Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  “And I could’ve got to see the inside of Oakwood Manor,” Fabian said, ever the more practical of the pair. “I heard the ballroom’s as big as a cricket pitch.”

  “There’s no way either of you hooligans’d get past Sir Mucky Muck’s gate,” Cobb said.

  “But he asked you, didn’t he?” Delia said. “We heard you telling Mom.”

  “An’ you two shouldna been ears-droppin’.”

  “He really asked you to play Bottom?” Fabian said, squatting on the arm of Cobb’s padded chair.

  “That he did, son. I can’t deny it.”

  “I remember you read me some of his speeches – when I was eight and sick with the mumps. Remember, you made me laugh when I didn’t want to.”

  Cobb remembered, and was touched.

  “You could’ve done it, couldn’t you?” Delia said.

  “That wasn’t the point, luv. People like Lord Shuttlecock really don’t want to have anythin’ to do with ordinary folk like us. I expect they were stuck an’ couldn’t find anybody else.”

  “But Lizzie Wade and I get along just fine,” Delia said. “There’s lots of snobs at Miss Tyson’s, but some of them’re all right once you get to know them”

  “It’s the gettin’ to know ‘em that’s the hard part.”

  “But we could’ve at least come and watched you, Dad,” Fabian said.

  Cobb sighed. “You don’t understand. Even the audience is gonna be made up of swells an’ Family Compacters. You gotta be invited.”

  This remark appeared to deflate the youngsters, but before they could express their disappointment further, Dora appeared in the kitchen doorway, filling it with her motherly bulk.

  “You should’ve said ‘yes,’ Cobb,” she grinned. “It ain’t like you’d haveta do any actin’!”

  ***

  Cobb was just about to toss the last of the withered cucumber vines on the bonfire when he turned to see Marc Edwards stepping around the corner of the house. It was almost dark, and Marc had to pick his way through the remains of Cobb’s garden.

  “I didn’t realize you were such a diligent gardener,” Marc said as he came up and stood beside Cobb and the smoky blaze.

  “Missus Cobb an’ the kids do most of it.”

  “I can’t keep Beth out of ours. She’s still a farmer at heart.”

  Cobb gave the fire a poke. “I’m real sorry about Brodie.”

  Marc put a hand on Cobb’s shoulder. “That’s what I’ve come to talk about.”

  “You figured out a way to help the lad?” Cobb said hopefully.

  “I may have. But it’ll require your active assistance.”

  Cobb’s wart twitched. “The Sarge’s warned me off the case, major. I go trampin’ the streets again first thing in the mornin’.”

  “I know. And you also know that I wouldn’t ask you to do anything improper or anything that would compromise you in any way.”

  “But if I can’t do any real investigatin’ fer you, how c’n I help?”

  “Well, I came up with an idea this afternoon, after going over all the statements, including Brodie’s.”

  “Which is?”

  Marc hesitated. “I’ll lay out the entire strategy, I promise, as soon as it becomes viable. Right now, unless I can obtain some or all of the information I need to make it work, it’s just wishful thinking.”

  “I lost ya after ‘viable’.”

  Marc smiled. “You recall our earlier discussion of the case. We had identified five possible suspects, men who had means and opportunity to kill Duggan and blame someone else. And there’s a good chance each of them had a motive – the same motive.”

  “Which we got no chance of provin’.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. With the police investigation shut down, I myself could try to obtain that proof, but without official backing and as Brodie’s counsel, I would have no way of compelling our suspects to open up to me.”

  “They’re more interested in their play-actin’.”

  “I hope so,” Marc said cryptically.

  “Whaddya mean?” Cobb said, suddenly leery.

  “I decided that what we needed was someone who might be in a perfect position to have casual and unguarded conversations with at least four of the suspects, during which that person might pick up information about what aspects of their past lives they wished to keep secret, wished so badly that they were willing to pay off a blackmailer.”

  “You gonna send somebody up to Oakwood Manners to spy on ‘em? A servant maybe?”

  “Better than that: a bona fide member of their little acting troupe.”

  Cobb paled.

  “I’m asking you to go up to Shuttleworth’s place tomorrow and accept the baronet’s offer to play Bottom.”

