Marc peered over at the Stebbins household. It was dark and quiet. The moon had gone behind a cloud. A few flakes of camouflaging snow had begun to fall. Marc took a lung-chilling breath and began leading his horse along the regular path that led past the cabin and up the laneway to the sideroad. No musket boomed out behind him, no cuckold’s cry hailed him back. And O’Hurley was long gone.
Once on the sideroad he was able to pick up the pace. His horse limped slightly but made no complaint. The snow thickened about them. Bruised, sated, dishevelled, splinter-riven, piss-splattered, he trudged homeward. As he turned eastward on the concession line, an ugly thought entered his head. Was it possible that he had been meant to remain in the Stebbins cabin? That Azel was not to be trailed under any circumstances? That someone had deliberately nobbled his horse? No. What had passed between him and Lydia could not have been faked.
Could it?
ELEVEN
Marc missed breakfast (and any speculative remarks on the reasons for his absence from the table), but after an improvised meal of dry cheese, lukewarm bread, and cold tea, he was joined in the parlour by Hatch. Both men lit their pipes, and Marc provided him with an expurgated account of the fiasco at the Stebbins place. Hatch mercifully refrained from comment, then said, “You’ll have to fix on exactly what you’re going to tell Hamish MacLachlan this afternoon. Our sheriff’s a man who appreciates facts.” He chuckled and added, “There’s not much else he can appreciate.”
“Well,” Marc said, “we’ve got this much, I think: evidence of a note or message calling a respectable Tory gentleman out of his own house and away from his own New Year’s celebration into a near blizzard. The gentleman seems pleased about the prospects he’s being called to. ‘I may have some news that could change our lives forever,’ he tells his daughter-in-law, who swore to that under oath. The rendezvous with the summoner was to be at an isolated spot, but one we know now to have been a hideout or transfer point for smugglers, in particular two of their advance men, Connors and O’Hurley. Smallman dies in a freak accident on his way to the cave, said accident having been anticipated or, after the event, conveniently used to collude in the man’s death. To wit: no assistance was offered and no report made to the constable of the township or the sheriff or magistrate of the county. Some evidence at the scene indicates that the summoner stood waiting for his victim only a few rods above the death trap.”
“My goodness, but you would have made a fine barrister. Perhaps your uncle Jabez was right after all.”
“Solicitor is what he had in mind, but I wasn’t willing to wait five years while performing tasks an indentured servant would repudiate,” Marc said quietly.
“Well, if you go using words that big with MacLachlan, he’ll have you clapped in irons on the first charge he can pronounce!”
“I’ll tone it down a bit,” Marc said dryly, and carried on. “Having established a prima facie case for foul play, I’ll lay out the two lines of enquiry we’ve been pursuing: the political and the contraband. All he needs to know is that malcontents like Stebbins may have suspected that Joshua was an informer-given his past connections, recent arrival, and suspicious attendance at Reform rallies-or that he learned or surmised seditious information from his son while speculating on his activities and suicide.”
“You’re not going to tell him that Joshua was a spy?”
“Even in telling you, Erastus, I’ve broken one of Sir John’s commandments to me.”
“You’ll have to tell the girl, sometime.”
“But not yet.” Marc relit his pipe. “The smuggling angle can be approached in a way similar to the political one. Physical evidence suggests young Jesse may have turned to smuggling to help stave off bankruptcy and the failure of his farm. Half the township appears to have purchased contraband spirits or acted as wholesalers, but only a few of these can be directly linked to Jesse-those who marched beside him at the protest rallies over the grievances and, in particular, those American immigrants whose property rights were endangered by the Alien Act. We can reasonably postulate that somehow Joshua came across information that threatened the smuggling operation. Some ruse was then used to lure him to his death, probably false hopes raised about the reasons for his son’s self-destruction. Certainly, the locale points strongly to the latter theory.”
“So far, all of this is circumstantial,” Hatch said gently, “even though it’s damn clever guesswork.”
“At any rate, all I want to do is report formally to the sheriff, show him Sir John’s instructions to me, and alert him to the fact that I’m going to start using the governor’s authority to compel or cow certain suspects into telling something closer to the truth. I’ve been given full policing powers in the matter. I can hale these renegade farmers, and even old Elijah, before the magistrate and interrogate them under oath. I’ve just about done with playing games.”
“On the positive side,” Hatch said, “most of your suspects’ll be at the Township Hall in Cobourg later today to hear William Lyon Mackenzie rant and rave. You’ll be able to watch ’em close up, stirring their own soup.” He got up slowly and added, with the customary twinkle in his eye, “You can hardly see the mend in your trousers, but Winnie was wondering if you’d been reconnoitring grain in a sawmill.”
Marc strolled up to Beth’s place, not only because he needed some bracing air to clear his head, but because he wanted to convey to her personally the arrangements that had been made for the journey into Cobourg and to make sure she would agree to them. No persuasion was needed, however: Beth Smallman wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to be roused once more by Mackenzie’s fiery rhetoric, even when it meant accepting the charity of a ride with a neighbour and the company of a red-coated infantry officer from the Tory capital.
The Durfees had offered the best seats in their cutter to Beth and her escort, Ensign Edwards. Erastus, Winnifred, Mary, and one of her sisters would be driven by Thomas Goodall in the miller’s four-seater. Another of Mary’s sisters would stay with Aaron. The women, with the exception of Beth, would do some shopping in Cobourg, then attend a church committee meeting at St. Peter’s, followed by a sleigh picnic. They would all go along to the rally out of curiosity, though Beth was the only declared supporter.
“You don’t need to chaperone me, you know,” Beth said to Marc at the door. “Mr. Durfee will do nicely.”
“Ah, but I want to,” Marc said.
Hatch was not in the mill, but sometimes, Marc had learned, he could be found in the small office attached to it. Winnifred had gone down to Durfee’s for the mail and a visit with Emma. Goodall was in the drive shed behind the barn making some minor repairs to the sleigh. The little window in the outer wall of the office was begrimed and frosted over, so Marc just pushed gently on the unlatched door and opened his lips to halloo the miller. No syllable emerged. Through the gap in the doorway, Marc saw a woman’s oval face, eyes seized shut, cheeks inflamed with no maiden’s blush.
Marc backed away. He didn’t pause to close the door.
Ten minutes later, Hatch sat down opposite Marc in the parlour. He fiddled with his pipe but didn’t bother poking the fire into life.