Unholy Alliance (34 page)

“You’ve got too many ‘should’ves’ in there,”
Cobb opined.

Winthrop looked up. “Why do you think I
haven’t slept for three nights?”

No-one spoke for a while. Winthrop finished
off his whiskey and stared blankly at the dead fire. Then he
brightened in a grim sort of way, and said with real conviction,
“So you’ve been scurrying about out at Elmdale from Thursday until
this afternoon looking for a killer amongst the staff and
distinguished guests? If so, then I’ve accomplished something,
haven’t I?”

“Whaddya mean?” Cobb said. “We got you a
rend-a-view
with a rope.”

Winthrop almost smiled. “I succeeded in
wrecking the negotiations. There’s no way they could have survived
three days of false accusations, wounded vanities and mounting
frustration, could they?”

Marc was quick to respond: “I’m afraid you’re
right. How could trust and compromise between two groups naturally
antagonistic to one another thrive – or even survive – in such an
atmosphere? You can tell your influential friends, from your
prison-cell, that the unholy alliance has not happened, thanks to
the death of a butler in their midst.”

“And that means, then, that there’s every
likelihood the capital will remain in Kingston,” Winthrop said,
grimacing at the irony.

“So you’re gonna be filthy rich after all,”
Cobb said, then added with a gleeful grin, “I’m sure Jack Ketch’ll
be pleased.”

***

When Beth Edwards woke up on Monday morning, she was
startled to find her husband asleep beside her. He must have
slipped into bed sometime after ten o’clock, when she herself had
kissed her sleeping child goodnight and retired. Eager to hear all
the details of the murder investigation that had occupied Marc to
the point of distraction since Friday morning, she kissed him
slowly and tantalizingly awake.

“There’s more where that come from,” she
smiled, “but first things first, eh? I want the whole story.”

Marc knew her well and, weary as he was, he
immediately began to summarize the case for her. He also knew
enough not to omit unsavoury detail or try in any way to mitigate
the vices and follies of those around them.

When Marc had finished his lengthy account,
aided by periodic prompts from his audience, Beth leaned back on
her pillows and said, “So what’ll happen to Mrs. Jiggins?”

“Chilton himself is not about to press
charges, and Winthrop swears she knew nothing of the purpose behind
the identity-switch. At most, she could be accused of public
mischief in abetting what a good barrister would claim to be little
more than a prank. So no-one seems keen to arrest her, certainly
not the officials in her county, where she, her mute friend and
their horses are legendary.”

“Sounds like she’s famous fer other things as
well. I wonder that poor Cobb was able to resist all that
temptation.”

“So do I,” Marc said with a wry smile.

“I’m glad she didn’t set her lecherous eyes
on
you
– handsome as you are.”

“I suspect she drew some assistance in her
conquests from her specially distilled tea.”

“What about the coalition an’ the alliance?”
Beth said, serious again.

“Francis rode out to Elmdale at nine o’clock
last night to let everybody know that we had charged two men in the
murder. LaFontaine assured us that when that news came, he would
sign the document.”

“Aren’t you worried that Winthrop’ll know
what’s in it, an’ might tell his friends?”

“That’s unlikely because he’ll be in jail
until the spring assizes. And the spy’s notes, remember, were all
but destroyed in Winthrop’s fireplace. If he’s inclined to tell the
Tories anything, it’ll be to boast that he sacrificed his own
well-being for the sake of theirs and for the province’s future –
by breaking up the conference and sending the delegates home in
disarray.”

“An’ you, clever fellow, encouraged him to
believe that?”

“I did. And Robert and Francis will
inadvertently
let the same sad news get abroad.” Marc
paused, then added, “But I’m convinced now that such a signed
protocol will not really be necessary. One thing about a murder
investigation is that those involved – guilty and innocent, police
and suspects – get to know an awful lot about one another, and have
a chance to observe up close exactly how their fellows react under
duress. One’s essential character has a way of shining
through.”

“Like Bragg’s did, eh? An’ Prissy, who’s
better off knowin’ what he’s like.”

“Yes. I believe Louis now has more confidence
in Robert and his associates than he would otherwise have had. And
his companions have seen us at our best and at our worst. I really
think we have taken another giant stride towards establishing the
principle of responsible government and self-rule when the
provinces are combined later this year or early next winter.”

“We’ve both fought long an’ hard fer it,
haven’t we?”

Marc took her hand. “You were there long
before me, luv – with a lot more at stake.”

“Maybe now we can start to believe in a
better future,” Beth said, leaning against his shoulder.

“For little Maggie, especially.”

Beth drew his hand across the swell of her
belly. “You’re not forgettin’ little Marcus junior, are ya?” she
said.

Don Gutteridge is the author of more than 40
books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works, including the Marc
Edwards mystery series. He taught in the Faculty of Education at
Western University for 25 years in the Department of English
Methods. He is currently professor Emeritus, and lives in London,
Ontario.

Turncoat

Solemn Vows

Vital Secrets

Dubious Allegiance

Bloody Relations

Death of a Patriot

The Bishop’s
Pawn

Desperate
Acts

Or visit the
Simon & Schuster Canada Website

Coming Soon in the Marc Edwards Mystery
Series:

Minor Corruption

Governing Passion

The Widow’s Demise

Available from
Bev
Editions

Toronto, September 1840

“So you’re finally gonna let me have a peek at the
legendary Uncle Seamus?” Beth said to Marc as the brand-new
brougham veered off Brock Street north onto the bush-path that
meandered its way up to Spadina House.

