As they were being ceremoniously led towards the roast beef by Mrs. Malvern, her husband drew Marc to one side.
“I did not want to trouble you, sir, when you first come in, as you looked quite peakèd, but the courier left a message for you, the one that come from Montreal.” Without further explanation he thrust an envelope into Marc’s hand and bustled into the dining-room.
Marc sat down in a nearby easy-chair. His name on the envelope was in Owen Jenkin’s handwriting. He ripped it open and read:
Montreal, L.C.
Noon, Jan. 17, 1838
Dear Marc:
I am trusting this message to Sir John’s express courier. If he is unimpeded on his journey, he should overtake you before you reach Cornwall. There is news here that you must know about as soon as possible: your life may depend on it. Gilles Gauthier, the man who was caught thieving at the hospital, was tried here this morning in military court, the regular courts being suspended. He was found guilty of theft-he had two spoons in his possession-and was sentenced to hard labour for ten years. But he was found not guilty of attempting to murder you with a stolen bayonet. Evidence in his defence was offered by a parish priest from Chambly, who testified that Gauthier spent the night you were attacked in a drunken stupor in the local church vestry. However, suspicion has now fallen on someone else. It seems that one of the French aides left the hospital two days after the attack, supposedly sick and unable to work. Head Nurse was too busy playing Boadecia to notice the coincidence or mention it to Dr. Wilder or me. The young woman’s name is Isabelle LaCroix. Nothing is known of her here, and the French will not betray one of their own or help us with our enquiries. So there it is. It seems you may have been attacked by a young Frenchwoman, of unknown origin and without a known motive. Please be careful. Further attempts may be made. Send news of your safe arrival at each post en route.
Yours in friendship
(Major) Owen Jenkin
Marc’s first thought was that “a further attempt” may have already been made earlier this afternoon. But it could not have been carried out by a girl from the city. Most likely, whoever it was who wanted him dead had co-opted the nurse to make the first try, when he was helpless in a hospital bed. Now it appeared that the same person had himself, or in concert with others, made a second try, and failed. Certainly Marc’s disguise as an ordinary gentleman had not fooled the would-be assassin. Which meant that Marc was known by sight: he was neither a random nor a symbolic target. Someone hated Marc Edwards enough to make a concerted and sustained effort to kill him. And that person would know precisely where he would be sleeping tonight. He would have to be prepared.
Mr. Malvern, as rotund as he was orotund, was delighted to hear from Captain Brookner after dinner that, due to the fragile health of Lieutenant Edwards, the distinguished company would be staying a second night before moving on to Prescott. His brown eyes ablaze with the reflected flame from his cheeks, Mr. Malvern assured the lady and gentlemen that healthful food and supportive drink would be supplied as needed, that recreation would be found to amuse and edify (cards and partridge hunting being the foremost among many choices), and with the local militia active in and around the village, no fears for their safety should be entertained or permitted to bestir the equanimity that their station deserved.
As the men headed for the smoker to cap their day with a cigar and a brandy, Marc excused himself.
“There is no need to excuse yourself at all, Lieutenant,” Ainslie Pritchard said graciously, his magnanimity expanded exponentially by roast beef and vin ordinaire. “We have already tired you today more than is conscionable.”
With that, he manoeuvred his portliness towards the smoking chamber, and the others, with varying nods of approval, followed. Even the mysterious Mr. Lambert, less than loquacious at dinner, joined them. Despite being dog-tired, Marc was hoping to have a chance to speak with Adelaide Brookner alone, but she was already on her way upstairs to her room.
Innkeeper Malvern, ever hovering, pounced from an alcove: “Anything I can do for you, sir, to make you more comfortable?” he asked.
Marc paused, thinking hard. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said.
Malvern beamed.
“Do you happen to have a pumpkin-squash I could borrow?”
Although life as a hotelier had prepared Malvern for many an odd request or demand-he was already planning to write a book on the subject-he was stunned to hear a British officer ask him for a pumpkin on loan. The intrepid lieutenant’s exploits had been, to the latter’s acute embarrassment, the main topic of conversation between the soup course and the entrée. It seemed that Marc’s daring rescue of Eugene Yates, the young cavalryman from Montreal, had been bruited about that city by his companions of the 24th, and the tale had grown hairs in the retelling. Several variants were put forward and debated at table, but Marc had been too weary to adjudicate. No-one had noticed.
“You have a root cellar?” Marc enquired as Malvern fumbled for a sensible response to the hero’s request.
“Yes, sir. And yes, sir, there are squash and turnip of several varieties stored there. You want a pumpkin-squash, you say?”
“Yes, about this big around.”
With remarkable restraint and not a little aplomb, the order was duly given to one of the houseboys, and minutes later Marc trudged upstairs with a head-shaped, half-frozen orange pumpkin under his arm.
Using some of the vests and jackets packed into the big trunk by Owen Jenkin, Marc arranged his bed so that the outline of a sleeping body clearly showed under the comforter. Against the pillow he laid the pumpkin, then draped a linen nightcap over its bald pate, and pulled the comforter up over its hairless chin. The night-sky outside his window was black and star-studded. A full moon bathed the room in quicksilver light. He hoped the deception would work. If the assassin who had tried to kill him this afternoon was determined to finish what he had started, tonight would be a logical time and place.
Next, he rigged a booby-trap against the door, which, as in most country inns, had no lock, merely a brittle wooden latch that could be jimmied with a penknife. He piled up, precariously, a tin washing-bowl, his canteen cup, and a crockery chamber pot so that the least jarring of the door would create a jangling tumble with enough noise to awaken him or in the least spook the intruder. He himself planned to sleep curled up in the oversize mahogany wardrobe across the room, leaving its door ajar and his officer’s pistol-reluctantly retrieved from the bottom of his own small trunk-cocked and ready.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he doused the whale-oil lamp and folded his weary bones into the bottom of the wardrobe. It was uncomfortable, but he figured that he could sleep anywhere tonight.
He had just begun to drift into a doze when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, which ended in the hall just outside his door. He recognized the voices, saying brief good nights: Ainslie Pritchard and Charles Lambert. He heard two doors close. Then he was fast asleep.
Something woke him. He sat up with a lurch and banged his elbow on a shelf. Christ! He was holding the pistol in that hand. He could have shot himself. Still trying to recall where he was and why, he glanced across the moonlit room. His facsimile lay undisturbed under its cozy camouflage. The booby-trap still teetered nicely. He looked towards the window. It was then that he heard voices, the noise that had wakened him. There were two of them, Randolph Brookner and Percy Sedgewick, very close to his door, exchanging unpleasantries in fierce, drunken whispers.