Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  Nestor looked smug for a second – at the naïveté of the question. “Nobody in a whore-house that caters to gentlemen ever breathes a word of what goes on in there or who does what to who.”

  “So, your cousin had the goods on Sir Peregrine and Horace Fullarton,” Marc said. “Did you never think to ask what, if anything, he planned to do with this information? After all, it doesn’t sound like the sort of thing one would use to ingratiate oneself with the rich and powerful. Moreover, you’ve insisted that he wormed it out of you.”

  “I did begin to wonder. Especially when he got to braggin’ one night that he’d dug up dirt on some other people all by himself.”

  “Did he say who?”

  “Uh huh. He told me when he lived in Montreal he had a lot of girl friends. One of ‘em was a maid to a Mrs. Ramsay.”

  Marc and Cobb looked at each other, and braced themselves.

  “Albert said she told him in bed one afternoon that Mrs. Ramsay had a baby girl that she was tellin’ everybody was adopted from the country. But she knew fer a fact it was a bastard child of Miss Ramsay, the sister-in-law, got with a French rebel who was killed in the war.”

  Marc sighed. So, Duggan’s threat had been real after all. Servants always knew more than their masters thought they did. But had Brodie known? If so, his motive for doing Duggan serious harm intensified. He hated the idea of having to ask the lad. But if Nestor did end up on the witness-stand, Marc had to know every sordid bit of the truth.

  “He said this maid also told him she’d seen a letter from Miss Ramsay, who was livin’ here in the city. In it she said she’d met a wonderful man, who was a banker an’ had a fine house.”

  “In other words, he was rich.”

  “That’s what Albert said. He admitted he’d come to Toronto hopin’ he might be able to use this secret to help him start a new life.”

  “He did, did he?” Cobb scoffed.

  “But he didn’t tell me he was gonna shake him down fer money! Honest!”

  “Who else had he managed to set up for possible extortion?” Marc said.

  “Well, he spent a lot of time chattin’ people up in the pubs around town. An’ one day in September, he told me later, he’d met an old fella in The Crooked Anchor who’d been in the militia an’ fought a long time ago in the war with the States. Albert got him good an’ drunk, an’ the fella got to reminiscin’ about his glory days, an’ one of the tales he had to tell – ”

  “Involved a certain Corporal Crenshaw who was shot for cowardice,” Marc said, to Nestor’s amazement.

  “Why are you askin’ me the questions?” he said.

  “Just shut up an’ answer them,” Cobb said. “You ain’t outta the woods yet.”

  “Well, it was about Cyrus Crenshaw’s papa, and I stupidly blabbed about who he was – runnin’ the candle-factory an’ livin’ in a fancy brick house.”

  “You got a healthy supply of stupidity,” Cobb said.

  “We have reason to believe that your cousin was also blackmailing Andrew Dutton, the retired lawyer. Did Albert have anything on him?”

  “Oh, that. Well, one day Albert come home all excited, sayin’ he’d just found out that that fella was livin’ here in town. I asked him why that made him so happy, an’ he said his job in Montreal was workin’ in the asylum there – the place where they keep the worst of the loonies. One day, he said, a lady who was as mad as a hatter got sick an’ died. An’ Albert bein’ Albert had got himself a key to the files, which he said he liked to read fer his amusement – ”

  “Jesus, Nestor, ain’t you got one brain to rattle around in that empty skull of yers?” Cobb said with much disgust.

  Nestor ignored the insult. “Anyways, he knew this old lady’s name was Mrs. Felicity Dutton an’ the file said she’d been put in the asylum by her husband, Andrew Dutton, a while back, but nobody knew where he’d got to.”

  “Until Duggan found him here and checked him out,” Marc said. “I’ll bet he was more than excited when he learned Andrew Dutton was alive and well in Toronto – and had married a second time. Making him a bigamist.”

  “Jesus,” Cobb said, “is there no end to all this?”

  “There’s Tobias Budge,” Marc said.

