Cobb had waited in vain for the man to calm down, hoping to question him and even drawing out the notebook he carried to jot down items he might fail to remember. His memory, however, was usually quicker and more reliable than his handwriting, so he was content to carry information in his head and, when he returned to the station, to dictate it to Augustus French, the police clerk. But the only word the trembling fellow had uttered in the past fifteen minutes was something resembling “awful,” and even that was garbled and hesitant. Madame Renée sat a few feet away, staring at him. Cobb could sense that she too was on the verge of crumbling. Dr. Withers had suggested sedatives all ’round, but Cobb had waved him to the victim’s room.
As soon as the doctor disappeared down the hallway, Cobb had decided to accelerate the proceedings. He unwrapped the dagger, which he set on one of the end tables, and held it up into the candlelight before the killer. “This is what you stuck inta that poor lass’s throat,” he snarled.
The man had yelped, as if he too had been stabbed, leapt up, and staggered over to the chair near the stove. Without looking up, he moaned, and this time the words were clear: “I d-d-didn’t mean to.”
Cobb had turned away in disgust. So here they sat, the three of them, waiting for the doctor to confirm the obvious and, in Cobb’s case, listening for the arrival of the chief constable. The wood in the stove crackled like gunshot.
Cobb suddenly thought of a use for his notebook. He turned to Madame Renée.
“What was the young lady’s full name again?”
“Sarah McConkey.”
“And the others?”
“Molly Mason, Carrie Garnet, and Frieda Smiley.”
Cobb gave a little cough and said, “And your name, ma’am?”
A wee smile trembled at the corners of Madame Renée’s mouth. “Norah Burgess,” she said. “Just plain Norah Burgess. Madame Renée is my . . . professional appellation.”
Cobb nodded sagely. “Yer sober-ket, I take it.” He scribbled down all the names, content with phonetic approximations. Gussie French could tidy up the spelling, and enjoy himself in the process.
“Do you know where Sarah’s from? Who her parents are?”
Norah Burgess grimaced. “I do. But I doubt they’ll give a damn about what’s happened here.” She spat out these words, then added tonelessly, “They live on a farm out near Streetsville.”
“Sarah and them didn’t get along?”
“They threw her out on the street. Disowned her. It was me who took her in when no one else would. She was beautiful and sweet. They didn’t deserve her.”
“They’ll have to be told, all the same,” Cobb said gently. “Do you know where we can find them? They may want to make the arrangements.”
Norah’s face darkened, its pleasant, plump contours suddenly hardening. “I’m gonna give her a proper burial. Up in the town. I won’t have her body dumped into some pauper’s grave.”
“Well, ma’am, her soul’s elsewhere now.”
“With God,” Norah said, with a touch more bitterness than gratitude.
Cobb wasn’t sure there were harems in heaven, so refrained from comment.
“We’re ruined, you know, Constable. What gentleman would come here now with such a scandal about the place?” She looked around at her handiwork. “We’ll have to cater to drunken sailors with the clap and no manners.”
Just then Dr. Withers emerged from the bedroom. He glanced fiercely at the perpetrator of the outrage he had just scrutinized. The killer, however, remained oblivious, rocking on the edge of his chair with both arms locked around his chest and his chin on top of them, the rose-petalled dressing gown still draped preposterously over his pathetically thin body. He was white enough to intimidate a ghost.
“She was stabbed once in the throat with a thin blade,” the doctor said to Cobb and Norah Burgess. Cobb indicated the bloody weapon on the end table.
“A single powerful thrust. Straight in, then twisted about. Cut the jugular in two by the looks of it. Then kept on going through the neck, severing the spine, I’d say. Certainly there was no resistance, no spasming of the body. Very likely she was in a sound sleep and died instantly.” He looked at Norah Burgess. “Without pain.”
“I think you oughta have a gander at the fella here who did it. I can’t get a sensible word outta him.”
“Shock,” Withers said. “It does that to people.”
