Don Gutteridge - Unholy Alliance

“I was — until about midnight. I left onlyonce to visit the water-closet a few steps down the hall.”

“Did you hear anything? Anything at all?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Just beforetwelve, as I was about to get into bed, I heard footsteps in thehall on the floor above me — one person, I’d say, walking slowlydown towards the stairway. What I actually heard was the creakingof the floorboards under the hall carpet.”

“That’s very helpful, Robert. You see, wethink some person came to Chilton’s office about that very time. Ineed to know who it was.”

“My God!” Hincks cried. “I hope you’re notsuggesting one of our Quebecers was involved?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Francis — really. If someone from our floor or theirs was out for a stroll,unable to sleep perhaps, they could be a material witness, couldhave seen or heard something vital that will itself point us to thekiller. Without some hard facts to go on, Cobb and I are helpless.So, Robert, could you tell from the sounds which of the rooms thismidnight stroller might have come from?”

Robert thought about this. “Well, thecreaking started at my end of the wing, of that I’m certain.”

“Maurice Tremblay is in the room aboveyours,” Marc said. “I’ll need to quiz him closely on thematter.”

“He isn’t happy with our accord,” Hincks saidmeaningfully.

“True,” Marc said, “but I’m not jumping toany conclusions.”

“And a good thing none of us is,” Robertsaid. “This incident could jeopardize everything we’ve achieved sofar — or do worse.”

“You’ve given me more than I expected,” Marcsaid. “There is just one more thing. The doctored wine was anexpensive Amontillado sherry, not from Garnet’s cellar. Do you haveany idea where Chilton could have got it?”

They had no idea whatsoever. They had seen noevidence that any of the guests had brought in their own supply ofspirits.

“Before we let you get on with theinvestigation,” Robert said as he started to get up, “could we askwhether or not you might find an hour sometime before the end ofthe day to meet with Louis and me?”

“Yes, of course. How about seven o’clock,here in the library? By then I hope Cobb and I will be close tosolving this case.”

“We need to get the documents signed,” Hinckssaid, “in spite of these desperate circumstances.”

Marc sat back down and motioned for them tosit again. “We have a more serious problem,” he said, “one I wasgoing to tell you about later today.” Reluctantly he informed themof the coroner’s decision to give the police until noon on Mondayto charge someone with the murder before he made the incidentpublic and set a date for an inquest, in effect putting Elmgrove inquarantine and threatening to expose its secret doings to generalscrutiny.

Hincks gasped at this last revelation. Robertsank back in his chair.

“Well, then,” Hincks said when he hadrecovered from the shock, “we’ll just have to get LaFontaine’ssignature on the accord before he and his colleagues learn of thispotential catastrophe.”

Robert put a hand over Hincks’s wrist.“Francis, that cannot happen. The alliance we are seeking to buildcan only work if it is founded upon absolute trust and pursued inthat spirit. Louis, Marc and I will go ahead with the business offinalizing the documents, as planned, but when we’ve finished andbefore any signature is appended, I’d like everyone concernedbrought in here and the coroner’s edict explained in full. Thenwe’ll see what can be done.”

Hincks started to protest, but settled for adeep sigh. “Damn. We were so close.” Then he brightened a bit andsmiled at Marc. “But you’re going to find us a murderer by seveno’clock, aren’t you, my friend?”

Daniel Bérubé was next. As usual, he preferredtalking to listening. “My God, Edwards, I hope this dreadfulbusiness doesn’t upset all our plans. We’ve got to get theseprovinces moving again or we’ll all starve! Just the thought of adecent set of canals and roads and a government interested inmaking money instead of hoarding other people’s gives me theshivers. I feel sorry for this wretched butler, of course, buthundreds have already died for our cause and thousands more havesuffered terribly — ”

When Marc finally settled him down enough toget a few words in edgewise, he learned that Bérubé, like Hincks,had gone straight to bed following their billiards game and falleninstantly asleep. He had heard nothing, and was very sorry he couldnot be more useful.

Macaulay brought Erneste Bergeron in next.While he looked worried, anxious even, the purple bags under hiseyes had disappeared.

“You slept well, then?” Marc inquired. “Atlast.”

“Yes, sir, I did. I had to be wakened andtold the unhappy news about the butler. I am still in a state ofdisbelief.”

“So you went to your bedchamber right aftersupper, about eight-forty-five?”

“Well, I did and I didn’t. I fetched mynight-clothes and went into the bathroom to have a good relaxingsoak. The servants had left everything prepared, so I drew my ownbath and lay in it for a good half-hour.”

“You’ll recall that Mr. Macaulay mentionedhis wife’s laudanum as a possible sedative for you?”

“Of course. But I felt so mellow there in thebath — and sleepy — that I decided not to avail myself of it, butgo straight to bed.”

“But did you by any chance notice whether ornot the vial of laudanum was on the shelf?”

“Oh, yes. It was there all right. I had it inmy hand, but put it back.”

So, Marc thought, Priscilla Finch was tellingthe truth. The killer must have removed the drug some time afternine-thirty — possibly much later and just before heading up themain hall to Chilton’s office.

“One final question,” Marc said. “We’rehoping to trace the source of a bottle of sherry found at the sceneof the crime, a vintage Amontillado.”

“Was that where the poison was?” Bergeronasked, going suddenly pale. Perhaps the grim reality of thebutler’s death had just struck him, unawares.

“Yes. But we don’t know where the Amontilladooriginated as it didn’t come from our host’s cellar.”

“I’d like to help, Mr. Edwards, but I don’thave the foggiest notion where the butler could have got it.”

Bergeron had nothing more to add, but he hadbeen helpful. Moreover, like Bérubé, he had given no indicationthat he was being treated as a suspect. For which Marc wasgrateful.

Maurice Tremblay was not pleased to be ushered intothe library by Garnet Macaulay. Even before he sat down, he glaredat Marc and said, “We were not told you were a policeman as well asa translator.”

“I am neither a policeman nor a translator,”Marc said evenly. “As you know I am a barrister who speaks Frenchand supports the Reform party.”

Something close to disdain appeared inTremblay’s eyes. “I heard one of the servants refer to you as theHero of St. Denis. You are a soldier, a British soldier. You firedyour weapon at me two years ago. For all I know you may havemurdered one of my friends there.”

Marc was taken aback by the vehemence of theaccusation. He kept eye contact with Tremblay as he replied, ascalmly as he could, “I was an officer in the 23rd Regimentof Foot. I fought in the battle at St. Denis, not out of convictionbut because it was my soldierly duty. I did not have severalfingers blown off, but I was severely wounded. I resigned mycommission. I changed my life. And I am here this week with my friends and your allies, Francis Hincks and RobertBaldwin.”

“All that may be so,” Tremblay said, hissneer softening just a little, “but right now you are a policemanwho sees before him a possible murderer.”