Unholy Alliance (12 page)

Maurice Tremblay knew that he was beaten. His
shoulders slumped and he stared down at the table in a daze.

“What more is there to say?” LaFontaine said.
“We have negotiated a set of common policies and laid out a
procedural strategy for next year. We are dealing here with
honourable men. We shall make formidable allies.”

Bérubé and Bergeron were all smiles. It
appeared as if the impossible had been achieved, a coalition of
ancient (and recent) enemies – the English and the French.

“Should we formalize the main points of our
alliance, as agreed upon earlier?” Hincks said into the buzz of
excitement.

“We could do that tomorrow morning,” Macaulay
suggested. “Perhaps Mr. LaFontaine and Mr. Baldwin, along with Mr.
Edwards as translator, could work up a written document in both
languages.”

“That sounds great,” Hincks said, “though we
must have only one copy for each group. We don’t want any part of
these deliberations made public except by us when we are ready and
to those whom we choose. Secrecy is critical at this point,
eh?”

No-one disagreed with this statement of the
obvious.

“After a hearty luncheon tomorrow,” Macaulay
said, beaming, “I’ll have the sleighs brought down here and our
guests can begin making their way home.”

Elaborate precautions had been taken
regarding the arrival and departure of the French delegates. The
sleighs that had brought them to Elmgrove, on Monday and Tuesday
evening, had gone with their drivers up to a safe farm north of the
city. Young Cal Struthers would be dispatched to signal their
return. The Quebecers, in pairs, would be driven to Port Hope,
where they would stay overnight with Reform families, and then
catch a regular stage, two by two, for Kingston and Montreal.

Garnet Macaulay, still beaming, adjourned the
meeting.

***

In the hall outside the library, Hincks stopped
Macaulay for a moment and said, “Garnet, I have a frock coat that
could use a good brushing sometime before supper. It’s in the
wardrobe in my room.”

“I’ll have Chilton see to it, Francis,”
Macaulay said, always pleased to be helpful, “the minute he gets
back from his late-day constitutional.”

“Thanks,” Hincks said, and hurried towards
the billiard-room to catch up to Bérubé.

Marc drew Macaulay back into the recessed
entrance to the library. “Your butler keeps to a rigid schedule,”
he said evenly.

Macaulay smiled. “Yes. An occupational
weakness of butlers everywhere. Since he came here a week ago, he
has gone for a fifteen-minute walk just before the rush and havoc
of our supper-hour. Can’t blame him, eh?”

Marc was not sure how to phrase the question
he had in mind. “And you . . . find you have, ah, complete
confidence in him?”

“My word, Marc, you don’t need to be so
circumspect. We’re all concerned about security, aren’t we? The
answer is that Graves Chilton has given me no cause to be
suspicious in that regard. Besides, he’s only been on the continent
for a couple of weeks and he doesn’t speak French, as Monsieur
Tremblay has discovered to his chagrin.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Everything is going
so well, I don’t want anything untoward happening now.”

“Relax. We’ve got supper and the evening to
look forward to.”

“I’ll try to,” Marc said.

***

Supper was served at seven-thirty. Before that, most
of the delegates spent time in their rooms, napping or making
notes. The renowned bathtub was in constant use. Hincks and Bérubé
passed a pleasant hour at the billiard-table, talking finance as
best they could. Marc expected the mood at supper to be relaxed and
convivial, but despite the excellence of the food and stimulus of
the drink, the delegates were strangely subdued. In the place of
casual chatter or more friendly and unguarded exchanges, there was
an excess of courtly manners and cliché. It was as if, having
surprised themselves by reaching an historic agreement with
unseemly haste, the participants felt they ought to have second
thoughts, that nothing so challenging could be achieved so readily
– with only a single dissenting voice.

In contrast to this unexpected formality
among the guests was the near disarray among the servants.
Priscilla Finch, Austin Bragg and Graves Chilton made such an
effort to avoid coming within five feet of one another that their
antics bordered on the comical. More than one soup bowl was tipped
too far and the pristine tablecloth was further splotched with
droplets of misdirected burgundy. So it was with relief rather than
satisfaction that Marc heard Macaulay clear his throat noisily and
catch the attention of the table.