  Cobb dropped his poker-stick. “But I gotta go back to work. Next week I’ll be on night-patrol. I ain’t got the time to do somethin’ like that.”

  “You and Wilkie share the south-east patrol, don’t you?”

  “Yup. Turnabout.”

  “And Wilf Sturges doesn’t care which of you takes which shift?”

  “I guess not.”

  “And Wilkie owes you a favour or two?”

  “About half a dozen,” Cobb said with a resigned sigh.

  “So you could arrange to take the day-patrol for a couple of weeks – between now and the trial?”

  “But what chance have I got, even if I was crazy enough to go up there an hog-nog with the swells? Only the one that killed Duggan’ll know the blackmailer’s dead. The others could still be leavin’ their parcels in ashcans all over town. They’ll be spooked an’ leery of me, won’t they? Not casual an’ friendly-like, that’s fer sure.”

  “Now that’s thinking like an investigator, isn’t it? I thought of that, too. So I asked Francis Hincks to put the full story of the murder on the front page of his newspaper, the Examiner, tomorrow afternoon. It will mention that Mr. Broderick Langford was apparently being blackmailed by one Albert Duggan and allegedly retaliated by clubbing said blackmailer to death. References to the alley, the brown-paper parcel and the ashcan should leave no doubt as to the modus operandi of this particular blackmailer.”

  “I see. So everybody in the actin’ troop will think he’s home an’ dry? Duggan’s dead, an’ they’re off the hook?”

  “Exactly. They’ll be relieved, relaxed and definitely off-guard. If you can get into Oakwood Manor and keep your eyes peeled and your ears pricked, you might be able to find out what information Duggan was using on each of them. I know it’s a tall order, old friend. But if I can get that information, I’m sure I can build a proper defense for Brodie. At the moment it seems like the only chance I’ve got.”

  “There’s still Nestor, ain’t there?”

  “Yes, I mustn’t forget that. Nestor could certainly tell us what his cousin was using as leverage for his extortions, as he himself was likely the source for some of it. He may well know for certain who the targets were. But I can’t just sit idly by and wait for Nestor to turn up some time in the next two weeks, can I?”

  “I see yer point.”

  “If you’ll take this on, I’ll pay for your extra hours.”

  Cobb looked hurt. “Now, major, you know I can’t take money from ya.”

  “I do. But I was thinking that there would be nothing improper if an anonymous donor were to pay Delia Cobb’s second-term school fees.”

  Cobb grinned. “Nothin’ improper in that, as far as I c’n see.”

  “So you’ll do it, then?”

  “I will. But only fer Brodie’s sake, major. I’m gonna hate every minute of it.”

  But that, Marc thought, remained to be seen.

  ELEVEN

  The next morning – Saturday – Cobb returned to his regular patrol. Ewan Wilkie, however, was happy to take the night-shift for the next two weeks as the chances of his catching the serial burglar and securing the reward were much greater on that circuit. His total lack of curiosity about matters unrelate
d to police work (and much else) led him to accept the proposed swap without asking what reasons Cobb might have for wanting it.

  At six o’clock, with an hour to go on his Saturday shift, Cobb stopped at the The Cock and Bull to confer with one of his lesser snitches (still no sign of Nestor Peck or his pal Itchy Quick) and take some supper. At quarter to seven he astonished the regular patrons of the tavern by stepping into a taxicab and noisily directing the driver to take him home. The Cobb cottage was located at the far eastern edge of town, on Parliament Street just above King, and so it was almost seven when the cabbie stopped his horse in front and heard Cobb ask him to wait.

  In the house Delia was ready with a change of clothes and a basin of warm water. Cobb had a quick wash, put on a new shirt, and wriggled into his wedding-suit (recently retailored to accommodate his mature figure). Fabian had polished his father’s Sunday boots and helped him squeeze into them. The children stood on the front stoop and cheered him back into the cab.

  “Oakwood Manor, sir!” he called up to the driver, and then waved to his admirers on the porch.

  ***

  Marc had given Cobb money to cover the use of taxicabs and other incidental expenses associated with what he thought of as his undercover operation. Everything now depended upon the next half hour and his interview with Sir Peregrine. A message had been sent up to the baronet in the morning and a reply received by noon: Sir Peregrine would be pleased to hear Mr. Cobb read for the role of Bottom the weaver. Would the gentleman come at seven-thirty?

