“He’s a hero to them - in the mythological sense of the word - and he’s earned it, too,” she said.
“Without him, they might have been overwhelmed, the way so many Indian nations were. It’s only natural for them to make him out to be larger than life.”
Stubbornly, Bushell shook his head. “Remembering the real man and his real accomplishments is more important. Make him out to be half-magical and you take away the chance of having more like him.”
“That’s a reductionist view of history.” By the way Kathleen said it, she might have been accusing him of eating with his fingers.
He spoiled that by ignoring her tone and taking it for a compliment. “Yes, I do try to reduce things to facts. They’re easier to deal with than opinions, and more reliable.” He might have said more than that, but it occurred to him that opinions were meat and drink to the curator of an art museum. How could you objectively decide which painting was better than all the rest? You couldn’t, but people got rich claiming they could. That was a fact, and an unsavory one.
Kathleen said, “If all people thought of when they saw The Two Georges was the painting itself, the Sons of Liberty wouldn’t have bothered stealing it.”
“It’s important because it reminds us of some facts and what sprang from them,” Bushell retorted. “The Sons have a low opinion of those facts.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She exhaled in exasperation. “The opinion people have about The Two Georges - “
“ - Is a fact we need to bear in mind while we investigate,” Bushell broke in. “For instance, I’ll be heartily glad if I never see another reporter again, but I’m sure I will.”
She still glared at him, but now, perhaps, with grudging respect. “You are a very stubborn man.”
“Thank you,” he said, though he knew she hadn’t intended that for a compliment, either. “Shall we head back to the hotel for supper?” After a moment’s hesitation, he offered her his arm. After a longer moment’s hesitation, she took it.
After supper, he spoke to the concierge. The results of the conversation were as he’d hoped they’d be. At breakfast the next morning, he said in elaborately casual tones, “I’m told the hotel operates an omnibus service up to Niagara Falls. The journey takes about forty minutes each way, they say, and gives between two and three hours for sightseeing and a light luncheon. Seems a pity not to see the falls when we’re so close. Would you care to join me on the ‘bus?”
She sipped at her tea before answering, “Well, why not? Since everything here is going at a snail’s pace, we might as well see what we can. When does the omnibus leave?”
“Ten o’clock,” he said, and risked a smile. He was glad she’d said yes, and at the same time angry at himself for inviting her. It wasn’t the right way to go about things, and he knew it: too many unanswered questions still floated around her. But if you’re going to keep an eye on her, you might as well enjoy yourself doing it, he thought. That just made him scowl down at his toast; he knew a rationalization when he saw one, even if he was the fellow who made it.
Samuel Stanley paused at the restaurant entrance to look around, spotted Bushell and Kathleen, and hurried over to them. “Good thing I was still up in my room,” he said. “Shikalimo just telephoned. He wants all three of us at the constabulary building right away - says he has a list of prospects and their friends and acquaintances for us to look over.”
“We’d better go do it, then,” Bushell said, rising from the table. So much for Niagara Falls ran mournfully through his mind. Kathleen Flannery also got up. Bushell turned to Stanley. “We can go on ahead, if you want. Get yourself some breakfast.”
“They’ll be able to feed me something there, I expect,” Stanley said. “As long as it’s not that. . . hommony mush, I’ll be all right.” Bushell suspected he’d swallowed an uncouth adjective, or perhaps even a participle, in the nick of time.
Sylvanus Greeley and Charles Lucas were sitting in Shikalimo’s office when Bushell and his companions got there. He nodded to his fellow RAMs, and to Shikalimo. He gave the Iroquois constabulary major credit for marshaling all his resources no matter how jealously he guarded his own autonomy. Shikalimo said, “I’ve sent out for tea and coffee. Has anyone missed breakfast?” When Samuel Stanley nodded, he asked, “What would you like? I’ll get it for you.” He put his hand on the telephone but waited for Stanley’s reply before picking it up.
“Anything easy,” Stanley said. “A ham and cheese sandwich, say.”
“However you like,” Shikalimo answered, and made the call. After he hung up, he remarked, “You’re a man of simple pleasures, Captain. I think I’d have chosen something on the order of strawberries in cider and fried lake clams, perhaps with waffles and maple syrup afterwards.”
The proposed combination made Bushell’s mouth water. Along with Shikalimo’s elegant accent, it reminded him of how well the Iroquois had done as clients of the Empire and how, while retaining many of their own ways, they’d also borrowed from the British.
Stanley’s mind ran in more immediately practical channels. “If I ate that much, I’d fall asleep on you. A ham sandwich is working food.”
“Then let’s get to work,” Shikalimo said. “We’ve pinpointed four white men in the Deohstegaa area who, mm, have been known to be imperfectly polite in their references to the folk of the Six Nations.” He coughed discreetly. Bushell could imagine for himself the racialist remarks that cough implied.
“Who are these people?” Sylvanus Greeley asked. “I presume you’ve never had grounds for holding any of them.”
“No, we’ve not,” Shikalimo said. “A man is free to express his opinions, no matter how unpalatable his neighbors may find them. This is a principle of your law, by the way, not our own, and I confess I sometimes wonder as to its wisdom. But I digress. The men in question - the questionable men, if you prefer - are Donald Morton, the lake-shipping magnate; Augustus Northgate, the grocer; Solomon York, who runs a printing establishment; and James Stonebreaker, who is, oddly enough, a mason by trade.”
“There are printers involved with the Sons in New Liverpool,” Bushell said. “York would go to the top of my list just on account of his trade.”
“So far as we know, his shop has not produced anything unsavory,” Shikalimo answered. “How far we know is, of course, an open question. I thought we’d agreed earlier that our likeliest targets were to be among the quiet friends and acquaintances of these men.”
“Yes, yes,” Bushell said.
Shikalimo sensed his urgency. “Here we are,” he said, handing papers to the RAMs and to Kathleen Flannery. “I hope Dewasenta did up enough carbons of these for all of us - ah, good. I also hope that, with the resources you gentlemen enjoy, you’ll be able to tell me if any of these chaps is known to be associated with the Sons of Liberty. We have nothing more on any of them than a few minor traffic offenses.”
Bushell’s eyes went down the list. The names were grouped by the man with whom they were linked. Donald Morton must have known a whole great raft of people, if he knew this many named Joe. Whether these Joes were friends or not was another question, one he couldn’t answer. None of the names on the list was familiar to him.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Crooke, I wish he were here,” Charles Lucas said.
“I’m sure he wishes the same thing,” Bushell said. “But he’s not, so we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
Instead of Crooke’s face, though, what came into his mind was a quart bottle of Jameson, stopper out and lying on the table beside it. He could smell the whiskey, could feel the heft and the round smoothness of the bottle in his hand, sweet to the touch as a woman’s breast, could hear the gentle gurgle as he poured amber fire over ice or straight down his throat.