Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  “I could finish this letter while you finish thinkin’,” Beth said wryly.

  “Ah, sorry. Yes, I do have lots to tell you.”

  “Let’s go to the parlour, then. Charlene left some coffee on the stove.”

  But they never got to the parlour, the coffee, or their talk. Charlene had just flung open the back door and rushed through the kitchen towards them. Her hair was askew, her sweater tied crookedly across her shoulders.

  “What is it?” Marc said.

  “It’s Etta next door! She’s bleedin’ to death!”

  Beth grabbed Charlene’s arm to steady her. “She’s cut herself?”

  “Oh, no. She’s bleedin’ . . . you know . . . down here.”

  Beth looked relieved and Charlene mortified as the girl aimed two fingers towards the lower half of her apron.

  “Jasper’s gone fer the doctor,” Charlene said, “but Etta’s callin’ fer you.”

  “I think we’ll need Dora as well,” Beth said. “You run over to Parliament Street an’ fetch her, as fast as you can, and after you put yer coat on. I’ll go over to Hogg’s an’ see what I c’n do to help.”

  “Her mom’s just wailin’ an’ pullin’ at her hair.”

  “Just go!” Beth said. “Please.”

  Charlene disappeared back through the kitchen.

  “Yer coat, Charlene!”

  Marc, who was beginning to feel like a third thumb, said, “What about Maggie?”

  “You’ll have to stay with her, luv. I’ll need Charlene over there as soon as she gets back with Dora.”

  Before Marc could say he’d be happy to do that, Beth kissed him on the cheek and said, “Don’t worry, she’s sound asleep.”

  With that, she flew out the front door, coatless.

  Just as the door banged shut, Maggie Edwards decided to wake up. Apparently she was not happy, and began to communicate her discontent – loudly.

  ***

  When Beth got back an hour and a half later, she found Marc dozing in the rocking-chair beside an embering fire. Maggie was asleep in his arms, teething on one of her father’s forefingers. Beth lifted the baby gently from Marc’s grip, changed her nappy, and tucked her into the cradle nearby.

  “How’s Etta?” Marc said sleepily.

  “She’s fine,” Beth said, slipping across to Marc and kneeling down beside the rocking-chair. “She did lose some blood, but Dora got it stopped quickly enough. She’s a wonder, that woman, as you know.”

  “And Dr. Pogue?”

  “He arrived in time to feel Etta’s forehead an’ leave his bill.”

  “What was wrong with her?”

  “Well,” Beth sighed, “a lot more than blood come outta her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Etta had a miscarriage.”

  “My God! But that’s not possible, is it? The girl has no boy friends and – ”

  “That wee blob – about two months old, Dora said – wasn’t put in there by immaculate conception.”

  Marc was, at last, fully awake – with his antennae twitching. “Did she say who?” he said slowly.

  “Yes, an’ you’ll never guess.”

  “I think perhaps I can: Tobias Budge.”

  “Been playin’ investigator, have you?” Beth smiled. Then she frowned and added, “Her employer, eh, who was damn quick to dismiss her as soon as he found out. What a bastard!”

  Marc winced at the word – Beth rarely cursed – but could not disagree with the sentiment it conveyed. “Gillian Budge owns that tavern and the cottage they rent out around the corner on Peter Street. If she finds out about the baby, she’ll toss her mate into the nearest sinkhole, face-first.”

  “It gets worse,” Beth said, getting up to give the fire a poke. “The silly child says she’s in love with him, an’ don’t want us to do anythin’ to hurt him.”

  “How did she keep Jasper from taking a hammer to the man?”

  “It was Charlene. She grabbed him an’ shouted, ‘I don’t want you hanged, too!’”

  “So, even Charlene thinks poor Brodie is a candidate for the noose?”

  Beth pulled up a chair next to Marc. “Does this business have anythin’ to do with Brodie?” she said. “Like the Crenshaw secret?”

