Solemn Vows (27 page)

Cobb leaned down and pulled Marc up, then held him as he tottered and swayed.

“I don’t think I can get home on my own,” Marc said.

Cobb was appraising the dishevelled state of Marc’s clothes. “You do this often, Major? Drop out of strange windows in the middle of the night?”

“Only when I can’t find the door.”

“Why don’t you just put an arm around my shoulder and we’ll see if we can find the door to the widow’s place.”

“Thank you, Constable.”

“’Course, with me gone, the burglars down here’ll think Boxin’ Day’s come early.”

They had barely shuffled half a block when Cobb paused to catch his breath, then said, “Say now, Major, where’d you leave yer hat?”

I
t was nine o’clock on Sunday morning when Marc woke up after a deep, dreamless sleep. Even so, his whole body ached. He realized now how utterly exhausted he had become in the ten days since the governor had narrowly missed being assassinated. The throbbing in his right ankle reminded him, despite his best efforts to blot out the memory, of the débâcle at Somerset House, and his astonishment that it was Hilliard, not Colin Willoughby, who had been courting both Chastity (the second misnomer in that family) and disaster. With a supreme exercise of will, Marc raised himself up and stepped down onto the rug below. His yelp
was piercing enough to bring both Mrs. Standish and Maisie flying to his rescue.

“It’s all right,” he insisted, not a little abashed at being observed standing at his bedside in his cotton nightshirt. “I twisted my ankle last night.”

“That must’ve been some dance,” Mrs. Standish said. “Maisie, run down to the wharf and buy some ice.” To Marc she said, “You’ll have to ice that swelling for a couple of hours at least. You should’ve had it looked to when you come in last night.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you—ouch!”

Mrs. Standish had both hands on his wounded ankle. “Well, it ain’t broken—just sprained. So we won’t need the doctor.”

“Did Colin come in after me?”

“Ain’t put his head to the pillow yet,” Mrs. Standish said reprovingly, and waved Maisie off on her errand.

Marc was not unhappy with that news: whoever Willoughby’s lover was, she would provide some necessary consolation, diversion, and, possibly, perspective.

Later, Marc was served breakfast in bed by an enthusiastic Maisie, who peered up at him with worshipping eyes whenever she felt he was not looking. Then the two women dressed and went off to St. James’ to hear “the dear Reverend Strachan” fulminate against the enemies of the Mother Church. Marc fell asleep again.

By midafternoon he felt strong enough to limp gingerly
about the house and, eager to find something to occupy his mind so that he would not start mulling over “what if’s” and “might’ve been’s” in regard to his feelings for Beth and his attraction to Eliza, he decided to go to the officers’ mess at the garrison and while away the Sabbath in the pleasure of male companionship. He had initially considered going over to see Eliza, as her uncle was still away, but remembered in time his solemn promise to her Friday night that he would see her only once again: on the day of her departure. Anything else would have been unbearable for her, and probably for him. So, Maisie was sent to Government House to arrange for the chestnut mare to be brought down to him, and to enquire after Sir Francis. The governor had fully recovered from his temporary dyspepsia and was safely at home. At four o’clock, with minimal assistance, Marc mounted and rode off towards the fort, less than a mile from the city.

I
T WAS DUSK WHEN HE MOUNTED
again and, pleasantly drowsy with good wine and serviceable food, trotted east along Front Street towards the town. In fact, he had fallen into a doze in the saddle, and the mare, without specific instruction, headed up John Street for the stables, and her stall. When Marc was finally jerked awake, he looked up to see that he was in front of Government House.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “You took yourself home.” He nudged her around towards the stables, where he hoped
to find a groom to lead the horse to his boarding house and return with her here. But just then the duty-corporal came hustling down the front steps to intercept him.

“An urgent message for you, sir!” he puffed, holding out a sealed envelope.

“From whom?”

“I think it’s from Lieutenant Willoughby, sir. A lad from the city was paid to run it up here, and he says it is very urgent. I was just about to send a rider down to the garrison to find you.”

“How long ago did it arrive?”

“Maybe half an hour ago.”

“Thank you, Corporal,” Marc said, taking the note and dismissing the messenger. As he opened the envelope and recognized the handwriting as Colin’s, Marc speculated as to the nature of any “urgency” his wayward friend might have got himself into: an irate husband with a primed pistol was the best bet. He read the note, but it was not what he expected. Not at all.

Marc did not hesitate. He urged the mare to a full gallop and was soon speeding east down Front Street towards the brewery. The sun had almost set, but there was still plenty of misty, high-summer light.

So, Rumsey had had an accomplice after all, Marc thought. He was not surprised, as he had suspected Kimble from the outset. Cobb had reported that Kimble had money troubles, and so his involvement with the murder and with these break-ins was no doubt driven by the need for cash. And it seemed certain that the information he could provide would lead to the naming of the instigator and the discovery of his motive. That this person was in all likelihood a member of the elite class, whatever his politics, would explain why Kimble was demanding to speak to a high-ranking official: the knowledge he possessed was deadly dangerous. For a brief moment, Marc felt a pang of jealousy: what if Willoughby—also a member of the governor’s staff—should prove to be that high-ranking person and get credit
for solving the murder? Marc shook off the thought and dug his good heel into the mare’s left flank. Justice was the paramount concern.

