“Why didn’t you tell us this? Why were you so secretive?”
Lambert coloured slightly. “I do apologize. But you were correct about one thing. I had been to the Richelieu Valley, and what I saw there appalled and sickened me. I have not been fit human company since. I just did not feel like talking to anyone, even though my fellow travellers were congenial.”
“But surely you must have harboured some resentment against me, an officer who was present at both assaults on the town.”
Lambert smiled, and some of the personality he might have exhibited under more sanguine circumstances peeped through. “I’m afraid you got all that backwards as well.”
“How so?”
“Just as Marie was nearing a full recovery, I got a letter from my sister in St. Denis. A desperate letter. The rebellion had failed, but reprisals and acts of vengeance continued unchecked. My sister’s barn was destroyed and the few harvested crops looted. Even their cows had been shot and their horses’ tails cropped.”
“You must believe me, Mr. Lambert, when I say that I was nearly as appalled as you at the behaviour of our troops. Sir John himself ordered-”
“It wasn’t the troops or even the loyalists who burned Sophie and her husband out,” Lambert said sombrely. “It was her own cousins.”
“My God!”
“Incredible, eh? But Sophie and Guy had tried to remain neutral. They had friends and neighbours on both sides of the issue. But when the British army prevailed, the English began their barn-burning campaign, and the French, when they could, played turnabout. Either side might have gone after Sophie and Guy, but it was definitely her own kind who did the damage. They made a point of letting her know.”
“What could you do to help?”
“Not much. But I had some cash, a wedding gift from our father. I put it in a satchel and headed straight into the chaos of Quebec in the aftermath of the failed revolt and the aborted invasion. I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut and to adopt the manners and language most convenient to the situation. I was Lambert one day and Lam-bear the next.”
“You could have been discovered and dealt with harshly by either side.”
“Yes. But I did manage to reach my sister. The cash would prevent them from starving to death and would go a long way towards purchasing seed and replacing livestock, if and when things settled down. I stayed as long as I could. But I had to get back to Cobourg: the firm had granted me an extension to the end of this month only. That’s why I’m eager to be off this evening. And I want to embrace my dear Marie once more.”
Marc could empathize with that desire.
“You may search me and my bags if you like. You won’t find any weapons or coded messages.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Marc knew the truth when he heard it. He took a deep breath. “I must apologize, sir, in the most sincere way possible, even though I realize how weak my words will seem.”
“Please, don’t. You allowed me to laugh again. I can now greet my bride smiling. And remember, it has been you who have been shot at and nearly stabbed, not me, and Brookner’s killer is still on the loose. You did your duty in St. Denis. I have no quarrel with that. I have tried to remain a loyal subject, but doing so is getting to be either an impossible or an inhumane act. Allegiance has become a relative term.”
“Yes,” Marc said, rising and shaking Lambert’s hand. “We live in terrible times.”
* * *
Charles Lambert and Ainslie Pritchard left the Georgian Arms soon after. Adelaide Brookner remained in the care of the Dingmans. Percy Sedgewick took supper in his room and then went into the Dingmans’ quarters to offer comfort and support to his sister. Marc ate alone in the lounge, envying the roars and whoops of boozy laughter coming across the foyer from the taproom, now denuded of its legal trappings. Then he went up to his room and lay down on his bed. He had a lot of thinking to do.
If, as it now seemed, it was Miles Scanlon who shot Brookner, then there was still a stalker out there somewhere. While it was conceivable that Scanlon may have been the one to have climbed through Marc’s window in a case of mistaken identity, it had not been Scanlon back there in the Montreal hospital, and no-one could have mistaken Marc, in mufti, for the fulltunicked Brookner in the woods beside the St. Lawrence. He decided to err on the side of caution. He borrowed a hammer and nails from Dingman’s boy and nailed the window of his room shut. Once again he shoved the bed up against the door, then made himself a pallet of goosedown comforters on the floor well away from the door and window. He loaded his pistol and placed it on his chest. He lay fully clothed, waiting for sleep.
It did not come easily.
A strange new notion entered his head, triggered by something that had happened earlier on their journey. From that inkling, a train of thoughts-erratic, vague, but persistent-began to move towards some possible, if astounding, conclusion. He went over a dozen events, conversations, and gestures, putting the pieces together this way and that. If his theories were valid, was there any way to prove them?
Just as he was falling asleep, he thought of a way.
FIFTEEN
The Brookner coach, now missing three of its original passengers, left the Georgian Arms at 11:30 on the morning of January 21. A light snow was falling; the air was crisp; and the sleigh’s runners glided merrily. Gander Todd, none the worse for wear for having spent four nights sleeping in stables next to the horses, whipped his charges mildly and harangued them harshly. Earlier, the widow Brookner had emerged at last from the ministrations of Mrs. Dingman, clothed still in her mourning dress, though it now did double duty. Holding her right arm solicitously, her brother had led her unsteadily across the foyer and out to the waiting carriage. Murdo Dingman attempted to assist at her other elbow but was shrugged off curtly. Marc held the door open. From beneath her veil Adelaide bade him a polite “Good morning” and thanked him for his many kindnesses. Once inside the coach, Marc sat opposite Sedgewick, who took up the near seat by the window, facing ahead, and his sister was placed beside him.
As the coach pulled away, she fell back against a pillow and appeared to be staring out at the snow. She held that silent, solemn posture until they reached Prescott about twenty minutes later. Sedgewick gave Marc a rueful sort of smile, but had nothing to say, lacking the casual talk of Ainslie Pritchard or the need for it.
Unbeknownst to either Adelaide or her brother, however, was the fact that before coming down to the coach, Marc had deliberately remained behind in his room. It was only when he was certain that Sedgewick had finished packing his own things and those of both Brookners and had gone down to fetch Adelaide that Marc ventured into the hallway. He did not go immediately downstairs. The keystone to the theory he had developed before falling asleep lay in the room next door, and he had entered it with great anticipation. Five minutes later, he had found what he expected to.
As instructed, Gander Todd pulled up at the side lane of Doctor Mac’s residence, where his surgery attached itself to the grandiose country home. Two stout lads were waiting for them. Sedgewick and Marc got out, leaving the widow sitting stoically inside, and watched as the pine box containing the remains of Randolph Brookner was hoisted up onto the roof of the coach and secured thoroughly with ropes and a leather belt.
During this operation, which took just under ten minutes, Marc was hailed inside by MacIvor Murchison, who insisted on his taking a quick brandy to “ward off the morning chill.” They chatted briefly about the inquest, and would have continued further if Marc had not been called back to the coach. The coffin had been secured, and, if they were to make Gananoque by nightfall, they had to leave right away. Marc shook hands with Doctor Mac and left.