But Tremblay was not quite through. He waited for Marc to finish, then said, “This whole business here is about trust. I have heard lots of high-sounding arguments so far, but nothing to make me want to trust people who did not have the courage to take up arms when it mattered or offer public support for the uprising and its goals.”
The ensuing silence was more than awkward. LaFontaine, expressionless, stared hard at Robert Baldwin.
“Let me then give you such a reason,” Robert said slowly and quietly. “When the new Assembly meets, I hope that Mr. LaFontaine and I will find ourselves sitting side by side in the House among those in the majority party. When we are invited to join the cabinet and constitute a true Reform administration, as we certainly shall, its leader and first minister will be Louis-Hippolyte LaFontaine. If not, then I myself will not serve.”
This declaration took everyone by surprise, even Hincks and especially LaFontaine.
“You’re saying that the alliance will be led by one of us?” Bérubé said, not sure whether he ought to be shocked or incredulous. “But you yourself are held to be the leader of the Reform party, are said to be the only man in Upper Canada capable of uniting the scattered liberal elements. How could you think of relinquishing your leadership role – to a French-speaking Quebecer?”
It was a question Hincks might have asked – or Marc.
“I have become a politician by necessity,” Robert said solemnly, making eye contact with each delegate around the table as he spoke, “not by instinct or inclination. I have never wished to sit in parliament or stump the back roads preaching Reform doctrines. I am not an orator like Francis here or Mr. Edwards. I am a widower with four youngsters to raise. I long for a quiet life in my chambers and my home. But circumstance has brought me here, as it has each of you. I will serve as long as I am needed. And serving beside Mr. LaFontaine, who is most qualified to lead our alliance, is the best thing for me and for our party. A LaFontaine-Baldwin administration will make a bold statement to those who oppose responsible government. To them our alliance may seem unholy, but it will be real. It will be here to stay.”
Maurice Tremblay knew that he was beaten. His shoulders slumped and he stared down at the table in a daze.
“What more is there to say?” LaFontaine said. “We have negotiated a set of common policies and laid out a procedural strategy for next year. We are dealing here with honourable men. We shall make formidable allies.”
Bérubé and Bergeron were all smiles. It appeared as if the impossible had been achieved, a coalition of ancient (and recent) enemies – the English and the French.
“Should we formalize the main points of our alliance, as agreed upon earlier?” Hincks said into the buzz of excitement.
“We could do that tomorrow morning,” Macaulay suggested. “Perhaps Mr. LaFontaine and Mr. Baldwin, along with Mr. Edwards as translator, could work up a written document in both languages.”
“That sounds great,” Hincks said, “though we must have only one copy for each group. We don’t want any part of these deliberations made public except by us when we are ready and to those whom we choose. Secrecy is critical at this point, eh?”
No-one disagreed with this statement of the obvious.
“After a hearty luncheon tomorrow,” Macaulay said, beaming, “I’ll have the sleighs brought down here and our guests can begin making their way home.”
Elaborate precautions had been taken regarding the arrival and departure of the French delegates. The sleighs that had brought them to Elmgrove, on Monday and Tuesday evening, had gone with their drivers up to a safe farm north of the city. Young Cal Struthers would be dispatched to signal their return. The Quebecers, in pairs, would be driven to Port Hope, where they would stay overnight with Reform families, and then catch a regular stage, two by two, for Kingston and Montreal.
Garnet Macaulay, still beaming, adjourned the meeting.
***
In the hall outside the library, Hincks stopped Macaulay for a moment and said, “Garnet, I have a frock coat that could use a good brushing sometime before supper. It’s in the wardrobe in my room.”
“I’ll have Chilton see to it, Francis,” Macaulay said, always pleased to be helpful, “the minute he gets back from his late-day constitutional.”
“Thanks,” Hincks said, and hurried towards the billiard-room to catch up to Bérubé.
Marc drew Macaulay back into the recessed entrance to the library. “Your butler keeps to a rigid schedule,” he said evenly.
