He began to write, as rapidly as his thick fingers would permit.
NINE
It was just before one when Cobb came upstairs and walked past the dead butler’s quarters to the dining-room. Across the hall in the billiard-room he could see, through the open door, four of the gentlemen at the card-table, playing whist by the look of it. He recognized Macaulay, Hincks and Robert Baldwin. The fourth player was one of the Frenchmen, a cheerful-looking fellow, though none of them seemed overly enthusiastic about the game. It was a lot harder to sit and wait anxiously, as they no doubt were, Cobb concluded, than to be actively engaged in finding a killer. Moreover, said killer was likely loose somewhere amongst them.
Marc was not yet in the dining-room. But Prissy Finch was, fussing with the food on the sideboard. When she turned and saw who had just come in, she started. Her eyes went down to her shoes and, head-down, she tried to scoot past him.
“Not so fast, miss. I got another question to put to you. An’ this time I want the truth.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her defiance belied by a trembling lip.
“I know all about the spat you an’ Bragg had downstairs at quarter to ten last night.”
“Who told you somethin’ like that?”
“Never you mind. Two people heard it, an’ they heard you slam yer door an’ they heard Bragg call you somethin’ that’d make a nun blush.”
Prissy was no nun, but she slowly turned scarlet. She said nothing.
“So, young lady, you don’t really expect me to believe you an’ Mr. Bragg cuddled together fer a whole night after a ragin’ quarrel an’ slammin’ doors an’ foul name-callin’?”
Prissy thrust her trembling lower lip as far forward as she could. “A few minutes later he come down to my room an’ slipped in real quiet. We – we kissed an’ made up.”
Cobb released a long, sceptical sigh. “So you’re stickin’ to yer story, come Hell or high water, are ya?”
“We kissed an’ made up,” she quavered.
“I hope the blackguard is worth lyin’ for,” Cobb said sternly.
Prissy whirled and fled the room.
Cobb’s anger at Bragg and his kind rose up biliously, and threatened to spoil his appetite. An alibi had been concocted and adhered to, but it could – and would – be broken. He helped himself to three sweet pastries and sat down at the fancy table to wait for his partner.
***
After a brief lunch, Marc and Cobb made their way up the hall to the library. The early-afternoon sun was pouring through the big windows. Outside, the air was clear and cold. It had not snowed since the squall last night. Following their customary practice, they began describing, in turn, their interviews, impressions and conclusions. (Afterwards, they would read each other’s notes line by line, scanning for small points that might have been overlooked in the give-and-take of conversation.)
“You first, Major,” Cobb said generously, suspecting he had the best lead and hoping to save it for the finale.
Marc started in on a detailed account of his interviews, in the sequence in which he had conducted them. When he got to Maurice Tremblay, Cobb arched an eyebrow, but it was LaFontaine’s story that riveted his attention and elicited a series of approving grunts.
“So you see,” Marc finished up, “we now know a fair amount about what transpired in Chilton’s office. The sherry was there, unopened, when LaFontaine arrived at midnight. It was almost certainly doctored already, some time between nine-thirty and then, which is the time-span the killer would have had to steal Mrs. Macaulay’s laudanum and prepare the sherry for delivery to Chilton.”
“Which means it could’ve been anybody in the house, providin’ they were sneaky enough,” Cobb pointed out. “An’ that medicine bottle could be lyin’ in the snow out there an’ not be found till spring.”
“Yes, that’s the bad news in all this. But I’ve felt in this case, as in several of our past ones, that motive is the most determining factor in an investigation.”
Cobb smiled around his wayward teeth. “You’re thinkin’ of Tremblay, who ain’t too happy about yer economical adventures an’ might wanta break up yer parlay?”
Marc had skirted around the political aspects of the secret discussions, but Cobb was quite aware of their nature and purpose. As a Reform supporter, he heartily approved, though he did wish the Quebec people would adopt a lingo that ordinary folk could get their ears around.
“I’m certainly hoping it isn’t Tremblay,” Marc said. “Now what have you got for us?”
“I got us a murderer,” Cobb said, unable to contain his delight.
