Solemn Vows Page 12

  Cobb sighed, shrugged his shoulders, emptied his cup, and said, “You’re the governor, Major. Do ya want me to start with the point where I crawl out of the bush and gather my pots together?”

  “I don’t need all the extraneous—”

  “I know, I know.” Cobb got up and went over to the whisky barrel.

  Marc was suddenly aware of being stared at. He turned to his left, and no more than three feet away stood a ragged creature with a walleyed gaze and a drooling lip.

  “Don’t mind ol’ Stony,” Cobb said, sitting down. “He likes to look, but he’s as deaf as a post, ain’t ya, Stony?”

  Stony grinned, and drooled happily.

  “Here’s my report, Major, sir, with the details whittled away.”

  Marc acknowledged the witticism, and waited.

  “I had no trouble gettin’ the wives to chatter on about the Rumseys. Seems they’re the talk of the town. Rumsey is a loner. He ain’t got a political bone in his body. But since Kimble let him go last year, he’s been desperate poor. Kept his family alive by huntin’ in the winter and sellin’ the meat left over. The gossip is he’s beat up his missus or the nearest kid when he’s been in an ugly mood—but nobody claims they actually saw this.”

  “Desperately poor enough to take cash for a little marks-manship on the square?” Marc mused.

  “Desperate enough, I’d say. But I don’t think it was Kimble put him up to it.”

  “Why not? It was his house the shot was fired from.”

  “Maybe so. But Kimble’s got debts. He’s a bit of a poker player, they told me. He may be part of the set- up, but he’s not the money man.”

  “And his politics?”

  “A Reformer, but then everybody up in that township except old Danby and his dame are liberals,” Cobb said with some vehemence. “And so are lots of ordinary folk down here.” He stared hard at Marc.

  Marc carried right on: “Has anyone seen or heard of Rumsey, on the day of the shooting or since?”

  “Not up there.”

  Marc’s jaw dropped. Cobb deliberately took a slow draft of his booze, then said, “He was spotted in here on Tuesday evenin’.”

  “Jesus!” Marc cried. “We could have taken him!”

  Cobb smiled. “Not a soul in here would’ve turned him in—without a fifty-dollar reward.”

  “Who saw him? Let me question him!”

  Cobb sighed. “You don’t get it, do ya, Major? I was told by one of my snitches who was told by a pal of the guy who was supposed to’ve seen somebody who might’ve been Rumsey.”

  “My God.”

  “But he was here, all the same,” Cobb sighed again, and began to fuss with filling his pipe. He peered up and said, “He’s been spotted in other places, too.”

  “Christ, man, are the governor and I the only two people in the province who haven’t seen him?” Marc was exasperated, but he knew now that in Cobb lay his only hope of solving this crime.

  “Keep yer linens dry, Major. I’m just gettin’ to the good part. It seems Rumsey was a loner and a recluse up in Danby’s Crossing, but down here in town he was quite the dicer and ladies’ man. In these parts he went by the name of Lance Carson. His favourite waterin’ hole turns out to be the Blue Ox. One of my regular snitches there knew who he really was, though. But in them kinda dives and whore-houses a man is who he says he is.”

  “And?”

  “And so his movements weren’t as secret as he figured. Another snitch reckons he may’ve spotted someone who looked like Rumsey-Carson gettin’ off a fishin’ boat on the pier down past Enoch Turner’s brewery.” Cobb paused for a suspenseful puff. “About sun-up on Tuesday. And luggin’ a long ‘fishin’ pole.’”

  “I must have that man as a witness.”

  Cobb said nothing, puffing contentedly on his pipe.

  So, Marc thought, Sir Francis was right about Rumsey coming across the lake. And now they had him back in the province on the morning of the shooting and here at the Tinker’s Dam a few hours after it. Had he been on his way back to Buffalo? Well, no one had seen him there yet. So there was a chance that he might simply be hiding in the bush until he could figure out how to get his wife and children away with him. But with Cobb’s spies watching them closely, that would not be easy. Surely now it was just a question of being patient. There seemed, moreover, no quick way to link Rumsey with whoever had put him up to the deed.

  “You want to hear the rest or not?” Cobb said.

