Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  “Are you being pursued?” Marc said as Nestor crashed into him and flung both scrawny arms around his waist.

  “N-no,” Nestor stammered. “I got lost.”

  ***

  While Nestor pulled the burrs and nettles out of his hair and his sweater, and muttered under his breath about never again going near the bush or trapper’s cabins, Marc eased the buggy along the back streets until he calculated he was about a block from Horace Fullarton’s place on George Street. He pulled over to one side and pointed out the house, a distinguished, two-storey residence with four chimney-pots.

  “Stay here, well out of sight, Nestor. I’m going to drive past the house and park farther up the street. Deliver the envelope and then run up the road until you see the buggy, then hop on quickly. There’s no need to make a noise in there. We don’t want to disturb Mrs. Fullarton. She’s an invalid.”

  This delivery went off smoothly, if you didn’t count Nestor’s tripping on a rut in the road near the buggy and breaking his fall with a chin.

  Andrew Dutton, who lived farther west on Jarvis, was next. His house was set back in a copse of evergreens, and Nestor, bruised and burred (in addition to his wasp-wounds), was very nervous about going up to it.

  “He’s not at home,” Marc reminded him. “Everybody on our list except Budge is up at Oakwood Manor.”

  Nestor took a deep breath and vanished into the evergreens. Marc moved the buggy down the street about a hundred yards, and waited. Five minutes went by, and no Nestor. Then, to his dismay, Marc heard the blood-lust yodel of dogs on the scent. Above the yowling of the beasts came an even higher-pitched hog-squeal – piteous and unending.

  Marc wheeled the buggy around and raced back towards the entrance to Dutton’s property. Into a sliver of moonlight sprang Nestor Peck, his bony bow-legs pistoning him forward. Marc reached out with his hand, but his assistance was not required. Nestor’s momentum carried him up and into the well of the buggy, where he collapsed in a heap.

  They were almost at The Sailor’s Arms before Nestor was able to state the obvious: “D-dogs,” he said. “A whole pack of ‘em.”

  “But you did deliver the envelope?”

  Nestor grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”

  ***

  Nestor slipped Budge’s envelope under the side door on Peter Street that led to the barkeep’s private quarters. Both mister and missus would be occupied in the taproom into the wee hours, but they would see the note in the morning. If Gillian found it, Tobias might have some explaining to do, but Marc figured he was good at that sort of thing. The final drop was made at Crenshaw’s place up on York Street north, where Nestor was actually chased for thirty yards by a burly but slow-moving servant.

  Marc praised Nestor’s courage, and assured him that everything would go well Sunday evening when phase two of the plan would be executed. Then he took him to Cobb’s house. There he was put back into Dora’s care, where he calmed his nerves with two platters of ham and eggs.

  ***

  After church on Sunday, Marc walked down to the jail and asked to see Brodie. If the lad was anxious, he did not show it. Calvin Strangway had kindly allowed Diana Ramsay to visit several times on Saturday, bringing him food and drink. But it was her company and her faithfulness that were keeping the young man’s spirits as high as could be expected. Without going into details, Marc told him that he and Cobb had hatched a plot to entrap the murderer. If it worked, all would be well in the morning. If not, Marc assured him that they still had a solid strategy to fall back upon in court. This of course was close to an outright lie, in that all Marc had left for the jury was a trio of character-witnesses and a run at Budge as a “possible.” And while Robert could not object to Budge being set up as a potential murderer, Marc would be limited to suggesting that the motive was based on the altercation between the barkeep and Duggan in the taproom the week before the crime. There was now no way for Marc to introduce Duggan’s target-list and Nestor’s corroborating testimony without exposing the worthies that Robert wanted protected. But beard Tobias Budge he would, and then move on to a sizzling summation.

  But if his plan to expose the real killer failed tonight and if he failed tomorrow to gain an acquittal, would he have the courage to admit to his client that he had deliberately abandoned his best defense? Could he ever practise law again? Or look at himself in the mirror? Brodie, bless him, did not press for details. His trust in Marc was touching – and absolute.

