The Widow's Demise

by Don Gutteridge

  EIGHT

  “Well, you’ve done a full day’s work,” Marc said to Cobb as he leaned forward to light his pipe. The two friends were in Marc’s parlour discussing Cobb’s investigation. Both men were smoking, drawing deep, satisfying puffs. The house was otherwise quiet. Beth, Etta and the two children had gone out for an early evening walk.

  “Well, I’ve rounded up a few suspects, that’s fer sure.”

  “And got yourself in Dutch with your superior.”

  “I can handle that okay.”

  “Do you really think one of the suitors could have done it?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past ‘em. Both Trueman and Lacy were really after the lady – and her money.”

  “She was rich?”

  “A fortune left to her by her husband when he died.”

  “But surely they’re more likely to eliminate one another?”

  “They tried to. They were all set to fight a duel when Wilkie and me arrived in time to break it up.”

  “I see. So passions were running high?”

  “But after I broke up the duel, the two of them cozied up to each other, like they’d been friends. I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe they realized the lady was playing them both for fools.”

  “Well, it seems she was an awful flirt. She even flirted with Cecil Denfield, a married man.”

  “And you interviewed him?”

  “I did. But he has no real motive. He’s well married and has lots of dough.”

  “Still, you never can tell.”

  “My money’s on Macy right now. He’s a chemist and can get all the acid he needs. And the glove fits.”

  “As it did on Trueman, you say,” Marc said, relighting his pipe. “It’s useful but only as circumstantial evidence.” He paused and then said, “You mentioned a Constance Brown.”

  “Oh, yeah. She was Macy’s fiancée until he jilted her in favour of the widow.”

  “You think she might have blamed the other woman?”

  “It’s possible. I do intend to interview her to see if I can tell what her feelings were, and whether she’d be capable of throwin’ acid in a rival’s face.”

  “At least she’s unlikely to complain to Chief Bagshaw.”

  Cobb smiled. “I’m through rufflin’ feathers.”

  “Of course, Gilles’s story, as he told it to me, is that he saw a man running off when he arrived on the scene. But it was dusk and he could have been mistaken. All I need for a vigorous defense are people to cast suspicion upon. And you’ve given me a number so far.”

  “How is Gagnon holdin’ up?”

  “As well as could be expected, given the grim circumstances and the fact that he has been wrongly accused. Louis visits him twice a day.”

  “It must be affectin’ yer election?”

  “I must admit that it is. The race is neck and neck at this time, and I put the blame on the anti-French sentiment stirred up by Gagnon’s arrest and the intimidation tactics of the opposition.”

  “But Louis will win?”

  “I hope so.” Marc knocked the ashes out of his pipe. Cobb’s was still going.

  “Well, there’s a ways to go yet,” Cobb said.

  “By the way, you mentioned you talked to Vera, the lady’s maid. Did you approach the other servants by any chance?”

  “No, I didn’t get around to it. But Vera was the last person to see the victim alive.”

  “It’s possible one of the other servants was looking out a front window and saw something important. Or they might have seen the man running away around the side of the house.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Looks like I’ll have to make another trip to Rosewood.”

  “Be careful, Cobb. And stay away from Humphrey Cardiff. He is very much involved in this case – as you can imagine – and he has set a trial date for a week from Monday. So we haven’t a lot of time to build up a defense.”

  “It would be nice to find the real murderer before the trial begins.”

  “I am in your hands,” Marc said.

  ***

  Early the next day Cobb went to Constance Brown’s place. Constance Brown herself answered his first knock. Before him stood a plump woman in her mid-thirties. Her ginger hair was untamed and her blue eyes were sharp and searching.

  “What do you want?” she said shortly.

  “I’m lookin’ fer Miss Constance Brown.”

  “Well, you’ve found her. Now, what are you selling?”

  “I’m with the police. I’m not sellin’ anythin’.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I need to ask you a few questions about the death of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”

  The blue eyes blazed. “That tramp. Good riddance to her.”

