As they approached a two-storey clapboard inn near the village, Marc nudged Cobb awake and placed the reins in his good right hand. “A gentleman never drives his own team, Bartlett, unless he’s trying to impress a lady.”
“Yes, milord,” Cobb said, giving the reins a brisk snap.
“If anyone wonders why his lordship is being served by a handicapped valet, I’ll tell them that our sleigh overturned two days ago and you bumped your head and sprained your wrist.”
“And I’ll tug my tuque and look regrettable.”
“Don’t overdo it, Cobb. You’re just a local chap I hired out of desperation when I reached Toronto a few days ago-after, ah, a week in Montreal.”
“I’ll try to curl-tail my uppitiness, Yer Earlship.”
Marc’s aristocratic credentials certainly had an immediate effect at the Queen’s Hostelry. As no mention was made of Egalité, Marc was assumed to be representing the Times. The proprietor, a gushing chap with no teeth on the left side of his mouth, spittled a welcome at the distinguished arrival and rolled out the red carpet, actually a tarnished rug of indeterminate pedigree. Within the hour, a luncheon of venison pie and baked potatoes was prepared, and it was washed down with cold beer from a virgin cask. When Cobb hovered about, eyeing the food and especially the drink, Marc turned sharply to him and said, “Bartlett, please see to the horses. We shall require a fresh team. Make sure they’re properly harnessed and ready to go by the time I’ve finished dining.”
Bartlett came close to swallowing his Adam’s apple.
“He can pick up a heel of bread and some cheese from the kitchen on his way,” the innkeeper said graciously, not bothering to look at milord’s man. “And my ostler will see that you have the best team.”
Bartlett backed out of the room, seething and muttering under his breath.
“Now, milord, can I tell ya all about the day the rebels come prancin’ through here last year?” said the loyal hotelier, rubbing both oily hands together.
When they were well away from Dundas and headed for Brantford, Marc pulled a handkerchief from his overcoat pocket and unwrapped a piece of cold venison pie. Cobb, whose resistance to his humiliating role took the form of feigning delight with the kitchen fare at the Queen’s Hostelry and the companionable company of stableboys, ogled the proffered delicacy with unabashed desire.
“Go ahead and take it. It’s your reward for egregious service.”
Cobb acquiesced. When he had finished and licked the last crumb from his bottom lip, he said, “I sure hope we find somethin’ useful in Detroit.”
Marc just nodded. He had told Cobb very little about the puzzling intricacies of the case, mostly because Cobb would find Marc’s logical peregrinations absurd, preferring to put his trust in what he could see rather than what he could imagine. It was for this reason that Marc valued him as a partner in any investigation. However, Cobb did know that the object of this arduous and possibly dangerous journey was twofold: to interview Gladys Dobbs with a view to locating an incriminating letter among her brother’s effects, and then to use the ruse of Lord Athol Briggs to attract the attention of any publicity-hungry Hunters’ Lodgers in hopes of gleaning more information about the status of Caleb Coltrane within their organization. Just how these twin goals fitted into Marc’s scheme for proving Billy McNair innocent was something that Cobb was happy to leave to his lordship.
There was only an hour or so of light left when they approached the village of Brantford. Marc had travelled this route three and a half years ago during his first summer in North America on a foraging expedition with Major Owen Jenkin, quartermaster of the regiment. A fine stone inn with an excellent livery stable awaited them a mile or so ahead, and none too soon. The sun had disappeared behind a phalanx of dark cloud in the west and, despite their furs and periodic stops at dingy wayside huts with fetid outhouses and limp fires, both men were chilled to the marrow.
Once arrived, Lord Briggs was wined, dined, and warmed all over at the Brantford Arms, while his man Bartlett chewed on bully beef and stamped his feet beside a woodstove that produced more smoke than heat. The inn served as a major stop for the Hamilton-to-London stagecoach, and thus had a large stable of fast horses. Marc had originally planned to push ahead through the early evening hours as far as a hamlet called Forks of the Grand, where a gypsum mine had drawn a few dozen hardy families and produced a single, ramshackle hotel. But the sixty some miles they had travelled so far, despite perfect weather and a smooth road, had left them fatigued beyond measure.
When he had finished his meal in the cozy dining area, Marc sat back like a pampered patrician and lit his pipe. The innkeeper hovered nearby with a flagon of brandy at half-staff, while his wife prodded the logs in the hearth into fresh flame.
“Is there anything more I can get you, milord?”
Marc paused long enough to effect an air of supreme detachment and aristocratic hauteur. “I trust you have a chamber appropriate to my needs and standing?”
“You are welcome to the suite that faces the road just above us,” gushed the innkeeper, a Mr. Tolliver, who waved frantically at his wife. “It will take the chambermaid twenty minutes or so to prepare it, but we are honoured you have chosen to stay with us.” The wife-cum-chambermaid was soon heard scuttling up the back stairs.
Marc was practising his lordship role not solely for the benefit of the feckless Mr. Tolliver. While Marc had been still on the soup course, a stranger had entered the room, signalled his desire for a meal, and sat down at one of the four other tables. He had dipped his chin slightly to acknowledge Marc’s presence, then removed a newspaper from his coat pocket and begun reading. He ordered his supper in a barely audible drone and went straight back to his reading. But the angle of his head suggested that he was straining to hear whatever conversation the room might afford.
“Business is slight this evening,” Marc said to Tolliver, who continued to hover.
“Well, it ain’t quite evenin’ yet, milord. And ’tis the Sabbath, of course, but we’ll get a few lads in fer a belly warmer or two.” Realizing his mistake, he added hastily, “But I’ll see they don’t disturb yer lordship.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a deep sleeper. By the way, I understand the mail coach makes regular stops here.”
“Couldn’t run without us.”
“Were you here when it stopped by on Friday afternoon?”
“I’m always here, sir-milord.”
“Did you happen to notice if it was carrying two large wooden crates?”
Tolliver pretended to think this over, relishing such intimate contact with greatness (and ready coin). “Yessir, there was a pair of big boxes up top. I remember askin’ the driver if he was totin’ pieces of eight-as a joke, you see-and he said they was just a bunch of stuff, books and such, some rich fella in Toronto was shippin’ to Detroit. And I said, ‘He must be mighty flush to waste his money mailin’ readin’ material.’ ”
“I trust you are excluding newspapers from your disdain.” Marc smiled and, while poor Tolliver reddened at his gaffe, glanced at the stranger and his newspaper. Not a twitch. “I’ll take another pipe by the fire, Mr. Tolliver, and while I’m doing that, would you fetch my man and have him take my bags up to the suite and lay out my nightclothes.”
“Right away, milord,” Tolliver said, still red and happy to be off.
A few minutes later, Cobb came in carrying two leather grips in his right hand. “You damn well took your time, Bartlett,” Marc snapped at him across the room.
Bartlett winced, glowered at the rug on which he stood, and mumbled, “Yes, milord.”
“So get on upstairs and tend to your duties.”
“Yes, milord.” Bartlett turned towards the stairs.