Unholy Alliance

by Don Gutteridge

  Bragg’s belligerence softened perceptibly, and he said in a more straightforward manner, “Prissy an’ me served the supper in the dining-room, tryin’ not to bump into the butler who never took his eyes off us an’ never once said anythin’ complimentary about our work, even though we had to carry on without Phyllis’s help or Giles Harkness assistin’ the girls down here.”

  “Nothin’ unusual happened at supper?”

  “Nothin’ that I saw. I was far too busy to notice what any of the gentleman guests were doin’.”

  “What did you do after supper?”

  “I helped Prissy an’ Chilton tidy up the dining-room. I’d already stoked up the boiler in the bathroom, but I went into the master’s wing to see if old Struthers had managed the fires in the rooms there. The fires have to be damped down properly an’ bricks set out to warm fer Prissy, who gets the beds ready. Can’t have gentlemen gettin’ cold bottoms now, can we?”

  Cobb ignored the invitation to slag his betters. “Did anybody use the big bathtub?”

  Bragg thought about that. “I was pretty busy, but I did see the older Frenchman with the baggy eyes go in there about nine o’clock. He took care of himself.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Somebody was splashin’ around in there a few minutes after he left, but I don’t know who.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Macaulay’s medicine bottle on the shelf in there at any time last night?”

  “I know where she keeps it. We all do. I stoked the fire in the stove in there before supper, but I couldn’t tell you if it was on the shelf or not. Is that what killed Chilton? We heard it was somethin’ in the wine he drank.”

  “You don’t know of any loud-an’-numb bein’ used down here by any chance?”

  Bragg stiffened. “’Course not. Mr. Macaulay is strict about drugs of any kind. If we need medicines, he has the doctor supply them, an’ he pays. He’s a good man. We all feel terrible that he’s got mixed up with the likes of Graves Chilton.”

  “Do you keep wine in yer room?”

  “What the hell are you drivin’ at? We don’t need to keep wine or anythin’ else in our rooms. Mr. Macaulay gives us enough fer our meals, from his own cellar. You think just because it was a servant that got killed that the culprit’s got to be one of his own kind, don’t you? Well, I didn’t kill him, an’ neither did anybody else down here. Why don’t you poke yer whiskey nose about upstairs an’ leave us alone!”

  Cobb made as if to write this remarkable statement down in his notebook. Then he glanced up and tried to look stern. “Where were you at midnight last night?”

  Bragg, who was already quite agitated, began to shake with anger. “Damn you, Cobb! I was in bed, and I stayed in bed all night!”

  “You come down here about a quarter to ten, with Miss Finch, from yer duties upstairs an’ the two of you went straight to yer rooms?”

  “Where else would we go? Into the parlour for brandy an’ cigars?”

  “Can you prove you didn’t sneak out after all was quiet an’ go skulkin’ about upstairs, where you might’ve seen a light in the butler’s office?”

  Bragg looked as if he were about to lunge across the table and throttle his interrogator, but caught himself just in time. Instead, he sat back, and let his entire body relax, as a satisfied smirk lit up his face. “If you must know, constable, I was not in my own room or my own bed.” He paused to let the salacious implications of this manly revelation sink in, and waited for Cobb to respond. He was now enjoying himself.

  Cobb had little choice but to ask, “Whose room were you in, Mr. Bragg?”

  “I shared a warm bed with Priscilla Finch. All night. An’ we didn’t do a lot of sleepin’.”

  Cobb kept eye contact as he replied, “Talkin’ philosophy, I take it?”

  Bragg snorted. “We were doin’ things the likes of you only dream about.”

  “Enough so’s she’ll remember you bein’ there?”

  “If you got any more accusations to make, make ‘em now, Cobb. I got work to do.” Without seeking Cobb’s assent, he got up, kicked the chair aside, and ambled out. As he reached the stairs, he began to whistle.

  Cobb was so hot under the collar he thought it might ignite and incinerate his tie. He had put early money on Austin Bragg at short odds, but if the pompous braggart really had an airtight alibi, then all bets were off. For the moment, though, he had only Bragg’s word about whose bed he had shared.

  When Hetty Janes poked her head in a few moments later, he asked her to fetch Priscilla Finch.