  “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Cobb said, shocked.

  “I had nothing to do with her, dead or alive.”

  “May I come in?”

  “It’ll have to be to my rooms. I only rent here. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb the landlady.”

  Cobb followed her quietly down a dingy hall with a threadbare carpet, at the end of which she opened and door and ushered Cobb into a cramped sitting-room.

  “Have a seat,” she said, sitting herself down in a plush chair. “I can’t offer you tea as I’m only allowed to use the kitchen at mealtimes.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll just be a minute or two.”

  Constance waited patiently for Cobb to begin, her hands folded in her lap, her blue eyes staring him down. She seemed to Cobb to be a very self-possessed and determined woman.

  “I understand you were once engaged to Mr. Horace Macy.”

  Constance flushed at the name. “I was. Once.”

  “And the engagement was broken off?”

  “Summarily – by Mr. Macy,” she said with a trace of bitterness still in her voice.

  “You expected to marry soon?”

  “The banns had been read twice.”

  “You must’ve been upset?”

  “Of course I was. I had no inkling he’d gone and fallen for that tramp.”

  “He fell in love with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, the widow?”

  “Fell in love with her money. He was in love with me. But as you can see, I’m not rich by any means, nor is my family in London. I teach school and earn my bread.”

  “And Mr. Macy needed money fer his business?”

  “He was an inept chemist, but at one time a lovable man. But what has all this to do with the death of the woman? I heard that acid was thrown in her face and that you have the culprit in jail.”

  “We’re just tyin’ up some loose ends,” Cobb said blandly.

  “Well, I wasn’t anywhere near Rosewood that night.”

  “Oh. Where were you?”

  Constance eyed him closely and said in a firm voice, “I was here in my sitting-room all evening, doing schoolwork.”

  “All by yerself?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Yer landlady didn’t come in and see you?”

  “No. I was here alone. But I was here.”

  “As you say.”

  “You don’t think it was me who threw acid at that Jezebel?”

  “No . . . no.”

  “I hated her with a passion, but not enough to harm her. I’m not a violent person. And I blame him more than her.”

  “And I believe you, ma’am. Thanks fer yer help.”

  Cobb made his way out to the street. He was not convinced that Constance Brown was not capable of murder.

  ***

  This time Cobb went around to the back door of Rosewood. He didn’t want to confront Diggs, the butler, if he could help it. It was lunch time, and Cobb expected to find the servants in the kitchen. So when a maid, not Vera, answered his knock, he introduced himself and asked to see the cook. The maid led him straight into the kitchen. There in the spacious, rectangular, low-ceilinged room he found Vera, the cook, a scullery maid and a footman – seated aroun
d a large table and sipping at their soup. There was no sign of the young pregnant maid he had seen on his first visit.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, savouring the aroma of the chicken soup. “I’m Cobb, a detective, and I’ve come to ask you people about anythin’ you might’ve seen on the night of the tragic incident.”

  “Will you join us in a bowl of soup, Detective,” said the cook, a jovial woman who obviously enjoyed her own handiwork.

  “I shouldn’t, but I will,” said Cobb, and seated himself in the empty chair proffered by the footman. The scullery maid placed a bowl of soup before him. It was piping hot. He took a spoon and ladled a mouthful.

  “Delicious,” he said.

  “We would like to help you out, sir,” the cook said, “because we’d all like to make sure the culprit hangs. But I don’t think we’ve anythin’ to tell you that’s useful.”

  “I was wonderin’ if any of you were lookin’ out a window when the incident happened?”

  The cook looked around. “It was just after the evenin’ meal, when most of us are quite busy. Lizzie, my scullery, was here helpin’ me with the clean-up, and Agnes was runnin’ up and down the stairs with dishes, and Amos was stokin’ the fire with fresh wood from the woodshed.”

  “And you know where I was,” Vera said. “In the hall helpin’ my lady with her coat and things.”

