Governing Passion

by Don Gutteridge

  “Come in, Madame La Marquise.”

  The voice was orotund and excited. Sarie looked across the room, past the roaring fireplace and the silver candelabrum on a polished mahogany table to where the gentleman stood awaiting her arrival. And this was no ordinary gentleman, for he had a crimson cloak trimmed with ermine drooped over his shoulders and falling in folds around him to the carpet below. Upon his head there glittered a jewel-encrusted crown – at least it appeared thus in the flickering light. The rest of him was attired in an Elizabethan doublet and hose, with a conspicuous cod-piece.

  “Please remove your cloak, Your Highness,” the royal gentleman commanded.

  Sarie smiled. “Yes, my dear Louis.” She removed her coat to reveal the full splendour of her evening dress, fluffed and ruched and cut low to reveal two-thirds of her bosom. A string of fake pearls – courtesy of King Louis – graced her neck, and upon her head sat a glorious blond wig.

  “Madame de Pompadour, how thoughtful of you to grace the royal presence,” intoned Gardiner Clough, smiling as Madame de Pompadour curtsied before him.

  “My wish is your command, Your Highness.”

  “And you know what the king wishes of you tonight, don’t you?”

  The Marquise de Pompadour began pulling the gown away from her breasts. “To be ravished by royalty, Your Highness.”

  The king jerked his cod-piece aside and moved – in not too kingly a fashion – towards her . . .

  Later they play-acted a scene they had performed several times in the past. In bed (the folds of a rug), after spirited love-making, they nibbled at fruit and Louis told her of the many battles he had fought in and the many soldiers he had dispatched to Heaven or Hell. Then he pulled out a sheet of paper and read one or more proclamations, glorifying his power, while his mistress stroked his penis and lavished epithets of praise upon him. Sarie was particularly proud of this part of the performance, never missing a cue and feeling quite cosy and safe from the various terrors of the world outside.

  “Would you like me to read a proclamation?” she said this evening, deciding to improvise a bit in order to prolong the performance.

  “As you wish, my love.” Clough handed her the paper he was holding.

  Recalling a speech he had given last week – Sarie had a great memory – she mouthed the ringing words of a proclamation ordering out the troops to quell a riot in the streets of Paris.

  Suddenly, Clough snatched the paper away from her. “I hope you didn’t look at the name at the top of that paper!” he said sharply.

  “Oh, no, sir, I didn’t,” Sarie said. But she had. She couldn’t help it. The paper he had decided to use had his letterhead on it: Gardiner Clough, Esquire. Part of the arrangement that Clough had with Madame LaFrance was that Sarie would know him only as Sir Lancelot. She had been given directions to his house, but told nothing else. Nor did she want to know. Five shillings for half a night’s work was not to be sneezed at. But she had seen his name and was afraid it showed on her face.

  But Clough said evenly enough, “All right, Sarie. I believe you. You’re a good girl.”

  “What will we do next week?” she asked.

  “Robin Hood and Maid Marion.”

  Sarie left happily with the coins in her coat pocket. She made her way back to the Jarvis Street entrance to Devil’s Acre. She had one more alley to negotiate when she heard the thump of footsteps, heavily, behind her. She turned just in time to see the blade of a knife aimed at her throat.

  ***

  There was a small crowd around the body when Cobb arrived. He had to nudge his way towards it and Dr. Withers, kneeling beside it.

  “Throat slashed, just like the first one,” Withers said.

  The body was lying face down, but the girl’s face was turned to the right, as if jerked that way by the slash of the blade that killed her. The snow, freshly fallen the previous evening, was soaked with her blood.

  “A God-awful way to die,” Withers said.

  “Who found her?”

  “A woman named Nell from Madame LaFrance’s brothel, she said. She’s standing right behind you.”

  “I recognize this face,” Cobb said, turning towards Nell. “She worked with you at the brothel.”

  “It’s Sarie Hickson. Oh, God, poor Sarie.” Nell let her tears flow again.

  “What time did you find her?”