  ***

  Although Prissy had managed to stifle her tears, the aftermath of prolonged weeping had left her pretty face devastated. Even her dazzling flaxen curls had gone limp. If she and Bragg had tangled and tingled all night, Cobb thought, the discovery of Chilton’s body had dampened down those delights pretty quickly. That is, if they had been delights.

  Cobb tried to get her to stop nibbling at the knuckles on her right hand and teetering on the edge of the chair across from him – by taking her gently through her routine actions at supper and afterwards. To no avail. Her answers were brief and guarded. Something was going on here, beyond her understandable upset of the early morning, he thought.

  He persevered. “You turn down the gentlemen’s beds at night an’ tidy them up the next mornin’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you happen to notice any bottles of liquor or wine among the gentlemen’s effects whilst carryin’ out these chores?”

  Prissy went chalk-white. “I did not! I’m not a snoop! Mr. Macaulay wouldn’t like that, would he?”

  “’Course he wouldn’t. I didn’t mean to say you was a snoop, but one of the gents could’ve left his bottle of comfort, like, on his night-table.”

  “Well, I didn’t see none.”

  “Fine. That’s very helpful, Prissy. An’ that’s all I’m doin’ here – beggin’ yer help.” He flashed her the Cobb grin.

  She waited, unsmiling.

  Cobb kept his voice perfectly level: “You finished yer chores, then, an’ come down here an’ went straight to bed in yer room?”

  Prissy began trembling all over, and Cobb feared she would burst out bawling and he would be forced to end the interrogation, as he never knew how to handle a weeping female. “Anythin’ you tell me, Prissy, is confa-dental. Nobody else will need to know. I promise.”

  Prissy dropped her pretty chin on the starched border of her apron and kept it there as she said, “Austin an’ me are plannin’ on gettin’ married, as soon as we get enough saved up.”

  “I see,” Cobb said in his most fatherly manner. “So you sometimes cuddle in together – to keep warm on a chilly night?”

  “Once or twice. I know it’s wrong, but – ”

  “An’ you an’ Mr. Bragg were in your room all last night?”

  Prissy nodded.

  Damn! Cobb said to himself. There goes two suspects with one blow. While he was willing to think Bragg a liar and exaggerator, the emotions gripping this pretty but pathetic young woman before him were unquestionably genuine. She and Bragg were lovers. And yet, he suddenly remembered, Marc had mentioned that the butler had made a play for Prissy, though it was unclear what her response had been. But if Bragg had found out, he would have had a much more compelling motive than ridding Elmgrove of an overbearing butler. Still, if Prissy stuck to her story, nothing further could be done about Bragg – for now. Cobb decided not to press the girl any longer, wary of the female floodgates. Instead he said, “You been very helpful, miss. An’ yer secret will be safe with me.”

  She mumbled a thank-you, got up slowly, as if in a daze, and left.

  That her affair was a secret here in the closed community of servants was doubtful, to say the least, Cobb mused. Mrs. Blodgett would know all, chapter and verse. Still, this wasn’t the old country, thank the Lord, and such goings-on among the staff were seldom cause for alarm or dismissal, especially if the business was kept discreet. Loyal and competent
servants were as scarce as hen’s teeth in Toronto. Even illegitimate babies were tolerated and often raised in the household, despite the ravings of several churches. Cobb approved heartily. He despised hypocrisy, and found so-called class divisions a prime example of that particular human failing.

  Back in the kitchen proper, he was glad to see Hetty busy setting out a plate of ham, rolls and butter for him on one of the several sideboards.

  “Help yerself to a glass of ale,” she said, indicating a small cask with a convenient spigot sticking out of it.

  “Is Tillie available to see me?” he said, sidling up to the food.

  “She said she’d come out in fifteen minutes. She’s changin’ Mrs. Blodgett’s sheets. I got to go out to the shed an’ scrub chamber-pots. You’ll be all right here on yer own?”

  Cobb eyed the cask of ale. “I’ll manage,” he said.

  ***

  Cobb was just brushing the crumbs off his lapels when Tillie Janes poked her head out the door of Mrs. Blodgett’s sitting-room at the rear of the kitchen and said sweetly, “I’ll be another fifteen minutes, sir.”

