Dubious Allegiance (27 page)

The courtroom erupted with unconstrained laughter. The coroner struggled valiantly to be unamused.

Bewildered by this inexplicable outburst, Dingman soldiered on doggedly. “Whenever I'm readin' or thinkin', I find I lose track of time. But I remember Mr. Lambert did come in with snow on his boots, before all the fuss started up in the foyer.”

“And that's the best you can do?”

“It is, sir. And I blame it all on my last will and testimony.”

“Then that will have to do,” said the coroner with a razor-thin smile. “You may step down.”

“But I ain't up, Your Honourable.”

*   *   *

Pulling flaps of cheek, brow, and jowl into more solemn conjunction, MacIvor Murchison read into testimony his own pathologist's report, which added nothing new to his initial findings earlier in the day. He next informed the witnesses and gallery that Lieutenant Edwards, who was by dint of elimination to be the next witness summoned, had provided the inquest with a detailed deposition, which testimony tended to corroborate much of that presented by the other witnesses.
Nothing they had said prompted him to call forth the good lieutenant for further enquiry. This announcement caused much disappointment and vocal complaint from the spectators, but the coroner waited patiently for silence. After which he informed them that he was ready to offer his preliminary findings, without a recess. Digby Parsons pushed several parchment-like sheets of paper in front of his master, who took five lengthy and dramatic minutes pretending to scrutinize the indecipherable notes of his earnest clerk. Then he brushed back the errant wig, which had gradually taken root in his eyebrows, and began.

“It is clear that the most probable suspect in the murder of Randolph Brookner is the man with the strongest motive, the relevant means, and plenty of opportunity. As magistrate for this county, I have been kept informed of any sightings or successful captures of rebel fugitives in this region. I can tell you today that Miles Scanlon has been seen by more than one dutiful citizen of this township no farther than five miles from this courtroom, as late as the day before yesterday. That he is the most logical one to have fired the fatal shot is the tentative conclusion of this summary inquest, and, in my role as magistrate, I am going to issue a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of murder, in addition to the charge of sedition. That is not to say that some other individual may not have conspired with Scanlon, in whole or in part, but until the latter is apprehended and brought before this inquest, the coroner declines to point a finger at anyone in particular. Needless to say, these proceedings are merely prorogued, to be continued when circumstances dictate. All those who have been travelling with Captain Brookner
will be subpoenaed to appear at a time and place to be determined later. In the meantime, all are free to go.”

The gavel descended, the spectators looked thirstily towards the bar, and the witnesses appeared much relieved.

Marc sat quietly on the bench, absorbed in thought.

M
arc was lying on his bed, reviewing the testimony in his mind and going over the events and conversations of the past three and a half days, when there was a tentative knock on his door. He opened it to discover Dingman's youngest boy standing expectantly in the hall.

“Yer bags, sir?”

“But we're not leaving till morning,” Marc said.

The boy blushed. “Then you ain't Mr. Pritchard?”

“I am not. I'm Lieutenant Edwards.”

The blush deepened. “Sorry, sir. It's Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Lambert that's leavin' in half an hour.” He turned and went farther down the hall.

Marc limp-trotted downstairs and found Dingman in his office, studying a heavily marked copy of his will. “I got them a fast two-man cutter from the village,” he told Marc without looking up. “There're hopin' to reach Brockville by ten o'clock.”

Then on to Kingston in the morning,
Marc thought. And out of his reach.

When Marc made no move to leave, Dingman reluctantly looked up and offered more details. “Mrs. Brookner is gonna stay with us tonight. Doctor Mac give her a sediment to help her sleep. She'll take the big coach in the mornin', with you and her brother—and the coffin, of course. Will you be wanting supper soon?”

But Marc was already out the door. He was still working out the details as he ascended the stairs, but he believed he now knew who his man was.

Marc passed the boy as he struggled downstairs with Ainslie Pritchard's luggage, and headed to the room at the far end of the hall. Lambert was still packing when Marc gave a single rap and entered. He was surprised, but that was all.

“You've come to say good-bye,” he said. “Would you like a drink?” He indicated a silver flask on the dresser.

“No, thank you. What I want is for you to sit down while I tell you a story, one that doesn't have a happy ending, Monsieur
Lam-bear.
”

There was a perceptible flinch followed by a soft sigh, nothing more. “So you've found out my little secret, eh?”

“I've found out a lot of your little secrets.”

Lambert sighed again. He dropped a shirt into his suitcase and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching with interest but no apparent alarm as Marc paced up and down before him.

“I know all about you, monsieur. I first suspected you weren't what you professed to be on the second day when I overheard you speaking
joual
, and I have been keeping a close
eye on you ever since. You are a French Canadian, not a citizen of Cobourg or Upper Canada. You were born in the St. Denis district and no doubt have dozens of relatives there. It was not your wife's family you were visiting, I suspect, but your own. And the extent of the devastation and carnage left you appalled and raging with hate against all things English, especially anyone in Her Majesty's uniform.”

“But I am a lawyer in Cobourg,” Lambert said without inflection or emotion.

“I'll come to that ruse in a moment. I have no proof yet, but I believe you are more than an outraged habitant. I think you've been playing at the spy-game, perhaps even as a double agent. You learned fluent English somewhere, probably in Vermont when you were very young, as you have no accent—”

“Thank you. I do try.”

