Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  “It don’t take much fer a man to make an ass of himself,” Dora was heard chuckling to Diana Ramsay near the punch-bowl. “Girl, you don’t know what you’re lettin’ yerself in for.”

  Marc and Beth had left before this and the more exotic performances that followed. Marc was exhausted: the ups and downs of the past week had left him emotionally drained. He just wanted to slip off home and tuck in beside his wife – with Maggie purring contentedly close by. Beth felt the same.

  ***

  “So, while Cobb went off to fetch James Thorpe and Wilf Sturges,” Marc was saying to Beth as they snuggled down under the comforter, “I was left alone with Horace for over half an hour. He showed no resentment at the way he had been deceived and entrapped. And he sensed immediately that I was aware of his infidelity, and much more. But I assured him that no-one ever needed to know, if that’s what he wanted.”

  “So he talked to you before he confessed to the magistrate?”

  “Yes. I think he was relieved to be caught. All along I’ve been convinced that his major concern was keeping Bernice from finding out that he had been unfaithful. He told me he was sure the news would kill her.”

  “When did Duggan start threatenin’ him?” Beth said, more awake now than she had been an hour earlier.

  “As early as September, soon after Duggan learned of the adultery from his cousin. Fullarton had everything he valued in life to lose: his wife and his reputation as a loyal husband, a trustworthy banker, and a proud usher at St. James. He paid up – every week. But by October, he told me, he had decided to confront his tormentor. Twice he tried to do what Brodie did – lie in wait for Duggan to pick up the parcel of banknotes. But both times Duggan outfoxed him.”

  “He must’ve become desperate,” Beth said. “I wonder he could carry on with his life as if things were normal. He even joined that silly club.”

  “I thought that too. I asked him about it, and he told me that his years as a banker and steward of other people’s money had conditioned him to keep his emotions in check and always present a calm face to the world. In fact, he felt that until he somehow managed to put a stop to the blackmail, he deemed it imperative that he go out of his way to appear unperturbed.”

  “But he must’ve been churnin’ inside?”

  “I’m sure he was. So, after the second failure to entrap Duggan, he took one of the extortion-notes – the fellow, as Brodie learned, liked to continually torment his victims with weekly reminders – and scribbled a death-threat on the back of it. He tucked it into that week’s parcel along with the banknotes, and left it in the usual place. He swore to me that he never intended to carry out his threat. He hoped it might be enough to scare the fellow off. Luckily for him, Duggan seems to have destroyed the returned note after foolishly showing it to Nestor. Horace admitted that the existence of the note gave him so much concern that he went looking for it in the stone-cottage as soon as he learned who Duggan was and where he lived. When he didn’t find it, he felt certain Nestor had taken it with him when he fled the city.”

  “So that’s why yer plan to trap him worked so quickly?”

  “Yes. Horace thought, as I hoped he would, that twenty-five pounds and Nestor’s low standing in the community would be enough to keep the police from his door. He leapt at the opportunity as soon as he read Nestor’s note.”

  “I’d like to feel sorry for the man, I really would – all those years livin’ with an ailin’ wife, an’ no children.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what caused him to give into Madeleine Shuttleworth’s lethal charms – they had a brief and loveless affair last summer. Ironically, Bernice Fullarton may be wasting away, but she is not weak of heart or spirit. When I went there last night, her sister answered the door – she’d arrived on Friday for a long visit – and took me into Bernice’s room. Bernice was stunned by what I had to say, tactful as I was, but I could sense the steel in her will, and her determination to support her husband, come what may.”

  Beth, who was ever wiser than Marc in affairs of the heart, shocked him by saying, “I’m sure she won’t be surprised if she does happen to learn her husband give in to temptation like that. What might surprise her more would be the fact he’d waited so long an’ did it only once.”

  “Maybe she’d already guessed, eh? Anyway, I heard her tell her sister to arrange for some transportation to convey her to the jail today.”

  Beth nuzzled her husband’s chest, while Maggie’s sweet breathing perfumed the room.

  “Will they hang him?” Beth said.

  “I doubt that very much. A good lawyer will try and argue self-defense because in his statement Fullarton claimed that Duggan struck him first, with Brodie’s walking-stick, and he reacted by seizing the weapon and striking out blindly.”

  “Sounds like a lawyer’s statement to me.”

  Marc smiled, quite accustomed as he was to Beth’s gentle, and very lovable, sarcasm. “Well, Cobb did tell me he saw Fullarton limping when he first went up to Oakwood Manor. An experienced barrister could make much of that.”

  “But not enough to get his client off?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “There’s the wee matter of that second blow to the back of Duggan’s skull, while he was lyin’ near-dead on the ground, isn’t there?”

  “I see I’m not the only lawyer in this household.”

  Beth drew her husband’s hand across the smooth bevel of her abdomen.

  “You said a minute ago,” Marc said before talk itself became redundant, “that you wanted to be sympathetic.”

  “I did, but I can’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, Horace was supposed to be Brodie’s friend. Brodie was startin’ to think of him as he did Dick or his own father before that. I can’t understand why the man would let Brodie suffer for weeks on end, and even go on trial fer a crime he himself committed. You saw how distressed the lad was this mornin’ when he found out how he came to be acquitted. Only the joy of Diana’s bein’ there an’ lovin’ him kept him goin’ through the day.”

