A day later, Marc returned to Marvin Leroy’s boarding-house. This time, Mrs. Soames, his landlady, was home. She herself answered the door. She was a tiny wisp of a woman with red hair and bright blue eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and invited Marc in.
“I’ve come to ask you a question about the night that Earl Dunham was murdered,” Marc said. “Two nights ago.”
“Well, come in and have a cup of tea,” Mrs. Soames beamed, her friendly face seemingly arranged in a permanent smile. “It’s not every day I get to meet a gentleman.”
“Please, don’t go to any trouble. This will just take a minute.”
“I don’t hurry in my business, young man. If I did, I’d never stop running. I’ve already got the kettle on the boil. I’ll just make us a fresh pot. Come along into the kitchen.”
The Soames’ kitchen was spacious and comfortable. Mrs. Soames made the tea and put out a plate of tarts. She settled down at the kitchen table opposite Marc, who had removed his hat and coat and placed them on a chair. The room was warm and cosy. It reminded Marc of Briar Cottage and the family he hadn’t seen for over a week.
“Now then, you had a question you wanted to ask me,” Mrs. Soames said, sipping her tea.
“Yes, I’m investigating the murder, and I need to know what time Mr. Leroy, your boarder, arrived home the night it happened. Did you hear him come in?”
“I’m a light sleeper. I remember hearing the clock strike one, and I hadn’t heard the door open and close by that time.”
“So Leroy could have arrived much later?”
“I suppose he could. I fell asleep after one.”
So Leroy had no real alibi. And no real motive either.
“You are married?” Mrs. Soames asked.
“Yes, and I have two children.”
“How wonderful. Mr. Soames and I have not been so blessed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“But I take a keen interest in the young men who board here.”
“So you know Mr. Leroy well?”
“He’s only been with us six months, but he’s a talkative fellow and we hit it off right away.”
“And he’s an honest, upstanding fellow?” Marc asked, seeing his chance to get some background on Leroy.
“Oh, yes. Despite the sad life he’s led.”
“Oh? He’s suffered some tragedy?”
“Not directly. It was his sister who was the tragic figure.”
“They were close?”
“Very close.”
“What happened? Did his sister die?”
“Oh, no, sir. Worse than that. She was left standing at the altar, if you can believe it.”
“Her husband-to-be didn’t show up?”
“That’s right. Backed out at the last minute.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“It was. And I’m afraid Mr. Leroy bears a hatred for the man to this day.”
“It would be hard to blame him.”
“And then he comes from Montreal and finds out he’s got to work right next to this dreadful man.”
“Out at the hospital?”
“That’s right.”
“Who would that be, ma’am?”
“Why the man who was killed – Earl Dunham.”
***
So, Marc had now come up with three viable suspects: Michel Jardin, Gregory Manson and Marvin Leroy, each with strong personal motives and no real alibi. Of the three, Manson had definitely been out at the building site after midnight. But if he did leave Dunham alive, then either Leroy or Jardin could have come along afterwards and done the deed. But how was Marc to get any closer to discovering which one did it? The murderer did not seem likely to confess, and Marc had no physical evidence other than Manson’s lost button and the murder weapon, LeMieux’s hammer. He explained all this to Robert back at the hotel.
“You’ve done good work, Marc. But we’ve reached a dead end, eh?”
“It looks that way, Robert. But if I can’t find the real killer, I’m pretty sure I can get an acquittal for LeMieux in court.”
“But that won’t be for several months at the Spring assizes,” Robert said. “And I understand the small French community in town is quite upset at LeMieux’s being charged. There’s talk of a revolt by the French workmen out at the site. And with negotiations still going on between Louis, us and the other potential French members of our alliance, the whole enterprise could be put in jeopardy, especially if this unrest among the French here grows worse. In short, we can’t wait for the assizes.”
“Well, I’ll think of something,” Marc said.
“Meanwhile, I need you to accompany young Pettigrew to Cornwall on the chance that Thériault will be lured there by Pettigrew’s most recent letter. The murder investigation will have to be put on hold.”
