Vital Secrets (27 page)

“Medium height and build?” Marc said, dreading the response. “Sort of baby-faced and fair-skinned? Big smile?”

“That's the fella all right,” Wilkie said, nodding his large head. “You seen him too, have ya?”

Unfortunately he had: it was George Revere, bringing another mended costume from Aunt Catherine's shop, except that this one contained a message which could send all who had handled it to the gallows. Marc sat back on the bottom step below the wings. He could hardly breathe. Incurious as ever, Wilkie drifted back to his post. Surely it was Revere, recent arrival from the United States and boisterous republican, and not Aunt Catherine, who was involved. Even so, Beth's aunt was herself a recent immigrant from New England and, Marc grimly concluded, might well be tarred with the kind of broad brush he had seen wielded by members of the establishment here. Was there no end to the entanglement of politics and his personal life? Perhaps Revere himself was innocent, a dupe of treasonous types around him.

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

T
HE
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.

• • •

T
HE 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.

“We're here.”

Marc ducked low and followed the men inside. The hut was windowless, floorless, and, except for the glimmer from a candle-stub on a stump-table, nearly dark. The two who had led Marc here sat down beside a third man, his face also hidden behind a kerchief. Marc squatted down on a log across from them. Between them on the stump lay a saddlebag.

The third man spoke first. “This shouldn't take long. We need to see the quality of yer merchandise. Then we'll show you the colour of our money. If both are satisfactory, I'll hand you written instructions about how and where to drop off the remainder of the goods an' pick up your full payment.”

“The price has gone up ten percent,” Marc said.

After a tense pause, the third man said, “It's fifty per rifle or no deal.”

Marc smiled. “No harm in tryin' a little Yankee horsetradin', now, is there? Fifty it is.” Marc sighed with some relief: he felt he needed to know what price had originally been agreed upon when he came to count out the cash in the saddlebag.

“Let's see the goods, then,” said the one who had spoken to him beside the highway. The other man who had accompanied him had said nothing as yet, and appeared to be very jittery, jerking his head from side to side at the least tick of sound.

Marc pulled one of the French Modèles out of the canvas casing into the dim light. While the jittery one held the candle uncertainly in his hand, the other two rotated the weapon over it as if they were roasting a piglet on a spit. One of them gave a low whistle of approval.

“An' you got ammunition an' twelve more in addition to these two?”

“Yessiree. But first I need to see the silver.” This was it: once the exchange had been made, the treasonous act would be palpable and irreversible. If any one of these three were caught with the marked rifles, they would be fodder for the executioner.

“It's all there: U.S. silver coins. You may need a mule to carry it.”

Marc reached for the saddlebag.

“Lemme see the other gun first.”

“Whatever you say. The customer's always right.” Marc hoped he wasn't putting it on too thick. He reached for the canvas bag. As he did so, he saw the spokesman for the rebels reach into his cloak and begin to pull out an envelope: the drop-off instructions. We're almost there, Marc thought with the tiniest flush of triumph.

At that moment, all four of them froze at the sound of a clatter just outside the hut. A second later, a fourth man dressed like the others stumbled inside and cried out breathlessly, “They're comin' through the bush from the lakeshore! Soldiers! A whole pack of 'em!”

“What the hell is goin' on here?” demanded Deep Voice.

Marc stood up. “Nobody followed me! Some bastard's tattled on us.”

“The deal's off, Yankee!” shouted the one in charge. “You're damn lucky I don't shoot you on the spot.” He snatched the saddlebag up in both hands and barked at the others, “Leave the guns. When they find them here and then pick up this arsehole wanderin' around lost in the bush, they'll know who to hang!”

With that, they scrambled for the door and the safety of the woods. They could never be caught once they had a running start. But the jittery one did not immediately follow. He got up as if to go, but suddenly swivelled towards Marc, who had stood his ground. In a quivering, two-handed grip, the
man held a cocked pistol. Marc felt its muzzle like an ice-pick under his chin. For an interminable half-minute, it trembled there: Marc could feel the man's indecision. He didn't know why, but he closed his eyes. His life, incomplete as it was, did not flash before him.

Then something prompted him to open them again. The pistol was being lowered, inch by agonizing inch. The candlelight from the table was reflected in the barrel and, then, unexpectedly it illuminated the back of the gunman's left hand, an all-too-familiar hand that bore a throbbing, thick scar. Then the hand, the pistol, and the gunman were gone. There was much commotion in the bush, then all was quiet. Ten minutes later, Marc heard the mad crashing of infantrymen as they staggered into trees and pitfalls.

Marc smashed both fists on the stump-table, furious at Spooner's blundering intervention, but also gob-smacked by what had just been revealed to him. Thomas Goodall, in his desperation, had thrown in with the would-be insurgents. And that scar on his left hand was the result of no accident: Thomas had no doubt been injured at the donnybrook with the Orangemen the previous spring near Crawford's Corners. At this very moment he would be skedaddling back home to lay his disappointed body beside that of Winnifred Hatch, and both of them no more than five yards from the woman he was destined to marry. He tried to move, but couldn't. He was numb. His heart kept pumping, but his brain had given up.

He had no idea how long it was before Lieutenant Spooner
careened into the hut, burred and nettled and otherwise beaten about by the Canadian bush. Without ceremony, he teetered in front of Marc and shouted in a furious squeak, “Can you identify any of them?”

There was the slightest pause before Marc heard himself say, “They were all masked.”