Winnifred Hatch arrived at the table moments after Marc, swathed in a taffeta kimono that flattered the shapely figure beneath it. Still, Mistress Hatch carried herself with such confidence that she could have come clothed in diaphanous veils and still retained an air of rigid respectability. Winnifred Hatch had not learned to blush. In a straightforward manner she asked Marc if he had slept well and refilled his cup with coffee. This kindness was interrupted by the arrival of Thomas and Erastus from the barn. The whiff of manure, muted somewhat by the winter chill, blended uneasily with the aroma of coffee and the tang of fried pork.
“How is the Guernsey doing?” Winnifred asked Thomas. He mumbled something positive but kept his eyes on his plate. Behind them, Mary Huggan sang softly over her stove.
“We’ll take our coffee into the parlour and talk,” Erastus announced.
“First of all,” The Miller said, “we need to dream up an excuse for you poking your nose about Crawford’s Corners. Then, whatever else we find out between now and Saturday, when I’ve got a meeting with Sheriff MacLachlan, has to be made official. After that, you and the sheriff can decide between you how to execute the governor’s warrant. Fair enough?”
“Agreed,” Marc said. The hot food, the coffee, and the bracing sight of the two young women were working wonders on his mood. The prospect of facing the challenges of the day revived and excited him. However he realized, somewhat reluctantly, that the ruse of his courting the miller’s daughter would not do to explain his continuing presence.
“I’ve got a suggestion on the first score,” Hatch said. “Every year about this time your quartermaster comes through the county, looking to buy surplus wheat or fodder. We can tell folks you’re one of his advance men reconnoitring the region. I’ve got a silo full of grain, my own and others’, that will most likely end up at the garrison in any event. Once I drop the hint to Thomas or Mary, the news’ll be all over the district by nightfall.”
“I’ve already accompanied him on a similar foray, in December,” Marc said, brightening perceptibly. “We’re buying extra grain against the coming of troubles in Quebec.”
“Splendid,” Hatch said, restoking his pipe.
“I know what to ask. And it’ll give me an excuse to visit the local farmers and snoop about without raising suspicion. I’ve got more than a hunch that the man we’re looking for will be found amongst the left-wing zealots and Reform fanatics along the back roads.” Marc knew that Hatch was waiting for elaboration, but he was not prepared to tell anyone, yet, about Smallman’s role as Sir John’s secret agent in Crawford’s Corners. After all, this was the trump card that would give him the edge he required to sift and assess every tidbit of information that might come his way in the days ahead.
“Well, then,” Hatch said, getting up, “I guess it’s time for you to meet Beth Smallman.”
“Don’t bother Thomas about getting my horse ready,” Marc said. “I’ll just walk across to her place.”
“You going to tell her what we think we know?”
“I haven’t really made up my mind,” Marc said truthfully. “I need to talk to her first.”
“That’s a good idea,” Hatch said, approving the instincts of this tunicked officer half his age. Then he grinned and added, “Beth Smallman is no ordinary woman.” It was as ambiguous a remark as Hatch was likely to make.
The Smallman farm, which had witnessed much tragedy in the space of twelve months, lay adjacent to the mill on the north side. Taking Hatch’s advice, Marc followed a trodden path towards Crawford Creek that took him past the outbuildings of the mill where Thomas and a stableboy no taller than the fork he wielded were mucking out the cattle stalls. The colonel’s horse whinnied at Marc, but he kept on walking until he came abreast of the mammoth gristmill itself, its water wheel stilled by the ice of the creek. Two impressive silos made out of the same quarry stone as the main house stood as testament to the growing prosperity of the young province. Land was currency here, Marc thought, and the great leveller.
Beyond the silos he found a well-trampled path that meandered along beside the creek. So this was how the locals travelled by foot when the roads grew impassable-to spread all the news worth embroidering. Marc pictured a network of spidery filaments from house to barn to neighbouring house, indifferent to woods, weather, and other natural impediments. He went north on the path a hundred yards or so, enjoying the briskness of the early-morning air, until he spied through an opening in the evergreens on the riverbank the pitched roof of a clapboard barn, and above it, a little farther on, wisps of woodsmoke.
Next to the barn, a log hut with a plank door and single window sat hip-deep in drifts. The meagre smoke from its stovepipe slumped and frayed along the roofline. The door below it opened with a jerk.
“Got yourself lost, mister?”
Marc stopped, hid his surprise, and said, “Ah, good morning. My name is Marc Edwards. I’ve come from Constable Hatch’s place-to see Mrs. Smallman, should she be at home.”
“Officer Edwards, is it?” The old man, for he seemed indisputably old even by the gnarled norms of Upper Canada, glared fixedly at the interloper, blocking the footpath.
“I’m here on official business.”
“Are ye now?” The old fellow gave no ground.
Marc met his stare, then for a moment he almost laughed as the impudent oaf stooped into what was meant to be a fearsome crouch but resembled nothing so much as a petulant crayfish, for he was all bony angles, his ungloved fingers were stiffened into arthritic claws, and the beady peppercorns of his eyes wobbled in rage.
“On Governor Colborne’s warrant,” Marc snapped. He had already said more than he had planned, and he held his tongue now with mounting impatience.
“The governor that was, you mean?”
That the news of Colborne’s reassignment had travelled so far and so fast surprised and momentarily stunned Marc.
“Is Mrs. Smallman home or not?”
“Where else would an honest woman be?” There was a rasping, spittled quality to the voice that skewed whatever outrage might have been intended.
“I demand that you give me your name, sir, and then stand out of my way!” Marc reached down for the familiar haft of his sword and came up empty.
“No need to lose your temper, lad. There’s plenty of daylight left.” And he scuttled sideways into the corral beside the barn, where he appeared to execute a crab-like jig.
Marc walked with a dignified pace towards the house twenty yards ahead. The old fart was still jabbering to himself, or to some animal willing to grant him equal status.
Up ahead, the Smallman house was more typical of Canadian rural residences than was the stone structure of the miller Hatch: a notched, squared-timber block, caulked with limestone cement, small windows of murky “local” glass that let in an impoverished glow, a pitched roof over a cramped second storey, and a snow-covered stoop. Marc strode past the windows along the north side, one of which was draped with a swath of black crêpe, put one boot on the porch, and raised his fist to knock. The door swung inward and fully open.
“Nobody knocks in these parts,” a light, feminine voice said from the shadows within. “I’ve been expectin’ you, Mr.-”
“Edwards,” Marc said. “Ensign Edwards.”
“I TAKE IT YOU’VE MET ELIJAH,” Bathsheba Smallman, known to all as Beth, said to Marc. They were sitting opposite one another in the parlour area-marked off only by a braided rug and an apt arrangement of hand-hewn chairs made welcoming by quilted seat pads-balancing cup and saucer with accompanying bread and jam (the bread fresh out of the iron pot over the fire, the jam homemade).
“Yes, but I’m afraid he wasn’t overly helpful,” Marc said just as a spurt of jam struck his chin. He rubbed at the offending blob, then licked it off his finger.
“Huckleberry,” Beth said. “Grows like a weed in these parts.”