The Third Riel Conspiracy (14 page)

“Captain, I'm Sergeant Durrant Wallace of the North West Mounted Police.”

“Yes, Sergeant. Very good. I'm glad you're here. We found a body floating in the river, maybe twenty miles downstream. It was caught up on a log boom.”

“Recently dead?”

“I'm no expert, but I believe so.”

“Let's have a look, shall we, Doctor?” Durrant turned to Saul, who stepped forward. The main wheelhouse of the
Northcote
concealed them from the view of the men unloading crates from the steamer. Saul stepped to the body wrapped in tarps and squatted beside it. “I don't expect this will be a pretty sight if he's been in the river for these many days. Thank goodness it's May and not July.” Saul turned to Garnet. “Here, lend a hand, will you please?” The two of them gingerly pulled back the tarp. Durrant and the captain looked on.

“Blue Jesus,” muttered Durrant at the sight of the cadaver's face. The eyes of the man had been pecked out; only remnants of the gelatinous orbs remained. His hair fell in thin, tattered patches across his forehead. His face was bloated and white, but there was, very clearly, a half-inch-wide hole in the side of the head, near the temple.

“Any doubt that this is Reuben Wake?” asked Durrant.

“No,” said Saul. “I would say not. I'd say by the look of him that he has been in the water since his corpse was removed from the zareba on the twelfth. You see his skin? It's developed cutis anserine.”

“In English, Doctor?” said Durrant.

“Gooseflesh. Pimpling of the skin.”

“Let's get this body under cover and find a place where you can do your work, Doctor.”

FIFTEEN

“WE'LL HAVE TO MAKE THIS
quick. Before you know it, Dickenson and his thugs will set upon us and we'll have to fight just to complete an autopsy on this corpse.” Durrant peered around the deck of the steamer. “Can we load him into that pushcart and make for Batoche? We'll find a place there for the doctor to do his work.”

Garnet went and got the cart. With the captain, they loaded the cadaver into it. At Batoche, the doctor led them to the rear of Xavier's Store. “You've been here before, Doctor?” asked Durrant, pushing the door open and peering into the dark space. He stepped in cautiously, his hand on the hilt of his Enfield. There was nobody in the room.

“On the last day of fighting, I followed the field force down the Mission Ridge and into the town. There were many wounded. It appears as though the mercantile hadn't opened before the fighting broke out. I had a makeshift triage set up here in the back room. It will do.”

Saul came inside and found a lantern hanging in the darkness. He trimmed the wick, found his matches, and lit the lamp. “Let's put him here.” He motioned to a long table used for butchering meat. It was solidly constructed and had gutters to drain blood. The men were in a multi-purpose storeroom. It had a door that opened to the front of the shop, and a set of stairs that seemed to be an entrance to the living quarters above.

“Are you sure nobody is home, Saul?”

“Can't be certain, but most of the townsfolk fled before the fighting even started. I know some of the men have returned, but I don't know if Xavier has come back from St. Laurent.”

“Okay, then, let's get on with this,” said Durrant. Saul and Garnet hoisted the body onto the table. Durrant tried not to get in their way.

Saul removed the shroud. “As I knew I would be operating during this expedition, I brought along some of my more advanced tools.” The doctor was digging in his bag. “I should think they will be some help to us.”

Saul pulled out a scalpel and made an incision around the man's temple where the large, dark bullet hole could be observed. “I should be able to estimate both the calibre of the cartridge and the distance from which it was fired. See, look here. Already, despite the bloating, I can tell you that Mr. Wake was shot at very close range. Two feet at most, but not point blank. The flesh around the bullet hole has been burned, but there is no star-shaped tearing, indicating that the weapon was not pressed against the man's head. Now as for the calibre”—the doctor took a caliper from his bag—“we shall have to see.” He leaned in close to the corpse and measured the bullet hole. He turned his head toward the ceiling and closed his eyes while he considered what the measurement meant. “I make this to be a .44 or .45 calibre.”

“That's consistent with the Colt that was found in Mr. La Biche's jacket—the same that belonged to Mr. Wake,” said Durrant.

