Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

On the bed in Merriwether’s room Marc had laid out a suit of the dead actor’s clothes from cap to boots. If he were called out to a rendezvous tonight after the performance, then he would have to go in Merriwether’s guise, not his own. But for now he was just another soldier strolling east along King Street towards the “old town,” where Cobb lived.

Marc felt somewhat guilty that he had not visited the constable before now. Despite the differences in background, life experience, and class, Marc had developed a comfortable rapport with Cobb, without either of them having to resort to pretense or false formality, or move an inch away from who they were. Marc respected Cobb’s native cunning and hoped Cobb’s admiration of his intelligence was not misplaced. He soon found the clapboard cottage on Parliament Street just above Front. He was delighted to find a neat little house freshly painted or whitewashed and, around it on three sides, the vestiges of the summer’s vigorous vegetable garden. Bean-hills, withered tomato plants on stakes, yellowed cucumber vines-all attested to care and diligence. He almost tripped over a fat pumpkin-squash beside the stone path that meandered up to the front door.

“Kickin’ ’em won’t make them ripen any quicker!” Cobb called from the doorway.

“A bit like us, then?”

Cobb chortled. “Glad ya could make it, Major. I figure a solid meal and a restful pipe or two should set us both up fer the ruckus later on.”

“I needed to get away from that place-and Government House. Thanks for inviting me.”

Cobb led Marc inside, where he found himself in a cozy parlour with cushioned chairs, a throw rug, a stone fireplace, and a deal table set for supper. The remains of a log in the hearth radiated a welcoming warmth.

“It may be ’umble but ’tis h’our h’own,” Cobb said in his execrable imitation of a Cockney accent.

“It’s very comfortable. Your missus must be a conscientious homemaker.”

Cobb looked decidedly uncomfortable at this compliment. “Most times, I’d agree with ya, Major. But not today.”

“Is Dora ill?”

“Healthy as a horse,” Cobb snorted, as if this state were somehow sinful. “Healthy as two horses!”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“She ain’t here, that’s what.”

“Oh,” Marc said, confident that Cobb would get to the point sooner or later.

“Off on one of her calls-again.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“She’s a midwife,” Cobb said in a tone that was both boastful and accusatory. “An’ the women of this town arrange to have their off-springers at the most inconvening time they can think up!”

“I didn’t know that,” Marc said, casting about for an appropriate place to park himself. “But surely you are proud of her: she plays a most important role in the community.”

Cobb looked as if one cheek or the other would soon burst. “But she was the one that went an’ invited you!”

Marc just laughed, and sat himself down in one of the two cushioned chairs. “You’re worried about a breach of manners? Well, don’t be. Besides, I smell something delectable cooking in the other room.”

“Well, as long as you’re not upset, then I guess I can’t be, can I?” Cobb smiled, sat down opposite Marc, and offered him his tobacco pouch. “I just figured the English gentle-tree was a stickler for good manners.”

Marc took the pouch, packed his pipe, and soon both men were smoking with meditative satisfaction. The aroma of some kind of meat stew grew more enticing.

“You didn’t get the lad to change his story, then?”

“No. And now it’s too late. We can’t keep the troupe here any longer when there’s a confessed murderer already in custody. I’ve talked Spooner into waiting until the morning before taking Rick down to your chief and the magistrate. Thankfully, Sir Francis has been incommunicado all day and Spooner, I suspect, is afraid to have Rick charged without the governor’s explicit approval.”

“You still think one of them actors did it?”

“That seems less and less likely. But one of them knows more than he’s saying.”

“Shall I bring in the supper, Dad?”

Marc turned to see a girl of nine or ten years standing under the curtained archway between the parlour and the kitchen. Marc blinked and stared. She was beautiful: tall and willowy with long brown hair, large brown eyes, and a freckled grin. How she had contrived to be born from the union of Horatio and Dora Cobb was a mystery, Marc thought, one of those miracles of generation that keep humans humble and awe-struck.

“This here’s Delia,” Cobb said proudly. “My first-born. Say hello to the officer, girl.”

Delia performed a brief, under-rehearsed curtsey, blushed, grinned, and said, “How d’ya do, sir?”

“Now that you’ve gone an’ inter-ruptured us, ya might as well bring the other one in fer viewin’,” Cobb rumbled with mock annoyance.

“Fabian wants to see the soldier,” Delia said, and rolled her eyes.

Fabian was duly ushered in so that he and Marc could carry out a mutual inspection. The boy was a masculine copy of his sister: bright-eyed, handsome, and shy without being self-effacing.

“And what do you want to be when you grow up?” Marc asked him.

“A grenadier,” said Fabian smartly.

“And you?” Marc said to Delia.

“A grenadier’s wife,” she said promptly.

“I warned you kids not to start yer teasin’ ways ’round our guest,” Cobb said. “Now get out there an’ bring in the food.”

Brother and sister exchanged grins, bowed theatrically, and pranced out of the room.

Amused, Marc said, “You disapprove of grenadiers on principle?”

“They do that just to aggra-grate me, Major. They’re both smart as a whip on a bare bum! The common school up the street ain’t seen nothin’ like ’em since it opened.”

“And you don’t need your sums and Greek declensions to be an officer in Queen Victoria’s glorious army?”

Cobb gave an invigorating pull on his pipe. “I wouldna thought so,” he said.

Supper consisted of a tasty venison stew, replete with vegetables from the garden and cellar-turnips, parsnips, potatoes, onions, carrots-and crowned with dumplings. On the side there was bread baked earlier in the day and butter from the market. An apple pie capped off the feast. The children served the meal, mimicking and perhaps mocking their notion of what waiting on high table entailed, but they ate quietly on their own out in the kitchen.

When he had finished his pie, Marc said, “I’m still puzzled about how that bottle of laudanum got from Thea’s possession into the spittoon where Merriwether or the killer left it. If Rick is to hang, then the least I can do for him is to prevent his being thought a rapist.”

“Well, Major, if that silly actress was befuddled enough to try an’ do herself in with loud-numb- I figure she’d’ve needed two or three bottles fer the job-then heaven knows what she might’ve-” “What actress’re you talkin’ about, Mr. Cobb?”

The two men swung around to face Dora Cobb, who now filled the lower portion of the curtained archway. Her round cheeks glowed red from an exertion she had not yet fully recovered from.

“You wasn’t supposed to hear that, Missus Cobb.”

“Well, Mr. Cobb, I could stuff me thumbs in me ears, but it wouldn’t wipe away the words. Now, tell me, what actress an’ what laudanum?”

“Now, you know, Missus Cobb, we agreed to keep our oars outta each other’s canoe-”

“Or else you’d’ve known I had one of them actresses here in the house last Saturd’y.”

Dora Cobb demanded to be fed and watered before she would elaborate on a remark that had elicited gasps from her husband and guest. So they waited patiently until she wiped the gravy from her lips with a delicate pinky, gave Cobb a reproachful look, and started in on her tale.