“I do realize all this – ”
“If these gentlemen are bullied and battered in the witness-box on Monday morning and afternoon,” Dr. Baldwin said, “even as the debate on the attachments is proceeding a few blocks away, we may not be able to hold the moderates to our cause.”
“What we fear,” Hincks said, equally solemn now, “is that the moderate Tories will hear of four of their own being accused of murder by an advocate who for better or worse has been working hard-in-glove with Reformers and Durhamites for the past six months.”
“And it is quite probable that they will decide enough is enough,” Dr. Baldwin added, “and begin circling the wagons. If so, then voting in favour of disabling attachments to the bill will prove irresistible.”
“And we don’t need to tell you that the future of the province hinges on the bill surviving intact,” Hincks said.
Suddenly Marc was finding it difficult to breathe.
Robert looked at his young friend and protégé with a face that was as grave and stricken as it was every year on the anniversary of his wife’s death. “I know what we are asking of you, Marc. It pains me beyond measure. But I can find no other option if the province we love is to be made a place for our children to thrive in.”
“You’re asking me to – ”
“I am. I want you to consider abandoning your proposed defense for Brodie.”
“But the lad’s innocent!”
“I know. And we desperately want to have him acquitted,” Robert sighed. Much of the old melancholy had crept back into his face. “What we are asking, Marc, is that you find another way to save him.”
Marc’s lips went numb. He felt as if the book-lined walls were about to collapse inward and crush him – like the ramparts at Gaza.
EIGHTEEN
Marc was still numb when he crossed Front Street and began drifting westward along the broad, grassy expanse that paralleled the shoreline of the bay and permitted the town’s worthiest ratepayers an uninterrupted view of blue water, bluer sky, and the picturesque island-spit. Fishing boats with big-bellied sails still plied the lake, and several had already returned from an early-morning excursion to sell their catch to the fishmongers, whose wooden stalls dotted the beach and whose cries sang the virtues of perch or whitefish or, on a lucky day, sturgeon. Marc did not hear them as he wandered among those who had come down to the shore to buy their breakfast, take the “sea” air, or simply appraise the scenery from one of the many benches or tree-stumps set out for that purpose. Marc sat down on one of these at the foot of York Street, and tried to think.
Robert’s proposal had been delivered in the form of a request, but it was no such thing. To ask someone to choose between saving the life of one man, innocent or not, at the expense of the well-being of all those in the province who wished their children and grandchildren to have a country worth living in – was no choice at all. And Marc was not just any man; he was a barrister. He was ethically bound to offer his client the best defense possible – and that, with the assistance of Beth and Cobb, he had been able to do. After consulting with Robert this morning, his intention had been to go straight to the jail to bring Brodie the good news that he now had every reasonable chance of being acquitted, for his barrister had moved Heaven and Earth to produce five suspects with motive and opportunity – and now they had supporting evidence strong enough to convince a judge and jury. But that defense, the only viable one, was no longer an option. Somehow he would have to stand by and watch Brodie be convicted. Somehow he would have to find the courage to look him in the eye afterwards.
Marc knew it was too early to catch Cobb in The Cock and Bull, so he remained seated on the bench and waited for him to come down Bay Street along his regular day-patrol. He didn’t have to wait long. Cobb spotted him first, and crossed Front Street, dodging horse-carts, pack-mules and pedestrians heading towards the Saturday market.
“Mornin’, major,” he said, coming up to the bench. “Somebody die?”
Marc motioned for Cobb to sit beside him. “No, but somebody we know is about to.”
From that cryptic remark, Marc went on to tell Cobb exactly what had transpired in Francis Hincks’ library. Cobb listened with increasingly large intakes of breath and rueful shakes of the head.
“So all the diggin’ we done to help Brodie is fer nothin’?” he said when Marc had finished.
“Yes. And I’ve got till Monday morning to develop a new defense, and even if I manage to get my mind to work, I don’t think it’s possible to come up with one.” He grabbed Cobb by the shoulders, and shouted, “Goddammit, Cobb, it’s not right! How can we live in a country that lets innocent young men go to the gallows like lambs to the slaughter!”