  A fresh mouthful of bread and ham prevented Cobb from objecting, so he resigned himself to another half-glass of warm ale. Then he went quickly to the hallway and turned right into the servants’ living quarters. Off a narrow, uncarpeted hall there were four doors on the left and one on the right at the far end. Without knocking he went into the first one on the left. A man’s room. And from the clothes in the rickety wardrobe he deduced it was Bragg’s sleeping den. It took no more than three minutes to search the threadbare, Spartan place where Bragg must collapse exhausted at the end of each day. The narrow window looked as if it hadn’t been opened since summer. In the adjacent room Cobb turned over two pretty uniforms before realizing he was in the bedroom of Mrs. Macaulay’s maid, Phyllis. He gave the place a quick search anyway. Next came another man’s room, stripped clean of everything not nailed down: the onetime abode of the self-exiled malcontent, Giles Harkness. At the end of the hall on the left he found the somewhat larger and windowed room of Hetty and Tillie Janes. They shared a single bed covered by a brightly patterned quilt. He found nothing of interest.

  As he was leaving, he gave the interior wall a sharp rap. To his surprise the partition seemed thick and solid. At least the staff would not have to listen each other snore. Directly across the hall he found Prissy Finch’s room, and although there were more signs of a feminine presence and several frocks not normally sported by ordinary housemaids, Cobb discovered no hidden vials or bottles of sherry or pages ripped from the estate’s accounts-book.

  Just as he stepped back into the warmth of the kitchen, Tillie Janes was emerging from Mrs. Blodgett’s sitting-room.

  Cobb smiled and said, “No need to go inta the little pantry, Tillie. Looks like we got the kitchen to ourselves.”

  They settled themselves at the long table the staff used for their own meals.

  “I’m so sorry about the delays, constable, but Mrs. Blodgett – ”

  “No need to apologize, miss. Illness ain’t somethin’ we do to ourselves – usually.”

  “Well, at least the dear, dear soul’s had a quiet night. It’s been some time since that happened.”

  “I really need to ask you about last night,” Cobb said almost apologetically, “though I expect you were pretty busy right here.”

  “I helped as usual with supper preparations an’ the wash-up. Cal Struthers come in an’ pitched in real hard. Mrs. Blodgett fell into her chair about eight-thirty. We carried her inta bed before nine. I decided I better sleep on the cot beside her.”

  “So, other than that sad business, nothin’ else out of the ordinary happened?”

  “No, sir. Nothin’.”

  “Yer sister told me she heard you come out here just after she went inta her room to sleep, about a quarter to ten or so.” It occurred to Cobb that young Hetty must have had her bedroom door wide open to have heard her sister or anything else of interest out here.

  “I come out to make Mrs. Blodgett a cup of camomile tea,” Tillie said quickly. “There was still hot water on the stove.” She looked hard at Cobb, as if she were bracing for a follow-up probe.

  “To help the old gal to sleep, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “An’ the two of you stayed together, in there, fer the rest of the night?”

  “All night. She’s been sittin’ up a bit today, an’ takin’ some soup.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “You wanta talk to her – later?”

  “Hardly seems worth it, considerin’ she was mostly asleep an’ not amble-tarry when all the fuss started upstairs.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are very kind.”

  Cobb considered himself so, but invariably blushed when reminded of it. “I’ll just keep usin’ yer pantry, if it’s okay,” he said. “I gotta make some notes.”

  “Go right ahead. I’ll bring you in a cup of tea.”

  “Could ya make that a glass of ale?”

  ***

  He had just finished one laborious page when Tillie arrived with refreshments. Writing came hard to Cobb: his flawless memory worked far too fast for his strong, stubby fingers. Normally he would have returned to the police quarters at City Hall and dictated his findings to Gussie French. But that was not possible in this case.

  “Ah, lass, just in time,” he smiled.

  Tillie nodded, set the glass and plate down, but did not turn to leave.

  “Somethin’ else you need to tell me?” Cobb said quietly.

  “Mrs. Blodgett said I should tell you anythin’ that might have to do with the awful business upstairs last night. She said you’d likely be lookin’ close at Mr. Bragg ‘cause he an’ Mr. Chilton didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “You heard or seen somethin’ to do with Mr. Bragg last night?”