  “I see. That accounts fer everybody,” Cobb said.

  The cook paused, glanced at Agnes, and said, “Except Mr. Diggs. But he was in his office. He always does the bills after supper.”

  “So no-one was peekin’ out a window – at the front or the east side of the house?”

  Heads shook around the table.

  Cobb tried one more tack. “Does anyone know of any reason why anyone would want to hurt yer mistress?”

  The question took the servants aback. No-one said anything, but there was a great deal of head shaking.

  “Unless you think that . . .that – ” Lizzie said in a small voice.

  “That what?” Cobb said, putting down his soup spoon.

  “Come on, Lizzie,” the cook said. “Finish yer sentence.”

  “I’m thinkin’ of Mr. Perkins.”

  “Who’s Mr. Perkins?” Cobb asked.

  “He was Mr. Diggs’ assistant, John Perkins – until last week when the missus dismissed him.”

  “I see,” Cobb said. “And was he upset with the mistress?”

  “Yes,” Lizzie said. “I heard him say – in this very room – that he would get even with her if it was the last thing he ever did.”

  “I hope you’re sure about that,” the cook said sternly.

  “I heard it clear as day,” Lizzie said. “His wife’s expectin’ a child and the missus refused to give him any references, so he’ll have trouble findin’ another job. He was very, very angry.”

  “Thank you, Lizzie. You’ve been a great help. Now where can I find the angry Mr. Perkins?”

  The cook gave him the address.

  Cobb – his soup finished and his questions exhausted – got up, thanked everybody, and let himself out the back door. He had just reached Front Street when he remembered that the pregnant maid he had seen on his first visit had not been present in the kitchen.

  “The world to end on September 30! Read all about it!”

  Cobb looked to his left, the source of the stentorian voice.

  “Marvellous new pamphlet by the Reverend Bolton Dawes! Yours fer only a penny!”

  The shout was coming from a scrawny old man with fearsome eyebrows and a long, beardless chin. He was dressed in rags.

  “Buy a pamphlet, sir?” the old fellow said to Cobb in a lowered voice.

  “You the Reverend Dawes?”

  The old man chortled, then licked the spit off his lips. “Good God, no. I only peddle this trash fer a few pennies. I’m Sammy Slade.”

  “I’ve seen you around here, haven’t I?” Cobb said.

  “Off and on. I come here regular, but I get around most of the town.”

  “Were you here by any chance three nights ago? About seven or seven-thirty?”

  Sammy Slade put his chin on top of the pamphlets he was holding. “As a matter of fact, I was. I remember because I was standin’ at the corner down there and I heard the church bells chime seven times.”

  Cobb held his breath as he asked, “Did you see anyone standin’ here in front of Rosewood – this house?”

  “I saw two people.”

  “And where were they?”

  “I saw a man and a lady standin’ on that porch there.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  Sammy thought for a second, and said, “Oh, he was a gentleman all right. Well dressed. Top hat. Tallish. And I think he had a moustache.”

  This was a clear description of Lionel Trueman. Cobb’s pulse raced.

  “Were the man and the lady just talkin’?”

  “I’d say they was havin’ some kind of disagreement, ‘cause I could hear them all the way to the corner.”

  “They were shoutin’ at each other?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “What did they do next?”

  “Nothin’ that I seen ‘cause I turned and walked back up the street. After all, a tiff between a gentleman and his lady is nothin’ to me, is it?”

  Cobb sighed his disappointment. Could the murder have taken place moments after Sammy Slade turned his back? The timing seemed a little off. Gagnon was sure it was closer to seven-thirty when he arrived on the scene and witnessed the deed – close to dusk. But Slade could easily have been mistaken about the church bells. Much time could have elapsed between his hearing them and his witnessing the argument between Trueman and Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.

  “I’ll need yer address, Sammy. You may have to tell yer story in court.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong?”

  “You’ll just be a witness, Sammy. That’s all.”

