The Devil's Making

by Seán Haldane

  ‘Where did you stay the night when in town?’ I asked.

  ‘At the Hotel Argyle.’

  ‘We can check that in the hotel register. Perhaps you can tell me the dates of the times you have stopped there since last September.’

  ‘Really! I resent this questioning. If I go to the Windsor Rooms, it is with the likely prospect of spending the night with a lady, is it not? I might not, in fact go to the Argyle. But naturally I don’t wish to discuss such occasions.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, the ladies of the Windsor Rooms don’t usually receive guests overnight.’

  ‘Well, part of the night. I would then walk back to Cadborough or Telegraph. As you know I’m a very restless man. I walk miles.’

  ‘Then what about the horse?’

  ‘What horse?’

  ‘The one which you left at McCrory’s.’

  Beaumont was silent, although he showed no signs of emotion. ‘What are you implying?’ he said at last.

  ‘Please answer the question.’

  ‘There wasn’t always a horse. I might have walked. If there was, then I would have picked it up on my way out of town.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘You never stayed at McCrory’s?’

  ‘I won’t say never. I suppose I might have.’

  I remained silent for a while, so as to emphasize Beaumont’s sudden awkwardness. Then I remarked: ‘The trouble is, Mr Beaumont, that your responses to my questions about your relationship with Dr McCrory are so reluctant. I believe there is much to hide in your acquaintanceship. The evidence I have received indicates the following. First, you were a frequent companion of Dr McCrory’s at the Windsor Rooms. Second, that you were his patient. Third, that your visits with him to the Windsor Rooms were connected with attempts to treat a nervous disorder for which you were in treatment with the Doctor. These points have been attested to by various informants. A fourth point is that you may have stayed overnight at Dr McCrory’s guest room. Now, since you have been evasive about these points, to an extent which goes beyond your natural desire to protect your privacy, how can we assume you are telling the truth about where you were on the afternoon McCrory was killed? Even about this you have been evasive. Rough shooting on San Juan, instead of on Darcy Island. Grouse, instead of ducks. Yet as an officer and a gentleman I know it’s your instinct to tell the truth.’

  ‘Really, Hobbes, I don’t know what you’re driving at. Naturally I’m not proud of my association with the ladies of the night of a miserable Colonial town, in the company of a Yankee doctor who was probably a charlatan. I regret it. But it was my way of amusing myself. There’s nothing wrong with that. And here you are seeming to accuse me of a murder when you’ve given no evidence whatsoever to link me with it.’

  ‘There is another matter. I have a report from the United States that McCrory was cashiered from the Confederate army on suspicion of spying for the Yankees. And a report from a naval man at Esquimalt that McCrory seemed to be spying there, asking about naval dispositions and so on.’

  ‘The rotter,’ Beaumont said, although his voice was still unmoved. ‘He was indeed one of the most nosy characters I’ve met.’

  ‘He once remarked à propos of you: “George is my spy”.’

  ‘Good God!’ Beaumont stiffened, to become more wooden. ‘That’s a slander. A rotten slander. To whom did he say this? Sir!’, he said to Delacombe. ‘I request that I be allowed to clear my name in this regard.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Beaumont. I’m sure the Sergeant will tell you who reported this allegation.’

  I was put on the spot. ‘Miss Somerville,’ I said.

  ‘Aemilia! I know that none of those dear girls would slander me. I must assume that McCrory was doing so, out of malice or a twisted sense of humour.’

  ‘Did he ask you about our dispositions here?’ This was Delacombe.

  ‘Yes. I must admit he did. But, dash it, I hardly took it seriously. We have no secrets. I assumed he was merely being nosy, in that Yankee way. Perhaps it pleased him to claim acquaintance with an officer here and tell his friends that I was “his spy”.’ If, Sir, it came to the ears of anyone in Victoria, then I must answer for my indiscretion in choosing such a friend. It was stupid of me.’

  I continued: ‘Do you always come to Cadborough Bay or Telegraph Cove when you take a boat over to Vancouver Island?’

  ‘Yes. Telegraph, since it’s slightly nearer here, if I’m going to walk. Cadborough if I’m going to hire a horse from the farmer there.’