  It was shortly after that hour when the cab, a converted surrey, wheeled through the gates of Oakwood Manor and came to a gravelled halt at the entrance to the baronet’s ostentatious abode. Cobb overpaid the cabbie, stepped up to the massive front door, and was startled when it was opened by a very prim-looking gentleman in formal dress.

  “You must be Cobb,” he said without the slightest trace of emotion, though Cobb felt the fellow’s eyes flick down to his boots and up again.

  “Yer master’s expectin’ me, I believe,” Cobb said.

  Without further speech and with an economy of movement, the butler led the way through a wide vestibule towards a stout door at the end of it. Cobb was removing his Sunday hat when the butler snatched it out of his fingers and plunked it on a hall-tree. Taking the hint, Cobb took off his coat and watched it settle on the knob next to his hat.

  At this point the door beside him opened and Sir Peregrine appeared, all smiles. “Welcome to Oakwood, Mr. Cobb. That’ll be all, Chivers.”

  Chivers bowed meagrely and vanished.

  “I got yer message, sir,” Cobb said. “An’ most people call me Cobb.”

  “I’m so glad you could come, Cobb, and that, upon reflection, you have reconsidered our offer.”

  “I ain’t ever been on the stage before,” Cobb said as Sir Peregrine led the way into the ballroom-cum-theatre.

  “Neither have the other members of the cast, excepting of course Lady Madeleine and myself. We propose to put on a purely amateur production in the time-honoured aristocratic tradition. You’ve already viewed our stage, still under construction, and this is the temporary table where we are executing rehearsed readings of The Dream Sequence, my personal adaptation of the forest scenes from the Bard’s transcendent comedy.”

  “Are them the scripts there on the table?” Cobb said, choosing to ignore the wince this remark incited in his host.

  “Yes, but I have already laid one out for you in the dining-room over here. You’ll be reading Bottom opposite Titania, and I thought the dining-room would prove a more comfortable venue. Now, do come and meet my lady, who is most anxious to meet you.”

  Lady Madeleine, who was seated near one end of the dining-table, did look anxious to Cobb, but not to meet him. She gave him a cool, non-committal smile upon being introduced, then darted a glance at her husband that would have shattered the crystal decanter on the sideboard, had it been aimed in that direction. Cobb tried not to stare at the voluptuous, bold-eyed woman on the other side of the table. How a flabby dandy like Shuttleworth had managed to hook a creature as beautiful, and as young, as this was beyond Cobb. Except that money and rank appeared to suspend the regular workings of human nature.

  “As you know full well, Cobb, this tragic business with Broderick Langford – a blackmailer, they tell me, was the cause of it all – has left our troupe one player short. We have made adjustments so that the role of Bottom is now open. Lady Mad, as the others have been urged to call my dear wife and bosom companion, has kindly agreed to read her role of Titania in the scene I myself have marked out for you.”

  “You’re the director, then?”

  “I am indeed,” Sir Peregrine said, unaware of the just-perceptible smile that creased the corners of Lady Mad’s pretty mouth.

  “And we in the troupe refer to our director affectionately as Sir P.,” Lady Mad said in a low, husky voice that sent a tingle through Cobb’s nether region.

  Sir P. leaned over Cobb’s shoulder and pointed out the place where Bottom was to begin – affording Cobb a whiff of some pungent, exotic perfume. “Take a few minutes and scan it, if you like.”

  “No need, sir. I got it conned by heart.”

  Lady Mad smiled, regally this time, adding an unexpected warmth to her icy allure. She gave her husband a brief but telling glance. Some byplay was going on between those two, Cobb thought, and he seemed to be part of it.

  “Then, by all means go ahead. When we get on stage, as Puck, I’ll pantomime the placing of the ass’s head on Bottom and lead him to the sleeping Titania, who, as you know, has been given a charm whereby she will fall in love with the first person she sees upon wakening – a masterstroke, don’t you think, of the Bard’s genius for comedy?”

  “Let the man begin, Perry.”