  “I don’t know anythin’ about Mr. Budge!” Nestor cried, blinking fiercely at the obvious lie. “He’s been real good to me, givin’ me a job when nobody else would. And if I ever did know anythin’ bad about him, which I don’t, I’d never tell – ”

  “It’s all right, Nestor,” Marc soothed. “It doesn’t matter. From what we already know about Albert and the Budges, your cousin most likely found out what he needed to know without your help.”

  Nestor choked back a sob. “But I ain’t got that job no more, have I?”

  Cobb wanted to say something sharp about cowards running away to the bush, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. What he did say was, “So yer so-called cousin had the goods on half a dozen honest citizens an’ you never guessed he was in the blackmailin’ business?”

  “Not until the night before he got himself killed,” Nestor said.

  “He told you then what he was up to?’ Marc said.

  Nestor nodded, sniffled and said, “We was sittin’ in the cottage drinkin’, an’ Albert starts braggin’ about how we’re soon gonna be rich as Creases. When I laugh, thinkin’ it’s a joke, he gets real mad. He stomps inta his room an’ comes out with a piece of paper in his paw, wavin’ it in front of my face. ‘It’s easy as pokin’ a hooer,’ he says. ‘I just send ‘em a note like this, tell ‘em where to leave the money, then I sneak up an’ grab it. The poor slobs’ve got no idea who’s fleecin’ ‘em!’”

  “You saw one of his extortion-notes?’ Marc said.

  “Not right then. When I figured out what he was tellin’ me, I got so scared I started to shake. I told him he’d get caught, an’ go to jail – an’ I might haveta go with him. When he wouldn’t listen about that, I told him it was a dangerous business. I said one of them bigwigs or his henchman could hang around till he grabbed the money an’ do him some real harm, maybe even kill him.”

  “But he ignored your warning?” Marc said.

  “He laughed again. He said one of them donkeys’d already threatened to kill him if he didn’t stop, an’ he showed me the paper to prove it.”

  Marc went very still, and heard the intake of Cobb’s breath. “Go on, Nestor,” he said quietly.

  “I read it. It was a death-threat alright, and it sounded serious.”

  “Was it signed?”

  “Oh, no. But the writin’ was pretty fancy.”

  “Had this person discovered who the blackmailer was?”

  “Oh, no, nothin’ like that. The promise to kill him was written out on the back of one of Albert’s own notes, the ones he used to make sure they’d keep on payin’. It come wrapped up with the money.”

  “In that case,” Marc said, glancing at Cobb, who also understood the significance of this startling revelation, “the name of the person making the threat would likely appear on that side of the note as the addressee, wouldn’t it?”

  Nestor looked abashed. “I did have a peek at that part ‘cause I recollect bein’ curious about how Albert managed to scare these people into shellin’ out their money.”

  “And?”

  “And I can’t remember which of the bigwigs it was addressed to.”

  “Jesus, Nestor. What’s the matter with you?” Cobb yelled, causing Nestor to jump and nearly tumble off the cot. “This fella’s gotta be the bastard who did yer cousin in! An’ you sit there an’ tell us you can’t remember his name!”

  Nestor sobbed, and put his head in his hands. “I already tried to, Cobb. I thunk about it fer two awful weeks out there in the bush. But I was drunk that night, an’ Albert snatched the paper back before I could do much but give it a quick peek. I tell ya, I just can’t remember.”

  “If you thought Albert was in mortal danger,” Marc said, hiding his disappointment, “w
hat did you do the next morning? Did you threaten to go to the police?”

  “When we sobered up, I begged him to give the money back an’ maybe everything’d be okay. He laughed in my face. I asked him where he’d hid the money, an’ he laughed again. He said he’d just got a couple of new fish on the line, an’ things were lookin’ up. An’ he left. And I never saw him again till he got his skull crushed there in the alley.”

  “But you didn’t come to me, did ya?” Cobb said.

  “I was goin’ to, honest, Cobb. I searched everywhere in the house fer the loot, but couldn’t find it: I figured if I got the money an’ hid it myself, I could talk some sense inta him. Then I went to The Sailor’s Arms. Mrs. Budge wanted some furniture moved. I couldn’t let her down, could I? Then I stayed to help out in the bar. An’ then it was all too late.” Nestor couldn’t continue. His sobs were piteous and loud – bringing Dora into the room with a frown on her face.

