Colonel Lawrence’s preparations for an attack on your own naval base at Sackett’s Harbor are proceeding. The Royal American regiment has been ordered to move from Niagara to Kingston, and stores, guns and sledges for transport are being gathered. Lawrence intends to march across the ice from Kingston to Sackett’s Harbor, a distance of around thirty miles, and attack while your ships are frozen into the ice. The reports reaching us here speak of Sackett’s Harbor being only lightly defended. Whether this is true, I do not know; you will be in a better position than I to judge whether the defences are capable of resisting Lawrence’s attack.
Dusk was falling. Sealing the coded dispatch, Josephine dressed in the usual layers of warm clothes and went out to deliver it. She had been as good as her word to MacLea: as soon as she heard of the arrest of the spy in Kingston, relayed through Moses Crabbe to Marie, she had burnt the spy’s letter. Now, calmly, she was once again sending her own dispatches. If Beauregard had a second agent in Kingston, then her lies would quickly be found out and her goose would be well and truly cooked, but she was gambling that this was not the case. The American army was large, but it was also short of funds; Beauregard could only afford to pay so many spies.
The clear weather of the past few days had gone, and the sky was dark with cloud; a few more flakes of snow came curling down. Already there was nearly three feet of snow lying on the ground, and where the streets had been cleared, the snow banks on either side of the road were head high. Lake Ontario was frozen now as far as the horizon, and it was only mid-January.
She reached the house on Palace Street and glanced quickly along the road. Lamps gleamed in the windows, and from inside she could again hear a violin playing. She recognised the tone; the violin belonged to Julius Kramer, and it was he who was playing. From Prideaux Selby she knew Kramer had rented the house and was giving elaborate parties. Rumours of what went on at these parties were circulating around York, causing scandal, curiosity and amusement in about equal measure. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. How could a man with such genius flowing from his fingertips have his mind in the gutter?
She slipped quietly into the coach house and left the dispatch under the cushion of the carriage as usual, and then went back out into the gathering shadows. Once again, she almost bumped into a man who stood waiting for her, leaning on a walking stick.
It was not Kramer this time; she could still hear him playing inside. ‘What are you doing here?’ said Elijah Dunne. His voice was soft, but there was a note of venom in it.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Josephine said calmly. ‘You are blocking my path.’
Dunne did not move. ‘I asked you a question, Madame Lafitte. What are you doing in York? What is your purpose here?’
‘That is two questions,’ said Josephine.
Dunne made a sudden gesture, and for a moment she thought he was going to strike her. ‘Someone broke into the post room at my office,’ he said, his voice hissing a little. ‘Was it you? What did you find there? What did you take?’
Josephine was indignant. ‘Broke into your post room? Why on earth would I do such a thing? I called and spoke to your clerk, yes. I was expecting a letter from Niagara, which had not arrived, and I came to make enquiries. Surely I have every right to do so.’
‘Don’t play games with me,’ Dunne said, and she realised that he was bitterly, violently angry. His gloved hand clenched hard on his stick. ‘I’ll have the truth out of you, you black bitch, if I have to beat it out.’
‘Do you need help, madame?’ demanded another voice.
Relief washed through Josephine. She turned to find James Givins, wrapped in an enormous black bearskin coat brushed with frost, standing at her elbow and staring at Dunne. ‘Is this gentleman bothering you?’
‘As a matter of fact, he is,’ Josephine said.
Givins nodded. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Dunne. But leave this lady alone. She is under my protection.’
‘And what the hell does that mean?’
‘It means that if you harm her in any way, you’ll answer to me. Or if not to me, then to John MacLea. Have you ever fought a duel, Dunne? I have, and so has MacLea. One or the other of us will be waiting for you.’
Without a word, Dunne turned and walked away into the gathering night.
‘Thank you,’ Josephine said.
‘What was that about?’ Givins asked.
‘A misunderstanding.’
‘Let me walk you home.’
