Desperate Acts (15 page)

“None. I figured one of them drunks was
takin’ a terrible beatin’.”

“Surely you tried to help?”

“What’d you take me for? I run to the
bay-doors an’ tried to push ‘em open. But they jam sometimes, so I
give a loud whoop an’ scuttle about lookin’ fer my crowbar, which I
can’t find.”

“And?”

“And I see the beatin’s stopped. The guy
usin’ the cane must’ve gone.”

“But you’ve still got an injured man in yer
alley.”

“I keep on lookin’ fer the crowbar, but I
can’t find it. I go back to the bay-doors an’ pound on ‘em. I
decide I better go up an’ face the music over the wine – and as
soon as I get a chance, I’ll deke out to the alley an’ check on the
drunk.”

“Mighty decent of ya.”

“When I get up here, a dozen sailors are
yellin’ fer drink, Mrs. Budge is screamin’ at me an’ Nestor, an’
then
you
come sailin’ in with the news about a body in the
alley.”

“An’
you
refused to come with me to
have a look,” Cobb said sharply. He gave the barkeep such a fierce
stare he forced him to look down at his hands spread upon the
bar.

Finally Budge raised his eyes and said with a
defiant whine, “I reckoned I’d spent the whole night bein’ bossed
about by my wife an’ shouted at by ignorant sailors an’ looked down
on by sea-captains, an’ that body out there’s now police business,
so I say ‘fuck it!’ – I’ll let
Missus
Budge take care of
somethin’ fer a change!”

“And it didn’t occur to you somewheres in yer
thick skull that you oughta come an’ tell me what you saw?”

“But I just told ya, I didn’t see anythin’
that’d be of use to the police!”

Cobb nodded towards the freshly tapped keg.
Budge frowned, but turned around and filled a flagon with ale –
with an inch-and-a-half head. He slid it over to Cobb, who dropped
a coin on the counter. Cobb took a hearty sip, leaving the foam to
highlight his upper lip.

“I hear you an’ the dead fella got into a
fracas here last week,” Cobb said after another noisy sip.

Budge’s black gaze narrowed. “So what? He got
frisky with Etta, so I grabbed him by the throat, give him a good
shakin’, an’ tossed him out – fer good. Somethin’ I’ve done to a
hundred customers since we opened up here.”

“I’m sure you have. But yer missus said you
were particularly upset because of somethin’ Duggan said to Etta,”
Cobb said, stretching the truth just a bit.

“She thinks every woman under forty is out to
tumble me,” Budge said, and for the first time flashed his
carefully manicured bartender’s smile at Cobb, as if to say ‘I
can’t help it, can I, if I’m too handsome for my own good?’

“Duggan was seen in here before that
week.”

“I suppose so, but I didn’t know him from
Adam.”

“Didn’t know he was Nestor’s cousin an’
housemate?”

Cobb thought he detected a flicker of anxiety
in Budge’s face.

“Not until now. I never seen them together in
here. Nestor worked mainly in the mornings, doin’ some of the heavy
work.”

“An’ this Duggan never made eyes at Etta
before last week?”

“Just what the hell are you drivin’ at,
Cobb?”

“I’m thinkin’ that maybe you had a grudge
against Duggan an’ when you heard that argument in the alley, you
recognized Duggan’s voice an’ somethin’ snapped inside – you were
already mad at yer wife an’ feelin’ grumpy an’ put-upon – an’ you
pushed up them basement doors, stepped into the alley an’ found
Duggan alone and unconscious with a cane lyin’ handy beside him –
”

“
Get out!
” Budge bellowed, and if he
had not been so big and bulky might have vaulted over the bar to
get at Cobb. “Get out of here before I take a cane an’ beat
you
to death!”

***

Cobb was still shaking two blocks distant from The
Sailor’s Arms. He
had
left – slowly and deliberately, he was
sure – but only because he had asked all the questions he needed
to, and one or two he shouldn’t have. His principal regret, though,
was leaving his ale unfinished. His shaking was due mostly to his
anger at himself for pushing Budge further than he had intended and
letting his personal dislike of the barkeep get the better of him.
As he walked towards The Cock and Bull for his luncheon, he thought
back on the interview and had to admit that Budge’s account jibed
with the time-line Marc had laid out. The argument between Duggan
and Brodie must have taken place somewhere between nine-forty-five
and nine-fifty, as they had assumed. And if Budge was telling the
truth – a big ‘if’ in Cobb’s mind – then Duggan was clubbed to
death minutes after Brodie fled. And that suggested that someone
had been watching the initial tussle between the two men and had
moved in immediately to dispatch Duggan with Brodie’s
walking-stick. It was too bad they couldn’t use the blackmail
business as a motive for any of the five people who seemed to have
an opportunity to commit the murder. But without Nestor to
corroborate the suspicions raised by Duggan’s list, Cobb had to
agree with Marc that that angle could not be used to help dissuade
the magistrate from charging Brodie tomorrow morning.

