Dubious Allegiance (11 page)

“I do my duty, even fer scum like you.”

Rubbing his cheek gingerly with his ungloved fingers, Nestor looked hurt. “How can you say such a thing, after all the help I've given you?” Nestor thought of himself as Cobb's number one snitch and, on rare occasions, came up with useful bits of information about the underclass he guzzled among.

“Why would those guys waste their knuckles on the likes of you?” Cobb asked. “I ain't seen them around here before.”

Nestor wiped the blood from his nose and said, “I don't know their names, but I know who they are.”

“I may be sorry for askin', but go ahead and tell me.”

“They're from Thornhill, up in the County. They followed me from the tavern, but I heard them talkin' in there when they didn't know I was listenin'.”

“Your only talent.”

“They come down here to teach me and all the other snitches a lesson, they said. Some fellas up that way paid 'em.”

“Paid good money to have you beat up?”

“They thought I'd been tellin' tales about the big meetin' of Reformers comin' up. I think they meant to kill me.”

“But you've been spreadin' nonsense about the radicals for months now. Nobody in their right mind would pay the least attention to it, let alone offer cash to have your mouth shut forever—though that'd be a service to the
bawdy politic.
”

Nestor looked coy, or at least as coy as a battered and shivering man could manage: “This time I got the real goods. But I ain't told a soul, I swear to God.”

“And He'd swear right back at you.” Cobb turned to go. “And I ain't in the mood for any more of your gimcrack gossip.”

“I gotta tell
some
body!”

“Go to the station and tell Sarge. He'll probably give you a medal.”

“You know I can't go there—Jesus, they loosened my tooth!” Nestor was poking at the single molar that graced the lower back portion of his gaping mouth.

“Stay out of sight for a while,” Cobb said, not unkindly, walking away.

“Hey, what's this?”

Cobb turned to see Nestor clutching a sheet of paper.

“Give me that, that's police property.” Cobb could see that Nestor had picked up the broadsheet that Gussie had thrust upon him earlier, the one with the sketch and description of the suspected Yankee agent.

“I seen this fella,” Nestor said. His eyes widened larcenously.

Very slowly, Cobb took the paper from Nestor's hand. “Where?”

“In the Tinker's Dam.”

The Tinker's Dam was a dive up beyond Jarvis and Lot Street, a hangout for fugitives and their admirers. “You did, did you?” Cobb asked, trying not to reveal his interest. “And when would this've been?”

“What's it worth to ya?”

Cobb smiled menacingly. “You'd sell your granny for sixpence. I'll give you enough for one beer now, and a quarter if anythin' comes of it.”

Nestor pretended to think this over. “I saw him a coupla
days ago. I sat near him up there on Friday, I think. A Yankee with a phony Irish brogue, by the sound of him. He was quite pie-eyed, an' braggin' about gettin' even with some swell who had done his family a grievous wrong.”

“You're sure? It's a pretty skimpy sketch.”

“It's him all right. And I know the name he was usin', though up there it weren't likely the one his mama give him.”

“A second beer, then, for the name.”

Nestor grinned, winced at the discomfort doing so caused, and said, “Silas McGinty. Can you believe it?”

“I'm beginnin' to believe most anythin'.” Cobb sighed. He turned once more to go.

Nestor's voice, with its wheedling whine, followed Cobb out of the alley: “They're all meetin' up at Montgomery's tavern tonight! They're plannin' ta kill us all in our beds!”

Cobb carried on to King Street. He had no doubt who “they” were. But he was trying desperately not to give the least credence to Nestor Peck's so-called “facts.”

D
ora had gone out to deliver a baby somewhere on Newgate Street, but Fabian and Delia had come home from school early enough to heat up a stew and butter some of Saturday's bread. They watched their father eat with that mixture of revulsion and awe that children have for the peculiar capacities of adults. Father and offspring were getting ready to leave the house when Dora Cobb came stumbling up the kitchen steps, breathless.

“You run all the way?”

“Don't start, Mister Cobb.”

“Trouble, luv?”

“False alarm,” she said, puffing and flushing as the children each took hold of a coat-sleeve and pulled.

“Why're you lookin' so grim, then?”

Dora nodded meaningfully towards Fabian and Delia.

“You kids run along to school,” Cobb said, and the
youngsters reluctantly left. “Now, what's so grim the kids mustn't hear?”

With her coat removed and her tuque and mittens set adrift, Dora shifted her bulk onto the nearest chair. “I met my sister May on Yonge Street. She'd come in on the coach from the township just to see me.”

“Strange time to be visitin' your relatives.”

Dora flinched, but was in no mood to defend her turf, which alarmed Cobb considerably. “Her eldest's run off.”

Cobb relaxed. “Again?”

“It's serious this time.”

“You know darn well young Jimmy's been sniffin' after that Hartley girl ever since threshin' time. They've probably run off together.”

Dora gave her husband a withering look. “I ain't no foolish woman, Mister Cobb.”

Now it was Cobb who flinched. “What's he done?”

“He run off after supper last night. He took two dollars from the pickle jar—and his daddy's gun!”

“But that old musket ain't been used since the Wars of the Posies.”

“It could get him killed.” She sighed. And they both knew what she meant.

Cobb began to think that the well-ordered parts of his life had started to come unglued. Could there be any truth to Nestor Peck's story about a radicals' meeting tonight at Montgomery's tavern north of the city on Yonge Street? If one were planning an invasion of the defenceless capital, that would be
a logical place for rebels to gather and conspire. Still, there had been many such rumours over the past few weeks. Jimmy Madden's leaving home with money and a gun, however, was both oddly coincidental and ominous. It didn't have the sound of an elopement. He knew now that he would have to pass Nestor's information along to Sarge, though he would give the tale no particular coloration; it was his betters who were responsible for the safety of the government and the province, not a lowly police constable. He certainly would not mention anything about his nephew's unexplained exploit. That was family business, wasn't it?

