Next Cobb walked up to the millpond alongside the race running swiftly down to the millwheel. At the milldam, or weir as Whittle called it, he noticed where several newer-looking logs had been inserted at the top of the sluice after the windstorm. From here he looked back and could not see anything but the barn roof behind the clump of cedars. North beyond the weir and the millpond, Trout Creek vanished into thick bush.
Satisfied, he walked slowly back towards the mill-office and his buggy. Suddenly he sped up. While he was not looking forward to interrogating and perhaps arresting Seamus Baldwin, he remembered that he ought to get to Spadina before an enraged and avenging father did.
EIGHT
Cobb tethered his horse to a low tree on the east side of Spadina. As he was about to walk around to the rear entrance, he spotted Herb Morrisey, the gardener, digging in one of the kitchen gardens. He hailed him, and Morrisey put his spade down and ambled over.
“Good day, sir. I’m Constable Cobb. I need to ask you a few questions. It’s about what happened to young Betsy Thurgood.” Slyly, Cobb did not add that his business dealt with a new and more serious charge.
Morrisey was a big man, ruddy-cheeked, with an open, welcoming face. He frowned at Cobb’s latter remark. “Damn shame that. Elsie Trigger shoulda been run outta this town years ago.”
“We’ll catch her, don’t worry. But we’re now tryin’ to find out who the father of her babe was. I been asked to talk to the servants here.” Cobb was pleased at being able to tell some of the truth without revealing all of it and spooking Morrisey. Marc Edwards would have approved.
“Don’t see how I could help you there,” Morrisey said, looking puzzled rather than concerned.
“Did you ever see anythin’ improper goin’ on around here between Betsy and a man or lad?”
“You’re referrin’ to things romantic, I reckon?” Morrisey gave him a wry, man-to-man smile.
“I am. I remember the Baldwins had a lot of picnics up here last summer, and I been told Betsy helped serve at most of ‘em. There’d be plenty of opportunity fer her to get attracted to a young fella or one of the older guests.”
“That’s so. Dr. Baldwin is very generous to people in the neighbourhood. Lots of folks, rich and poor, were here in July and August. Kept all of us busy.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t see Betsy doin’ anythin’ she shouldn’t have. Matter of fact, she was the shy one. It was her friend Edie who was rambunctious – always drawin’ a rebuke from Partridge.”
“I heard, though, that Betsy was seen sittin’ on Mr. Seamus’s lap, playin’ a dummy.”
Morrisey’s gaze narrowed, but nothing like suspicion had set in – yet. “Ah that. Uncle Seamus, as we all call him, was fond of his pranks and sideshows. He’s a good ventriloquist and does his act with a live dummy. It’s quite funny. But he does it with Edie. Betsy’s shy, and did it only once or twice, to please Uncle. She wasn’t a flirt, Mr. Cobb.”
“Well, somebody did more’n flirt with her, that’s fer sure.”
“And I’d strangle the bugger with my own hands, I would.”
“This may seem strange,” Cobb said after a pause, “but there was an incident that happened last August the third – that’s the day after the tornado blew through the area.”
“Yes, I recall the tornado. I was out here clearin’ brush the next mornin’. And fer three days afterwards. But what sort of incident?”
“Can’t tell you just yet, but what I need to find out is whether you saw anyone leavin’ here and goin’ towards the path that takes ya through the bush to Whittle’s mill.”
“The one over there past the cucumber beds?”
Cobb nodded. “About the noon hour.”
“Well, I was nearby most of the day. I’m sure the only person I would’ve seen was Betsy takin’ her father his lunch. She come back, I think, later’n usual. Sick, I recollect, ‘cause she was in bed with the grippe fer a few days after. We were worried about her.”
“You saw nobody else?”
“Come to think of it now, I probably saw Uncle Seamus headin’ over to one of his fishin’ spots on Trout Creek.”
“What time?”
“Couldn’t really say. Usually he went in the mornin’ or later in the afternoon. I just don’t remember the time that day.”
“Did he have his fishin’ pole?”
“I guess so. Why else would he go that way?”
Why indeed, Cobb thought. “Where are them fishin’ spots, by the way?”
“There’s two of ‘em. One is in the bush above the milldam. The other’s in a little ravine just below the mill-buildin’.”
“Did Uncle Seamus go there often?”
“Three or four times a week, I reckon. He’s a fanatical angler. Caused a bit of a ruckus when he first come because nobody in Spadina had bothered fishin’ fer trout until he arrived.”
“What sort of ruckus?”
“Seems like Seth Whittle liked to do the same thing. Dr. Baldwin, he never cared that the fella was poachin’. But Uncle Seamus liked to be alone down there, so the doctor told the miller to stop anglin’ fer a while.”
“And the miller wasn’t pleased?”
“Not in the least. He kicked up a terrible fuss and the Baldwins had to threaten to break his lease unless he quit. That did the trick.”
“I bet it would.”
Cobb thanked Morrisey and headed up to the back porch. Through the netting he could see Mrs. Morrisey in the summer kitchen. He rapped and walked in. The cook, a plump, amiable woman with eyes as dark as blueberries, was sitting on a bench peeling potatoes. Beside her, doing likewise, was Miss Partridge, the middle-aged housemaid. Cobb was not displeased to see them together, but he still wasn’t sure how he could approach the subject of Uncle Seamus and the case for rape that was inexorably building against him.
