“But you will go, won’t you, sir?” Billy said. “Fer Dolly’s sake?”
“I’ll go,” Marc said, “but on one condition. It’s entirely possible that Coltrane, given his eccentric behaviour so far, may want to see you in person before he accepts my version of events and your sincerity.”
“He could go there under guard,” Robert said. “I’m sure I can get Thorpe to agree.”
Marc looked at Billy McNair. “Do you think you could face him again?”
“Yes,” Billy said, but not very convincingly.
Cobb had snapped at Fabian over breakfast for no particular reason except that he was uncharacteristically irritated with the state of the universe. The events of the past few days had conspired to subvert his bountiful good nature. Then, when eleven-year-old Delia interceded in defense of her younger brother, he had snapped again, bringing her close to tears and her mother charging in from the next room to adjudicate matters in her evenhanded way. Which is to say that he received a pincering glare and the kids a soothing, “There, there, Mister Cobb’s just grumpy ’cause he woke up grumpy, so you run along to school whilst I go about ungrumpin’ him.” His ears were still ringing from Dora’s efforts on his behalf when he reached Jarvis Street and began to think about what lay ahead.
The arrest of Billy McNair had been a dispiriting affair all around. Although Billy had come willingly enough, they had no sooner stepped onto Hospital Street than they had run smack into a gaggle of protesters on the way to picket outside the front gate of Chepstow. Within seconds he and Billy were surrounded, and the ringleader-a rail-thin fellow with pop-eyes-had demanded to know where a city constable might be escorting a war hero. Cobb had ignored them, pushing through their flimsy encirclement and telling them to mind their own business. But they had trailed him to the station, and an hour later the news of the arrest and the outrageous charge was out and abroad. By the time he and Constable Brown returned to the scene to check for physical evidence (as Marc Edwards had taught him), a full-blown mob of Orangemen, self-proclaimed Loyalists, and assorted troublemakers were waiting for them with cries of “Free the hero! Free the hero!”
Luckily, the constables were able to slip into the woodlot and enter Chepstow’s grounds through the rear gate. Finding the bullet would not help Billy’s case, Cobb realized, nor would the testimony of the malingering sentries who, when they woke up to the facts of the incident, had proved reluctant but truthful in their affidavits. But the bald truth was that he, Cobb, had taken into custody a much-admired young soldier for attempting to shoot a man detested and despised by nearly every citizen in the capital. And to top it all off, the sarge (as he called his superior, Chief Constable Sturges) had informed his men before they left for the pleasures of hearth and home that Billy would be kept in custody by order of King Arthur, the lieutenant-governor himself.
Crossing Jarvis, he could see the open space before the Court House and the jail next to it. His heart sank. Dora’s sausages sat up in his stomach and complained. Not yet eight o’clock and the defenders of everybody’s virtue but their own were already on the march. And what was worse, he could see as he drew closer that they were women! Instinctively he veered north up Church Street and made his way past the rear of the Court House and west along Newgate. At Yonge he decided to go into the British-American Coffee House for something hot and consoling.
He had just settled down in comfort with his coffee and a copy of the Constitution when he was accosted by a wretched creature, skinny as a starved greyhound, with rheumy eyes and greasy locks that would have given Medusa a fright. With a resigned sigh, Cobb waved at the waiter, who brought a steaming mug and set it as close to the newcomer as the length of his arm and the twitching of his nostrils would permit.
“Good mornin’, Nestor,” Cobb said to Nestor Peck, his most reliable, and bothersome, snitch. “Why don’t ya sit down and have a cup of coffee?”
Nestor ignored the sarcasm or else was too busy warming his chapped fingers against his mug while the steam melted the stalactites from his whiskers.
“You got somethin’ helpful that might pay fer that coffee? And perhaps a hot biscuit?”
“With butter?” Nestor pleaded hopefully. His teeth would have chattered if he’d had enough teeth to knock together.
“Whaddaya got?” Cobb demanded, still grumpy and resigned to staying that way.
Nestor gave his coffee a long, slurping gulp and spoke low. “That Yankee fella up at Chepstow.” He glanced over at the counter where a platter of fresh biscuits had just been set down.
“What about him?”
“There’s a plan to spring him,” Nestor said, with evident delight that he should be father to such a revelation.
“There’s been humpteen plans to rescue Coltrane ever since he come here, three or four a day. And the bugger’s still in his cell, ain’t he?” Cobb turned to his newspaper.
Nestor looked crushed, at Cobb’s rebuff or the potential loss of a warm breakfast. He recovered adroitly. “A strange character’s been seen skulkin’ around the colonel’s place. One of them Hunter fellas, they say, from Michigan.”
“Is that so? And just how do they know all this? Spotted a tattoo on his arse, did they?”
“No need to get nasty,” Nestor said, attempting a pout but finding his cheeks were not yet sufficiently thawed to effect one.
“I ain’t begun to get nasty. Now gimme whatever ya got, straight out!”
Nestor put down his empty mug. “Fella’s been seen twice outside Chepstow. Easy to spot, too. He’s got yella curls, stringy and long as a girl’s, and a scar down his cheek big as an eel. And he walks with a limp.”
“The perfect disguise fer a secret agent.”
“There’s more.”
“There better be if ya expect breakfast.”
“I seen him myself in the Cock and Bull yesterday. And I heard the fellas he was talkin’ with-Americans livin’ here, I’m sure. I heard them use his name.”
Cobb’s ears pricked up.
“Sounded like Rung-gee.”
Cobb smiled, feeling a portion of his grumpiness fade slightly. It was enough to take to Sarge, who would pass it along to the governor. On the other hand, maybe they’d all be better off if somebody did liberate Coltrane and take him back to the land of the free.
He sighed, and beckoned the waiter.
SIX
The messenger that Robert Baldwin had dispatched to Chepstow to seek an immediate interview for Marc with Caleb Coltrane returned an hour later with disquieting news. The major was fully booked for the day, with extensive afternoon interviews scheduled with the editors of the Hamilton Free Press and the Cobourg Star. In the evenings, it appeared, the captive commander reserved his time for reading and reflection. Moreover, at least two days’ notice was normally required. However, in light of the fact that the request was being made in the name of a former military officer, an exception would be made and a Wednesday morning meeting would be entertained. Mr. Edwards might call on Major Coltrane at ten o’clock.
“Who does he think he is?” Robert fumed, as they stood open-mouthed, listening to the clerk read aloud Coltrane’s written response, “some petty panjandrum offering an audience to a grovelling serf?”
“More to the point,” said Marc, “is the eccentric behaviour of the man nominally in charge of the panjandrum’s imprisonment.”
Robert nodded. “You’re right. Do you suppose that the victory parade before Christmas and all the public adulation since has softened Gideon Stanhope’s brain?”
“Well, I intend to find out when I go there tomorrow, that’s for sure.”
“I’m sorry it couldn’t happen today. It’s not healthy to have Sergeant McNair locked up in our jail-not for him and not, I’m afraid, for the well-being of the citizenry.”