“Now that our supper is concluded, with our
thanks once again to Mrs. Blodgett, please feel free to use the
games room or take a brandy and cigar in the parlour. The view
beyond the French doors is splendid and not to be missed.” Just as
the guests began to move, Macaulay looked over at Bergeron and said
in halting French, “You look as if you have not yet slept well,
Erneste.”

Bergeron nodded. “Maybe tonight,” he said,
without much hope in his voice.

“I have a suggestion to make. My wife takes
laudanum for her ailment, and with a full vial from Dr. Pogue to
take with her to Kingston, she has left a good quantity of her old
bottle here at home.” Macaulay paused while Marc translated. “She
keeps it on the shelf above the bathtub beside the oils and soaps.
It’s clearly labelled. If you take one small teaspoonful in a
tisane or wine before you turn in, you will get a full night’s
sleep. I guarantee it.”

“Thank you,” Bergeron said. “I try to resist
drugs, but I may have to give in tonight.”

“You have been a most gracious host,”
LaFontaine said to Macaulay in English. “We shall not forget your
many kindnesses.”

Marc stood beside Macaulay in the hall
outside the dining-room, and watched Bérubé and Hincks cross into
the billiard-room. Bergeron excused himself and followed Tremblay,
who had said nothing during supper, though his sour mood had done
little to dull his appetite. The two men disappeared across the
rotunda and up the marble staircase. To Marc’s surprise and
delight, LaFontaine started walking beside Robert up the hall
towards the parlour. As they turned into the doorway there,
LaFontaine’s hand came up and rested for a moment on Robert’s
shoulder.

Marc steered Macaulay into the
billiard-room.

***

Marc and Macaulay had just finished their second
hand of piquet when the butler appeared discreetly in the
doorway.

“Yes, Chilton, what is it?” Macaulay said,
glancing up from his cards.

“There’s some person at the front door
wishing to see Mr. Edwards, sir. A rough-looking sort, but he
claims he has urgent news.”

Marc dropped his cards and stood up. “It has
to be Beth,” he said as panic and excitement rose up in him. “The
baby,” he said to Macaulay, who was looking alarmed.

“Ah. Then you’d better go quickly, ol’ chap.
Babies don’t wait.”

“I’ll – I’ll try and get back here tomorrow
as soon as I – ”

“Don’t give it another thought. A day or two
won’t make any difference after the work we did this afternoon.
Now, go!”

Marc followed Chilton up the hall to the
front door. Jasper Hogg was on the front porch, stamping his
feet.

“Is Beth all right?” Marc asked.

“She’s gonna have the baby, Mr. Edwards! Mrs.
Cobb’s already there!”

“I’ll get my coat and things, Jasper. Turn
the sleigh around.”

***

The skies had clouded over, but the snow on the
landscape lit their path as if it were noon on a sunny day. Jasper
had few details for Marc, except that Beth’s pains had started
coming several hours before and his Charlene had run to fetch Dora
Cobb and his sister Etta had come over to watch little Maggie. Marc
prayed he would be present for the birth, not wishing to be
delinquent a second time. He prayed also that it would be a safe
delivery and (not without a twinge of guilt) that all would be well
enough for him to return to Elmgrove sometime tomorrow to help with
the writing of the historic accord.

Just as they pulled up in the lane beside
Briar Cottage, it began to snow.

***

Dora Cobb, swathed in a gargantuan smock, met Marc
as he came in.

“How is she?” Marc said, pulling at his
gloves.

“Don’t strain yerself,” Dora said. “The lass
is fine.”

“And the babe?”

“Doin’ fine also – tucked safe in his mama’s
belly.”

“Then I’m not too late?”

“In fact, you’re about a month early.” Dora
was grinning from plump cheek to plump cheek. “Beth’s had a bout of
false labour. It’s stopped an’ she’s feelin’ a bit peakèd, but
otherwise healthy as a horse in hay. Go an’ say hello.”

Marc felt both relief and disappointment as
he went into the bedroom and found Beth dozing under the
counterpane, the handle of a warming-pan protruding from its soft
depths. She turned groggily, opened her eyes and said in a voice
barely above a whisper, “Oh, Marc. I’m sorry you had to be dragged
away. We figured it out a few minutes after Jasper left to fetch
you.”

Marc ignored her foolish talk and clasped her
in his arms, sliding one hand down over her belly to make sure his
son was truly safe inside.