“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Cobb,” said Mrs. Morrisey with a big smile. “What brings a Toronto bobby way out here on such a fine day?”
“Business, I’m afraid, Mrs. Morrisey. The sad business of Betsy’s death.”
“I thought that’d been all settled at the inquest.”
“We’re lookin’ fer Elsie Trigger all right, but we’re also hopin’ to locate the father of the babe. Betsy was under age.”
“Then you oughta go lookin’ at the mill-hands and them families that live beside the Thurgoods. There’s half a dozen fellas coulda done it to her before she come here at the end of July. Aren’t I right, Faye?”
Faye Partridge nodded. “She was safe once she got here, but God knows what the wee dear thing had to put up with over there.”
“I been over there,” Cobb said, “but not as far as the mill-houses.” He was hoping against hope, however, that he would have to look there after his mission here turned out to be without merit.
“Well, then, I’ll give you a cup of tea and a biscuit before you go all that way.”
“That’s kind of you, ma’am, but there is one or two questions I’d like to ask before I go.”
“Go ahead. Faye, put the kettle on, please.”
Faye got up, complaining about her bad hip, and limped over to the stove. She had to stir the ashes to get the fire going, complaining yet again.
“I gotta ask this question, Mrs. Morrisey, so please don’t take offence. If we’re gonna find out who the father is, we may haveta do it by elimination, as the culprit ain’t likely to fall on my boots and confess.”
“You’re referrin’ to the men in this household?” she said shrewdly.
“Not necessarily.”
“That’s poppycock!” Faye Partridge hollered over from the stove. “Nobody in this house would harm a hair on that girl’s head.”
“The constable ain’t sayin’ that, Faye. Are ya?”
“No, ma’am. But we know servants see and hear things other people don’t think they do. You have lots of visitors here. And it’s pretty well all over town that Mr. Seamus Baldwin’s been seen teasin’ and
flirtin’ with the children – and the housemaids.”
“He ain’t ever flirted with me!” cried Miss Partridge, and her thin, homely face indicated that her denial may have been equally a complaint.
“Course not, sweet,” Mrs Morrisey soothed. “And there was nothin’ improper about the way he teased and had fun with Betsy and Edie.”
“It was mainly with that Edie, though!” Miss Partridge slammed the kettle down on one of the stove-lids. “The little minx.”
“Uncle Seamus is like a big kid much of the time,” Mrs. Morrisey said. “He’s goin’ through his second childhood, in my opinion. But he’s also like an elderly uncle to the girls. He helps them with their readin’ an’ writin’ – Dr. Baldwin always insists his staff get on with their schoolin’ here – and Uncle Seamus and Betsy read books together.”
“And he wasn’t above slippin’ ‘em pocket money or a pound or two fer their graspin’ families,” Faye snapped as she flung a handful of tea into a crockery pot. “Against the express wishes of Dr. Baldwin.”
“Now, now, Faye. Them families is all dirt poor. Seth Whittle may be an easygoing boss, but he pays a pittance.”
When asked whether they had seen anything untoward between Betsy and any male, they both shook their heads. Cobb now mentioned that there had been an incident on August the third. Mrs. Morrisey looked as if she readily understood what kind of incident he was referring to. Faye looked merely puzzled.
“Did you serve Mr. Seamus his luncheon on that day?” Cobb said to Mrs. Morrisey. “I know it’s a while ago, but it’d help if you could recollect.” He mentioned the tornado to help her out.
“I usually do, and Faye here takes it up to him.”
“I do recall,” the senior maid said, plunking several tea-biscuits on a plate and still in her complaining mode. “I took him up a hot meat pie and the glass of claret he ordered in the mornin’, but he wasn’t in his room or anywhere else I could find. A wasted effort all ‘round.”
Cobb was sure the old gent hadn’t been anywhere near Spadina, but he felt obligated to test the waters for an alibi. It looked like the only thing that might get him off the hook.
“He probably went fishin’,” Mrs. Morrisey said.
Cobb was beginning to get a more complete picture of Uncle Seamus, but it was not necessarily a clear one. The man had been a respectable lawyer for decades, had retired and become depressed, had pulled up stakes and moved to Upper Canada, where his childish proclivities were suddenly given full rein. On one hand he played the fool and dallied with children, and especially girls. On the other he played an avuncular role in the lives of the two young housemaids. He was giddy and solemn by turns. And his giddiness may have got him into serious trouble.
Cobb sipped his tea and nibbled his biscuit, while Mrs. Morrisey talked about flowers and contraband sweets and neighbourly doings. Cobb nodded politely, but he was thinking hard all the while.
***
In the main hall Cobb ran into Dr. Baldwin, looking wan and trembly after his recent bout with lumbago. “Cobb,” he smiled in greeting. “How nice to see you again. I don’t think I ever thanked you personally for the splendid work you did last March out at Elmwood.”