“I’ll go and see Pettigrew right away. We’ll leave this afternoon.”
Marc went immediately to Christopher Pettigrew’s room The young man answered the door in an agitated state.
“What’s the matter?” Marc asked.
“It’s my sister,” Pettigrew said, waving a sheet of paper at Marc. “She’s had a terrifying experience. I’m needed at home right away.”
“Is that a letter from her?”
“Yes. You’d better read it.”
Marc took the letter and read:
Dear Christopher:
You had the gall to send me a miniature of your harlot. I spit upon her yellow-headed image! How dare you choose someone who resembles me? Do you not have a heart? Have we not shared our lives for twenty-five years. Can you forget the thousand childhood hours we spent in each other’s company? Even Mother and Father could not keep us apart for more than a minute. Why do you think I dressed as a boy and had my hair cut short when we were eleven? I could not bear to have you go off hunting with Father while I sat in our rooms tatting doilies. I hunted as keenly as you did. And wasn’t it you who cried the first time you shot a rabbit, and wasn’t it you who were afraid of father’s skinning knife, even when he showed us how to use it, and later in our room I consoled you and swore the next time I would cry along with you just so you wouldn’t be embarrassed? These were the moments that bonded us as close as if we were identical and not fraternal twins.
I think of these matters in the midst of my pain, with only old Mrs. Baldridge to try to soothe it away, when all I need is my loving brother near me. If you do not come back immediately, I feel I will sink permanently into the blackness that engulfs me whenever I think upon your absence and your lies and that wanton creature you claim will take my place and leave me forsaken forever!
And just now a horrible thing has happened. I have been attacked in the street by a madman, and almost killed! I was so lonely I went off to see our cousin at ten in the evening. I got lost in Devil’s Acre. And had to face – alone – a knife-wielding killer. And why was I alone? Because you’ve abandoned me!
Come home. At once. Without your harlot!
Christine
Marc went and sat down beside Pettigrew’s desk. Pettigrew, anxious and sweating, sat down opposite him.
“This is a very disturbing letter,” Marc began.
“She has a right to be upset.”
“I agree. But it’s the first part of the letter – written, it appears, before the incident she mentions at the end – that I find disturbing. The language is extreme and seems unwarranted by the circumstances. You’ve only been gone a few weeks.”
“But she was almost killed!”
“It appears so. And it looks as if there’s some kind of killer loose in Toronto.” Marc thought of Cobb and their previous investigations together. “Still, I don’t believe your sister is in danger now. She’s escaped an attack and surely will stick close to home. But she’s certainly emotionally upset.” Marc was more puzzled and concerned about the tone of the letter than he was letting on to Christopher. But, then, Marc had no experience with twins or their eccentric behaviour.
“Do you think I ought to go there?” Pettigrew said.
Marc hesitated. They really needed Pettigrew to go to Cornwall to meet Henri Thériault, but Marc felt obligated to give an objective answer, at least as objective an answer as he could. “Look at it this way,” he said. “If you do go back, you’ll have to leave again, won’t you? Unless you’re thinking of not going through with your wedding plans.”
“I can’t cancel them. I’ve committed myself as a gentleman. So, yes, I could only stay for a few days.”
“And would Christine not see your leaving a second time as another betrayal? Remember, it’s your bride who is the problem here, not your absence as such.”
“I see what you mean. It’s clear that Christine doesn’t want me to marry,” he said miserably. “Perhaps not ever. But I must. And she must come to accept it.”
“Then I’d advise you not to go back, at least not now. Give her a chance to recover from this attack, and keep on writing her reassuring letters.”
“All right. I’ll do that.”
“You’ve got time to write a reply,” Marc said. “Then you and I are going to head for Cornwall.”
Where the hopes of the alliance now lay.
***
Just as Marc was preparing to go out to meet Christopher Pettigrew on the cutter he had hired, Robert came into the foyer with a package in his hand.
“What’s that?” Marc asked.
“It’s a parcel from Toronto for you. From Constable Cobb.”
“Just put it in my room, will you? I’ll read it when I get back.”