As Marc galloped past the last houses on Front Street, he looked up to see the great Gooderham windmill that marked the eastern entrance to the capital. It was turning slowly and steadily, a symbol, Marc thought, of humanity’s persistence and quest for permanence in an otherwise inhospitable wilderness. Marc was almost beginning to feel at home here. Soon Turner’s brewery stood before him, shadowed and unlit anywhere inside or out. It was Sunday, and no one would be about—except the police and the thieves they had caught in the act. Good old Cobb: he had proved himself yet again. Marc felt a twinge of guilt at having ever doubted his loyalty.

The brewery offices faced the road, and beside them was the warehouse complete with large double doors, where the teamsters would park their wagons for loading casks of beer and unloading barley, hops, and other supplies. On the far side of the warehouse, Marc knew, there was a platform that served as a pier on the Don River, where shipments of beer were loaded onto barges and drifted down to the Gooderham wharf on the lake. There they could be hauled aboard steamers or schooners bound for Cobourg or Burlington. To the west, and rising up two or more storeys, was the brewhouse proper, with its half-dozen chimneys above the malting kilns. Marc assumed that the thieves had been caught in the
warehouse section, where they could, as soon as darkness came, load casks and kegs onto a boat of their own with little fear of being disturbed. Marc tied up the mare and hopped up onto the platform facing the river. It was very dark here on the eastern side of the brewery, even though in the west there was still light in the sky. He pushed open one of the doors and limped in, one hand on his sabre. His ankle throbbed like a headache but held his weight.

“Cobb!” he called out in a loud stage whisper.

No answer.

He limped farther inside, but saw little except the blotchy outlines of kegs stacked one upon the other. Perhaps they were in the office section where there were lamps and chairs to aid interrogation. He tried to walk faster, but the pain in his ankle meant he was barely able to hobble down the dark hallway towards the owner’s office. When he finally got there, he found the room empty and silent. Which meant they must be in the brewhouse, where, he recalled, there were spacious windows that provided both sunlight to work by and cool air to make the men’s labour tolerable in the summer. Cobb must have taken them up there for the interrogation for some reason.

With his limp growing more agonizing at every step, Marc made his way to the brewhouse doors and eased them open. A hazy mote-filled light permeated the vaulted room around and above him. Marc could make out the enormous oaken vats where the beer, in its final stage, was fermenting
on its own time, and the series of wooden catwalks that connected them and allowed the brewmaster and his assistants to observe the progress of the wort. In behind them, but not visible, were the kilns—now cold and dark. The air was musky with the odour of yeast and hops, and the pleasant sting of fermentation.

“Up here!”

It was Willoughby. Marc breathed a sigh of relief, and headed for a ladder that would take him up to the first level of the catwalk system, where Willoughby’s voice had come from. Climbing up caused him excruciating pain, but he was determined to be in on the conclusion of this investigation: it had cost him more than any honest man should ever have to bear.

“We’re up here, Marc. Everything’s under control.”

Oh, no. Had they already got the information they needed? If so, then why was he being asked to climb up there? He got the answer a second later when something hard, blunt, and angry struck him on the forehead. He gasped, felt his limbs turn to water, and crumpled on the catwalk.

W
HEN HE WOKE UP
, it was dark. The light from a single lantern swayed a few inches before his eyes, making whatever was behind it blacker still. He was propped up against something wooden. His head now throbbed in concert with his
ankle. His feet were tightly bound together with twine, and his hands likewise, in front of him.

“I knew you’d come,” Willoughby said. “And come alone. You’d never pass up a chance to further your overweening ambitions—at the expense of those you have the effrontery to call your friends.” The disembodied voice was hoarse, at the edge of exhaustion or uncontrollable excitation. It was seeded with incalculable bitterness and something far more feral, far more lethal. It was scarcely recognizable.

“What the hell is happening?” Marc moaned and twisted futilely at his bonds. “What have you done with Cobb and Wilkie?” he asked softly and, for the first time, fearfully.

“They’re a long way from here, you’ll be pleased to know.” Willoughby laughed, a low chortle. “And there are no thieves here. Just you and me. And in a few minutes, there’ll only be me.” Willoughby moved the lantern so that it illuminated both his face and Marc’s, as if he wanted to make sure that Marc could see the cold derision in his eyes that was already so vivid in his voice.

Marc had no more doubts as to his fate. He was staring into the face of a madman, of one who was past all reason, all caution, all caring, of one who, for whatever perverted motive, had deemed revenge the only course of action that would satisfy.

“Why have you tied me up? What are you planning to do?” Marc tried to keep the tremor out of his voice but failed.

“I’m going to kill you, Lieutenant. I’m going to tip you into that vat there, bound hand and foot, and then I’m going to watch you drown, second by second.”

“You’re mad! You can’t expect to get away with this!”

“Oh, but I will. And this time the right man will die.” Again he laughed, holding up the lantern so that Marc could see his tormentor’s enjoyment.

Marc couldn’t believe what he had just heard, but then understanding dawned. “You hired Rumsey to shoot me?”

“That was my only mistake. The son of a bitch missed and killed dear old Moncreiff. But that was your doing, too, wasn’t it? You bent down, like the fawning sycophant you are, to help the almighty governor pick up a scrap of paper!”

“And it was you who took that first shot at Rumsey down on the docks.”

“I only had to fire my gun. The others did the rest.”