The Widow's Demise

by Don Gutteridge

  “So you admit what Wilkie saw?” Bagshaw said.

  “I cannot deny it, but I did not harm the lady.”

  “How did the lady die?” Bagshaw said to Cobb.

  Cobb gave the Chief a brief summary of Dr. Withers’ examination at the scene.

  “She had her throat cut open by a spike on the fence?” Bagshaw said, incredulous.

  “Dr. Withers thinks she was reacting to the acid thrown in her face,” Cobb explained.

  “And I caught Mr. Gagnon red-handed,” Wilkie said. “And he started babblin’ like a madman.”

  “He was speakin’ French,” Cobb said.

  “The evidence is all against you, sir,” Bagshaw said to Gagnon.

  “But I actually saw the real killer,” Gagnon said. “I saw him commit the crime. I saw him toss the acid and then run off around the far side of Rosewood. He was a short, slight fellow, dressed in gentleman’s clothes.”

  “A convenient story, I’m sure,” Bagshaw said. “I’m going to lock you in our holding cell until I can get an arrest warrant from the magistrate.”

  “You’re charging me with murder?”

  “I am.”

  “But I hardly knew the lady. Why would I kill her?”

  “You met her at the Ball,” Wilkie chimed in.

  “I danced with our hostess. That’s the only contact I’ve had with the woman,” Gagnon protested.

  Bagshaw made a mental note to question witnesses to this dance at the Charity Ball. Perhaps there had been something more than a simple dance. “I don’t know why you would want to throw acid in the lady’s face and cause her death, and I don’t really care. You were caught standing over the body of a person who had just been killed.”

  “That’s what the doc said,” Wilkie added. “She was still warm.”

  “But I’m innocent! I want a lawyer!”

  “In due course,” Bagshaw said. “You’ll certainly need one.” He turned to Cobb. “Put Mr. Gagnon in our cell, then go and write out a complete investigative report for me. It looks like we won’t need a lot of fancy detective work on this case.”

  The police quarters contained a small holding-cell. The main jail was only a block or so away on the corner of Church and King. Cobb did as he was told. He locked up Gagnon, still protesting his innocence. Gagnon said to Cobb as he turned to leave. “Will you send a message to Marc Edwards for me?”

  “You want him fer yer lawyer?”

  “I do. And he’ll let LaFontaine and Baldwin know what’s happened.”

  “You’ve got some in-flew-ential friends, I see.”

  “It looks like I’m going to need them,” Gagnon said.

  ***

  Cobb went outside the police quarters where, as usual, he found a street urchin lurking.

  “Hey, Nosy, I want you to take a message to Mr. Marc Edwards. You know where he lives?”

  “In Briar Cottage,” Nosy said, snuffling in the manner that had given him his nickname.

  “That’s right. Tell him he’s wanted here right away.”

  “You’ll pay me now?”

  “I will, but you better not bugger off. It’d be worth yer life.”

  Nosy stuck out his hand and Cobb put a half-penny into it. Nosy then scampered away as if the money might dissolve were he not to dash off..

  Cobb went back inside and stepped into his office. He opened his notebook and began to write up the details of the crime and his interrogation of Gilles Gagnon. He was his usual thorough self. Although he found writing painful and mainly relied on his prodigious memory to recall details, Cobb nevertheless realized that note-making and report-writing were important aspects of his work. His thoroughness made it easy to get the necessary warrants for search and seizure and for arrests from Magistrate Thorpe. And, of course, Cyril Bagshaw was a stickler for details. Bagshaw had never really approved of having a plainclothes detective on the force (unless it were he himself and that was not possible), and Cobb had to be painstaking in order to convince the Chief of his theories and conclusions. When he had finished the report, he took it in and placed it on Bagshaw’s desk. Bagshaw acknowledged the gesture with a grunt.

  Ten minutes later Bagshaw shouted out Cobb’s name – once. Cobb immediately went next door, braced for the worst.

  Bagshaw’s pop-eyes pounced on the open report and then pounced on Cobb.

  “What is the meaning of this drivel?” he snapped.

  “It’s what I heard and seen, sir.”

  “I’m talking about your conclusions, and you know it!”

  “What’s the matter with them?”

  “You say here that there’s a good possibility that Gagnon’s preposterous story may be true and that he may not be the killer!”

  “But surely that is an obvious conclusion, sir.”

  “The fellow was caught in the act! What else is he going to do but make up a cock-and-bull story to save his own skin?”

  “But he has no motive. And Marc Edwards always taught me to start with the motive.”

  “We don’t need a motive. Gagnon had the vial of acid in his hand, spotted by a policeman!”

  “In court, we’ll need a motive. Mr. Gagnon is an important fellow. A gentleman, even if he is French. Gentlemen don’t go around tossin’ acid at women they hardly know.”

  “We’ve only got his word for that. I expect you to talk to people at that Ball and find out just what went on there. And talk to friends of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones to find out how well she might have known him.”

  “I was plannin’ on doin’ that, sir. I didn’t say in my report that he wasn’t guilty. I just said there was questions that needed answerin’ before we charged him.”

