Turncoat (8 page)

“I've already accompanied him on a similar foray, in December,” Marc said, brightening perceptibly. “We're buying extra grain against the coming of troubles in Quebec.”

“Splendid,” Hatch said, restoking his pipe.

“I know what to ask. And it'll give me an excuse to visit the local farmers and snoop about without raising suspicion. I've got more than a hunch that the man we're looking for will be found amongst the left-wing zealots and Reform fanatics along the back roads.” Marc knew that Hatch was waiting for elaboration, but he was not prepared to tell anyone, yet, about Smallman's role as Sir John's secret agent in Crawford's Corners. After all, this was the trump card that would give him the edge he required to sift and assess every tidbit of information that might come his way in the days ahead.

“Well, then,” Hatch said, getting up, “I guess it's time for you to meet Beth Smallman.”

“Don't bother Thomas about getting my horse ready,” Marc said. “I'll just walk across to her place.”

“You going to tell her what we think we know?”

“I haven't really made up my mind,” Marc said truthfully. “I need to talk to her first.”

“That's a good idea,” Hatch said, approving the instincts of this tunicked officer half his age. Then he grinned and added, “Beth Smallman is no ordinary woman.” It was as ambiguous a remark as Hatch was likely to make.

T
HE SMALLMAN FARM, WHICH HAD WITNESSED
much tragedy in the space of twelve months, lay adjacent to the mill on the north side. Taking Hatch's advice, Marc followed a trodden path towards Crawford Creek that took him past the outbuildings of the mill where Thomas and a stableboy no taller than the fork he wielded were mucking out the cattle stalls. The colonel's horse whinnied at Marc, but he kept on walking until he came abreast of the mammoth gristmill itself, its water wheel stilled by the ice of the creek. Two impressive silos made out of the same quarry stone as the main house stood as testament to the growing prosperity of the young province. Land was currency here, Marc thought, and the great leveller.

Beyond the silos he found a well-trampled path that meandered along beside the creek. So this was how the locals travelled by foot when the roads grew impassable—to spread all the news worth embroidering. Marc pictured a network of spidery filaments from house to barn to neighbouring house, indifferent to woods, weather, and other natural impediments. He went north on the path a hundred yards or so, enjoying the briskness of the early-morning air, until
he spied through an opening in the evergreens on the riverbank the pitched roof of a clapboard barn, and above it, a little farther on, wisps of woodsmoke.

Next to the barn, a log hut with a plank door and single window sat hip-deep in drifts. The meagre smoke from its stovepipe slumped and frayed along the roofline. The door below it opened with a jerk.

“Got yourself lost, mister?”

Marc stopped, hid his surprise, and said, “Ah, good morning. My name is Marc Edwards. I've come from Constable Hatch's place—to see Mrs. Smallman, should she be at home.”

“Officer Edwards, is it?” The old man, for he seemed indisputably old even by the gnarled norms of Upper Canada, glared fixedly at the interloper, blocking the footpath.

“I'm here on official business.”

“Are ye now?” The old fellow gave no ground.

Marc met his stare, then for a moment he almost laughed as the impudent oaf stooped into what was meant to be a fearsome crouch but resembled nothing so much as a petulant crayfish, for he was all bony angles, his ungloved fingers were stiffened into arthritic claws, and the beady peppercorns of his eyes wobbled in rage.

“On Governor Colborne's warrant,” Marc snapped. He had already said more than he had planned, and he held his tongue now with mounting impatience.

“The governor that was, you mean?”

That the news of Colborne's reassignment had travelled so far and so fast surprised and momentarily stunned Marc.

“Is Mrs. Smallman home or not?”

“Where else would an honest woman be?” There was a rasping, spittled quality to the voice that skewed whatever outrage might have been intended.

“I demand that you give me your name, sir, and then stand out of my way!” Marc reached down for the familiar haft of his sword and came up empty.

“No need to lose your temper, lad. There's plenty of daylight left.” And he scuttled sideways into the corral beside the barn, where he appeared to execute a crab-like jig.