  “About an hour ago. She was supposed to be home by midnight, but when she didn’t come in, we figured she’d stayed over at her customer’s place. When she didn’t come for breakfast, we began to get worried. So Madame LaFrance asked us to go out searching for her. We soon found her. Our house is just beyond this alley.” She let out a sob. “She almost made it.”

  “And what’s this?” Cobb asked as he bent over and picked up the big blond wig that lay in the snow a foot or so from the body.

  “That’s the wig she wore fer the customer.”

  “It looks like some sort of stage-wig,” Cobb said to Withers. “And that dress of hers looks like the costume from some play.”

  “But she had the wig on her head, I’d say,” Withers said. “It just toppled off when she fell here.”

  “So we’ve got another blond woman with her throat slashed,” Cobb said.

  “And it looks like the same knife, I’d say, although I’ll need to examine the wound carefully to be sure – back at my surgery.”

  “Somebody don’t like prostitutes,” Cobb said, gazing sadly down at the lifeless body. “Any guess as to the time of death?”

  “Well, rigor has subsided, even in this weather, so I’d say early this morning or late last night.”

  “I should be able to track her movements anyway, and pin down the time.”

  “You gonna look for bootprints?” Withers asked.

  “If I can find any prints,” Cobb said, glancing at the crowd. “But it snowed fer an hour last evenin’. All the traffic has come from the brothel side of the alley. I’ll go down the other direction. If the killer went east, I could pick up a trail.”

  Cobb set off. Twenty feet past the body and the mass of footprints left by the onlookers, he found what he was searching for: a single set of giant bootprints. They swerved left at the end of the alley and went farther east up a second alley. He tracked them to where it opened onto Jarvis Street. There he bent down and looked closely at them. The star-shaped pattern was unmistakable. The same person had killed both young women.

  The trail now went cold. Just before it did, Cobb noticed that the killer appeared to have been shuffling about at the end of the alley, as if waiting for the coast to clear on Jarvis Street before venturing out. Cobb stepped onto Jarvis and searched amongst the many competing sets of prints for any sign of the star shape. He found none. It was as if the killer had suddenly become invisible and vanished, or had somehow taken wing. Cobb was thankful he didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Just as he was turning back into the alley, he noticed, on the Jarvis boardwalk, an object he had overlooked before, half-buried in the snow. It was a white scarf. A gentleman’s silk scarf. He picked it up. On one end it had a monogram: a “P.” He put it in his pcoket. Then he went back to the scene of the crime. The coroner had left, but Wilkie was now present and keeping the curious at bay.

  Cobb addressed them – a cross-section he guessed, of the denizens of Devil’s Acre: gamblers, bootleggers, pimps, whores and worse. “Did anyone here see anythin’ in the night? Or hear anythin’ unusual?”

  “We wouldn’t pay it no mind if we did,” one of the men answered. “There’s lots of strange noises in Devil’s Acre at night.”

  “But we don’t go ‘round killin’ each other!” a woman shouted. “What’re the police gonna do about it, eh?”

  “Oh, they don’t give a damn about us up here,” another added. “To them we’re just riff raff.”

  “We are doin’ everythin’ we can to find the killer,” Cobb said. “But I’ve got to get a witness, don’t I? And I need yer cooperation.”


  “I’ll wait here fer the undertaker,” Wilkie said, happy to be just an ordinary constable.

  “In the meantime, I’ll go on down to the brothel,” Cobb said

  Nell joined him and they walked slowly back towards Madame LaFrance’s place.

  As they neared it, Cobb said, “Were you and Sarie friends?”

  “We was. The best. I never ever thought anythin’ like this could happen, even here. You might get beat up and yer money stolen, but not yer throat cut – like that.”

  “Do you know where Sarie had been?”

  “I’m not allowed to discuss customers. You’ll have to ask Madame LaFrance.”

  “I intend to,” Cobb said.

