Desperate Acts (37 page)

Marc wheeled the buggy around and raced back
towards the entrance to Dutton’s property. Into a sliver of
moonlight sprang Nestor Peck, his bony bow-legs pistoning him
forward. Marc reached out with his hand, but his assistance was not
required. Nestor’s momentum carried him up and into the well of the
buggy, where he collapsed in a heap.

They were almost at The Sailor’s Arms before
Nestor was able to state the obvious: “D-dogs,” he said. “A whole
pack of ‘em.”

“But you did deliver the envelope?”

Nestor grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”

***

Nestor slipped Budge’s envelope under the side door
on Peter Street that led to the barkeep’s private quarters. Both
mister and missus would be occupied in the taproom into the wee
hours, but they would see the note in the morning. If Gillian found
it, Tobias might have some explaining to do, but Marc figured he
was good at that sort of thing. The final drop was made at
Crenshaw’s place up on York Street north, where Nestor was actually
chased for thirty yards by a burly but slow-moving servant.

Marc praised Nestor’s courage, and assured
him that everything would go well Sunday evening when phase two of
the plan would be executed. Then he took him to Cobb’s house. There
he was put back into Dora’s care, where he calmed his nerves with
two platters of ham and eggs.

***

After church on Sunday, Marc walked down to the jail
and asked to see Brodie. If the lad was anxious, he did not show
it. Calvin Strangway had kindly allowed Diana Ramsay to visit
several times on Saturday, bringing him food and drink. But it was
her company and her faithfulness that were keeping the young man’s
spirits as high as could be expected. Without going into details,
Marc told him that he and Cobb had hatched a plot to entrap the
murderer. If it worked, all would be well in the morning. If not,
Marc assured him that they still had a solid strategy to fall back
upon in court. This of course was close to an outright lie, in that
all Marc had left for the jury was a trio of character-witnesses
and a run at Budge as a “possible.” And while Robert could not
object to Budge being set up as a potential murderer, Marc would be
limited to suggesting that the motive was based on the altercation
between the barkeep and Duggan in the taproom the week before the
crime. There was now no way for Marc to introduce Duggan’s
target-list and Nestor’s corroborating testimony without exposing
the worthies that Robert wanted protected. But beard Tobias Budge
he would, and then move on to a sizzling summation.

But if his plan to expose the real killer
failed tonight and if he failed tomorrow to gain an acquittal,
would he have the courage to admit to his client that he had
deliberately abandoned his best defense? Could he ever practise law
again? Or look at himself in the mirror? Brodie, bless him, did not
press for details. His trust in Marc was touching – and
absolute.

That afternoon and early evening were
unbearably long. There was nothing to do but wait – and hope that
the messages had been read and the bait taken. Jasper came over to
visit Charlene, and Marc sat down with them and Beth to review
their tentative plans for the addition to Briar Cottage in the
spring (when Maggie was to be joined by a baby brother). Jasper was
particularly excited because he had enlisted the aid of Billy
McNair, a master carpenter and friend of the Edwards. Billy and
Jasper would work together on the new rooms, and if Billy were
suitably impressed, he promised to take Jasper on as a partner. In
the meantime, he would try to pass along small jobs to Jasper over
the winter.

After supper Marc tried to while away the
time reading
Oliver Twist
, a novel that Beth had recently
purchased by an author she had taken a fancy to. But the words
remained merely words on the page. Every ten minutes or so he would
consult his pocket-watch, and try not to think of all the things
that could go wrong with his plan. Maggie provided some welcome
diversion when she astonished her parents by attempting to crawl
across the rug in front of the fire.

Finally, at nine o’clock, he kissed Beth,
bussed the sleeping baby, and drove over to Cobb’s house. Nestor
and Cobb were waiting on the stoop. No-one said a word as they
trotted along King Street towards Yonge. The scheme had been gone
over thoroughly. Everyone knew his role. Nestor was pale, but
looked determined enough. Much depended upon him.

