The Constable's Tale (26 page)

“Have you heard from Reverend Fletcher?”

“No, no word.”

“Listen . . . what’s your name?”

“Baker. Sergeant Baker.”

“Baker, something big’s afoot here. I need to talk to General Wolfe. It is a matter of the utmost importance.”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

“There was an American here in the camp, his name is Ayerdale. An officer in the Virginia militia. He disappeared several days ago. I have proof he is on a spying mission for the French. And that he is a murderer besides. By now he may have crossed over to the French side to tell them what Wolfe is up to.”

“I don’t think even Wolfe knows what he’s up to.”

“We’ve only been led to think that. Maybe he made up his mind days ago, and somehow Ayerdale found out. Or maybe Ayerdale has some other piece of vital information. Anyway, the general needs to be made aware of this without delay. Ayerdale is a traitor. It could affect the success of the whole campaign.”

“That sounds very serious, Harry. I’ll see that he gets this information immediately.”

“Wait a minute.” Harry began talking faster, sensing he had not made his case well enough and, in fact, may have sounded like a mad man. “I am the constable of Craven County, North Carolina. I have spent the past six weeks chasing Colonel Ayerdale for a murder I am now certain he committed there.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the Masonic badge. “I found this at the place where the crime took place. It was dropped by the killer. Do you see this inscription?” Harry pointed to the markings, trying to keep his fingers from trembling with anxiety. “This is code for a Latin phrase, ‘lighter than air.’ That’s the Ayerdale family motto. If you don’t believe anything else, please take my word as a sworn officer of His Majesty the king
that this proves Ayerdale is a criminal, and he may be consorting with the French army at this very moment.”

He watched Baker climb the stairs. Still unsure if he had been persuasive but satisfied he had done as best he could.

The day wore on. Inmates milled about in the gloom. More soup, improved by the pork, which he shared with Abel and Ambrose.

He felt strangely tired when he finally lay down on his cot for the night. Wondering why so exhausted. As darkness set in and he slipped off to sleep, he realized he had been prowling the room the whole afternoon.

Sergeant Baker woke him the next morning, shaking his shoulder.

“You’ve been sprung.”

“Am I to see General Wolfe?”

Baker put a finger to his lips and beckoned him to follow. Harry said quick good-byes to Abel and Ambrose, promising to do what he could to get them freed, then trailed Baker up the staircase. He passed the guards, who nodded to Baker. Through the wooden doors of the church they went, then outside onto the elaborately carved two-story stone porch.

At the foot of the entrance steps, looking like a herald of the underworld with his black robe and unsmiling face, was Reverend Fletcher.

CHAPTER 26

10: When you Sit down, Keep your Feet firm and Even, without putting one on the other or Crossing them.

—R
ULES OF
C
IVILITY

THE MINISTER’S BORROWED QUARTERS BACK ON THE ISLAND PROVED
to be a handsome two-story white stucco house surrounded by flowers. Harry had seen others very similar in New Bern, Bath, and Edenton. He had never been to France, but somehow this one looked peculiarly French. He could not say why.

During the boat ride under a misty rain, the minister had made clear that any questions would have to wait until they arrived at their destination. Whether it was wise to go along with someone who had
been in the steady company of a murderer passed through Harry’s mind. Though Fletcher was of smallish build, now that Harry had a chance to see him moving about for a longer period, Harry guessed that underneath the robe might be the body of an athlete. Harry took comfort in Fletcher’s apparent association with the sturdy Sergeant Baker and also the fact that the guards had given back Harry’s blades.

Harry and Fletcher settled into chairs in the front parlor, which was expensively furnished though covered with a fine veil of soot. Fletcher’s face remained hard. But not particularly menacing. More like a man with a toothache.

Harry spoke first. “You must have good connections here, to get me out of jail. I thought I wasn’t to be released until General Wolfe questioned me.”