Cobb spent the afternoon in various
watering-holes tracking down his lesser snitches and bribing them
to keep a sharp lookout for any signs of Nestor Peck. Nestor was
the chum of another snitch, Itchy Quick, who hung out at The
Crooked Anchor on Bay Street at Wellington. Quick was a two-hundred
pound sloth of a man whose shambling manoeuvres were unrelated to
his surname. His nickname, however, was apt, as he suffered from
scrofula, and spent much of his limited energy scratching and
itching. But Itchy had not been seen at his favourite tavern or
anywhere else, it turned out. Were his disappearance and Nestor’s
mere coincidence? Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not.

At five o’clock, dispirited and groggy, Cobb
went home to the comforts of his wife and family. He hoped that his
surprise visit to Oakwood Manor after supper would prove more
productive than his afternoon had been.

***

Before going on to his meeting at Baldwin House,
Marc took a few minutes to visit Brodie in jail. Calvin Strangway,
a humane jailer, had given Brodie a large cell with a southern
exposure and a good-sized window. Celia and Diana had already been
there, bringing extra bedding and food. Marc was able to reassure
Brodie that the several ongoing lines of investigation should, in
the least, turn up enough evidence to throw doubt on the case and
see him released in the morning. Marc was not as confident as he
let on, but he felt constrained to cheer up the young man, who
looked glum and uncharacteristically fearful.

At Baldwin House, Marc joined Francis Hincks
in Robert’s chamber for a high-level consultation. With just over
two weeks till the Legislature opened (the Governor had just sent
out the call), Robert wanted to assess their progress. Poulett
Thomson had been meeting with the Tories, Orangemen and moderate
conservatives whenever they became available – wining, dining, and
otherwise plumping their vulnerable egos. He had taken great pains
to give the appearance of shunning the Reformers, while meeting in
secret with them and their envoys.

“So, where do we stand, vote-wise?” Hincks
said, getting right to the point.

“We appear to have seven or eight of the
moderates onside,” Robert said with his customary caution. “Enough
for a comfortable majority on the main question. They’ll vote as a
block.”

“What about amendments?” Hincks said. “The
Tories will certainly try to emasculate the union by tacking on a
dozen crippling amendments.”

“Uncertain, I’m afraid, because we don’t yet
know what they might be – though we can guess.”

“We’ll have to play them day by day, then, as
the debate progresses.”

“Which is why we need all the help we can get
once the Legislature opens. Our men in the Assembly don’t have your
silver tongue, Francis. We’ll need to prompt them daily and feed
His Excellency his lines if he is to keep the pressure on.” Robert
looked at Marc.

“Which puts me in somewhat of a bind,” Marc
said. “It’s just possible that Brodie will be charged with a
serious offence.”

“I know,” Robert said. “And if he is, I want
you to devote all your time and energies to defending him. We’ll
get along without you as best we can.”

Marc knew how difficult it was for Robert to
make such a concession, given the total commitment he had made to
resolving the current political impasse and ensuring the future
viability of the province.

“Thank you. I just pray it doesn’t come to
that.”

“Me, too. Brodie is a sterling young man, and
no murderer.”

Hincks was poring over the roster of Assembly
members. “I think we could add Cecil Marshman to our
moderates.”

“He’s way off in Windsor, alas.”

Hincks sat back, flashed his winning Irish
smile, and said to Robert with a twinkle in his eye, “You know, of
course, how the Governor is winning these conservatives over and
mollifying the high Tories, don’t you?”

Robert sighed. “I’m afraid I do. Without a
doubt he’s been assuring them that if they vote for the union of
the two provinces or refrain from gutting the bill with amendments,
he will make certain that as long as he’s the vice-regent here,
there will be no bending to the will of any future Reform majority
in the Assembly and no infringement on his absolute right to choose
his own cabinet.”