  “I believe it does. And it’s a positive effect. As you’ll remember, Tobias Budge has been on our list of suspects from the beginning – Cobb’s choice, I’m sure, as the killer. But he did not appear to have a strong enough motive for bludgeoning Duggan to death. It’s almost certain now that Duggan, who cozied up to Etta at The Sailor’s Arms, was blackmailing Budge over Etta’s pregnancy.”

  “An’ holdin’ on to yer wife an’ yer livelihood are powerful motives.”

  “They are.”

  “But what good does this really do fer Brodie? You plannin’ to beat a confession outta the barkeep?”

  “Much as I’d like to, no. But Cobb’s joining the Shakespeareans up at Oakwood has produced other victims of blackmail who could also have had reason to want Duggan dead.”

  “Like Cyrus Crenshaw over that war-hero business?”

  “Exactly. And we owe that discovery to you. And this one, too.”

  “But I still don’t see how any of this is gonna be of practical use.”

  “Then it’s time I told you about the defense I’m preparing for Brodie.”

  ***

  As he had done so many times for Beth in the past, Marc recounted the facts and theories of the case he was working on. In this instance it took him nearly half an hour (while Maggie slept on) to flesh out the preliminary notes she had already seen and bring her up to date. He also knew better than to leave anything out, however shocking or sordid. He revealed to her, as gently as he could, the dark secrets that Albert Duggan had so ruthlessly exploited. As was her custom, Beth listened quietly, taking it all in – nodding or shaking her head from time to time.

  “Well, luv, what do you think?”

  Beth looked solemn. “It seems like you’re plannin’ to ruin four lives in order to save one.”

  “That’s putting it rather bluntly. But it’s all I’ve got.”

  “Do you really haveta accuse four people of bein’ a killer in front of the whole court – an’ the whole province when the newspapers have their heyday with it?”

  “I’m hoping not. If I can somehow choose the actual killer and put him up first during my recalls, then I needn’t use the ammunition I’ve got on the other three.”

  “I see. An’ you’re inclined to agree with Cobb about Budge?”

  “Well, what I’ve done in my head – over and over – is try to arrange the suspects according to the strength of their motives. As I’ve worked out the time-line, any one of the five had the opportunity.”

  “The motives all look powerful enough to me. Sir Peregrine won’t want his bigwig friends to think he’s more of a woman than a man. Mr. Crenshaw’s built his life around his father bein’ a war hero, an’ lied about it everywhere. Mr. Fullarton’s afraid the news of his adultery could kill his ailin’ wife. An’ Tobias Budge is set to lose everythin’ he holds dear.”

  Marc smiled grimly. “I do wish you hadn’t such a talent for cutting to the nub of things. Put baldly like that, there’s no way to choose, is there?”

  Beth placed a hand on his wrist. “You could try arrangin’ them in the order of who might be hurt the most or the least.”

  “You’d never make a lawyer, thinking humanely like that. But you may be right anyway. Budge deserves to have his life ruined, even if he turns out not to be the killer. He’s ruined Etta without giving her a second thought.”

  “An’ there’s a good chance his wife knows about Etta by now,” Beth said with a knowing smile. “Women can sense these things.”

  “But Budge wouldn’t’ve known that when he saw Duggan lying out there in the alley.”

  “An’ he may not know yet. She could be waitin’ to use it on him later, if she has to.”

  Marc shook his head at the
intricacies of female reasoning. “And Sir Peregrine,” he continued, “has enough money and stature to survive a revelation about cross-dressing, even if it would cripple his hopes of joining the Family Compact. He doesn’t seem to worry unduly about his wife’s serial and very public affairs. Crenshaw, I do feel sorry for, but he and his pathetic wife are shameless social climbers, who’ve been living a lie. And I really ought to leave Fullarton to last, since Brodie would prefer me to skip him altogether. The man has led an exemplary life and has, according to Brodie, dedicated a large part of it to making his wife’s last years tolerable.”

  “An’ you think Mr. Dutton was bein’ blackmailed too, but you don’t know what for?”