“There are few things in this world that cannot be purchased, including freedom. But set that aside. An interview with the general would not be the best idea at this time.” Before Harry could judge his meaning and whether it contained a threat, Fletcher said, “I understand you’ve been asking after the whereabouts of Colonel Ayerdale and Miss McLeod. You’ve been quite insistent.”

“I believe Colonel Ayerdale is spying on General Wolfe for the French army. And that he is a murderer.” May as well come to the heart of it and gauge Fletcher’s reaction as to whether Harry should be going after his weapons.

Expressionless, Fletcher got up from his chair, walked to the window, and looked out. The rain had stopped and a fog was drifting in off the water.

“And I suppose you want to inform General Wolfe of these suspicions,” he said.

“They’re more than suspicions, Reverend. I have strong evidence. And, yes, that is my intention. If you are somehow involved in this business, it would be to your advantage to say so now.”

Fletcher looked at Harry, this time with what could have passed for a smile. Harry thought it wise to get onto his feet. At the same time
he moved his hand toward the side of his belt where his blades hung. Fletcher, taking note of Harry’s posture, gave a short, joyless laugh.

“Young man—may I call you Harry?”

Harry nodded.

“I do have a confession. I am not a minister of the gospel.”

“I have doubted such from the beginning.”

“My name is Giles deSavoy. I am a colonel in His Majesty’s army.”

It took Harry a moment to absorb this, consider the possibility it was a lie.

“Your name sounds French.”

“Norman, actually. One of my ancestors was among the duke’s knights when he gave the usurper Harold his comeuppance at Hastings. One of my now long-dead cousins was Richard Coeur de Lion. My personal favorite out of our rather large family.”

Harry found himself blinking, trying to take it all in. Staying at the ready. Every muscle charged with stored-up energy. But Fletcher’s—deSavoy’s—demeanor remained peaceable.

“You may have some French ties yourself, if you go back far enough. William wasn’t called ‘the Conqueror’ for battlefield exploits alone, as my numerous kin like to say. One of his female offspring somewhere in the line may very well have married a good native Saxon by the name of Woodyard.”

“Let’s say I believe any of this,” said Harry. “Why have you been keeping such close company with Richard Ayerdale?”

“You are correct in your suspicions about Richard. He is a spy. I congratulate you on your powers of perception. But now, he is our spy.”

*

They were seated again. Harry relaxing his guard as the story unfolded. It seemed too rich to be made up. At least, if this man Giles’s intention were to deceive, he could have used something simpler.

During his career, he said, which mostly had consisted of fighting the French army in France or elsewhere on the Continent, he had been drawn to a particular specialty: catching enemy agents. He had made a name for himself in this field. So when the government began suspecting a highly placed turncoat in America, the ministers turned to him for advice. Of several notable indications of treachery, the best evidence was the same that had gained the attention of the Americans whom Harry had overheard in Boston: a run of unexpected French victories near the beginning of the war.

Early suspicions had fallen on Governor Shirley. But surprising French successes had continued after he had been recalled to London. Finally, Giles had been dispatched to America personally by the new strongman in Whitehall, a fiery-tongued package of energy named William Pitt, to investigate. Giles himself thought up his disguise as a senior clergyman looking into the status of the church in the provinces. A good excuse for his travels and inquiries, even when those verged beyond strictly religious matters.

The same logical path taken by Browning had led Giles to Ayerdale. The name began cropping up during conversations with different officials in both the American and British military. It became a common thread: Ayerdale’s supposed taskings to gather information on the progress of the war and report back to the governor of Virginia. Giles sent Ayerdale’s name back to London as one of several possibilities. There, a fellow specialist in ferreting out such activities undertook some of his own investigating and discovered the truth about Ayerdale’s financial condition. Broke as a Methodist parson.

“I also discovered that despite his outward shows of patriotism, Ayerdale has long harbored deep resentments toward His Majesty’s government,” Giles said. “Especially the army.”

It was Harry’s turn to share. He told Giles what he had overheard about Ayerdale’s quarrel with the redcoat captain at the Monongahela.

