Solemn Vows (30 page)

“Go on,” Marc said, but he already knew what was coming, and his heart was turning to ice.

“So along you come, draggin’ him out of bed to tell him he’s got the story all wrong. It ain’t the splendid one he’s been proclaiming from a dozen hustings and feedin’ blow by blow to the Tory papers. Oh, no, it’s a messy saga of love and jealousy between two officers. And these officers, oh my, turn out to be two of his own aides, and one them, alack-a-day, is the chief investigator of the Moncreiff murder, and
what does he find out? After Rumsey is gunned down and hanged in effigy in ten counties, he finds out, long after the governor’s fairy tale’s been heard and conned by heart, that, by golly, there was no political connection at all. Rumsey was just a poor man with a big family who needed money to feed his starvin’ bairns. And these two aides of the governor—hand-picked by Sir Francis himself—have been hoppin’ in and out of the same beds, and end up facin’ each other down in a brewhouse, till one of them is tipped into the booze and drowns like a river rat.”

Cobb was right. The only physical evidence left was an actor’s beard, and that by itself meant nothing. Many of his fellow officers kept such props and, as he had once been, were enthusiastic thespians. The note that had brought him here was in shreds. Suddenly he thought of something he had overlooked. With rising hope, he said, “But the duty-corporal was given the note by a youngster and told it was from Willoughby and directed to me personally.”

“And where will we find this lad?” Cobb said, almost apologetically. “And the corporal didn’t actually see what was in the letter, did he? So as far as he’s concerned, it may’ve been a message to get you up to the brewery fer a gentleman’s showdown: a duel of honour—in a manner of speakin’. Besides, you’re still missin’ my point. Yer governor ain’t gonna want to hear what you got to say.”

Marc felt he had no choice but to break his oath to Sir Francis. “You must swear never to tell a soul, Constable,
but the governor received evidence, now discredited, that he might have been the target. And he still thinks so. You are right in surmising that he does not want the Moncreiff-Rumsey version of the murder disturbed in any way. But for his own personal well-being, I feel obligated to tell him—with as much conviction and with what scant evidence we have—that he was not the target. I know him well enough to realize that he will not simply accept my word on that score: I shall have to lay out the full story, sordid as it is, and call on you to assist me. Please understand that I am not asking you to tell Sir Francis anything but the absolute truth—no more and no less.”

Cobb appeared to think about this remark for a moment, then said, “And he may believe us. All I’m sayin’ is he will never let such a story get out to the voters—or the Reform press.”

Again, Cobb was right. Sir Francis was aware of the erratic nature of Willoughby’s character and would certainly give Marc the benefit of the doubt regarding the nature of their conflict and its deadly outcome. But he would never, in the present circumstances, allow such tawdry details to become public knowledge. Mackenzie would have a heyday with it. He would no longer need Farmer’s Friend.

“And knowin’ the governor,” Cobb was saying, “he’ll probably make us swear on the Bible never to tell a livin’ soul.”

Yes—another solemn vow to withhold the truth in the
cause of the common good. But Marc could not do it. He had had enough of vows to last him a lifetime. And what was an honest man to do when loyalties clash and cannot be resolved? “But we’ve got a dead officer drowned in a vat of beer with a cocked pistol,” he said wearily, as if such dilemmas were too vast or too minute to be bothered with.

Cobb was stroking the donkey’s nose. “I been considerin’ that,” he said. “If you decide not to tell the governor what really happened, it wouldn’t be hard to set up a story to explain Willoughby bein’ at the bottom of a vat.”

“And just how would we go about that?”

“Well, Major, after I help you home, return this butcher-cart, and take yer horse up to the stables, I could go back to the brewery, jimmy the warehouse doors a bit, and roll a couple of kegs into the river.”

“What on earth for?”

“You’ll report Willoughby missin’ in the mornin’, and as this brewery is part of Wilkie’s patrol, he’ll be up here to look into the break-in, and whenever Willoughby’s body decides to float to the top or the brewers give the wort a good stir, it’ll look like Willoughby, drunk or not, came up here, fully armed, and surprised the robbers. And paid fer it with his life. He’ll be hailed as a hero. And the governor’ll have another officer to brag about, and Willoughby’s poor ol’ dad’ll be saved the grief of findin’ out his son was a perfect monster.”

“But what about Willoughby’s actions at the widow’s
place? His movements tonight will be investigated, surely. Chief Constable Sturges will have heard of Maisie’s complaint. And the duty-corporal will remember my taking the note, even if he knew nothing of its contents.”

That made Cobb stop and think for a moment or so. Finally he said, “All you gotta do is say the note was an apology to you and Mrs. Standish. I’ll say, if anybody bothers to ask, that neither Wilkie nor me found Willoughby in our wanderings, but I did run into Lieutenant Edwards lyin’ in a field at the edge of town, a little drunk and a lot woozy from fallin’ off his horse. I then dash back to town fer help, borry the donkey-cart, and deliver ya safe to yer bed and board. Ain’t that the way it happened, Lieutenant Edwards?”

Despite his amazement, Marc managed to say, “But how would an officer like Willoughby get wind of a robbery?”

Cobb smiled. “I hear tell he spent a lot of time on the King’s business in the Blue Ox and other such waterin’ holes—where loose talk is as common as loose bowels. Even so, I can’t see any of this stuff really bein’ necessary. You’ve got to remember, Major, the folks that run this province are fond of takin’ the most agreeable and least irksome story as the truth.”

Once again Marc had underestimated the pure cunning of the native-born Upper Canadian. He was too exhausted to work out any specific rationalization for his decision, but he knew, deep down where most things in life really
mattered, that he had no choice but to choose as he did. “All right, Constable. Let’s do it.”

The donkey started up again, matching his pace to Horatio Cobb’s.

“I guess now that you and me’s started to trade secrets—in a manner of speakin’—I ought to confess somethin’ else. Abner Clegg didn’t get away from me last week. I tracked the bugger right up to the milliner’s door and watched the lady there hand him the package.”

“But why did you not tell me this right away? You must’ve known I’d find the letter-writer eventually.”

For a moment only the donkey’s harsh breathing was heard. “I knew you was kinda soft on the lady,” Cobb said with a blush in his voice.

Marc yawned, but not because he was not intrigued by Cobb’s omniscience and, more impressively, by his sensitivity. “Then you must have known she was living here before I did.”

“Well, I got kinda chummy with her aunt Catherine the day after she set up shop on my patrol,” Cobb said by way of explanation. “The old gal likes a cup of tea and a good, gossipy chinwag.”

“I see. Well, thank you, anyway—Cobb,” Mark said. The constable’s name on his tongue felt good, and proper. “But I think I have blown my chances with that particular lady.”

“That ain’t the story I been told, Major.”

But Marc did not hear this comforting response: he was asleep.

The little procession had turned now onto Front Street—donkey, constable, cart with lieutenant, and chestnut mare. In the eerie half-light of the solstice moon, the entire city lay open before them.

Cobb leaned over and chuckled. “Good night, sweet prince.”

Vital Secrets

The next exciting Marc Edwards mystery
from Don Gutteridge

Coming soon to bookstores
from Touchstone