“But the fella was sound asleep and snorin’ like a spent horse when I got here,” Cobb said. “How could he stab a helpless girl to death with such a blow and then drift off like nothin’d happened?”
“Perhaps he did it in his sleep,” Withers suggested. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” With that he went over to the fellow, stayed the rocking, catatonic figure with one gentle hand, and very slowly lifted the chin up to expose the wan face and desperate eyes, feral with fear.
“I’m going to give you something to drink, young man: tincture of laudanum. It’ll calm your nerves.”
Outside the door they could hear footsteps and voices. Cobb recognized the cockney semitones of his superior: reinforcements had arrived. But most of the work here, Cobb thought to himself with restrained pride, had already been done—and done well.
“My God!” Withers cried. “I know this man.”
Cobb reached for his notebook. The final piece of the puzzle was about to fall into place. There was a timely pounding on the scarlet door.
“Who is he?” Cobb asked quickly of the doctor.
“I saw him at the gala out at Spadina not three hours ago. At the whist table.”
There was a flicker of recognition in the murderer’s face.
Norah Burgess stood to unbar the door.
Dr. Withers drew Cobb to one side and said in a low, tremulous whisper, “This is Handford Ellice, Lord Durham’s nephew.”
Cobb dropped his notebook.
FOUR
Marc was taking his first sip of coffee at ten o’clock the next morning when there was a loud rap at the front door. Beth was still pleasurably abed, but Charlene scooted across the parlour to answer the knock. Seconds later she came through to the kitchen.
“It’s the police,” she gasped, awestruck.
Marc got up. He could hear Beth stirring behind him in their bedroom. “All of them?” he asked Charlene with a teasing smile.
“Just one. A large fella who looks like he could use a good pressin’,” Charlene said, obviously relieved by her master’s reaction.
“Wilkie, then.”
And Constable Ewan Wilkie it was, rumpled and pale. “They routed me outta my sickbed, sir,” he began without ceremony.
“What’s happened to occasion such a catastrophe?”
Wilkie blinked. “There’s been a murder, sir. On my patrol.”
“And it concerns me somehow?”
“In a way, sir. Some bigwig stabbed a”—here he lowered his voice and whispered—“a hooer, if you’ll pardon my French. In Irishtown.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“What is it, Marc dear?” Beth had come up behind them, pulling her robe close.
Wilkie blushed and ducked sideways.
“There’s been a murder,” Marc said.
“And you’re to go to the station and then on up to Government House,” Wilkie said to the rosebush beside the stoop.
“But what is wanted of me?” Marc asked again, genuinely puzzled.
“It’s His Earlship, sir.”
“Lord Durham?”
“He’s asked particularly fer you.”
• • •
COBB AND SARGE—AS CHIEF CONSTABLE WILFRID Sturges was affectionately called when he was out of earshot—were waiting for Marc at the police quarters: two cramped rooms at the rear of the Court House and directly across from the jail adjacent. Gussie French, the desiccated clerk, was seated behind the constables scribbling furiously at official-looking papers.
“Thank the Lord you’ve come,” Sturges greeted him.
He an
d Cobb appeared to have been up all night.
“What on earth’s happened?”
For the next fifteen minutes Cobb, with occasional grunts or sighs of agreement from his chief, poured out the sad narrative of the night’s events. As he had just finished dictating the details to Gussie French, who would affix them to documents for the magistrate upstairs, Cobb had little difficulty in recounting the brutal murder of Sarah McConkey, despite several unintentional yawns. He especially emphasized the indisputable fact that there were three witnesses, including himself, who saw the blackguard covered in the girl’s blood and with a gory knife in his hand. The suspect, though disoriented and evidently not recovered from the drunken stupor in which he had committed the insane act, had not formally denied his guilt, though he was going to be interrogated this morning at Government House, where he was temporarily incarcerated. Cobb also mentioned that no one other than the four women could have entered that part of the brothel during the probable time of the murder. He then summarized the doctor’s preliminary findings.