  “True. Even so, his opportunity seems the weakest. Remember that, as far as we can tell, none of Duggan’s victims – except perhaps Budge – knew who he was before that fatal night. So, one of the Shakespeareans coming down those back stairs must have heard Brodie accuse Duggan and concluded that here, a few feet away, was the man who had been fleecing both of them and threatening ruin. Dutton is the least likely to have heard that part of the encounter.”

  “Unless Duggan woke up an’ argued with his attacker.”

  “Yes. That is a remote possibility.”

  “An’ you’re sure there’s no other way to defend Brodie?”

  Marc hesitated, then said carefully, “It’s conceivable that tomorrow, as I get to cross-examine the ‘possibles,’ as I call them, I may be able to shake up the details of their eye-witness accounts enough to throw doubt on what they saw and how they interpreted it. If the jury finds them confused or uncertain, then, if I can in my summation convince them that Brodie’s statement is a more accurate and credible account of what happened – that might be sufficient. Especially when Fullarton and Dutton will have provided strong character-references.”

  “But you don’t want to risk it?”

  Marc paused before saying, “I haven’t mentioned yet that I’m being opposed by Kingsley Thornton.”

  Beth let out a long, slow breath. “I see.” And she did, having watched the famous barrister in action last January.

  “Whatever I do to shake the eye-witness testimony, Thornton is sure to rebut immediately – with all the cunning and skill he’s developed over decades at the Old Bailey. That’s what I’m truly afraid of.”

  “You’ve faced bullets an’ cannonballs, luv, an’ blizzards, when you had to.”

  Marc nodded, wondering now – as he had during the rebellion and during the nightmarish blizzard he and Beth had barely survived – where courage came from.

  “Brodie’s in good hands,” Beth said, holding his in hers.

  “That’s what Brodie said.”

  FIFTEEN

  Marcus Edwards, counsellor-at-law, tried to look as if he had sat so often on this seat reserved for defense attorneys in the Court of Queen’s Bench that he had become indifferent to its awful majesty. The side-galleries were packed with spectators from town and county, and the benches behind him thick with local dignitaries and fellow members of the legal profession. Robert and Francis Hincks were busy at the Legislature, but Dr. Baldwin and Clement Peachey, the firm’s solicitor, were just two rows back. With a slight movement of his head to the left, Marc could see Beth smiling down upon him with a confidence he himself did not feel. Above her, in the prisoner’s dock, stood Brodie Langford, his own gaze fixed upon Diana Ramsay sitting nervously beside Beth. Marc adjusted his wig for the tenth time and tried to shrug his shoulders more comfortably into the folds of his black gown. He felt much as he had six years before when he had first donned an ensign’s regalia with its jangling accoutrements: a sham unworthy of the uniform. But a uniform, he knew now, was not something you wore, it was a livery of honour you grew into – or not.

  At this point in his thoughts, the clerk stood up to announce the case, and all rose as Justice Gavin Powell entered and took his seat high above them all. It was only then that Marc risked a peek at his formidable adversary standing fifteen feet to his right. Kingsley Thornton, QC, was a tall and elegant gentleman of some fifty-five years, who could grin like a grandfather one moment and scowl like a beadle the next, and whose baritone rumble would not have been amiss in an opera-house. Thornton seemed to sense Marc’s eye upon him, and turned his head just far enough to expose a smile with the merest hint of pity in it.

  Thornton’s opening statement was brief but effective. In a low but well-modulated tone that prompted the jurors to lean forward on their benches, he outlined what he claimed was a simple, straightforward case, implying that the whole business in this courtroom was so clear-cut that it was barely worth their time and attention. A foolish young man, threatened with blackmail, had decided to take the law into his own hands. He had confronted the extortionist, one Albert Duggan, as he arrived to claim his booty, argued with him, struck him on the cheek with his fist, and then, in a further rage, beat the unconscious man to death with his walking-stick. Almost all of these actions were subsequently admitted to in the defendant’s own hand – in a sworn statement at the police quarters – and those he didn’t mention had been observed by no fewer than four eye-witnesses. He (Kingsley Thornton) might even feel sorry for the accused, an apparently upright young bank clerk (as the defense was certain to portray him) who murdered a fellow none of them (the good gentlemen of the jury) would be pleased to associate with. But the right-to-life was sacred under British law. Even blackmailers were entitled to live. And cold-blooded killers must be hanged for depriving them of that right.