  “You’ve got more?”

  “A bit, and then some.”

  “Well, then, get on with it!” Marc snapped in his officer’s voice.

  But Cobb had got up and was glaring over Marc’s shoulder. “Harpie, you get away from Stony or I’ll come over there and knock the last of yer brains all over yer face!” He sat back down. “Sorry, Major, where was I? Ah, yes. As I said before, I had supper in the Blue Ox before I come up here. My dinner companion, fer the price of a meal and a flagon, happened to mention that he might’ve seen Rumsey-Carson here at the Tinker’s Dam about a week before the shootin’. In fact, I might’ve seen ’im myself if I’d’ve known what it was I supposed to be lookin’ at.”

  “But you’ve already said that Rumsey- Carson was in the city a good deal of the time he was supposed to be off hunting.”

  “Ah, but it’s who he was spotted with that’s downright curious.”

  “The person behind the assassination?”

  “Could be. Could be. Seems that Rumsey-Carson was seen drinkin’ here with a stranger—no one’d ever seen him before anyways—and they was talkin’ real low and secret-like, and when they finished, some money changed hands. Foldin’ money. Big bills you gotta crinkle more’n once.”

  “This sounds like the evidence we need,” Marc said excitedly.

  “’Course, it coulda been just a gamblin’ debt bein’ settled …”

  “What did this stranger look like?”

  “Hard to say. Dressed like a sailor, I was told, with a wool navy cap of sorts pulled way down over his brow—it was ninety degrees in here, I bet—and a bushy black beard.”

  “But that could be any of a hundred men wandering around the docks.” Marc could not hide his disappointment.

  “Maybe so,” Cobb said, “but he walked an’ carried himself like a swell.”

  MARC’S MIND WAS ABUZZ with facts and theories and might- be’s, as he and Cobb strolled over to the chestnut mare. Two naked children, purple with impetigo, were staring at the great beast with wide-eyed wonder.

  “There is one other thing, Major,” Cobb said, making a shooing motion with his hand that failed to dislodge the children. “Not a big thing, but you did ask me to look into the business of the letters in Mackenzie’s paper.”

  Marc stood with one hand on the saddle. “But surely you—”

  “That was the easiest part, Major. When I dropped into the Crooked Anchor to whet my whistle after my bumpy ride home today, a fella there was in his cups and braggin’ that he earned himself a U.S. silver dollar every Saturday mornin’, and all fer pickin’ up and deliverin’ a letter to the Constitution.”

  “Did he say who gave it to him?”

  “He wasn’t that drunk. And if I hadn’t’ve still been in my peddler’s disguise, he wouldn’t’ve spouted off like that at all.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “I believe it is, Major, though we country folk don’t pay much heed to the days of the week.”

  “But that means that—”

  “I can kick the old lady outta bed before sun- up and head down to Abner Clegg’s place.”

  “You know this man?”

  “He’s a dock worker and, if rumour be fact, not always an honest one. I’ll track him to your letter-writer like a he-hound on a she-hound’s arse.”

  Marc nodded his approval while failing to hide his amazement. Then he went over to the children and put a three- penny piece in each of their grubby hands. Cobb looked on impassively.

  �
�You’ve done yeoman’s service, Constable. I shall let the governor and Chief Constable Sturges know of your … diligence. And, if you’ll keep track of any monies you’ve paid out during the investigation, I’ll see that you’re reimbursed.”

  “We ain’t allowed to take fees,” Cobb said curtly.

  “Would you like a ride home?”

  “No thanks, Major. It’s a pleasant evenin’ fer a stroll. Besides, ya never know how many interestin’ people you might bump into along the way.”

  Marc mounted his mare and waved to the children.

  “Incidentally,” Cobb added, “I managed to sell three of the wife’s cookin’ pots.”

  It wasn’t until Marc was crossing Hospital Street that he had the unwelcome and disturbing thought that Cobb had gathered an enormous amount of pertinent information in only a day and a half, but not one jot of it had been, or could be, corroborated. Was it possible that he had made some of it up? All of it? And if so, why?