Macaulay smiled. “Yes. An occupational weakness of butlers everywhere. Since he came here a week ago, he has gone for a fifteen-minute walk just before the rush and havoc of our supper-hour. Can’t blame him, eh?”
Marc was not sure how to phrase the question he had in mind. “And you . . . find you have, ah, complete confidence in him?”
“My word, Marc, you don’t need to be so circumspect. We’re all concerned about security, aren’t we? The answer is that Graves Chilton has given me no cause to be suspicious in that regard. Besides, he’s only been on the continent for a couple of weeks and he doesn’t speak French, as Monsieur Tremblay has discovered to his chagrin.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Everything is going so well, I don’t want anything untoward happening now.”
“Relax. We’ve got supper and the evening to look forward to.”
“I’ll try to,” Marc said.
***
Supper was served at seven-thirty. Before that, most of the delegates spent time in their rooms, napping or making notes. The renowned bathtub was in constant use. Hincks and Bérubé passed a pleasant hour at the billiard-table, talking finance as best they could. Marc expected the mood at supper to be relaxed and convivial, but despite the excellence of the food and stimulus of the drink, the delegates were strangely subdued. In the place of casual chatter or more friendly and unguarded exchanges, there was an excess of courtly manners and cliché. It was as if, having surprised themselves by reaching an historic agreement with unseemly haste, the participants felt they ought to have second thoughts, that nothing so challenging could be achieved so readily – with only a single dissenting voice.
In contrast to this unexpected formality among the guests was the near disarray among the servants. Priscilla Finch, Austin Bragg and Graves Chilton made such an effort to avoid coming within five feet of one another that their antics bordered on the comical. More than one soup bowl was tipped too far and the pristine tablecloth was further splotched with droplets of misdirected burgundy. So it was with relief rather than satisfaction that Marc heard Macaulay clear his throat noisily and catch the attention of the table.
“Now that our supper is concluded, with our thanks once again to Mrs. Blodgett, please feel free to use the games room or take a brandy and cigar in the parlour. The view beyond the French doors is splendid and not to be missed.” Just as the guests began to move, Macaulay looked over at Bergeron and said in halting French, “You look as if you have not yet slept well, Erneste.”
Bergeron nodded. “Maybe tonight,” he said, without much hope in his voice.
“I have a suggestion to make. My wife takes laudanum for her ailment, and with a full vial from Dr. Pogue to take with her to Kingston, she has left a good quantity of her old bottle here at home.” Macaulay paused while Marc translated. “She keeps it on the shelf above the bathtub beside the oils and soaps. It’s clearly labelled. If you take one small teaspoonful in a tisane or wine before you turn in, you will get a full night’s sleep. I guarantee it.”
“Thank you,” Bergeron said. “I try to resist drugs, but I may have to give in tonight.”
“You have been a most gracious host,” LaFontaine said to Macaulay in English. “We shall not forget your many kindnesses.”
Marc stood beside Macaulay in the hall outside the dining-room, and watched Bérubé and Hincks cross into the billiard-room. Bergeron excused himself and followed Tremblay, who had said nothing during supper, though his sour mood ha
d done little to dull his appetite. The two men disappeared across the rotunda and up the marble staircase. To Marc’s surprise and delight, LaFontaine started walking beside Robert up the hall towards the parlour. As they turned into the doorway there, LaFontaine’s hand came up and rested for a moment on Robert’s shoulder.
Marc steered Macaulay into the billiard-room.
***
Marc and Macaulay had just finished their second hand of piquet when the butler appeared discreetly in the doorway.
“Yes, Chilton, what is it?” Macaulay said, glancing up from his cards.
“There’s some person at the front door wishing to see Mr. Edwards, sir. A rough-looking sort, but he claims he has urgent news.”
Marc dropped his cards and stood up. “It has to be Beth,” he said as panic and excitement rose up in him. “The baby,” he said to Macaulay, who was looking alarmed.
“Ah. Then you’d better go quickly, ol’ chap. Babies don’t wait.”
