“I see. What you say makes sense, but Detroit’s two and a half days away over land.”
Marc didn’t hear this well-meant demurral. “Remember, too,” he said, “that the Michigan Hunters are congregated in Detroit, and if this Mrs. Jones or the lurking stranger with the limp was in fact one of their agents, we need to find out somehow whether there was a death warrant placed by the Hunters on one of their own.”
“But you wouldn’t dare venture into that wasp’s nest over there! Not on your own!”
Marc smiled cryptically. “I don’t intend to go alone,” he said.
“Missus Cobb, I’m outta ice!”
No response from the kitchen, other than a banging of pots and pans in what Cobb considered a needlessly noisy manner. Cobb tossed the cold, soggy towel on the floor. “Missus Cobb! I’m sufferatin’ in here!”
Dora Cobb ambled in a few minutes later carrying a fresh towel stuffed with ice chips. “The louder you declamour, Mr. Cobb, the slower I waltz. I figure even you could deduct that.”
“Well, it ain’t you whose noggin feels like an earthshake!”
Dora edged her ample bulk to her husband’s side and examined the wounded man’s brow. “You don’t need no more ice, luv. That bump ain’t no bigger than the wart on the peak of yer nose!”
“It ain’t the bump that’s thrombosin’, it’s my whole damn head!”
“Well, shoutin’ and gripin’ ain’t likely to be of much help.” She plopped the fresh ice pack onto the aforesaid bump.
“Why don’t ya just hit me with a hammer!”
“I would if I had one handy.” With that riposte, she wheeled about and trotted out of the sickroom.
Cobb had been home and disabled now for a mere twenty-four hours, and already his sweet temperament had begun to fray and snap. The children, bless them, had done their best to keep him amused. After school, they had tiptoed into the room and with his enthusiastic approval had performed one of their many dramatic duets just for him. Like their grandfather, they had taken to plays and play-acting from the moment they had discovered speech and the power of gesture. He requested their series of scenes from The Taming of the Shrew, those jousting duets between Petruchio and Kate, in which the dominant gender of the human species invariably prevailed. The facility with which eleven-year-old Delia and ten-year-old Fabian delivered the ancient Elizabethan verse and their prodigious memory never ceased to amaze their father. “You sure ya didn’t find ’em under a cabbage patch?” Cobb had said more than once to Dora. Their prowess in school also justified, in Cobb’s mind, his abandonment of his parents on their farm down past Woodstock. He couldn’t picture these two fair-haired and fine-boned children and their precocious intelligence meting out their days behind a plough or hoe.
Dora came bustling back in with a thick wedge of mincemeat pie.
“Maybe this’ll soothe the headache a little,” she said.
“Thanks, luv.”
She watched him eat. When he was halfway through the pie, she said quietly, “I got another letter today from yer mother. Yer dad ain’t any worse, but he’s still askin’ fer you durin’ his sane moments.”
“The man’s had a stroke, he don’t know hay from Heaven.”
“I wanta take the kids to see him next month. He has a right. And Delia’s been writin’ them long letters, fillin’ them in on all yer doin’s.”
Cobb set the last bit of pie down. “The man told me if I left the farm, I was not to darken his door again. I said I wouldn’t. And I’m a man of my word.”
“You won’t come with us, then?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Fair enough. But remember, the dyin’ have privileges we ain’t allowed.”
“Who’ll deliver the babies in this end of town if you go leavin’ it fer a week or two?”
“I’ll tell ’em all to cross their legs.”
Cobb laughed, then winced.
“How’s yer arm?”
“It hurts, but the worst of it is, it’s damn useless. I feel like a one-winged hawk tryin’ to fly.”
Just then Fabian popped into the doorway.
“What is it?” Cobb said, noting the excitement in his son’s face.
“Mr. Edwards is here to see you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Cobb and Marc were left alone to talk. Marc was a favourite with the children, applauding their recitations and skits and otherwise fussing over them. And Dora just loved to hear Mr. Edwards “accentuatin’ ” in his cadenced English.
“I hope you’re not worrying about lost wages,” Marc said to his friend when they were alone.
“Wilkie come ’round this aft and brought me some cash from the fellas at the Court House.”
“And Dora does well delivering babies.”
“Don’t get much cash, though. Mostly chickens and eggs and the odd slab of ham.”
“Food on the table, nonetheless.”
“The worst part is just languorin’ about the house gettin’ more bored by the minute. Delia even accused me of bein’ grumpy.”
“Well, I have a proposition for you that will address the issue of income and that of boredom, too.”
“Proposit away, then. I’m a desperate man.”
“As part of my investigation into the murder of Caleb Coltrane, I must go to Detroit and interview a Mrs. Gladys Dobbs, Coltrane’s sister.”
“And you want me to go with you?”
“I do. And I’ll pay you your regular wage plus a bonus for the six days we would be away. It’s a delicate operation for which I’ll need a plausible cover story, one that entails my having a partner.”
“Ya mean an English gentleman in fancy dress might not be too welcome in Yankeeville?”
Marc smiled. “Something like that. I’ll explain the ruse I have in mind as we go, but right now I need to know whether you are both willing and able. You’ve taken a mighty blow to the head and that splint on your wrist looks serious.”
“I ain’t worried about my noggin or my useless left arm, Major. And I can sure use the money. But the chief’s been told by Sir George the Dragon not to do any more pokin’ about in the murder. I already bent the rules by siccin’ Nestor Peck on Bostwick, so I could get into a pile of trouble helpin’ you out any further.”
“Thank you for that,” Marc said, unsurprised but no less delighted that Cobb had seen the importance of finding the AWOL adjutant and had acted. “Could we come up with a credible excuse for your leaving Toronto for a week?”
Cobb hesitated. He considered the effects of another two weeks of crushing boredom and verbal fencing with Dora. “We can. I got a dyin’ father near Woodstock.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, we ain’t spoke fer humpteen years,” Cobb said without emotion. Then he grinned. “But the sarge don’t know that, does he?”
Having had complicated relations with members of his own family, Marc was tactful enough not to probe further. Instead he said, “That should do nicely. It’ll be a pleasure working with you again, old chum.”
“Now don’t go gettin’ all drippy on me, Major,” Cobb said, as the scarlet of his proboscis deepened. “Just tell me when ya wanta leave.”
“First thing in the morning.”
Marc was tired and hungry when he arrived home some time after six o’clock that evening. As he entered through the front door, he listened for the pleasant ripple of female voices, Beth and Charlene preparing to greet the great man of the house. He stepped fully into the front room and once again confronted a scene of lament. Beth rose to greet him.
“Oh, Marc, I’m so glad you’re home. I come in fifteen minutes ago to find Patricia sitting here with Charlene.”
Marc tossed his hat and coat aside. Patricia Stanhope it definitely was. She was a younger version of her mother, dark, beautiful, and tragic. Even her excessive weeping did little to diminish her intrinsic attractiveness. She turned her tear-stained, heart-shaped face up to Marc as he crossed the room and pulled up a chair opposite the women.