Solemn Vows Read online

  Cobb, who had returned Marc’s scrutiny in kind, finally opened his mouth to speak. “Would ya care fer a bite of supper? A pot of ale?”

  “No, thank you, I’m dining out later.”

  Cobb smiled, though it was hard to be sure because the man’s eyes and mouth were not particularly co- ordinated with one another. “Miss Dewart- Smythe is better company, I reckon, than the drubbers and riff- raff in here.”

  Marc did not smile back. “And what would you know about Miss Dewart- Smythe?”

  “I know a lot about a lot of things, yer grace. It’s what the city fathers pay me fer.”

  “I’m not a duke, Constable, I’m a lieutenant, Lieutenant Edwards. ‘Sir’ will do nicely.”

  “Well, then, Sir Edward, sir, I observed yer young lady on several occasions in the week past—in the course of me duties, I hasten to add. And a gen-u-ine looker she is.”

  “Don’t mock me, Constable, and do not speak in that flip pant manner of the young woman in question. That uniform will not protect you from a good thrashing—”

  “Now, now, don’t get yer linens in a snarl. If we’re gonna work side by side—and I got the orders from the sarge loud and clear on that score—we can’t go on callin’ each other by ten-syllable sober- quettes. You just call me Cobb, like the wife does when she’s speakin’ to me, and I’ll call you … Major.”

  Marc relaxed slightly. His experience in dealing with native-born citizens in Cobourg last January had taught him to proceed cautiously, to take no offence until certain some was warranted, and to proceed obliquely wherever possible. “Very well, then. You may call me ‘major,’ but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to address you as ‘constable,’ Constable,” Marc said, regretting the awkward repetition.

  Cobb shrugged.

  “Now, please tell me how you came to know of the lady and my, ah, interest in her welfare.”

  Cobb signalled for another ale, and seconds later the tapster hopped over with a fresh, frothing flagon. “They know me here,” Cobb grinned, then said, “The lady may not have mentioned that her uncle’s stores was burgled two nights ago. Their home and warehouse are on my patrol, so I went up there to see if I could help. The varmints had skedaddled, of course, with six cases of claret and a tun of port. Shame, too, ’cause it’d just arrived from overseas.”

  “But I was there Monday evening—”

  “I seen ya come out, lookin’ particularly satisfied, I’d say. But the old fellow and me was in the warehouse lookin’ over the damage at the time. I spied ya prancin’ off down Newgate Street through the storeroom window. The lady herself didn’t know nothin’ about the break-in till later. Things like that tend to scare aristo-crustic ladies, I’m told.”

  Marc knew enough to ignore what was irrelevant. “Did you find any clues?”

  “Nothin’ except a jimmied back door. The sarge is in quite a flap about this thievin’ of spirits. There’s a rash of it goin’ ’round. I was called out to assist Constable Wilkie—he’s got the east-end patrol—way out at Enoch Turner’s brewery near the Don River last Saturday, it was. A dozen barrels of good beer rolled out and loaded quick as a fart onto some schooner or dory, no doubt. Big shots like Dewart- Smythe and Alderman Enoch tend to make the sarge’s breakfast bubble.”

  “You didn’t suppose that I was the thief?” Marc said impishly.

  Cobb gave him a curious look. “It did occur to me, Major, but you weren’t luggin’ any casks under yer arm, and I figured you had more interestin’ counter- band in mind.”

  “And you had observed me there on other occasions?”

  Cobb took a hefty swig of ale, brushed the froth away with his cuff, and said, “We work closely with the watch at night. There ain’t much about people’s comin’ and goin’ we don’t know about—sometimes even before they do.” He laughed, spraying ale over the remnants of his dinner.

  “Then your observational skills may come in handy during my investigation,” Marc said affably.

  “Our investigation, Major.”

  “Have you been briefed on the details?”

  “So far, I only know what I hear in the taverns between here and Church Street.”

  “You spend your time in taverns?”

  “Only durin’ the day,” Cobb said, ostensibly offended.