“Good luck in Cornwall,” Robert said.
Marc joined Pettigrew on the cutter outside the hotel. The drive to Cornwall over a snow-packed road with a team of stout horses would take them six or seven hours. They would be there late in the evening. Then it would be a question of waiting a day or two to see if Henri Thériault had taken up Pettigrew’s invitation to meet him at the Roadside Inn. The Kingston Road, which linked Cornwall and Toronto, was designated a highway, but it was in reality a bush-trail some twenty-five feet wide, cut out of the woods that surrounded it on both sides. It meandered along the line of least resistance, but in the winter-time passage over it was both smooth and fast. Since they would not be changing horses, however, Marc urged their team on at a sedate, steady pace. They were in no real hurry.
Pettigrew talked a little more about his sister, but after a while had said all that could be said on the subject. The air was crisp and clear, and the two men soon fell into a companionable silence. There was even a little light snow to cover the ruts and blemishes on the much-used road. Twice they passed sleighs coming west and received enthusiastic waves and cheers. There was something inherently cheerful about a sleigh-ride through the snow.
They had been travelling about an hour when Marc spotted what appeared to be a sleigh parked sideways across the road about fifty yards ahead.
“Looks like someone’s had trouble,” Pettigrew said.
“Let’s see if we can help,” Marc said.
When they were about thirty yards from the vehicle, someone stood up behind it. Marc reacted instantly. He grabbed Pettigrew and pulled him down on the floor of the cutter. A lead ball thudded into the seat just above them.
“Jesus, we’re being shot at!” Pettigrew cried.
“We are. And we’re sitting ducks in here.”
“But how did you know?”
“I was a soldier. I recognize a rifle when I see one. Especially if it’s pointed at me.”
Marc peered around the side of the seat. “They’re coming for us!” he cried. “We’ve got to make a run for the woods.”
With Pettigrew just behind him, Marc leaped out of the cutter and hit the ground running. A bullet whizzed past him into the snow. He made it to the nearest clump of cedars and turned to look back. Pettigrew was sprinting towards him. A shot rang out and Pettigrew pitched into a drift. Marc did not hesitate. He ran to his young friend and hauled him into the relative safety of the cedars.
“Where are you hit?” he asked, breathless.
“In the leg. It just grazed me. I’ll be all right.”
“Can you run?”
“I think so.”
“Then we’d better skedaddle.”
The two men took off at full speed, straight into the bush. They could hear the shouts of their pursuers, not far behind.
“They think they’ve wounded you,” Marc said. “They’ll keep coming, I’m afraid.”
“I’m all right. There’s just a little bleeding here on my calf.”
“With all this snow they’ll be able to track us easily. But we’ve got no choice. They’re armed with rifles. We have nothing.”
“Well, let’s go, then. We’ve got to outrun them, eh?”
They took off, in what direction they really didn’t know, except that they seemed to be getting farther into the woods and the snow was getting deeper.
“We’ll be exhausted in ten minutes at this rate,” Marc said when they paused to catch their breath. They could hear their pursuers in the near distance.
“And my leg is starting to really hurt,” Pettigrew said.
“Our only hope is that they give up before we do.”
“Unless they’re on snowshoes. Then we’ve had it.”
The two men staggered forward. The drifts were up to their knees, and each step was more painful than the last. The snow had stopped but it was still cloudy and sunless overhead. Pettigrew began limping.
“I can’t go much farther, Marc,” he said.
“What’s that just ahead?”
“It looks like a creek.”
“Then we may be in luck. Can you get that far?”
“I think so.”
Grimacing with every step, Pettigrew followed Marc to the creek. As Marc had hoped, the centre of the stream was snow-free – an icy ribbon of frozen water. “Let’s get out there quick!”
When they got out to the icy patch, Marc hesitated. “That way is the way we came, I think. They’ll figure we went the other way – ahead.”
He led the way along the icy surface, leaving no bootprints of any kind. They had to get around the first bend, though, before the pursuit reached the creek. They made it to the bend, but did not stop for another five minutes.
“I don’t hear anything,” Marc said.