“You old bugger!” Marc said, laughing. “You let me go on and on, and all the while you’d already fingered somebody. Well, then, go ahead. I’m all ears.”
“I’m glad I waited fer you to finish,” Cobb said, “’cause what yer French gent told ya about what he’d seen in the office over there perfectly fits what I’ve come up with.”
He then went straight to the main point: Austin Bragg was their man. Cobb laid out the fellow’s motive, means and opportunity, and then outlined the testimony he’d elicited from the various other servants to corroborate his theory. He magnanimously omitted several of the more clever manoeuvres he had used to get said testimony from servants who were not always forthcoming. The presence of the doctored sherry on Chilton’s desk at or before midnight, along with Chilton’s advanced state of inebriation, made Cobb’s deductions about how Bragg carried out the crime not only plausible, but undeniable. Moreover, Bragg had lied and had suborned his own fiancée. For what other reason would he behave so brazenly than to cover his tracks as a murderer?
Marc looked much relieved: better a servant than a delegate from Quebec.
“What do we do now?” Cobb asked. “Go to Prissy an’ break that phoney alibi? Haul Bragg in here an’ put the screws to him?”
Marc thought for a minute, then said, “I think we need to see what Bragg himself has to say first. You admit you failed to shake Prissy from her story a few minutes ago. I think it wise to let her stew for a few hours, if need be.”
“Maybe Bragg’ll fess up,” Cobb said, though he was not sanguine about the possibility.
Marc got up. “We’ll soon see. I’ll have Garnet round him up and bring him here. We’ll both take a run at him.”
Cobb rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait.”
Marc walked down the hall towards the billiard-room. Macaulay must have heard him coming because he popped out of the doorway and said hopefully, “Any news?”
“We’re on a promising trail, Garnet. I can’t give you details yet, but Cobb and I need to talk to Austin Bragg right away – in the library.”
“I believe he’s upstairs. I’ll get him for you.”
“Thanks.”
“By the way, Marc. The natives are getting very restless. Could we possibly move the seven o’clock meeting with Louis to six o’clock?”
“All right. Let’s do that. I may have a result for you by then. If I need to, I can always ask for it to be moved to a later time.”
“Good, good.” Macaulay, a natural optimist, did his best to smile through his anxiety. Then he dashed off towards the rotunda.
***
Austin Bragg was not pleased at being escorted by his employer into the library and bade to sit down opposite Marc and Cobb. But the setting, his master’s grave demeanour, and the no-nonsense expression on the face of his interrogators did much to undercut his belligerence. He sat grimly silent while Marc thanked Macaulay, who reluctantly left the room.
Marc got right to the point: “Mr. Bragg, Constable Cobb and I have good reason to believe that you did not spend the night with your fiancée, Miss Finch.”
Bragg’s lip began to curl in defiance, but his response was meek enough: “I don’t see how that’s possible. I told yer friend here the truth.”
“We know all about the quarrel you had with Miss Finch as you two came downstairs from your
chores at about a quarter to ten.”
“So what? We didn’t try to hide it – we was loud enough to wake the dead.”
“But you failed to mention it when first interviewed.”
“Why should I have told you people? It didn’t matter a fig to Chilton bein’ poisoned.”
“Oh, but it did,” Cobb said. “Who’s gonna believe you an’ Finch cozied up together after yer screamin’ match, and after that filthy word you yelled at her, eh?”
Bragg started to glower at Cobb, whom he considered a lesser being than a manservant in a prestigious country manor. Then he sat back and let a contemptuous grin slide across his face. “I called her a fucking slut, that’s all. I was angry. But I was soon sorry I done it an’ – ”
“You called her that vile thing for letting Mr. Chilton accost her in the hall-pantry and otherwise accede to his advances,” Marc said quietly. “Didn’t you?”
Bragg’s black eyes blazed. “You got no business snoopin’ about in people’s personal affairs!”
“Ah, but we have, Mr. Bragg,” Marc said. “Your response to Miss Finch was one of anger and jealousy, both of which are powerful incentives to murder. You feared that Chilton would steal the affections of your bride-to-be, didn’t you?”