Marc walked with a dignified pace towards the house twenty yards ahead. The old fart was still jabbering to himself, or to some animal willing to grant him equal status.

Up ahead, the Smallman house was more typical of Canadian rural residences than was the stone structure of the miller Hatch: a notched, squared-timber block, caulked with limestone cement, small windows of murky “local” glass that let in an impoverished glow, a pitched roof over a cramped second storey, and a snow-covered stoop. Marc strode past the windows along the north side, one of which was draped with a swath of black crêpe, put one boot on the porch, and raised his fist to knock. The door swung inward and fully open.

“Nobody knocks in these parts,” a light, feminine voice said from the shadows within. “I've been expectin' you, Mr.—”

“Edwards,” Marc said. “Ensign Edwards.”

“I TAKE IT YOU'VE MET
E
LIJAH,”
Bathsheba Smallman, known to all as Beth, said to Marc. They were sitting opposite one another in the parlour area—marked off only by a braided rug and an apt arrangement of hand-hewn chairs made welcoming by quilted seat pads—balancing cup and saucer with accompanying bread and jam (the bread fresh out of the iron pot over the fire, the jam homemade).

“Yes, but I'm afraid he wasn't overly helpful,” Marc said just as a spurt of jam struck his chin. He rubbed at the offending blob, then licked it off his finger.

“Huckleberry,” Beth said. “Grows like a weed in these parts.”

“It's delicious.”

“Elijah's harmless,” Beth said. “He's very protective of me and Aaron.”

“Your brother?”

“That's right. You'll meet him when he gets in from collectin' the eggs, if he doesn't get lost first.”

When Marc looked concerned, she smiled reassuringly and said, “Sometimes he gathers more wool than eggs.”

Marc could not take his eyes off Beth Smallman, even though he was aware of her discomfort as she glanced away and back again only to find him helplessly staring. As she did, sunlight pouring through the window behind her lit
the russet tints of her unbound hair and framed her figure. She was as small and trim and wholesome as Winnifred Hatch was tall and hot-tempered and daunting. And he was charmed by the teasing lilt of her voice, with its exotic accent.

“You're in the district to look at buyin' grain for the garrison, you say?”

Marc blinked, took a sip of his tea, and forced his gaze past her to the petit point figure of Christ on the wall beside the window. “That's correct. I'm merely lining up possible sites for the quartermaster's inspection later this month.”

“Elijah tells me we've taken in more Indian corn than our cows can eat.”

“I'll take a look before I go, then.” The tea was consumed, and the bread and jam with it.

“I'm sure Elijah will oblige you.” Beth smiled. She was wearing a plain blouse and heavy skirt with a knitted cardigan tied across her shoulders. A white apron and cap lay on the pine table near the fire, waiting.

“There's somethin' else on your mind, isn't there, Ensign Edwards?”

“Yes, there is, ma'am. And I apologize for being so roundabout in approaching it.”

She caught the sudden seriousness of his tone and looked intently towards him, willing him to speak.

“I have some disturbing news,” he began.

“I can think of no news that could be more disturbing
than what I've had to bear these past weeks.” She steadied her voice. He turned away briefly, but she had quietly composed herself, except for a slight glistening at the edge of her blue, unblinking eyes.

“And December last as well,” he said softly.

Now he had her full attention and more: something sharp and suspecting entered her look—at once vulnerable and hardened by necessity.

“Why have you come?” she said. “Who are you?”

“I have been ordered here by the lieutenant-governor to investigate your father-in-law's death.”

“Investigate?”

“Yes. And I have already reached the conclusion that Joshua Smallman was in all likelihood murdered.”

A thump and a scraping clatter from the kitchen area forestalled any immediate reaction to Marc's news. Beth rose to her feet, a look of concern flashing across her face. “It's Aaron,” she said.

Into the centre of the room came a tall, thin young man with an unkempt mane of reddish hair. He dragged one foot along behind him and, with a lurching effort, swung a basket of warm eggs up and onto a sideboard. As he did so, the left half of his face stretched. “I d-d-didn't break any,” he said with a lopsided grin. Then he spotted the visitor and froze.