  “You been abusin’ my patient, Mister Cobb?”

  Cobb sighed. “He’s beyond abusin’.”

  “You get some rest now, Nestor,” Marc said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “He has?”

  “Yes,” Marc said. “He’s given me enough information to ensure that Brodie Langford is acquitted on Monday.”

  ***

  Marc explained it all to Beth over a late supper. They were alone. Charlene had tucked Maggie into her crib and then gone off with Jasper Hogg to a card party at McNair’s house.

  “What Nestor gave us, luv, is proof positive that Duggan was a persistent blackmailer, and that the initials and notations on his secret list – still in my possession – can be related unequivocally to our five ‘possibles.’ What’s more, Nestor knows how Duggan obtained the information he used to extort money and how he set up his scheme. Since it jibes in every respect with the modus operandi used on Brodie, there is no question but that Duggan is the sole blackmailer in each instance.”

  “Slow down an’ eat a little,” Beth said. “You’re so excited you’ll be burnt down to the wick by Monday mornin’.”

  “Of course I’m excited. My tactics will strike that courtroom like a thunderclap! I now have the proofs I need to justify unleashing my alternative-theory defense. I’ll be able to ask Sir Peregrine and the others point blank whether they were being blackmailed. If they lie or evade, I’ll threaten them with proofs and a witness to substantiate them. Then I’ll lay out exactly how each of them had the means and opportunity to rid himself of a ruthless extortionist. Thornton will howl, but when the judge sees Nestor’s affidavit and Duggan’s target-list, he’ll have no choice but to allow me to proceed.”

  “You aren’t gonna reveal them secrets, are you?”

  “I don’t see why I’ll need to. However, they will have to appear in Nestor’s statement, at least those he has independent knowledge of.”

  “He don’t know about Budge and Etta, does he? But I wouldn’t want the world knowin’ about Diana’s baby or poor Horace Fullarton.”

  “I don’t either. Jurors are sworn to secrecy, of course. Even so, I may not, if I’m persuasive enough, have to enter Nestor’s affidavit as evidence, and I’m certainly hoping I’ll not have to put him on the stand. My hope is to be able to use his statement to persuade the judge to let me question the ‘possibles’ vigorously, and suggest that one of them was just as likely to have committed the crime.”

  “I see. An’ have you told Nestor you’re gonna make his talk with you into an affidavit?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Does he know you might have to call him as a witness?”

  “I’m going to tell him tomorrow, when he’s strong enough to accompany me to the magistrate.”

  “What’s gonna stop him from takin’ off again?”

  Marc smiled. “Dora,” he said.

  “So, who are you gonna call up first?”

  “Budge, then Crenshaw. They’re the two prime candidates. Then Shuttleworth, if I have to. I’ll play it by ear from that point on.”

  Beth sipped the last of her lukewarm tea. “It still sounds brutal to me. I wish there was another way.”

  “So do I, luv.”

  “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. A message come fer you a while ago from Robert. He’s not goin’ up to Spadina until noon tomorrow. He says he’ll be happy to see you at nine-thirty in the mornin’.”

  “Wonderful! I’ve now got something worth running by him.”

  “Impressin’ him, ya mean,” Beth said, and smiled.

  ***

  To Marc’s surprise, a maid emerged from the front door of Baldwin House to intercept him and direct him next door to Francis Hincks’ place.

  “They’re waitin’ fer ya in the library,” she said, and hurried back in, out of the cold Saturday sunshine.

  Odd, Marc thought, their meeting over there. And who were “they”? A few moments later, he was shown into the Hincks’ library – a cozy, book-lined room, where, seated along one side of a sturdy, oak table were Robert, Dr. Baldwin and Hincks himself. The door closed discreetly behind him.

  “Come on in, Marc,” Robert said. “Have a seat. We’ve got something very important to discuss.”

  Marc sat down, and noticed that the letter outlining his defense strategy lay open on the table in front of Robert.

  “You received my note, then?” he said.