  ‘I thought you sometimes came to another cove – it doesn’t have a name, but it’s backed with rocks and arbutus – about a mile West of Telegraph Cove. Toward Cormorant Point.’

  ‘Really?’ I don’t believe I know it.’ Beaumont’s face was a mask as usual, but he had become very still as if his breathing had almost stopped.

  Mr Beaumont, do you have a habit of whittling at sticks with a knife?’

  ‘I dare say I do occasionally.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Delacombe make a sharp movement forward. ‘Mr Beaumont.’ He said. ‘You know very well that your habit of whittling is so prominent as to be a source of friendly jokes in this camp.’

  ‘I dare say, Sir.’ Then to me: ‘And what is the relevance of my whittling to the death of McCrory?’

  ‘The path near where he was murdered was sprinkled with wood chips. I should remind you that McCrory was knifed to death.’

  ‘I know that, Hobbes.’ Beaumont looked at me as steadily as he could look at anyone with those strange eyes of his, which had always a fine vibration or wobble.

  ‘Or at least,’ I said ‘he was knifed and left for dead.’ I looked at Beaumont narrowly, but apart from the wavering in his eyes he did not flinch. ‘He did not die for some time,’ I added. ‘Then an Indian found him. He said something to the Indian before he died. He said: ‘That Devil George’.’

  Beaumont’s eyes froze and for a few moments he looked directly and unwavering at me. His pupils were very large, like black holes. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Beaumont,’ Delacombe said.

  Beaumont reached into his tunic pocket, as capacious as mine, and pulled out a revolver, at the same time raising his left arm horizontally. He set the barrel on his arm, pointing it at Delacombe and releasing the safety catch with a soft click. ‘I shall be going now’, he said in his usual level voice.

  ‘You know it’s a capital offense to draw your weapon on your commanding officer,’ Delacombe said coolly.

  ‘I reached for my own pocket, but Beaumont swung round and pointed the revolver at me. ‘Put your hands on the table, Sergeant.’ He said. I obeyed.

  Beaumont sprang like a tiger in the direction of the door and was gone with a clatter of boots on the hall floor and the veranda.

  I scrambled to my feet and kicked my chair back, hearing it fall on the floor as I ran round the end of the table – glimpsing Pemberton pulling his own pistol out from under his coat – and out of the room onto the veranda. The sun was dazzling. I too clattered down the steps, but had to pause to see where Beaumont had gone. There he was, running and bounding like a goat across the grass to the South edge of the camp. From behind my ear came a loud bang: Pemberton firing his pistol – useless at such a range. With a leap over some bushes, Beaumont vanished into a wall of forest.

  I sprinted across the grass, pushed through the bushes Beaumont had leapt over, and plunged into the sudden cool darkness of the forest. There were firs and cedar, as around Mount Douglas, but interspersed with hardwood trees – alders and maples – and with a disconcerting amount of nettles in the undergrowth which I charged through like a bull with a tremendous crashing noise. I stopped abruptly and listened. There was a faint crashing in the woods over to my right, toward the sea. I headed in that direction, then stumbled onto a path which I ran along. It humped up and down around rocks and fallen trees, thick and decayed. I tried to listen as I ran, but it was no good. I stopped.
I heard the faint sound of rocks grinding on rocks far ahead. I started running again, leapt over roots which crossed the path every few feet. The path descended into a gully and petered out as I charged down it, kicking rocks with a scraping sound, bounding across a broad stony steam bed, and splashing through a stretch of shallow water. I climbed the other side, finding the path again at the top and renewing my original pace, although by now my chest was hurting and my heart pounding. On and on the path went, through endless avenues of tree trunks, then it became a narrow channel between knee high bushes. Ahead, the forest looked more open. The path began to descend, crossing an area of swampy ground. Here and there planks had been thrown end to end and fixed in place by pegs. I leapt from plank to plank. The path rose again for another stretch through the forest. But now ahead there was more light through the trees, and after a hundred yards I came to the edge of the forest and a rail fence which I scrambled up and over.