She was shaking a little, and glad to have someone with her, even if she would have preferred different company. Givins offered his arm and they began to walk back towards the Selby house.
‘This misunderstanding,’ said Givins. ‘Was it personal or professional?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Josephine said.
‘I see. Professional, then. Has Dunne discovered your secret?’
‘He suspects.’
‘Be careful. He is very quick to anger, and does not always restrain himself when the fit is on him. I think the balance of his mind is disordered.’
‘I shall endeavour not to meet him again,’ she said, and meant it.
‘It might help if you were to take me into your confidence and tell me what you are doing.’
‘I’m sure you believe that,’ she said. ‘The problem, Major Givins, is that I don’t trust you any more than you trust me. You are not continuing to pay my stipend from Indian Department funds out of the goodness of your heart. You are watching me, trying to work out my purpose. And because I in turn don’t know what your purpose is, I dare not tell you.’
* * *
‘So our friend Dunne is up to something,’ Murray said the next afternoon. MacLea had just returned from meeting Abel Thomas, and had relayed Josephine’s message about her encounter with Dunne.
‘I was nearly certain after I interviewed him,’ said MacLea. ‘When I told him his clerk in Kingston had been arrested, he was furious. Not just annoyed, but absolutely livid. That was not the reaction of an innocent man.’
‘He worked out that someone must have intercepted one of the agent’s letters,’ said Murray. ‘And when he learnt that Josephine had been at the postal office the same day his nightwatchman ended up with a mysterious dent in his head, he put two and two together. This is getting more dangerous, John.’
‘I know. I have reorganised the watches. Forget Stinson, he’s too stupid to be a traitor. Miller and Croghan will continue to trail Dunne. Thomas, Carson and McTeer will watch Fanning, and Crabbe will continue to pass messages to and from Marie. I want you, Hill, Appleby and Schmidt watching Josephine, and I want at least one of you outside the house or tailing her wherever she goes.’
‘Even at night?’
‘Especially at night.’
‘The men will complain about the cold.’
‘I would be surprised if they didn’t. Whatever happens, Alec, we’re going to keep her safe.’
Murray scratched his chin. ‘What do you think, John? About Dunne, I mean. Could he be Polaris?’
‘There is a problem. Catherine Brant said Polaris is an Assemblyman, and Dunne is not a member of the Assembly.’
‘You’re assuming Catherine Brant was telling the truth,’ said Murray. ‘After my last encounter with Mrs Morningstar, I’m not so sure about that. All right, let us suppose Dunne is just a foot soldier. What about Fanning? If he is Polaris, why is he spying on Dunne?’
‘Josephine said that Colonel Beauregard never tells his agents about the presence of other agents, so that if one is caught, he cannot betray the presence of the others. Fanning doesn’t know about Dunne, but Dunne may have done something to make him suspicious, and he is investigating.’
‘Spies spying on spies,’ said Murray. ‘This is getting far too complicated.’
He stopped abruptly as someone knocked at the door of the hotel room. ‘Captain MacLea?’ came the voice of the porter. ‘Message just arrived for you, sir.’
MacLea opened the door.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the letter and then breaking the seal and opening it. His eyebrows rose.
‘It’s from Fanning,’ he said. ‘He wants to meet.’
‘When and where?’
‘Tomorrow evening, Elmsley House at six p.m.’ Elmsley House was a mansion on the western edge of York. After the death of its owner, it had been taken over by the town government. Part of the ground floor held the public library, with the rest converted to offices. ‘He wants to see me alone.’
Murray made a derisive noise. ‘You’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.’
‘No, you’re guarding Josephine. I’ll take Abel Thomas with me.’
‘John, you’re mad. Remember what happened to Fraser? Remember the false message that lured him into a trap?’
‘Street was willing to betray Polaris. Maybe Fanning is too. Sorry, Alec. Maybe this is a trap. But we have to find out.’
* * *
The next day passed slowly. MacLea prowled around his hotel room, unable to settle to anything, unable even to read a newspaper, waiting for evening.
