Turncoat

  OTHER MARC EDWARDS MYSTERIES BY DON GUTTERIDGE

  Solemn Vows

  Coming January 2011 from Touchstone

  Touchstone

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,

  is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2003 by Don Gutteridge

  Originally published by McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions

  thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address

  Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  This Touchstone export edition July 2010

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks

  of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-268-3216.

  Designed by Akasha Archer

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6369-6

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7266-7 (ebook)

  For Kate, who loves a mystery,

  and for John, my Right Reader

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank the following for their support and advice: Bob Clark, Gerry Parker, Stan Atherton, John Gutteridge, and George Martell. I also owe a debt of gratitude to my agent, Beverley Slopen, and my editor for this edition, Jan Walter. Also a special thanks to Kevin Hanson and Alison Clarke, whose enthusiasm kept this project alive.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Turncoat is wholly a work of fiction, but I have endeavoured to convey in it the spirit of the period and the political tensions that led to the Upper Canada Rebellion of 1837. The statements, actions, and character traits attributed to actual historical personages referred to in the novel—Sir John Colborne, William Lyon Mackenzie, Peter Perry, and Ogle Gowan—are fictitious, and readers will have to make up their own minds as to whether such characterizations are consistent with the historical record. All other characters are the invention of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Toronto and Cobourg, of course, were and are real towns. Although Crawford’s Corners is imaginary, many hamlets or postal drops like it could be found along the Kingston Road in 1835–36. The political issues raised in the story—the Clergy Reserves and the question of rights accorded to American immigrants—are presented as they would have appeared to those adversely affected by them. The Hunters’ Lodges were an actual underground movement for the liberation of Upper Canada, but I have moved their activities up two years to facilitate the plot. Many such “secret societies” existed or were perceived to exist during the stress and paranoia of this turbulent period in Ontario’s history.

  A number of books provided useful background information and serendipitously suggested ideas that made their way into the story. Edwin C. Guillet’s Early Life in Upper Canada, E.C. Kyte’s Old Toronto, Frank Walker’s Sketches of Old Toronto, and Percy Climo’s Early Cobourg provided specific geographical and sociological detail; Sam Welch’s Recollections of Buffalo was, among other things, an inexhaustible source of interesting names; G.C. Moore-Smith’s The Life of John Colborne and Charles Lindsey’s The Life and Times of Wm. Lyon Mackenzie offered close-up, contemporary accounts of the 1830s; and Gerald M. Craig’s Upper Canada: 1784–1841 brought some bracing scholarly balance to the task of interpretation. Any errors of fact in the novel, deliberate or naïve, are exclusively my own.

  PROLOGUE

  In 1836, Upper Canada is a colonial province in turmoil. William Lyon Mackenzie, sometime member of the Legislative Assembly, editor of the radical Colonial Advocate, and a left-wing rabble-rouser, has just sent the Assembly’s Seventh Report on Grievances to the imperial government in England.

  The farmers in Upper Canada have many legitimate complaints—domination of the political and financial spheres by an aristocratic elite known as the Family Compact, the Clergy Reserves law that sets aside every seventh lot in a concession to support the Anglican church, the Alien Act (recently repealed but whose spirit lives on) whereby American immigrants were limited in their property rights and freedom to hold office, and a governor-appointed Tory Legislative Council that has turned down dozens of bills from the Reform-controlled Legislative Assembly. The province is plagued by political gridlock, firmly in the hands of a military governor. Dissident farmers have pinned their hopes on the Reform Party, but are becoming more and more militant. Whispers of rebellion are in the air.

  American-syle republicanism is seen as a possible resolution of the grievances, and its support among the populace is abetted from the United States by the Hunters’ Lodges, an organization dedicated to the annexation of Upper Canada by the Republic. Other American groups, like the Lofo Foco Democrats, are likewise sympathetic to their cause. To make matters worse, drought struck the province in 1834 and 1835, bringing many farmers to the brink of starvation. The Family Compact and their Tory counterparts in the legislatures have turned a blind eye, branding as disloyal all critics of the regime, while claiming as their due all the privileges and entitlements of their class.

  Amidst this and the possibility of insurrection stands a small garrison at tiny Fort York in Toronto, the provincial capital. It is a town of only three thousand souls, a dozen taverns and half as many churches, plunked down in the mud and gravel of ten blocks by five. The fort itself is a series of jerry-built structures erected in haste following the War of 1812. To add to the general uncertainty, Sir John Colborne, the lieutenant-governor, has just been transferred to Quebec, where rebellion of a different kind is brewing.

  All that is needed now is some spark to ignite the flames of civil war.

  ONE

  Toronto, Upper Canada: January 1836

  The message that was to change Ensign Marc Edwards’s life forever was simple enough. It was relayed to him by a chubby-cheeked corporal as Marc came out of the Cock and Bull, a tavern frequented by officers of His Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot.

  “You are to report to Government House immediately, sir,” the corporal said nervously.

  “But I’m due back at Fort York within the hour,” Marc said. “Colonel Margison is expecting me.”

