The Devil's Making (48 page)

‘Mr Beaumont,' I began. ‘As you know, Dr. McCrory, an acquaintance of yours, was murdered near Cormorant Point on the Wednesday of three weeks ago, when you had a day's leave. Could you tell us what you did that day?'

‘I believe I went boating. There was a good South-westerly breeze. I sailed over to Darcy Island. There's a sand bar there. Walked along it with a shotgun, but did no shooting. No ducks in that heat.'

Darcy Island was a few miles North of Cormorant Point off the Vancouver Island Coast.

‘Do you remember,' I said, ‘when we were walking from St Marks the Sunday before last and I asked you where you had gone that day?'

‘I think so.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Believe I said I went shooting, didn't I?'

‘Yes. Here on San Juan.'

‘I believe I said “on the Island”. But I meant Darcy Island.'

‘But you didn't actually shoot?'

‘No.'

‘You mentioned to me the grouse, as I recall – not ducks.'

‘I must have been thinking of the grouse here.'

‘On a previous occasion, you may remember, the Sunday before, I asked you if you had known Dr. McCrory apart from at the Somervilles. Do you remember what you said?'

‘I said no. Which was a lie. But I was being asked rather casually, not in formal interrogation. I felt my relationship with McCrory was a private matter.'

‘Were you a patient of his?'

‘No.'

‘He told someone that you were.'

‘Really? He must have been joking. It was not the case.'

‘So you were merely a friend of Dr. McCrory's?'

‘As you put it, “an acquaintance”.'

‘Did you ever visit his house?'

‘Once or twice. I would ride into town, having hired a horse at Cadborough, and I would stable it at McCrory's. We would then walk into town together for dinner.'

‘Where?'

‘Ringo's. Or the chop-house.'

‘Where did you go after dinner?'

‘The Windsor Rooms. A dancing establishment. Which many gentlemen, in so far as there are any gentlemen in Victoria, patronize. I say, Sir!' Beaumont addressed Delacombe. ‘I don't believe it's fair to have to answer questions of this nature.'

‘I'm afraid they must be
asked,
' Delacombe said, ‘if the Sergeant believes they shed light on your relationship with this McCrory. Of course you may choose not to
answer
them. But frankly, since we are all men here, and since it is no crime in the eyes of either the Navy or the police to visit certain “establishments”, even if they are disreputable, I suggest you be as informative as you can.'

‘Where did you stay the night when in town?' I asked.

‘At the Hotel Argyle.'

‘We can check that in the hotel register. Perhaps you can tell me the dates of the times you have stopped there since last September.'

‘Really! I resent this questioning. If I go to the Windsor Rooms, it is with the likely prospect of spending the night with a lady, is it not? I might not, in fact go to the Argyle. But naturally I don't wish to discuss such occasions.'

‘As a matter of fact, the ladies of the Windsor Rooms don't usually receive guests overnight.'

‘Well,
part
of the night. I would then walk back to Cadborough or Telegraph. As you know I'm a very restless man. I walk miles.'

‘Then what about the horse?'

‘What horse?'

‘The one which you left at McCrory's.'

Beaumont was silent, although he showed no signs of emotion. ‘What are you implying?' he said at last.

‘Please answer the question.'

‘There wasn't always a horse. I might have walked. If there was, then I would have picked it up on my way out of town.'

‘At night?'

‘You never stayed at McCrory's?'

‘I won't say never. I suppose I might have.'

I remained silent for a while, so as to emphasize Beaumont's sudden awkwardness. Then I remarked: ‘The trouble is, Mr Beaumont, that your responses to my questions about your relationship with Dr McCrory are so reluctant. I believe there is much to hide in your acquaintanceship. The evidence I have received indicates the following. First, you were a frequent companion of Dr McCrory's at the Windsor Rooms. Second, that you were his patient. Third, that your visits with him to the Windsor Rooms were connected with attempts to treat a nervous disorder for which you were in treatment with the Doctor. These points have been attested to by various informants. A fourth point is that you may have stayed overnight at Dr McCrory's guest room. Now, since you have been evasive about these points, to an extent which goes beyond your natural desire to protect your privacy, how can we assume you are telling the truth about where you were on the afternoon McCrory was killed? Even about this you have been evasive. Rough shooting on San Juan, instead of on Darcy Island. Grouse, instead of ducks. Yet as an officer and a gentleman I know it's your instinct to tell the truth.'