Bragg snorted. “You can’t provoke me inta sayin’ somethin’ I’d regret. Prissy and I made up. I said I was sorry, an’ that was all there was to it. I knew she’d never really go fer such a fancy Dan as Chilton.”
“You were heard goin’ inta yer own room an’ she was heard slammin’ the door of hers,” Cobb said.
“Got yer spies everywhere, ain’t ya?”
“So, Mr. Bragg,” Marc said, “are you now prepared to tell us what really happened? What you did after the quarrel had driven you to your separate rooms?”
Bragg stared hard at Marc, then Cobb, and began to smile slowly as he said, “Chilton was poisoned by someone after midnight, wasn’t he? I was with Prissy all night. An’ she ain’t said otherwise, has she? Else you would’ve come right out with it, wouldn’t ya?”
Cobb gave the show away by saying sharply, “We know you’ve talked that girl inta lyin’ fer ya!”
Bragg got up, grinning. “You got nothin’ on me. I’ve got an alibi. I’m goin’ back to my work, where I should’ve been all along.”
And he stomped out.
“He’s a tough customer,” Marc said to Cobb, who was seething.
“Not as tough as me, he ain’t! He thinks he’s put one over on us, but all he’s done is make us more certain he’s the killer.”
“It looks that way,” Marc said. “It’s hard to see why he’d go through with the lie and the stress it’s obviously putting on his fiancée unless he were guilty of something.”
“So, Major, just how’re we gonna go about provin’ it?”
“I’ll need to think about that some more.”
“I say we drag Prissy in here an’ get her to de-track that alibi.”
“But even if she does, Cobb, we’ve got no real evidence against Bragg. You searched his room and found nothing. In fact, you searched all the bedrooms down there.”
“Except fer Mrs. Blodgett’s.”
“I’d bet ten pounds that Bragg would never consider hiding the laudanum bottle or anything else in that quarter. Mrs. Blodgett may be ailing, but nothing goes on in her kitchen or its vicinity that she won’t know about or soon discover.”
“So what’ll we do? You wanta come up with a guilty party before that meetin’ of yers, don’t ya?”
Marc nodded. “Bragg will go straight to Miss Finch and tell her about the pressure we’re putting on them. Let’s give her an hour or two more to sweat and worry. Also, the next time we bring Bragg in here, I want to know a lot more about him.”
“How’re we gonna do that? Unless we could get Mrs. Blodgett to help.”
“Possibly. I’d like to know, for example, whether Bragg and the malcontent, Giles Harkness, were pals. Were either of them known to filch a bottle of the best from Macaulay’s cellar or the well-stocked stores of other houses they followed their master into? That expensive sherry had to come into this house from somewhere outside it.”
“An’ Harkness was the one who had it in fer the new butler long before he arrived, eh?”
“Good thinking. Is it not possible, then, that Harkness and Bragg were in on this together? They both had powerful motives.”
“When could they’ve met to plan a murder? Chilton only came here eight days ago.”
“We need to know when Bragg could have rendezvoused with Harkness, in town or perhaps secretly here on the estate.”
“How c’n we do all that this afternoon?”
Marc thought for a minute, then said, “”I’d like you to take Macaulay’s best horse and cutter and drive into town right away.”
“To Mrs. Sturdy’s poorhouse,” Cobb said excitedly. “If Harkness is there, I’ll in-tear-o-grate him hard, and if he ain’t, I’ll get Mrs. Sturdy to tell me all about his comin’s an’ goin’s. She’ll know everythin’.”
“Excellent! Meanwhile, I’ll head out to the stables to talk to Abel Struthers. He’s been here for years, and will know a lot about both Harkness and Bragg. Do you think you can be back here by four-thirty?”
“Can a duck waddle?” Cobb said.
***
Arrangements were quickly made for Cobb to take Macaulay’s single-seater into the city proper. Young Cal Struthers harnessed the horse and supplied Cobb with a buffalo-robe and a fur hat, as a sharp northwest wind had arisen and the temperature had plummeted. Marc and Abel Struthers watched Cobb glide away, then walked slowly back to the Struthers’ cottage.