  That afternoon and early evening were unbearably long. There was nothing to do but wait – and hope that the messages had been read and the bait taken. Jasper came over to visit Charlene, and Marc sat down with them and Beth to review their tentative plans for the addition to Briar Cottage in the spring (when Maggie was to be joined by a baby brother). Jasper was particularly excited because he had enlisted the aid of Billy McNair, a master carpenter and friend of the Edwards. Billy and Jasper would work together on the new rooms, and if Billy were suitably impressed, he promised to take Jasper on as a partner. In the meantime, he would try to pass along small jobs to Jasper over the winter.

  After supper Marc tried to while away the time reading Oliver Twist, a novel that Beth had recently purchased by an author she had taken a fancy to. But the words remained merely words on the page. Every ten minutes or so he would consult his pocket-watch, and try not to think of all the things that could go wrong with his plan. Maggie provided some welcome diversion when she astonished her parents by attempting to crawl across the rug in front of the fire.

  Finally, at nine o’clock, he kissed Beth, bussed the sleeping baby, and drove over to Cobb’s house. Nestor and Cobb were waiting on the stoop. No-one said a word as they trotted along King Street towards Yonge. The scheme had been gone over thoroughly. Everyone knew his role. Nestor was pale, but looked determined enough. Much depended upon him.

  At the Court House Marc pulled the carriage up, parked it at the side of the building and tethered the horse to a post. Cobb left first, followed a minute later by Nestor, and then Marc. With Cobb leading the way, they walked at one-minute intervals northward up Toronto Street to Newgate, then west across Yonge to Bay. There they turned south, keeping to the shadows, but meeting no-one on this quiet Sabbath evening. As each neared the east-west service lane above King, they slipped soundlessly into it and moved due east until they came to the head of the alley in which the exchange was to take place. This elaborate and roundabout route had been necessary, in Marc’s thinking, because the killer might decide to arrive well before ten o’clock in order to command a view of the obvious entrance to the alley – from King Street. Cobb and Marc must not be seen anywhere near Nestor in advance of the event. And it was imperative that both of them witness the exchange of note and cash, and overhear any incriminating dialogue between Nestor and his “target.”

  Cobb now left Marc and Nestor, and inched his way south among the shadows of the alley, lit only by pale shafts of moonlight here and there as they shot through the gaps between gables and chimney-pots. Ten yards from King Street, he eased back into an alcove and squatted down, hidden completely by shadow. Next, Nestor came down the alley, not worrying that he might be seen since the killer expected him to be here. At the halfway point he stopped, peered nervously about, found the apple-box he was looking for, and sat down to wait. Just in front of him a swath of moonlight poured down, into which he could step and be seen when the time came to do so. Meanwhile, Marc crouched down, as Cobb had done, and stayed hidden at the head of the alley, with a clear view southward all the way down to King Street. They were all now in place, their arrival unobserved. The waiting began.

  ***

  And a long wait it was. It must have been close to ten-thirty when Cobb’s legs began to cramp and the scarf at his throat no longer kept the chill out. He shifted from side to side, to no avail. Finally he had to sit down on his haunches and stretch his legs full out – leaving himself vulnerable. Fifteen yards away, he could hear Nestor cough and the apple-box crea
k. If the killer didn’t come soon, Nestor was certain to panic and make a break for it. Cobb had just worked the cramp out of his left calf and painfully got back up into a crouching position when he heard footsteps. The sound, just audible, came from the King Street entrance to the alley. The new arrival was treading slowly, stopping every few feet – probably to make sure he was alone. Cobb wanted to tilt his face up to have a look, but he dared not for fear that either the movement or the whites of his eyes would alert the killer, and spook him. So he remained utterly still as the fellow moved past him, not five feet away, and on up towards Nestor and the apple-box. As instructed, Nestor must have now stepped up into the light, for his voice, trembling and falsetto, could be heard saying, “You brung the money?”

  Cobb raised himself up at this, and peered up the alley. Nestor was standing in a wedge of pale moonlight, but the killer was beside him, obscured by shadow. He was wearing a bulky, calf-length overcoat and a fur cap – in an attempt to disguise himself. He could be any one of the “possibles.” The fellow made some response to Nestor’s question, but it was low and muted.