  I ran out into a big sloping field of tufted grass, dotted with oaks and outcroppings of rock from which arbutus were growing, with the sea only a hundred yards or so to my right over a bluff. To my left was a farmhouse with paddocks. A barking dog was standing on a knoll. On the other side of the field was another rail fence, and behind it a rocky slope on which the blue-uniformed figure of Beaumont was climbing at a run. He was about three hundred yards ahead – not more than a minute running flat out, I found myself calculating as he dashed across the field. But I would not be capable for long of running at this pace, although I was getting my second wind and the sheer pounding agony of the first few minutes had abated. I reached the other side of the field, thought of trying to vault the fence but scrambled over instead, then began to pick my way at a half run up the slope around boulders and tree trunks. I was nothing like as fast as Beaumont.

  I was soaked with sweat by the time I reached the top of the hill, a crest of dry grass and rocks. There was Beaumont climbing like a fly up another steep slope on the other side of a valley which opened down to the sea. I staggered, catching my breath, and glanced behind me: two figures in blue were running across the field, just out of the forest. I waved frantically at them for a moment, then flung myself forward again.

  Now I was running down hill, having to rear back now and then so as not to fall, stumbling over tussocks and tree roots. Rabbits bolted away in all directions. At the bottom of the hill a gulley contained a stream about a foot deep. I splashed through it and scrambled wearily up the facing hill, grasping at bushes and small tree trunks. At the top was a plateau, covered with long rough grass, rocks and patches of flowers. A pheasant with a long crimson tail watched me from a boulder. More rabbits dashed this way and that. There was no particular path, and Beaumont was lost to view, so I ran Southwards, parallel to the sea a hundred yards or so on my right below steep bluffs.

  There was another dip, full of thickets of bushes and brambles, which I plunged into, cutting my hands as I flailed through. I came out onto a rising slope again and plodded wearily up it, gasping for breath. At the top I doubled up for a moment, so exhausted I could almost have vomited on the grass. I straightened up and looked ahead. There was the open heath I had seen from the boat, golden-green, with dark bushes, stretching as a long ridge beside the sea on the right, with forest on the left. A long way ahead now, perhaps half a mile, the blue figure of Beaumont was moving fast, though not running, across the heath.

  I glanced behind me but could see no one. I began running again, in a crouch, at a steady rhythm. There were a few rocks, and I ran over grass between and around bushes. Rabbits scattered in all directions and now and again I flushed a grouse which whirred up and away. The sun, straight ahead and high in the sky, beat down on my bare head. My mouth was parched and my eyes kept filming over with sweat pouring from my hair. I mopped my brow as I ran. Although Beaumont was stronger, my long legs helped me on this open terrain. This gave me hope of catching up. Beaumont slowed down at the top of a rise against the metallic blue sky. He crouched down in the grass. I kept running flat out. Then I saw a flash and a puff of smoke beside Beaumont and heard a gunshot. I kept running. A crack to one side of me and another gunshot. Beaumont was shooting at me, I realized rather stupidly – now from about a hundred yards away, too far to have much chance of hitting me. But I slowed down and began dodging from bush to bush crouching as low as I could. As I tacked across my original direction I noticed two figures coming up from behind – Delacombe and another marine. I darted forward again.

  Beaumont was about fifty yards in front of me, leaning forward with his back to me over a boulder in a clump of bushes, resting the barrel of his revolver on his left arm to fire ahead. He fired. Then I heard a crack in the air to one side, and another shot from behind me. At the same time I could see what Beaumont was firing at – a white building not more than a hundred yards in front, where some blue uniformed soldiers were scuttling around. I drew my own revolver from one pocket, and its ammunition clip from the other, stumbling as I slammed the clip in, and yelled ‘Beaumont!’ Beaumont fired again, but my shout had caused him to jerk. He steadied the barrel carefully for another shot. A shot cracked past me again from behind, and Beaumont swung round as I leapt on him and tried to grapple him to the ground. Panting harshly, we wrestled in a crouching position. I felt a bang on my head as Beaumont hit me with his revolver, and fell. But I managed to hook Beaumont with an arm and he came tumbling over on top of me. His gun went off with a terrific crash just beside my ear, then I saw his leg near my right hand, pressed the muzzle of my revolver against the calf, and fired. He screamed angrily and pushed me away with superhuman force. I rolled across the ground feeling a moment of terror that I would be shot. But suddenly there was an ear-splitting noise of bangs and thuds from up in front. I stopped rolling, lay on my stomach and lifted my head, but I could see only a bush, and to one side Beaumont lying clutching his leg with an expression of agony on his face.