Cobb and Marc Edwards had investigated a murder that had entangled members of the Reform party and had come close to compromising delicate political negotiations with Louis LaFontaine and the rouge party of Quebec. Cobb’s ingenuity had materially helped in resolving the case.
“No need to do that, sir. Just doin’ my duty.”
“But doing it with imagination and diligence.”
“Thank you. But I’m afraid I’ve come fer a reason today that may be upsettin’ to the whole household.”
“Something to do with our dear Betsy?”
“’Fraid so. A man come to the police quarters this mornin’ and swore he saw someone very like yer Uncle Seamus assaultin’ Betsy Thurgood in Seth Whittle’s barn last August the third about twelve-thirty in the afternoon.”
Whatever he was thinking, Dr. Baldwin, an experienced barrister, did not let it show. He let his breath out slowly, and then said, “That’s two months ago and a pretty precise time and place, isn’t it? Why would a witness wait this long and still be so certain? And you say he saw someone like my brother?”
Lawyers, Cobb sighed: more concerned with words than deeds. “It was the day after the tornado and the witness was called away that very afternoon and just got back yesterday.”
“I see. Well, the claim is either frivolous or malicious. I’m certain that Seamus will be able to recall his whereabouts. Everybody remembers the tornado and the fuss we had in the days following. But if little Betsy was ravished by someone, then you have my word as a gentleman that I will do everything humanly possible to help you find the villain.”
“Well, sir, I’d like you to think back to that Saturday yerself. Did you see Betsy after she come back from deliverin’ her dad’s lunch after noon?”
Dr. Baldwin thought about the matter for half a minute before replying: “Why, yes, I did. Because she seemed ill. She’d only been with us a week as a permanent employee, and I was very concerned she might have picked up something serious after her arrival.”
“A cold or the grippe?”
“The latter, I’d say. She was pale and shaky, as I am now after my lumbago attack, and looked feverish. I ordered her to bed and put Miss Partridge and Mrs. Morrisey in charge of her recovery. It took three or four days, as I recall.”
But not, Cobb mused, to get over the grippe.
“Thank you, sir. Right now, with yer permission, I’d like to head upstairs to talk to Edie Barr.”
“Go right on up. She’s in her room, the one she shared with Betsy. Meantime, I’ll have Seamus come to the library, where you can speak with him in private. I’ll say nothing to him to prejudice your interview. I only ask that you be tactful and as gentle as you can. He’s very fragile.”
“I will, sir. And thank you.”
***
Cobb’s first impression of Edie Barr was that she would have made a perfect Peaseblossom or Mustardseed in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She was blond and blue-eyed with milk-smooth skin and a little-girl figure just burgeoning. The room she had shared with Betsy was spacious and elaborate for a servants’ quarters. A patterned, hooked rug between two cots led to an elderly vanity with a smoky mirror, upon which sat a wooden jewellery box and several jars and brushes related to female face-painting. Beyond the beds was a plain writing-table, an inkstand and a bookcase groaning with books. Edie Barr had got up from a padded rocking-chair to meet his knock, one of two such chairs in the room.
“You’re a policeman!” she said, startled but unafraid. There was an impudent pout to the lower lip that might have been permanent and a saucy glint in the eyes that was both taunting and invitational at the same time. Cobb could well imagine this young thing perched on Uncle Seamus’s knee and flapping her jaws in time with the ventriloquist’s risqué one-liners.
“I’m Constable Cobb. No need to be frightened. I just wanta ask you a few questions about yer friend Betsy.”
Edie did not look in the least frightened, but at the mention of Betsy’s name, the impudent lip drooped and sadness filled her face. “She was my best friend,” she said in a faint but high, sweet voice. “My only friend.”
“I’m tryin’ to find out who did that awful thing to her,” Cobb said in what he hoped was his most earnest, sympathetic tone.
Edie looked startled. “But that was Mrs. Trigger!”
“It was, and we’ll catch up to her soon. But I’m talkin’ about the man who put her in the family way and may have been the one who suggested she get rid of the babe.”
“Oh . . . I see. Betsy was just fifteen.”
“Right. So whoever interfered with her is guilty of – ah . . . rape.” Cobb blushed in spite of a concerted effort not to.
That grim and whispered word had no visible effect on Edie.
“
You want to know whether Betsy had any boy friends?” she said evenly.
“Or anybody who fancied her and might’ve – ah . . . forced himself upon her.”
“So she was ravished!” Edie gasped, and sat back down in the rocker.
Cobb plunked himself down on the bed opposite her and, while he hadn’t planned to, gave her an edited version of the events that had occurred last August, emphasizing the tornado to fix the date in her mind. She listened, open-mouthed.
Cobb finished and merely waited.
“It must’ve been one of the mill-hands,” she said slowly. “Or one of their brothers. There’s scads of young fellas back home.”
Cobb recalled hearing somewhere that the mill families produced offspring who worked on some of the nearby farms. A mill job was considered a plum. “No stranger was seen near the place,” Cobb pointed out.
“Coulda been hidin’ in the stalls or the mow.”
“We figure it was someone who knew Betsy would be goin’ there.” He stared at Edie, the only effect of which was to raise her lower lip to impudence.
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