The Widow's Demise (10 page)

Crawford and Marc untied the rope, and Gayle
rehitched the horses to the vehicle. They drove through the
gap.

“Thanks a lot,” Crawford said to Marc.

“I’ll just ride a ways with you,” Marc said.
“To Yonge Street.”

With Marc riding just ahead, the farmers made
their way through the bush towards Yonge Street. They were almost
there when one of the horses developed a limp.

“Whoa back!” Crawford called.

Marc turned to see what the trouble was.

“Old Dan’s got a tender foot,” Crawford said.
He jumped down a joined Marc beside Old Dan.

“He’s got two nails in his hoof,” Crawford
said.

“More funny business,” Marc said.

“I’ve got some pliers in the wagon,” Crawford
said.

He fetched them, and while Marc held the
horse’s left foreleg, Crawford pulled out the two nails. He urged
the team forward a few steps.

“He’s all right, thank God,” Crawford said.
“No permanent damage. But there could’ve been.”

“I’d better ride all the way to the poll with
you,” Marc said.

“Yeah,” Crawford said, “I think that’s a
bloody good idea.”

The rest of the trip to Danby’s Crossing went
by without incident. But it had been a close thing. D’Arcy
Rutherford and his henchmen had been very busy on the hustings.

The poll itself – in Danby’s Inn – was
surrounded by a dozen or so men, all milling about.

“Here comes a bunch of Reformers!” one of
them yelled out.

“Afraid to come alone, are you?”

“Need an escort, do you?”

As Crawford and his neighbours made their way
through the throng, they were greeted with cheers and jeers. Marc
stayed on his horse beside Danby’s verandah. He had a pistol tucked
into his belt – conspicuously visible.

“This’ll put LaFontaine ahead,” said one
enthusiast.

“By three votes!”

Marc had not realized the election was so
close. Rutherford’s various intimidation tactics were working well.
There had also been a lot of negative reaction to news of the
arrest of Gilles Gagnon for the vicious murder of the
Attorney-General’s daughter.

Crawford, Gayle, Thomas and Baron marched
into the polling area, where the returning officer sat with his
poll book open before him.

“How do you gentlemen vote?” he said.

One by one the farmers spoke La Fontaine’s
name, and their votes were recorded under the sharp eye of the
scrutineers for each party.

“Now let’s have some lunch,” Crawford
said.

***

Cobb spent a day tidying up the robbery case he had
been working on. The next day he decided to start his investigation
of the murder – at Rosewood. He approached the front door and used
the bell-pull. A half minute later, Carlton Diggs, the butler,
opened the door. He gave Cobb a scrutinizing and puzzling look,
puzzled because, although Cobb was wearing a suit, he was obviously
no gentleman. The suit was wrinkled and too tight around Cobb’s
belly, and his shirt was frayed at the collar. Moreover, his hair
was askew, its several parts headed in contrary directions. On the
other hand, he was not a tradesman Diggs recognized. He decided to
follow protocol, at least for the time being.

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Cardiff,” Cobb
said.

“Who may I ask is calling?” Diggs said
coldly.

“Detective-Constable Cobb, on police
business.”

“I’ll see if he’s available. Please wait
inside.”

Cobb cooled his heels in the foyer while
Diggs went back down the hallway and disappeared. Cobb stood there,
taking in the thick carpet and small but decorative chandelier
overhead. A few minutes later Diggs returned.

“The master will see you in the library,” he
said, still puzzled. “Please, follow me.”

Cobb trailed after the butler down the
hallway, past several doors, and came to a halt near the end.

“Just inside here,” Diggs said, and then to
be safe, added, “Sir.”

Cobb entered a book-lined room with two broad
windows that let in a wash of light. Humphrey Cardiff was standing
before a long, mahogany table, a book lying open before him. He
wore a black arm-band. He looked up at Cobb blankly.

“You’re from the police, you say?” he
said.

“Yes, sir. I’m Detective-Constable Cobb.”

“And what, pray tell, is a detective?”
Cardiff’s fingers fiddled with the book.

“It’s someone who investigates crimes. I’m in
charge of your daughter’s case.”

“But you have got the murderer, haven’t
you?”