  “But should you not be patrolling the streets assigned to you? In London a bobby’s principal function is to prevent crime by providing a visible presence day and night.”

  “Now, Major, I do venture outdoors once in a blue moon, just to air out my uniform and stretch the kinks out of my legs. But I find I can learn more about evil-doin’ by just sittin’ here keepin’ my rabbit ears open and waitin’ fer my many informants—or snitches as we call ’em—to sashay up and tell me what I need to know, fer the price of half a flagon usually.”

  “But there are disturbances of every kind out there, surely.”

  “Surely. And lots more in here. We constables are run plum off our feet, or knocked off ’em, by brawlers and drunks and wife- beaters and the like. Why, if I didn’t spend half my time movin’ smartly from dive to dive, I’d miss the pleasure of a fist in my face or a knee up the nosebag, so to speak, or the pure joy of smackin’ a low- life silly before he pukes all over me. Yessir, Major, us constables’ve got plenty of hours in a day to do a lot of serious investigatin’—in and out of the town’s taverns. Not to speak of all the happy hours we put in investigatin’ whorehouses and investigatin’ inebriated gentlemen home to their good wives and investigatin’ some mistress cudgelled black and blue by a bigwig fer the sheer sport of it, and investigatin’—”

  “I take your point, Constable.”

  “To give you a fer-instance, it was whispered to me not five minutes before you come in here that the same thieves did over the wine warehouse as did the brewery. Got no names yet. But I will, if it don’t take you forever to investigate a simple murder.” He drained his flagon, waved it once at the tapster, and said, “So why don’t you start things rollin’ by feedin’ me the details.”

  Aware that he was in danger of being late for his supper with Eliza, Marc quickly sketched out what had happened up at Danby’s Crossing (censoring somewhat the chapter entitled “Crazy Dan”), and even outlined the theories he was considering. Cobb listened without comment, equally absorbed, it seemed, in making his ale last to the end of Marc’s tale.

  Marc finished but did not wait for Cobb’s response—should he have one—for he felt he had sized up his assistant sufficiently and assessed his potential usefulness. “What I’d like you to do, Constable, is arrange for a surreptitious surveillance of Philo Rumsey’s cabin. I’m convinced he will return, secretly, to fetch his wife and children or bring them money. He may even use an intermediary.”

  “You want me to keep an eye on his place without anybody else knowin’?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well, the best way to do that, Major, is fer me to have a couple of local types act as our eyes and ears up there. That way, no one’ll get suspicious or try to warn off this Rumsey fella. I can set that up tonight. I’ll have to loan a horse from the sarge, and take Wilkie with me, ’cause he used to live in that township when he was a tad. We’ll ride up there and just pop into the saloon, out of uniform. We’ll have yer watch goin’ before it gets dark.”

  “Better still, I’ll write you a note to take to the hostler at Government House, and he’ll provide you with fast horses—”

  “—which’ll blow our cover within five miles of Danby’s saloon. The sarge’s nags’ll do just fine.”

  “Yes, you’re right. At any rate, I’ll leave the surveillance to you. But we also need to interview the storekeepers on the market square—discreetly—and build up a picture of the Rumseys and Phineas Kimble, the harness-maker. I’m certain he’s involved, because he definitely lied about not hearing the shot that came from his own house.”

  “If you go up there and take one step outside Danby’s in yer fancy dress, the jig’ll be
up, Major. What I’ll do tonight is get good and drunk, so’s I’ll have to sleep it off on the street or the bush. I’ll take some pots and pans along and pertend I’m a peddler, and Wilkie’ll be my helper. Then I’ll go door to door tomorrow, hungover like, and purvey my wares, whilst pokin’ about gently fer any gossip about Rumsey or Kimble. Wilkie’ll suggest who we can trust up there as our spies, and take care of that end before he comes home.”

  “Yes, Constable, that sounds like a superb plan.” His respect for the man was growing with every passing minute. Marc rose.

  “Enjoy yer dinner, Major.”