At the Court House Marc pulled the carriage
up, parked it at the side of the building and tethered the horse to
a post. Cobb left first, followed a minute later by Nestor, and
then Marc. With Cobb leading the way, they walked at one-minute
intervals northward up Toronto Street to Newgate, then west across
Yonge to Bay. There they turned south, keeping to the shadows, but
meeting no-one on this quiet Sabbath evening. As each neared the
east-west service lane above King, they slipped soundlessly into it
and moved due east until they came to the head of the alley in
which the exchange was to take place. This elaborate and roundabout
route had been necessary, in Marc’s thinking, because the killer
might decide to arrive well before ten o’clock in order to command
a view of the obvious entrance to the alley – from King Street.
Cobb and Marc must not be seen anywhere near Nestor in advance of
the event. And it was imperative that both of them witness the
exchange of note and cash, and overhear any incriminating dialogue
between Nestor and his “target.”

Cobb now left Marc and Nestor, and inched his
way south among the shadows of the alley, lit only by pale shafts
of moonlight here and there as they shot through the gaps between
gables and chimney-pots. Ten yards from King Street, he eased back
into an alcove and squatted down, hidden completely by shadow.
Next, Nestor came down the alley, not worrying that he might be
seen since the killer expected him to be here. At the halfway point
he stopped, peered nervously about, found the apple-box he was
looking for, and sat down to wait. Just in front of him a swath of
moonlight poured down, into which he could step and be seen when
the time came to do so. Meanwhile, Marc crouched down, as Cobb had
done, and stayed hidden at the head of the alley, with a clear view
southward all the way down to King Street. They were all now in
place, their arrival unobserved. The waiting began.

***

And a long wait it was. It must have been close to
ten-thirty when Cobb’s legs began to cramp and the scarf at his
throat no longer kept the chill out. He shifted from side to side,
to no avail. Finally he had to sit down on his haunches and stretch
his legs full out – leaving himself vulnerable. Fifteen yards away,
he could hear Nestor cough and the apple-box creak. If the killer
didn’t come soon, Nestor was certain to panic and make a break for
it. Cobb had just worked the cramp out of his left calf and
painfully got back up into a crouching position when he heard
footsteps. The sound, just audible, came from the King Street
entrance to the alley. The new arrival was treading slowly,
stopping every few feet – probably to make sure he was alone. Cobb
wanted to tilt his face up to have a look, but he dared not for
fear that either the movement or the whites of his eyes would alert
the killer, and spook him. So he remained utterly still as the
fellow moved past him, not five feet away, and on up towards Nestor
and the apple-box. As instructed, Nestor must have now stepped up
into the light, for his voice, trembling and falsetto, could be
heard saying, “You brung the money?”

Cobb raised himself up at this, and peered up
the alley. Nestor was standing in a wedge of pale moonlight, but
the killer was beside him, obscured by shadow. He was wearing a
bulky, calf-length overcoat and a fur cap – in an attempt to
disguise himself. He could be any one of the “possibles.” The
fellow made some response to Nestor’s question, but it was low and
muted.

“I gotta see yer money before I c’n give ya
the letter,” Nestor said shakily.

Cobb saw the killer’s arm move up into the
light, a package of some sort in his hand. Nestor took it and began
to fumble at its contents. “Okay. Here’s the letter ya wanted.”

The fellow snatched the envelope and began to
tear it open. Nestor glanced north to where Marc was hidden,
expecting instant rescue. But the killer had ripped the sheet out
of its envelope and was holding it up to the light.

“You bastard! This isn’t my note!”

A pair of hands seized Nestor by the throat,
and began shaking him.

“
Help! Help! I’m bein’ kilt!
”

But Nestor was in no danger of being
murdered. His attacker released him as suddenly as he had grabbed
him, and made a pass at the packet with the money in it. Nestor let
go without a struggle. With some of the banknotes spilling out, the
killer started back down the alley, picking up speed as he went.
Cobb had already stepped out to block his path, and Marc could be
heard sprinting hard a few yards behind him. Cobb planted his feet,
stuck out his belly, and met the killer chest to chest. There was a
resounding whump. Both men tumbled to the ground, winded. Cobb was
first to recover. He rolled over, sat up, and stared down at his
assailant, who lay on his back, fur cap askew, gasping for air.

“I don’t believe it!” Cobb cried.

And Marc, who arrived a second later, said,
“I don’t believe it either.”

They were staring down into the anguished
face of Horace Fullarton.