  ***

  Madame LaFrance brushed a single tear from her eye and offered Cobb a cup of coffee. They were seated in a small den that Madame obviously reserved for herself. It was comfortably furnished and sported a modest fireplace, in which a pleasant fire was now burning. Cobb loosened his collar and accepted the coffee.

  “Two of my girls murdered in cold blood,” Madame sighed. “I’ve been here four years and never had one of my girls assaulted, let alone murdered. What is going on, Mr. Cobb?”

  “I intend to find out, ma’am,” Cobb said, sipping his coffee. “But I need yer help.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You can tell me where Sarie Hickson was last night and explain why she was walkin’ alone through Devil’s Acre.”

  Madame LaFrance put her coffee down. “I don’t see how that can help you catch a knife-wielding fiend.”

  “I need to know the time of death. When I find that, I’m goin’ to have several constables turn this place upside down lookin’ fer witnesses. Someone saw or heard somethin’.”

  “Well, if you must know, Sarie was out visiting a client. I let my girls do private sessions in gentlemen’s homes, provided I know who they are and how they’ll behave.”

  “So Sarie was at a gentleman’s house, carryin’ out her duties?” Cobb felt a blush ease up his neck.

  “She was scheduled for ten to twelve o’clock. She left here at nine-forty or so. I assume she left the job at midnight, as usual.”

  “The gentleman in question could tell me so, couldn’t he?”

  Madame looked wary. “I don’t see any need for you to know who he was.”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “As you know, I don’t know his real name. The arrangements were made in the name he uses here. We have his address only.”

  “What was his name here?”

  “Sir Lancelot.”

  Gardiner Clough, thought Cobb. “That will do,” he said.

  “You can’t think a gentleman had anything to do with this?”

  “Tell me, were the other two Cavaliers here last night?”

  Something like panic flitted across Madame’s face. “They were.”

  “What time did they leave?”

  In a voice just above a whisper, she replied, “Just past midnight.”

  Cobb reached for his coat and pulled the white scarf from his pocket. “Do you recognize this?”

  Madame looked at the scarf. “Many gentlemen have silk scarves like that,” she said.

  “But do they have a ‘P’ on them?” Cobb said, flashing the monogram.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at!”

  “I’m thinkin’ that ‘P’ could stand fer Pugh, the real name of Sir Gawain.”

  Madame looked as if she wished to clamp both hands over her ears. “My gentlemen are gentlemen!” she cried, much exercised. “Not cutthroats!”

  “I picked up this scarf not two blocks from where we found the body.”

  “Then you’ll have to ask the owner your questions, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do that, ma’am. Thanks fer the coffee.”

  “When can we have the body?” Madame asked. “I figure on burying Sarie properly, seeing as she had no real mom or dad.”

  “Later today, I imagine. As soon as Doc Withers gets through examin’ it.”

  Madame LaFrance nodded, then turned to stare at the fire. Cobb let himself out.

  ***

  Cobb knocked on the front door of banker Pugh’s residence. Smithers answered it.

  “The tradesman’s entrance is around back,” he said, nose in the air.

  “I’m a detective with the police,” Cobb said, liking the sound of that phrase.

  “You have to use the rear entrance.”

  “What I haveta do is speak with Mr. Pugh – immediately. On police business. Is he in?”

  “I’ll inquire,” Smithers said. Then as if he couldn’t help himself he added, “Sir.”

  Smithers left Cobb cooling his heels for a good five minutes. He returned and said stiffly, “The master’s in the library, and he has graciously agreed to see you.”

  Cobb followed Smithers and eventually arrived in said library. Pugh was standing by one of the shelves, fingering a leather-bound tome.

  “Well, Constable, what is it this time?” he said, his eye still on the book.

  “There’s been another murder, sir.”

  Pugh put the book down. “What do you mean, another murder?”

  “Another young woman, sir. Sarie Hickson. Found not too far from the first one. Had her throat slashed. Bled to death.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but what has it got to do with me?”

  “You were in Devil’s Acre last night. At Madame LaFrance’s.”

  “I don’t know how you found that out, but it’s none of your business. And I trust you’ll keep that information to yourself.”

