Solemn Vows by Don Gutteridge Page B

in the stories he tells, despite their implied criticism. He wishes to speak with this person, as he feels such an encounter might be of great benefit to him as he ponders just how to proceed with the grievances.”
    “I’ll bet he does.”
    “Is that a no, sir?”
    “Lieutenant, I would not reveal the name of a pseudonymous correspondent to King William himself. But you can advise the governor that I do indeed know the writer and that his contributions to the
Constitution
are both authentic and voluntary. As such they may be of benefit to him and the future health of the province.”
    “I’ll do that, sir. Thank you for your candour. I expected nothing less.”
    “Good luck with your investigation.”
    And it looked to Marc as if luck would be sorely needed.

SIX
     

     
    A fter returning briefly to his boarding house to bathe, change his linen, and shave, Marc walked to Yonge and Bay, where, as a nearby church bell chimed six times, he pushed his way into the smoky premises of the Crooked Anchor. At the bar, amid the din and wonderfully variegated stink of the place, he had the tapster point out the small figure of a man seated at a table and hunched over a flagon of ale and a plate of trout and onions. When Marc sat down opposite, he looked up, one cheek still plugged with a forkful of supper.
    “Constable Cobb?”
    “Who would like to know?” Cobb swallowed his mouthful without removing his eyes from the intruder.
    “I’m Lieutenant Edwards. Governor Head has arranged, through your superior, for you to assist me in the investigation of the murder of Langdon Moncreiff.”
    Cobb continued forking his supper upwards as if he were pitching hay into a needy manger. In the silence, Marc sized up the man who looked as if he were more likely to fumble the investigation than help it. Cobb reminded Marc of one of Shakespeare’s clowns, several of whom he had seen in Drury Lane: Bardolph or Dogberry, perhaps. His nose met you first, a jutting cherry- red proboscis with a single wart on its left side. Set deep within their sockets, Cobb’s eyes were tiny, dark, and hard. The hair, which apparently had never seen a brush and seldom a bar of soap, stood up starkly wherever a finger or palm had skidded through it. Cobb could not have been much more than five feet, but the thick knuckles and muscled neck suggested a powerful physique. Marc noted the navy- blue coat and trousers that passed for a uniform among Toronto’s upstart constabulary, this version festooned with dried egg and congealed grease. A stiff helmet lay perilously close to the supper plate. Cobb might have been anywhere between twenty- five and forty years of age: he gave the impression that he was born looking like this.
    Cobb, who had returned Marc’s scrutiny in kind, finally opened his mouth to speak. “Would ya care fer a bite of supper? A pot of ale?”
    “No, thank you, I’m dining out later.”
    Cobb smiled, though it was hard to be sure because the man’s eyes and mouth were not particularly co- ordinated with one another. “Miss Dewart- Smythe is better company, I reckon, than the drubbers and riff- raff in here.”
    Marc did not smile back. “And what would you know about Miss Dewart- Smythe?”
    “I know a lot about a lot of things, yer grace. It’s what the city fathers pay me fer.”
    “I’m not a duke, Constable, I’m a lieutenant, Lieutenant Edwards. ‘Sir’ will do nicely.”
    “Well, then, Sir Edward, sir, I observed yer young lady on several occasions in the week past—in the course of me duties, I hasten to add. And a gen-u-ine looker she is.”
    “Don’t mock me, Constable, and do not speak in that flip pant manner of the young woman in question. That uniform will not protect you from a good thrashing—”
    “Now, now, don’t get yer linens in a snarl. If we’re gonna work side by side—and I got the orders from the sarge loud and clear on that score—we can’t go on callin’ each other by ten-syllable sober-