Desperate Acts (24 page)

At the end of the hall, the maid stopped, and
then rapped smartly on a door, as if banging on it would frighten
it into opening. She waited ten seconds and thumped again, upping
the volume.

“Perhaps she’s not in this room,” Beth said
helpfully.

“She’s in there alright.” And with this
certainty in view, the maid flung the door aside and stepped back
so that Beth could survey the interior of a modest lady’s
sitting-room.

Pink damask curtains were drawn across the
only window, rendering the room dark and gloomy. Beth could just
make out the silhouettes of a sofa and two chairs, and a sideboard
too massive for the space assigned to it. A trio of candles in
their sconces were burned almost to the wick.

“I don’t see – ”

“On the sofa. Dead to the world,” the maid
said without a hint of disgust or reproval. “She may wake up, an’
then again maybe she won’t.”

Before Beth could inquire further, the woman
had departed and could be heard tramping down the hall. As her eyes
adjusted to the gloom, Beth could indeed make out the form of
Clemmy Crenshaw comatose on the sofa, attired only in a tatty
dressing-gown, and snoring softly. Beth laid the costume down on a
nearby chair, and was about to retreat when she was stopped by the
sound of Clemmy’s voice behind her: “Is that you, Mrs.
Edwards?”

Beth turned. “I brought your dress, ma’am.
You can try it on when you’re feelin’ better.”

Clemmy rose groggily onto one elbow. Her
unpainted face was blotched and puckered. The pouches below her
eyes were blackened by fatigue, and the eyes themselves were
bloodshot, their dark pupils dilated. “I told Mabel we was to have
tea. Where’n hell did she get to?”

“I’ll go an’ see what I can rustle up,” Beth
said, her concern for Clemmy’s condition evident. After two wrong
turns, she found the kitchen and an ancient cook who was just
pouring herself a cup of tea from a cracked crockery-pot.

“I think yer mistress is in need of that,”
Beth said sweetly, but for her pains got a grunt in return.
However, two mugs of sugared tea were soon plunked on a tray
alongside a plate of tired biscuits.

Beth thanked the cook and returned to Clemmy
with the refreshments.

“Oh, Mrs. Edwards,” Clemmy said from her
sitting position on the sofa, “you
are
a most kind
woman.”

***

The tea seemed to give Clemmy enough energy to let
Beth wriggle her into Hermia’s frock and pronounce it a successful
fit. But the costume had no sooner been removed than Clemmy’s
weight went slack against Beth, who dropped the garment and reached
for the nearest forearm. With great difficulty, a hundred-pound
Beth wrestled the unconscious and much heavier woman over to the
sofa and lowered her as gently as she could onto the cushions.
Clemmy slumped onto her back with eyes closed, jaw slack, and mouth
agape.

Beth retrieved a woollen afghan from the back
of one of the chairs and placed it over Clemmy’s lumpish form, now
clad only in a cotton slip. Then she leaned over to check her
breathing. To her surprise, though the eyes remained shut, Clemmy
began to speak, not in her customary high-pitched voice, but low
and murmuring.

“We’re just as good as they are, ain’t we? We
wasn’t born with silver spoons in our mouths. Cyrus an’ me worked
fer everythin’ we got, ten times over. We didn’t have time fer a
lot of fancy schoolin’ – ”

“It’s all right, Clemmy. You don’t have to
speak. I understand. An’ you need to rest now. You got a rehearsal
tonight an’ – ”

“But we made it, didn’t we? Own a factory . .
. servants . . . nobody thought we’d do it . . . showed ‘em, didn’t
we, Cy? An’ you growin’ up with yer daddy dead like that . . .
everybody talkin’ . . . not your fault yer daddy got shot fer
runnin’ away from that awful battle, was it? We made it anyways . .
. we . . . we – ”

Beth drew the afghan up to Clemmy’s spittled
chin, and watched the woman sink into a deep sleep. She wished she
had not heard what she had just been privy to. That was the sort of
secret no stranger had a right to know. But Beth knew there was one
person who should know it soon.

