Dubious Allegiance (23 page)

As he lay thinking thus, he began to realize that the element of excitement and danger, which had beset him since his miraculous awakening in the hospital, was actually helping his rehabilitation by constantly bringing him back to his senses, to a quickness of thought and decision that could easily have mouldered under the strain of coping with Rick's death, facing his own precarious mortality, worrying about Beth and whether there was any future for them, or raging futilely against the inordinate injustices he detected everywhere about him in the world. Then a more profound thought asserted itself: Could a visceral revulsion against such grim realities have been part of the reason that Rick Hilliard had courted danger all his brief adult life? Did it explain Rick's willingness to step into the path of a bullet meant for somebody else?

The answers did not come before Marc fell asleep.

*   *   *

Marc was not unhappy to be wakened. He had been dreaming that he and Beth were rumbling over a dusty, grasshopper-ridden prairie in a Conestoga wagon towards some Yankee paradise
named after a decimated Indian tribe, and Beth was saying, “But I don't see any millinery shops!” just before a typhoon of some sort came wriggling out of the endless horizon like a rabid black cobra. He recognized it as a nightmare even before he was fully awake.

But it was not the morning sun he felt on his right cheek. In fact it felt more like snow. The pistol lay where he had placed it, on his chest, except that it was now covered with fine, white flakes. His hair was ruffled by a tiny, chill breeze.

He sat up quickly, knocking the dressing-screen over against the fireless stove. His eye went immediately to the door. The booby-trap was intact. He sighed with relief. He had not counted on the extent of his fatigue and the consequent depth of his sleep: even if someone had forced the door open, he was unlikely to have heard the intruder, who would have had plenty of time to murder both the dummy and its creator.

He turned now to the source of the draft and the snow. The lone window—overlooking the woods behind the inn—was ajar. If there had been much wind, it would have been blown completely open. With growing dread he turned slowly and made himself look at the bed. The night-capped pumpkin was still in its place, but the bedclothes had been knocked askew. He went over and examined his “head.” There was a two-inch incision just below the “chin.” In the deep of the night, someone had crept in through the window, stabbed him through what should have been his throat, and crawled back out—undetected by the great investigator.

D
espite the obvious jeopardy Marc's fatigued sleep had placed him in, it had left him feeling rested, alert, and ready to discover who was trying to murder him—and why. That he was the intended victim was no longer in doubt. Stiffly but with great determination, he walked over to the window and peered out. The snow was falling gently, drifting down with just the whisper of a breeze to suggest it was in motion at all. Marc could actually see a hazy outline of sun above the shadowed treeline to the southeast. Looking directly down, he noticed for the first time that a wooden ledge, about a foot and a half across, ran along the width of building between the two floors, all the way to the rickety fire-stairs, now mantled with snow like a derelict scaffold. He could see footprints—two sets probably, one going and one coming—stretching along the ledge to the fire-stairs. The assassin must have come up those stairs, or out onto
them from the inside hall, and shuffled along the ledge to his unbarred window. From there, if one were bold or desperate enough, it would be simple to ease open the window, enter, and do the deed.

Marc noticed also that it seemed to be about nine o'clock, from the position of the sun, and that the footprints on the ledge were three-quarters filled with fresh snow. Thus, he could not determine their true size or imprint, though he guessed that they were made by a small or medium-sized person, certainly not a large man.

Dismantling his booby-trap, he went out into the main hall. He could detect no sounds from the other rooms. No doubt everyone but he was down in the dining area having breakfast. Well and good. He went to the smaller hall, where it met the main one, and followed it back to the rear exit. Again, he stopped to listen and heard no-one. He eased open the rear door, ignored the sudden chill of the January morning, and examined the landing. It was dotted with bootprints, as if someone, or more than one person, had stomped about there—impatiently? to keep warm? to get up enough nerve? These imprints were also drifted in with snow. Several pairs of prints were visible leading up and down the stairs and, at ground level, veered off in several directions. He realized that the hotel staff might use this back entrance in the course of their duties, and so it was really impossible to tell if the assassin had climbed these stairs to reach the ledge or had got to it from inside the inn.

A few yards behind the building lay several barns and sheds, with well-trod paths leading to and from. Still, intent
on considering all angles, Marc walked down the steps, creaking and shuddering, and followed various sets of near-obscured prints, ending up either at one of the sheds or on a much-frequented path that led into the woods towards the creek, where Brookner had been promenading earlier last evening. Marc did not pursue these farther, as any prints there could have easily been those of staff or guests or locals enjoying the scenery. Besides which, Marc was no tracking scout.

Mildly discouraged, he went back up the fire-stairs to the second floor and scanned the carpet of the rear hall in search of wet stains. He ran his hand along its surface, feeling for dampness. He found none. But if the murder had been attempted as early as midnight, say, any telltale signs of snow having been brought back in on the assassin's boots might be lost. He upbraided himself for sleeping in. The only conclusion he could draw at this point was that the intruder had used the ledge and the landing. How he got there was anybody's guess.

Back in his room, Marc took time to scrutinize the “wound.” It was a precise incision, very thin and slightly wavy, the work of a flensing-knife, perhaps, or an extremely thin dagger. Other than that, he could find no other clues. His trunks had not been opened or searched. Nothing else seemed out of place.

The next question was whether or not he should reveal this attempt to the others. If the culprit were an outsider, they could well have seen or heard something of importance. On the other hand, if it were Lambert, for instance, Marc thought he would be wise to keep his counsel and merely watch. Perhaps his sudden appearance at breakfast, like Banquo's ghost, might
be enough to startle the killer into giving himself away in some manner. But if that failed, would another attempt then be made? The opportunity for it now seemed remote, as the group would be travelling together all day, with the outside possibility of reaching Kingston by late in the evening. However, if they only made Gananoque and had to put up as a group for one more night, Marc would have to come clean or be extraordinarily cautious. He decided to watch and wait.