“Most likely you have been moving about Quebec for at least the past month posing as an English-speaking lawyer from Cobourg, an obscure town suitably distant for your deceitful purposes. And I'm sure a clever fellow like you concocted a credible cover story. Any information thus gleaned by you would soon find its way to Papineau or his henchmen. But the glorious revolution went sour, didn't it? There were terrible battles and unforeseen losses. Then the barn burnings and reprisals began. Half of your so-called leaders were in jail. You could not resist the urge to see for yourself. So you left Montreal or Quebec City and ventured up the Richelieu Valley, growing more bitter by the mile. Perhaps you found that a cousin had been killed in action, another one incarcerated, a third with a razed house and barn and his children starving.”

Marc could see that he was beginning to penetrate the veneer of indifference that Lambert, with his lawyer's training, had managed to keep in place. Something like pain shot through his eyes, and one corner of his mouth curled downward. He tried out an ironic smile: “You should have been a barrister, not a soldier.”

“I'm just getting warmed up,” Marc said, turning too suddenly on his gimpy left leg and stumbling. “You may or may not be a lawyer—I considered trying out a few Latin legal phrases on you, but I didn't want to expose my hand too soon—but after the debacle at St. Eustache and the failure of the invasion from Vermont, you were a spy without a constituency. Your dream of a French nation was dead, ashes in your mouth. Your own home ground was in ruins. The only choices left were abject mortification or the joy of revenge. And you chose the latter: any man worth the name would have done so.”

“I have never denied being in St. Denis.”

“True, but by the same token, you've never set foot in Cobourg.”

“Oh?”

“You could not have set up shop there four months ago and not run into Major Barnaby. His surgery is on King Street, known to the whole county. And the hotel down by the wharf is the Lakeview not the Lakeside. Moreover, it was the larger and more prosperous Cobourg Hotel that you should have been able to recommend to Pritchard, if you'd ever laid eyes on it. That was all the proof I needed to expose you as a fraud. And one intent on exacting revenge whenever the opportunity arose.”

“You're suggesting that I arranged to ride into enemy
territory in a coach with two military men in order to turn my rage on them?”

“I am. Moreover, I have not discounted the fact that you may still be operating under orders from the exiled rebels abroad. Even though the cause is clearly lost—there will be ten thousand British regulars in Quebec by the end of this month—it hasn't been utterly abandoned. I intend to have you detained at Fort Henry and interrogated by the army there: you could well be on a dangerous mission to Toronto or beyond. Your luggage and person will be thoroughly searched.”

“So you're accusing me of espionage and indulging in a little murder on the side?”

Marc ignored the sarcasm: he was in full flight, doing what he might have done had he not taken up soldiering. “It's the murder that concerns me most, simply because it is me you have been trying to kill for the past three days.”

That cold, blunt remark extinguished any lingering sarcasm. Lambert's jaw dropped in astonishment.

“Don't bother denying it, for I've worked out all the salient details. First of all, I believe that Montreal was your base of operations. It was a logical choice. You would know or have contact with compatriots from all walks of life there. You knew or were friends with an aide at the temporary military hospital, a woman named Isabelle LaCroix.”

Lambert continued to stare, open-mouthed.

“My own foolish comrades bruited about the streets of Montreal that one Marc Edwards had done the enemy harm at St. Denis. When you returned from that region, about a month ago, you soon learned that this ‘hero' lay unconscious
and helpless nearby. I suggest that you bribed or suborned Miss LaCroix to stab me one night with an old bayonet you no doubt supplied her. Having failed, and in danger of discovery, she wisely slipped away two days later, to the protection of her countrymen. But you did not give up easily. Your intelligence network probably informed you of the date and means of my departure, so you got yourself a seat in Brookner's coach and began plotting. The months you spent playing the double-spy game allowed you to perfect the poker face: we just thought you a morose and misanthropic character and paid you little heed. Or so you assumed.”

Lambert's lips began to twitch.

“Your initial opportunity came on that first day when we ran up against the barricade, set there by rebel habitants, though I doubt they knew they were helping one of their own. In fact, as a
maudit Anglais
yourself, you risked being shot by those marauding gangs. Nevertheless, when you observed me limping off towards the river, while the others went to the other side of the road, you saw your chance and seized it. You kept a pocket pistol, I believe, in your big overcoat, and you followed me till I was well away from our party. But it was snowing and you had only one shot to make, and you missed. While I lay waiting for a second blow, you returned to the coach by a roundabout route. If I had revealed the incident to Brookner, the presence of vigilantes in the area would have readily and conveniently explained the ambush. I accepted such an explanation myself until yesterday afternoon, when I received word of your true identity. But you are a clever and patient man. You knew there would be further opportunities.”

Lambert, lips quivering, remained speechless.

“Your next move—diabolically clever—was to plant that death-threat in Brookner's carriage. The tale of the Scanlon brothers and the real possibility that Brookner would be the target of the escaped brother, Miles, gave you a fresh opening, for not only were there vigilantes behind every bush but a vengeance-seeking rebel who might easily mistake one military greatcoat for another. Unfortunately, despite the captain's urgings, I did not accommodate you by donning my tunic and shako. So you began to grow desperate. Here we were at Prescott, a day from Kingston and the breakup of the party. It was now or never. You knew that Brookner slept in the room next to mine. If I were found stabbed to death—a pistol would have been too noisy—it could be postulated that Brookner was the intended victim and Miles Scanlon the likely suspect. You must have been pleased, smug even, that I had not revealed the earlier attempt on my life. No-one knew that I was a potential target, except one of my fellow officers back in Montreal.”

There was a rustling sound just outside the door. “Are you ready, Mr. Lambert? Our sleigh is waiting. Shall I send the lad up for your bags?” It was Pritchard.