  IT WAS ALMOST EIGHT-THIRTY by the time Marc had reached his boarding house, bathed, changed his shirt, and presented himself at the Dewart-Smythes’. The excitement and mental turmoil over Cobb’s tidings had made it difficult for him to concentrate on what might lie before him. But it was hard to imagine that Uncle Sebastian’s blundering interference could seriously alter the rapport he and Eliza had cautiously established over the past few weeks.

  Although he was late, no mention was made of it. Supper was served in the parlour-dining room, and, although Uncle Sebastian kept a watchman’s eye on his niece and her suitor throughout the several courses of the meal (the jellied venison was particularly tasty, as were the fresh strawberries), Eliza showed no sign of irritation or concern. They discussed the funeral service, the outlandish dress of this or that country aristocrat, the sadness in the gait of Moncreiff’s daughters as they walked from St. James’ Church to their crêpe-swathed carriage, and the awful moment when the hearse had heaved sideways in the mud of a rain- slick street and nearly capsized. Eliza remarked how closely related were comedy and tragedy, which brought a reproving glower from her uncle, who then turned the conversation into a monologue on the infinite opportunities for the expansion of the Dewart-Smythe enterprise. “New York, now there’s a market, eh?” he sighed. Eliza gave him a curious stare.

  When the meal was complete, Eliza pushed her chair away from the table and went over and sat down on the sofa. She patted the cushion beside her. “Come over and have a cigar,” she said to Marc. And to her uncle, whose remonstrance never got as far as his lips, she said, “Did you not tell me earlier, Uncle, that you were going to check the new stock before retiring?”

  Uncle Sebastian huffed a bit but replied, “I believe I did.” And he struggled up out of his chair. Before he was fully upright, Eliza had taken two slim cheroots from the humidor on the table beside the sofa and popped one of them between her lips.

  “Eliza! What would your blessed mother say if she were alive to see you behaving … behaving like a—”

  “—gentleman?” Eliza said, laughing.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” Uncle Sebastian said, but he hurried off so as not to bear witness to the actual lighting of the offending objects.

  Eliza blew pretty smoke rings into the still evening air as twilight descended outside the bay window. “He’ll be gone for at least half an hour,” she said, leaning against Marc.

  For a long minute they were content to let the touch of their bodies speak for itself. Through the open window, the evening breeze perfumed the room with the scent of roses.

  “You should know he’s been asking me frank questions about what he calls my ‘intentions,’” Marc murmured.

  “I thought so,” she said, but there was only amusement in her face. “He’s been trying to find a way to warn me about the dangers of young men without actually spelling them out. I’m not sure he can spell them out, the old dear.”

  “He was quizzing me about my parentage and my prospects. I’m sure he sees me as a fortune- hunter pursuing your money and your virtue.”

  “Well, you can’t have my money!” she laughed.

  “I’m serious. In your uncle’s view, both my bloodline and my potential inheritance are suspect.”

  “You mean he would refuse you my hand in marriage?” The dark eyes danced.

  “Yes, I believe he would.”

  “And would you ask for it?”

  “Well, I …”

  “I’m teasing, silly. Let’s not spoil a good cigar with that kind of talk.”

  Marc sighed with some relief. Eliza was unquestionably a remarkable young woman. But when they had set aside their cheroots and slid comfortably into one another’s arms and when Eliza began nibbling at his ear, Marc simply held her close and rocked back and forth—his own lips open in pleasure but not in passion.

  Just then there was a sudden commotion in the hall.

  “Call out the watch! Fetch the constables!”

  Marc and Eliza jumped to their feet, but it was doubtful Uncle Sebastian had noticed their embrace.

  “They’ve been at it again!” he cried.

  “Who?” Eliza said.

  “The wine thieves, that’s who!”

  EIGHT

  Marc had yet another restless night. This time his nightmare took him to the death of Crazy Dan. In one horrific sequence the poor devil appeared with his head sundered from his body and floating above the neck-stump, where it proceeded to cry out a single word, over and over: innocent, innocent! This time when Colin Willoughby clumped in, waking him in the dead of night, Marc was relieved.

