to believe he was a womaniser than an assassinated traitor.’

  The tramp of boots sounded in the hallway and MacLea’s men arrived, looking curiously at the corpse. Robinson gave instructions as to where to take it; Thomas pulled the cover off the bed and they lifted Street’s body, wrapped it securely and carried it away.

  ‘There is a hell of a lot of blood on the floor,’ MacLea said. ‘We’ll have to explain that away, to the hotel servants if no one else.’

  ‘We’ll tell them he hit his head when he fell,’ said Robinson. ‘Leave the cover story to me. Do your best to find out what happened.’

  * * *

  ‘You have heard the news of Caleb Street?’ asked Rebecca Morningstar.

  It was late morning on New Year’s Day. Outside, the sun sparkled off the frozen snow, blinding white under a pale blue sky. ‘The word is that he collapsed and died, probably of a heart seizure,’ said John Fanning. ‘But I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I knew Street quite well, and he was as healthy as I am. No, he was mixed up in this intrigue somehow, I am certain of it. Robinson and the authorities are covering up his death because they don’t want to start a panic among the people.’

  ‘They will worry who the next victim might be,’ the woman observed.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What do you think happened, Shawátis?’

  ‘I don’t know. I know very little more than when we last spoke.’

  The grey-haired woman gazed at him calmly. ‘Adonwentishon wants results,’ she said. ‘Her patience will not last for ever.’

  ‘I am genuinely confused. I remain convinced that Elijah Dunne is the man we seek. But who killed Street? It wasn’t Dunne; he was in the ballroom at the time of the murder. And why was Street killed?’

  ‘You are not alone in your suspicions of Dunne,’ said Rebecca Morningstar. ‘John MacLea has set men to watch him. And the night before last, he and some of his men broke into Dunne’s office.’

  ‘How do you know this, Kanahstatsi?’

  ‘I saw them,’ she said. ‘I followed them and watched from the shadows, unseen. They were looking for something, but I do not know if they found it. And now MacLea has set two of his men to trail Dunne wherever he goes.’

  She looked at Fanning again. ‘He has also set men to watch you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He has paid you a compliment, Shawátis. He has put his two best men on you. The young former slave, and the wise one who pretends to be a joker. Be careful.’

  ‘MacLea.’ Fanning paused for a moment, thinking. ‘The man is becoming a nuisance.’

  ‘I know what you are thinking, Shawátis. But as I said, be careful. MacLea is strong, and his men are devoted to him. They will protect him with their lives.’

  ‘Will they? Why?’

  ‘Because they know he would also die for them,’ Rebecca Morningstar said. ‘I observed them closely on the journey to Grand River. There is a bond of loyalty between them that can be broken only by death. Concentrate on the task at hand, Shawátis. You are running out of time. If MacLea gets to Dunne before we do, then all our work is lost.’

  * * *

  In the days after New Year, the cold deepened still further. The days were hard and brilliant, the sunlight glittering but devoid of warmth; the nights were gripped by bitter frost, hard with starlight, while the trees cracke
d like splintering bones. Beyond Gibraltar Point, the lake itself had begun to freeze.

  Frozen hard and wrapped in canvas, Caleb Street’s body lay in the town mortuary. Come spring, when the ground thawed, he would be buried. Meanwhile, the investigation into his death was making little headway.

  ‘I don’t have a single damned thing to go on,’ MacLea said to Robinson. ‘Street left the ballroom about a quarter to midnight, and was found dead fifteen minutes later. Every guest at the ball was in the room at the time, save for myself and Patience Boydell. Alec Murray was there and can confirm it.’

  ‘Where was Mrs Boydell?’

  ‘In the manager’s office, counting the donations to the Loyal and Patriotic Society before locking them in the safe. The hotel staff saw her there. We have also questioned the staff and servants. They all have alibis.’

  ‘So someone came into the hotel from outside.’

  ‘But the officer commanding the Royal Newfoundlands swears blind no one went in or out of the hotel during the half-hour leading up to midnight. And my men were out there too. They would have seen something, even if the Newfs missed it.’

  ‘The murderer came in earlier and hid somewhere in the hotel,’ Robinson speculated.

  ‘Yes, but who, and where? I am sorry, sir, but I am stymied.’

  ‘Do your best,’ said Robinson. There was a tone of resignation in his voice.

  * * *

  Several evenings later, MacLea sat in the library of the Boydell house on Ontario Street, where Boydell had invited him for a private talk over a glass of whisky. In the drawing room, someone was playing the piano, and a violin suddenly soared above it; the unmistakable sound of Julius Kramer. Patience Boydell’s musical evening was in full swing.

  Boydell was speculating about Street’s death. ‘I am surprised to hear he had been engaged in amorous activities in the middle of the party. It does not really fit with his character.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the only time he and his friend could meet,’ said MacLea. ‘His death will affect General Sheaffe rather badly. From what you and others have said, I gather he is Sheaffe’s principal defender in the Assembly.’