  The din was terrific. The Americans in front of us must be firing at random, but since the ground sloped down behind me and Beaumont, the bullets were all cracking overhead. Then I saw a long blue figure scuttling along the ground up to Beaumont, grappling briefly with him, then pulling away holding Beaumont’s revolver. It was Delacombe. Leaving Beaumont, he wriggled across to me, and shouted ‘Have you got a white handkerchief?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I dug for my handkerchief as Delacombe shouted, ‘Damned Yankees! Typical! Civil War tactics. Massive waste of ammunition. It’s quite safe really! Unaimed!’

  Delacombe took my handkerchief, shook it out, then to my surprise leapt to his feet, with the bullets still cracking all around, and waved the handkerchief. It took what seemed a long time, ten seconds at least, for the fire to slacken, and still a few bullets snapped by.

  The firing stopped. My ears were ringing. There was a smell of gunpowder. Smoke drifted by in wisps. I decided to stand up, and did, although my legs were like jelly. I walked over to Beaumont who was sitting up holding his leg, biting his lip. His face looked yellow. Delacombe’s companion, a Marine Sergeant, appeared at my elbow. ‘I’ll have it fixed up in no time, Sir’, he said to Beaumont, and took a field dressing from his pouch. Beaumont rolled up his trouser leg, soaked with blood, a sick expression on his face. I turned to look around. Delacombe had stopped waving the handkerchief and was standing waiting for a group of Americans who were ambling across the grass, revolvers and carbines dangling in their hands. They were dressed in a similar blue to the Marines, but with brown leather belts and cloth caps. Their uniforms were crumpled and untidy. The front man, evidently an officer from his gold braided epaulettes, had a thick black beard, a hooked nose, and big brown eyes.

  ‘Ep!’ Delacombe called out.

  ‘Del!’ Said the officer. ‘What the hell’s this?’

  ‘No one hurt I hope?’

  ‘Naw. But what is this?’

  The two men shook hands. ‘Just old Beaumont here, out potting rabbits.’ Delacombe said. ‘Got too enthusiastic. Potted h
imself in the leg.’

  ‘Oh yeah? And who’s this? Doesn’t look like one of yours.’

  ‘Friend of mine. Sergeant Hobbes, Victoria police. Over for lunch. Hobbes, this is Lieutenant Epstein.’

  ‘Good day,’ Epstein said. We shook hands. ‘You potting rabbits too?’

  ‘Oh yes. Never saw so many in my life.’

  ‘We thought you were ‘potting’ us. In fact I’d swear a bullet or two came our way.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Delacombe said. ‘If the truth be told, Ep, I’m afraid our friend Beaumont got a little “corked” at lunch. We all got somewhat carried away, I’m afraid. But goodness, your chaps know how to raise a storm. I thought we’d run into the Battle of Gettysburg.’

  ‘American firepower,’ Epstein said, and winked. He turned to look at Beaumont, and stepped over to him, crouching down to examine the leg. ‘Point blank range,’ he said. ‘You fall on your revolver, George?’

  Beaumont did not reply. He sat looking glumly down at the leg where the blood was already seeping through the field dressing.

  ‘Bone broken?’ Delacombe was asking the Sergeant.

  ‘We can lend you a stretcher’, Epstein said, ‘and a wagon to get him back to your camp.’

  ‘Very handsome of you,’ said Delacombe. ‘The stretcher would be very handy. No need for the wagon. I have a detachment coming along the main road. They can carry him.’

  ‘They’re not potting rabbits too?’ said Epstein, raising his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

  ‘Heavens no. On patrol. Sergeant!’

  ‘Sah!’ The sergeant saluted.

  ‘Go and find the detachment and get two men to come and take the stretcher.’

  The Sergeant stepped off briskly.

  Epstein turned and issued his orders: ‘Schwartz, Watson, go get a stretcher for this officer.’

  The men saluted with their palms facing down, and ambled off across the field.

  ‘An army of free born Americans,’ said Epstein.

  ‘Fine-looking chaps,’ Delacombe said soothingly.