  As Cobb looked down to remind himself of his first line and note Titania’s cues, he felt Lady Mad’s gaze fasten upon his person and caress it slowly up and down. He stumbled slightly on the opening phrase, but having amused his children with this role more than once, especially after the visit to his dying father last winter, he quickly recovered.

  Bottom: The woosel cock so black of hue

  With orange-tawny bill

  The throstle with his note so true

  The wren with little quill –

  “Well done! Well done!” Sir P. enthused. “We’ll have you put that verse to a little tune of sorts. As Puck I may even tootle an accompaniment on my recorder.”

  “Let the man recite, for God’s sake,” Lady Mad snapped. Sir P.’s jaw dropped, but before he could say a word, Lady Mad said sweetly to Cobb, “Just read your last line, as you did, in that gravelly voice with those amazing vowels.”

  Cobb blushed, turning his purple nose scarlet. He did as he was bid.

  Lady Mad came in on cue, closing her long-lashed eyes, then raising her head, with its burst of strawberry hair, and dreamily fluttering her fairy-queen eyelids. “What angel wakes me from my flowering bed?” Titania breathed.

  If he was to get the part and help Marc defend Brodie, Cobb decided he had better pretend to read the script and thus keep his eyes where they would do the least harm. With his gaze fixed on the page, then, and hers upon her beastly lover, they moved through the scene – in which Titania professes her love and Bottom is both bedazzled and dazed. They were interrupted only once by the director, who informed Cobb that his nieces and nephew would be playing the attendant fairies and that Smallman’s had been commissioned to render the costumes thereof.

  While Cobb was able to keep his eyes from wandering where they wished to, he was unable to stop himself from picturing the actions that might be appended to Titania’s amorous declarations. Lady Mad certainly recited these with a passion hardly suited to a gentleman’s dining-room. Was such transparent ardour aimed at him or at her husband?

  “Thank you, Cobb,” Sir P. said and, glancing at Lady Mad, who nodded, he added, “You’ll do nicely.”

  “Ya mean I got the p
art?”

  “You have indeed. And thank you, my lady, for your selfless participation. I’m sure you’ll excuse Cobb while we go over some of the mundane details of our schedule and protocol.”

  “Of course. I am looking forward, Mr. Cobb, to a fruitful collaboration.” With that, Lady Mad made her exit. Cobb noticed that she was just as handsome going away as she was coming at you.

  Chivers appeared magically from somewhere with cigars and port. Cobb refused the cigar but welcomed the port, as he listened to Sir P. review the plans for the ensuing fortnight. Rehearsals would be held here on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays at seven-thirty in the evening. After a full read-through on Tuesday next, the director hoped to get the cast on stage – still “on-book” – for elementary blocking. Costumes would be supplied from the Shuttleworth steamer-trunk or manufactured by Smallman’s. Individual scenes would be rehearsed on stage, while the actors not involved would be free to take refreshment in the dining-room, smoke and chat in the adjacent den, or read in the library just down the inner hall that led to the Shuttleworth’s private quarters.

  “Now, Cobb, it occurred to me that you might find such extended down-time – well – boring.”

  “I could read the newspapers,” Cobb suggested.

  “True, true. But I was wondering whether you could . . .ah . . . paint.”

  Cobb blinked. “Ya mean pictures?”

  “Not quite. I was thinking of walls.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Mullins, our handyman, has built us a splendid stage, as you can see, and tacked together five canvas flats, which will display scenes that will provide our guests with the most wonderful illusion of Shakespeare’s fairyland. These bucolic motifs – trees, stars, moonlight – have been elegantly sketched out on the canvas by my talented lady. But, alas, Mullins is ham-fisted with a paintbrush and Madeleine is a water-colourist.”

  “You’d like me to paint the scenery – when I ain’t actin’?”

  “Only if you’d be bored otherwise, and only if you felt comfortable doing so.”

  Cobb quickly concluded that the baronet was really concerned that a mere police constable might discomfit the regular ladies and gentlemen of the cast with his ordinary manners and amazing vowels. While he should have been insulted – and was – he also realized that by painting the flats, which he had seen stacked up against the west wall near the curtained-off wing and the door to the den, he could unobtrusively eavesdrop on conversations, and perhaps even move about with the “invisibility” of the servant class. “I’ve painted a porch or two in my time,” he said. “I’d be glad to help ya out.”