“When.”
“My, you’re laconic this afternoon.”
“I’m feelin’ quite fine, thank you, but I’d feel a whole lot better if we could dig up a few more facts.”
“Spoken like a true investigator.” Marc drained his ale. “And this afternoon may well see that happen.”
Cobb looked regretfully at his empty flagon. “What’re you plannin’ to do?”
“While His Lordship keeps the whist players occupied, we’re going to visit their homes. I will question their wives and you will go to the stables and question any men or boys who might have been on carriage duty Monday night.”
Cobb’s skepticism was visible. “We’re just gonna sashay up to these pillars of the community and ask them if their hubbies took young Ellice to a cathouse to get his ashes hauled?”
Marc smiled. “I see now why you were such a success up in Irishtown this morning. But I have worked out a ruse for us to use when we approach these people. We will tell them that some valuable jewellery was stolen from Lord Durham’s chamber on Monday during the gala. An investigation yesterday revealed that one of the guests was apparently an interloper-”
“A gate-crasher, ya mean?”
“Exactly. Moreover, this person, whom nobody seemed to know, was seen lurking near the doors to the north wing where the Durhams are domiciled, and then again later he was seen being invited into one of the fancier barouches-hitching a ride to the city, presumably with the stolen goods. We, of course, are trying to trace this felon and need to know which of the respectable guests was kind enough to give him a lift, et cetera. Naturally, the description we have of him is that he was young, slim, not tall, and apparently shy-as he would be if he were hiding his identity. If you’ll give me a description of the clothes Ellice tossed beside Sarah’s bed, we’ll add them to our portrait of this mysterious jewel thief.”
“I c’n do that,” Cobb said, “but I can’t go usin’ all of them Shakespeare words with stable hands!”
“True, but the essential question to put, after feeding them our little story, is whether anyone like that rode back in their master’s carriage. I’ll do the same with the wives, and try to prompt them to admit to any sort of unexpected rearrangements in their travel plans that night after the ball.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Cobb said, “if it really was one of them whist players, of course.”
They were about to leave when Nestor Peck, Cobb’s most obsequious snitch, angled up to their table. He was sporting a bump as big as a crane’s egg on the right side of his head.
“You been fallin’ down steps again, Nestor?” Cobb asked.
“Some yegg clunked me up at the Tinker’s Dam,” Nestor whined. “I need a whiskey real bad, Mr. Cobb.”
“You got anythin’ to trade fer it?”
“Yup.” He waited until Cobb’s chin bob signalled a deal, then whispered, “Badger was seen headin’ east along the Kingston Road.”
“We know that.” Though it was nice to have his son’s sighting confirmed.
“Way past Scaddings Bridge.”
Cobb dropped a coin on the table.
“Keep yer head down, Nestor,” he said.
Beth Edwards enjoyed the half-hour walk along fashionable King Street to Government House at the corner of King and Simcoe. The day was glorious. The sun shone resolutely as it had for the past week, leaving the rutted and indifferently gravelled street dry and passable. The good weather had enticed more than the usual number of shoppers to the chic array of stores between Church and Bay that catered to those who had cash to spend or credit to demand.
What attracted her more than the gaudy bow windows of the jewellers, booteries, and haberdasheries, however, were the quaint and the idiosyncratic among the merchant class, a reminder that commerce and individuality could remain wary bedfellows. Diagonally across from the Court House, for example, stood the Checkered Store, a wooden edifice painted in red-and-white squares, tempting customers to come in and play checkers. Next to it sat Rogers’s fur and hat store, announcing its proprietor’s Indian heritage via a life-size sign depicting an aboriginal voyageur limned by local artist Paul Kane. Just visible down West Market Lane was the whimsical invitation of McIlmurray’s clock-repair shop: a golden lion whose forefeet sprouted watches instead of paws.
Approaching the corner of Yonge and King, Beth could never quite suppress the chill that seized her as she walked through the shadow cast by the imposing, three-storey grandeur of the Commercial Bank. The chill eased nicely, though, as soon as she neared the twin shops that once were the dry-goods emporium of her father-in-law, Joshua Smallman. Now hers, they invited her to pause and ponder what might have been. Mr. Ormsby, who rented one of the shops but would soon be gone, came out and chatted amiably with Beth for several minutes.
With just the tiniest shiver of regret, Beth continued on towards Government House. Unlike most of the ladies today, she carried no parasol to keep the sun off her face, only a straw bonnet that she wore in the garden every morning. Beyond Bay Street, the boardwalk ended: the town council, as deadlocked and divisive as the other political bodies in the province, refused monies either to extend the walk or to keep the existing one in repair. She was forced to compete with horses, mules, and aggressive teamsters for walking space. Eddies of dust whorled about her feet, and she was glad she had decided to wear a short frock that settled comfortably at her ankle-tops.
After crossing Simcoe she came to the gates that presaged the long driveway up to Government House, nestled in its six acres of parkland. It was a pleasant, shady stroll along the tree-lined way and, although anxious about what was facing her up at the house, she was in no particular hurry. A sociable being, she had out of necessity lived much of her adult life alone and had learned to enjoy her own company. In a few minutes she rounded a bend and caught a glimpse of the great building, its chimney pots tickling the fluffy cloud above them and its myriad glass windows shimmering in the early-afternoon heat. To her immediate right she spotted a small, shrub-enclosed garden with stone benches around a reflecting pool. She decided to pause for a moment to catch her breath and decide how best to approach Lord and Lady Durham about the mission she had in mind regarding their nephew.
She was just about to sit down when she noticed a tall, formally attired gentleman standing with his back turned to her, hands clasped behind him, staring into the trees. The rustle of her dress or scrape of her boot must have alerted him, for he turned quickly around, looked puzzled for a second only, then smiled broadly. She recognized him right away.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Edwards,” Durham greeted her with a bow.
“You remember me, then?” Beth said, taken aback. “Your Lordship.”
“A change of dress and a little daylight have not been sufficient to render you unmemorable.”
“I was coming to see you, sir, or Lady Durham, if she’s here.”
“I know. We’ve been expecting you. I am, alas, about to be closeted with four gentlemen who collectively have not half the charm or charity you have brought with you to Government House.”
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Ellice. I thought I might be able to help.”
Durham held out his arm. “Here, I’ll take you straight in to my lady.”
Mrs. Finney drew the first lot. As Cobb sauntered down towards the barn and two rustic fellows lounging next to it, Marc knocked at the door of the fine, clapboard residence of the dissenting minister. A slovenly, overweight housemaid with unkempt hair gave Marc a gap-toothed smile, blushed, and led him into a pleasant sitting room, where Mrs. Finney was biding her time between knitting and stroking a black tabby.
“Mister Edwards?” she said with some surprise when Marc introduced himself. “But I understood-”
“I’ve retired from active service, ma’am.”
“But you did do some brave thing or other at some French village or other last-”