Solemn Vows (6 page)

“I expect that he was counting on the general hubbub and every eye being directed at the hustings. No doubt that is why he waited until the precise moment that the governor was about to rise and make his speech.” Or, Marc thought, the owner of these premises had become conveniently and temporarily deaf. “Also, at three o’clock, this window would still be in the shade of the overhang. With dark clothes on and the gun rubbed black, he would be hard to see. And he could be out that back window and down the vine to the ground in ten seconds. I expect he broke that rung in his haste to get away.”

“With nothin’ but bush behind us,” Phineas said.

“And it would have to have been somebody, wouldn’t it, who knew this place was here and never used, and was readily accessible.”

“With a hundred-dollar Yankee rifle.” Phineas began to sound doubtful.

“Well, that does narrow down the possibilities. But fifteen minutes ago I was contemplating the prospect of going house to house in search of a needle in a haystack.”

The two men made their way back down the vine and ladder. As he stepped to the ground beside Marc, Phineas said, “Well, at least you found the haystack.”

Marc was already studying the thick bush that began not more than ten yards behind the harness shop. For someone
who knew the area, it would provide the perfect escape route. The assassin must have known both the terrain and the idiosyncrasies of Phineas Kimble’s three-storey establishment. A new thought struck him. “By the way, do you have anyone helping you with your harness-making?” he called after Phineas, who had turned towards the corner of the building.

Phineas paused, or froze: it was hard to say which. He swung his huge body around and by the time he was facing Marc his face was lit up by a grin. “Now there’s a good question, Sergeant. I am real happy you asked me that, ’cause somebody along the square would’ve told you sooner or later, and I’d have looked the darn fool fer not rememberin’ it myself.”

“Then you do have hired help.”

“I did have hired help, and that’s why it slipped my memory somewhat just now.”

“How long ago?”

“A fella with the odd handle of Philo Rumsey worked as my helper fer two years—up to last winter. He was a dandy worker, mind, but not reliable.”

“He drank?”

“No more’n anyone else ’round here, though that’s plenty, I reckon. But he wouldn’t show up much of the time—’specially when the deer was runnin’.”

“He was a hunter?”

“And a damn fine one: he could pick a fly off the wall of the livery stable from this very spot.”

“What kind of gun did he use?”

“Well, it wasn’t no Yankee bluestockin’, I can tell you that. It was an old musket from one of the wars long past. Rumsey’s as poor as a church mouse, with a woman and six kids to feed.”

“Yet you fired him last winter.”

“Indeed, I done just that. But then I took to feelin’ sorry fer his missus and the bairns, so I let him come in now and again and do some piecework for me when I got more orders than I can handle.”

Marc asked the next question and held his breath for the response: “Then Philo Rumsey is still hereabouts?”

“Of course he is. He lives in a cabin about a hundred yards that way, straight into the middle of the bush—where he likes it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this at the outset?”

Phineas Kimble grinned again, and this time he let the twinkle remain in place. “Well, now, how can I answer a question before it’s asked?”

Trying to contain both his irritation and his rising excitement, Marc peered into the shadows ahead of him in the bush.

“All you gotta do is step between them two birches,” Phineas called after him. “The path is as plain as the pestle on a pig. Walk straight on and keep an eye out fer the chiminey smoke.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome, but I oughta mention that Philo himself ain’t likely to be at home right this moment.”

“What?”

“I heard he went down to visit his dyin’ mother—last week.”

“Down where?” Marc barked. “Dammit, man, tell me where!”

Phineas was unperturbed by the shift in tone: “Down to Buffalo, where he was born.”

M
ARGARET
R
UMSEY WAS PERCHED
on the edge of a log stool like an emaciated sparrow watching an owl measure it for the kill: wary, fearful, resigned. What she was particularly afraid of, Marc wasn’t sure. The spectre of an officer in tunic and feathered cap standing—however politely or diffidently—in the sanctuary of one’s home was enough to strike terror into the most innocent heart. But, when Marc had first entered the gloomy, smoke-filled single room of the Rumsey cabin, its mistress had seemed more flustered than scared, more embarrassed than awed. The symptoms of her impoverishment and misery were everywhere evident: the grimy, runny-nosed children who clutched at her apron and dared to peek up at the uniformed stranger, the barrenness of the room itself. Marc could see only a few pieces of stick furniture, half a dozen vermin-infested straw pallets, and a charred kettle that had fallen into a sputtering fire.