  “I know what you’re saying, luv. Still, I got the distinct impression that Brodie is prepared to forgive him.”

  “Do you think he would’ve let Brodie go to the gallows?”

  “No, I don’t. He said as much to me. In fact, he said emphatically that the days since the murder were the hardest of his life, including the days after he got the news that Bernice was slowly dying of some wasting disease the doctors didn’t even have a name for. But for all his worry and fear and despair over the crime itself and the secret he’d killed to protect, in spite of the minute-by-minute stress of trying to put a normal face upon the world – the one thing that did not concern him was the thought that Brodie would be convicted. He agonized over Brodie’s suffering, but felt he was young and strong enough to survive a trial.”

  “A trial that was headin’ straight towards findin’ him guilty!”

  “Ah, but even after the Crown had rested its water-tight case on Friday, he assured me he remained unconcerned.”

  “I don’t believe it. He couldn’t be that callous!”

  “It was the reason he gave that I found most intriguing.”

  “Oh,” Beth murmured, drawing his hand lingeringly down, “an’ what was that?”

  “He said he had complete faith in Brodie’s attorney, that somehow the clever fellow would find a way to free him.”

  Beth looked up. “An’ he was right, wasn’t he?”

  EPILOGUE

  Nestor Peck looked gloomily about the stone-cottage. He saw nothing here to raise his spirits or give him hope, elusive as that phenomenon had always proved to be. His stomach was full, that was true. Dora Cobb had seen to that before she wished him well and walked with him to the street in front of her house. Cobb, too, had not been unkind, donating a suit of clothes, giving him a pound-note from Marc Edwards (and a dollar from his own reserves) so that Nestor could buy food and pay his overdue rent. />
  But the main room of his home was dark and damp and very, very empty. The mess and disarray seemed to be worse than usual, but he couldn’t be sure because his memory had not been working well for some time now. He considered lighting a candle, but was afraid of what it might choose to reveal. He thought of poor Cousin Albert lying alone and unbefriended up in Potter’s Field. He would find some way to put up a proper grave-marker.

  What he needed to do right now was find himself a drink. There would be money enough left from his meagre store of cash to pay the rent and still allow him to buy a jug of cheap whiskey from Swampy Sam in Irishtown. But the half-hour walk from Cobb’s place to the stone-cottage had exhausted him. He knew he’d never make it to the bootlegger’s shack.

  It was then that he recalled how cagey Albert thought he’d been about keeping his own whiskey supply secure. But Nestor had quickly spotted the loose floorboard in Albert’s bedroom, and had routinely helped himself to his cousin’s booze, never taking enough to arouse suspicion. On shaky legs, Nestor groped his way to the precise spot, and was pleased to see that a beam of moonlight conveniently illuminated the cache he was about to plunder. Down on his hands and knees, he felt around until he got a grip on the loose board. He tried to pull it up. It jammed partway out of its grooves, and Nestor winced at the sliver that sliced into his middle finger. He gave a more determined yank, and the board popped up into his hands. Painfully, he reached down into the black space below and, to his delight, suffered the satisfying sensation of a cold whiskey-jug in his grip. He pulled it free of its hiding-place. It seemed awfully light. He gave it a shake. It was empty.

  Disappointed but undeterred, he scrunched farther down, pushed his hand and arm fully into the rectangular slot, and began feeling about under the floor as far as he could reach. Knowing how sly his cousin had been, he was sure there would be more hooch somewhere nearby, the empty jug being a too-clever decoy. His own cleverness was promptly rewarded, however, as his fingertips struck something other than wood or dirt – something soft, flexible, skin-like. For a heart-stopping second, he shuddered and jerked his hand away. But soon he felt a smile creasing his face. He reached in again, and this time drew out a leather-pouch.

  With trembling fingers he held it up into the beam of light and pulled back the flap that kept its contents secure. The dazzle of banknotes almost blinded him.

  Nestor Peck stared up into the collaborating moonlight. Perhaps there was a God after all.

  About the Author

  Don Gutteridge is the author of more than 40 books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works, including the Marc Edwards mystery series. He taught in the Faculty of Education at Western University for 25 years in the Department of English Methods. He is currently professor Emeritus, and lives in London, Ontario.

  Other Books in the Marc Edwards Mystery Series

  Turncoat

  Solemn Vows

  Vital Secrets

  Dubious Allegiance

  Bloody Relations

  Death of a Patriot

  The Bishop’s Pawn

  Or visit the Simon & Schuster Canada Website

  Coming Soon in the Marc Edwards Mystery Series:

  Unholy Alliance

  Minor Corruption

  Governing Passion

  The Widow’s Demise

  Available from Bev Editions

  Excerpt From Desperate Acts

  One

  Toronto, Upper Canada: 1840

  The blizzard that howled across the icy expanse of Lake Ontario and struck the defenceless city broadside on this particular midwinter evening was little noticed by the five gentlemen seated in the drawing-room of the Bishop’s palace on Front Street. After all, supper had been lavish, as usual, and more than satisfying, especially so since not one of the prelate’s guests felt himself to be less than deserving of the great man’s largesse. Friday evening was secular night at John Strachan’s palatial residence, an opportunity for men of worth and promise to congregate, sup well, gossip idly, and then move on to discuss the pressing political issues of these turbulent times. Though the guest-list varied from week to week, those attending invariably shared a number of beliefs and convictions. That all were adherents of the Church of England was a given, and whether that fact was instrumental in shaping the rest of their character or not, they were, to a man, High Tory in their politics, conservative in their morals and demeanour, terribly sensitive to distinctions of race and class, and inclined towards capitalist enterprise. And no less importantly, they were susceptible to a good cigar and a fine sherry.