Marc gave eighteen-month-old Maggie an extra
dandle on his right knee and responded to his wife’s remark in a
similar bantering tone: “It’s not as if we’ve been hiding him under
a bushel, and the dear fellow can’t help it if his antics have made
him notorious in the stuffy drawing-rooms of Tory Toronto, now can
he?”

“Would anyone be paying attention at all if
the man wasn’t a Baldwin?” Brodie Langford called back from his
perch on the driver’s bench. He was able to turn only partway
around, not because he felt obliged to keep an eye on the pair of
spirited horses in front of him but because he did not wish to
remove his arm from the willing shoulder of his fiancée seated
beside him.

“Possibly not,” Marc laughed as he held
Maggie up so she could see the forest flowing past them and marvel
at the goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace that bloomed flamboyantly
along the edge of the path and in the beaver meadows here and there
along their route. It was Maggie’s first trip out of town, and she
was wide-eyed with wonder.

“Well, he’s been here since July, hasn’t he?”
Beth said without turning her own gaze away from the view on her
side of the carriage or disturbing the baby asleep against her
breast. “And he hasn’t shown up at Baldwin House or anywhere else
that I’ve heard.”

“Seamus Baldwin emigrated here for the sole
purpose of retiring to the bosom of his family. Why should he wish
to leave the company of his brother and nephew and his nephew’s
children and the delights of Spadina-in-the-woods and brave the
urban ruckus of the city?”

“What I’d like to know,” Diana Ramsay said
from under Brodie’s left arm, “is what exactly makes him
notorious?”

Diana was governess to Robert Baldwin’s sons
and daughters, and although stationed in the Baldwin’s town-house
at Front and Bay Streets with her charges, she had accompanied them
often out to their country retreat, Spadina.

“But surely you of all people would know?”
Marc teased. “You’ve seen the great man up close more than any of
us.”

“I have, and as far as I can see, he’s a
jolly elf of an Irishman who loves a jig, a sentimental song and a
good joke. What’s more, he’s become the darling of Mr. Baldwin’s
children, especially little Eliza.”

It was to celebrate nine-year-old Eliza’s
birthday that Marc, Beth, Maggie, baby Marcus Junior, Brodie and
Diana were jogging along towards Spadina on an early September
morning in full sunshine under a cloudless sky. Brodie had just
taken possession of the brougham – with its elegant, retractable
roof, Moroccan leather seats and oak trim – and although he could
afford to have several servants (and did), he had not yet
relinquished the reins to anyone but himself.

“Ah, but what songs! What jigs! What antics!”
Brodie laughed as he gave Diana a discreet squeeze.

She gave him in return a gentle elbow in the
ribs. “You’ve only seen him once,” she chided, “and that was in
July just after he came.”

“It’s you two who are going to be notorious,”
Marc said with mock solemnity. “Perhaps you should shorten your
engagement, eh?”

The young couple laughed, as they were meant
to, but the date set for their wedding, more than a year off, was
not really a laughing matter. Although now a wealthy young
gentleman and budding banker, Brodie was not yet twenty-one and
Diana, several years older, had accepted his proposal only when he
promised to wait until all four of Robert Baldwin’s children were
comfortably settled in school and she could, in good conscience,
leave them in the hands of another governess.

Maggie squealed and clapped her hands as a
scarlet tanager flew up out of a pine tree ahead of them and
fluttered in surprise over the horses’ heads.

Marc sat back with his daughter in his lap
and let her excitement play itself out. How much more content could
a man get? he thought. Last April Beth had presented him with a
son, Marcus Junior (now purring away in his mother’s arms). Soon
after, work began on the five-room addition to Briar Cottage, more
than doubling its size, and by midsummer it was completed. Maggie
had a nursery to herself, Marc a study and library, Beth a
sewing-room (also used as an office in her capacity as owner and
manager of
Smallman’s
ladies shop on fashionable King
Street), and their new live-in servant, Etta Hogg, had a small but
satisfactory bedroom. And for all of them, a spacious parlour with
a fieldstone fireplace. Their long-time servant, Charlene Huggan,
had left them in June to marry Etta’s brother, Jasper. The couple
took up housekeeping next door in the Hogg family home, caring for
Jasper’s sickly mother and doing their best to expand the Hogg
dynasty.

Whenever he was not supervising the
construction – carried out by Jasper and his new business partner,
Billy McNair – or keeping watch on an unpredictably mobile Maggie,
Marc found some time to assist his friend Robert Baldwin in his law
chambers and to confer with Robert, Francis Hincks and other key
members of the Reform party. Even politics, against all odds,
seemed to be moving in their favour as both Reformers and Tories
continued to lobby and plot in the run-up to the new order of
things: the union of Upper and Lower Canada in a single colony with
a common parliament. The Act of Union had been passed in the
British Parliament in July, and it required only the Governor’s
official declaration to become an irreversible reality, a move
widely expected early in the new year. After that, of course, fresh
elections would be held in each of the constituent provinces, and
then it would soon become apparent whether French and English,
Catholic and Protestant, Tory and Reformer could resolve their
ingrained differences and make the unified state prosper where its
individual parts had so glaringly failed. Unbenownst to the Tories,
however, the Upper Canadian Reformers, last February, had concluded
an accord with the Quebec radicals, and their hopes were high that
together they could effectively dominate the new parliament. And
that alliance had held and been kept secret now for over six
months.

“You aren’t gonna talk politics today, are
you?” Beth said as they rounded a bend and came in sight of
Spadina. It was not really a question.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Marc said. “We’re
here to celebrate a little girl’s birthday, aren’t we?”

A skeptical tittering from the driver’s bench
seemed the only comment required.

***