“Now what I find strange, gentlemen, is that there is no exit wound. If Mr. Wake had been shot in the head from this angle”—Saul made his hand into a gun and held it two feet from the cadaver's head at a right angle—“then frankly, the exit would be the size of my fist, and we would have very little left of Mr. Wake's grey matter.”

“If any existed in the first place,” cracked Garnet.

Saul rolled Wake on his side, and water drained from the man's mouth and ran into a bucket on the floor. “You can see by looking here”—he pointed into the wound—“that there are plenty of brains left in his head. The only conclusion I can draw is that the cartridge is still lodged there.”

“Can you retrieve it?”

“Yes, but let's look over the rest of his face first . . . Ha! Look here.” The doctor pointed to the man's heavy brow. “I suspected as much.” Saul pulled a pair of forceps from his bag and began pulling at something lodged in the man's face. “It's part of a cartridge casing. And look at the angle it's lodged in his brow: straight on.”

“He was shot at twice,” said Garnet.

“Yes, but the first time, the cartridge detonated in the pistol,” said Durrant.

“Leaving Mr. Wake here a moment to turn and try to flee,” added Saul.

“But not enough time to outrun his meeting with destiny,” concluded Garnet.

UPON FINISHING HIS
examination, Saul fitted Wake's skullcap back in place, folding the neatly cut skin back over the bone. He withdrew needle and thread from his bag and made several crude sutures to hold the skullcap firm. Then he pulled the shroud back over the body. Durrant looked toward the door. “Let's get some air and I'll tell you what I think.” They stepped into the cool, bright day and each man drew a deep breath. Durrant looked around. He could hear men on the main road on the other side of the building.

“You have a theory?” asked Garnet. He had found his pipe in his pocket and was packing it with tobacco. Durrant was grateful, as the strong weed might erase the stench of death in his nostrils.

“I do. It's simple, really. Mr. Wake knew his attacker. It seems to be the only way that a man could approach him from the front and not arouse suspicion. When the killer drew his weapon and misfired, Wake tried to flee, but the gunman was too quick. He was able to fire a second round rapidly, and it took Wake's life. I think our best suspects are those who Mr. Wake either was familiar with or had no reason to fear or distrust.”

“That all but rules out La Biche, Lambert, and Iron Crow. Any of these men would have aroused suspicion in Wake. He would have been on his guard,” said Garnet.

“We also know that the killer would have had to be handy with a pistol,” said Durrant. “The Colt is a fairly dependable weapon. A misfire is rare. That a second round could be chambered and fired under the circumstances is a comment on both Mr. Colt's hardware and the killer's familiarity with firearms. Finally, I would think that our killer would be nursing a wound. Don't you, Doctor?”

“Of course he would!” said Saul. “If the exploding cartridge left shell fragments in Mr. Wake's flesh, then surely the shooter would have received burns as well!”

“Now all we need to do is ask to see each man's hands?” asked Garnet.

“It may not be so simple,” said Durrant. “With the exception, maybe, of Iron Crow, any of these men may have been wearing gauntlets when they pulled that trigger. We may never be able to tell with any certainty if a mark on leather is recent or has been there for some time.”

Durrant had just finished his sentence when there was a commotion on the road in front of the building. The sound of horses being drawn up short and angry shouts caused all three men to take defensive postures. Two horsemen rounded the corner of the building and bore down on the three men. At the same time, the back door of the mercantile was kicked out from inside and several men burst from the room. Durrant's hand reached for his Enfield; Garnet already had his Webley pistols in his hands. The mounted men held Winchesters aimed at the trio. Sub-Inspector Dickenson emerged from the foul-smelling room, his face twisted and grey. “Sergeant Wallace, what in the name of God have you done to Reuben Wake?” He too held an Enfield pistol at his side.

“I was coming to find you, Sub-Inspector, to ask the same. The body that was to be in your care was found by the
Northcote
along the river twenty miles from here. It seems that the premature burial was in fact an effort to hide important evidence.”

“You had no right to desecrate that man!” said Dickenson.

“Seeing that you couldn't keep track of it the first time, I decided that Mr. Wake's remains would be in better hands if I took them. I also believe, having examined the body, that the investigation into his murder would be better served if I conducted it from this point on.”