“While assuring
us
that in practice,
as time goes by, he will find himself doing the opposite,” Hincks
added. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, why we’re going along with
the charade and skulking about our own streets like saboteurs?”

This brought a brief smile to Robert’s face.
“We have no choice but to move one step at a time. The Union Bill
is step one. At present we are a weak minority in the Assembly, eh?
There’ll be no new election until after the union – which
will
come if Britain has its way, now or very soon – but we
have no real power until then.”

Hincks’ face lit up, and Marc observed with
some awe how handsome and winning he really was when his heart and
mind were fully engaged. “And what His Excellency doesn’t know, or
isn’t admitting, is that after the union there’s every chance that
Louis LaFontaine will bring his French
rouge
members into a
coalition with us. Then we’ll see whether this or the next governor
will have the courage to resist the inevitability of a home-grown,
responsible cabinet-government.”

“You’ve heard from Louis again?” Robert said,
surprised.

“I have. He’s hoping to come here to meet
with us in February or March, after the Union Bill passes. In the
meantime he is continuing to speak against the terms of the bill,
as he must, given their inherent unfairness.”

“That’s good news. And news we’ve got to keep
under our hats.”

Robert poured them each a brandy, and they
toasted Louis LaFontaine.

***

Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth and Lady Madeleine
Shuttleworth knew how to impress the natives. The dining-room table
– resplendent with gold-leaf candelabra, rococo serving-dishes,
gleaming porcelain, and silverware too beautiful for use – groaned
with “light supper fare”: roasted quail and partridge, glazed hams,
stuffed rabbit, a thick-crusted game pie, smoked whitefish,
steaming tureens of gravy and piquant sauces, and a tray of
sweetbreads. All of which was to be washed down with chilled
champagne and other exotic vintages. A white-jacketed servant
anticipated every need and satisfied it with elegant dispatch.
Seated at table, as honoured guests, were Cyrus and Clementine
Crenshaw, Horace Fullarton, and Andrew Dutton. Sir Peregrine
occupied the chair at the head of the table and did his best to
play lord of the manor, but it was Lady Madeleine, at the foot of
the table, who attracted the most attention, overt and
otherwise.

She was a striking woman in every respect. At
thirty-six, she had maintained the willowy proportions of her
youthful figure – merely by adding inches in equal measure to each
of her maturing feminine curves. Two of the latter were audaciously
displayed in a low-cut sateen gown of a shimmering green hue with a
provocative yellow bow winking at its waist. Attempting to tame her
flaming curls was a diamond tiara that glittered like a profane
halo and framed her heart-shaped, delicately featured face. It was
her brown eyes and milky skin, however, in contrast with the bushel
of red hair that drew libidinous glances from the twice-widowed
Andrew Dutton and the well-married Cyrus Crenshaw, and compelled
Horace Fullarton to find less volatile objects to rest his gaze
upon. Clemmy Crenshaw also found her gaze settling upon Lady Mad
(as Sir P. fondly referred to her), though more in envy than in
lust.

Clemmy herself was a forty-five-year-old
woman of ample proportions, which she unwisely tried to disguise
with a garish frock two sizes too small for the package it was
meant to encompass. Her plain brown hair had been steamed into
rebellious ringlettes, which gave an effect not so much of feminine
allure as of permanent fright. Her freckled complexion had been
over-powdered and much-rouged, and her eyebrows startled into a
double arch. The latter merely emphasized the hazel eyes, whose
pupils seemed to bulge outward as if propelled by belladonna. “Oh,
what a gorgeous table!” she had cried upon entering the dining-room
– in a voice that tended to wobble from a trumpet to a screech. “It
is positively mellifluent!”

Before the meal, Sir P. (as all and sundry
were urged to call the baronet in the spirit of camaraderie) had
given his guests the royal tour of Oakwood Manor, commenting with
amiable condescension upon its many glories, and once being so good
as to mention the role that “Horace” had played in its design. Of
the numerous, impoverished in-laws, there had been no sign: they
not only inhabited their specially constructed wing, they were
apparently sealed within it. The
pièce de resistance
, of
course, had been the ballroom converted into a temporary theatre
for the proposed production of scenes from Shakespeare’s
Dream.
“I think of this space as our Blackfriars,” Sir P.
had quipped, alluding to the Bard’s own intimate, in-door
playhouse.