“Neither do I.”
Fortunately their would-be assassins had been noisy, talking and shouting to one another as they tracked their prey. Now there was no sign of them. They had come to the icy centre of the creek and not known which direction their prey had taken. Also where the creek bent – often -- the icy patch extended to the banks, so that even if the pursuers split up, they would have to slow down and inspect every bend for the possibility of escape there. And although the ice was slippery, it was easier going than the two- and three-foot drifts in the woods.
However, Pettigrew’s leg was now really bothering him. Marc decided he had to help. He took Pettigrew’s right arm and laid it over his shoulder. They hobbled forward, three-legged.
“How long can we stay on this creek?” Pettigrew asked between gasps. “Aren’t we lost? If we do go back into the bush, we’ll just wander around till we freeze.”
“We’ve got no compass and no sun. But I recall crossing a creek about a mile before we were attacked. If this is the same creek, then eventually we’ll end up back on the Kingston Road.”
“If.”
“That’s the operative word. But it’s our only chance.”
They continued on. Pettigrew’s breathing was becoming more laboured.
“Who do you think they were?” he asked when they had stopped to rest.
“Someone who knew our plans or suspected them.”
“But how could they know?”
“Perhaps Thériault let something slip at his end. Whatever happened, there are people willing to kill to keep us from bringing Thériault over to our camp.”
“I hope Thériault’s all right.”
“They wouldn’t touch him. He’s a hero, like LaFontaine. No, it’s us they’re after.”
“Maybe they’ll assume we froze to death out here.”
“Or at least turned back for home,” Marc said, getting up.
Fifteen minutes later the creek led them to the Kingston Road.
“What now?” Pettigrew asked. “I’m feeling faint.”
“Well, we can’t go back to the cutter. They could have left someone there. We’ll just wait here under cover until we hear someone coming along the road.”
It was growing dark when they heard a sleigh coming towards them from Kingston. “We’ve got to take a chance on this,” Marc said. “You need a doctor – soon. And I’m freezing to death.”
Pettigrew, who had been drifting in and out of consciousness, replied, “Yes, soon.”
Marc stepped out onto the road, and held his breath. The sleigh, a big one with two horses, drew up in front of him.
“Need a ride, stranger?” a portly man called from the driver’s seat. A woman, bundled up, sat beside him.
“Yes, we do,” Marc said. “I’ve got an injured man who needs medical attention. How far are you going?”
“Brockville. But there’s a doctor there. I’ll take you to him.”
Marc thanked the man and got Pettigrew into the back seat of the sleigh. Marc introduced himself, but said only that he and his friend were on their way to Cornwall on business when their team bolted and his friend had injured his leg. When they came to the place where the attack had occurred, Marc saw the cutter by the side of the road, without its horses. The assassins had cut them loose.
“There’s your sleigh all right,” their rescuer said. “But no sign of your horses. I suppose they’ll head home eventually.”
Marc agreed, but what he was thinking was that they were fortunate themselves to be able to head home – eventually.
***
It was noon the next day before Marc and a patched-up Pettigrew reached Cornwall and the Roadside inn. The horses had been picked up by a traveller and brought to Brockville. Marc found them when he checked the livery stable there. He arranged for someone to go and fetch the cutter, and said he would take cutter and horses back to Kingston on his return trip. Meantime he hired another sleigh and team to take them to Cornwall.
At the Roadside Inn they were welcomed, but not by Henri Thériault. They spent the evening in their rooms, reading and trying not to appear anxious. But time moved slowly. The next day Christopher Pettigrew went for a walk and managed to open up his wound again.
“I’ll send for the doctor, Christopher,” Marc said. “We want you to be in top form if your friend shows up.”
“It’s looking less and less likely,” Pettigrew said. “He’s only half a day from here.”
They were sitting in the lounge when the front door of hotel opened.
“Ah, it’s the doctor,” Marc said.
“No,” Pettigrew said, “it’s Henri.”
