Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Jeremiah Jefferson sat opposite Marc with the air of man who was concerned with the unpredictable turn of events but innocent of any direct involvement in them. Nonetheless, his past experience with authority had left a residual wariness in an otherwise open and unsuspecting face. Mrs. Thedford had apparently done more than merely shelter him from the slave-catchers, Marc thought: there had been some kind of miraculous rehabilitation.

The interview was conducted by a combination of questions and answers being written on the slate placed between them, and of gestures, lip-reading, and accompanying facial expressions.

Your tooth is better?

Vigorous nod and display of gum-gap.

It kept you awake after the play?

Yes. Couldn’t sleep.

Did you see anyone come up the stairs after the others were asleep?

No.

Did anyone come back down the hall and go down the stairs?

No.

Did you see Mr. Beasley come out of his room?

Yes. He scared me.

He looked frightened? Worried?

Yes. Running.

You followed him?

Not right away. He started banging on doors.

What did you do?

Clarence and I banged on Mrs. T’s door.

Did she answer?

No. We went into her bedroom.

Was she awake?

No. Earplugs. Shook her.

Then you all went to Tessa’s room?

Yes. Terrible.

Marc then took Jeremiah detail by detail through what he saw there: Rick still holding the sword, Tessa unconscious, blood everywhere, Mrs. Thedford running out with Tessa in her arms and Jeremiah following, then being sent to rouse the Franks, helping Madge and Mrs. Thedford get Tessa downstairs and away from the dreadful scene.

Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.

Say thank you to the doctor for me.

The interview with Jeremiah had been helpful, perhaps, but not to Rick Hilliard’s case. So far, the various accounts meshed in every important detail. Marc decided to see Dawson Armstrong next, not because he expected the dipsomaniac actor to provide credible evidence about the crime, but because he was the most likely among the members of the troupe to have detailed knowledge of Merriwether’s background and behaviour. Despite what he had told Cobb, Marc was eager to discover all he could about the gunrunning operation. In addition to being a loyal subject of the newly crowned Queen Victoria, he had a personal stake in seeing that no citizens’ revolt erupted in Upper Canada-with farmer and soldier staring each other down, weapons at the ready.

As he motioned Armstrong to a chair across the table from him, Marc noticed, behind the crumpled features and depleted expression of the veteran actor, Madge Frank walking slowly across the taproom with Tessa on one arm. They shuffled into the theatre, en route to Mrs. Thedford no doubt.

“You were drunk when all the fuss broke out?” Marc asked, hoping to get this part of the interrogation over with quickly.

“You won’t believe this after what you saw yesterday afternoon on the stage, but I’ve been sober most of the time since we left New York last month,” Armstrong said wearily, as if he were beyond caring about anything anymore.

“Yet, according to what I heard Mrs. Thedford say, you managed to bring along a contraband supply of booze.”

Armstrong’s posture stiffened, and the creases in his face did their best to express umbrage at the accusation. “I did nothing of the sort.”

“Then how did bottles of whiskey mysteriously appear whenever required?”

Armstrong blinked. “I’ve begun asking myself that very same question. At first when I found a half-drunk bottle in the bottom of my trunk, I thought it was left over from a trip I took to Philadelphia last fall. But yesterday after lunch, when I began pulling out my Lear and Prospero outfits, I found another part-bottle in one of the pockets, and I’ve been so upset lately with Merriwether’s putdowns and insinuations, well, I just started in on it. And you saw what happened after that. Annemarie was furious.”

“Could Merriwether have planted those whiskey bottles deliberately?”

“That bastard would do anything to destroy my career!” Lear’s anger flashed in the tragedian’s eyes.

“Did you hate him enough to kill him?” Marc asked quietly.

Armstrong was not surprised by the question. “Of course I did. But after the fiasco of the afternoon, I went up to my room and thought mightily about finishing the bottle I’d hidden well. We had a play to put on, and I managed to resist. But after the play, I came straight up here and started in on it. I took it down in three or four swigs and passed out. When I woke up, it was pitch dark. I felt like hell. I puked all over the rug.”

Marc knew he had to ask the next question: “Did you hear Tessa cry out?”

Armstrong did not answer right away. He looked down at the table, and when he raised his eyes again to face Marc, they were brimming with tears. “Yes, I did.”

“What did you do?”

“I am ashamed to say I did nothing. My door was ajar. So was Tessa’s. I heard her shriek, like she’d been stabbed. I knew she was in some sort of danger. But I was sick, I was woozy, my head was pounding, I was filled with self-loathing.”

“Did you see Clarence Beasley come running towards Tessa’s room?”

“Yes. And I felt a wave of relief.”

Marc hated himself for continuing, but he did his duty: “Do you remember how long it was after the cry that you saw Beasley pass your doorway?”

“It wasn’t right away, I know that, because I started crawling towards the hall. Then I heard Beasley’s door open and saw him coming to help.”

“Isn’t it possible that Beasley may have come out of Tessa’s room, slipped quietly back to his own room, and then pretended to be the rescuer by running noisily past your door?”

Armstrong was genuinely puzzled by the question. He gave it due consideration before answering. “I see what you’re driving at but, no, that’s not the way it happened. I heard Tessa scream. My door was open about a foot, and from where I was lying in my puke I could see Tessa’s doorway across the hall. Nobody came out after the scream. Then, maybe a minute or two later, I saw Beasley come past.”

Marc tried to suppress the discouraging implications of Armstrong’s testimony and concentrate on his next task. “While I have you here, Mr. Armstrong, I’d like to learn a bit more about Merriwether. I assume you’ve known him for some years, as both of you have starred on the New York stage, as rivals and colleagues.”

“What do you need to know other than the fact that the man was a monster with an ego the size of Manhattan Island?”

“Was he interested in politics?”

Armstrong snorted derisively. “That would have meant giving some thought to the welfare of others or the future of America, and Merriwether was obsessed with only his own appetites and satisfying them as often as possible.”

“He belonged to no political party or organization that you know of?”

“He didn’t vote and even bragged about it.”

“He was attracted to women?”

“And they to him. But Annemarie kept him in his place. I’ll give him his due there: he seemed to sense, like any cunning beast will, that his recovery and his progress in the world were bound up with Mrs. Thedford and her good grace. He was pathetically afraid of her, though he tried not to show it.”

“And yet he raped her ward?”

Armstrong winced at the word raped. “The son-of-a-bitch stepped over the line, didn’t he? And got what he deserved. I hope they hang a medal around young Hilliard’s neck.”