Don Gutteridge - Death of a Patriot

Beth was at the back door to greet them. She hugged Marc, then Cobb, who was too startled to resist or blush, then Marc again.

“We were so worried,” she said to Marc, meaning herself, of course, as she fought back uncharacteristic tears.

“You’re all right, though?” he said, meaning the baby.

“We’re both fine. Really. Now come on in. There’s still a bit of soup left from our lunch.”

So, while Rose Halpenny and her girls fussed over Constable Cobb, plying him with food and drink and draping his coat over a rack by the stove, Marc and Beth sat nearby holding hands and reassuring each other that a five-and-a-half-day absence had not altered their universe in any material way.

“Is Patricia still here?” Marc asked, after they had quickly worked through the health and status of Charlene, Jasper Hogg, Briar cottage, and its environs.

“Oh, no. She went back home on Sunday afternoon. By the time I got to see Almeda, the colonel had relented. Of course, by then the ball was over and-” Beth stopped. “You’re looking pretty antsy,” she said. “You have to get going?”

“I hate to, I really do, but the information we found in Detroit is vital to Billy’s defense, and I’ve got to get it to Robert.”

“Billy’s holding up well. Dolly sees him two or three times a day. They’ll be happy to hear your news.”

“If you don’t mind, then, I’ll head straight down to Baldwin House and — ”

Beth interrupted. “He won’t be there. He’s at the Court House.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the trial started today.”

“I know, but they’ll still be empanelling the jury.”

“They did that this morning. Robert come by an hour ago, to see if you’d got back, and said the Crown was calling their first witness at one o’clock. They’re at it now.”

Marc pulled Cobb’s coat off the rack and tossed it in his direction. “We’ve got to go, Constable. Pronto!”

While Cobb continued on to Frank’s livery stable, Marc ran up the cleared path to the main Court House door and dashed into the foyer. The courtroom lay straight ahead, and Marc brushed by the sentry, jarring Wilkie awake, and slipped inside. The place was jammed with the curious, the prurient, and those who had come to see what justice there could be in trying a bona fide hero for exterminating a killer, a vandal, and an incorrigible republican. Marc spotted Clement Peachey, Robert’s associate, sitting on a rear bench. Peachey nudged his neighbour farther along the pew and signalled for Marc to squeeze in beside him.

“You shouldn’t really be here,” Peachey whispered. “You’re on the Crown’s witness roster.”

“Funny, but I haven’t received a subpoena in that regard,” Marc said with a wink. Then they both turned their attention to the trial of Billy McNair, which was in progress before them.

Cupping his hand over his mouth, Peachey said, “The coroner’s evidence about the poison and the medicine packet’s been completed.”

The Crown’s attorney was now questioning his second witness: Gideon Stanhope. Marc’s heart skipped a beat. Acting for the Crown was Kingsley Thornton, with his tall, impeccably erect bearing, a white sheaf of hair under the barrister’s wig, and the clear and theatrical voice capable of chilling ironies and subtle stratagems. Thornton’s penetrating gaze alone could strip a witness of pretense, will, and dignity. He’d had twenty years of distinguished service at the Old Bailey on both sides of the aisle before emigrating to Upper Canada and retiring on an estate north of the city in order to be close to his son, daughter-in-law, and five grandchildren. He was a member of the Legislative Council and had been confidant to three governors. While inactive as a barrister, he maintained his membership in the Law Society, and Marc had encountered him at meetings of the law clubs for apprentice lawyers. His presence here was not merely intimidating to the defense, it bespoke the governor’s intention to get a conviction in a case he considered vital to the political interests of the province-which just happened to coincide with his own.

“Colonel Stanhope, we come now to the strange business of the duel that took place three days before the murder. I want you to tell the gentlemen of the jury in your own words what happened that fateful morning, insofar as you were involved.”

Marc turned his attention to Gideon Stanhope, standing upright in the witness-box and seemingly hanging upon each syllable uttered by the prosecutor. He was not in uniform, though his expensively tailored clothes and stiff posture still projected an image of affluence, authority, and self-possession.

“I had risen at dawn, as is my custom since I became a soldier and an example for the men I lead. I had completed my toilet, donned my tunic, and was heading for my study when my butler-”

“That would be Mr. Absalom Shad, from whom we shall hear testimony later on?”

“The same. He was half-dressed and extremely excited. He said there was a commotion in the garden and that pistols had been fired. We dashed for the stairs to the cellar and the door to the garden.”

“Naturally. You were concerned, I take it, that the gunshots might presage an escape attempt by your prisoner?”

“Precisely.”

As Thornton led his friendly witness through the damning details of Billy’s duel with Coltrane, Marc looked about him. He had sat in here a dozen times this past fall to observe a variety of trials during the assizes and had often remained in the august chamber alone for a few minutes afterwards. The high court, though barely ten years old, never failed to impress the apprentice barrister. No expense had been spared in its creation. Oak, maple, and ash gleamed from every angle-wainscoting, shallow side galleries, vaulted window sashes, benches, lecterns, prisoner’s dock, witness stand, and, of course, the raised, throne-like dais upon which the high-court justices sat in all their lordly glory. On this day, the presiding jurist was none other than John Beverley Robinson, the chief justice of Upper Canada, in his engulfing periwig and ermine-tipped robes, staring down at the assembly from under his aristocratic brow and intimidating Roman nose. And high and vulnerable and wee in the dock, Billy McNair peered out at his accusers and could not breathe a single word in his own defense.

Robert Baldwin and Richard Dougherty were seated on the front bench to Marc’s left, waiting their turn to go at the colonel. Marc had no idea of the particular strategy they might have planned for cross-examining Stanhope or how long it might take. But if they were to float the theory of the colonel’s powerful motives for murder-infidelity and blackmail-then the corroborating love letter from Detroit must be shown to them and thoroughly discussed. Marc scribbled a note, folded it, and whispered to Clement Peachey, “Would you slip this into Robert’s hand for me? It’s urgent.”

Peachey nodded and began sidling up the aisle under the baleful watch of the judge. The note was brief: “Stall Stanhope. Letter recovered. Much else.” Marc did not witness its safe delivery, but Peachey returned smiling.

“As clearly as you can recall, Colonel, what were Mr. McNair’s exact words?” Colonel Stanhope but Mister McNair, Marc noted.

“He said the two of them were duelling and ‘I did my best to kill the-’ ” Stanhope looked at Thornton, then up at the judge.

“You must repeat the exact word, sir, repellent as it must be to this civilized audience,” Thornton said with disingenuous solemnity.

“ ‘To kill the bastard.’ ”

The spectators-most of whom had heard the word used once or twice and had even uttered it themselves when occasion demanded it-susurrated in shock.