Minor Corruption

by Don Gutteridge

  “Betsy was crazy about horses. Anybody who knew her, knew that.”

  Cobb tried another tack. “Think back to that day. Were you here when Betsy come back from takin’ lunch to her father?”

  “I always wait fer her in the kitchen because she often snuck a treat outta the lunch Mrs. Morrisey made and saved it fer me.” Her eyes welled with tears.

  “How was she that day?”

  “I recollect it ‘cause she was late and had nothin’ for me. She didn’t look good. She said she was sick. She’d also fallen down and scraped her knee. Mrs. Morrisey put her straight to bed.”

  Cobb nodded. The details of Betsy’s fatal noon hour were fast being filled in by unimpeachable testimony and corroborated evidence. Interviewing witnesses and feeding them only the necessary information – techniques developed by the Major and him – were certainly paying off.

  “And she stayed in bed fer two or three days?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s get back to possible boy friends.”

  “But she didn’t have a one!” Edie cried, and there was just enough personal pride in the remark that she didn’t have to add “like me.”

  “Not interested in romance?”

  “If she was, she never showed it. She like readin’ an’ writin’ and connin’ poems.”

  “But did you see anyone fancyin’ her, somebody here on a visit, maybe? Plenty of gentlemen come in and outta this big house.”

  “None that I seen.”

  Cobb leaned forward. “Do you recall, on that August day, seein’ Mr. Seamus Baldwin about the place?”

  The question caught her off-guard, as it was meant to. She recovered quickly. “’Course I did. He lives here.”

  Cobb could hear the wheels turning in Edie’s pretty head. “I mean at mid-day,” he said.

  “He told me he was gonna catch a big trout.”

  “Down below the mill?”

  She looked suddenly wary, sensing perhaps what Cobb might be leading her towards. “I don’t know nothin’ about fishin’ or where he goes, except he went off almost every day in the summer.”

  Cobb was pleased with these responses. Before interviewing Uncle Seamus himself, he felt he needed objective evidence of the old gent’s having gone to the Trout Creek ravine south of the mill. If he then tried to deny it, Cobb could rightly claim he had several witnesses – a gardener and two housemaids – who saw him leave the house. This in turn would strengthen Joe Mullins’ claim of having seen the old man in that ravine – without a fishing pole. If Uncle Seamus tried to say he had gone to the other favoured spot, above the weir, Cobb had statements from the miller and Thurgood that they were working on the weir and would have seen anyone headed up that way to fish.

  “Don’t fret, lass, you’ve been very helpful.” Cobb got up to leave, but spied a wooden box partway under Betsy’s cot. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, them’s Betsy’s things. I packed ‘em up, but her dad hasn’t come fer them yet.”

  “Mind if I take a peek?”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I was just gonna tell you about them anyways.”

  Which probably meant that if there had been anything untoward in the box, Edie had already removed it. He pulled the box out and sat it beside him on the bed. All it contained were a few pathetic undergarments, a yellow hair ribbon, an apron with the Baldwin crest on it, and a book of poems. Cobb opened the book of poetry. It was inscribed: “To dear wee Betsy, love, from your Uncle Seamus.” He was pondering the significance of this when a letter fell out onto the floor.

  Edie gave a little cry of “oh” and tried to look surprised.

  Cobb ignored her and read:

  Dear sweetest one:

  I know how impossible it is to love one so

  far above one’s station. I know also the pain of watching you

  close up every day of my life. I see your beautiful, manly face,

  your shining hair and your glinting eye as you walk ever so

  elegantly down the stairs each morning. I follow you through the

  day with my heart aflutter and my breathing stinted. I swoon at

  the sound of your voice, as pure as poetry, as lilting as an Irish

  tenor’s. Your laugh turns me giddy and one glance from your

  sea-blue eyes is enough ambrosia to carry me through an entire

  week. O my precious and unattainable knight!

  Your faithful admirer

  Betsy

  Cobb stared up at Edie. “You left this here on purpose, didn’t you?”

