Don Gutteridge - Unholy Alliance

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Cobb said.“Our corpse’s got a head full of orange hair, thicker’n a mink’scrotch!”

“What’s ‘goin’ on’,” Marc said, “is this: we’ve had a butler murdered in his office, but it wasn’t GravesChilton.”

“That can’t be,” Cobb said. “We searched his roomand it was full of the butler’s belongin’s.”

Macaulay could do nothing but look from Marcto Cobb, bewildered.

“Then we’d better have a closer look,” Marcsaid to Cobb. “We’ve got to start by taking the judge’s comment atface value: the butler who spent several months in his home was abald man named Chilton.”

They went down the hall to the butler’squarters, trying not to appear as dazed as they felt. Once inside,they turned out every pair of trousers, frock coat, morning coatand shirt to scrutinize the labels. Every one of them bore somereference to a London tailor or shop. They tore apart themonogrammed luggage in search of some telltale clue stuffed in apocket or lodged in a crease: with no luck. These wereunquestionably the belongings of one Graves Chilton, even if theman who had most recently possessed them was not.

“Maybe we got the lord’s letter wrong — somehow,” Cobb suggested as he looked forlornly at the thoroughlydishevelled sitting-room.

“I think we’ve got an even more puzzlingmystery on our hands,” Macaulay said miserably.

“Perhaps not,” Marc said. He was standing inthe open doorway of the butler’s bedroom, holding a good-weatherwalking-boot in one hand. “I examined this boot this morning,looking for the maker’s stamp and hoping to find a laudanum bottleor some equally significant piece of evidence inside it. At thetime I took this object here merely to be a black stocking jammedin the toe. But, as you can see, it’s not a stocking, it’s a — ”

“ Too-pate !” Cobb cried just asMacaulay gasped, “A hair-piece!”

Marc dangled the limp object between a thumband forefinger. “An expensive bit of wiggery,” he smiled, “tocamouflage a vain butler’s bald head.”

“It must have been hidden there by themurdered man when he found it in the stolen luggage,” Macaulayspeculated. “Either that or he hadn’t got around to needing theseparticular boots.”

“However it got here,” Marc said, “itcorroborates Sir Theodore’s claim. And that means — ”

“We got ourselves a poisoned im-poseur ,” Cobb said, grinning.

When they got back to the library, Macaulay and Cobbwaited patiently for Marc to begin making some sense of this new,baffling development.

“Now that we are ninety-nine percent certainwe are dealing with an impostor,” Marc began, “the question arises: how did this come about? And after that: why?”

“Well, I suppose this red-headed chap couldhave stolen Graves Chilton’s belongings, including any papers andletters, way back in England, and then boarded a ship for NewYork,” Macaulay suggested.

“In order to steal the man’s position here atElmgrove?” Marc said sceptically.

“Well, now,” Cobb said, “I reckon it’s acushy enough job hereabouts, but who’d risk robbery or worse justto get a job thousands of miles away in a foreign country?”

While Macaulay may have had some objection toone or two particulars in Cobb’s statement, he had to nod hisagreement with its main point.

“Quite so,” Marc said. “I believe thatexplanation is merely a remote possibility. So, let us assume thatthe real Graves Chilton got as far as New York. We do have a letterin what is purportedly his own handwriting from that city. And I’msure a comparison of that letter with the impostor’s handwriting inthe ledger will tell us one way or the other.”

“What then?” Cobb said.

“The letter you received, Garnet, was pennedin a New York Hotel, wasn’t it? And announced his safe arrivalthere. And told of his seasickness and the likelihood of his beingdelayed, if I remember rightly?”

“It did,” Macaulay said, pulling the letteritself from the pile they had left on the table. “And he appendedhis proposed itinerary, one that would have seen him arrive inKingston from New York State and, I quote, ‘on Tuesday with a viewto my catching the stagecoach there and arriving at Elmgrove thenext day, Wednesday the 16th’.”

He handed the letter to Marc, who perused itclosely. “The writing here is quite distinctive — slanted left andelongated.”

“So he was plannin’ to get here a week agoWednesday?” Cobb said to Macaulay.

“Yes. But he didn’t actually arrive untillate on Thursday, did he? He must’ve got delayed somewhere in NewYork State.”

“Or delayed here in Upper Canada,” Marc saiddarkly. “It’s improbable that anyone would waylay a travellingEnglish butler and steal his clothing and effects in order to carryon and take up the fellow’s duties in Toronto — and do theambushing in an adjacent country. After all, Chilton was headinghere anyway. Why not wait till he got closer?”

“What are you suggesting, then?” Macaulaysaid.

“It seems logical to me that Chilton waswaylaid somewhere between here and Kingston in a move that wascarefully planned by someone who expected him along that route. Andthis someone — our murdered impostor being the most likelycandidate — wished to assume Chilton’s identity for reasons we haveyet to determine.”

“But how would the waylayer know the clotheswould fit?” Cobb asked. “The real Chilton come from England. Ourwaylayer couldn’t’ve seen him till he got here.”

“That may have been a happy coincidence,”Marc said. “All the impostor really required was the monogrammedluggage and the personal papers. He could have been prepared tosupply his own clothing.”

“Come to think of it,” Macaulay said, “Iremarked to Chilton — to the impostor, that is — that his suitsseemed to hang a bit loose on him. And he said, quite properly,that he had lost considerable weight due to his seasickness andtravel fatigue.”

Was he was able to convince you and yourstaff that he had been a butler in Sir Godfrey’s service inEngland?” asked Marc.

“He was certainly very English!” Macaulayreplied.

Marc did not pursue the matter furtherbecause he realized that Garnet’s amiable and trusting nature hadcontributed to the ease of the interloper’s deception.

“All this is well an’ good,” Cobb grumbled,“but we’re talkin’ here about somebody committin’ a hangin’ offence just to become Elmgrove’s butler!”

“You think the real Chilton’s dead?” Macaulaysaid, greatly shocked.

“He’d haveta be, wouldn’t he?” Cobb saidmatter-of-factly. “Stands to reason the impostor couldn’t carry onhis business here with the genuine butler likely to pop up at anymoment.”

“This is appalling,” Macaulay said with asharp intake of breath. “Two butlers, and both of them nowdead.”

“An’ we ain’t likely to find poor Chilton’sbody till the snow melts,” Cobb pointed out. “If he was killed onthe Kingston Road, his corpse would’ve been tossed inta the bush ina four-foot drift. By the time the wolves or coyotes get throughwith it, only the bones’ll be left fer us to find.”

“But why ?” Macaulay said. “Why wouldsomeone go to such desperate lengths to get himself into thishouse?”

There was a pregnant pause while the answerpresented itself inexorably to each of them.

It was Cobb who spoke first: “To spy on yer economical mash-a-nations ?”

“It has to be,” Macaulay breathed. “Somebodywas prepared to kill in order to infiltrate our deliberations thisweek.”

“Possibly,” Marc said slowly. “But that sortof operation would take a fair amount of planning. And remember,the impostor knew how to be a butler. Someone, probably more thanone person, recruited him and arranged for the takeover ofChilton’s identity.” Marc looked at Macaulay. “Who would know youhad hired a butler from England to replace Alfred?”