“More or less, sir. I’m just gathering
evidence against him.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry about yer daughter, sir.”

“Thank you. So am I. And I want her killer to
hang high.”

“He will, sir.”

“Well, then, how can I help you?”

“We’re tryin’ to find a motive fer the
acid-throwin’, sir. We need to know how well the murderer, Gilles
Gagnon, knew yer daughter.”

“I only met the fellow once, at the Ball the
other night,” Cardiff said. “As far as I know, he’s only been in
town a week or so.”

“And yer daughter?”

“The same: she met the fellow for the first
time when she danced with him near the end of the Ball.”

“Did they have a conversation?”

Cardiff was taken aback by the question, but
he answered readily enough. “They might have exchanged a few words
after the dance. Nothing more. We’re obviously dealing with someone
who’s deranged. He threw acid at a woman he barely knew.”

“Perhaps he mistook her fer someone
else.”

“I doubt it. He did visit Rosewood once
before – on political business. He knew the house and who lived
here.”

“Who else danced with yer daughter at the
Ball?”

“What an absurd question!” Cardiff’s eyebrows
shot up.

“Well, sir, it’s possible Gagnon took a fancy
to yer daughter. And so jealousy might be a motive.”

“Sounds far-fetched to me. But she did dance
with many men that night. The only ones I can recall are Lionel
Trueman, Horace Macy and – yes – Cecil Denfield. I remember him
because his wife took a fainting spell shortly thereafter and had
to be helped from the room. I recall Trueman and Macy because both
of them have been paying suit, against my wishes, to Delores.”

Cobb made a mental note of the names.

“Is there anything else, Detective?”

“Did you see anythin’ the night yer daughter
was killed?”

“I last saw Delores at supper. I retired to
my den at seven. I heard some noise in the foyer about seven-thirty
or so that suggested Delores was going out. Where I do not know. I
was then summoned hastily by Vera and found my daughter dead on the
walk.”

“Who’s Vera?”

“Delores’s personal maid. She would have
helped Delores get ready to go out.”

“Might I talk with her?”

“If you must. She’s in the kitchen at the
moment, helping to clear up the breakfast dishes.”

“I’d like to see her right away. And thank
you fer your cooperation.”

“I’ll get Diggs to show you the way.”

***

Cobb followed Diggs to the kitchen. He could feel
the heat of a warm fire before he stepped in. He spotted the cook
and a uniformed servant, who had to be Vera, over by the sink. Just
as he came in, the back door opened, and another servant-girl
appeared in the doorway for a split second before she saw Cobb and
retreated in a hurry. But not before Cobb noted that she was very
much pregnant. Well, such things happened in the households of the
rich: it was no business of his. He had more important matters to
tend to.

“Hello, ladies,” he said. “I’m
Detective-Constable Cobb.”

“You want to speak with us?’ the rotund cook
said.

“Just with Vera, if ya don’t mind.”

“You can sit over there in the corner if you
like. Vera, go with the gentleman. I’ll bring you a cup of
tea.”

“That’s kind of you,” Cobb said, following
Vera to the table and two chairs in a far corner of the big, warm
room.

Vera was a thin, wispy sort of girl, no more
than twenty. Her face was puffy, the after-effects of much crying,
Cobb concluded.

“I’m very sorry about yer mistress,” Cobb
began.

“She was the nicest woman,” Vera said,
holding back her tears as best she could. “I don’t know what I’ll
do without her.”

“You were her personal maid?”

“I looked after her, I did.”

“And very well, I’m sure,” Cobb said, praying
that the girl would not break down and weep. He never knew how to
handle a weeping woman.

“Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”

“What I need to know from you, Vera, is when
you last saw yer mistress.”

Vera looked up, and was saved, momentarily,
from tears by the arrival of the tea.

Cobb thanked the cook, and said, “ Well,
Vera?”

“I helped the mistress get ready to go out
fer her visit shortly after seven o’clock.”

“Oh? Where was she going?”

“To visit her friend Marion.”

“Marion who?”

“Marion Stokes. She lives up on Wellington
Street. It’s walking distance.”

“Was this a regular occasion?”