***

That afternoon the debate on the Union Bill and its
terms began in the Legislative Assembly. As if to illustrate
Governor Thomson’s point about the fractious confusions of colonial
politics, the union clause itself was introduced in the lower
chamber by the Governor’s house leader, “Sweet William” Draper, his
Solicitor-General, who had serious reservations about the terms but
would eventually and reluctantly vote in favour. Seated beside him,
however, was his cabinet colleague, Attorney-General Hagerman, who
would lead the right-wingers in an all-out attack on the bill.
Indeed, the entire first day was consumed by lengthy and
scenery-ripping diatribes from this hard-line cabal, even though
its motley members would not necessarily break bread together
outside the Assembly. Ogle Gowan, Provincial Grand Master of the
Loyal Orange Lodge, ranted against all things French and
republican. Merrill Bannerman, speaking on behalf of Bishop
Strachan, fulminated against those godless democrats in their midst
who would seek to promote the profane cause of responsible
government and the separation of church and state by any means –
including a morganatic marriage with Quebec traitors. Other more
conventional Tories viewed the union proposal as a Radical-Whig
plot hatched in London to dismantle the British Empire by cutting
the colonies adrift from their anchorage in Church and Crown. The
Reformers, lacking such grandiloquence, listened politely – and
bided their time.

***

The arrival of Clemmy Crenshaw for the Tuesday
evening rehearsal caused a brief sensation: underneath her
voluminous coat she was discovered to be in full costume – a
living, breathing and very giddy Hermia! While this enthusiasm was,
in the director’s eyes, preferable to her lethargic lurching and
garbled recitations, it had its downside. Not expecting Hermia to
be where she was supposed to be, Lysander, Demetrius and Helena
(uncostumed) took turns bumping into
her.
In contrast, Sir
P.’s Puck was amazingly agile, as the plump baronet proved to be as
light on his feet as a slightly overweight ballerina. However, the
wood-nymph costume he had chosen to don this evening – with
diaphanous wings and a drooping tail – did little to disguise
Puck’s flabby belly and spindle-legs. So much so that every time he
pirouetted or pointed, Clemmy Crenshaw, still giddy, emitted a
snicker (then a “whoof” as she took her husband’s elbow in the
ribs). In the wings Cobb heard her say to him, “But I can’t help
it. He looks like a big, ugly bumblebee!”

Meanwhile, Cobb still had not become jaded by
the pantomimed caresses of the fair Titania, and particularly
enjoyed the participation of the four Wade children in the fairy
costumes delivered to Oakwood Manor just hours before from
Smallman’s.
How pleased the little tykes were to pamper and
praise the fairy queen’s donkey-lover, and permit him to deliver
his best comic lines – despite the fact that his ass’s head was not
to be had until Saturday. The only discordant note in this
otherwise harmonious “bower scene” was the fact that Lady Mad had
chosen this evening not to adorn the upper half of her perfumed
bosom with a camouflaging scarf. As usual, Cobb’s alarm registered
most dramatically in his nose, a development that prompted the
fairies to giggle behind their wings and irritate their uncle. When
not involved in his own scenes or absorbed in painting trees, Cobb
kept an eye on Dutton and Lizzie, but caught them in direct
conversation only once – discussing the merits of the apple tart on
offer in the dining-room. More intriguing was the deliberate snub
offered to Lady Mad by Horace Fullarton when they almost collided
in the wings: a sure sign of something personal and complicated
between them. But what?

Cobb’s opportunity to search Sir P.’s bedroom
for definitive evidence of his cross-dressing came about nine
o’clock when the director yelled at Peaseblossom and Mustardseed
for whispering off-stage, sending them into instant tears and
bringing their aunt into the lists on their behalf. Harsh words
were exchanged between the baronet and his lady, and the four
youngest Wades were shunted off to their nanny. Sir P. called for a
half-hour break, waved his cast towards the dining-room, and
retired in a huff to his nearby den. Cobb, who had been painting
the last of the trees on the last of the flats, muttered aloud that
he was out of green paint, shucked his smock, and walked slowly
into the hallway that led to the Shuttleworth’s private quarters.
No-one appeared to notice.

Making sure he was alone, Cobb eased open the
bedroom door and peered inside. The room was empty. He stepped in
and surveyed the scene. On the far side, beyond the bed, stood a
pair of highboys and between them a large, double-doored wardrobe –
their gleaming walnut veneers reflecting the glow of half a dozen
candles. To his right a squat woodstove radiated the last of its
heat. Obviously, some servant – the imported Chivers most likely –
kept a watch on his lordship’s creature comforts. Cobb left the
door ajar so as to be able to hear anyone approaching from either
end of the hall.