“Jesus, major, I ain’t the hangman!”
Marc stopped shaking his partner and dropped his hands disconsolately to his side. “I’m sorry, old friend. You’ve worked harder and risked more than any of us.”
“Risked the family jewels,” Cobb said.
Marc smiled weakly. “So you did.”
“I ain’t never seen you as low as this. You’re givin’ me a fright. We ain’t done yet, are we? All we gotta do is get that peahead, Peck, to remember who made the death-threat. If you know who the killer is, you c’n call him to the stand first an’ have a free run at him. You could even call Nestor right off an’ scare the bejeezus outta the killer before he gets up there. That way, we won’t be ruinin’ anybody who don’t deserve to be ruined, an’ there’ll be enough evidence to back you up – so it won’t look like a political hatchet-job.”
Marc’s smile broadened. “We’ll make a lawyer out of you yet. And you’re perfectly correct in your thinking here. The problem is getting Nestor to remember that name. He has every reason to do so, but can’t. Still, we have to try.”
“We could put him on the rack!”
“And break the few bones he still has intact?”
“There’s other ways, ya know. Up in Irishtown there’s a fella that does magic tricks an’ the like at the hooer-houses, an’ one of his tricks is to mesmerize customers an’ make them do things even sillier than the ones they usually do in there. They tell me he can make people remember what they think they’ve forgot.”
“I doubt that Nestor is a candidate for hypnotism.”
“Alright, then I’ll head up to Nestor’s hovel an’ tear it up board by board. It could be that note is hidden somewheres we didn’t look. Then we’d have the killer’s own writin’ to bring to the judge.”
“It would certainly help to have an extortion-note with a death-threat on the back.”
“Well, then, I’ll go straight there now. An’ then I’ll beetle into Irishtown an’ have a look fer the mesmerizer.”
Cobb was beginning to work up some genuine excitement, mainly to try and raise Marc’s spirits, but he noticed that his partner had drifted into a brown study. Marc was staring out at the island as if some solution to the problem lay encrypted in the branches of its leafless trees. When he turned back to Cobb, he too was excited.
“That death-threat on the reverse side of Duggan’s blackmail-note is the key to this whole business,” he said.
“But we ain’t got it – yet.”
“Ah, but you see, old friend, we don’t actually need to hold it in our hands.”
“Whaddya mean? You plannin’ on a little ledger-domain?”
“No. I’m counting on the fact that only we and the killer know of its existence.”
“An’ Nestor.”
“Exactly. Can you get Wilkie or one of the part-timers to cover your patrol for the next hour or two?”
“Wilkie can’t be roused once he’s asleep, but I can get somebody else.”
“Great. Meet me in an hour at your house.”
“You figured out another way?”
“I have. But we’ve got to hurry.”
Cobb got up, started to trot off, then stopped and turned back to Marc. “You still want me to go up to Pokewood Manner tonight
?”
“Yes, definitely. For what I have in mind, we’ll need our suspects completely relaxed and off-guard. After tonight it won’t matter whether you keep on acting or not.”
“Okay, major. I’ll go. And I have to say, I ain’t hated it as much as I thought I would.”
***
Cobb was waiting for Marc when he arrived at the Parliament Street cottage.
“He’s in the kitchen” Cobb said, “eatin’ everythin’ but the fryin’ pans.”
Dora was just serving Nestor a plate of crisp back-bacon and four fried eggs when Marc and Cobb burst in.
“Finish up yer vitals, Nestor,” Cobb said, “an’ then come inta the parlour. You got work to do.”
Dora grinned. “We’re startin’ to fatten him up – fer Sunday dinner.”
“I can’t do no liftin’,” Nestor complained without looking up or interrupting the regular see-sawing of his fork.
“We’ve got something a lot more interesting,” Marc said.
***
Ten minutes later found Nestor seated between Marc and Cobb at Dora’s little writing-table in the parlour, upon which were spread out several sheets of stationery, a jar of ink, and a quill-pen. Marc had finished sketching out his plan to Cobb while they were waiting, and both men were highly excited, a state that prompted nothing but anxiety in Nestor.