  “I gotta see yer money before I c’n give ya the letter,” Nestor said shakily.

  Cobb saw the killer’s arm move up into the light, a package of some sort in his hand. Nestor took it and began to fumble at its contents. “Okay. Here’s the letter ya wanted.”

  The fellow snatched the envelope and began to tear it open. Nestor glanced north to where Marc was hidden, expecting instant rescue. But the killer had ripped the sheet out of its envelope and was holding it up to the light.

  “You bastard! This isn’t my note!”

  A pair of hands seized Nestor by the throat, and began shaking him.

  “Help! Help! I’m bein’ kilt!”

  But Nestor was in no danger of being murdered. His attacker released him as suddenly as he had grabbed him, and made a pass at the packet with the money in it. Nestor let go without a struggle. With some of the banknotes spilling out, the killer started back down the alley, picking up speed as he went. Cobb had already stepped out to block his path, and Marc could be heard sprinting hard a few yards behind him. Cobb planted his feet, stuck out his belly, and met the killer chest to chest. There was a resounding whump. Both men tumbled to the ground, winded. Cobb was first to recover. He rolled over, sat up, and stared down at his assailant, who lay on his back, fur cap askew, gasping for air.

  “I don’t believe it!” Cobb cried.

  And Marc, who arrived a second later, said, “I don’t believe it either.”

  They were staring down into the anguished face of Horace Fullarton.

  NINETEEN

  Magistrate James Thorpe was weaned away from his second glass of after-dinner port and brought to the police quarters, where he found Constable Cobb, Chief Sturges, Marc Edwards, and a gentleman with a story he was eager to tell. Minutes later, a dishevelled Augustus French arrived and quickly set up his writing instruments. While Gussie took notes, Horace Fullarton unburdened himself of the guilt, remorse and self-loathing that had followed upon his clubbing Albert Duggan to death in the alley behind The Sailor’s Arms. And Magistrate Thorpe, who found a criminal’s heartfelt confession almost as satisfying as bringing down the maximum sentence on a deserving head, was so pleased with what he heard (while remaining shocked that a “gentleman” could stoop thus) that he was not tempted in the least to probe further into details that might have proved awkward. For example, what peculiar circumstances could have brought a police constable and the counsel for an accused murderer together to arrange an entrapment that involved the victim’s cousin (having fortuitously resurfaced), a curious extortion-note (possibly forged?), and intimate knowledge of a blackmail scheme requiring either insider information or clairvoyance? Fullarton wished to speak only of the crime itself, however, and he gave the magistrate and the Crown all the detail they could have wished for.

  Marc was not surprised at what he heard, having already worked out plausible scenarios for each of his “possibles.” Fullarton stated that he had left the club-meeting a few minutes after Dutton, glanced out the back window while putting on his cloak, and saw Brodie accosting a stranger in the alley. He decided to intervene on behalf of his young friend, and ran down the stairs. But by the time he had flung open the outside door and wheeled around into the shadows to enter the alley, what he now heard, just a few yards away, brought him to a halt. Brodie was accusing the stranger of blackmailing him! For a moment he was paralyzed – incredulous at what he was hearing and uncertain as to what he should do. If this were his blackmailer – and this now seemed quite probable – then to intervene and help capture the villain might expose the banker himself and the secret he was desperate to keep from his wife (one he was not even now prepared to divulge). On the other hand, helping to arrest the blackguard might get the burden of extortion off both their backs. However, while he was trying to make up his mind, Brodie raised his right arm and struck the blackmailer with his fist. The fellow reeled away and slowly collapsed onto his back.