“I’ll – I’ll try and get back here tomorrow as soon as I – ”
“Don’t give it another thought. A day or two won’t make any difference after the work we did this afternoon. Now, go!”
Marc followed Chilton up the hall to the front door. Jasper Hogg was on the front porch, stamping his feet.
“Is Beth all right?” Marc asked.
“She’s gonna have the baby, Mr. Edwards! Mrs. Cobb’s already there!”
“I’ll get my coat and things, Jasper. Turn the sleigh around.”
***
The skies had clouded over, but the snow on the landscape lit their path as if it were noon on a sunny day. Jasper had few details for Marc, except that Beth’s pains had started coming several hours before and his Charlene had run to fetch Dora Cobb and his sister Etta had come over to watch little Maggie. Marc prayed he would be present for the birth, not wishing to be delinquent a second time. He prayed also that it would be a safe delivery and (not without a twinge of guilt) that all would be well enough for him to return to Elmgrove sometime tomorrow to help with the writing of the historic accord.
Just as they pulled up in the lane beside Briar Cottage, it began to snow.
***
Dora Cobb, swathed in a gargantuan smock, met Marc as he came in.
“How is she?” Marc said, pulling at his gloves.
“Don’t strain yerself,” Dora said. “The lass is fine.”
“And the babe?”
“Doin’ fine also – tucked safe in his mama’s belly.”
“Then I’m not too late?”
“In fact, you’re about a month early.” Dora was grinning from plump cheek to plump cheek. “Beth’s had a bout of false labour. It’s stopped an’ she’s feelin’ a bit peakèd, but otherwise healthy as a horse in hay. Go an’ say hello.”
Marc felt both relief and disappointment as he went into the bedroom and found Beth dozing under the counterpane, the handle of a warming-pan protruding from its soft depths. She turned groggily, opened her eyes and said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Oh, Marc. I’m sorry you had to be dragged away. We figured it out a few minutes after Jasper left to fetch you.”
Marc ignored her foolish talk and clasped her in his arms, sliding one hand down over her belly to make sure his son was truly safe inside.
When Beth decided she’d had enough hugging, she pulled away and said, “Now, luv, you must go back. There’s no reason to stay. Dora’s left a sedative. The baby’ll likely come next month when he’s supposed to, and I’ve got more well-wishers clutterin’ up my house than I can stand. I’m trippin’ over them!”
“Well, it’s awfully late now . . .”
“An’ snowin’ to beat the band!” Charlene said from the doorway. “Jasper’s puttin’ the horse in the barn. It’s a blizzard out there. Even Dora’s decided to sleep next door.”
“Then that settles it,” Beth said. “You stay.”
“I’ll tell Jasper,” Charlene said. “Can he – ”
“He can sleep here,” Beth said. “On the couch.”
When they were alone, Marc undressed and slipped under the covers. He left the bedside candle lit. “You need to go right to sleep,” he said. “You’re looking very pale.”
“The pains stopped a while ago. I feel fine.”
“You haven’t drunk your sleeping draught.”
Beth put a finger to his lips. “Stop stallin’. I want to hear all about it. Every last detail.”
“Only if you’ll promise to take your medicine.”
She rolled onto her side. “An’ you can rub my muscle-cramps while you’re at it,” she smiled.
***
Charlene Huggan took it upon herself to let her master and mistress sleep in. It was a glorious winter morning, all sunny skies and fresh, unstained snow. The blizzard had turned out to be a brief squall, depositing a three-inch blanket of fluff across the cityscape. The trip back to Elmgrove would be quick and smooth.
Marc felt too rested and ready to work to be annoyed with Charlene, and Jasper had got the stove and fireplace crackling. The cottage hummed with heat and the cosiness of home. Who cared if it was almost nine o’clock?
Marc was just about to start in on his second helping of sausages when Charlene’s head popped into the doorway. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but there’s a policeman at the door.”
“Cobb?” Marc said, thinking that Dora had returned home and informed her husband of Marc’s arrival last night. Cobb often dropped by on the way to work – or during his patrol – for coffee and a chat.
“No, sir. It’s Wilkie, I think.”
