Unholy Alliance (27 page)

So, Cobb just closed his eyes and dozed as
the cutter skidded and bumped along the province’s principal
thoroughfare. He awoke with a start when the motion of the sleigh
ceased abruptly, and was surprised to find himself parked in front
of a commercial building on the main street of Cobourg. He
persuaded Ben to go one block farther to the hitching-post beside
the verandah of The Cobourg Hotel. In the foyer he was warmly
greeted by the proprietor, who introduced himself as Seth Martin.
It was clear from his effusive manner that he had interpreted the
fine cast of Alfred Harkness’s overcoat, calfskin gloves and tooled
leather boots as indications of affluence – despite contrary signs
in the gentleman’s rough-hewn, weather-beaten face.

“Will you be staying the night, Mr. Cobb?” he
enthused. “We serve a supper here that’s the talk of the
county.”

“I’m sure it is,” Cobb said generously.
“Whether I stay or not depends on the information you may have for
me.”

“You’d like a rundown on the beauty spots of
our region?”

Cobb went straight to the point. He was
looking for his missing cousin, a young Englishman, lost somewhere
en route from New York to Toronto a week ago. “Your hotel is where
the Weller’s passengers from Kingston stop overnight before makin’
a run fer Toronto, ain’t it?”

Martin winced at the gentleman’s grammar, but
did his duty. “It is, Mr. Cobb. That it is.”

“Think back to a week ago Tuesday. When the
sleigh got here in the late afternoon, was there on it a
well-dressed young gentleman of slim build with an English
accent?”

Proprietor Martin squeezed his eyes shut to
ponder the question. “That was the day the driver come in here with
two frozen fingers, so I remember it well. No, yer cousin
couldn’t’ve been on it because only one passenger got off an’
stayed over. A merchant chap from Montreal. Very talkative. I put
him in the Queen’s Suite upstairs.”

“An’ the coach leaves fer Toronto the next
mornin’?”

“It does. This gent got on by himself that
particular Wednesday, I recall. Nobody from here was headin’ to the
city, I guess.”

“What about the next coach, later on
Wednesday afternoon?”

“Let me see. Four or five passengers, but
they all live around these parts. None of ‘em stayed here.”

Cobb was puzzled. If the impostor had got off
at Elmgrove late Thursday – and he was seen doing so – then he
should have been among this group of arrivals on Wednesday
afternoon and should have stayed overnight in the hotel in
preparation for the Thursday morning run to Toronto.

“So you’re sayin’ nobody got on board here
Thursday mornin’?”

“Not quite. Three of our locals boarded for
Toronto, an’ then a few minutes before nine o’clock, a cutter comes
racin’ up and a gentleman hops out. The driver of the cutter is big
Brutus Glatt from the inn up the road. He hauls the gent’s luggage
aboard, an’ the gent then gets in.”

“What did he look like, this gent?”

“Well now, it coulda been yer cousin. Slim
fella with fancy duds. Youngish. Didn’t hear him talk enough to
tell what his accent was.”

“Did he have a full head of hair? Reddish
hair? Or was he bald maybe?”

“Normally I’d recall somethin’ like that, but
he was wearin’ a tall hat an’ was all swaddled up against the cold.
I couldn’t say one way or the other. Sorry.”

So was Cobb. Was this man Graves Chilton? If
so, then the exchange of identities must have taken place somewhere
between here and Port Hope, where the red-headed impostor had
definitely been noted on that same Thursday stage by the innkeeper
there (the impostor’s hat having fallen off far enough to expose
that garish and memorable mane).

“You could always check with the driver,”
Martin suggested. “He’ll be comin’ this way again on Monday.”

“I really need to find him before then,” Cobb
said.

“Well, I didn’t ask Brutus – an’ he couldn’t
answer if I did – about the gent’s sudden arrival, but if he drove
him from the inn where he works, then I’d say the gent spent the
night there an’ then dashed the five miles from there to here next
mornin’ in time to catch the stage.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“And if he did sleep in the inn, then Mrs.
Jiggins, who runs the place, would surely know if the chap mighta
been yer cousin.”

Cobb felt a surge of adrenalin through his
fatigue. “You’re right. I better go right there and ask, before it
gets too dark or starts to snow.”

“You won’t take some supper, then?”

“If I find my cousin,” Cobb said smoothly,
“we’ll both come back here an’ have a meal to celebrate.”

