Free Solemn Vows by Don Gutteridge Page B

sulking in the brig!”
    “Yes, sir!” Marc jumped to his feet, knocking over his empty coffee cup.
    The noise woke up Major Burns, who had been peacefully asleep for the last part of the interview—the quill frozen in his arthritic grip.
    Sir Francis got up and drew the pen tenderly from the Major’s fingers. “I may need both you and Willoughby soon,” he said to Marc at the door.
    Then, as the governor walked Marc into the anteroom, he snapped at one of his underlings, “Corporal, help Major Burns to his rooms.”
    Marc ran down the steps of Government House and across the lawn to the winding roadway that led up to King Street. His mind was not bubbling with the details of his new assignment, however; rather, he was wondering how he was going to get Colin Willoughby sober enough to present himself to Sir Francis by one o’clock.

FIVE
     

     
    T he Widow Standish, a handsome woman in her mid-fifties, for whom the word motherly had been coined, was on the veranda to greet Marc. She was wringing her apron as if to dry her hands, but they had not been near water since the breakfast dishes. “I tried to wake him, sir. Maisie and me both, one of us tugging at either arm, and him in his nightshirt only!”
    “It’s all right, Mrs. Standish. I’ll take over,” Marc said as they hurried through the hallway towards the boarders’ rooms in back. “If you and Maisie would be kind enough to fill the bathtub and provide some fresh towels—”
    Mrs. Standish looked abashed. “Oh, sir, there’s not a drop of hot water in the house. It’s too warm out for a fire, even in the summer kitchen.”
    “I think cold water would be more helpful,” Marc said, and strode off to Willoughby’s room.
    W HEN M ARC DROPPED HIS FRIEND C OLIN naked and stinking into the bath, one of Colin’s arms flapped, then the other, then both legs, and finally the whole body thrashed upwards. His eyes snapped wide.
    “Jesus Murphy, where am I?”
    “You’re in your own bathtub, but if you don’t get a grip on yourself you’re going to find your accommodations considerably less comfortable.”
    As Willoughby grumpily tried to get the soap lathering in the cool water, Marc told him about the governor’s offer to make him temporary assistant to Major Burns and commander of the palace guard for the duration of Marc’s investigation. At first Willoughby had difficulty taking it in, due in part to his monstrous hangover, but Marc sensed there was something else, something deeper perhaps, that made it hard for him to grasp what had happened. He still looked like a man in shock.
    “I’ll leave you to your toilette, Colin old chum. Maisie is dusting off your spare uniform, and Mrs. Standish has started a small fire in this wretched heat to boil you some coffee. Soquit feeling sorry for yourself and buck up! You’ve only got half an hour to make or break your fortune.” He shoved Colin’s head playfully under the soapy water and was pleased to see the troubled young man bob back up—with a wan smile on his face.
    D URING THE SHORT WALK up to Government House, Marc had time to explain briefly to Colin that the governor had taken the depositions regarding the shooting of Crazy Dan and had, pending their own statements, absolved them of any blame. This news did not have the spirit-boosting effect that Marc had expected, so he quickly told Colin about the governor’s plans to travel through the London district next week, plans that involved Colin in his new role.
    “Do you mean to say that I’ll be in charge when we go west?” Colin said, his grey eyes brightening and some colour flushing into his pale cheeks.
    “That’s right. And what’s more, you’ll be the governor’s secretary in all but name, as dear old Major Burns is able to do less and less each day.”
    “And you will be fully in charge of the, uh, investigation?”
    They were now stopped on the gravel path that wound its way up to the ornate veranda of Government