‘Really, Hobbes, I don't know what you're driving at. Naturally I'm not proud of my association with the ladies of the night of a miserable Colonial town, in the company of a Yankee doctor who was probably a charlatan. I regret it. But it was my way of amusing myself. There's nothing wrong with that. And here you are seeming to accuse me of a murder when you've given no evidence whatsoever to link me with it.'

‘There is another matter. I have a report from the United States that McCrory was cashiered from the Confederate army on suspicion of spying for the Yankees. And a report from a naval man at Esquimalt that McCrory seemed to be spying there, asking about naval dispositions and so on.'

‘The rotter,' Beaumont said, although his voice was still unmoved. ‘He was indeed one of the most nosy characters I've met.'

‘He once remarked à propos of you: “George is my spy”.'

‘Good God!' Beaumont stiffened, to become more wooden. ‘That's a slander. A rotten slander. To whom did he say this? Sir!', he said to Delacombe. ‘I request that I be allowed to clear my name in this regard.'

‘Of course, Mr Beaumont. I'm sure the Sergeant will tell you who reported this allegation.'

I was put on the spot. ‘Miss Somerville,' I said.

‘Aemilia! I know that none of those dear girls would slander me. I must assume that McCrory was doing so, out of malice or a twisted sense of humour.'

‘Did he ask you about our dispositions here?' This was Delacombe.

‘Yes. I must admit he did. But, dash it, I hardly took it seriously. We have no secrets. I assumed he was merely being nosy, in that Yankee way. Perhaps it pleased him to claim acquaintance with an officer here and tell his friends that I was “his spy”.' If, Sir, it came to the ears of anyone in Victoria, then I must answer for my indiscretion in choosing such a friend. It was stupid of me.'

I continued: ‘Do you always come to Cadborough Bay or Telegraph Cove when you take a boat over to Vancouver Island?'

‘Yes. Telegraph, since it's slightly nearer here, if I'm going to walk. Cadborough if I'm going to hire a horse from the farmer there.'

‘I thought you sometimes came to another cove – it doesn't have a name, but it's backed with rocks and arbutus – about a mile West of Telegraph Cove. Toward Cormorant Point.'

‘Really?' I don't believe I know it.' Beaumont's face was a mask as usual, but he had become very still as if his breathing had almost stopped.

Mr Beaumont, do you have a habit of whittling at sticks with a knife?'

‘I dare say I do occasionally.'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Delacombe make a sharp movement forward. ‘Mr Beaumont.' He said. ‘You know very well that your habit of whittling is so prominent as to be a source of friendly jokes in this camp.'

‘I dare say, Sir.' Then to me: ‘And what is the relevance of my whittling to the death of McCrory?'

‘The path near where he was murdered was sprinkled with wood chips. I should remind you that McCrory was knifed to death.'

‘I know that, Hobbes.' Beaumont looked at me as steadily as he could look at anyone with those strange eyes of his, which had always a fine vibration or wobble.

‘Or at least,' I said ‘he was knifed and left for dead.' I looked at Beaumont narrowly, but apart from the wavering in his eyes he did not flinch. ‘He did not die for some time,' I added. ‘Then an Indian found him. He said something to the Indian before he died. He said: ‘That Devil George'.'

Beaumont's eyes froze and for a few moments he looked directly and unwavering at me. His pupils were very large, like black holes. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up.

‘Sit down, Mr Beaumont,' Delacombe said.

Beaumont reached into his tunic pocket, as capacious as mine, and pulled out a revolver, at the same time raising his left arm horizontally. He set the barrel on his arm, pointing it at Delacombe and releasing the safety catch with a soft click. ‘I shall be going now', he said in his usual level voice.

‘You know it's a capital offense to draw your weapon on your commanding officer,' Delacombe said coolly.

‘I reached for my own pocket, but Beaumont swung round and pointed the revolver at me. ‘Put your hands on the table, Sergeant.' He said. I obeyed.