  “I did. But I never thought to mention it earlier. It didn’t seem to have nothin’ to do with Mr. Chilton dyin’ like that. Then I remembered what Mrs. Blodgett told me I oughta do.”

  “And I didn’t ask, did I?” Cobb said kindly. “So tell me now.”

  Tillie took a deep breath and said, “Just as I was takin’ the tea in to Mrs. Blodgett, I heard Austin and Prissy come down from their duties upstairs. They turned into the hall.”

  “To their rooms?”

  “Yes.” She began to blush. “An’ they were havin’ a fearsome quarrel.”

  Cobb set his pencil down. “A lover’s spat, was it?”

  The blush deepened. “They’re plannin’ to get married. I never heard them say a sharp word to one another – never. But they were both shoutin’. Austin was accusin’ her of . . .”

  “Flirtin’ with the butler?” Cobb prompted.

  Tillie’s fingers were splayed out at the table’s edge, the knuckles white. “Kissin’ him, he said. In the other pantry, off the hall by the upstairs door.”

  The episode Marc must have been alluding to, Cobb thought. And if this quarrel were so boisterous, why wasn’t it heard by Hetty, nearby with her bedroom door ajar?

  “Did ya hear anythin’ that Prissy said?”

  “She was angry, but her cryin’ made it hard to hear what she was yellin’ back at him.”

  “How did it all end?”

  “I heard Prissy stomp off down the hall an’ slam her door. Austin shouted a bad word after her. I waited. But there wasn’t any more. I heard another door close, real quiet. I wanted to go to Prissy – she’s real pretty an’ awful kind to me – but I had to take the tea into Mrs. Blodgett, didn’t I?”

  “You did indeed,” Cobb said, reaching across and patting the back of her nearest hand. “An’ you were right to come an’ tell me this.”

  “C’n I go now?”

  “Yup. Mrs. Blodgett’ll be expectin’ you.”

  Prissy left quickly. Cobb picked up his pencil. Well now, he thought, Mr. Bragg was certainly riled up at the thought of Graves Chilton grappling with his fiancée. Angry enough to plot
the fellow’s death? It would have been easy for him to dig out a pilfered bottle of sherry he’d stashed somewhere, slip up to the dark rotunda, enter the bathroom, remove the container of laudanum, go into the dining-room where the wide windows would provide lots of moonlight for him to see well enough to doctor the sherry and pocket the empty drug-bottle. Then down the hall to the butler’s office. A friendly chat. Amontillado as a peace offering between two veteran servants, men of the world who’d gotten off on the wrong foot, et cetera. Then pad your way back to your room, knowing that Chilton, already half-cut with whiskey from his flask, would drink enough of the sherry to kill him or, in the least, render him senseless and expose his drinking habit to a master who would not approve of it one bit, who might well sack him outright.

  Cobb was certain he was on the right trail. Prissy Finch, the foolish girl, had lied to him in order to give her momentarily estranged lover an alibi, a lie the blackguard had good reason to urge upon her.

  Cobb heard Hetty Janes come back into the kitchen from the shed where she had been working. He stepped out and confronted her. She took one look at his face and burst into tears.

  “I was gonna tell ya about the quarrel,” she wailed. “Honest I was. But I couldn’t see how it would help ya find Mr. Chilton’s killer. An’ you never asked.”

  “There, there, miss, no need to go weepin’ on me. I just need you to back up the story I already heard. Now sit down an’ try to stymie yer sobbin’. It hurts my ears.”

  Between sobs, Hetty confirmed her sister’s account of the quarrel.

  “Your room is across from Prissy’s, isn’t it? Did you hear Prissy go into her room an’ slam the door?”

  “Uh huh. It shook the whole place.”

  “An’ Bragg didn’t follow her in?”

  Hetty stared at the floor. “No. He called her a – a bad name. He was hoppin’ mad.”

  Cobb thanked her, told her not to worry, and headed back into the pantry to work on his notes. As he did so, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tillie Janes standing in Mrs. Blodgett’s doorway. She had been eavesdropping on her sister’s interrogation. The two young women looked at each other, and in that instant something significant was silently communicated. But Cobb’s head was abuzz with more exciting matters. Prissy Finch was lying! Austin Bragg had motive, means and opportunity!