When Beth decided she’d had enough hugging,
she pulled away and said, “Now, luv, you must go back. There’s no
reason to stay. Dora’s left a sedative. The baby’ll likely come
next month when he’s supposed to, and I’ve got more well-wishers
clutterin’ up my house than I can stand. I’m trippin’ over
them!”

“Well, it’s awfully late now . . .”

“An’ snowin’ to beat the band!” Charlene said
from the doorway. “Jasper’s puttin’ the horse in the barn. It’s a
blizzard out there. Even Dora’s decided to sleep next door.”

“Then that settles it,” Beth said. “You
stay.”

“I’ll tell Jasper,” Charlene said. “Can he –
”

“He can sleep here,” Beth said. “
On the
couch.
”

When they were alone, Marc undressed and
slipped under the covers. He left the bedside candle lit. “You need
to go right to sleep,” he said. “You’re looking very pale.”

“The pains stopped a while ago. I feel
fine.”

“You haven’t drunk your sleeping
draught.”

Beth put a finger to his lips. “Stop
stallin’. I want to hear all about it. Every last detail.”

“Only if you’ll promise to take your
medicine.”

She rolled onto her side. “An’ you can rub my
muscle-cramps while you’re at it,” she smiled.

***

Charlene Huggan took it upon herself to let her
master and mistress sleep in. It was a glorious winter morning, all
sunny skies and fresh, unstained snow. The blizzard had turned out
to be a brief squall, depositing a three-inch blanket of fluff
across the cityscape. The trip back to Elmgrove would be quick and
smooth.

Marc felt too rested and ready to work to be
annoyed with Charlene, and Jasper had got the stove and fireplace
crackling. The cottage hummed with heat and the cosiness of home.
Who cared if it was almost nine o’clock?

Marc was just about to start in on his second
helping of sausages when Charlene’s head popped into the doorway.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but there’s a policeman at the
door.”

“Cobb?” Marc said, thinking that Dora had
returned home and informed her husband of Marc’s arrival last
night. Cobb often dropped by on the way to work – or during his
patrol – for coffee and a chat.

“No, sir. It’s Wilkie, I think.”

Marc got up reluctantly, stepped around
Maggie who was tottering from chair to chair with a huge grin on
her face, and went to the front door. Constable Ewan Wilkie was
indeed standing on the stoop, hopping from one foot to the other,
and blowing on his mitts. He had a worried look on his face, but
that was his usual expression.

“What is it, Ewan?” Marc said warily, having
spotted a familiar-looking horse and cutter standing in front of
the cottage.

“The Chief sent me, sir. They want you out at
Elmgrove right away, if you c’n leave yer missus, that is.”

“But what have the police got to do with
Elmgrove?”

“Seems there’s been a murder out there, sir.
Cobb went out over an hour ago, with the coroner. Sent the
stableboy back into town to tell Chief Sturges to fetch you.”

“My God!” Marc cried, a dozen wild thoughts
rushing at him all at once. “One of the gentlemen staying
there?”

Wilkie’s face brightened. “Oh, no, sir. Not
one of them bigwigs. It was only some butler fella.”

Young Cal Struthers knew nothing more about the
murder than he had told Wilkie, and was too in awe of his gentleman
passenger to say anything anyway. So he concentrated on what he did
best: driving Elmgrove’s swiftest horse smartly towards home,
leaving Marc alone with his thoughts. As his investigative
experience increased, Marc had schooled himself not to speculate
needlessly in advance of arriving at a crime scene. However, that
the victim had not been one of the delegates, he had to admit, was
a substantial relief. And whatever the circumstances surrounding
the murder, they did not bode well for the success of the
conference and an alliance that was nine-tenths forged.

As they approached the gates of Elmgrove and
the pair of stately trees overarching them, Marc turned his
attention to last night’s brief snow squall. Any footprints made
along the periphery of the estate before ten o’clock would still be
visible, even though they would be partially obscured by the three
inches of light snow that had fallen after that hour. And any made
subsequent to the squall would be instantly spotted. Which meant
that he could determine whether or not anyone had entered the
property with malice on his mind. Marc hoped that somehow such had
been the case, but Graves Chilton was a newly landed Englishman, so
the chances of his having enemies here in Toronto were nearly
impossible.