  Ah, yes, Cobb thought. The wife was not to know. “But you were there and left about midnight.”

  “I have no idea what time I left.”

  “Madame LaFrance says it was midnight.”

  “Then that’s the time I left, isn’t it? I hope you aren’t playing games with me. I am not amused by your interrogations.”

  “Did you go straight home?”

  “On my usual route, yes.”

  Cobb withdrew the silk scarf. “Is this yours, sir?”

  Pugh looked startled. He came across the room and took the scarf in his hands. “I have half a dozen white silk scarves, Constable. So has every gentleman in town.”

  “But notice the monogram on this one.”

  Pugh looked at the capital “P.” He did not flinch. “None of my scarves is monogrammed. This cannot be mine.”

  “Then you will not refuse when I ask you to show me the gloves you normally wear when you go out in this weather.”

  “What are you driving at? I’ve already told you I didn’t lose a glove three nights ago.”

  “Then you won’t mind showin’ me the ones you didn’t lose.”

  “I have several pairs the same. But since you insist, I’ll humour you. But I shall have to report your behaviour to your superior, Mr. Bagshaw.”

  “I’ll wait,” Cobb said.

  Pugh left the room and came back several minutes later. He had a pair of leather gloves in his hand. He thrust them at Cobb. Cobb took the glove he had found in the alley out of his other pocket. He examined it closely, next to the ones given him by Pugh.

  “You see,” Pugh said, “I have a matched pair.”

  “But this one I brought is exactly the same kind of glove,” Cobb said. “Somewhere you’ve got the missin’ mate.”

  Pugh leaned forward and put both hands on the library table, seething with anger.

  “You were in that alley where Sally Butts was killed,” Cobb said, “and you were loose in Devil’s Acre about the time that Sarie Hickson was comin’ back from her appointment – ”

  “Oh, damn it, all right!” Pugh cried suddenly. “I was near the alley where Sally was killed! Are you satisfied?”

  “I see,” Cobb said, as surprised as he was happy that he had elicited this admission. “But you didn’t kill the girl?”

  “Of course, I didn’t, you fool! I was infatuated with her. Besotted with
her.” He drew a deep breath and said, “I was at the near end of the alley. I saw Sally towards the far end. And there was between us a huge man in a black overcoat wearing enormous boots. I saw him go up behind her and grab her around the chest. I cried out and ran towards her. The dark figure continued on up the alley and disappeared around the corner. I went to Sally. Her throat had been slashed. She was dying. I panicked. I thought I might be accused of killing her because everybody at the brothel knew I was obsessed with her. I ran back the way I came and sneaked off home by another route.”

  “So the killer was a tall man with large boots?”

  “And a fur hat.”

  “And you’re sure this ain’t yer scarf?”

  Pugh shook his head. Cobb was almost inclined to believe him. Certainly his description of the killer fitted with the bootprints and their size. It didn’t seem probable that Pugh was making all this up. And Pugh, as a discreet glance at the fellow’s feet confirmed, had fairly small feet. Still, he wasn’t fully in the clear as far as Cobb was concerned. The extra big boots could have been worn by anybody. But he realized he was not going to get anything more out of the man this day. He had a lot though. He was pretty certain he now knew what the killer looked like.

  He left quietly, avoiding Smithers.

  ***

  Carswell, Gardiner Clough’s butler, was not standoffish at all. He seemed to be expecting Cobb, for he ushered him straight in. Then, ignoring the main hall, he took him by a roundabout route to the kitchen, where Clough, angular and haggard-looking, was sitting beside the stove.

  “Why the secrecy?” Cobb said, coming over, removing his coat and helmet, and sitting on a wooden chair opposite Clough.

  “The wife,” Clough said.

  Cobb had found out a little about Clough from Bagshaw, who took it upon himself to know what needed to be known about his betters. Clough had once been an active barrister, but had married rich and was living nicely off his wife’s income. And, Cobb assumed, she would not approve of his peccadilloes.