  Marc swallowed hard, then stood up to his lectern and faced the jury. With his ironic smile and his final comment, Thornton had neatly undercut Marc’s planned references to Brodie’s exemplary life. Marc decided to omit them. It might be wiser to use his character-witnesses on Monday and build on their testimony in his closing remarks. Rather, he drew the attention of the jurors to two areas where, he said with more bravado than conviction, they would discover serious discrepancies in the Crown’s evidence. First, there would be gaps and inconsistencies in the eye-witness accounts, and, second, the so-called “confession” would be seen to be the most complete and accurate account of the events of that fatal evening, an account that would in and of itself exonerate his client.

  Marc sat down. The faces of the jurors remained impassive. He straightened his wig, then glanced up. Beth beamed him a smile.

  ***

  As expected, the coroner, Dr. Angus Withers, was the first to testify. With admirable efficiency, Kingsley Thornton led him his through his evidence. He focussed on the blow to the cheek, which, Withers said, had cracked the bone and certainly would have been enough to stun the victim or render him unconscious.

  “The two savage blows to the rear of the skull, then, were delivered after the injury to the cheekbone?”

  Marc felt like objecting to the word “savage” but saw little use in doing so. However, he did notice Justice Powell frown at the remark – surely a sign that Thornton’s theatrics would get short shrift here.

  “Definitely,” Withers said. “The first one alone, administered with a blunt instrument, would have killed him instantly – the skull was crushed – and was delivered while the victim was nearly face-down, as I found him when I arrived on the scene. After two deadly strokes such as these, a mere blow to the cheek – made by a fist after the fact – would have been redundant. Moreover, it would have meant the assailant having to turn the body face-up in order to deliver it.”

  “Hence, patently absurd.”

  Marc leaned forward, but the judge said, “I take it, Mr. Thornton, that that was a question, not a comment?”

  “It was intended as such, Milord.”

  Thornton then moved to confirm that the “savage” death-blows had in fact been administered by a walking-stick with a wolf’s-head carved on its knob, said instrument now being offered into evidence.

  “This is definitely the murder-weapon,” Withers said solemnly as the jurors craned forward. “It was found ne
arby, covered with fresh blood, bone fragments and brain matter.”

  The time of death was not much in question, Withers continued, because when he arrived in the alley the body was still warm. Finally, Withers told the court that the victim had been identified at the scene by a Mr. Nestor Peck as Albert Duggan, his cousin from Montreal.

  Thornton turned to the judge and said with a rueful smile, “Mr. Peck is not available to testify to that fact, Milord, because the police tell me he has fled the city.”

  “But no-one has claimed the victim to be other than Albert Duggan?” the judge asked, looking at Thornton and then over at Marc.

  “No, sir,” Thornton said, bowed, and sat down – well satisfied.

  “Do you have any questions for this witness, Mr. Edwards?”

  Marc might have found one or two things to quibble over in Withers’ testimony. For example, it was more likely that Duggan had fallen on his back after the punch to the face, making it probable that he had regained his senses some time later and was then struck from behind – a fact more consistent with Brodie’s written account than that of the eye-witnesses to come. But, then, the wily Thornton would rebut simply by suggesting that Duggan could have fallen backwards and, stunned, have rolled over and away from his assailant, who then struck him with the walking-stick. In watching Dick Dougherty here last January, Marc had learned the wisdom of not pulling your trigger too soon, of biding your time so that when you did pounce, the effect was not only dramatic, but substantive – and irreversible.

  “No questions, Milord.”