  “You raise the business of the glove.”

  “Right. Gagnon wasn’t wearin’ any, so where did a single glove come from? A glove that didn’t fit Gagnon.”

  “Surely the answer is obvious. It was dropped there sometime before the crime. It must’ve been.”

  “Unless there was a third person about, sir. The one Gagnon says he seen.”

  “Nonsense. You take this detective business too seriously. You see things that aren’t really there and ask sill questions about silly details.”

  “I’m just tryin’ to do my job.”

  “Well, I’m ordering you to go back and rewrite that report. Leave off all your conclusions. I’ll fill in that part and take it to James Thorpe.”

  “So you’re gonna charge Gagnon?”

  “I am. With cold-blooded murder.”

  Cobb heaved a big sigh but knew better than to argue with Bagshaw once he had made up his mind. He picked up the report and left.

  ***

  Marc arrived at the police quarters about an hour later. Bagshaw had got his warrant, and Gilles Gagnon was officially charged with the murder of Delores Cardiff-Jones. Marc and Gagnon stood toe to toe in the cramped cell and talked. (Gagnon was to be transferred to the main jail within the hour.)

  “You were just on your way to see Humphrey Cardiff, weren’t you?” Marc began in French.

  “Yes, and as I approached Rosewood, I saw the crime being committed, and merely went to see if I could help the victim. The attacker had already run away.”

  Gagnon then proceeded to tell Marc exactly what had transpired in those fatal moments on the walk of Rosewood.

  “You actually saw the killer?” Marc said.

  “I did, but the police don’t believe me.”

  “I admit it looks bad at first glance,” Marc said, “but there is the small matter of motive. You haven’t any.”

  “That’s right. And I only danced once with the lady at the Charity Ball. We exchanged half a dozen words. No more.”

  “That will play out powerfully in court.

  “And the killer left a glove. One that doesn’t fit me.”

  “Too small?”

  “Yes. The killer was a short, slim man. He’d have small hands.”

  “Again, that’s a fact that will point to a third party and be very
convincing to a jury.”

  “But this scratch looks bad, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. And since I can’t put you on the stand, it’ll be hard to get your plausible explanation before the jury. But you did relate your account to Cobb and Wilkie, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get them to quote from their notes.”

  “What if they don’t get put on the stand?”

  “They’ll have to put Wilkie there. He’s the crux of their case.”

  “Can’t you get the charge dropped? We’re in the middle of an election.”

  “And this won’t help any, will it?” Marc said. “A French-Canadian charged with killing the daughter of the Attorney-General of Canada West. The anti-French sentiment will be stirred up madly, I’m afraid.”

  “With violence,” Gagnon said. “Like Terrebonne.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Could we actually lose the election?”

  “I doubt it very much. But our priority is getting you free. It doesn’t look as if Chief Bagshaw is in a mood to drop the charges, but I’ve got a strong case to take to court. Maybe the powers-that-be will expedite the trial in order to gain a political advantage.”

  “Well, thanks for coming.”

  “I’ve sent word to Louis and Robert. They’ll be along to see you when they take you over to the county jail. We’ll make you as comfortable as possible.”

  Marc signalled to Cobb and was let out of the cell.

  ***

  “Come into my office, Major,” Cobb said, using his nickname for Marc.

  “You want to discuss the case?”

  “I do.”

  Marc followed Cobb inside. Cobb closed the door, even though Chief Bagshaw was back over at the Court House.

  “You don’t agree with Gagnon’s being charged?” Marc said, sitting down opposite his old friend. They had collaborated more or less on eight previous murder investigations – before Cobb had been made detective and even after Marc had become a barrister.

  “I don’t,” Cobb said.

  “I’m glad, because the case is full of holes, despite your eye-witness account.”

  “I know. You taught me good.”

  “There’s no motive.”

  “That’s the first thing I told Bagshaw. But with an eye-witness, he says a motive don’t matter.”

  “And the glove suggests a third party.”

  “That’s what I wrote in my first report.”

  “And if the woman was dying in front of him, it’s only natural for Gagnon to be bending over her to check her wound and general state.”

  “And Wilkie didn’t see the crime itself,” Cobb said. “He only saw what happened afterwards.”

  “I’ll have a field day in court.”

  “But the investigation’s not closed,” Cobb said, smiling slightly.

  “Oh? In what way?”

  “Bagshaw wants me to go fer the motive. I’m to interview the lady’s a-quaint-ances to see if she knew Mr. Gagnon at all.”

  “What are you saying, old friend?”

  “Well, Bagshaw won’t know it but I can still poke about and see if I can find any other suspects. Someone with a reason to throw acid in the lady’s face.”

  “Yes. Acid is a very personal crime. The intention here was not murder, even if that was the unhappy result. You’re looking for a short, slight man, although you must remember that Gagnon only caught a fleeting glance as the fellow rounded the corner of the house. Don’t limit yourself to small men, although the killer likely has small hands.”

  “I’ll keep you informed of anythin’ useful I find,” Cobb said.