Seated before a brisk fire, Marc and Struthers lit their pipes, and Marc began the interview.
“I’ll be candid, sir. Austin Bragg is a suspect in the poisoning of Graves Chilton. I need to know a few things about him, and I’d like you to be frank with me in response to my queries.”
Struthers’ heavy brows rose in mild surprise. He was a large man with craggy features, wind-burnt cheeks and an open, kindly demeanour. “Hard to believe that, sir. Austin c’n be a bit bull-headed an’ full of himself at times, but he’s always been a reliable worker. Never been in trouble that I know of.”
“And I do hope we’re wrong about him,” Marc said, though he wasn’t sure he wished it so. “You may be able to help us eliminate him as a suspect.”
“Me? Well now, that don’t seem possible, does it? Cal an’ me spend most of our time out here, far away from the house an’ the other staff. But I’ll do my best.”
“First of all, were Bragg and Giles Harkness friends?”
Struthers relaxed a bit and said, “Well, that’s easy enough. Yes, they were good chums. Giles always wanted to be a house-servant like his older brother, Alfred, the butler that died. Giles was the one who took wood into the back-shed an’ did any heavy liftin’ about the kitchen. Sometimes, I know, he’d follow Bragg about upstairs to get the hang of how things worked up there.”
“Did his brother encourage him?”
“Not at all. Alfred was very strict about where our proper place was. Giles was a wonder with horses. Alfred thought he should stay out here where he belonged.”
“Did Bragg and Giles ever go to town together?”
“Only to church on Sundays. But they did go huntin’ together. An’ sometimes I’d let them use this cottage when they had a Saturday afternoon off.”
“To do what?”
Struthers hesitated, then leaned forward and whispered, “They had a fondness fer drink an’ dicin’ – nothin’ serious, mind you, just a way to pass the afternoon and unwind a bit. Mr. Macaulay didn’t allow the servants to drink on the premises, except fer a glass of wine or beer at supper.” He leaned farther forward and added, “I never seen either of ‘em really drunk.”
“Any particular kind of drink?”
“Oh, yeah. It was always sherry.”
Marc tried not to reveal the excitem
ent he felt. “I trust they were not taking it from Mr. Macaulay’s cellar?”
“Oh no, never. Alfred kept strict track of that.”
“Where would they get it, then?”
“Giles got it from someplace in town. He never said where.”
“I see. And as far as you know, Bragg wouldn’t have taken sherry to his own room in the house?”
“Never saw him do so.”
“Did Bragg go to church last Sunday?”
“He went along with the rest of us.”
“Could he have had time to do some visiting while in town?”
“Could have. I took the Janes girls an’ Prissy fer some coffee afterwards. Austin said he felt more like a stroll. We all come back together about an hour later.”
“Was Bragg carrying anything with him?”
Struthers smiled. “If he did have a bottle on him, it would’ve been well hidden in his big coat, so I couldn’t say one way or another.”
“Could Bragg have left Elmgrove anytime on Monday or Tuesday?” (Chilton, Marc knew, had arrived on the previous Thursday, so if any plot to murder him had been hatched after that, the window of opportunity had been small.)
“No way. I know when my horses’ve been used, an’ Austin was kept far too busy to have had time to walk to town. He’s been here at Elmgrove since Sunday at two o’clock. An’ we’ve been so busy gettin’ ready fer this gatherin’ I doubt he could’ve been off the property in the last two weeks, except fer church.”
Marc decided to change tack, grateful that Struthers seemed incurious about the purpose or direction of his questions. “Yesterday afternoon Mr. Chilton asked Mr. Macaulay if he might be excused for half an hour or so while he came out here to check on some discrepancy or other in regard to your supplies.”
Struthers frowned slightly but did not seem threatened by the remark. “Oh, that. Big mix-up. I found the missin’ bags of feed under some straw that Cal tossed over ‘em by mistake.”
Unholy Alliance Page 15