  “I did,” Robert said. “Thanks for filling me in. I realized you showed it to me in strictest confidence, but I took the liberty of summarizing its contents for my father and Francis. You may rest assured that no word of it will go beyond these walls.”

  Marc was puzzled – by the serious expression on his friends’ faces and by this extraordinary move on Robert’s part. Something very strange was going on.

  “I just wondered if you had any pointers for me when I launch this fusillade on Monday,” he said in a vain attempt at levity.

  “I know,” Robert said. “And it’s your proposed defense that concerns us.”

  “I see. You’re worried about the judge stopping me in my tracks. But something happened last evening to bolster the whole apparatus. An incredible bit of luck, really. I’ve now got a witness who – ”

  “It’s not that,” Robert said. “It’s the strategy itself.”

  Marc looked at Hincks and then at Dr. Baldwin. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me try to explain,” Hincks said. “Yesterday in the Assembly, our colleagues fought a raucous and divisive rearguard action to save the Union Bill. As you know, the principal clauses have already been carried, but the Tory hard-liners are attempting to emasculate them by proposing a series of amendments and, when they fail, a series of attachments and provisos to be sent along with the bill itself to the Governor. If even two or three of these are carried in the Assembly, they will make the bill unsupportable for Poulett Thomson, as it will be incompatible with the one already passed by the Legislative Council and favoured by London.”

  “Clement told me about the language restriction and the tinkering with the franchise, and the business about the capital,” Marc said, trying not to look completely at sea. He couldn’t see what any of this had to do with Brodie Langford.

  “We’ve had a few defections from our coalition,” Dr. Baldwin said. “Some of the moderate conservatives who voted with us earlier seem to think that these attachments are minor matters, and that perhaps they have gone further with us Reformers than they really wished to.”

  “And some friends of the Tories in high places,” Hincks said, “have started a campaign of rumours that Poulett Thomson has made a secret pact with the Durhamites to institute responsible government as soon as the union is a fait accompli.”

  “The last desperate act of desperate men,” Dr. Baldwin said.

  “In short,” Robert said, “we’re going to have to work day and night all weekend to keep the coalition from collapsing on Monday or Tuesday – and undoing what has been accomplished over the past six months. Our problem is further compl
icated by the fact that the Whig government in London is itself on the verge of disintegration. And it is they, as you know, that devised and promoted the Union Bill. If they are thrown out of office and replaced by the Tories, there will be no second chance for us. Reconciliation and responsible government could be dead for a generation or more.”

  “You know I’ll help in any way I can,” Marc said, but the pained expression in Robert’s eyes brought him up short.

  “It’s precisely your help we need,” Hincks said, and turned to Robert. Dr. Baldwin fixed his gaze firmly on the table.

  “Your defense of Brodie on Monday is constructed to enable you to accuse – with plausible motive and demonstrable opportunity – four of Toronto’s notable citizens of cold-blooded murder. To be effective, your strategy must depend on surprise and a relentless, hostile interrogation. If you have, as you now say, probative means to support your allegations and make them seem reasonable to the jury, then you are likely to be successful.”

  “But I don’t – ”

  “And if your are successful, the actual murderer will still remain unidentified, won’t he?” Hincks said. “Which will leave the whole province wondering which of your star witnesses really did the deed – Sir Peregrine, Crenshaw, Fullarton or Dutton? And even if Brodie is found guilty despite your efforts, you’ll have sown enough doubt to ruin the lives of these men for good.”

  “I know,” Marc said. “That’s been a horrific ethical dilemma for me – as a barrister and as a human being. It’s come down to Brodie’s life or theirs.”

  “But these are not ordinary citizens, Marc,” Dr. Baldwin said solemnly, “and these are not ordinary times.”

  “Shuttleworth is a pompous émigré, but he’s become a favourite of Bishop Strachan, dining at the Palace and tithing like a spendthrift,” Hincks said. “Crenshaw is a pathetic social-climber, but he is also a Legislative Councillor. Fullarton is an esteemed banker and usher at St. James, devoted to his crippled wife. Dutton’s father was once an influential member of the Family Compact, and he himself has weathered much tragedy in his personal life.”