***
“You don’t know how my heart sank that night when the door opened and I looked up to find an English fellow staring down at me,” Henri Thériault was saying. He and Pettigrew were in the lounge, after a good supper, sipping brandy and reminiscing. Marc was seated a little ways away, discreetly listening to the conversation in French. “I thought to myself, ‘I’ve landed in the Devil’s parlour.’”
“And I wondered who on earth had landed on my doorstep,” Pettigrew laughed.
Henri Thériault was an intense little man, dark complexioned, and with eyes so fiercely intelligent they were painful to look at. At the moment, though, they were as relaxed and amiable as they were ever likely to get.
“But you didn’t hesitate. You asked me in.”
“You were injured. Stranger or not, I couldn’t turn you away, could I?”
“But you must have had your doubts, eh, when I told you who I was and how I got wounded.”
“I admit I did. And I’ve never told you this, but when the soldiers came knocking on my door, I had a moment of panic and indecision. I was a Reformer and a sympathizer, but I was also a law-abiding citizen articling for the law, who believed in right and wrong. I didn’t know then what you told me later about the barn-razing and church-burning. But it was more instinct than reason that made me tell the soldiers you’d been there but had gone on to downtown Montreal.”
“And I’ve never told you this,” Thériault said gravely, “but I had my pistol loaded and pointed at you, though I was probably too groggy to pull the trigger. But then I heard the soldiers leaving, and I thought: this is a strange Englishman. I didn’t know then the difference between an Englishman and a native-born Upper Canadian.”
“But you do now.”
“Yes. And your letters have moved me deeply.”
Pettigrew signalled for Marc to join them.
“And Marc here is not native-born, but he has become a true Upper Canadian. He’s a close friend and confidante of Robert Baldwin.”
“And this Robert Baldwin has a plan to benefit both our peoples?” Thériault said to Marc.
“He does,” Marc said. “I gave you the outline in one of the letters that Christopher sent to you, but I’m here to flesh it out and answer any questions you might have.”
So, for the next hour Marc expounded Robert’s theory of responsible government, the governing passion of his life. He emphasized that the Governor’s cabinet must have the confidence of the majority party in the Assembly, and that it must act cohesively to promote the policies of the majority party. And, of course, the majority party was elected, not appointed. If this were accomplished – and there was every reason to believe it would be under Governor Poulett Thomson – then no longer could the appointed Legislative Council or the Governor himself veto or indefinitely delay laws favoured by the Assembly. Moreover, if that Assembly were in control of a united party of the left, comprising both moderate French rouge and moderate English Reformers, then the agenda of both races could be advanced simultaneously.
“But French is not an official language of the Assembly,” Thériault pointed out.
“True, but a majority party in the Assembly can make it so.”
“The capital is in Upper Canada, a very English city,” Thériault said.
“But that too can be altered. Both Baldwin and LaFontaine favour moving it to Montreal as soon as possible.”
“I see. But how do we know the English will not use us until it is convenient to drop us?”
“For two reasons,” Marc said. “First, without Louis’ group, there will be no majority. The Reformers are split and can never hope to make up a majority by themselves. You see, the key point here is that the racial division is really moot. LaFontaine and Baldwin, French and English, have more policies in common than they do differences because of race. That’s the genius of the arrangement.”
“And the second reason?”
“The leader of the combined Reform group is not to be Robert Baldwin but Louis LaFontaine.”
That took Thériault by surprise. “This is agreed?”
“It is. They hope eventually to form a LaFontaine-Baldwin ministry.”
“And what are these common policies?”
Again, Marc spent time going over the progressive platform that had been hammered out between Baldwin and LaFontaine the previous year: the improvement of commerce, new canal construction, the revamping of the banking system, the formation of a permanent civil service, and the end of nepotism in government. Thériault asked searching questions about each point, and seemed both surprised and pleased with Marc’s answers. Pettigrew simply sat and marvelled at the depth and range of the discussion.
Finally, Thériault reached over and shook Marc’s hand.
“You have convinced me, sir. I shall throw in with LaFontaine and Baldwin and do my best to persuade others.”
Marc sighed with relief. They were one more step on the road to responsible government.