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the death of an innocent man, a harmlessly demented veteran of the wars who carved miniature doves.
    Marc’s heart ached, not because he would soon have to face his superior and make his awkward explanation, and not because he would have to bend the truth just a little to protect his men, whose own motives could not be questioned, but because at the last millisecond before his men fired, Marc had known the old fellow was innocent. That was the tragedy of it all.
    Not the least of his problems now was the bald fact that someone other than Crazy Dan had murdered Langdon Moncreiff. Not only was the felon at loose, but in their haste to pursue the obvious suspect they had given the real assassin more than an hour to make his getaway. Moreover, any clues he might have left around the square were certain to have been trampled by the curious spectators. The trail would be stone cold. And because Moncreiff was a member of the Executive Council (and all the controversy associated with that body and its relations with the governor), such an arrogant and outrageous assassination could not go unpunished. What is more, time would be short, for the first polling in the upcoming election was less than two weeks away. Marc dearly wished to curse the Fates, but he knew it would be a waste of good breath: the fiasco of the afternoon had been of his own making.
    When they rode up to the hitching posts in front of the Danby’s Inn, Marc noticed right away that the governor’s carriage was gone. He looked quickly over the square. Fewer than a dozen people remained, most of them moving purposefully from shop to shop or gathered on the wooden sidewalk, gossiping. A few youngsters of indeterminate gender hovered about the deserted hustings: curious and delightfully appalled. Marc waved his weary troop towards Danby’s saloon, and then entered the lobby of the inn proper.
    Angus Withers rose from one of the settees and greeted Marc with a gruff smile. “Did you catch the bugger?”
    “He’s dead,” Marc said.
    “Good. Save us all a lot of trouble.”
    “I’m afraid not, sir.”
    Marc led him back to the settee and sketched out the near-farcical events regarding the shooting of Crazy Dan.
    “You’ll have to tell Sir Francis immediately,” Withers said with a snap of his jaw.
    “Why did he leave?” Marc said.
    “He felt it was his personal responsibility to inform Mrs. Moncreiff of her husband’s tragic death. Maxwell went with him—and in such a godawful rush he left the women behind. I stayed, of course, to give the body a careful going over.”
    “Why did Mr. Maxwell leave his wife and daughter out here?”
    “Well, he is Moncreiff’s brother-in-law, you know. Mrs. Moncrieff is his sister.”
    Marc raised an eyebrow.
    Withers grinned thinly. His thick, permanently arched brows gave him a look of perpetual surprise—part amusement and part censure. “Didn’t know, eh? If you’re going to serve the panjandrums of the Family Compact, as I do, then you’ll have to get to know who’s related to whom on the royal tree and who wants to be related to whom.”
    “I’m learning, sir.”
    “Anyway, to answer your question, the receiver general had urgent business in the city, beyond consoling his sister. More to the point, he often finds Mrs. Maxwell and his daughter more ballast than he needs for most occasions. He practically leapt into the vice-regal carriage and into the governor’s lap. But don’t look so worried. Mr. and Mrs. Danby have been entertaining the abandoned females, in a pathetic effort, I presume, to compensate for the social catastrophe of the afternoon.”
    “How will they get home?”
    “Danby has offered to take us in his barouche to Yonge Street, where, if his horses are as well bred as he claims, we’ll arrive in time to catch Weller’s coach from Newmarket.”
    “And the body?”
    “Sir Francis will arrange everything in that regard. I shouldn’t be surprised if the dear old soul is given a state