“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 loo
ked 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.”
“Good. You’ve done splendid work thus far.”
“Do ya mind if I stay and say hello to Maggie fer a bit?”
“I’m sure she’d be delighted,” Marc said.
SEVEN
Cobb decided to interview Lionel Trueman first. Trueman lived in a rented house on north George Street. Cobb went up and used the knocker. He waited a long minute and rapped again. The door was at last opened by a uniformed maid.
“Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”
Cobb was relieved to see that she took him for someone respectable. It must be the suit, he thought.
“I’m Detective-Constable Cobb. I’d like to talk to Mr. Lionel Trueman.”
“That’s my master.”
“Is he in?”
“He is, sir. I’ll see if he can see you now. Please step in and wait.”
Cobb stepped into a small vestibule. It was warm and stuffy inside. He adjusted his collar. A minute later the maid returned.
“Mr. Trueman has agreed to see you, sir.”
Cobb followed her down the hallway to a tiny den, where Lionel Trueman stood waiting.
“Thank you, Mavis. That’ll be all.”
Mavis curtsied and left.
“Where’s your uniform, Constable?” Trueman said, his pop-eyes appraising his visitor.
“I don’t wear one,” Cobb said. “I’m a plainclothes detective.”
“What’ll they think of next?”
“I hope you’re all finished with duellin’,” Cobb said.
“Oh, that was all a misunderstanding. You haven’t come about that, have you?”
“No. I’m investigatin’ the murder of Delores Cardiff-Jones.”
“I thought you had a suspect under lock and key.”
“We do. I’m gatherin’ evidence fer the trial.”
“Well, I don’t see how I can help you. I’m a very busy man.”
“We’re tryin’ to find out how well our suspect, Gilles Gagnon, knew Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”
“How would I know anything about that?”
“You were at the Charity Ball the other night?”
“I was.”
“Did you see Mr. Gagnon dance with the lady?”
Trueman’s brow furrowed. “I saw her dancing with a Frenchman. I heard them babbling in that tongue.”
“You must have been very close to them.”
“I happened to be nearby, yes. By pure coincidence.”
“Did they look to be friendly?”
“They were dancing a reel. You can’t get too friendly in those circumstances.”
“Did they talk afterwards?
”
“As a matter of fact, they did. They were cozied up near the drinks table.” Trueman’s disinterested manner suddenly became personal. There was venom in his response.
“Like they knew each other?”
“I really couldn’t say. I merely glanced in their direction.”
“I would’ve thought you’d’ve kept a close eye on the lady.”
Trueman’s moustache quivered. “And why do you say that, sir? Are you being impertinent?”
“Rumour has it that you and the lady were very close friends.”
“There’s no need to beat about the bush, Constable,” Trueman said with a tight little laugh. “The whole town knows I have been pursuing Mrs. Cardiff-Jones for some time. I had planned to marry the lady, if she would have me.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“So what are you driving at?”
“I just thought you might’ve been a little bit jealous.”
“Pah!” Trueman snorted. “Why would I be jealous of a Frenchman Delores had just met on the dance-floor. Everybody knows she was a bit of a flirt. I was used to it. I wasn’t bothered in the least.”
“I see. So you’re sure there was nothin’ goin’ on between the two?”
“As I said, sir, I don’t see how that was possible.”
Cobb cleared his throat. “Where were you about seven-thirty on the night of the murder?”
Trueman blanched. “What do you mean? Am I a suspect?”
“Please, sir. Just answer the question.”
“I think you’re going beyond your authority, sir. I loved the woman, and I’d like to be left alone to grieve.”
“Gagnon’s lawyer, Marc Edwards, is fond of pointing to other possible murderers durin’ the trial. We need to make sure you’re not one of them.” Cobb was particularly pleased with this improvised rationale.
“Oh, I see. Very well, then. I was playing whist at the Reverend Ogilvie’s that evening. From six o’clock onward. The Reverend and several others can vouch for me.”
“The Reverend will do.”
“Do you have any further questions?”
“Just one. This glove was found near the scene of the crime. Is it by chance yours?”
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