Confident now that his pretending to be acousin of Chilton’s on the lookout for a butler who hadn’t arrivedwhen scheduled to, Cobb pointed Ben east along the Kingston Highwaythrough the snowbound bush of Upper Canada. The road itself, morelike an exaggerated lumber trail, weaved its way aroundimpenetrable clumps of hardwoods, stretches of stubborn evergreen,frozen swamps, and rigid outcroppings of rock. But as no snow hadfallen since Thursday evening’s brief squall, the roadbed waspacked flat and icy. Ben clopped along at a sprightly pace whilethe runners hummed behind him.
Just as the sun was rising above the treelineabout seven o’clock, Cob spotted a square-timber dwelling built tooclose to the road to be merely a farmhouse. He pulled up in front,and was pleased to see a sign scrawled in chalk above the ricketydoor:
DЯINK amp; FOOD
Through an oil-paper window, he spied a flicker oflight.
A stout woman with a friendly face blemishedby the elements (or too much of the inn’s liquid product) came outto greet him, blowing clouds of her own breath before her.
“What’re ya doin’ on the road this early,young fella?” she boomed, wrapping her shawl more snugly about herthroat.
“I’m on a mission to find my missin’ cousin,”Cobb said.
“Well, I ain’t got yer cousin inside, but Igot plenty of stuff to stoke yer vitals!”
Cobb was happy to pay for a small whiskey,despite the dingy interior of the hovel and a glass that had neverbeen baptized with soap. And his hostess was just as happy totalk.
“Weller’s sleigh usually stops here comin’an’ goin’,” she said in reply to his opening query. “A week agoTuesday, you say? Now let me think. Yes, that was the day the younglady puked all over my welcome rug. There was only two other riderswith her, her husband and an elderly gent.”
“And the next day, the Wednesday?”
“That’s easy. There were four passengers: avery chatty merchant gentleman from Montreal, headin’ to the bigcity, he said, to sign some paper or other that’d make him rich.But I let all that sort of braggin’ roll off like water down aduck’s ass. An’ there was a girl with a club foot, got on atCobourg, I think, along with her mother and uncle.”
“What about Thursday?” Cobb asked, knowing ashe did that the impostor was spotted by young Cal Struthers gettingoff Weller’s stage late Thursday afternoon.
“You’re expectin’ me to remember an awfullot, ain’t ya?”
“What if I was to buy a jug of yer hooch?Would that re-gress yer memory?”
“Might do the trick,” she chortled as shegave his gentlemanly duds a further appraising look. “Let me see.. It was Thursday of last week when Danny Stokes the driverpulled in with a near-lame horse. My husband — least that’s what hecalls himself — helped him put a new shoe on her. The passengersall sampled my wares except fer this well-dressed fella who talkedwith a ten-dollar accent. Coulda been English. He turned his noseup at my hot biscuits.”
“Was he bald-headed?”
“Yer cousin was hairless, was he?”
“Bald as a bull’swhatchamacallits.”
“Well, this fella kept his fancy hat on in amost unmannerly way, but I could see his greasy orange hairstickin’ out from under it.”
“Then that wouldn’t’ve been my cousinGraves,” Cobb said. He gave her a quarter for a jug of her homemadewhiskey, thanked her, and headed back out into the cold — mightilypleased with his efforts in there. For he now knew that the realGraves Chilton had not got this far, that somewhere east of thispoint the red-headed impostor had pounced.
“Let’s go, Ben. We got a ways to travelyet.”
***
Marc spent the rest of Saturday morning in his roomgoing over the accumulated notes he and Cobb had made on the case.He was looking for any angle they might have overlooked or anyquestions they might have failed to ask. They had not pressed theStruthers, father and son, very hard, particularly in light of thefact that they seemed to be the only employees on the estate whohad ready access to the outside or were unaccountable in generalfor their whereabouts. But they had no discernible motive, and ofall the persons resident in Elmgrove this week, they seemed theleast perturbed by the events in the manor house. But something wasdefinitely niggling at the back of his mind, some fact or other hehad not viewed from every possible vantage-point. But two hoursspent poring over these notes did nothing to bring it to light.
At one o’clock he went to the dining-room forsome lunch, and was relieved to find only Garnet Macaulay there. Helooked haggard, but did his best to greet Marc with a smile.
“I don’t think I could play another game ofbackgammon or piquet without having a brain seizure,” he said,poking at a soft-boiled egg.
“That bad, eh?” Marc said, sitting down.
“It’s Bérubé. He’s mercilessly sociable.LaFontaine is quite content in the library reading back issues ofHincks’s Examiner and the Tory Gazette. Bergeron isreading in the parlour. But I was unable to get away from Bérubéand the games table — that is, until I got an inspiration.”
“Which was?”
“To find him a risqué French novel fromElizabeth’s collection. He’s reading it in the sanctity of hisbedchamber. Thank the Lord for minor mercies, eh?”
“What about Tremblay?”
“Well, he brooded in his room all morning,but fifteen minutes ago he came down and asked me for a pair ofraquettes.”
“Snowshoes?”
“Right. I took him to the back shed andoutfitted him with a pair, a huge wool sweater, and a tuque. Seemshe did a lot of snowshoeing back home.”
“And he’s gone off on his own?” Marc said,letting his alarm show.
“Oh, don’t worry, Marc. I helped him dressfor the outdoors. He wasn’t concealing anything contraband on hisperson, and I doubt he’ll attempt to snowshoe all the way toMontreal.”
“I suppose blowing off a little steam throughphysical exertion can’t do him any harm.”
“Why don’t you slip home for a few hours?”Macaulay suggested. “If you’re worried about being spotted cominginto town from this vicinity, you could take my saddle-horse andhead out the back way.”
“The back way?”
“Yes. You’ll recall the lumber road that youarrived on just to the north of Elmgrove. Well, it soon turns intoa narrow Indian trail, not wide enough for a sleigh but suitablefor a horse and rider. It comes out of the woods at a swamp — nowfrozen solid — where Parliament Street now ends. You could ridedown to your cottage from that direction.”
Marc laughed. “I haven’t been seen in townriding a horse since I left the army two years ago. To say I’d benoticed would be an understatement. Thanks anyway, but I’ll takethe usual route.”
“As long as you’ll go and get away from thisplace for a while,” Macaulay said with evident relief. “I’ll haveStruthers bring a small cutter around to the front door in fifteenminutes.”
Marc thanked Macaulay, and while he went offto find Struthers, Marc had some lunch and thought about what hemight do in the city, in addition to spending some time with Bethand Maggie. It would be useful, he decided, to seek out NestorPeck, Cobb’s most reliable snitch, and have him and his cronies tryto trace the movements of Giles Harkness over the past two weeksand, if possible, determine his present whereabouts.
By the time the horse and cutter drew up atthe front door, Marc had packed his grip (with soiled clothes) andpulled on his outdoor things. He stepped out into the cold, clearafternoon, thanked Abel Struthers, and hopped up into the cutter.It felt good to be outdoors and on the move after theclaustrophobia of Elmgrove. He snapped the reins and the horsebegan to trot smartly up Macaulay’s driveway towards the KingstonRoad. The driveway wound its way among spruce and cedar, theirboughs still glistening and pristine with snow.