Some four weeks after Eliza Baldwin’s birthday party, Constable Horatio Cobb found himself on an unusual errand: he was walking north up Frederick Street in the “old town” to visit his boss. The day had begun normally enough. He had arrived at the police quarters in City Hall about seven o’clock to check in and begin his day-patrol, had nodded to Gussie French, the police clerk, and was surprised when that earnest fellow, who rarely returned his nod, looked up, frowned, and shoved a note into Cobb’s hand – before going back to his hen-scratching. “It’s from the Chief, so you better read it,” Gussie had muttered without pausing for a comma. And it was. Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges requested his presence as soon as convenient at his house on Frederick Street above Newgate. Cobb knew the house – a whitewashed, clapboard cottage ringed by the flower patches that were Mrs. Sturges’s lifeline to the Old Country she had never really left – but he had never been inside of it. Sturges, or Sarge as he was affectionately called after his rank in Wellington’s army, kept his private and professional lives separate. Cobb admired him for it. Cobb admired him for everything. But why would he be summoned to the man’s home? Sure, Sarge had been having a rough time with arthritis and gout, and spent much less time in his office than he used to. But he always made it to police quarters at least three times a week, giving him lots of time to speak privately with any of his constables, should he have need to. In fact, he and Cobb had been alone for an hour yesterday when Gussie had been called home over the noon hour to deal with his obstreperous son.
But a summons was a summons. And it was a glorious Indian summer day in early October, perfect for a casual stroll up Frederick Street. He had even spotted his friend and sometime co-investigator, Marc Edwards, driving his buggy along King Street with Beth at his side. He would have been heading for the chambers of Baldwin and Sullivan and she for her shop farther west on King. Both of them gave him a wave and a cheery “Good morning!” and he had tipped his helmet like a proper gentleman, knowing that the Major, as he called him, would appreciate the irony of the gesture.
Cobb came to Sturges’s cottage, ducked under an arbour and its last frail roses, and rapped on the front door.
***
“I wanted to have an uninterrupted chat with you, Cobb, well away from the rabbit ears of Gussie French and any outside interruptions.”
“You know I’ve never turned down a chat,” Cobb quipped, hoping against the odds to lighten the atmosphere in the room. They were seated cheek by jowl in the Chief’s den, which was not much bigger than a water-closet. A warming sun through the tiny southeast window provided the only heat and a single candle the only additional light. Sturges was seated in a plush chair with his right leg stretched out upon a leather hassock with horsehair stuffing sticking out all over it. His swollen right foot was thinly wrapped with gauze, but its red and painful puffiness could be seen clearly – and felt. Some days the gout prevented Sturges from walking altogether, and even on a good day he now got around gingerly with the aid of a cane. It made Cobb shudder, not merely at the undeserved suffering this man was being asked to bear but at the sort of decrepitude and indignity that awaited everyone unfortunate enough to live too far past middle age.
“You don’t mind coffee in the mornin’?” Sturges said solicitously.
“Oh, no, not at all. Yer missus has been most kind.” Cobb winced as he realized how much he sounded like Marc Edwards, Esquire.
“Good. Good.”
Cobb sipped at his cooling coffee and squirmed in his lumpy chair in a futile effort to get comfortable.
“You are happy with your work?” Sturges said after an anxious pause.
“’Course I am. Can’t think of anythin’ else I’d like to do.” Are you happy with my work? was the response Cobb wished to make. Was Sarge leading up to firing him? Demoting him? He began to sweat.
“Glad to hear it.”
“I figure I’ll be workin’ on patrol till my feet give out,” Cobb said, instantly regretting the remark.
Sturges chuckled, something he needed to do more as it instantly invigorated the character in his face – a high-browed, full-cheeked, essentially cheerful face with eyes that had seen too much horror on the Spanish peninsula but still had the urge to dance in their sockets if given the chance. “You wouldn’t be thinkin’ of a change, then?”
Cobb flinched, rattling his coffee cup in its saucer. “I’d like things to stay where they are,” he replied, “or the way they useta be – when you could run like a greyhound.”
“Don’t we all?” He leaned forward, grimacing at the effort. “But I’m thinkin’ of a change fer the better. Surely you’ve heard the men talkin’ about me retirin’?”
“They’ve been mutterin’ about that when you ain’t nearby, but I don’t toll-or-rate such talk. You’re the Chief.”
Sturges heaved a theatrical sigh. “And I’d like to be chief forever. But I asked you here to tell you, first up, that the wife and I have come to a decision on the matter.”
Cobb was shocked and flattered – both. “Ya mean you’re gonna quit?”
“I’m goin’ to retire on half-pay, as the gentlemen officers say, like I did when I left the army and joined Peel’s patrolmen back in ’twenty-nine.”
“But who’s gonna be our chief?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, man to man.”
“I can’t see any of us takin’ over,” Cobb said quickly. The very thought of having to sit in an office most of the waking hours, of hobnobbing with Magistrate Thorpe or the Attorney-General or the Aldermen who continually butted into police affairs, or of supervising laggards like Ewan Wilkie or bullies like Bob Brown – such thoughts caused him to break out in hives.