Marc got up reluctantly, stepped around Maggie who was tottering from chair to chair with a huge grin on her face, and went to the front door. Constable Ewan Wilkie was indeed standing on the stoop, hopping from one foot to the other, and blowing on his mitts. He had a worried look on his face, but that was his usual expression.
“What is it, Ewan?” Marc said warily, having spotted a familiar-looking horse and cutter standing in front of the cottage.
“The Chief sent me, sir. They want you out at Elmgrove right away, if you c’n leave yer missus, that is.”
“But what have the police got to do with Elmgrove?”
“Seems there’s been a murder out there, sir. Cobb went out over an hour ago, with the coroner. Sent the stableboy back into town to tell Chief Sturges to fetch you.”
“My God!” Marc cried, a dozen wild thoughts rushing at him all at once. “One of the gentlemen staying there?”
Wilkie’s face brightened. “Oh, no, sir. Not one of them bigwigs. It was only some butler fella.”
SIX
Young Cal Struthers knew nothing more about the murder than he had told Wilkie, and was too in awe of his gentleman passenger to say anything anyway. So he concentrated on what he did best: driving Elmgrove’s swiftest horse smartly towards home, leaving Marc alone with his thoughts. As his investigative experience increased, Marc had schooled himself not to speculate needlessly in advance of arriving at a crime scene. However, that the victim had not been one of the delegates, he had to admit, was a substantial relief. And whatever the circumstances surrounding the murder, they did not bode well for the success of the conference and an alliance that was nine-tenths forged.
As they approached the gates of Elmgrove and the pair of stately trees overarching them, Marc turned his attention to last night’s brief snow squall. Any footprints made along the periphery of the estate before ten o’clock would still be visible, even though they would be partially obscured by the three inches of light snow that had fallen after that hour. And any made subsequent to the squall would be instantly spotted. Which meant that he could determine whether or not anyone had entered the property with malice on his mind. Marc hoped that somehow such had been the case, but Graves Chilton was a newly landed Englishman, so the chances of his having enemies here in Toronto were nearly impossible.
As the cutter pulled up in front of the main entrance to the manor-hous
e, Marc noticed a two-seater parked near the rear of the building. Abel Struthers was there tending to Angus Withers’ matched pair of Clydesdales. Marc also noticed that the runner-tracks made by his own vehicle last evening were still visible beneath the fresh snow, as were the footprints left by him and Jasper Hogg. Since Dr. Withers and Cobb had entered through the rear door of the manor, it was clear to Marc that no-one had tried to enter the house through the front door after he himself had left here at nine o’clock.
Constable Horatio Cobb was waiting for Marc in the foyer. He was in uniform, except for his helmet. Dora’s breakfast could be seen in various spatters across his lapels and over his tie. “Thank the Lord you’re here, Major,” he said. “I was sure I was gonna be left on my own in this here madhouse.”
“Where’s Chief Sturges?” Marc asked.
“His gout’s near killin’ him. We had to carry him inta the office. Then when the young lad come in about seven-thirty cryin’ murder, Sarge sent me out here to do the honours.”
“Well, you are an experienced investigator.”
“But I’m in a house full of French gents, and I don’t parlay a word of that garble. So I sent the lad back to ask the Chief to fetch you, seein’ as Dora told me yer Beth was all right.”
“Well, we’re both here now – officially, it seems. So you’d better tell me what you’ve found so far.”
Marc tossed his coat and hat on a nearby hall-tree, and looked past Cobb. “Where is Angus? And the victim?”
“Angus is over there in the library talkin’ to Macaulay. He’s finished his examination.”
“And the body?”
“In here,” Cobb said, indicating the small butler’s office just inside the foyer. The door was ajar. Marc peered in. Graves Chilton was seated at his desk, his head seemingly asleep upon his forearms, as if he had been working late at his accounts and drifted off from fatigue. Except that this Graves Chilton was unnaturally still, and no breath escaped his parted lips. Only his luxuriant, tangerine hair looked – grotesquely – alive.
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