“You'll lose your stripes for this, Wallace. I am giving you a direct order, Sergeant. You are to turn over that body and leave Batoche immediately. You may still walk away a free man, though your days as a non-commissioned officer are almost certainly over. Your partners in this crime may only have to serve a few days in irons.” Dickenson turned to look at Garnet and Saul.

At that moment, the sound of another horse was heard, and everyone turned to see who it was. The horse was reined in just a few feet from the cluster of armed Mounted Police and militia.

“Assistant Commissioner Crozier.” Durrant saluted.

“Sergeant Wallace. Sub-Inspector Dickenson. What the Blue Jesus is going on here?”

SIXTEEN

DURRANT AND SUB-INSPECTOR DICKENSON STOOD
side by side in Assistant Commissioner Leif Crozier's tent. It was late in the day, and the enclosure was lit by two oil lamps that smoked and made Durrant want to trim their wicks. Before the men was a rough and ready desk fashioned from several planks of wood, which looked to have been fetched from a local barn, supported by empty crates at both ends. Crozier sat upright in his wooden camp chair, smoking a pipe while reading cables and briefing notes scrawled on letter paper. It had been half an hour, and Durrant could feel his prosthetic biting into his leg. He dared not move.

Crozier cleared his throat. The air in the room seemed to crack. “Thank you both for so hastily preparing these briefing notes for me. Middleton brought this business with Wake to my ears and asked that I determine the best way to proceed. With our Mounted Police serving under various units of the reserves and militia, he felt it best for me to decide how to investigate. I wanted to get each of your perspectives. This is most helpful.”

“Sir, I wonder—” Dickenson leaned forward to press his case but Crozier silenced him with a hand.

“I have what I need, Sub-Inspector. I wonder if you would be so good as to wait outside. Why don't you find yourself some supper? I will send for you when I am ready.”

Dickenson looked at Wallace, then back at Crozier, bewildered. He straightened and saluted. “Yes, sir, as you wish.” He skulked from the tent.

“Would you care to sit, Durrant?”

“If you don't mind, sir.”

“Please.” Crozier pointed to a crate. Durrant sat. “How is the leg?”

“It's fine, sir.”

“It's good to have you back in the saddle, son. Not much of a Mounted Police officer if you can't sit a horse, I suppose. Now, let's discuss the matter at hand.” Crozier drew on his pipe, and the smoke circled him a moment before dissipating into the darkness of the tent's ceiling. “Sergeant, I am placing you in charge of the investigation into Mr. Wake's murder.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don't thank me, son, until I've told you what I'm about to say. What I'm going to tell you is for your ears alone. I don't want this written down, and I don't want it turning up in any of the goddamned eastern press. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir. Assistant Commissioner, I should tell you that I have something of an investigative team here in Batoche—”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Blue Jesus, man, that's one thing Dickenson got right—might be the only thing: you are a pain in the ass.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, who is it?”

TEN MINUTES LATER
Garnet Moberly and Saul Armatage had been introduced to Crozier.

“Lieutenant, your reputation precedes you.” Crozier shook Garnet's hand. “And Doctor Armatage, I suppose you expect me to thank you for saving this man's life after that trouble in the Cypress Hills.”

“I can accept no blame for what has come after, sir.”

“Very well, then. Please, gentlemen, take a seat. I have information that has come to my ears through the privilege of my position in the North West Mounted Police and as a member in good standing in some circles in Regina and elsewhere across the Dominion. I am asking you to investigate the murder of Reuben Wake and bring to justice his killer or killers, whoever they may be. But there is more.

“There is a conspiracy afoot. Several, in fact. There are Liberal Catholics here in the territories who judge Louis Riel a hero and the rebellion as really a resistance of eastern infringement. These men believe that Riel should go free. They elected him to Parliament three consecutive times, despite the fact that he was wanted for murder! No doubt it has already come to your ears that there is a movement afoot to free Riel—a sort of jailbreak, if you will. This has been whispered in secretive circles since the outbreak of hostilities; if Riel should be captured, there are those who would work to set him free, at any cost.”