  “Isn’t that dangerous? I know you’re not Cyril Bagshaw’s favourite policeman.”

  “I’ll be careful. And, of course, I may turn up some evidence that points to yer client.”

  “It’s the truth that we’re after here.”

  “Yeah,” Cobb said. “The truth.”

  SIX

  James Crawford kissed his wife goodbye, climbed onto his two-seater democrat, clucked the team of horses into motion, and headed down his lane towards the sideroad. It was a bright September morning and augured well for what might turn out to be an adventurous day. He was picking up three neighbours, and they were going to drive to Danby’s Crossing and register their votes for Louis LaFontaine.

  Alvin Gayle was waiting for him at the end of his lane. He carried a lunch and a canteen of cold water. It would be a two-hour drive to the poll, if all went well.

  “Good morning, Alvin,” Crawford said from his seat on the box. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Mornin’, James. I see you brought the fast team.”

  “Well, you never know when you might need a little speed.”

  Gayle climbed up beside the driver. “I hear some of the fellas have run into a spot of trouble on the way.”

  “That’s right. Stu Barnes was waylaid by a bunch of toughs out near Yonge Street, but managed to outrun them.”

  “He made it to the poll?”

  “He did. There he had to run the gauntlet of jeers and taunts, but he did get his vote in.”

  “For LaFontaine?”

  “Of course,” Crawford said, snapping the reins over the horses’ ears.

  “And you don’t have any qualms about votin’ for a Frenchman?”

  “As long as Robert Baldwin is backin’ him, that’s good enough for me.”

  “They say he will lead the party when he’s elected.”

  “That’s what I hear, too. Baldwin seems to be happy playin’ second fiddle.”

  “They work well together, that’s the main thing,” Gayle said, taking a drink from his canteen and offering it to Crawford.

  “There’s Billy, waitin’ fer us by his gate.”

  They hailed Billy Thomas, and drove up to him.

  “Mornin’, fellas,” he said, and hopped up behind the other two men. “Good day fer votin’, eh?”

  They agreed, and the democrat proceeded west along the sideroad to the next farm, where they picked up the fourth and final member of their group, Toby Baron. He too had packed a lunch, or rather his wife had. As they made their way towards Yonge Street, the forest rose up on either side of them, a few scattered farms here and there along the way.

  “What’s that up ahead?” Gayle said.

  Crawford peered into the near distance. They were in dense bush now, and shadow covered the road. “Looks like a tree’s fallen across the road,” Crawford said.

  They drove on towards the object blocking their path. It was a large tree, completely covering the road and the narrow clearing on either side of it.

  “We can’t get past it,” Crawford said, drawing the horses to a halt.

  “We’ll have to go around it,” Gayle said.

  “I don’t see how we can do that,” said Thomas, who had stood up behind the driver to get a better view of the problem.

  “There hasn’t been any lightning in the last couple of days,” Baron said, standing beside Thomas.

  “Let’s have a closer look,” Crawford said.

  He got down from the vehicle and walked across to the right side of the road, where the trunk of the tree was thickest. “It’s been deliberately cut,” he called back. “The Tory toughs have been out by the look of it.”

  “How did they know we were going to come this way?” Gayle said.

  “They probably didn’t,” Thomas said. “This entire line is Reform, and they know how many of us were still left to vote.”

  “The bush is too dense here for us to go around the obstruction,” Baron said. “They’ve planned the matter well.”

  “What’ll we do?” Gayle said.

  “We should’ve brought a rope, then we could have had the horses drag the tree aside,” Crawford said.

  “We can always go back fer one,” Thomas said.

  “Looks like we’ll have to,” Crawford said.

  Just then they heard hoofbeats coming towards them fr
om the west.

  “Oh, oh,” Gayle said, “here comes trouble.”

  The four men waited impatiently as the hoofbeats grew louder. Soon a lone horseman rode into view on the other side of the tree. He paused and then urged his horse into the bush. Moments later he emerged in front of them. They didn’t recognize him, but he was a tall, striking figure.

  “Hello, I’m Marc Edwards,” the fellow said. “I’ve come to help.”

  “You’re the lawyer fella in with Baldwin,” Crawford said, climbing down to greet Marc.

  “I am, and I’m patrolling these back roads to help with emergencies like this one. They’ve cut the tree deliberately, haven’t they?”

  “That’s right,” Crawford said. “But we need a rope to haul it aside.”

  Marc grinned. “I just happen to have some rope with me,” he said. He dismounted and pulled a coil of rope from a hook on his saddle. “This should do the trick. If you’ll unhitch your team, I’ll try and get this rope around the tree trunk. I may need some help.”

  Marc climbed over a thick section of the tree trunk and slipped the rope under it. Billy Thomas caught it and flipped it back over the top of the trunk. They wound it about three times and knotted it. By this time, Crawford and Gayle had unhitched the horses and brought them over to the tree. Crawford tied the loose end of the rope to the whiffletree and then took the reins. The horses weren’t draught size, but they were strong enough to slowly pull the trunk aside far enough for the democrat to get through.

  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.