  Edie blushed, then looked coy. “So, I did. I thought I ought to destroy it, but that wouldn’t’ve been right, would it?”

  “No, I suppose not. But this is girlish drivel, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know: I didn’t write it. But I told you that Betsy was shy and a bit secretive.”

  “You’re sayin’ she might’ve secretly been in love with Uncle Seamus? The ‘precious knight’ in this letter? Puppy love, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

  Edie gave Cobb a scornful glance. “If she was in love it was certainly hopeless. He never saw anythin’ in her, that’s fer sure.”

  And yet, Cobb thought, she had deliberately left the letter – unsent obviously – where he could find it. What kind of game was she playing at? It had already been suggested to him that of all the housemaids it was Edie Uncle Seamus was attracted to. But could much of the teasing and byplay have been initiated and encouraged by Edie herself? Was she in love with Uncle Seamus? And had he spurned her? Or merely kept their relationship on a proper plane, which would have amounted to the same thing? Surely she wouldn’t want to see him accused of rape. But she might want to cause him some embarrassment as a form of petty revenge. The ways of women continued to be mysterious to Cobb.

  Whatever Edie’s motive – and at her age she might not know herself – this incriminating letter was now in his hands. No-one other than Seamus came remotely close to the description of the lover therein. The letter itself suggested that Betsy had fancied him from afar. Had he picked up on this fancy and crossed the line with her? Had they set up an assignation? Had she resisted, resulting in rape? Or had the affair actually continued after the original encounter until abortion had become a necessity? (After all, the letter wasn’t dated.) Cobb would soon find out. Uncle Seamus had better have some compelling answers to his questions.

  “Thanks, lass, you’ve been a big help,” he said to Edie.

  Edie looked as if she was not sure what she had done.

  ***

  Sixty-year-old Seamus Baldwin looked ninety. He was slumped against the library table. He did not glance up at Cobb’s entry nor did he acknowledge Cobb’s presence when he sat down catty-corner from him. He reminded Cobb of a circus clown he had once seen sitting behind his tent after the performance: all the stuffing gone out of him, all the bright colours of his smile melting together, his very bones sagged and defeated.

  “Mr. Baldwin, I must begin by saying that some very serious charges have been made against you, and I’ve gathered evidence to back them from a number of witnesses.”

  “I know. William just told me about the incident at the mill.” The voice was a hoarse whisper. “It’s the last straw. That anyone would think that I would hurt my dear, dear Betsy.”

  “I’m hopin’ we can clear this up by havin’ you explain away some of the things I been hearin’ today.”

  “If I must.”

  “First of all, one of the mill-hands says that on the day we’re talkin’ about, August the third – ”

  “I remember. The day after the tornado.”

  “That’s right. This mill-hand says he saw you at yer fishin’ spot in the ravine below the mill about twelve-thirty or so. Were you there, sir?”

  The reply startled Cobb. “Yes. I was there.”

  “Without yer fishin’ rod?”

  “That’s correct.”

  My word! The man was admitting it outright.

  “How
did you expect to catch trout without yer gear?”

  “I was there for another reason.” Despite the man’s obvious emotional and physical exhaustion, a note of wariness had crept into his responses.

  “And what might that be?”

  “I was supposed to meet Betsy there.”

  For the assignation! My, my, Cobb thought, this is looking bad, bad indeed. “Why on earth would you wish to meet yer housemaid there? You see her every hour on the hour at Spadina.”

  “It wasn’t what you think, Cobb. Betsy shared my love of horses. She liked to admire them, those we have here and those at the mill. I came to Spadina at the beginning of July. Betsy helped serve a dozen dinners and picnics that month. I took a shine to her. She was bright and literate. I wanted to help her get ahead. Even before she came on steady at the end of the month, I had started tutoring her. She told me that her father was thinking of buying a pony from Seth Whittle. She knew I knew a lot about horseflesh. She asked me to have a look at this animal before her dad bought it. She was afraid he might get swindled.”

  “I see. But why the secrecy? Couldn’t you just have gone over and had a look?”