Between ineffectual attempts at keeping her two eldest from sidling up to Marc and brushing at his jacket as if it were a cardinal’s robe, Margaret Rumsey had been, at first, as curious as she was guarded. She had even managed a smile when Marc had reached down and ruffled the hair of one of his admirers. Marc had winced inwardly as he realized with a shock that this woman, gaunt and pale in dirt-streaked rags, had once been pretty—and happy. But as soon as he had begun asking questions about her husband’s whereabouts, her pinched brown eyes drew back into their hollow sockets. Did she know? Or was she merely afraid of what she didn’t know but strongly suspected?

“You say your husband left for Buffalo to be with his dying mother?”

“Yes, sir, last week. Elmer, don’t be touchin’ the gentleman’s sword!”

“Do you remember the exact day he left?”

Margaret Rumsey paused, as if thinking hard. “I lose track of the days of the week. With these young’uns one day is t’same as the next.”

“Was it before or after the last Sabbath?”

“Oh, we don’t go to service … no more.” Her eyes widened. “But they’re all baptized! I saw to that.”

“I was merely trying to help you recall when Mr. Rumsey left for Buffalo.”

“’Twas Tuesday last, I remember now, ’cause Mr. Danby, God bless ’im, had me over to the inn to help with the
clean-up. He calls on me when there’s a gentlemen’s gatherin’ or lodge meetin’.” Marc looked skeptical, and she added with a blush that brought some colour into her grey pallor for the first time, “I don’t go over to the inn lookin’ like this. Mr. Danby give me a uniform.” Then as if further explanation were called for, she said, “No sense in puttin’ on anythin’ decent ’round this dump. The littl’uns’d just puke or slobber all over it.”

“That would make it exactly a week ago, then,” Marc prompted.

Margaret nodded. Then with a trembling lip she said, “But you ain’t told me yet why I haveta answer all the governor’s questions.”

“A man was murdered this afternoon, in the square. Did you know that?”

Some of her fear drained away, and Marc could see that she was relieved, though still wary. “I heard about it. Everybody has. But Philo couldn’t have had nothin’ to do with that awful thing, he’s been gone since Tuesday last.”

“And you’re certain he hasn’t come back?”

“His mama’s dyin’ of womb cancer or somethin’. All his family lives in Buffalo. He said he’d be gone fer two weeks or more. He’s left us no food, and I’ve gone and spent the last of Mr. Danby’s pay on medicine fer the baby. If he’d’ve come home, these young’uns wouldn’t be whinin’ fer their supper, now would they?”

Marc thanked her and turned to go. “You will let Mr.
Danby know the minute your husband comes home. I will need to talk to him.” If Philo Rumsey were indeed in Buffalo—and until that was verified independently Marc was going to assume that his prime suspect had contrived an alibi for himself—then it was quite possible that before leaving he had passed along crucial information regarding the set-up of his sometime employer’s unused attic and was, therefore, at least an accomplice to some degree or other. Accomplice or assassin, Philo Rumsey was undoubtedly the key to solving this puzzle.

At the door Marc thought of a final question. “Did your husband own an army rifle by any chance?”

“Philo’s a good huntsman, sir, the best in these parts, else we’d starve. But he uses the Kentucky musket my daddy give him when we got wedded. And he makes his own bullets right here in this room.”

“Philo was never in the army, back in New York?”

“No, sir. He was only eighteen when he begun courtin’ me, and we left Buffalo to come up here and start a new life. But Philo weren’t much fer farmin’, and we lost the homestead. That’s when he took up harness-makin’ and brung us here.”

“Well, thank you once again. If you’ll be kind enough to inform Danby of your husband’s return, he will pass the news along to me.”

“Philo’s brothers’re in the army, though. They’re doin’ real good, I’m told.”

My God, Marc thought, I’ve found the murderer or
murderers in a single hour of careful investigation! He grinned from ear to ear, and the children, seeing this, joined him. Marc reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of pennies, then tossed them joyfully upwards. The children jumped up to grab them, giggling and hysterical with delight. Marc bowed to Margaret Rumsey and strode away through the bush towards the square.