NINETEEN

Magistrate James Thorpe was weaned away from his
second glass of after-dinner port and brought to the police
quarters, where he found Constable Cobb, Chief Sturges, Marc
Edwards, and a gentleman with a story he was eager to tell. Minutes
later, a dishevelled Augustus French arrived and quickly set up his
writing instruments. While Gussie took notes, Horace Fullarton
unburdened himself of the guilt, remorse and self-loathing that had
followed upon his clubbing Albert Duggan to death in the alley
behind The Sailor’s Arms. And Magistrate Thorpe, who found a
criminal’s heartfelt confession almost as satisfying as bringing
down the maximum sentence on a deserving head, was so pleased with
what he heard (while remaining shocked that a “gentleman” could
stoop thus) that he was not tempted in the least to probe further
into details that might have proved awkward. For example, what
peculiar circumstances could have brought a police constable and
the counsel for an accused murderer together to arrange an
entrapment that involved the victim’s cousin (having fortuitously
resurfaced), a curious extortion-note (possibly forged?), and
intimate knowledge of a blackmail scheme requiring either insider
information or clairvoyance? Fullarton wished to speak only of the
crime itself, however, and he gave the magistrate and the Crown all
the detail they could have wished for.

Marc was not surprised at what he heard,
having already worked out plausible scenarios for each of his
“possibles.” Fullarton stated that he had left the club-meeting a
few minutes after Dutton, glanced out the back window while putting
on his cloak, and saw Brodie accosting a stranger in the alley. He
decided to intervene on behalf of his young friend, and ran down
the stairs. But by the time he had flung open the outside door and
wheeled around into the shadows to enter the alley, what he now
heard, just a few yards away, brought him to a halt. Brodie was
accusing the stranger of
blackmailing
him! For a moment he
was paralyzed – incredulous at what he was hearing and uncertain as
to what he should do. If this were
his
blackmailer – and
this now seemed quite probable – then to intervene and help capture
the villain might expose the banker himself and the secret he was
desperate to keep from his wife (one he was not even now prepared
to divulge). On the other hand, helping to arrest the blackguard
might get the burden of extortion off both their backs. However,
while he was trying to make up his mind, Brodie raised his right
arm and struck the blackmailer with his fist. The fellow reeled
away and slowly collapsed onto his back.

In shock at what he was witnessing (just
minutes before, he and Brodie had been reading Shakespeare and
enjoying themselves), Fullarton watched in silence as Brodie knelt
down and began to check for vital signs. Then, after an anxious
minute or so of indecision, his young friend had stood up, looking
dazed, picked up his hat, turned and fled. It was at this moment
that Fullarton claimed he decided to step into the alley and
confront the man who, he was sure now, had tormented his days and
nights for almost two months and extorted several dozen pounds. At
this point, however, he heard Crenshaw open the side door and
scurry down towards Front Street. Crenshaw, as he had testified,
must have seen Brodie hunched over the unconscious man, panicked,
and run. If the man were badly hurt, Fullarton reasoned, Brodie
could be in serious trouble. But if he himself were now to step out
into the moonlit alley, it was likely that Sir Peregrine would spot
him as
he
was leaving the meeting. Fullarton certainly
didn’t want further complications added to an already complicated
situation. Seconds later, the baronet was indeed clattering down
the stairs. Had he been at the window in time to see Brodie
fleeing? As it turned out, he had, but he too chose to scuttle away
to Front Street.

So Fullarton was at last alone with his
tormentor. He slipped into the alley and stood over Duggan just as
the fellow was beginning to stir. As Duggan teetered up onto his
elbows and opened his eyes, Fullarton remembered flinging a curse
at him, but the blood was boiling in his brain, and he found it
hard to think or breathe. Duggan recognized him instantly, swore an
oath of his own, and then without warning grabbed a walking-stick
lying next to him and swung it sharply against Fullarton’s left
shin. In a purely reflex action, Fullarton wrenched the weapon out
of Duggan’s hand, and as the villain rolled away to avoid being
hit, Fullarton swung the walking-stick, knob-end first, and heard
the sickening “thuck” as it struck home. (Only later did he learn
to his horror that he had used Brodie Langford’s easily
distinguished shillelagh.)