  Marc hesitated. “Pardon the personal question, but did your father by any chance name you after Admiral Nelson?”

  Cobb flinched. “No sir, Major, sir. My pappy named me after some fella in a foreign play.”

  SEBASTIAN DEWART- SMYTHE, wholesale wine merchant, lived on Newgate Street near Yonge, not too far from the stately residence of the influential Reform family of William Baldwin. Mr. Dewart- Smythe had one wing of his spacious (but not so stately) residence devoted to the safe storage of tuns and casks of imported wine. In the other wing he lived in comfortable, unostentatious affluence with his niece, Eliza. Only one servant, a butler-cum- valet, lived in. The Dewart- Smythe family of Kensington, England, operated wholesale wine houses on three continents.

  Marc had met Eliza the previous November at a harvest fête held in the sumptuous halls of The Grange a few weeks after she and her uncle had arrived to open yet another branch of the family business. He had danced with her once, and afterwards made polite chatter with her long enough to learn that, while her uncle was her guardian, she had come with him principally as a helpmate—her interest in and knowledge of wines along with her fluency in French, Spanish, and Italian making her, she claimed, indispensable. Marc had been aware of her rich, dark, ringleted hair, intelligent brown eyes, voluptuous figure, and attractive, if not pretty, features. But at that time he had not yet recovered from his youthful affair with Marianne Dodds, the ward of a neighbouring landowner back home in Kent. Last November, all the young women at soirees and balls had seemed to him to be frivolous and self- absorbed.

  Then, in Cobourg this past January, he had, he was certain, fallen truly in love. The sudden and mysterious death of Beth Smallman’s father- in- law had brought him to her farm, and he had been of material assistance to her. While Beth herself had been noncommittal, she had undoubtedly been drawn to him even though their political outlook and loyalties were opposed. But when Beth did not reply to his letters and even the letters from Beth’s friends and neigh-bours stopped coming, he began to accept that there was no hope for him. It was then he suddenly realized just how different Eliza was from the debutantes and husband- seekers among her contemporaries.

  In April he had met her by chance on King Street, shopping, and they took up their November conversation as if six months had not intervened. She shocked him, then, by inviting him back to her house for coffee, in the middle of the afternoon with her uncle absent next door and a befuddled butler serving them. But what was most surprising was that Marc found himself completely at ease in her presence. Eliza said what she meant and meant what she said. There was no need to be on guard or to wonder what was going through her woman’s mind: her gaze was as candid as it was kind. The only difficulty—and it was one he was loath to discuss with her—was that she seemed to him much of the time more like an elder sister than a potential lover.

  But not all the time, and definitely not this evening. Supper itself was pleasant and predictable enough, with Uncle Sebastian steering the conversation back to wine whenever it threatened to veer towards topics he thought too crude for feminine ears, and Eliza having her say on the most arcane details relating to the business here and abroad—while Marc smiled vacuously and basked in Eliza’s knowing, grateful glances. Then, despite a solemn promise to Eliza not to do so, her uncle raised the subject of the break- in late Monday evening and proceeded to expound upon the incompetence of the newfangled constabulary and the superiority of the magistrates and squires of old. Marc decided to remain mum on both themes.

  At seven- thirty Uncle Sebastian rose with some effort (he was portly in the extreme) and said deliberately, “Well, I’m off to the Shakespeare Club meeting at McBride’s. May I give you a lift, Lieutenant? It’s not out of my way.”

  Marc got up. “It’s a fine evening, sir, and I feel the need to walk off some of that splendid meal.”

  “But only when you’ve finished your cigar and brandy,” Eliza said. “You wouldn’t be rude enough to rush Mr. Edwards into the street hatless, would you, Uncle?”

  “Of course not, my dear. Do stay for a few minutes, sir. I know that my niece gets lonesome with only the day- servants to talk to while I’m working. I’m sure Chalmers will be happy to show you out before he retires at eight.” The old man gave Eliza what he assumed was a stern look and headed for the hall.