  “Probably. But she wanted to be with me. She was an excited little girl. Her father didn’t approve of her staying on at the mill after she delivered his lunch. So we arranged to meet in the ravine and from there move up through the brush to the back door of the barn, which was always open. Betsy knew nobody would be around.”

  “So you waited, but Betsy didn’t show up?”

  “No.” He looked even more devastated, thinking no doubt that he might have prevented the tragedy that followed. “We must have got our arrangements confused. She probably thought I would come up from the ravine by myself. But I wanted her to make sure the coast was clear before she came to fetch me.”

  “So you just left?”

  He nodded. “Now I know why she didn’t come. Some bastard raped her!”

  Cobb cleared his throat noisily. “We got a witness who says it was you who was in the stall with Betsy.”

  “Then you’ve got a witness who is lying,” he said wearily. “There was never anything improper going on between Betsy and me. Oh, I know I’ve been seen teasing the girls and Robert’s kids, and acting the fool. But that’s my nature. It’s what I felt free to do – out here – at last.”

  “Then there’s the whole business of the five pounds and the thank-you note.”

  “I’ve already explained that.”

  “What about this, then?” Cobb handed him Betsy’s billet-doux.

  Uncle Seamus paled even more as he read it. It fell from his fingers. “I never knew. I swear.”

  “The trouble is, sir, the only people who know about the pony story and about the lie Betsy told you about her mother needin’ surgery are you and Betsy. And Betsy’s dead. We got a signed statement from a witness naming you as the culprit. None of the other mill-hands fit the witness’s description – only you. No other stranger was seen anywhere about by Mullins, who was south of the mill or by Whittle and Thurgood, who were north of it. And we got two notes in the girl’s handwritin’ suggestin’ a romance was possible between you and her.”

  “What are you saying, sir? That I’m going to be charged?”

  “That ain’t fer me to decide. I’m just tellin’ you what I plan to put in my report to Chief Sturges.”

  But Cobb had little doubt about the outcome. He had systematically built up a powerful case against Uncle Seamus. The Chief had asked him to obtain the facts and he had, insofar as they could be ferreted out after two months. He was both saddened and proud. Saddened because Seamus Baldwin was the uncle of Marc’s close friend and political ally, Robert Baldwin. The consequences of such a charge could be catastrophic for the Reform party and their hopes in the coming election. Still, Marc would have wanted Cobb to do what he did: carefully and dispassionately gather evidence and credible witness-accounts. And Cobb was proud that he had done so. Perhaps he would make a good detective after all.

  In the hall, Dr. Baldwin said, “How did it go?”

  “You’d better see to him, sir,” Cobb said.

  And he left quickly.

  NINE

  It was late Friday afternoon when Cobb finished dictating a summary of his interviews and adding some final remarks to his report. Wilfrid Sturges was attending a meeting with the mayor and aldermen, but arrived back a few minutes after Gussie French blew the last grain of blotting sand away from the paper in front of him. Cobb handed the report to his chief and waited with Gussie in the anteroom while Sturges took it into his office to read it over. Cobb was pleased to see that he was not limping today.

  Time dragged on. Gussie grumped and whined about his teenager, whom the mumps had not made any more manageable. Constable Brown clumped in and went into the constables’ room. At last the Chief called Cobb inside. Sturges was sitting and staring at the report as if expecting it to burst into flames at any moment. Cobb sat down quietly and waited for the Chief’s reaction.

  “What a mess!”

  This remark was not among the ones Cobb had anticipated. “I thought the chain of events was pretty clear,” he said.

  “They are, Cobb, they are. You are to be congratulated on the job you did this afternoon.”

  “Then what’s the problem, sir?”

  Sturges sighed. “What we have here – what you’ve unearthed – is a series of circumstantial events, well testified to, that surround a single witness’s claim that the person he saw assaultin’ Betsy Thurgood was Seamus Baldwin.”

  “That’s the way I see it, too.”

  “The trouble is not in the details you set out, it’s whether they point clearly to laying a charge of rape against a revered member of a prominent family.”