Beaumont sprang like a tiger in the direction of the door and was gone with a clatter of boots on the hall floor and the veranda.

I scrambled to my feet and kicked my chair back, hearing it fall on the floor as I ran round the end of the table – glimpsing Pemberton pulling his own pistol out from under his coat – and out of the room onto the veranda. The sun was dazzling. I too clattered down the steps, but had to pause to see where Beaumont had gone. There he was, running and bounding like a goat across the grass to the South edge of the camp. From behind my ear came a loud bang: Pemberton firing his pistol – useless at such a range. With a leap over some bushes, Beaumont vanished into a wall of forest.

I sprinted across the grass, pushed through the bushes Beaumont had leapt over, and plunged into the sudden cool darkness of the forest. There were firs and cedar, as around Mount Douglas, but interspersed with hardwood trees – alders and maples – and with a disconcerting amount of nettles in the undergrowth which I charged through like a bull with a tremendous crashing noise. I stopped abruptly and listened. There was a faint crashing in the woods over to my right, toward the sea. I headed in that direction, then stumbled onto a path which I ran along. It humped up and down around rocks and fallen trees, thick and decayed. I tried to listen as I ran, but it was no good. I stopped. I heard the faint sound of rocks grinding on rocks far ahead. I started running again, leapt over roots which crossed the path every few feet. The path descended into a gully and petered out as I charged down it, kicking rocks with a scraping sound, bounding across a broad stony steam bed, and splashing through a stretch of shallow water. I climbed the other side, finding the path again at the top and renewing my original pace, although by now my chest was hurting and my heart pounding. On and on the path went, through endless avenues of tree trunks, then it became a narrow channel between knee high bushes. Ahead, the forest looked more open. The path began to descend, crossing an area of swampy ground. Here and there planks had been thrown end to end and fixed in place by pegs. I leapt from plank to plank. The path rose again for another stretch through the forest. But now ahead there was more light through the trees, and after a hundred yards I came to the edge of the forest and a rail fence which I scrambled up and over.

I ran out into a big sloping field of tufted grass, dotted with oaks and outcroppings of rock from which arbutus were growing, with the sea only a hundred yards or so to my right over a bluff. To my left was a farmhouse with paddocks. A barking dog was standing on a knoll. On the other side of the field was another rail fence, and behind it a rocky slope on which the blue-uniformed figure of Beaumont was climbing at a run. He was about three hundred yards ahead – not more than a minute running flat out, I found myself calculating as he dashed across the field. But I would not be capable for long of running at this pace, although I was getting my second wind and the sheer pounding agony of the first few minutes had abated. I reached the other side of the field, thought of trying to vault the fence but scrambled over instead, then began to pick my way at a half run up the slope around boulders and tree trunks. I was nothing like as fast as Beaumont.

I was soaked with sweat by the time I reached the top of the hill, a crest of dry grass and rocks. There was Beaumont climbing like a fly up another steep slope on the other side of a valley which opened down to the sea. I staggered, catching my breath, and glanced behind me: two figures in blue were running across the field, just out of the forest. I waved frantically at them for a moment, then flung myself forward again.

Now I was running down hill, having to rear back now and then so as not to fall, stumbling over tussocks and tree roots. Rabbits bolted away in all directions. At the bottom of the hill a gulley contained a stream about a foot deep. I splashed through it and scrambled wearily up the facing hill, grasping at bushes and small tree trunks. At the top was a plateau, covered with long rough grass, rocks and patches of flowers. A pheasant with a long crimson tail watched me from a boulder. More rabbits dashed this way and that. There was no particular path, and Beaumont was lost to view, so I ran Southwards, parallel to the sea a hundred yards or so on my right below steep bluffs.

There was another dip, full of thickets of bushes and brambles, which I plunged into, cutting my hands as I flailed through. I came out onto a rising slope again and plodded wearily up it, gasping for breath. At the top I doubled up for a moment, so exhausted I could almost have vomited on the grass. I straightened up and looked ahead. There was the open heath I had seen from the boat, golden-green, with dark bushes, stretching as a long ridge beside the sea on the right, with forest on the left. A long way ahead now, perhaps half a mile, the blue figure of Beaumont was moving fast, though not running, across the heath.