“I didn't expect you would,” Beth said. “Say hello to Ensign Edwards.”

Marc rose.

“Mr. Edwards, this is my brother, Aaron McCrae.”

Aaron simply stared, not in fright but in fascination at the scarlet frock coat, many-buttoned tunic, and glittering buckles so abruptly and magically set before him. “Where's your s-s-s-sword?” he asked.

“I am pleased to meet you,” Marc said, “and my sword's tucked safely in my saddle-roll.”

“Aaron's goin' to be sixteen next month,” Beth said.

The lad nodded but seemed more interested in shuffling an inch or two closer to this mirage in his parlour.

Beth touched him on the arm. “Mr. Edwards and I have some important business to talk over. Go out and help Elijah with the feed, would you?”

Reluctantly the youth shuffled himself out the back door.

“He was born like that. With the palsy. He's not really simple, but it's a strain for him to talk. With us, though, there isn't much need.”

They sat down again.

A log rolled off its andiron, spraying sparks into the air, and the brief flare sent a wave of heat to the far side of the large room where they were seated, reminding them how cold it had become. Beth pulled her cardigan on with a shy, self-conscious gesture, but Marc had already averted his eyes.

“Murder is a terrible word, Mr. Edwards,” she said at last.

“Does it surprise you to hear it used in association with your father-in-law?”

She did not answer right away. “I didn't believe the magistrate's findin' for one minute,” she said slowly. “Father wouldn't have got himself lost out there, even in a blizzard.”

“More experienced woodsmen have,” Marc said. “Or so I've been told,” he felt constrained to add.

“The horse he was riding was the only one we've ever owned.”

“Your … husband's?”

She nodded. “All he had to do was drop the reins and Belgium would've carried him home safe and sound.”

“You told this to the inquest?”

She smiled wanly. “I did.”

“Mrs. Smallman, I'm certain you are right.”

If she found this remark unexpected or patronizing, she gave no sign. “He went out there for a reason, that much I do know,” she said.

“And I believe that that reason, when we discover it, will lead us to his murderer.”

“You forget that he walked into a bear-trap,” she said. “That was … tragic, but not murder.” She swallowed hard, fighting off tears, and suddenly Marc wished he were any place but here.

As quickly and tactfully as he could, Marc told her what he and Hatch had found the previous afternoon out near Bass Cove.

“You're saying someone just stood up there and watched him die?”

“Yes. And that is tantamount to murder, especially if your father-in-law was deliberately lured out there.”

She turned and looked closely at him. “Joshua Smallman was a lovable man. He could not bring himself to tell a lie. He had no enemies. He gave up his business in town to come back here and help me run the farm.” Her voice thickened. “He was the finest man I've ever known.” The pause and the candidness of her glance confirmed that she was including her husband in the appraisal. “If he was called out on New Year's Eve, it was to assist a friend or someone in need.”

Marc hesitated long enough for Beth to discern that he had absorbed and appreciated the reasonableness of this claim. After all, it coincided with everything he had heard so far about Joshua Smallman. Still, someone seemed to have wished him harm, or at the very least colluded in his death. He pushed ahead, gently. “Would you tell me as much as you can remember about that evening? If it's too painful, I could return another time.”

“I'll make some more tea,” she said.

“W
E WERE PLANNIN' TO HAVE A
little celebration here to mark the end of the year, it bein' also a year to the day since Father'd arrived. You understand, though, it couldn't've been entirely a celebration.”

“Yes. Your … husband must have been uppermost in your thoughts.”

“Still, we were preparin' a small party, with the Huggan
girls, Emma Durfee, Thomas Goodall. We'd even asked Elijah to join us, but he'd already dashed off to visit Ruby the cook up at the squire's.”

“Philander Child's cook?”

“Yes. Father felt strongly that we had an obligation to these kind people, whatever our own sorrows might be. About six o'clock, right after milkin' and supper, one of Mr. Child's servants came to the door and said they were expectin' Father at the gatherin' of the Georgian Club—”

“I know about that,” Marc said. “Had your father forgotten about the New Year's celebration up at Child's?”