Marc began: “Nestor, you are going to help us catch the man who killed your cousin. I want you to do precisely what I tell you, without asking any questions. Is that clear?”
“I ain’t gonna be stickin’ my neck out, am I? ‘Cause I don’t think I could manage that in my – ”
“You’ll manage whatever we tell ya to manage!” Cobb said.
“The alternative,” Marc said, “is for you to be subpoenaed to testify in court on Monday afternoon.”
That did the trick. Nestor shut up, and contented himself with looking aggrieved.
“The killer, as you informed us yesterday, wrote Albert a death-threat on the back of Albert’s own extortion-note. As far as the killer knows, that note is still in existence. He may even have gone over to your house and searched for it. And the killer now knows not only who Albert Duggan was, he knows who he lived with – thanks to the newspaper accounts and the very public trial. What we’re planning to do is set a trap for him – and you’re going to be the bait.”
“The bait! But I’m a sick man, I nearly – ”
“Shut up an’ do what you’re told!” Cobb hissed. “Brodie Langford ain’t gonna hang just because you’re a snivellin’ coward!”
Nestor began to tremble, but had no other response.
“Take the pen there and write out on a sheet of paper precisely what I tell you to,” Marc said.
“But I can’t spell,” Nestor protested as he took the pen in hand.
“I’m counting on that,” Marc said. Then, as Marc dictated, slowly and word by word, Nestor scratched away beside him:
Shutelwerth
I’m back in town and I got that note yu sent to
my cuzzin, Mr Duggen. I no yu kilt him. I’l sell yu the note fer 25
pownds. Cum to the allee behind the cofee howse on Yung and King
at 10 Sunday nite. I’l hav the note. Yu hav the munee.
Nestor Peck
“But what if it ain’t Shuttleworth?” Nestor said, beginning to sense what the scheme involved and trembling accordingly.
“Don’t worry about that,” Marc said. “You’re going to make four more exact copies, except that they’ll be addressed to Tobias Budge, Horace Fullarton, Andrew Dutton and Cyrus Crenshaw.”
“My fingers’ll be worn to a frazzle!”
The ingenuity of Marc’s plan, as he had outlined it for Cobb, was that only the killer would be tempted to respond to such blatant extortion. The others would dismiss Nestor’s note as a crank attempt by the murdered man’s cousin to cash in on the crime. And whatever they might think about the effort, they certainly would not go to the alley behind the British American Coffee House tomorrow night at ten. Nor would they likely tell anyone else about it: each of them had a secret to be kept. Moreover, Nestor’s reference to his having possession of a death-threat note would suggest to them that the cousin had only this bogus means of extortion at his disposal – and not the dastardly secrets Duggan had, mercifully, taken to his grave.
Marc had already reconnoitred the alley. It was a perfect location. The coffee house would long be closed, and the street dark and quiet. The alley could be entered at the south end from King Street or at the north end from its junction with the east-west service lane. And the buildings that formed the sides of the alley had numerous ells and alcoves where a man could remain out of sight and still command a view along its entire length.
It took Nestor fifteen minutes of scratching, dipping, blotting and complaining to complete the five separate copies required. Marc then folded each, tucked it into an envelope and sealed it. He then had Nestor write the addressee’s name on each envelope.
“How can I take a letter, which I don’t have, to this alley?” Nestor said when he was finally finished.
“You’ll take this,” Marc said, and showed Nestor the note he had prepared and which was to substitute for the real thing. “I’ve written a phony name at the top and then smudged it, as if it had got wet. Below it, you’ll see I’ve penned something like the note that Albert sent Brodie.”
XXXXXXXXXX:
Bring the money agen this week to the
usual place. I mean bisness. You won’t want to be ruined.
“And on the other side I’ve composed a death-threat of sorts.”
“An’ you think some guy’s gonna give me twenty-five pounds fer this?”
“He is,” Marc said, “or I’ve misjudged him.”
“You try an’ run off with the money and I’ll break both yer legs!” Cobb added.
