Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

A few yards behind the building lay several barns and sheds, with well-trod paths leading to and from. Still, intent on considering all angles, Marc walked down the steps, creaking and shuddering, and followed various sets of near-obscured prints, ending up either at one of the sheds or on a much-frequented path that led into the woods towards the creek, where Brookner had been promenading earlier last evening. Marc did not pursue these farther, as any prints there could have easily been those of staff or guests or locals enjoying the scenery. Besides which, Marc was no tracking scout.

Mildly discouraged, he went back up the fire-stairs to the second floor and scanned the carpet of the rear hall in search of wet stains. He ran his hand along its surface, feeling for dampness. He found none. But if the murder had been attempted as early as midnight, say, any telltale signs of snow having been brought back in on the assassin’s boots might be lost. He upbraided himself for sleeping in. The only conclusion he could draw at this point was that the intruder had used the ledge and the landing. How he got there was anybody’s guess.

Back in his room, Marc took time to scrutinize the “wound.” It was a precise incision, very thin and slightly wavy, the work of a flensing-knife, perhaps, or an extremely thin dagger. Other than that, he could find no other clues. His trunks had not been opened or searched. Nothing else seemed out of place.

The next question was whether or not he should reveal this attempt to the others. If the culprit were an outsider, they could well have seen or heard something of importance. On the other hand, if it were Lambert, for instance, Marc thought he would be wise to keep his counsel and merely watch. Perhaps his sudden appearance at breakfast, like Banquo’s ghost, might be enough to startle the killer into giving himself away in some manner. But if that failed, would another attempt then be made? The opportunity for it now seemed remote, as the group would be travelling together all day, with the outside possibility of reaching Kingston by late in the evening. However, if they only made Gananoque and had to put up as a group for one more night, Marc would have to come clean or be extraordinarily cautious. He decided to watch and wait.

Marc wheeled sharply to his left at the bottom of the stairs and strode across the foyer to the open dining area and the table where several of the entourage were seated at breakfast. “Good morning!” he boomed cheerfully, but his eyes darted about, seeking signs.

Pritchard, Sedgewick, and Lambert looked up from their coffee and newspapers. The Brookners were not present. What on earth was going on with those two? Marc had heard no sounds from their room. Down here, though, it was plain that his abrupt entrance had made no particular impression on any of the gentlemen. Lambert barely glanced up from his paper to nod a surly hello. Pritchard, addicted to bonhomie, smiled and stood up almost halfway to greet him. Percy Sedgewick said “Good morning” to Marc as if he were genuinely glad to see him.

“Here’s my newspaper, Lieutenant,” Pritchard said. “I’ve finished with it. I’ll get Dingman to bring in some fresh supplies. There’s quite a good pot of coffee on the sideboard.”

“You’re most kind,” Marc said.

“I trust you’ve had a solid night’s sleep,” Sedgewick said. “Did you happen to see anythin’ of Addie or Randolph? They’re awfully late, and the captain usually goes for his fool walk long before this.”

“Perhaps I should go and knock on their door,” Marc offered.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to sound no alarm,” Sedgewick said quickly, colouring slightly. “You go ahead with your breakfast. I’ll slip up in a few minutes if they’re not down soon.”

“Yes, I hate to be impolite about it,” Pritchard said, “but we need to leave here within the hour if we’re to attempt Kingston.”

“Addie’s been upset with her husband over his boastin’ and his damn fool walkin’ out in his tunic,” Sedgewick said. “I heard them arguin’ about it last night.”

Among other things, Marc thought.

“She thinks he’ll get himself shot by vigilantes or else catch pneumonia.”

“I thought I’d catch my death last night,” Pritchard chortled. “How about you, Lambert?”

Charles Lambert continued to study his newspaper.

Just then they heard a clumping of boots on the stairs across the foyer, and turned as one to see Captain Brookner fully dressed and ready for his constitutional. No-one was particularly surprised that he did not greet them, but rather wheeled and headed away towards the side door.

“For Christ’s sake, Randolph, listen to your wife for once in your life!”

Sedgewick’s uncharacteristic outburst startled everyone, including Brookner, and brought Murdo Dingman motoring dangerously down the hall from his office. Sedgewick followed up his brief advantage by leaping up and trotting across the foyer to the hallway where Brookner had stopped and merely half turned to wait for him, in his customary haughty manner. The two began arguing, sotto voce, to the embarrassment of the breakfast table. Suddenly, Brookner pushed Sedgewick away and stomped out into the morning.

Red-faced and obviously unused to dealing with such situations, Sedgewick trudged dolefully back across the foyer.

“You did your best,” Pritchard said. “But a man must determine his own fate,” he added sententiously.

Sedgewick sighed and sat down. He was sweating.

Dingman decided it was time to defend the honour of the inn. “I can insure you, sirs, that the ground and previews of this establishment are as safe as a mouse in its hole. We are all loyalists in this township. We adulterate the young Queen.”

“For which I’m sure she shall be grateful,” Pritchard said with some amusement, “when she hears of it.”

Lambert looked up from his steady perusal of the Brockville Recorder and said to Dingman, “I could help you with that last will and testament now, if you have a moment.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Lambert. Mrs. Dingman’s been after me to do somethin’ about it fer ages, and when I learned you were a solicitor-”

“May we go to your office now?” Lambert asked with great politeness.

“Indeed, sir, indeed.”

Lambert got up, nodded to excuse himself, and then he and Dingman disappeared around the corner into the rear hall from which they could access the proprietor’s office. At that same moment, Adelaide Brookner came across the foyer towards them, looking, to everyone’s astonishment, flushed and flustered.

“Has he gone off?” she asked her brother.

She was a changed person, and they all stared. Her hair was dishevelled, her blue eyes underscored with black smudges, as if she had not slept or slept badly. Her mourning dress was rumpled, and the black scarf she used to cover the upper reaches of her bosom and neck had been stuffed carelessly in place and flung haphazardly under her chin.

“I tried to stop him, Addie, but he’s worse than ever.”

Adelaide gave her brother a grateful smile. Then she addressed Marc and Pritchard. “I apologize for my appearance. My husband and I, as you may well have heard, had an argument last night. I did not sleep well. I don’t think Randolph did either. We only woke up about fifteen minutes ago. My husband began dressing for his morning walk, and we quarrelled again. When he marched out, I just threw on my clothes. Foolishly, I still thought I might stop him or persuade you to-”

“No need for apologies, madam,” Pritchard said gallantly, though he was quite flummoxed by all this ungentlemanly and unladylike behaviour among the colonials. “I’ll fetch you some hot coffee.”

“That would be kind of you.” She sat down with a sigh beside her brother.