  In shock at what he was witnessing (just minutes before, he and Brodie had been reading Shakespeare and enjoying themselves), Fullarton watched in silence as Brodie knelt down and began to check for vital signs. Then, after an anxious minute or so of indecision, his young friend had stood up, looking dazed, picked up his hat, turned and fled. It was at this moment that Fullarton claimed he decided to step into the alley and confront the man who, he was sure now, had tormented his days and nights for almost two months and extorted several dozen pounds. At this point, however, he heard Crenshaw open the side door and scurry down towards Front Street. Crenshaw, as he had testified, must have seen Brodie hunched over the unconscious man, panicked, and run. If the man were badly hurt, Fullarton reasoned, Brodie could be in serious trouble. But if he himself were now to step out into the moonlit alley, it was likely that Sir Peregrine would spot him as he was leaving the meeting. Fullarton certainly didn’t want further complications added to an already complicated situation. Seconds later, the baronet was indeed clattering down the stairs. Had he been at the window in time to see Brodie fleeing? As it turned out, he had, but he too chose to scuttle away to Front Street.

  So Fullarton was at last alone with his tormentor. He slipped into the alley and stood over Duggan just as the fellow was beginning to stir. As Duggan teetered up onto his elbows and opened his eyes, Fullarton remembered flinging a curse at him, but the blood was boiling in his brain, and he found it hard to think or breathe. Duggan recognized him instantly, swore an oath of his own, and then without warning grabbed a walking-stick lying next to him and swung it sharply against Fullarton’s left shin. In a purely reflex action, Fullarton wrenched the weapon out of Duggan’s hand, and as the villain rolled away to avoid being hit, Fullarton swung the walking-stick, knob-end first, and heard the sickening “thuck” as it struck home. (Only later did he learn to his horror that he had used Brodie Langford’s easily distinguished shillelagh.)

  This bludgeoning was what Tobias Budge had witnessed on his second peek through the cellar-window. As Marc had surmised, Budge’s recollection of what he saw was accurate enough, but when he saw it had always been suspect. It must have been closer to ten o’clock when he witnessed the actual clubbing because Sir Pergrine had already left and Brodie had fled the scene. As well, Sir Peregrine had exaggerated his own importance by stretching out the time it took him to pack up his papers and depart. He must have trailed Crenshaw by no more than two minutes. So it was Fullarton whom Budge had observed doing the deed.

  With the confession signed and notarized, Cobb was asked to take Fullarton over to the jail, wake up the watch, and see that the wretched banker was incarcerated. As far as James Thorpe was concerned, the case – tragic as it might be – was now closed. It was left to Marc to seek out Bernice Fullarton and break the news to her.

  ***

  Brodie regained his freedom at ten-fifteen Monday morning. Horace Fullarton’s confession was presented to Justice Powel
l and the Crown’s prosecutor, and deemed to be incontrovertible (as it was uncoerced and consistent with the known facts). A charge of manslaughter would be laid against the banker, making the trial of Broderick Langford moot. Kingsley Thornton, swallowing his amazement, came over and shook hands with Marc.

  “Welcome to the fraternity,” he said.

  ***

  Robert Baldwin was elated, and doubly so. His good friend and legal protégé had somehow contrived to find “another way” of getting young Brodie acquitted (and nabbing yet another murderer in the process). Moreover, before Monday afternoon was half over, the Legislative Assembly of Upper Canada passed the entire Union Bill, encumbered only by several harmless attachments, by a vote of forty-four to eleven. The merging of the two Canadas into one dominion was now inevitable, and responsible government became a distinct possibility. To celebrate these achievements, Robert arranged for a late supper and an evening of music and entertainment at Baldwin House. As Dr. Baldwin had already planned a more formal political celebration out at Spadina, Robert was able to invite a smaller and more intimate group of well-wishers to his gathering: Clement Peachey and his wife, Francis and Mrs. Hincks, Marc and Beth, Horatio and Dora Cobb, Celia Langford and her headmistress, Miss Tyson (a staunch Reformer), and, of course, the liberated hero and his companion, Diana Ramsay.

  The food was tasty and the drink flowed freely. A string trio played Handel, Mozart and Vivaldi, before breaking into an improvised jig. After which a flushed and exuberant Brodie stood on a hassock and, with his raven-haired beauty beside him, announced their engagement. Some time later, Mister Cobb was cheered to the echo when he donned a donkey’s head, waggled its ears and recited Robbie Burns’ “John Barleycorn,” his dead father’s favourite poem. (The donkey’s head, alas, was all that remained of the dismembered Shakespeare Club).