Sunset came, streaks of pink light shooting through breaks in the cloud, and then the light faded and a purple dusk began to fall. Muffled and cloaked, with a loaded and primed pistol in his pocket, MacLea walked out to meet Abel Thomas, hearing as usual the monotonous crunch of his own boots in the snow.
Thomas stood waiting for him, clapping his mittened hands together to keep them warm. The front of the scarf around his face was white with ice where his breath had condensed and frozen.
‘Anything to report?’ asked MacLea.
‘Nothing, sir. Mr Fanning has been home all day, and has seen no visitors. McTeer is on watch now.’
‘Very well. I’ve one more job for you, Corporal, and then you can go back to the fort and get warm. Fanning wants to meet me at Elmsley House. I’m going to see him, and I want you to come with me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Thomas. ‘Pardon me for asking, sir, but why does he want to meet you there, and not at his house?’
‘To keep away from prying eyes and ears, I reckon. Perhaps he doesn’t want Mrs Morningstar to find out we have met.’
‘Or perhaps it’s a trap,’ Thomas said.
‘Perhaps. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to charge in bald-headed. We’ll look the place over carefully beforehand.’
It was mid-January now, and the days were growing just perceptibly longer, but nonetheless it was fully dark by the time they reached Elmsley House. Snow lay piled high around the house and on its roof. A few lamps still burned in the library on the ground floor; the upper floors were dark. Standing in the shadow of a nearby building, they watched the house for a long time. They saw a few men come out, then a couple of women carrying books in their gloved hands. No one went in.
In the distance, the bells of St James’s church struck six. MacLea drew breath. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m going in. Keep watch, and if anyone suspicious approaches the house, sound the alarm. How are your owl hoots these days?’
‘Getting pretty good, sir. But I’d rather come in with you. I’m thinking about what happened to Mr Fraser.’
‘Everyone is thinking about what happened to Mr Fraser. That is why I want you outside on watch, in case whoever killed Mr Fraser comes and tries to do the same to me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Thomas.
MacLea walked up the steps of the house, stopping on the wooden porch to stamp his feet and knock the excess snow off his boots, an action that was second nature to anyone who had lived through a Canadian winter. Then he opened the door and went inside. Thomas stood for a few more minutes, swinging his arms and clapping his hands to keep warm and wishing he had the nerve to defy his captain and follow him. I don’t like this, he thought. I still think it’s a trap.
He heard a soft whisper of movement behind him, and turned, but he was far too late. A wooden club swinging through the air caught him across the side of the head. There was a brief explosion of lights behind his eyes, and then he fell unconscious into the snow.
* * *
The librarian, an elderly man with a white beard and silver-rimmed spectacles, was just rising from his desk when MacLea walked in. Shelves full of leather-bound books surrounded him, giving off a pleasantly musty smell. ‘I’m just about to close, sir. But if you want to remain behind and read a while, please feel free. The key is in the door; lock it when you leave and put the key under the mat.’
‘Not very secure,’ said MacLea.
The old man smiled. ‘We’re quite free from burglars, sir. There’s little call for stealing books around here.’
‘I won’t be long in any case,’ said MacLea. ‘I have come to meet Mr Fanning. Is he here?’
‘Mr Fanning?’ The librarian took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘No, no, I haven’t seen him today. He often comes here, though. He’s a great one for reading is Mr Fanning. He signed out an odd book last time he was here. Something about animal magnetism by some German fellow, all written in Latin, too. Oh, he’s quite the literary man, Mr Fanning—’
‘Is anyone else here?’ MacLea interrupted.
‘No, no, I’m quite sure I’m the last. I waited until the two ladies left, and then I started packing up. I thought, there won’t be anyone else coming today. I was quite surprised to see you, sir.’
‘And the offices upstairs? Is anyone still working?’
‘No, no, they’ve all gone home. I said goodbye to Mr Fawkes, you know, the treasury clerk, about half an hour ago. He was the last one. Well, I’ll take my leave now, sir. Good night to you and remember to leave the key like I told you.’
