“I was too busy bustin’ a couple of heads in the Crooked Anchor. To no pre-vail, I might add.”
“I gotta have yer report for Sarge.”
Cobb sighed. Even though he went into the taverns now only when called on to umpire disputes or drag deadbeats to the magistrate, he could not help but hear the wild tales being bruited there. People even stuffed his pockets with notes when he wasn’t looking. “All right, then. Poise yer pen.”
While Cobb was the only one of the four constables who could read and write fluently, it was the clerk’s job to prepare any reports that might be required in the course of policing the town. There weren’t many, as all the writs, warrants, and depositions were handled by the sheriff, bailiff, and magistrate in the respectable rooms of the Court House.
Cobb cleared his throat and began, pacing his accounts so that Gussie French was almost able to keep up by scratching away as fast as he could and ignoring the blots and smears of half-congealed ink. Included were such facts as these: the rebels in Quebec had stormed the castle of St. Louis-Bastille-like-and taken Govenor Gosford prisoner; ten thousand troops, armed to the teeth, were marching up from Vermont to liberate the lower province in the name of republicanism; Mackenzie and Papineau were in Cornwall, conspiring to join forces and overthrow monarchist tyranny everywhere; the Iroquois at Brantford had thrown their lot in with Mackenzie’s radicals and were seen doing war dances by three independent witnesses; the rebels here had so many American rifles, they were issuing two to each conscript. And so on.
Gussie dutifully scribbled down this nonsense.
“I’ll be off, then,” Cobb said. “To gather more un-tell-igents.”
“You better have a gander at this,” Gussie said, thrusting out a sheet of paper.
On it was the sketch of a man’s face, below which were enumerated his crimes and aliases. The sketch was rudimentary (Gussie doubling as portraitist), but likely complete enough to have the culprit identified, should he be spotted in town. The features were sharp and rugged, the eyes piercing, the hair unkempt. He was thought to be a dangerous agent provocateur from the Buffalo area, who had been caught snooping about Fort York and fully armed, but had managed to escape before he could be questioned thoroughly. Subsequently, several break-ins had been attributed to him. A fairly accurate description of the fellow had been provided by the army, along with his various known aliases.
“Any of these names his real one?” Cobb asked.
Gussie shrugged, intent on tidying up the blots on his report. “Couldn’t say. I ain’t paid to think.”
And a good thing, too, Cobb mused. He himself, of course, had acknowledged the usefulness of the analytical only since his recent involvement with Marc Edwards and his investigations. He glanced at the list of aliases. They were all Irish, which might be significant: Colm O’Toole, Seamus Doyle, Sean Flanagan. Most likely he would be using the last of these, or a new one. Well, he would show the sketch around and keep an eye out: you never knew.
By ten o’clock, Cobb’s feet were numb with cold, and the tips of his fingers tingled. Normally, he would have warmed himself in a tavern, but he did not wish to step into these smoky rooms, hostile with gossip. Most of the merchants were friendly, but they were leery of a uniformed policeman hanging about their premises too long: the notion of a permanent constabulary patrolling the streets to discourage crime instead of reacting to it was still a novel one, here and elsewhere, and was greeted with a prudent wariness. So it was with evident relief that he found himself outside the millinery shop belonging to Beth and her aunt Catherine. He peered in through the window display and noted with satisfaction that there were no customers inside. He swaggered ostentatiously to the next alley, then darted along it and came out onto the service lane that ran behind the King Street shops. He rapped on a door, then walked in.
As he had deduced, Beth Smallman and Catherine Roberts were at tea in the anteroom behind the shop proper. He was about to utter a hearty “Hello,” but what he saw stopped the greeting in his throat. Aunt Catherine was in tears, her slight frame wracked by sobs. Beth’s cheeks were stained with tears of her own, but her weeping was being constrained by an obvious concern for her aunt. Her left hand held a letter, but her right one was stroking Aunt Catherine’s arm.
“He isn’t dead, Auntie,” she was saying. “He’s been wounded, that’s all.”
“Who?” Cobb asked sharply, then realized that the women had not heard him enter and were startled by his sudden presence.
Aunt Catherine, normally as stoic as Beth, recovered enough to say with a grim little smile at her dear friend, “It’s Marc. There’s been a terrible battle. Ensign Hilliard’s been shot dead, and Marc’s been wounded in the leg.”
Cobb put a hand on the back of a chair to steady himself. “So the stories are true,” he murmured. “Things’ve started down there.”
“Please sit, Mr. Cobb. I’ll get you a cup,” Beth said calmly, but the letter was trembling in her grip.
“No, no. Don’t bother about me. Just tell me what happened.”
“We just got the letter this morning. It’s from Major Jenkin,” Aunt Catherine said, blowing her nose and fumbling the hanky back into the pocket of her skirt. “I’m sorry to be such a blubberer-”
“Now don’t go worryin’ about a thing like that,” Cobb said.
Beth handed the letter to him, then went to fetch his cup of tea and one of his favourite biscuits. She spilled some of the tea, steaming, on her wrist, but apparently didn’t notice.
The letter was less than a page long, and the major promised a longer and more detailed one as soon as he could find time. But the rebellion in Lower Canada was in full swing, and the outcome not certain. Hilliard, he said, had died beside Marc, taking a bullet that otherwise might have killed his friend. Marc himself had risked all to save another wounded comrade in the field. Then, on the evening of December 1, while on patrol in St. Denis following the brigade’s triumphant re-entry into the town, Marc had been shot by an insurgent. At present, he was in hospital in Sorel awaiting transportation to Montreal. The surgeon who had attended him on site reported to the major that, while the wound itself was not life-threatening, the bullet had severed a vein in the thigh and Marc had lost a lot of blood before the wound could be cauterized. While he had not yet regained consciousness, the overall prognosis was good.
“What do you think?” Aunt Catherine asked, as if Cobb could somehow make a pronouncement that would at least make matters bearable.
Cobb looked up, tried to smile, and was relieved to be able to turn to Beth and take the cup from her hand.
“Sounds like he might come home with a bit of a limp,” he said at last.
“Thank you,” Beth said, and her look indicated that she was grateful for her aunt’s sake, not her own. Beth, he knew, did not require constant reassurance from others to bolster her own views or quiet any anxieties she might harbour.
“Beth says she must go to him,” Aunt Catherine said, appealing to Cobb’s masculine judgement, “even though Major Jenkin expressly warns her not to.”
The major had indeed ended his letter by discouraging any such gesture. The province was in turmoil. No-one was safe. Travellers were being stripped of their money and goods. To be English in the wrong quarter was enough to get one beaten, or worse.
“It don’t sound like Quebec’s a place for ladies,” Cobb offered.
“My place is by my beloved’s side.”
Aunt Catherine blushed, and Cobb uttered a protective cough.
“You oughta wait till you hear from Major Jenkin again,” he said, glancing at Aunt Catherine for support. “Montreal might be safe, when Marc’s moved there.”
“Mr. Cobb’s right, you know.”
Beth said nothing.
“Besides, darling, I don’t know as I could manage here alone, what with our own troubles and all.”