Don Gutteridge - Turncoat

Up ahead, the Smallman house was more typical of Canadian rural residences than was the stone structure of the miller Hatch: a notched, squared-timber block, caulked with limestone cement, small windows of murky “local” glass that let in an impoverished glow, a pitched roof over a cramped second storey, and a snow-covered stoop. Marc strode past the windows along the north side, one of which was draped with a swath of black crêpe, put one boot on the porch, and raised his fist to knock. The door swung inward and fully open.

“Nobody knocks in these parts,” a light, feminine voice said from the shadows within. “I’ve been expectin’ you, Mr.-”

“Edwards,” Marc said. “Ensign Edwards.”

“I TAKE IT YOU’VE MET ELIJAH,” Bathsheba Smallman, known to all as Beth, said to Marc. They were sitting opposite one another in the parlour area-marked off only by a braided rug and an apt arrangement of hand-hewn chairs made welcoming by quilted seat pads-balancing cup and saucer with accompanying bread and jam (the bread fresh out of the iron pot over the fire, the jam homemade).

“Yes, but I’m afraid he wasn’t overly helpful,” Marc said just as a spurt of jam struck his chin. He rubbed at the offending blob, then licked it off his finger.

“Huckleberry,” Beth said. “Grows like a weed in these parts.”

“It’s delicious.”

“Elijah’s harmless,” Beth said. “He’s very protective of me and Aaron.”

“Your brother?”

“That’s right. You’ll meet him when he gets in from collectin’ the eggs, if he doesn’t get lost first.”

When Marc looked concerned, she smiled reassuringly and said, “Sometimes he gathers more wool than eggs.”

Marc could not take his eyes off Beth Smallman, even though he was aware of her discomfort as she glanced away and back again only to find him helplessly staring. As she did, sunlight pouring through the window behind her lit the russet tints of her unbound hair and framed her figure. She was as small and trim and wholesome as Winnifred Hatch was tall and hot-tempered and daunting. And he was charmed by the teasing lilt of her voice, with its exotic accent.

“You’re in the district to look at buyin’ grain for the garrison, you say?”

Marc blinked, took a sip of his tea, and forced his gaze past her to the petit point figure of Christ on the wall beside the window. “That’s correct. I’m merely lining up possible sites for the quartermaster’s inspection later this month.”

“Elijah tells me we’ve taken in more Indian corn than our cows can eat.”

“I’ll take a look before I go, then.” The tea was consumed, and the bread and jam with it.

“I’m sure Elijah will oblige you.” Beth smiled. She was wearing a plain blouse and heavy skirt with a knitted cardigan tied across her shoulders. A white apron and cap lay on the pine table near the fire, waiting.

“There’s somethin’ else on your mind, isn’t there, Ensign Edwards?”

“Yes, there is, ma’am. And I apologize for being so roundabout in approaching it.”

She caught the sudden seriousness of his tone and looked intently towards him, willing him to speak.

“I have some disturbing news,” he began.

“I can think of no news that could be more disturbing than what I’ve had to bear these past weeks.” She steadied her voice. He turned away briefly, but she had quietly composed herself, except for a slight glistening at the edge of her blue, unblinking eyes.

“And December last as well,” he said softly.

Now he had her full attention and more: something sharp and suspecting entered her look-at once vulnerable and hardened by necessity.

“Why have you come?” she said. “Who are you?”

“I have been ordered here by the lieutenant-governor to investigate your father-in-law’s death.”

“Investigate?”

“Yes. And I have already reached the conclusion that Joshua Smallman was in all likelihood murdered.”

A thump and a scraping clatter from the kitchen area forestalled any immediate reaction to Marc’s news. Beth rose to her feet, a look of concern flashing across her face. “It’s Aaron,” she said.

Into the centre of the room came a tall, thin young man with an unkempt mane of reddish hair. He dragged one foot along behind him and, with a lurching effort, swung a basket of warm eggs up and onto a sideboard. As he did so, the left half of his face stretched. “I d-d-didn’t break any,” he said with a lopsided grin. Then he spotted the visitor and froze.

“I didn’t expect you would,” Beth said. “Say hello to Ensign Edwards.”

Marc rose.

“Mr. Edwards, this is my brother, Aaron McCrae.”

Aaron simply stared, not in fright but in fascination at the scarlet frock coat, many-buttoned tunic, and glittering buckles so abruptly and magically set before him. “Where’s your s-s-s-sword?” he asked.

“I am pleased to meet you,” Marc said, “and my sword’s tucked safely in my saddle-roll.”

“Aaron’s goin’ to be sixteen next month,” Beth said.

The lad nodded but seemed more interested in shuffling an inch or two closer to this mirage in his parlour.

Beth touched him on the arm. “Mr. Edwards and I have some important business to talk over. Go out and help Elijah with the feed, would you?”

Reluctantly the youth shuffled himself out the back door.

“He was born like that. With the palsy. He’s not really simple, but it’s a strain for him to talk. With us, though, there isn’t much need.”

They sat down again.

A log rolled off its andiron, spraying sparks into the air, and the brief flare sent a wave of heat to the far side of the large room where they were seated, reminding them how cold it had become. Beth pulled her cardigan on with a shy, self-conscious gesture, but Marc had already averted his eyes.

“Murder is a terrible word, Mr. Edwards,” she said at last.

“Does it surprise you to hear it used in association with your father-in-law?”

She did not answer right away. “I didn’t believe the magistrate’s findin’ for one minute,” she said slowly. “Father wouldn’t have got himself lost out there, even in a blizzard.”

“More experienced woodsmen have,” Marc said. “Or so I’ve been told,” he felt constrained to add.

“The horse he was riding was the only one we’ve ever owned.”

“Your … husband’s?”

She nodded. “All he had to do was drop the reins and Belgium would’ve carried him home safe and sound.”

“You told this to the inquest?”

She smiled wanly. “I did.”

“Mrs. Smallman, I’m certain you are right.”

If she found this remark unexpected or patronizing, she gave no sign. “He went out there for a reason, that much I do know,” she said.

“And I believe that that reason, when we discover it, will lead us to his murderer.”

“You forget that he walked into a bear-trap,” she said. “That was … tragic, but not murder.” She swallowed hard, fighting off tears, and suddenly Marc wished he were any place but here.

As quickly and tactfully as he could, Marc told her what he and Hatch had found the previous afternoon out near Bass Cove.

“You’re saying someone just stood up there and watched him die?”

“Yes. And that is tantamount to murder, especially if your father-in-law was deliberately lured out there.”

She turned and looked closely at him. “Joshua Smallman was a lovable man. He could not bring himself to tell a lie. He had no enemies. He gave up his business in town to come back here and help me run the farm.” Her voice thickened. “He was the finest man I’ve ever known.” The pause and the candidness of her glance confirmed that she was including her husband in the appraisal. “If he was called out on New Year’s Eve, it was to assist a friend or someone in need.”