  Only in the morning, when he found that Colin had arisen early again and headed up to Government House, did Marc realize that it had been days since he and Colin had had a chance to sit down and talk as friends and it seemed unlikely they would have an opportunity to do so soon. At least the reasons for their distance were all in Colin’s best interest: his new duties at Government House and, it seemed probable, a newly awakened love life. Well, when all this trouble blew over or was resolved, he would take Colin out on a well-deserved pub- crawl.

  Before going over to Government House to report Cobb’s news to Sir Francis, Marc walked briskly through the Saturday sunshine to Eliza’s place. There he found Constable Ewan Wilkie, who had taken over Cobb’s patrol area and had returned to the scene of the break- in to examine it in daylight. He seemed pleased to see Marc, probably because he provided a neutral party to place between himself and Uncle Sebastian’s unchecked contempt. The thieves, whoever they were, had been professional to a fault. A door to one of the storerooms had been jimmied with a minimum of noise or damage. They had chosen an entrance off a shadowy alley and, somehow knowing the merchant’s routine, had moved in undetected just after closing time and selected only a few tuns of the most expensive wine. The fresh ruts of a cartwheel suggested they had boldly parked a wagon on the street and, as darkness fell, had rolled the tuns onto it, covering the booty with a sailcloth or such, and then trotting off at a sedate pace for their lair.

  Wilkie, a stolid man who blinked a lot, blinked at Uncle Sebastian and summed matters up succinctly: “I reckon, sir, you’ll have to get yerself a night watchman.”

  This advice did little to modify the good merchant’s contempt. And Marc decided that it was an inopportune time to ask after Eliza’s health. So he and Wilkie left together and walked down Yonge Street. Just before they got to King, Wilkie said, “By the bye, sir, Mr. Cobb wants to see you.”

  MARC MET COBB AT THE COCK AND BULL on York Street about eleven o’clock. For the first time Cobb looked just slightly abashed. Something had gone wrong.

  “You didn’t find out who Farmer’s Friend is, I take it,” Marc said, unable to keep the critical tone out of his voice.

  “’Fraid not, Major.”

  “Did this Clegg fellow show?”

  “Yup, just like he said,” Cobb replied. “I got to his house down on Front Street just as the sun was comin’ up over the Don. Out he waltzes a f
ew minutes later and starts headin’ west into the city proper. I was able to keep myself well hidden behind bushes until he arrived at Market Square, where the farmers’d already begun settin’ up their stalls and barrows. It was busy enough fer me to mix in with the crowd, seein’ as I wasn’t in uniform.”

  Marc refrained from pointing out that his beet- sized nose, spiked hair, and bottle shape might provide something less than perfect anonymity.

  “Well, all of a suddenlike, he starts to pick up his pace, and I do the same. But there’s three dozen stalls around us, and people start jostlin’ me, and before I know it, Abner Clegg’s vamoosed.”

  “You lost him?”

  Cobb looked hurt. “I don’t give up that easy, Major. I circled ’round the Market Square, checkin’ all the streets in and out. No sign of him or his shadow. So I head up towards Mackenzie’s shop on Church Street, duckin’ in and out of alleys careful- like, and pretty soon I spot him comin’ out of the printin’ place.”

  “He had delivered the letter?”

  Cobb ignored the impertinence of the interruption. “So I follow him down here to this dive. I send a message to you, and then wait outside fer him to leave. But all the time I’m thinkin’, like I always do, and I reckoned he wasn’t outta my sight after the market fer no more’n a quarter- hour, so he must’ve picked up the letter from one of the houses or shops within, say, three blocks of Mackenzie’s.”

  Marc made no comment on this unhelpful bit of deduction. Finally, he said, “Why the secrecy? All this cloak- and- dagger manoeuvring? Surely most letter- writers deliver their material themselves or have a friend do it or pay a street urchin a penny to carry it—or, if all else fails, use the mails.”

  “Beats me, Major. But I don’t suppose you’re interested in hearin’ the actual end to my story?”

  Marc heaved a deep and resigned sigh. “I’m all ears.”

  “Clegg’s got a mouth twice the size of his brain, lucky fer us. He starts braggin’ in here—in front of my chief snitch—about how he figures he was bein’ trailed this mornin’, and just to make sure it don’t happen again, he’s arranged with his client to pick the letter up next Friday instead of Saturday.”