“That’s quite a story,” Marc said at last. “But what has it got to do with Lord Durham or me?”
Cobb and Sarge had decided not to reveal the identity of the accused until after Marc had had time to absorb the details of the crime, and Wilkie, of course, had no idea what was going on.
“You tell him,” Sarge sighed heavily. He motioned Gussie into the adjoining room and closed the door on him. “We’re keepin’ the fella’s name between us—fer the time bein’.”
“The guy we’re certain done it is Handford Ellice,” Cobb said, sotto voce.
“Sweet Jesus.” Marc was incredulous.
“There’s a cab out back,” Sarge said. “It’ll take you straight up to Government House.”
“I’ll go, of course,” Marc said. “But I still don’t see how I can be of much help. I’ve never met Handford Ellice and I’ve had barely a single conversation with His Lordship.”
Sarge cleared his throat. “When I broke the news to ’im an hour ago, he was flabbergasted. He claimed it were impossible that his nephew could do such an ’orrible thing.”
“Quite a natural reaction, I’d say.”
Cobb looked sorrowfully at Marc. “The poor fool thinks his nephew’s innocent. He won’t accept the facts we give him.”
“And?”
“He asked me, point-blank,” Sarge said warily, “if there was anybody in town who knew how to conduct a proper investigation.”
It was Marc’s turn to sigh. “And you suggested me.”
“No,” Cobb said. “I did.”
• • •
WHILE COBB WENT HOME TO CATCH a few hours’ sleep, Marc was whisked up to Government House at the corner of King and Simcoe. He had spent a number of months here after his arrival three years ago as a newly commissioned officer in the 23rd, commanding the lieutenant-governor’s guard. He knew the grounds and the sprawling residence well. But it had been some time since he had been asked here on official business. The corporal at the door ushered him into Lieutenant-Governor Arthur’s office, where, to his surprise, he was suddenly alone and face-to-face with Lord Durham.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” Durham said. Only the shadows under his eyes betrayed that he might have felt fatigued and perhaps even alarmed. The intelligent dark eyes and handsome, confident face met Marc’s gaze unflinchingly across the expansive desk. “Please, sit down. My own feet are a little weary after last evening’s pleasant exercise.”
“Thank you, sir. I came as soon as I heard, and it goes without saying that I will do all I can to be of service.”
Durham folded himself into a padded chair. Then, as Marc did likewise, Lord Melbourne’s envoy to the Canadas stared at some papers on the desk for a full minute. Marc waited patiently.
“Let me begin, Mr. Edwards, by saying that since your name was mentioned by the constable this morning, I have made discreet inquiries about you and your—exploits, shall we call them—here in the colonies.”
Marc felt himself colouring. “And you’ve learned that I have been a lifelong Tory, I daresay.”
Durham seemed amused despite the obvious stress he was suffering. “Were a Tory is the word around here.”
“Ah. I suspect the reputation of my wife has preceded me.”
“Please, believe me, sir, when I say that I care little what politics you subscribe to. Your record of service as an officer and your conduct of several murder investigations are exemplary. I am confident, then, that should you agree to assist me in this sordid affair, you will serve without fear or favour.”
Marc nodded in mute acceptance of the compliment. “How do you think I may be of assistance? I believe the police have briefed you thoroughly on the events in Irishtown and your nephew’s unfortunate involvement.”
“They have done so, and I’d like you to assure them that I have no doubts about their integrity or their efforts. However, since I believe my wife’s nephew to be incapable of such a crime, I feel I must have a more thorough and perhaps dispassionate investigation by someone more . . . experienced.”
Marc did not respond right away. He was searching Durham’s face for some hint of ambiguity in his last statement.
Durham gave Marc a wan smile. “You think I meant that you were somehow to find a route around the truth?” he inquired.
“Such an interpretation did occur to me, Your Lordship. With all due respect.”