“But what happens if the fella peeks at the letter an’ knows right off it ain’t the one he wrote?”
“It won’t matter. Once there’s been an exchange – witnessed by Cobb and me, who’ll be hidden nearby – then we move in and arrest him.”
“But what if he just comes there without the money to beat me to death like he did poor Albert?”
“That’s a chance I’m willin’ to take,” Cobb grinned. “An’ then we’ll know fer sure we got the killer, won’t we?”
“Actually, Nestor, there’s little risk of that happening. Albert was killed in a sudden, unplanned burst of fury. I don’t believe we’re dealing with a hardened killer. All he needs to do is buy that note, expecting that Brodie will be convicted by Tuesday, after which it won’t matter if you go to the police or try further extortion, for who would believe you without the note as evidence?”
“You fellas’ll be close by, eh? You won’t let me get hurt?”
“’Course not,” Cobb said. “Right now, you’re the most valuable person we know.”
“An’ just how’re these letters gonna get themselves delivered?”
“They’re going to be delivered by hand,” Marc said. “Under cover of darkness. Tonight. By you.”
Nestor had to be helped to his room.
***
While Cobb went off to the near-dress rehearsal of The Dream Sequence (in style via taxicab with a donkey’s head tucked underneath his arm), Marc prepared to have the extortion-notes delivered. First of all, at Beth’s suggestion, Marc disguised himself by borrowing a large overcoat and tradesman’s cap from Jasper Hogg next door. Further deception was provided by Jasper’s horse and buggy, the latter having a leather canopy under which Marc and Nestor could huddle and remain inconspicuous. Nestor himself was suited up in a pair of Cobb’s overalls, a cotton shirt and a wool sweater. The only boots that would fit his shrivelled feet were a pair belonging to young Fabian Cobb. This outfit, however, was not intended to disguise Nestor, for, as Marc explained to him upon setting out, Nestor was to dash up to the front door of the designated house, shove the envelope under the
door, then turn and flee. If someone – maid or butler – were to hear him, fling open the door and spot him scuttling off into the thin moonlight, all the better, as long as he wasn’t caught. Any report of a scruffy scarecrow of a fellow hightailing it into the shadows was certain to add authenticity to the ruse they were perpetrating.
It was eight-thirty when they set out. A quarter-moon in a clear sky provided just enough light for them to carry out their plan as conceived. First, they headed up Sherbourne Street. A few hundred yards from Oakwood Manor, Marc pulled over to the side of the road and brought the horse to a halt in some deep shadow.
“All right, Nestor. Here’s Sir Peregrine’s envelope. Walk along the road, keeping to this side in the dark. When you come to the gate, slip in towards the house – not on the gravelled path but beside it and out of sight. Go up to the verandah, make a bit of noise as you’re doing so, and push the envelope under the front door. Give the door a kick, then run into the woods on this side of the property. It’s not dense, so all you have to do is look up at the slice of moon there. It’s in the south-eastern sky. Follow your nose till you hit this road again. I’ll swoop by and pick you up.”
Nestor, who had been too frightened to speak since they had left Cobb’s house, tried one last time to register a protest, but failed.
“Don’t worry,” Marc said. “Just do as I’ve suggested and you’ll be fine.” Very gently he lifted Nestor up off the padded seat and dropped him feet-first onto the ground. “Go!”
Nestor went. Soon he was zigzagging along the shadow-ridden verge of Sherborne Street north.
A good twenty-five minutes went by. Fifteen minutes should have been more than enough time for the task to be completed. Surely the entire Shuttleworth household would be too focussed on their rehearsal-in-costume to notice the arrival of Nestor at the front door, however clumsy he might be. But Marc was worried, and not sure what he could do to help. He couldn’t leave the buggy and go wandering into the woods after Nestor and he couldn’t risk driving up to the gate. While he was still searching for a third option, he heard the sound of footfalls crashing through the underbrush nearby. They had a desperate ring to them. Marc stepped down to the side of the road just as Nestor staggered out of the darkness. His face was as white as the moon.
Desperate Acts Page 27