  “I live in a shack in Irishtown. Anybody can point ya to it.”

  “All right, then. You c’n go.”

  Sammy trundled off. At the next corner he stopped, spotted a couple walking nearby and shouted, “End of the world! Read all about it!”

  Cobb decided to pay Lionel Trueman a second visit. It appeared he did not spend the hour or so away from the Reverend Ogilvie’s card game entirely at home. But first he had an appointment with his number one snitch at The Cock and Bull on York Street.

  ***

  It was noon hour and The Cock and Bull was jammed with customers, all calling at once it seemed for food or ale or both. A smoke haze hung like a shook-out bed sheet at eye level. Cobb peered through it and spied Itchy Quick at a table in the far corner. Itchy’s two hundred and some pounds were easy to see, despite the camouflage of pipe-smoke. Cobb went over and stood beside the table. Itchy was nursing a flagon of ale.

  “Oh, Mr. Cobb. You’re just in time. I was about to take my last swallow.”

  “And as usual you’re short of cash?” Cobb said.

  “A bit short today, yes,” Itchy said. “My cousin come in from Burlington last night – stone broke – and I had to lend him my last penny, didn’t I?”

  Cobb sat down and waved for a waiter.

  “We’ll have two ales here, sir,” Cobb said to the fellow who, recognizing Cobb, had come right over.

  “You’re a kind man, Mr. Cobb,” Itchy said.

  “I’d prefer Cobb without the mister.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cobb. Anythin’ you say.”

  “Would I be wrong in guessin’ that you could use a little employment?”

  “You know I’d do anythin’ fer you, sir. And you can always pay me what you think I’m worth – as you always do, bein’ a fair man.”

  The waiter arrived with the drinks, and Itchy moved as fast as he could to seize his – his normal movements being about as quick as a drugged hippo.

  “I’m workin’ on the murder of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones,” Cobb said.

  “Yeah. I heard of that
. Sad business.”

  “And I need to know if anyone was seen lurkin’ about Rosewood between seven and seven-thirty on the night of the crime.”

  “Three nights ago?”

  “That’s right. I want you to keep yer ears open and to nose around amongst the low-life who might have seen anything untoward. I’ll give you a few pennies in advance and a shilling if you come up with anythin’ useful.”

  Itchy took a huge swig of his ale, wiped his mouth with his thick fingers, and said, “That’s more than generous, Mr. Cobb. I ain’t heard anythin’ yet, but I’ll get ‘round to some of the other taverns and keep my ears cocked.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Cobb said. He drained his ale, got up and made his way through the smoke haze to the door.

  ***

  Lionel Trueman, in his study, was surprised to see the detective-constable enter his private domain for the second time.

  “More questions?” he said to Cobb with barely a nod of the head by way of greeting. “I thought you had your fill the first time.”

  “Somethin’s come up since I was last here,” Cobb said. He remained standing, as did Trueman.

  “What could that possibly be?”

  “I’ve got a witness who says he saw you havin’ an argument with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones on her front porch on the night of the crime – about seven o’clock or later.”

  Trueman’s gaze narrowed. “That’s preposterous. I was at the Reverend Ogilvie’s.”

  “And the good reverend tells me you left his house for an hour and a half about six-thirty that evenin’.”

  Trueman looked down, then up. “Oh. So I did. I forgot. A message came that a friend wished to see me. I came home and waited, but he didn’t arrive. I discovered later that he’d had a fall and couldn’t make it.”

  “But yer whereabouts are not known by anybody else, are they? Between six-thirty and eight o’clock. And the description the witness gave me suits you to a T.”

  Trueman sighed. “All right, then. I was over at Rosewood about seven o’clock. I called on the lady after my friend didn’t show up. She would not let me in. She said she had an important appointment and I was to come back the next morning.”

  “An appointment with who?”

  “One of her lady friends, she said.”

  “You didn’t believe her?”

  “I suspected it was a man. There had been others than me pursuing the widow – ”