Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“Now take ahold of my hand, laddie, I’ve got to go down to get a closer gander at the poor bugger.”

With Marc providing necessary ballast, Mac leveraged himself down until his massive bulk just seemed to settle into the snow around Brookner’s upper body. He whistled, stridently enough to wake dogs throughout the township.

“Jesus Christ on a donkey! What a mess! We ain’t had a real murder like this in the region for four or five years, not counting the aftermath of the odd grog-shop fisticuffs or some gelding getting revenge on its master with a well-aimed hoof. But this chap’s been shot by somebody who truly wanted him dead-and quickly, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

Marc watched with fascination as the coroner removed his furry gloves and applied a set of surprisingly nimble fingers to examining the wound and the area around it. “He fell immediately into this ice bath, I’d say. There’s still very little bleeding. He might’ve lain here like this for days, unchanged.”

“How was he shot?”

“Small lead ball from a pistol, from the size of the wound. Entered the back of the head just below the left ear and came out through the right temple, taking some of the brain with it. The running water’s washed most of the brain-matter away.”

“So he was likely shot somewhat from below.”

“Well, he looks like a very tall man, almost as tall as you or me. Few killers could have shot down at him.”

“Can you tell how far away the killer was when the shot was fired?”

“Well, I don’t see any splash of powder-the water’s done a job on the hair-but even so, I’d guess from the size of these holes and the force of the blast that we’re looking at three or four feet, no more.”

Marc gave that some thought while Mac continued his probing: “I’d say, then, that the killer came up behind him, perhaps stepped onto the path from behind one of these spruce trees, and simply fired before Brookner could react.” Marc surveyed the other side of the path. “There are no prints back here anywhere. That means the killer must have come up silently behind him and fired just as he turned. That’s possible because Brookner was a stiff-necked, stubborn creature, an easy target for this type of ambush.”

Mac chuckled sonorously. “Well, he isn’t stiff yet. Petrified a bit from this chilly shower, but no rigor mortis.”

“Not surprising. Four of us saw him head out for his walk about twenty minutes before Sedgewick and Pritchard found him.”

“You don’t suppose the two of them-”

“Not a chance. Pritchard is a rather silly Englishman who knew none of us before we set out together. Sedgewick didn’t like his brother-in-law, but he was with me when the victim left for his walk. It certainly points to someone who may have been stalking Brookner for the last day or two.”

“Tell me about it.”

Marc gave the coroner a brief account of the threatening note, Brookner’s involvement in the capture of the Scanlon brothers, Miles Scanlon’s subsequent escape, and Brookner’s imprudent behaviour in the face of legitimate danger.

Mac put both hands in Marc’s and hauled himself up out of the creek. He didn’t bother brushing the snow off his flanks or haunches. “Well, he’s paid a high price for his arrogance. Now tell me, before we go back in, where everybody was during the twenty minutes from the time Brookner left the building till he was found here.”

Again, Marc gave him a brief account. At nine o’clock or so, he had joined Sedgewick, Pritchard, and Lambert for breakfast. Ten minutes later, perhaps, Brookner came downstairs, argued for half a minute with Sedgewick in the side hallway, then left on his own. No more than five minutes later, and just after Lambert and Dingwall left for his office, Mrs. Brookner arrived looking for her husband. Learning he had already left, she joined the others for breakfast. Perhaps ten minutes after that, Sedgewick and Pritchard went to fetch the wayward captain and found him dead-apparently murdered only minutes before their arrival.

“It looks to me as if Miles Scanlon is our main suspect,” Mac said, pointing out the obvious.

Marc said nothing, however, about the attempt on his own life during the night. He might eventually do so, but his instincts told him that the two incidents were unrelated, and he did not want one complicating the other needlessly. His own stalker would surely strike again, and further opportunities would open up for catching him in the act.

Marc took one last look at what remained of the proud and audacious captain. The tumble into the creek had caused the upper buttons of his greatcoat to come open, so that the top of his militia-jacket with its gold chest-bars was just visible. His officer’s boots, polished to an ebony gleam, lay out of the water upon a shelf of ice, as they would have if he had fallen on the field of battle. The rest of him lay almost fully submerged in the chattering stream whose effervescence seemed to be keeping him afloat and continuously bathed. But the greatcoat itself-his pride and joy, freshly purchased, no doubt, just for the expected rebellion-was now waterlogged and threatening to pull the body down. Its bright green sheen had succumbed to the insistent waters, which left it soggy, darkened, even shabby. It was a sad end.

“So the only one of your crowd who was actually out of sight of you or any of the others during the critical twenty minutes was this Charles Lambert fellow?”

“That’s right,” Marc said, his puzzlement showing. “He was. We saw him and Dingman go around the corner into the hall leading to the door of Dingman’s office. They were supposed to be discussing a will.”

“Where is the office? I don’t quite remember.”

“It’s at the end of the centre hall, just beside the rear exit.” Marc’s eyes widened. “It’s possible Lambert didn’t actually go into the office with Dingman.”

“Well, we’ll just have to check that out with Proprietor Dingman, won’t we?”

“In addition to double-checking everyone’s whereabouts. And, may I suggest, Mac, that you not exclude me as a suspect.”

“Ah, that I haven’t, Marc, though I have given the notion a low probability. But we shall soon hear everybody’s tale in detail under oath. I’m going to have Dingman’s lads put this corpse into the back of my sleigh. Then I’m going to drive it to my surgery, where I can get it up on a slab and second-guess my own conclusions. Then I’ll have it boxed for the grieving widow to take back home to kith and kin, should they be concerned for it. I’ll have all this accomplished by one o’clock, after which I shall enjoy the fine luncheon my chatelaine will have prepared for me, washed down with a half litre of ten-year-old Burgundy. And because most of the witnesses and potential culprits are now here and hoping to depart soon, I shall hitch up Prometheus and return to Mr. Dingman’s taproom for the coroner’s inquest-at three o’clock sharp.”

“But shouldn’t you consult the magistrate first?”

MacIvor Murchison, Esquire, grinned like a moose in a mayflower swamp: “I am the magistrate,” he said.

After the initial shock of discovery, Marc had no opportunity to study the reactions of his fellow passengers to the murder of Randolph Brookner. Adelaide remained closeted with Mrs. Dingman; Sedgewick and Lambert retired to their rooms (with luncheon being sent up); and Pritchard, ever eager to converse, found himself alone in the lounge. Of the four Marc would like to have questioned a little more closely, Pritchard, alas, was the only one who had no motive. Nevertheless, Marc did go into the lounge to take lunch there with the perplexed wine merchant.