Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

“You headed to yer old boarding-house, then?”

“Yes. Have Wilkie return to guard duty, then go home to your good wife for a few hours.”

“She’ll be thrilled.”

Marc had lived at widow STandish’s boarding-house for the six exciting months he had worked at Government House in the service of Sir Francis Head. He had been happily mothered by Mrs. Standish and coddled by her live-in maid-servant, Maisie. He knew he would be welcomed there without question or comment. Moreover, he would have a quiet place to learn his lines and begin to think about the report on the murder he was to present to the governor at noon.

Right now he wanted very much to walk all the way up to Government House on Simcoe Street and visit Rick. But he had so little in the way of good news, he felt he would most likely leave Rick more anxious and depressed than he already was. At least Cobb had got a message to him that Tessa was fine and concerned about him. But Marc would certainly demand to see him before completing his report. If Spooner had not requested a written statement from Rick, then he would get one himself, though he knew Rick well enough to realize that his initial account would be unchanged. However, some small detail overlooked might well prove to be the missing piece to the puzzle. To this point his own investigation had done little but suggest that only three people were in that room when Tessa’s cry started a chain-reaction of events and that, short of a massive conspiracy, the window of opportunity for anyone else to have committed the crime and escape undetected was about two minutes.

Since he had to pass Aunt Catherine’s shop on his way westward to Peter Street, Marc decided to stop in and say hello. He felt a stab of guilt as he walked through the alley that led to the back door and the stairs up to her apartment. Not only was the wedding set for a week from Sunday in Cobourg, but Aunt Catherine and Beth were now plotting the fine details and, at the very least, he was expected to show some interest and give nominal approval. Daily letters could now be expected. He should have been free to participate fully in the exchange and, further, should have been allowed the luxury of leisure hours to dream, anticipate, and indulge his fondest fantasies.

Beth had insisted they not worry in advance over insurmountable obstacles or impossible decisions. Thus they had not yet worked out where they would set up house other than that Beth would remain with Aunt Catherine and entertain conjugal visits whenever Marc’s normally insignificant duties let him loose from the garrison. Only when “things settled down,” in Aunt Catherine’s polite phrase, would they turn their attention to the question of whether Beth would move into officers’ quarters with him or whether they would rent or buy a house he could only occupy intermittently. And the spectre of his being transferred to the Caribbean or India or Van Diemen’s Land was not acknowledged at any level.

Hearing a footstep on the back stairs, Aunt Catherine bustled in from the shop. “Oh, it’s you, Marc! I was expecting George back.”

Marc was quite happy to miss the sullen George Revere.

“Come on upstairs, I’ve got news from Beth.”

Marc wanted to ask “good or bad?” but dutifully followed Beth’s aunt up to her parlour, where she fetched a freshly opened letter from the mantel. She smiled broadly, then looked a mite sheepish.

“Beth has ordered me to confess to a little conniving behind your back.”

“For my own good, I assume?”

“I couldn’t put it any better. But since you’ve done nothing but dither about arrangements for a honeymoon-using that god-awful army of yours as an excuse-we’ve gone ahead and done it ourselves.”

“A month in New York or London?”

Aunt Catherine laughed, quite at ease now and more certain than ever that her niece had found a man to match her own spirit and particular humours. “Three days and four nights at Sword’s Hotel on Front Street-the bill to be sent to me.”

Marc was touched. “That is more than kind,” he said.

“Well, it isn’t Paris, but at least you won’t spend your honeymoon being interrupted by the silly chatter of seamstresses and the loud complaints of over-indulged dowagers looking for the perfect hat!”

“May I see Beth’s letter?”

“Certainly. And you’ll see there that you and your bride are booked on the mail packet out of Cobourg that’ll get you to Toronto before supper time. Now I’ve got to get back to the shop. Can you stay for a meal?”

“I’ve got a lot of work that can’t wait. Sorry.”

“No need to be. Drop in tomorrow if you can.” With that she headed down the stairs. “Ah, George,” he heard her say, “just take those things right through to the girls.”

Marc read eagerly through Beth’s letter, written several days after her last one but, not surprisingly given the state of the mail service, nearly overlapping it. He was searching for the slightest negative remark, but the only one that even remotely qualified was a reference to Thomas Goodall’s depression over the low commodity prices tempered, Beth assured him, by the healthy progress of Baby Mary and the decision that they had just taken to store their grain and wait for better prices in the spring. According to Beth, the cash they had received from the army as a result of Marc’s visit in March and Owen Jenkin’s generosity had made the decision possible. Hence, the chances of Thomas, Winnifred, and child pulling up stakes and rushing off to the edge of the earth beyond the Mississippi had been temporarily forestalled. All the other news was upbeat, some of it bordering on the naughty, the letter ending thus: “Auntie, stop reading here. Darling, I long to be in your arms, anywhere but most especially in bed. I count the days and the hours therein. Be well. Your loving wife-to-be, Beth.”

Marc found himself trembling. It was actually going to happen. And that knowledge immediately gave him the strength he knew he would need to face the morrow.

When Mrs. Standish and Maisie ceased fussing over him, Marc retired to his former room and opened the package of scripts that Mrs. Thedford had given him to study. All three of his scene-sequences were with Mrs. Thedford, which simplified any rehearsal required, and left the rest of the cast and their contributions more or less intact. First up were the two excerpts from Macbeth wherein Lady Macbeth tries to drive her waffling mate towards the assassination of King Duncan, followed by the murder scene and its aftermath. These scenes had not been rehearsed yesterday but were obviously ones that Mrs. Thedford and Merriwether had performed often. Next up was a series of excerpts from Antony and Cleopatra, cleverly selected, edited, and sequenced to trace the tempestuous affair from its inception to final farewells, concluding with Cleopatra’s suicide at stage-centre. Lastly, there was the closet-scene in Hamlet where Hamlet beards and upbraids his mother.

Marc was puzzled by this selection because Merriwether was famous for his role as King Claudius, not the younger Hamlet, usually played by Beasley. Hamlet’s role here had been clearly assigned to Marc, but as far as he could tell from the program notes scribbled hastily by Mrs. Thedford, in the other scenes from the play surrounding this one, Beasley would take his customary role and Armstrong would do Claudius. Besides being an unusual and potentially confusing arrangement, it seemed to Marc to be exceedingly risky since, as Hamlet, he would be beardless and made up to look like the young man he actually was. The odds of someone in the audience recognizing him or guessing that this Hamlet was not the forty-five-year-old Merriwether were surely increased. But he had little choice. His morning would be taken up with interviewing Thea about the laudanum, writing a report for Sir Francis, and talking to Rick before handing it in. So he sat himself down and began to commit the Bard’s iambics to memory.