Seth Martin, with an eye on the prize, held
the door open for the nattily attired, unlettered gentleman.

***

It was fully dark when Cobb drew his weary horse to
a halt before The Pine Knot Inn. Seconds later, the double doors
flew open, and a grinning, aggressively plump woman steamed out to
greet him.

Bessie Jiggins insisted that the “gentleman from
Toronto” be received in the “drawing-room” of The Pine Knot. Cobb
had been ushered into the establishment through the double
front-doors, which opened onto a large, low-ceilinged, smoky room
that evidently served as the township’s tavern. Here, Cobb noticed
as he was guided hastily by, three or four local farmers crouched
around a tree-stump table, puffing on clay pipes and dipping tin
cups into a communal whiskey-crock. In a far, dim corner a
makeshift bar had been set up, a half-log of oak with its flat side
up, against which a young woman had propped both elbows and from
which she cast a weary, unintrigued glance at the newcomer.

“That’s Cassandra,” Bessie said as she nudged
Cobb into a dark central hallway, “my char and barmaid, and I use
the term maid very loosely. A royal name, eh, much wasted on such a
plebeian creature. But we get along, and that’s what matters,
doesn’t it?”

“What about my horse?” Cobb protested mildly
as he was aimed to the left through a curtained archway whose
beaded fringe rattled against his cheek. “I can’t stay but a –
”

“Brutus’ll take good care of your beast, no
need to worry on that score, Mr. Cobb.”

“Just Cobb, ma’am, but – ”

“No ‘buts’ required, Cobb. I make my living
out of horses, and Brutus is the best horseman in the county. There
are two stables in Cobourg that have been trying to get the
contract to supply horses for Weller’s company, but Weller sticks
with me and Brutus. I erected this hostelry here just to give the
Kingston Road a little elegance.”

They now stood in a cosier, if smaller, room
than the one used as a tavern. Several candelabra illuminated the
interior, flattering the calico curtains on the square, glass
window and the matching tablecloth. The table itself had been set
for two diners, including a pair wine goblets and an uncorked
bottle of red wine. Beside the hearth, where a brisk fire burned
evenly, sat two padded chairs with armrests.

“Cass and I were just about to have supper,
but I insist that you join me. She won’t mind and you look like you
been dragged through the snow behind a runaway.”

Cobb’s nostrils twitched at the aroma of
roasted chicken wafting its way from the cramped galley he’d
spotted at the end of the central hall. His stomach rumbled as he
replied, “That’s awful kind of you, ma’am.”

“Bessie.”

“Bessie. But I must get some important
information first, before I’ll know whether or not I c’n take up
yer kind offer.”

“What could be more important than having a
hot meal in good company on a night not fit for Christians?” she
said as she swept her sweater aside to expose the swollen upper
halves of her bosom, their lower counterparts having been trapped
in a swathe of scarlet sateen as garish and provocative as a
warrior’s sash. Below this wrapping, a voluminous skirt flared out
and downward, needing neither hoops nor bustle to keep it afloat.
When she smiled, as she did now lustily, she presented a set of
beautifully even teeth, and her tiny blue eyes winked merrily in
their fleshy sockets. Her rosy, plump face was free of powder and
lip-rouge, and her reddish-blond curls had been freed to dazzle in
any way they pleased. Bessie Jiggins might have been thirty or
fifty, as there were no telltale lines or wrinkles to give the game
away.

“I been on the road all day searchin’ fer my
cousin,” Cobb explained. “I was hopin’ you could be of some
help.”

“I see,” Bessie said, sitting down in one of
the armchairs beside the fire – with much roiling and ruffling of
cloth. She pointed to the chair opposite, and said with a
chest-jiggling chuckle, “That’s as noble a reason as any for being
abroad in this weather, but even Jesus got off his donkey once in a
while to have his feet polished.”

Cobb unbuttoned Alfred’s expensive overcoat
and sat down on the edge of the chair.

“Much better. Now tell Mother Jiggins all
about your long lost cousin.”

Cobb gave her the full version of his
much-practised cover-story. She listened with more than casual
interest, throwing in a helpful “tut” or “hmn” from time to
time.

“So you’ve tried half a dozen places along
the way and nobody’s seen or heard a thing?” she said when Cobb sat
back to catch his breath.