At any rate, while Dora had raced home with her news, May Madden had made for the police station to enlist Cobb's aid. He agreed to hurry back there himself to see what, if anything, he could do, other than pat her hand and see that she got safely onto the afternoon stage to Thornhill. He was nearing Jarvis Street when he spotted a small person skidding towards him along the snow-slick boardwalk. He stopped and waited, braced for anything.

The messenger-boy known only as Scrawny came huffing straight up to him. “I got this note fer ya, Cobb,” he announced.

“That's
mister
to the likes of you.”

“Some old lady come bustin' inta the station!” He thrust the note into Cobb's hand.

May Madden could never be described as an old lady, even by Scrawny. “What're you waitin' for?” Cobb asked irritably. “I know you've been paid at the other end. Now git!”

The boy, gloveless and draped in cast-off rags, held his ground—unintimidated. “I thought ya might wanta send some message back.”

“Back where?” A cold chill was creeping along the nape of his neck.

“I'm pretty sure it was the old gal from the hat store what brung the note fer ya.”

Feeling guilty about rushing past the Court House but more than alarmed at the one-sentence summons from Catherine Roberts (“Please come as soon as you can”), Cobb found himself breathless outside the front entrance of the shop. A hand-written sign in the window read:
CLOSED FOR THE DAY
.

His fingers had not quite touched the handle when the door swung open.

“Thank God it's you,” Beth said. She was pale and shaken.

Aunt Catherine was standing, as if in shock, in the middle of a bonnet display. This time it was she who held a letter stiffly in her left hand.

“He's dead,” Cobb said, failing to make the remark a question.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Beth said. “This isn't about Marc.”

“What, then? Someone in the family?”

Beth took the note from her aunt's grip, guided the older woman to a bench, and sat her gently down.

“I think you'd better read this yerself. It was thrown through the little window in the workroom wrapped around a stone. It nearly hit one of the girls. I had to give them all a sip of brandy before I sent them home. Auntie insisted on going out to look for you, but I shouldn't have let her.”

Too startled to respond, Cobb took the wrinkled sheet of quarto-paper from Beth. The message was written in deliberately crude, black capitals:

YOU HAVE 24 HRS. TO LEAVE TOWN. THERE'S NO ROOM FOR YANKEES AND RADICALS IN THIS PROVINCE

THE LEAGUE FOR JUSTICE

P.S. WE MEAN BUSINESS: GET OUT!

“It could be them young fellas that broke yer front window last month,” Cobb said without much conviction. This message had the stamp of more desperate men. The news of the Quebec uprising had given the extremists on the right the upper hand among the moderate Tories, and respectable people without an army or militia to protect them from their enemies and their own fears could do things quite out of character.

“What do you think?” Beth asked, echoing her aunt's question earlier this morning, but the doubt and confusion on Cobb's face, however momentary, gave the game away.

“You ain't seriously thinkin' of leavin'?” he asked.

Beth said, “I've stood up to much worse than this, but—”

“Good. 'Cause I guarantee I'll have the names of these
blag-hordes
by tomorrow mornin'.”

“And I believe you, Horatio, but who's going put them safe behind bars?”

“I'll do it myself, if I haveta!”

During this brief exchange, Aunt Catherine had remained
seated on the bench, staring straight ahead. Her skin was pasty grey and covered with a sickly sheen. Beth put a hand on her shoulder and looked Cobb resolutely in the eye. “I've got to get her away from here,” she said.

“I got family near Woodstock—”

“Out of the country, I mean.”

“For good?”

Beth gave him a wry smile. “I wouldn't leave Marc. You know that.”

He nodded, still perplexed. “I think yer auntie needs a doctor.”

“It's all been too much for her, what with the wedding being called off at the last minute when the troops had to leave for Montreal, the damage to the shop, Rick's death, Marc's getting shot, and now
this.
”

“But you can't just up and leave your shop, your
lively-hood
and all.”

“Our new tenant next door, Mr. Ormsby, will close it up proper, store the stock, keep an eye on the place till I can get back. I'll see our girls get some severance pay.”

“But where can you go?”

“Pennsylvania, where we both have family.”

“But it could be risky for two unescorted ladies to travel, the way things are outside the city.” Cobb could not bring himself to mention his true fears about what might be about to happen, with all its potential dangers and uncertainties.

“We won't be travelling as two ladies.”

“I don't get it.”

“My plan is to leave today as soon as it gets dark. Auntie and I'll put on some of Marc's clothes and cut our hair. We'll be two gentlemen on horseback.”

“
Horse
back?”

Beth gave him a guilty smile. “We'll need your help.”

“The best way I can help is by talkin' you outta this foolishness. Your aunt here is in no shape to ride, and you won't get a mile before some
howl-i-ganders
on one side or the other'll stop you.”

“We need two sturdy horses who can get us all the way to the Niagara.”

Cobb was about to remonstrate with her again when Aunt Catherine seemed to awaken out of a trance to say, “I rode like a man when I was a girl in Pennsylvania. I will do so again.”

“I'm determined to take Auntie home, and I intend to stay with her till she's got her life settled again.”

“What about Marc?”

Beth's face darkened. “He knows me,” she said quietly. “I've got a letter for him right here. I'd like you to mail it. As soon as we get to Pennsylvania, I'll write you and Major Jenkin and give you our mailing address.”