“I’d not heard that, but it fits with the rest of the picture. He is an important man in America, among the elite in your society. Many of them deeply resent being treated as anything less than full-fledged British citizens, with undiluted political and social privileges of such. In all honesty, I have to say I sympathize with their feelings. As colonists, you Americans in fact do not have the full rights of natural Britons. You even lack representation in Parliament.”

“Our governor says the king represents our interests in Parliament.”

“Yes, and I am sure His Majesty puts nothing above the welfare of his loyal subjects across the ocean and works tirelessly every day in their behalf.”

Harry briefly weighed the man’s sincerity, and it came up short.

Giles resumed. “When I caught up with Ayerdale in North Carolina, I confronted him with the evidences I had. This was only the day before you and I first met in the tavern. He denied everything, of course. But I informed him I had no choice but to put him under arrest and send him to London for trial. A board of British officers in Virginia would undoubtedly have had no qualms about convicting him if the allegations were proved, but I feared there might be interference on the part of the locals, since his family is so revered in the area.”

“The Ayerdales are much admired, I can vouch for that.” Harry thought it might be too distracting to mention just now his own family’s long-ago connection with them.

“In all frankness,” said Giles, “had it been I facing these accusations, I might have maintained my innocence and demanded a trial. But the more we discussed the prospects of a military court, the more unnerved he seemed to become. I think he recognized he could never live down the accusation, even if he were found innocent. His name would be forever tainted. He certainly would be exposed as a financial failure, maybe even land in debtors’ prison. The alternative was to accept my proposal to become an agent of the Crown. My orders from Whitehall were to discover the turncoat and either imprison him or flip him to our own use. I proposed he continue giving the French
information about our operations. But we would choose the information to be delivered, and it would be intended to mislead and confuse.”

“And he accepted this?”

“He didn’t reject it. I’m not even certain he realized in the tension of those moments that just by remaining mute in the face of my accusations he was admitting guilt. His silence, as he pondered his choices, was tantamount to a confession. I believe he saw his future as resting in my hands. Before he had a chance to say no, I began laying out some of the benefits that would accrue to him. He could continue collecting his salary from the French. To this day I don’t know how much that is nor do I care, since I would have only his word for it anyway. But however much, it would be supplemented with rather handsome payments from the British treasury. This offer finally proved irresistible. Especially when the alternative was a probable encounter with the hangman.”

“But why are you so determined that I not expose him to General Wolfe? Surely, if what you are saying is true, the general should know.”

“Wolfe must not be made aware of any of this for now. General Amherst himself has no knowledge even of my presence in America, and he is commander-in-chief of all British forces here. When I set off on my mission we had no idea who the spy was or how well connected. A casual remark by a high-ranking British officer might have found its way to the spy’s ears, alerted him that someone was on his trail.”

“But now you have your man.”

“Yes. But if he is to be of use to us now and in the future, the fewer who know of it the better. And I am relying on your loyalty to your king and your country not to speak of it. I hope you can appreciate the trust I am putting in you just by explaining all of this. The only reason I am telling you is because it seems clear you will not stop until you expose Ayerdale. I had only one alternative to taking you into my confidence, and that was to kill you. And that is not the British way—at least, not if it can be avoided.”

Harry laughed but noticed Giles was not joining in. Making Harry think of the two recent attempts on his life. He decided to put that matter aside for the moment.

“I will do nothing on purpose to hurt the British cause,” Harry said. “That I swear. But there is something I must know.”

“You want to know where Ayerdale is now. And Miss McLeod.”

Harry nodded.

Giles gave him a long look, as if judging the sincerity of his promise. “I will tell you this: Richard is on a new mission. He is under my orders to deliver a report in person to General Montcalm. He is to say that Wolfe has finally decided on a course of action, that he intends to attack the Beauport shore again, and the attack will come within a matter of days. And I fully expect it will. But not at that location.”

“That was the site of Wolfe’s earlier attack, the one that failed so miserably?”