  “It’s the governor, sir. He wants to see you, personally. I’ve got a sleigh waiting around the corner.”

  “Very well, then.” Marc tried not to let his excitement show, but after eight long months of barracks life and daily military routine in this far-flung colony of the British Empire, the possibility of something—anything—out of the ordinary was enough to set a young man’s heart racing.

  Government House had once been the country residence of a local grandee, a rambling wooden structure sporting several ornate verandas and a dozen chimney pots above its numerous wings and belvederes. It was set in a six-acre park at the corner of King and Simcoe streets, well out of view of those who might be envious of its splendour. As Marc was driven through the park and down a winding, snow-packed lane at breakneck speed, he tried to guess what was so urgent that an ordinary ensign like himself had to be summoned into the august presence of Sir John Colborne. But he had come up with no answer by the time he was ushered through the foyer into an office on the left-hand side of the carpeted hallway.

  The lieutenant-governor’s office was not the lu
xuriously appointed room Marc had expected. It was small, with a single window and a plain desk, upon which several neatly stacked piles of papers were strategically arrayed, like figures on a model battlefield. Beside it stood a simple table, cluttered with notes and binders—the secretary’s desk, now unoccupied.

  Behind the larger desk, in a wooden captain’s chair, sat the man himself. Sir John was a veteran of the Peninsular War and the decades-long fight against Napoleon, culminating in Waterloo, where he had been instrumental in securing the allied victory. As Marc was shown in by the duty corporal, Sir John rose and offered a brief, tight smile of recognition and welcome. For a moment his tall, austere figure and intelligent, appraising gaze left Marc speechless. He had, of course, chatted with Sir John several times at various galas in the fall, and most recently at the New Year’s levee, where the governor had gone on at some length about Marc’s uncle Frederick, who had served under him during half a dozen campaigns on the Continent. But Marc knew he had not been summoned here for polite chit-chat about his uncle.

  “Come in, Marc—I’m going to call you that, Ensign, if you don’t mind—and take a seat. We have much to discuss and too little time in which to do it.”

  Sir John began without further ceremony.

  “I will tell you as much as I know and am able to reveal to you at this time. As you are probably aware, having been abroad in the countryside on several occasions last year, I have numerous agents and correspondents in the districts who keep me informed on a regular basis of matters pertinent to His Majesty’s interests in Upper Canada. Joshua Smallman was one such man.”

  “The chap who used to run the dry goods store on King Street?”

  Sir John smiled, as if some portion of his judgment had been confirmed. “Yes. He packed up and moved off to Crawford’s Corners, a hamlet near Cobourg about seventy miles from here, after his son died, to assist his daughter-in-law and her brother in the operation of their farm. A Christian gentleman and a loyalist through and through. For the past twelve months he has been sending me sealed letters that have provided me and His Majesty with invaluable information regarding agitators and would-be insurrectionists in the Cobourg region—men who would have us yoked with the United States and its insidious republicanism.”

  It was little wonder, Marc thought, that Britain was hypersensitive to the threat of democracy from the south and the passions it stirred among the disaffected in Upper Canada. She had lost her Thirteen Colonies in the Revolutionary War, and then had barely hung on to the remaining ones up here during the American invasions of 1812 and 1813.

  “And I needn’t remind you that that area is Perry terrain,” Sir John continued.

  Peter Perry, Marc recalled, was a leading light among the radicals in the Legislative Assembly—Reformers they were called—and an outspoken critic of the governor and his conservative administration.

  “You think, sir, that Mr. Perry may have gone over to the annexationists or the Mackenzie republicans?”

  “He’s been conspiring with Willy Mackenzie on this latest so-called Report on Grievances cooked up by the Legislative Assembly. But no, it is not Perry or Reformers like Rolph or Bidwell or Baldwin I am concerned about—troublesome though they may be. In fact, it is precisely the inability of old conservatives and Tories like Allan MacNab or Orange fanatics like Ogle Gowan to discriminate between a loyal dissenter and a committed seditionist that has caused so much of the present confusion and discontent. Even Mackenzie does not concern me: he abides and caterwauls not half a mile from this office. His movements and nefarious doings are reported to me before they occur, and quite often when they don’t.” Sir John, whose military bearing dominated any room he chose to grace, glanced up from the papers on his desk to see what effect his modestly ironic sally might have had on the youthful ensign.

  “Joshua Smallman was not among the fanatics,” he said emphatically. “He was a humble citizen of the Empire endowed with common sense and a strict but not strident adherence to duty.”

  “Was?”

  “He died on New Year’s Eve. And I have good reason to suspect that he was murdered.”

  Marc’s surprise registered clearly on his face.

  “As you may already know,” Sir John said, in the same straight-ahead, matter-of-fact tone, “I have been unavoidably busy with packing my books and belongings in the past week.”

  “Then it is true that you are leaving for Montreal,” Marc said.

  “I am. Simply put, I am needed more urgently in Quebec, where open rebellion may be nearing. I am to lead the troops there. My sovereign has called me, and the long and short of it is that all of us, major general or drummer boy, must do his duty.”

