Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Neither said anything for a full minute.

“But you ‘prospered,’ as you say. You became Mrs. Annemarie Thedford.”

“That’s another long story, but yes, I did. I moved to Philadelphia, where the theatre business was booming. I re-invented myself in a country that encourages a fresh start and admires it when it works. I invented a Mr. Thedford, alas deceased, presented my hard-won capital as an inheritance, played the merry widow, fell in and out of love many times, and finally moved back to New York as that ‘widow from Philadelphia,’ eventually buying into the Bowery.”

“And helped reclaim one or two others like yourself along the way.”

“Yes. Including poor Jason.”

Marc felt suddenly drained and utterly exhausted. The candles were low and flickering. “What do we do now?” he asked, seeing no way forward. “Either my best friend hangs for murder … or my mother does.”

“Ensign Hilliard will be freed tomorrow, one hour after our steamer departs.”

“But how?”

“You do not think I would have left your friend to pay for my crime? I sat down after our rehearsal yesterday-when I got to spend two hours alone with my son-”

“You deliberately arranged for those scenes, didn’t you? Including my playing Hamlet to your Gertrude?”

She smiled. “I knew those hours and our brief moments together on the stage last night would be all that would be allowed me. But listen: I have prepared a detailed confession for the police.” She got up, went over to the davenport, and picked an envelope out of the papers there. Marc’s mind lingered for a moment in the past.

“That hand-mirror, the one I held up to Gertrude’s face, it came from home, didn’t it?”

“Yes, as did these brushes and the candlesticks. They were left to me by my father, part of a matched set given to my parents as a wedding gift. All three of their children have pieces of the set.”

“I remember seeing that design now, on Uncle Jabez’s hair-brushes in his room.”

She gently but resolutely brought him back to the present. “This letter of confession is unsealed and undated.”

She removed one of two sheets and gave it to Marc. “Can we trust Constable Cobb?”

“Of course.” Marc scanned the letter and the signature at the bottom.

“Then bring him with you to the wharf at noon tomorrow. We depart for Detroit then on the Michigan. I’ll date the letter today, and seal it. I’ll ask Cobb to take it directly to his chief. I’ll make sure to leave a few papers in here with my handwriting and signature on them. By the time the magistrates have perused the letter and determined its authenticity, I’ll be in the United States.”

“But they still might not believe you. Barclay Spooner is determined to see Rick hanged.”

“On this second page I tell the police exactly where they can find the candlestick. You mustn’t see this page: I don’t want you compromised. When they find the candlestick, they’ll discover Jason’s blood and hair still on it. I decided to leave it as it was when I devised this plan. And Owen Jenkin was in this room on Monday afternoon and evening: he can verify that the candlestick was one of the pair he saw here.”

“And with the explanation of the two screams laid out in this letter, the sworn testimony of the others makes perfect sense.”

“Nor am I underestimating the persuasive powers of my son.”

There was nothing left to do now but hold each other. Neither would let go. From the other room, Tessa let out a contented snore. Marc did not shudder.

The mid-October day was bright with sunshine in a high, cloudless sky whose deep blue mirrored the unrippled surface of Lake Ontario. On such a day as this, it was hard to imagine the province could be anything but prosperous and peaceful. The weather had made the harvesting of crops seem almost a leisure activity, and an improved harvest it had been throughout the broad countryside. And here on Queen’s Wharf at the foot of John Street, Lieutenant Edwards stood bare-headed in the plaintive breeze and bade good-bye to Mary Ann Edwards. Beasley, Armstrong, Jefferson, and Tessa and Thea had already boarded the Michigan, and were leaning against the rail, waving or otherwise acknowledging the farewell plaudits of the several dozen fans who had come to see the Bowery players off. An hour earlier, Jefferson and three bulky draymen had muscled a number of steamer-trunks aboard-four of them inexplicably lighter than they had been upon arrival. Constable Cobb stood a few yards away, impassively observing Marc and Mrs. Thed-ford.

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Only if you come to New York.”

“But you will write?”

“Yes. But you must promise to send me long and loving letters about the wondrous woman you are going to marry, and tell me everything about each child as it arrives. I must know that you are happy.”

“I will. I’ll bombard you with paper and ink.”

“And you must promise me one other thing.”

“Uncle Jabez?”

“Yes. He must never know about me, or that I have found you. The dead ought to remain dead.”

“But not always, surely?”

“Not always,” she conceded. “I cannot forgive Jabez, but I can’t hate him either now that I see what he’s helped you become. It is better for him and you to go on as you have been. I couldn’t bear to be the cause of any unhappiness between the two of you. I have more than enough on my conscience already, and I’m afraid I’ve severely compromised yours.”

The steamer blew two peremptory blasts of its brand-new whistle.

“It’s time,” she said, drawing the sealed envelope out of her reticule.

Marc waved Cobb over. The constable had been given the bare outline of what was to take place, but in order to spare him any improper involvement in the business, he had been told that the letter contained evidence pertinent to the investigation, and it was only in these specific circumstances that it would be passed along. Cobb took the envelope-sealed and addressed to the chief constable-without a word, but his glance at Marc said: I know there’s something odd going on here, but it’s your affair.

“I’ll get this to Sarge right away,” Cobb said, and left.

Marc took his mother’s gloved hand and kissed it.

“You make me feel like a lady.”

“You are a lady.”

Marc had almost missed the Michigan ’S departure. He had fallen into a fitful sleep at Mrs. Standish’s and had continued to wrestle with the various demons in his nightmares until almost eleven o’clock. When he returned to the Regency’s guest quarters, all the doors were open and the rooms empty. Merriwether’s trunk and clothes were gone. The Bowery Touring Company had departed. A few minutes later, he found Ogden Frank in the tavern, counting the take from last night’s performance.

“That Spooner fella was here at daybreak with a squad of goons, rippin’ open trunks an’ haulin’ away guns. He was mad keen to find you, but I told him I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you.”

Marc thanked him, went to the stable to check on the horse (Spooner had got it also), then sent a stable boy with an urgent message to Cobb at the police station just up the street. Looking dishevelled and very unmilitary, he started to walk west towards John Street at the other end of town, but got less than a block away down Colborne when a familiar female voice hailed him. He turned to find Aunt Catherine running towards him at a most undignified gait. She seemed in worse shape than he was: her coat and bonnet were askew, her hair unpinned, her eyes red with weeping.

“My God, Auntie, what in the world’s happened?” His only thought was of Beth.

“It’s George,” she said.