Marc wheeled sharply to his left at the bottom of the stairs and strode across the foyer to the open dining area and the table where several of the entourage were seated at breakfast. “Good morning!” he boomed cheerfully, but his eyes darted about, seeking signs.

Pritchard, Sedgewick, and Lambert looked up from their coffee and newspapers. The Brookners were not present. What on earth was going on with those two? Marc had heard no sounds from their room. Down here, though, it was plain that his abrupt entrance had made no particular impression on any of the gentlemen. Lambert barely glanced up from his paper to nod a surly hello. Pritchard, addicted to bonhomie, smiled and stood up almost halfway to greet him. Percy Sedgewick said “Good morning” to Marc as if he were genuinely glad to see him.

“Here's my newspaper, Lieutenant,” Pritchard said. “I've finished with it. I'll get Dingman to bring in some fresh supplies. There's quite a good pot of coffee on the sideboard.”

“You're most kind,” Marc said.

“I trust you've had a solid night's sleep,” Sedgewick said. “Did you happen to see anythin' of Addie or Randolph?
They're awfully late, and the captain usually goes for his fool walk long before this.”

“Perhaps I should go and knock on their door,” Marc offered.

“Oh, I didn't mean to sound no alarm,” Sedgewick said quickly, colouring slightly. “You go ahead with your breakfast. I'll slip up in a few minutes if they're not down soon.”

“Yes, I hate to be impolite about it,” Pritchard said, “but we need to leave here within the hour if we're to attempt Kingston.”

“Addie's been upset with her husband over his boastin' and his damn fool walkin' out in his tunic,” Sedgewick said. “I heard them arguin' about it last night.”

Among other things,
Marc thought.

“She thinks he'll get himself shot by vigilantes or else catch pneumonia.”

“I thought I'd catch my death last night,” Pritchard chortled. “How about you, Lambert?”

Charles Lambert continued to study his newspaper.

Just then they heard a clumping of boots on the stairs across the foyer, and turned as one to see Captain Brookner fully dressed and ready for his constitutional. No-one was particularly surprised that he did not greet them, but rather wheeled and headed away towards the side door.

“For Christ's sake, Randolph, listen to your wife for once in your life!”

Sedgewick's uncharacteristic outburst startled everyone, including Brookner, and brought Murdo Dingman motoring dangerously down the hall from his office. Sedgewick followed
up his brief advantage by leaping up and trotting across the foyer to the hallway where Brookner had stopped and merely half turned to wait for him, in his customary haughty manner. The two began arguing, sotto voce, to the embarrassment of the breakfast table. Suddenly, Brookner pushed Sedgewick away and stomped out into the morning.

Red-faced and obviously unused to dealing with such situations, Sedgewick trudged dolefully back across the foyer.

“You did your best,” Pritchard said. “But a man must determine his own fate,” he added sententiously.

Sedgewick sighed and sat down. He was sweating.

Dingman decided it was time to defend the honour of the inn. “I can insure you, sirs, that the ground and previews of this establishment are as safe as a mouse in its hole. We are all loyalists in this township. We adulterate the young Queen.”

“For which I'm sure she shall be grateful,” Pritchard said with some amusement, “when she hears of it.”

Lambert looked up from his steady perusal of the
Brockville Recorder
and said to Dingman, “I could help you with that last will and testament now, if you have a moment.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Lambert. Mrs. Dingman's been after me to do somethin' about it fer ages, and when I learned you were a solicitor—”

“May we go to your office now?” Lambert asked with great politeness.

“Indeed, sir, indeed.”

Lambert got up, nodded to excuse himself, and then he and Dingman disappeared around the corner into the rear hall from which they could access the proprietor's office. At that
same moment, Adelaide Brookner came across the foyer towards them, looking, to everyone's astonishment, flushed and flustered.

“Has he gone off?” she asked her brother.

She was a changed person, and they all stared. Her hair was dishevelled, her blue eyes underscored with black smudges, as if she had not slept or slept badly. Her mourning dress was rumpled, and the black scarf she used to cover the upper reaches of her bosom and neck had been stuffed carelessly in place and flung haphazardly under her chin.

“I tried to stop him, Addie, but he's worse than ever.”

Adelaide gave her brother a grateful smile. Then she addressed Marc and Pritchard. “I apologize for my appearance. My husband and I, as you may well have heard, had an argument last night. I did not sleep well. I don't think Randolph did either. We only woke up about fifteen minutes ago. My husband began dressing for his morning walk, and we quarrelled again. When he marched out, I just threw on my clothes. Foolishly, I still thought I might stop him or persuade you to—”

“No need for apologies, madam,” Pritchard said gallantly, though he was quite flummoxed by all this ungentlemanly and unladylike behaviour among the colonials. “I'll fetch you some hot coffee.”

“That would be kind of you.” She sat down with a sigh beside her brother.

Marc was wondering what really had transpired up there last night. If Adelaide had lain awake, as well she might have after the altercation, then she may have seen the assassin
shuffling along the ledge right past her window. Also, it was clear now that both husband and wife had been asleep during his investigation of the footprints on the landing and beyond.

Adelaide sipped at her coffee, bringing it all the way up to her lips, as if it were too much effort to bend down to it. Closer to her now, Marc could see the dried runnels where copious tears had fallen. She caught him staring.