Avoiding the three-sided, floor-length
looking-glass, Cobb hopped across the braided rug towards a small
door cut into the wainscoting and almost invisible to the untrained
eye. He fumbled about for the latch, found it, and eased the door
open. Behind it lay the pink bower of Lady Madeleine. As he had
thought, man and wife had separate sleeping chambers: among the
gentry, cohabitation was a relative term. He now turned his
attention to the first of the highboys. One by one he slid open the
smooth-gliding drawers. To his disappointment he found only items
that any gentleman would wear: shirts, stockings, male
underclothing, waistcoats, scarves and ties. As he felt about with
his fingers, he was careful to turn each neatly folded item over
without unduly disturbing it (either Chivers or the baronet was
fastidious).

He went next to the second chest of drawers
on the other side of the wardrobe. And struck the mother-lode.
Every drawer was jammed with frilly, silky, lacy undergarments worn
only by women, none of which was neatly folded. Cobb’s fingers
recoiled at the touch of them, as if he had shoved his hand into a
pail of eels. But manfully he pursued his quarry – unearthing a
variety of stays, girdles and corsets – sufficient to outfit a
chorus-line in Paris. And none of them compact enough to adorn a
trim figure like that of Lady Mad. If further proof were needed, he
soon found it when he opened the huge wardrobe – one side of which
housed the usual array of gentleman’s frock-coats, silk jackets,
and trousers – while the other side sported a rack of matron-sized
gowns and evening-dresses: garish and, to Cobb’s mind,
grotesque.

So, Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth was a
cross-dresser, and possibly more. Fodder enough here to feed
several blackmailers! Well, it had taken him a week, and not a
little humiliation, here in Oakwood, but Cobb had finally produced
a suspect with a powerful motive for murder. It was true, he
assumed, that back in England such outrageous behaviour among the
lordly set would scarcely rate a raised eyebrow, provided it was
kept discreet. But here in the colonies where the ruling Family
Compact was spearheaded by the upright and pompous Bishop Strachan
and where Sir P. as an outsider was trying to make his mark – here
such a perverted obsession, if publicized, would be anathema.

So absorbed was Cobb in such
self-congratulatory reflection that he almost failed to hear the
tap-tap of footfalls in the hall – followed immediately by the
stifled giggle of an excited female! Without waiting to see whether
she was heading his way, Cobb stumbled into the wardrobe, pulled
several yards of silk around him, and eased the door towards him
with one finger, leaving it perforce about an inch ajar. For a few
seconds the rasping of his own breath deadened all competing sound.
Then, to his horror, he heard the clump and clatter of footsteps at
Sir P.’s bedroom door.

“In here, lover, in here!”

It was the voice of Lady Mad, hoarse with
passion.

The response to her plea was male, but
murmured too low for Cobb to distinguish either the words or the
identity of the speaker. But he would lay odds on Horace
Fullarton.

The next sound was that of a couple lurching
or staggering into the room, followed by another lusty giggle and
the wheeze of Sir P.’s mattress as the lovers collapsed upon it. Oh
my God, Cobb thought with a rising sense of both excitement and
panic, they are going to satisfy their adulterous cravings on the
baronet’s bed, not six feet away! Just then something lacy wafted
against his face and clung to it with the tenacity of a spider’s
web. Fearing he would sneeze, he tried to blow it off with a series
of ferocious puffs, but failed.

Meanwhile, with a minimal rustle of
reconfigured clothing, Lady Mad and her lover had achieved physical
engagement – if the gasp of the lady and the muted grunt of the
gentleman were any indication. This assumption on Cobb’s part was
quickly validated.

“Ah, yes, yes – you adorable darling!”

While the frantic coupling continued apace,
Cobb succeeded in extricating his nose from its lacy overlay, and
found himself with a few moments to reflect upon the significance
of what he was hearing. If Fullarton and Lady Mad were lovers, then
the good banker – Anglican usher and faithful husband to an invalid
wife – was surely a prime target for extortion. Figuring that the
lovers, who were now nearing the high point of their mutual
efforts, would quickly regroup and return to the ballroom before
they were missed, Cobb decided that he had to risk opening the
wardrobe door an inch or two wider in order to confirm that the
male participant was indeed Fullarton. Very gingerly he pushed at
it with the tips of two fingers. It emitted a loud creak.