Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Marc had little time to rationalize further, for Clarence Beasley touched him on the shoulder and said, “Lay on, Macbeth.”

The Macbeth sequence did not go well. Marc felt sorry for Lady Macbeth, who did her best to carry the scenes beyond his missed cues and omitted lines, including one entire speech, in addition to his pathetic attempt to deploy volume and basso profundity to compensate for his lack of timing and passion. Fortunately this sequence was first up after the interval, giving the audience plenty of time to forget it in favour of what followed. The public knowledge of Merriwether’s indisposition (that, alas, had begun to affect the great man’s performance) would have made his fans more sympathetic than critical. In any event, it concluded with Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene, and as Mrs. Thedford had nicely arranged, thunderous applause greeted her effort.

Marc went straight back to his dressing-room. There were still thirty minutes remaining in the show. He needed to think about what lay ahead the moment it ended. It appeared that the rebels had taken every precaution. Under the moonlight, the Kingston Road would be visible for its entire length, while the forest on either side remained impenetrably black: if anyone tried to follow Marc-a lone, moonlit horseman on an empty road-they could be observed easily by those standing watch in the woods. Moreover, any such followers would easily be seen if they attempted to cross the Don River via the only bridge, while a midnight fording by inexperienced, mounted infantry officers was too hazardous to contemplate. He had little doubt that the horse waiting in the shadows of the market would be on its own, tethered loosely, and untraceable. If he were met some two miles or so east of the bridge, he would be spirited away to a predetermined rendezvous so quickly that any loyalist who managed to trail after him would have no chance of finding him. Thus, he would be on his own, having to convince the rebels of his authenticity, effect an exchange of sample guns and initial payment, and, presumably, arrange a drop-point for the rest of the rifles. Somewhere along the lake-shore, he speculated, where three trunks of costumes destined for New York City would inexplicably go missing.

As he waited out the agonizingly slow minutes left in the evening’s performance, Marc tried not to think too much about his dismal failure to help Rick Hilliard, who was certainly not guilty of murder, only of misguided chivalry. Cobb had earlier confirmed Marc’s theory about Merriwether’s purchase of laudanum, but he now felt much as Cobb did about such a minuscule triumph of detection. He also tried not to think of the consequences of having to arrest George Revere for sedition, with his wedding into the family a mere ten days away.

The loudest roar of the night told him that the show was over. Within minutes the stage-area would be overrun by enthusiasts eager to touch the garments of the great. He walked quickly through the shadows at the rear of the stage to the far side, past a startled chief constable, and up the stairs to Merriwether’s bedroom. There he stripped off his Macbeth robes, but left the wig, eyebrows, and beard in place. He got into Merriwether’s street clothes and boots, and then removed the two rifles and the ammunition from the trunk. Earlier in the afternoon he had marked the stock of each rifle, using an awl to drill a tiny hole, filling it with a single drop of ink, and rubbing the surface smooth again. He tucked them into the canvas bag Spooner had supplied, wedged open the window overlooking the alley below, and dropped the bag into some bushes. He waited, breath indrawn, for thirty seconds, but the noise had attracted no attention. Then he went back downstairs. Cobb was waiting for him, with Sturges.

“Jesus!” Sturges cried. “Fer a second there I thought you was Merriwether!”

Marc drew them up to the landing, where, by the glow of Sturges’s lantern, they read the rebels’ note.

“Spooner’s out there tryin’ to look casual, but nearer to a conniption fit,” Sturges said with some satisfaction. “Should I take this note to him?”

“What do you make of it?” Marc asked Cobb.

“Damned clever, I’d say. But I do know exactly where they’re gonna take you.”

“Two miles up the Kingston Road is scarcely a precise co-ordinate,” Marc protested.

“But it’s where there’s a path of sorts through the bush towards the lake, used by trappers an’ hunters mostly. It’s an old Mississauga Indian trail with a bunch of deer-runs off of it, a perfect maze if ya don’t know the terrain.”

“Perfect for them, disastrous for us.”

“Maybe so, but there’s a log hut at the end of the path-been there a donkey’s age-about a quarter of a mile from the lake.”

“Which gives them more than one means of escape.”

“Still, if Spooner knows what he’s doin’, he might be able to catch one of ’em comin’ outta the bush onto the highway or makin’ a run fer it by boat.”

“You’re right, Cobb, but only if he stays at least half an hour behind me. Our only chance is to catch them after I do the deal, whatever it is, and not before or during it. There’s no mention of guns in either note, and no way to prove one of the rebels actually wrote them. They could claim they thought they were buying Yankee whiskey or cigars.”

“I see yer point, Major. Want us to tell Spooner all this?”

“Yes, please do,” Marc said, and gave the note to Cobb.

“He’ll wanta know where the note was found,” Sturges said.

“Later,” Marc said.

“Here he comes now!” Cobb said.

Marc threw Merriwether’s cape over his shoulders and disappeared into the tavern, leaving the policemen to face the onrushing Spooner.

The moon was in full phase and the Kingston Road, mostly dried mud and vestigial logs at this time of year, stretched out before him. Marc had retrieved the gun bag from the alley, manoeuvred undetected through the market to its northeast corner, found a horse tethered there, mounted, and rode in splendid isolation towards Scaddings Bridge. Once on the other side of the Don, he looked back, but no one was trailing him. That eyes were watching him intently from several hidden eyries, he had no doubt. He also felt exposed without his sword and pistol. But he knew he must remain Jason Merriwether throughout the meeting ahead and after. There would be no heroic attempt to make a citizen’s arrest: he planned to carry on as if he were indeed a Yankee gunrunner, then walk or ride away, leaving the arrest or any follow-up gambits to Spooner and the governor. He would do his bit, then withdraw and try his damnedest to marry Beth Smallman before the sky fell.

“Stop right there, Merriwether.”

Marc did as he was bid by the deep voice from somewhere to his right.

“Now get off the horse an’ lead him over here.”

Marc walked the horse into the shadows, and waited. Two men suddenly appeared in front of him. They were farmers by the look of their overalls and boots, but each wore a battered top hat from which a chequered kerchief dropped down over the face.

“Merriwether?”

“I am he,” Marc said, trying out his New York twang. “I’ve brought the sample with me. Do you have the money?”

“It ain’t that simple. Follow us. You can leave the horse and ride it back as far as the bridge, providin’ everything’s on the up-and-up.” The one who spoke was very nervous, and struggled to keep his voice, deep as it was, from skidding upward.

“Whatever you say,” Marc replied with deliberate nonchalance. “If you people’re buyin’, I’m sellin’.” He tethered the horse to a tree and unslung the canvas bag.

They walked in silence. Marc could not actually see the path they were using, but his two companions moved along without hesitation or impediment. Soon they were confronted by a blunt shadow blocking the way.