  Enjoying the latter post-prandial refreshments, while the wind scoured and screeched against the red-brick walls and mullioned windows, were Ignatius Maxwell, receiver-general of Upper Canada and judge-designate; Ezra Michaels, local chemist; Ivor Winthrop, furrier and land speculator; Carson James, a non-practising barrister with a very rich wife; and their host, John Strachan, the recently elevated Bishop of Toronto.

  “That was one superb dinner, Bishop,” James said, inhaling deeply, “and, if I may say so, was meticulously presented. I don’t know where you find such well-mannered and properly trained servants, but they are most impressive.”

  “Worth their weight in gold,” Michaels added, reaching for the sherry. “We’ve had three maids and two houseboys since September.”

  “You’d think with so many people out of work and begging for employment, that they’d be happy to do an honest day’s work without complaining or demanding higher wages,” Winthrop said solemnly.

  “Or dropping the crystal,” Maxwell said with a chuckle.

  “I take no credit for my servants’ performance,” Strachan said in the deep, authoritative voice that had made his sermons at St. James justly renowned. “It is Mrs. Strachan alone who manages my household, with thrift and a good heart.”

  “I take it you’ve all heard about poor Macaulay?” James said.

  Several murmurs followed this remark, but Michaels, looking puzzled, said, “You mean his wife going off to Kingston to see her specialist?”

  “I did hear that,” James said, “but I was referring to what happened to his butler before Christmas.”

  “Ah, yes,” Michaels said, flushing slightly. “Alfred Harkness had been with the Macaulays for over twenty years, hadn’t he?”

  “Cancer. Out of the blue,” Maxwell said. “Mercifully, he didn’t suffer long.”

  “It is not given to us to know when it is we are to meet our Maker,” the Bishop intoned. “For which mercy we should be eternally grateful,” he added.

  “Even with all his money, Macaulay won’t find it easy to replace Alfred Harkness,” James said with a certain degree of satisfaction.

  “The fellow was a gem,” Michaels sighed.

  For a few moments the assembled worthies stared into their sherry, contemplating the virtues of the late Alfred Harkness.

  It was Receiver-General Maxwell who broke the silence. “It’s still a puzzle to me how a chap like Garnet Macaulay, with his father’s fortune in hand and a splendid estate like Elmgrove, should have thrown his lot in with the Reformers. Old Sidney would turn over in his grave if he could see what a radical his son has become.”

  “But I’ve felt the same all these years about Dr. Baldwin and his intransigent son,” Strachan said forcefully. “They sit in their pew before me Sunday after Sunday, professing to be loyal Anglicans, and then do everything in their power outside of church to destroy the foundations upon which it stands by spreading the infections of liberalism and democracy amongst us.”

  “Well, they are Irish, after all,” Maxwell said with another chuckle. “That often explains the inexplicable.”

  “True,” James said, not chuckling. “But the Macaulays were as English as Cheshire cheese, weren’t they?”

  Ivor Winthrop, who had been following the conversation closely but not contributing, suddenly said, “English or Irish, the man’s already solved his butler problem.”

  This remark, apparently
incontrovertible, left the others without a reply. Finally, the Bishop said, “You mean he’s already replaced Harkness?”

  Winthrop, lantern-jawed with bold black eyes that rarely came to rest in their bony sockets, smiled and said, “I’m sure he has.”

  “Then you’ve got a sharper ear on the rumour mill than any of us,” Michaels said, impressed despite himself. “My lad delivered some medicine to Elmgrove a few days ago, and there was no sign of a butler.”

  Pleased with the attention he’d garnered, Winthrop said slowly, “Quite so. You see, my sources tell me that the new butler has not yet arrived, but is most assuredly on his way here.”

  As it was now clear that Winthrop intended to keep them dangling, James happily fed him his next cue: “On his way from where?”

  “England,” Winthrop said, and leaned over to the trolley near the blazing hearth to refill his sherry glass.

  “Garnet Macaulay is importing a butler all the way from England?” the Bishop said in a tone so accusatory that the bloodhound dozing by the coal-scuttle flinched.

  “At this time of year?” Maxwell said, incredulous.

  “Some stranger he hasn’t even met?” Michaels said, more incredulous still.

  “What in the world is he trying to prove?” James said.

  “I’m told the fellow is already on his way overland from New York City,” Winthrop said, glancing at Michaels. “The roads are as passable as they ever get – with the winter we’ve had.”