“Oh, no. A message come about quarter to
seven asking the mistress to come over to Marion’s place. There was
some sort of crisis.”

“Was this a written message?”

“Oh, yes. I took it at the back door. A young
lad delivered it.”

“Have you still got it?”

“Oh, yes, it’s right here.” She drew out of
her apron a folded sheet of paper.

“May I see it?”

Cobb read:

Dear Delores:

Please come to my house right away. I

need desperately to talk with you. I know
you won’t

fail me:

Your friend,

Marion.

“And did you ever find out what the matter was?”

“That’s the strangest thing, Mr. Cobb. Marion
come over to pay her respects to the master and when I asked her
about the message, she said she didn’t send any message. I showed
her this one, and she said it looked a bit like her handwriting but
wasn’t hers.”

That is odd, Cobb thought. It sounded as if
the killer, whoever he was, had used a false message to lure
Delores outside. Where he was waiting.

“Would yer mistress not have recognized that
this wasn’t Marion’s writing?” Cobb asked.

“Probably, but I read the message aloud to
her. She never bothered to glance at it. She was just worried about
her friend.”

And whoever sent the false note, Cobb
thought, must have known Marion and Delores were very good friends.
How could Gagnon know a fact like that if indeed he had met Delores
only once? He would have to let Marc know right away. This was an
important piece of evidence.

“So you helped get her ready to go out?”

“I did. And I walked her to the foyer and saw
her leave . . . fer the last time.” A tear eased its way down her
right cheek.

“You didn’t happen to look out the window and
see anythin’?”

“No, sir. I went back up to my room.”

“Well, thank you, Vera. You been a big help.”
Cobb finished off his tea. Vera had not touched hers.

“By the way, Vera, who was the lass who come
in just as I arrived?”

Vera blushed. “That was Peggy Jane Doyle. The
upstairs maid.”

Cobb nodded and made his way back through the
long hall to the foyer, where Diggs intercepted him.

“Good day, sir,” he said in his most
dignified manner.

“Good day,” Cobb said, well pleased with
himself.

***

Cobb found Marc home at Briar Cottage on Sherbourne
Street. He was in the living-room playing with Marc Junior and
Maggie. Beth was a t work at her business on King Street,
Smallman’s
ladies clothing store and tailoring. Etta Hogg,
their former neighbour and now all-purpose servant, was in the
kitchen preparing luncheon, but had come out to answer Cobb’s
knock.

“Come on in,” Marc called out to Cobb
standing in the vestibule.

“I’ll just stay a minute,” Cobb said.

“I’ll take the little ones, sir,” Etta
said.

“Thank you, Etta. Mr. Cobb looks as if he
wants to talk.”

Maggie gave Cobb a big smile, then frowned as
she was led away – disappointed.

“I got some news, Major,” Cobb said as he sat
down.

“Good news, I trust.”

“I believe so, Major.”

And, as he had done so many times in the
past, Cobb relayed to Marc, in detail, the substance and results of
his interviews.

“You’re quite right,” Marc said when Cobb had
finished. “There’s no way Gilles could have known about Marion
Stokes, the friend of Delores. I’ll add Vera to my witness list. As
the note was a phoney, we can infer that it was sent by the real
killer to lure the victim out onto that walk.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You’re getting to be a first-rate
interrogator, Cobb.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s great praise, comin’
from you.”

“Where do you go from here?” Marc said.

“Well now, I ain’t sure.”

“If the prosecution is going to suggest a
jealousy motive – preposterous as that seems – they’ll have to get
testimony from witnesses to the Ball and to the interaction between
Gilles and Delores while they danced. You mentioned several others
who danced with her and were, according to Cardiff, suitors for her
daughter’s hand. We’ll need to know what they’re likely to say
about Gagnon and Delores. Also, I can perhaps throw suspicion in
their direction. If Delores was entertaining several suitors, I can
point to rivalry and jealousy, perhaps even a sense of outrage and
betrayal at the lady’s promiscuity.”

“You’re sayin’ I oughta interview Trueman and
Macy?”

“Yes. And maybe even Denfield.”

“But he’s married, sir.”

“He is. But who knows, eh?”

“I’ll get right on it.”