  “He won’t be back till ten o’clock,” Eliza said with a conspiratorial smile. “They’re doing a reading of Act Three of Julius Caesar tonight and Uncle, improbably, has been cast as the lean and hungry Cassius.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly stay for a little while. I’ve had a trying two days, and you’re always such a thoughtful listener.”

  “I’ll put my oar in when required,” Eliza said.

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR MARC RECOUNTED, not always in sequence, the events and emotions and mental debates surrounding the death of Langdon Moncreiff. And though Eliza was not especially concerned with politics, she was fascinated by human behaviour and motive. She interjected, almost tenderly, from time to time to ask a question or to seek further explanation. At last Marc began to wilt, his broad shoulders sagging, and he slumped against one of the pillows on the settee. Eliza, in a simple blue dress with a dark sash accentuating her narrow waist and full bosom, slipped across the room, fussed with a spray of pink roses for a minute, then turned and settled herself demurely beside him.

  “Do you think Moncreiff could have been mixed up in some lovers’ quarrel?” Marc asked her drowsily, quite sick of all such unanswerable and futile queries.

  “No, I don’t. An outraged husband or jealous lover would have done the deed himself or else arranged for it to be done in a less public place. You are wasting your precious time and energy pursuing that line of inquiry.”

  “So you know a lot about love and lovers?” Marc teased.

  Eliza frowned briefly, and Marc instantly regretted the remark. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “I did love someone deeply, and lost him. But don’t you think that sort of experience makes one appreciate the troublesome joys of love itself, that one can become the stronger for it? And more capable of genuine affection?”

  Marc was about to agree wholeheartedly but was forestalled by the suddenness of the kiss that neither of them could recall initiating. Marc put his arms around her, and the softness of her breasts pressed against him. He let his face drift into her hair as she gripped his back with clenching fingers.

  The hall door banged shut.

  They sprang apart. Eliza straightened her hair, patted her dress smooth, and leapt to the dining- room door in time to greet her uncle with a cheery hello.

  Then she said with genuine concern, “But you’re back early, Uncle. It’s only nine-thirty.”

  “Gastric complaint, my dear. I’ll take some salts and go right to—” Uncle Sebastian stopped in mid- sentence, all thought of his balky stomach forgotten. “Young man, what are you doing here at this hour with my niece—unchaperoned?”

  UNCLE SEBASTIAN TIPPED FORWARD in his padded chair, pushed his bewhiskered face over his plump and aching belly, and glared at Marc. “What I want to know, Lieutenant—and I wish the candid answer of a true gentleman—is this: What are your intentions towards my niece?”

  It was a fair question, and one Marc had asked himself several times before this evening and a dozen times on the slow walk behind Uncle Sebastian as they made their way in stiff silence
to his office.

  “I am not sure how I would characterize my intentions, sir. If I knew for certain, I would have approached you before this.”

  “Are you in love with Eliza, sir? I cannot put it more bluntly than that.”

  “I may well be—”

  “What blather and circumlocution! You should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve been skulking around here un-invited for the past six weeks, stirring up gossip along Yonge Street from the bay to Lake Simcoe! You had the impudence to linger here on Monday evening while I was attending to my ledgers and then again tonight when I expressly indicated I wished you to leave, as a proper gentleman would have done without having to be reminded. If you do not love her and have no intention of asking for her hand, then, sir, you are a blackguard and I am much deceived.”

  His jowls shook with anger and chagrin, but there was a kind of pleading in his eyes as he stared steadily at Marc.

  “You are not deceived, sir. I am truly fond of your niece, and I am in the process of falling in love. That is the truth, upon my word as an officer.”

  “Then you are considering a proposal sometime soon?”

  “Marc hesitated—not too long, he hoped—before saying, “I am.”

  Uncle Sebastian sat back, winced at his rebellious stomach, and attempted to relax. “Do you wish a brandy? Chalmers, bless him, is still afoot.”

  “No, thank you. I am exhausted from a—”

  “Not too tired, I trust, to be asked a few pertinent questions regarding your suitability as a suitor for Eliza’s hand.”