His heart sang. Then it sank. Suddenly he was shaken by a surge of helpless, nameless rage.

D
R.
W
ITHERS AND
M
AXWELL MèRE AND FILLE
were gone by the time Marc got back to the inn. Briefly he asked Garfield Danby to relay any news of Philo Rumsey’s reappearance in the township, bade good-bye to him and Mrs. Danby (who looked as if she had suffered shell shock at Waterloo), and made his way to the saloon.

Seven of the young officers were gathered around the bar singing lustily with charged glasses. On Marc’s arrival they stopped singing in mid-phrase, until, at an approving nod from their commanding officer, they started up again and continued until the song was satisfyingly finished.

Marc applauded theatrically, then said to the nearest man, “Ensign, please get the horses from the ostler. We’ve got to get back to Government House before dark.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Where’s Lieutenant Willoughby?” Marc asked.

Hilliard blanched, then stepped aside so that Marc could
see past the bar to one of the gloomy corners of the saloon beyond. Parker and Willoughby appeared to be slumped comatose across a table, their arms dangling like knackered eels. A quart of brandy—two-thirds empty—teetered between them. The rest of the men, feeling chipper, had wisely stuck to watered claret.

“I wouldn’t get too close to Parker,” Hilliard warned. “He upchucked even before he started in on the brandy.”

Marc went over to Willoughby and reached out to touch his shoulder. He was stopped, however, by a low droning that had been emanating from the two men all along but which he heard only now.

“They’ve been crooning away like that for the last hour,” Hilliard said. “That’s why we started singing. It got on our nerves.”

Marc leaned over and listened.

“Innocent … innocent … no eyes … no eyes … innocent … innocent …” The words were thick-tongued and breathy but nonetheless distinct.

“I guess they just saw today more than they bargained for,” Hilliard said helpfully. “Though Christ knows what either of them will do if we ever get into a real battle.”

Marc let his hand rest on Willoughby’s shoulder. “None of us knows that, Ensign. And maybe it’s just as well.”

The officer Marc had sent for the horses poked his head in the front door.

“All right, men. Check your gear and get ready to ride,” Marc said.

“What’ll we do with these fellows?” Hilliard said.

“Tie them to their saddles. A good jarring might bring them around.” Marc smiled, and then helped Hilliard haul Willoughby upright. “It’s all right, Colin. Everything’s going to be fine—just as soon as we get you home.”

At least, he hoped so.

S
IR
F
RANCIS HAD RENTED ROOMS
for Marc and Colin at Mrs. Standish’s boarding house on Peter Street, where they would be at his beck and call. And Marc dropped Willoughby onto that good woman’s veranda before waving farewell to his troop as they continued towards the garrison. Then he rode up to King and Simcoe, where Government House stood in its six-acre park. He handed the chestnut mare to one of the waiting stableboys, and ran up the steps into the foyer. There was almost an hour of daylight left. With luck he would not have to wake up the governor. For although Marc knew that Head would be eager to hear what he had learned about who might have shot Moncreiff, he was acutely aware that first he’d have to tell the governor about the death of Crazy Dan. He didn’t relish reporting this news to a groggy, half-awake superior.

He was met in the vestibule not by the duty-corporal but by Major Titus Burns, Sir Francis’s military secretary. The old fellow winced as he grasped Marc’s hand.

“Don’t mind my rheumatism, old chap, it can’t be helped, and what can’t be cured must be endured.”

“How is Sir Francis, Major? He’s had a horrific day.”

“So I’ve heard. But I expect he’ll have worse before he has better.”

“He commanded me to report on my day’s investigative work as soon as I returned,” Marc said.

“That would be inconvenient in the extreme.” Burns chuckled. “He’s gone off to an emergency meeting of the Executive Council.”

“Then I’ll wait here in my office,” Marc said. “I have most urgent news for his ears only.”

“I’m afraid the walls have ears in this house,” Burns said. “But there’s no need for you to wait. Sir Francis explicitly instructed me to send you home to a warm supper and a feather bed. Dr. Withers gave him and me an account of your abortive expedition following the tragic shooting of Councillor Moncreiff. He will want your first-hand version, of course. But there is an election pending, and tomorrow he will be tied up in meetings until eleven in the morning. He wants to see you in the inner sanctum at that hour precisely.”