“That’s right, but I now have reason to think
he might’ve got as far as The Cobourg Hotel or at least to The Pine
Knot here.”

Bessie’s eyebrows furrowed. “I remember every
soul who gets on and off Weller’s coach. The horses are changed
here, so the stopover lasts long enough for the folks to enjoy the
luxuries of my establishment.”

“I’m countin’ on that. Mr. Martin in Cobourg
told me he saw a man who might’ve been my cousin Graves arrive to
catch the Toronto-bound stage on Thursday mornin’ a week ago. He
said the fella come in a cutter driven by yer man Brutus, so I
figure he might’ve stayed here overnight fer some reason. Do you
recollect any of this?”

“I find a glass of claret improves the
memory,” Bessie said, glancing at the bottle on the table. “If
you’ll take that coat all the way off, I’ll pour us a tumbler and
bethink myself.”

“I guess it won’t hurt to stay fer a bit,”
Cobb said as his stomach grumbled.

Bessie stood to fill both goblets and handed
one to Cobb, now coatless and looking sharp in Alfred’s best suit.
She sat down again. “Cheers!” she said, raising her glass.

“Cheers,” Cobb replied, took a mouthful of
the surprisingly smooth claret, and then simply waited.

Bessie wiped her lips with a handkerchief she
withdrew delicately from her cleavage, and responded at last to
Cobb’s query. “A week ago Tuesday the stage from Kingston got here
about five o’clock in the afternoon. On it was a Mr. Bracken and a
skinny gent all bundled up like an Eskimo. They came inside to take
refreshment, and I could see the skinny gent was looking peakèd. He
took a little tea but it didn’t do him any good because he puked on
my blue rug and fainted dead away. We got him to my best room, the
one right across the hall beside the stairs, and I detected a high
fever. The coach and Mr. Bracken had to go on without him – after
they brought his suitcases in here. He moaned and groaned, poor
devil, all the next day, sweating with the fever. But it finally
broke on Wednesday evening about nine o’clock. Cass and I got some
soup into him, but he kept saying he had to get to Toronto because
he had a job waiting for him.”

“Then it must have been my cousin! He was due
at Elmgrove estate last week.”

Bessie gave Cobb a self-satisfied smile,
having spun her tale in such a way as to delay its climax as long
as possible. “Indeed it was. He told us then that his name was
Graves Chilton and he’d come all the way from England. He insisted
he was well enough to travel and begged us to ferry him into
Cobourg in time to catch the Thursday-morning stage before it left
the hotel. Finally, we gave in, and Brutus drove him and his
baggage there early the next morning.”

“An’ he had a real English accent?”

“He did.” She took another swig of her
claret.

“This is gonna sound odd, Bessie,” Cobb said
slowly, “but was my cousin bald-headed?”

Bessie chortled at that. “Not odd at all. A
billiard ball’s got more bristles than that fellow had. I could’ve
used his skull as a looking-glass on my vanity! Ask Brutus or Cass
– they couldn’t help staring at it!”

At last, Cobb thought exultantly, the
incontrovertible evidence he had been seeking all day. But his
exultation was brief. If Brutus had delivered the real Graves
Chilton to The Cobourg Hotel a week ago Thursday and the impostor
had shown up at Port Hope fifteen miles to the west, then something
had happened between Cobourg and Port Hope. Had Chilton, under some
ruse, been lured off the coach. How could that happen in front of
the other passengers who had got on at Cobourg? Perhaps the hapless
Englishman had passed by some hut or cabin that the stage used as
an emergency stop, and here the ambush and exchange had occurred.
He wouldn’t be able to interview the coach-driver until late
Monday, but there was one quicker way to get information about that
journey. Seth Martin had told him that several local passengers had
got on with Chilton at the hotel. And one of them, he remembered,
was a girl with a club foot. Nine days had passed since then, so
the odds were good that she or her relatives were now back in
Cobourg. He could seek them out and, with luck, discover exactly
when and where Graves the bald had been turned into Graves the
hairy.

“I can’t stay fer supper,” Cobb said bravely,
getting to his feet. “If my cousin Graves got as far as Cobourg
last week, then he’s gotta be somewhere in Cobourg or Port Hope. I
need to go back there right away.” Even so, he realized he would
have only an hour or so left in the evening to locate and question
those passengers who had travelled with the real Chilton from
Cobourg.