  The manner in which Sir John first looked down and then glanced furtively back up alerted Marc to the sudden change in his own fortunes about to be announced, and the necessity of an unwavering obedience.

  “I have here,” Sir John continued, picking up a letter from his desk, “the last report that Joshua Smallman sent me. It is dated December 28, almost two weeks ago. It came into my hands after New Year’s Day, but I must confess to you—and upbraid myself yet again—that I let it idle amongst more trivial messages and petitions until yesterday evening.”

  “He wrote you, then, three days before his … death?”

  “That’s right. Naturally I was informed of that tragic event within the day by courier. The district magistrate, who is a staunch supporter of the government, sent me the news, and three days later I received from him and from the sheriff of Northumberland County at Cobourg a summary of their findings and the results of the inquest.”

  “Murder?”

  “Death by misadventure.”

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “According to Sheriff MacLachlan’s report and the minutes of the inquest, Smallman, for reasons undeterminable, set out on horseback from his daughter-in-law’s house on New Year’s Eve. He told her that he was doing so in response to a message, but she doesn’t remember seeing any note and swears no one came directly to the house that evening, other than neighbours invited in for a quiet celebration. Nor would he tell her where he was going, despite her earnest entreaty and her expression of fear for his safety.” Before Marc could interrupt, Sir John said, “The weather was inclement in the extreme: below zero with squalls of snow and a strong wind off the lake. But away he went.”

  “Worried? Anxious?”

  “One would assume so,” Sir John said with a rueful smile, “but apparently not. He was described as rather excited, eager even, with not the least suspicion of danger. In fact, his last words to the young woman—Bathsheba—were: ‘When I return I may have some news that could change our lives forever.’”

  “How, then, did he die?”

  “Presumably he headed east along the Kingston Road, turned off on one of the newly surveyed concessions—he was seen to do so by a reliable witness—and kept going towards the lake. Fortunately the snow stopped completely before midnight and the wind soon died down, so when a search party was organized the next morning by Philander Child, the magistrate, and the supernumerary constable for Crawford’s Corners, one Erastus Hatch, the trail left by Smallman’s horse was still traceable. They soon heard the wretched beast whinnying like a sick child from the woods nearby. They found it tethered and near death, and a few yards farther on they came across the frozen corpse of Smallman himself.”

  “Surely he couldn’t merely have lost his way. Not with a horse to lead him out.”

  “True. But he had donned snowshoes and trod straight into a deadfall trap set years ago by the Mississauga Indians and long since abandoned.”

  “Could it have been re-rigged more recently? For other ends?”

  With each question or comment from Marc, Sir John grew more assured that, despite the beardless and callow countenance of the youth sitting in near-solemn attentiveness before him, he had chosen the right man for the task he had in view.

  “No,” Sir John said. “The entire
area was thoroughly scrutinized by Sheriff MacLachlan and Constable Hatch. However, I expect you’ll want to see for yourself.”

  “But what can I hope to discover that they have not?” Marc said, genuinely puzzled.

  “Why I am suspicious of murder, you mean?” Sir John said dryly. “Well, I wasn’t, not until I read Smallman’s report last night.” He held the paper up as if he needed to consult its contents, whose import and detail he had committed to memory. “Among other things, not relevant to our concerns here, he hinted near the end that he had grown weary of playing secret agent, that he had started to have doubts about his own sentiments in regard to the grievances so recently raised by the Reformers in the Assembly.”

  “He doubted his own loyalty?”

  “Not at all. That he could never do, whatever the provocation. That is the very reason I trusted him. Even the frank expression of such fleeting doubts endeared him the more to me and further validated his probity in my eyes. When you have commanded men in battle as I have, or attempted to administer justice among colonial grandees driven by deceit and self-serving ambition, then perhaps you will better understand what I mean. No, I doubted not, nor do I now doubt, Joshua Smallman’s loyalty. But he did go on to inform me that he felt that his role as a ‘spy’—his characterization, not mine—was close to being exposed, that his daughter-in-law’s increasing sympathy for left-wing causes was becoming public knowledge and threatening to compromise him. He was beginning to feel torn between his patriotic duty to His Majesty and his Christian duty to his son’s widow and her family. Finally, he said that while he had no firm evidence yet, he felt matters were coming to a head on several fronts.”

  “Did he suggest he was in any physical danger?”

  “Yes. Not directly, mind you. I’ll read you what he wrote: ‘There are men in these parts who are growing more desperate by the week. Many of them I have mentioned in previous reports, all of whom, until quite recently, I would swear still held to legislative and lawful means to achieve their purposes. At this moment, I don’t know whether there is more danger in my being thought to be a true-blue member of the Family Compact or a Tory-turned-Reformer under the influence of his son’s wife. In either case, I fear my usefulness to you is at an end. I do not lack courage, but I must admit that I was shaken last week when a young lad from a radical family on one of the back concessions was found tarred and feathered and bearing a sign that labeled him a turncoat.’”