Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“And you returned in the same manner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“While you were outside, did you notice anyone at all using the path to the woods?”

“No-one.”

“You went straight up and came right back?”

“Yes. I couldn’t have been gone more than five minutes. Mr. Dingman was waiting for me in the office the whole time.”

“Which would bring you back there about nine twenty-five?”

“That seems about right.”

The spectators sighed as one. Here was another likely suspect, dark and mysterious, with a perfect alibi. Lambert could not have trailed Brookner to the creek, shot him, and scampered back to Dingman in five minutes. The witness stepped down, looking relieved.

Interest picked up instantly, however, when Murdo Dingman was called forward.

It was soon determined that Dingman could not corroborate earlier testimony about the goings-on at the breakfast table because he had been closeted in his office with the entrails of his last will and testament before him on his desk. He had come out hoping to ask Lambert to return with him to his office, and had been happily surprised when Lambert had suggested such a move himself.

“But Mr. Lambert did not go immediately into your office?”

“No, sir. He pardoned himself and went out the back door to fetch one of his law tombs.”

The coroner blinked hugely, but said nothing.

“I went in and sat waitin’ for him.”

“Please answer these next questions carefully. Mr. Lambert has testified that he was away-and outside the building-for no more than five minutes, and that he thus returned to you by nine twenty-five. First of all, do you have a clock in your office?”

“I do, Your Honourable. Made in the United States. Keeps perfect time.”

Some skepticism at this latter claim was evinced by the gallery.

“So, is it your testimony that Mr. Lambert returned by nine twenty-five?”

Dingman looked suddenly stricken. He glanced about him for assistance but could find only sixty pairs of eyes interrogating him with heartless inquisition.

“Could be,” he mumbled.

“You are saying that you are not certain?”

“Yes. No. It’s just-”

“Surely you can tell us if it was closer to five minutes than, say, twenty. For if it were the latter, Mr. Lambert would not have an iron-clad alibi for the time of the murder.”

Charles Lambert did look up at this remark, and was studied minutely for his reaction: it seemed to be a combination of startlement and resentment.

“Could be either,” Dingman said, staring at the arabesques his fingers were executing. “You see, I was so absorbent in thinkin’ about my will, with all its detailments and its codpieces-”

The courtroom erupted with unconstrained laughter. The coroner struggled valiantly to be unamused.

Bewildered by this inexplicable outburst, Dingman soldiered on doggedly. “Whenever I’m readin’ or thinkin’, I find I lose track of time. But I remember Mr. Lambert did come in with snow on his boots, before all the fuss started up in the foyer.”

“And that’s the best you can do?”

“It is, sir. And I blame it all on my last will and testimony.”

“Then that will have to do,” said the coroner with a razor-thin smile. “You may step down.”

“But I ain’t up, Your Honourable.”

Pulling flaps of cheek, brow, and jowl into more solemn conjunction, MacIvor Murchison read into testimony his own pathologist’s report, which added nothing new to his initial findings earlier in the day. He next informed the witnesses and gallery that Lieutenant Edwards, who was by dint of elimination to be the next witness summoned, had provided the inquest with a detailed deposition, which testimony tended to corroborate much of that presented by the other witnesses. Nothing they had said prompted him to call forth the good lieutenant for further enquiry. This announcement caused much disappointment and vocal complaint from the spectators, but the coroner waited patiently for silence. After which he informed them that he was ready to offer his preliminary findings, without a recess. Digby Parsons pushed several parchment-like sheets of paper in front of his master, who took five lengthy and dramatic minutes pretending to scrutinize the indecipherable notes of his earnest clerk. Then he brushed back the errant wig, which had gradually taken root in his eyebrows, and began.

“It is clear that the most probable suspect in the murder of Randolph Brookner is the man with the strongest motive, the relevant means, and plenty of opportunity. As magistrate for this county, I have been kept informed of any sightings or successful captures of rebel fugitives in this region. I can tell you today that Miles Scanlon has been seen by more than one dutiful citizen of this township no farther than five miles from this courtroom, as late as the day before yesterday. That he is the most logical one to have fired the fatal shot is the tentative conclusion of this summary inquest, and, in my role as magistrate, I am going to issue a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of murder, in addition to the charge of sedition. That is not to say that some other individual may not have conspired with Scanlon, in whole or in part, but until the latter is apprehended and brought before this inquest, the coroner declines to point a finger at anyone in particular. Needless to say, these proceedings are merely prorogued, to be continued when circumstances dictate. All those who have been travelling with Captain Brookner will be subpoenaed to appear at a time and place to be determined later. In the meantime, all are free to go.”

The gavel descended, the spectators looked thirstily towards the bar, and the witnesses appeared much relieved.

Marc sat quietly on the bench, absorbed in thought.

Marc was lying on his bed, reviewing the testimony in his mind and going over the events and conversations of the past three and a half days, when there was a tentative knock on his door. He opened it to discover Dingman’s youngest boy standing expectantly in the hall.

“Yer bags, sir?”

“But we’re not leaving till morning,” Marc said.

The boy blushed. “Then you ain’t Mr. Pritchard?”

“I am not. I’m Lieutenant Edwards.”

The blush deepened. “Sorry, sir. It’s Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Lambert that’s leavin’ in half an hour.” He turned and went farther down the hall.

Marc limp-trotted downstairs and found Dingman in his office, studying a heavily marked copy of his will. “I got them a fast two-man cutter from the village,” he told Marc without looking up. “There’re hopin’ to reach Brockville by ten o’clock.”

Then on to Kingston in the morning, Marc thought. And out of his reach.

When Marc made no move to leave, Dingman reluctantly looked up and offered more details. “Mrs. Brookner is gonna stay with us tonight. Doctor Mac give her a sediment to help her sleep. She’ll take the big coach in the mornin’, with you and her brother-and the coffin, of course. Will you be wanting supper soon?”

But Marc was already out the door. He was still working out the details as he ascended the stairs, but he believed he now knew who his man was.

Marc passed the boy as he struggled downstairs with Ainslie Pritchard’s luggage, and headed to the room at the far end of the hall. Lambert was still packing when Marc gave a single rap and entered. He was surprised, but that was all.

“You’ve come to say good-bye,” he said. “Would you like a drink?” He indicated a silver flask on the dresser.

“No, thank you. What I want is for you to sit down while I tell you a story, one that doesn’t have a happy ending, Monsieur Lam-bear. ”