It was Bostwick who fielded the colonel’s question. “The duel, sir,” he sputtered. “I thought you-”
“I did no such thing! My God, man, what was to prevent Major Coltrane here from turning the pistols on you and galloping through that door to the United States?”
“He gave me his word, sir. Didn’t you, Major?”
Coltrane had taken several steps towards the group near the prison door but remained happily aloof from the clamour. “I merely defended my honour, Colonel. You of all people will understand that.” He gave Stanhope a cryptic smile that seemed both conspiratorial and contemptuous. “And as you see, the duel has taken place-with both participants unmarked.”
The colonel seemed suddenly to realize that it took two men to fight a duel. He swivelled about and aimed his gaze at Billy McNair, his sometime sergeant. “Is that you, Billy?” he said, his tone softening. “I can’t believe this. I can’t.”
Billy stared at the ground, abashed. And began to tremble.
“Don’t you realize you might have killed Major Coltrane?” the colonel said, anger creeping back into his voice. “And if you had, my sworn word to Sir George to deliver the major to his trial unharmed would have been broken! And everything you and I stood for down there in Baby’s orchard and after would have been dishonoured.”
“He’s a murderer,” Billy mumbled to his feet.
“He’s a soldier! And an officer!”
Who was going to be dragged into criminal court and hanged for his crimes, Cobb thought, but said nothing. Somehow he had to take charge of the situation again.
“And you, Lieutenant. I’ll have you drummed out of the regiment for this. Your behaviour is inexcusable.”
Bostwick looked stunned, bewildered-though why he should be surprised by the reprimand when he had recklessly endangered two lives and given the prisoner access to loaded pistols was difficult for Cobb to understand.
The moment of awkward silence gave Cobb a chance to reassert his authority. “I’m goin’ to haveta take Billy to the magistrate,” he said to the colonel, “and he’s likely to be charged with attempted murder.”
Stanhope took this in. In fact he seemed to acknowledge Cobb’s presence for the first time. He smiled thinly, exposing a ridge of tiny, pointed teeth. “And did you yourself, Constable. . ah-”
“Cobb.”
“Did you actually witness these men fire upon one another with intent to kill?”
Cobb was taken aback but managed to reply, “I was just outside the garden here when I heard both pistols go off.”
“Indeed.” He broadened his sawtooth grin. “And how can you be sure they were not shooting at pigeons or a bit of ivy on the wall?”
“Well, now, I can’t, but I found Lieutenant Bostwick here with an umpire’s hanky at his feet and the two men facin’ each other with smokin’ pistols in their hands.”
“Then, as the lawyers say, your evidence is merely circumstantial, and I’d like you to apologize for invading my home and then leave me to take care of the business I have pledged this community to execute with-”
“We were duellin’,” Billy said suddenly. “I tried my best to kill the bastard, but I missed.” Some steel had come back into his voice, and the look that must have carried him through the rigours and horrors of the Battle of Windsor now returned. For a fleeting moment he was again Sergeant McNair.
The colonel stared at him, sighed exaggeratedly, and said, “So be it. Do your duty, then, Constable.” He turned to Bostwick. “Lieutenant, escort the prisoner back into his quarters. Patricia will be down with his breakfast in ten minutes. Then report to me in my study.”
“I oughta charge yer man with aidin’ and abettin’,” Cobb said stubbornly.
The colonel looked daggers at him. “Don’t press your luck, sir.”
Coltrane had come over to stand beside his jailer. “Don’t be too hard on ol’ Bossy here,” he said to Stanhope. “McNair and I duelled over a point of honour, something I know you appreciate to a fault. Besides, you know I can be very persuasive when I’ve a mind to.”
The colonel appeared to ignore the comment, but his eyes narrowed nonetheless. Then he spun and literally marched back into the house, almost stepping on a servant hovering nervously in the doorway. He was followed by Coltrane and his keeper. Cobb was left in the yard with Billy, the sentries, Sammy, and two weapons to be taken in as evidence.
“Come along, Billy,” he said. “I got no choice.”
“He ain’t seen the last of me!” Billy cried.
“Now, then, son, you don’t need to go makin’ things worse. We got witnesses here-”
“I’m gonna kill the fucker! I swear it! Hangin’s too good fer him!”
Cobb failed to see the logic of these remarks, but he was more concerned with their implications for Billy than for this unrepentant republican who had had the impertinence to tell the editor of the Examiner that he too had fought at Pelee last March and was himself known throughout Michigan and Ohio as the Pelee Island Patriot.
As he took Billy by the arm and flipped a penny to a goggle-eyed Sammy, Cobb noticed that the colonel had come back into the prison doorway. He had heard Billy’s threat, and on his face there was an odd expression-a grimace of concern or, perhaps, a curious smile.
While Marc assured Dolly Putnam that he would help Billy in any way he could, he was not hopeful of doing much before the evening was over. Nevertheless, he gave her mittened hand an extra pat at her doorstep, flashed her an avuncular smile, promised to return in the morning with good news, then walked quickly through the softly falling snow down to the Court House on King Street. At seven-thirty on a Monday he was not surprised to see there were no lights in the windows of the court offices. However, when he followed the familiar path around to the back of the building, he noted with some relief a faint glow coming from the police quarters there.
Wilfrid Sturges was often in his office these days, now that tensions in the city were escalating in anticipation of the Coltrane trial. (A special court date had been set for the week following, mandated by the lieutenant-governor outside the usual assizes.) Charges of petty trespass and property damage, in addition to increased brawling in the taverns, had kept his four constables and many supernumeraries busy on the streets and the chief and his clerk busy in the office completing the necessary paperwork for the magistrate.
Marc eased open the door, knocked the snow off his boots, and called out, “You in there, Wilf?”
“Where the hell else would I be, eh?” Sturges’s round, red Cockney face popped into the doorway of his cubicle, and he grinned broadly. “Ain’t you glad you caught me in a good mood?”
“I’ve never known you to be otherwise.”
“You’re just in time fer a cup o’ tea, Marc. Sit down and take a load off.” He rubbed his hands together over the pot-bellied stove, upon which a kettle was about to whistle its greeting. “I’ve a pretty fair idea why you’re ’ere.”
The news was not good. Gussie French had just finished writing out-in his obsessively neat hand-the various reports that had been dictated to him regarding the morning’s incident. The damning affidavits of the militia sentries lay before them on Gussie’s table. While Sturges sipped his tea and tried not to yawn too conspicuously, Marc read them through. Cobb’s detailed account was clear, compelling, and-for Billy-less than hopeful. The testimony of the sentries as to Billy’s own statements certainly established motive and intent. But the fact that no one had been injured would surely mitigate the severity of any sentence, should he be convicted. Still, there were other, more worrisome aspects of the affair.
“Did Billy say how on earth he managed to be involved in a duel with the most carefully guarded and notorious felon in the entire province?” Marc said to Sturges, who was pouring himself a second cup of tea.
“Magistrate Thorpe asked him that this mornin’. Seems like the lad was crazy enough to go and visit Coltrane yesterday, and they got-”