Don Gutteridge - Unholy Alliance

Martin winced at the gentleman’s grammar, butdid his duty. “It is, Mr. Cobb. That it is.”

“Think back to a week ago Tuesday. When thesleigh got here in the late afternoon, was there on it awell-dressed young gentleman of slim build with an Englishaccent?”

Proprietor Martin squeezed his eyes shut toponder the question. “That was the day the driver come in here withtwo frozen fingers, so I remember it well. No, yer cousincouldn’t’ve been on it because only one passenger got off an’stayed over. A merchant chap from Montreal. Very talkative. I puthim in the Queen’s Suite upstairs.”

“An’ the coach leaves fer Toronto the nextmornin’?”

“It does. This gent got on by himself thatparticular Wednesday, I recall. Nobody from here was headin’ to thecity, I guess.”

“What about the next coach, later onWednesday afternoon?”

“Let me see. Four or five passengers, butthey all live around these parts. None of ‘em stayed here.”

Cobb was puzzled. If the impostor had got offat Elmgrove late Thursday — and he was seen doing so — then heshould have been among this group of arrivals on Wednesdayafternoon and should have stayed overnight in the hotel inpreparation for the Thursday morning run to Toronto.

“So you’re sayin’ nobody got on board hereThursday mornin’?”

“Not quite. Three of our locals boarded forToronto, an’ then a few minutes before nine o’clock, a cutter comesracin’ up and a gentleman hops out. The driver of the cutter is bigBrutus Glatt from the inn up the road. He hauls the gent’s luggageaboard, an’ the gent then gets in.”

“What did he look like, this gent?”

“Well now, it coulda been yer cousin. Slimfella with fancy duds. Youngish. Didn’t hear him talk enough totell what his accent was.”

“Did he have a full head of hair? Reddishhair? Or was he bald maybe?”

“Normally I’d recall somethin’ like that, buthe was wearin’ a tall hat an’ was all swaddled up against the cold.I couldn’t say one way or the other. Sorry.”

So was Cobb. Was this man Graves Chilton? Ifso, then the exchange of identities must have taken place somewherebetween here and Port Hope, where the red-headed impostor haddefinitely been noted on that same Thursday stage by the innkeeperthere (the impostor’s hat having fallen off far enough to exposethat garish and memorable mane).

“You could always check with the driver,”Martin suggested. “He’ll be comin’ this way again on Monday.”

“I really need to find him before then,” Cobbsaid.

“Well, I didn’t ask Brutus — an’ he couldn’tanswer if I did — about the gent’s sudden arrival, but if he drovehim from the inn where he works, then I’d say the gent spent thenight there an’ then dashed the five miles from there to here nextmornin’ in time to catch the stage.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“And if he did sleep in the inn, then Mrs.Jiggins, who runs the place, would surely know if the chap mightabeen yer cousin.”

Cobb felt a surge of adrenalin through hisfatigue. “You’re right. I better go right there and ask, before itgets too dark or starts to snow.”

“You won’t take some supper, then?”

“If I find my cousin,” Cobb said smoothly,“we’ll both come back here an’ have a meal to celebrate.”

Seth Martin, with an eye on the prize, heldthe door open for the nattily attired, unlettered gentleman.

It was fully dark when Cobb drew his weary horse toa halt before The Pine Knot Inn. Seconds later, the double doorsflew open, and a grinning, aggressively plump woman steamed out togreet him.

Bessie Jiggins insisted that the “gentleman fromToronto” be received in the “drawing-room” of The Pine Knot. Cobbhad been ushered into the establishment through the doublefront-doors, which opened onto a large, low-ceilinged, smoky roomthat evidently served as the township’s tavern. Here, Cobb noticedas he was guided hastily by, three or four local farmers crouchedaround a tree-stump table, puffing on clay pipes and dipping tincups into a communal whiskey-crock. In a far, dim corner amakeshift bar had been set up, a half-log of oak with its flat sideup, against which a young woman had propped both elbows and fromwhich she cast a weary, unintrigued glance at the newcomer.

“That’s Cassandra,” Bessie said as she nudgedCobb into a dark central hallway, “my char and barmaid, and I usethe term maid very loosely. A royal name, eh, much wasted on such aplebeian creature. But we get along, and that’s what matters,doesn’t it?”

“What about my horse?” Cobb protested mildlyas he was aimed to the left through a curtained archway whosebeaded fringe rattled against his cheek. “I can’t stay but a — ”

“Brutus’ll take good care of your beast, noneed to worry on that score, Mr. Cobb.”

“Just Cobb, ma’am, but — ”

“No ‘buts’ required, Cobb. I make my livingout of horses, and Brutus is the best horseman in the county. Thereare two stables in Cobourg that have been trying to get thecontract to supply horses for Weller’s company, but Weller stickswith me and Brutus. I erected this hostelry here just to give theKingston Road a little elegance.”

They now stood in a cosier, if smaller, roomthan the one used as a tavern. Several candelabra illuminated theinterior, flattering the calico curtains on the square, glasswindow and the matching tablecloth. The table itself had been setfor two diners, including a pair wine goblets and an uncorkedbottle of red wine. Beside the hearth, where a brisk fire burnedevenly, sat two padded chairs with armrests.

“Cass and I were just about to have supper,but I insist that you join me. She won’t mind and you look like youbeen dragged through the snow behind a runaway.”

Cobb’s nostrils twitched at the aroma ofroasted chicken wafting its way from the cramped galley he’dspotted at the end of the central hall. His stomach rumbled as hereplied, “That’s awful kind of you, ma’am.”

“Bessie.”

“Bessie. But I must get some importantinformation first, before I’ll know whether or not I c’n take upyer kind offer.”

“What could be more important than having ahot meal in good company on a night not fit for Christians?” shesaid as she swept her sweater aside to expose the swollen upperhalves of her bosom, their lower counterparts having been trappedin a swathe of scarlet sateen as garish and provocative as awarrior’s sash. Below this wrapping, a voluminous skirt flared outand downward, needing neither hoops nor bustle to keep it afloat.When she smiled, as she did now lustily, she presented a set ofbeautifully even teeth, and her tiny blue eyes winked merrily intheir fleshy sockets. Her rosy, plump face was free of powder andlip-rouge, and her reddish-blond curls had been freed to dazzle inany way they pleased. Bessie Jiggins might have been thirty orfifty, as there were no telltale lines or wrinkles to give the gameaway.

“I been on the road all day searchin’ fer mycousin,” Cobb explained. “I was hopin’ you could be of somehelp.”

“I see,” Bessie said, sitting down in one ofthe armchairs beside the fire — with much roiling and ruffling ofcloth. She pointed to the chair opposite, and said with achest-jiggling chuckle, “That’s as noble a reason as any for beingabroad in this weather, but even Jesus got off his donkey once in awhile to have his feet polished.”

Cobb unbuttoned Alfred’s expensive overcoatand sat down on the edge of the chair.

“Much better. Now tell Mother Jiggins allabout your long lost cousin.”

Cobb gave her the full version of hismuch-practised cover-story. She listened with more than casualinterest, throwing in a helpful “tut” or “hmn” from time totime.