“And I am pleased that you are so frank. We’ll need to be ruthlessly honest with each other if we are to get to the bottom of the matter.” He leaned across the desk as he must have done countless times in the cabinet room when he wished to hammer home a point to his less talented colleagues. “I want the truth, Mr. Edwards. And when you find it, I will be the first person to endorse it and make it public.”
“Then I will be pleased to help you, sir.”
Durham leaned back and took a deep breath. “Good. Now we can get down to business. I expect that you too have been fully briefed by the chief constable.”
“I have. Though I must admit that at first I was as shocked and baffled as you must have been when you arrived here this morning and found your nephew under house arrest. It can’t be more than ten or eleven hours since Beth and I watched Mr. Ellice enjoy himself at Spadina. That he could have got all the way from there to a brothel in Irishtown and committed a murder in so short a time seems incredible.”
“That was precisely my reaction.”
“Has Lady Durham been told?”
Durham sighed. “Governor Arthur has kindly driven out to break the news to her, accompanied by Dr. Withers.”
“But from Cobb’s report—and I can personally vouch for his honesty and impartiality—it is clear that somehow your nephew did reach the brothel around one o’clock. He was found there and brought directly here. And was examined there and again here by Dr. Withers.”
“I am not disputing the incontrovertible.”
“I realize that, sir. But so many of the facts appear to have only one interpretation.”
“You sound like the Duke of Wellington annunciating absolute truth.”
Marc risked a smile and got one back. “It was Cobb who found the knife in Mr. Ellice’s hand and him lying bloodied and asleep beside the corpse.”
“I know, and the house apparently impregnable to intruders with murder on their mind. But how many a man has thought his own home to be burglar-proof and paid the price?”
Marc thought for a moment before saying, “It is conceivable that any one of the other four women could have committed the murder or unbarred the door to allow an accomplice entry.”
“Exactly. There must be an alternative explanation. I need to know that these women have been properly questioned and assessed. If you can find no plausible motive as to why one of them should kill one of their own and are convinced of their veracity, then I will accept your word on it.”
It was Marc’s turn to take a deep breath. “It is an awes
ome responsibility that you are placing on my shoulders, sir.”
“I’ve been told they are very broad shoulders.”
At this point there came a discreet tap at the door and Sir George’s batman whisked in with a pot of hot coffee and biscuits.
Marc sipped gratefully at his coffee, thinking rapidly. “I believe I know how much Lady Durham must love her sister’s son, and how much hope she has allowed herself in regard to the benefits for him of this foreign journey, as well as the possible distractions it might cause for you in your work here. She spoke to me about Handford early last evening and later on confided in Mrs. Edwards.”
“And you are wondering if my certainty about Handford’s innocence is simply based on my loyalty to my wife and perhaps some intimate but misguided knowledge of the lad’s character?”
“Something like that, sir.” Marc decided he wouldn’t want to be a Tory facing Lord Durham across the floor of the upper chamber at Westminster.
“I tell you what. Why don’t you go back to his room and see him for yourself. Then come back and tell me what you think.”
• • •
HANDFORD ELLICE WAS SITTING UP IN bed, propped up by pillows twice his size. A full breakfast, untouched, rested on a table beside him. He seemed more like a consumptive Keats than a lusting Byron. But then Marc knew from his previous investigations that murderers rarely looked the part. Marc introduced himself but got no response.
“Your uncle has asked me to take charge of the inquiry into the death of Sarah McConkey earlier this morning. Would you be willing to answer a few brief questions?”
Ellice was listening, but he kept his gaze glued to the hands in his lap.
“Your uncle is convinced of your innocence and wants me to help prove it.”
Ellice nodded and peered up. His eyes were red and swollen. Blue veins throbbed at his temples. His lips were gray, his expression lifeless.
“You met my wife at the ball last night.”
“Mrs. Edwards?” he responded, showing the first signs of real engagement.
“Yes. I saw you dancing with her. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
“I d-d-don’t dance.” The head went back to its drooping. “I don’t d-do anything.”
Bloody Relations Page 5