  “You’re not sure whether to charge him or not?”

  “What I’m sayin’ is we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”

  “And if we do?”

  “If we do, we’ll bring the house of Reform down upon us like a rock-fall. They’ll claim the witness didn’t see the culprit’s face and that the police went out of their way to find testimony to incriminate their man. They’ll scream witch-hunt!”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “The Tories, includin’ most of the government, will accuse us of gatherin’ facts and findin’ witnesses and then coverin’ them up! Witch-hunt or cover-up, take yer pick. This report, you see, can be turned either way, dependin’ on yer prejudices.”

  “But who else coulda done it?” Cobb said, beginning to get miffed.

  “Nobody that I can tell. I agree with you that Jake Broom’s account is very believable, and everythin’ – everythin’ – you’ve dug up supports his claims. But it’s possible he lied to cover up fer Mullins or Clift, who were free from observation at the time of the crime. To think he might’ve done it himself is crazy. If he did, or if he saw one of his mates commit the crime, he never in a million years would’ve come in here and brung the whole business up when it was long forgotten. That makes no sense at all.”

  “That’s right. He comes back to the mill yesterday and hears nothin’ about the rape business, does he? If he was the culprit, he might’ve expected the girl would’ve complained, and so on. Instead, he only hears about Betsy’s death after a botched abortion.”

  “Why come back at all, eh?”

  Cobb looked warily at the report between them. “So what are ya gonna do?”

  “I’m goin’ to take this report straight over to the Court House and show it to James Thorpe. I’ll let him decide. I don’t fancy chargin’ a Baldwin, however elderly and dodderin’, with seduction and statutory rape, even though I got the power to do so.”

  “But the magistrate’s a Tory!” Cobb cried. “We know perfectly well what he’ll do and why.”

  “Maybe so. But Thorpe’s an honest man. However, once the Attorney-General and them other Tory hounds get one whiff of what’s in yer report, there’ll be no stoppin’ ‘em. Still, I wa
nt the charge and any prosecution left in their hands. I want it to be seen that we done our jobs – fairly and diligently.”

  “You sure you wanta retire?” Cobb said.

  ***

  It came as no surprise that at noon on Monday, a warrant was issued for the arrest of Seamus Baldwin. There was one surprise, however: the charges were multiple – seduction and corruption of a minor, having carnal relations with a minor, and involuntary manslaughter. The hand of the Tory establishment was evident, it was whispered everywhere, in that last unexpected charge. Apparently, Humphrey Cardiff, the Attorney-General, had decided to throw the book at the elder statesman of the first family of Reform. Sturges selected Rossiter and Wilkie to drive out to Spadina to effect the arrest. He didn’t want Cobb harassed or compromised. Dr. Baldwin greeted them courteously and asked for half an hour to prepare his brother. His request was granted. Wobbly on his pins but with much dignity, the old gent, emotionally drained, was helped to the carriage. There was no thought of manacles.

  He was arraigned within minutes of his arrival at the Court House, the charges read, a plea of not guilty entered and, considering his age and state of health, he was released into the hands of his younger brother. The Baldwin name alone was surety enough for his later appearance in court. Again, political chicanery was assumed when the trial date was set for two weeks hence, the first Monday in November. Three other cases in the assizes had to be rescheduled to accommodate the Baldwin trial.

  It was Wednesday before Robert Baldwin could be summoned back to face the gravest crisis in his family’s illustrious history.

  ***

  They met on Thursday morning in the spacious library of Francis Hincks, who lived next door to Baldwin House: Robert, Dr. Baldwin, Hincks, Marc Edwards and Robert Baldwin Sullivan. It was here that many of the important conferences of the Reform caucus had been held, and critical decisions taken in the long struggle for a system of responsible government in the province. And although everyone here was eager to hear Robert’s report of his journey to the western counties, no-one was surprised that the first and principal topic of conversation was to be the upcoming trial of Uncle Seamus. A copy of the Crown’s indictment lay open on the table. It ran to five pages. They had all read it, silently and solemnly.