The librarian departed. MacLea wandered around the silent room, looking at the books on the shelves. He recognised some of them, but he had read very few. His own rudimentary education, in a hard, cold school in the western Highlands, had encompassed little beyond devotional works, and his life since – soldier, farmer and then soldier again – had left little time for reading. One day I will become a gentleman of leisure, he thought, and have a comfortable home and time to devote to pleasure. His mind drifted to thoughts of Josephine.
Then the music began.
Chapter Sixteen
The sound was an ethereal scream, tearing at his nerves. He could feel its grip growing tighter and tighter, wrapping itself around his brain and trying to close down conscious thought. Gasping for breath, he summoned all his willpower and fought back, but to little avail. He could feel himself beginning to freeze, the life draining out of his limbs, rendering him helpless and motionless. His mind seemed to be disintegrating. He stood transfixed, drowning in an incoming tide of panic. For one of the few times in his life, John MacLea was genuinely terrified.
Then the music stopped. For a second or two he stood panting, shaking and numb, and then he heard a whisper of movement behind. Death is here.
From somewhere he summoned the strength to turn. He gasped in pure shock. A figure was coming towards him, cloaked and hooded in black, its face painted half black and half white, lips drawn back over a rictus of snarling teeth. A knife gleamed in one black-gloved hand.
It was the sight of the knife that galvanised MacLea, breaking the grip of the music. Somehow he managed to dodge the swinging blow aimed at his heart and stumbled backwards, reaching into his cloak for his pistol. But he was too slow. Even as he raised the pistol, the knife struck again, slashing him across the hand and ripping through his glove into the flesh beneath. Yelping with sudden pain, he dropped the pistol and staggered away, clutching at his hand.
The figure was coming at him again, the bloody knife raised high. He ducked under the blow and threw himself forward, shoulder first, ramming hard into his attacker. The other man was lighter than he expected; the blow caught him off guard and he too went stumbling backwards, but he recovered in an instant and stood poised on the balls of his feet, eyes glaring. MacLea straightened, his breath hissing with pain, preparing to face the next attack.
It never cam
e. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, the cloaked man pulled his hood over his face and ran for the door. A moment later, MacLea heard his footsteps hurrying up the stairs.
Picking up his pistol with his left hand, MacLea staggered through the library into the front hall and looked up the shadowy stairs. All was dark on the first floor. He had enough sense to know that going up there alone, with one hand injured, would be tantamount to suicide. He turned and went out onto the veranda. The cold was like a slap in the face, and the confusion in his brain receded a little. ‘Thomas! Come quickly! I need help!’
No answer came. Abel Thomas was never anything other than absolutely reliable. MacLea hurried down the drive, leaving drops of blood in the snow behind him.
Thomas was lying in a snowdrift, more blood leaking from a gash just below the brim of his hat. MacLea knelt down beside him, took off his left glove and felt for a pulse. He found it; Thomas was alive. A moment later, the young corporal began to stir.
‘God, my head,’ he said thickly, sitting up. ‘What happened?’
‘It looks like someone coshed you,’ said MacLea. ‘They nearly did for me, too. Can you walk?’
‘Yes, sir.’ MacLea offered him a hand, and Thomas struggled to his feet. He swayed for a moment, but then looked steadily at the captain. ‘I guess it was a trap after all,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘And yes, I should have listened to you. Too late for all that now. Come on, we need to search the house.’
Back inside, he fetched one of the lamps from the library and led the way upstairs. The first floor of the house was a series of former bedrooms and dressing rooms, now turned into offices; one still had its elaborate floral wallpaper. They searched amid desks and chairs, bookshelves and filing boxes, trying to find any trace of their assailants.
‘Look here, sir,’ said Thomas. He pointed to a puddle of water on the floor in one room. ‘That could be melted snow off someone’s boots.’
The Hunt for the North Star Page 22