Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

Lambert’s dark brows came down to squeeze his eyes almost shut. “Pardon me for being blunt, Lieutenant, but I don’t see how any of this is your business.”

There was an embarrassed silence. It’s only my business, Marc thought but did not say, if you’ve never actually set foot in Cobourg. And if not, what are you doing on a stagecoach heading there? And what were you really doing up in St. Denis?

“We’re merely trying to while away the boredom of the journey, old chap,” Pritchard said.

“I don’t find my own company boring,” Lambert said uncharitably, despite the obvious truth of the remark.

And that put an end to that conversation.

Fifteen minutes later they reached the outskirts of Cornwall and pulled up in front of the Malvern Inn. It was five o’clock.

Alerted to their imminent arrival by the army courier who had passed through ahead of them, the innkeeper had prepared a sumptuous welcome for his affluent guests. A log-fire blazed in the huge stone fireplace of the reception area. Braziers had been sent up to their rooms and warming bricks placed in their beds between feather mattresses and goose-down comforters. The roast beef was almost ready in the cook’s generous oven, and the wine-steward-cum-errand-boy had just scurried off to the cellar for five bottles of the best that ready money could buy.

Marc was hoping to observe each of his fellow passengers as they removed their outer clothing. He was looking for the telltale bulges of hidden weapons, but it was not to be. Everyone was exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the long journey and its troubling events, and headed straight upstairs to their assigned chambers. An hour later, with a wash and a nap accomplished, they reassembled in front of the roaring fire for sherry and pre-dinner chat. No doubt their various adventures would have been rehashed, if only in a perfunctory way, but Mr. Malvern and his angular wife insisted on sharing their affability and stores of meaningless gossip with their captive customers. And so, with the aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafting in from the kitchen, they had to endure the Malvern chatter for the sake of the pleasures to come. Marc found himself almost too weak to eat anyway. He had fallen dead asleep in his room and had had to be wakened by an alarmed Captain Brookner who, once more, showed his disappointment at Marc’s choice of clothes for dinner, but made no comment.

As they were being ceremoniously led towards the roast beef by Mrs. Malvern, her husband drew Marc to one side.

“I did not want to trouble you, sir, when you first come in, as you looked quite peakèd, but the courier left a message for you, the one that come from Montreal.” Without further explanation he thrust an envelope into Marc’s hand and bustled into the dining-room.

Marc sat down in a nearby easy-chair. His name on the envelope was in Owen Jenkin’s handwriting. He ripped it open and read:

Montreal, L.C.

Noon, Jan. 17, 1838

Dear Marc:

I am trusting this message to Sir John’s express courier. If he is unimpeded on his journey, he should overtake you before you reach Cornwall. There is news here that you must know about as soon as possible: your life may depend on it. Gilles Gauthier, the man who was caught thieving at the hospital, was tried here this morning in military court, the regular courts being suspended. He was found guilty of theft-he had two spoons in his possession-and was sentenced to hard labour for ten years. But he was found not guilty of attempting to murder you with a stolen bayonet. Evidence in his defence was offered by a parish priest from Chambly, who testified that Gauthier spent the night you were attacked in a drunken stupor in the local church vestry. However, suspicion has now fallen on someone else. It seems that one of the French aides left the hospital two days after the attack, supposedly sick and unable to work. Head Nurse was too busy playing Boadecia to notice the coincidence or mention it to Dr. Wilder or me. The young woman’s name is Isabelle LaCroix. Nothing is known of her here, and the French will not betray one of their own or help us with our enquiries. So there it is. It seems you may have been attacked by a young Frenchwoman, of unknown origin and without a known motive. Please be careful. Further attempts may be made. Send news of your safe arrival at each post en route.

Yours in friendship

(Major) Owen Jenkin

Marc’s first thought was that “a further attempt” may have already been made earlier this afternoon. But it could not have been carried out by a girl from the city. Most likely, whoever it was who wanted him dead had co-opted the nurse to make the first try, when he was helpless in a hospital bed. Now it appeared that the same person had himself, or in concert with others, made a second try, and failed. Certainly Marc’s disguise as an ordinary gentleman had not fooled the would-be assassin. Which meant that Marc was known by sight: he was neither a random nor a symbolic target. Someone hated Marc Edwards enough to make a concerted and sustained effort to kill him. And that person would know precisely where he would be sleeping tonight. He would have to be prepared.

Mr. Malvern, as rotund as he was orotund, was delighted to hear from Captain Brookner after dinner that, due to the fragile health of Lieutenant Edwards, the distinguished company would be staying a second night before moving on to Prescott. His brown eyes ablaze with the reflected flame from his cheeks, Mr. Malvern assured the lady and gentlemen that healthful food and supportive drink would be supplied as needed, that recreation would be found to amuse and edify (cards and partridge hunting being the foremost among many choices), and with the local militia active in and around the village, no fears for their safety should be entertained or permitted to bestir the equanimity that their station deserved.

As the men headed for the smoker to cap their day with a cigar and a brandy, Marc excused himself.

“There is no need to excuse yourself at all, Lieutenant,” Ainslie Pritchard said graciously, his magnanimity expanded exponentially by roast beef and vin ordinaire. “We have already tired you today more than is conscionable.”

With that, he manoeuvred his portliness towards the smoking chamber, and the others, with varying nods of approval, followed. Even the mysterious Mr. Lambert, less than loquacious at dinner, joined them. Despite being dog-tired, Marc was hoping to have a chance to speak with Adelaide Brookner alone, but she was already on her way upstairs to her room.

Innkeeper Malvern, ever hovering, pounced from an alcove: “Anything I can do for you, sir, to make you more comfortable?” he asked.

Marc paused, thinking hard. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said.

Malvern beamed.

“Do you happen to have a pumpkin-squash I could borrow?”

Although life as a hotelier had prepared Malvern for many an odd request or demand-he was already planning to write a book on the subject-he was stunned to hear a British officer ask him for a pumpkin on loan. The intrepid lieutenant’s exploits had been, to the latter’s acute embarrassment, the main topic of conversation between the soup course and the entrée. It seemed that Marc’s daring rescue of Eugene Yates, the young cavalryman from Montreal, had been bruited about that city by his companions of the 24th, and the tale had grown hairs in the retelling. Several variants were put forward and debated at table, but Marc had been too weary to adjudicate. No-one had noticed.

“You have a root cellar?” Marc enquired as Malvern fumbled for a sensible response to the hero’s request.

“Yes, sir. And yes, sir, there are squash and turnip of several varieties stored there. You want a pumpkin-squash, you say?”