“Well, before we get anywheres near that topic, there are other, bigger changes comin’ to the Toronto constabulary.”
It was Cobb’s turn to lean forward. “What kinda changes?” he said, barely breathing the words.
“Nothin’ lasts forever, my friend, and not all change is fer the worse, though I know it usually works out that way.”
“But the force is workin’ well, ain’t it? Is the mayor unhappy with us?”
“No, no, no. It’s because things are workin’ out well that the City Council is plannin’ to make the force bigger and better.”
“But they’ve already made it bigger.”
Last year five part-time constables had been added to the five permanent ones (including the chief constable) so that certain sensitive parts of the city could be policed twenty-four hours a day. The old night watchmen were gradually being phased out.
“True, and as you can see fer yerself every day on yer patrol, this city is growin’ by leaps and bounds. We’re addin’ a thousand people a year. Our wharves are teemin’ with immigrants from Britain. The shanties up in Irishtown are spreadin’ like pigweed. There’s talk of the army movin’ in and ejectin’ all them squatters ‘cause the property is needed fer respectable citizens.”
“Well, I’ll admit we don’t go inta Irishtown alone no more. But still – ”
“The decision’s already been made,” Sturges said, leaning back with elaborate care. “It’ll be official at the next council meetin’.”
Cobb wished he were somewhere else – in his “office” at the Cock and Bull, for example, with a frothy flagon of ale in his right hand.
“First of all,” Sturges continued, “startin’ in the new year, we’ll have ten full-time constables with twenty-four-hour foot-patrols throughout the town.”
“We ain’t got room fer an extra midget as it is!”
“New quarters will be found or built. It’s possible that a second quarters or station will be set up here in the east end.”
“I see,” Cobb said, though he was having a hard time imagining such sweeping change. “But they’ll still need a new chief, won’t they?”
“They will. And believe me, Cobb, if I thought there was the slightest chance you would consider it, I’d recommend
you.”
Cobb looked at Sturges long and hard enough for him to realize that he was deeply touched by the offer but was not tempted, even now, to change his mind on the question. “You know I can’t,” he said at last.
“I do. And I didn’t bring you up here to browbeat or sweet-talk you into takin’ on the job. As it turns out, the Council is lookin’ to London again fer another chief, as they did fer me.”
“Another – ”
“Limey? Yes, I’m afraid so.” Sturges chuckled for the second time, tickled at Cobb’s embarrassment, which inevitably reddened his already scarlet nose. “Alderman MacArthur is headin’ to England this week, and he’s been asked to interview candidates and bring back a recommendation when he returns in December.”
“So I’m off the hook?”
“Not entirely. For there’s a second change comin’, a very interestin’ one.”
Cobb waited, wary and apprehensive.
“I’ve been in correspondence with colleagues in London, old pals of mine, and it seems like the police over there are plannin’ to create a new class of investigator, someone who will not be on patrol or even in uniform.”
“Sounds crazy to me. What would they do without a truncheon or a helmet to protect their noggins?”
“These men would be called detectives. Their sole purpose would be to investigate serious crimes – gather evidence and question suspicious people and witnesses. The idea of havin’ them in plain, gentleman’s attire is to allow them to move about at will without scarin’ people and without havin’ to be stuck on regular patrol. They’d need more brains than brawn.”
“But me and the Major’ve been investigatin’ quite nicely on our own, ain’t we?”
Sturges smiled as if he had at long last reached the target he had been aiming at all along. “Very nicely, Cobb. That’s my point. And that’s why I’m goin’ to recommend to Council that when the new chief arrives and the force gets reorganized, you be made our first plainclothes detective.”
Cobb was speechless. He wasn’t even sure how he ought to feel.
“Don’t look so surprised or worried. The changes’ll not be that severe. I know the Council will resist the idea – they’re all stuck in the Dark Ages – so I intend to suggest that we begin the experiment by havin’ you keep yer patrol – day-patrol only, I might add – until a major crime occurs, one that requires real investigation. Then you will be relieved of yer patrol, remove yer uniform, and carry out the investigation as you see fit. Subject to the chief’s guidance, you will be allowed to direct one or more patrolmen to assist you, as required.”
“Like I done with the Major, except I get to wear my Sunday suit?”
“Except you won’t have Marc Edwards at yer side.”
Cobb thought about that. Marc had taught him much about interrogation and evidence-gathering. They had worked well as a team. Could he work alone? More to the point, would the Major be available in any case now that he had two children, a barrister’s career, and a consuming passion for politics? Not likely.
“It would mean a substantial increase in yer salary,” Sturges said, seeing that Cobb had sniffed at the bait and was now mouthing it.
That offer was welcome news, for Cobb had school fees to pay for Delia’s winter term at Miss Tyson’s Academy and, by next autumn, similar fees for Fabian at the grammar school. Fabian was already the brightest pupil in the common school and destined for something better than the life of a police constable.
“You’d be willin’ to suggest all this to the Council?” he said when he felt confident enough to speak.
“I would.”
“But with a new chief and all these new constables, aren’t they likely to balk at extra expenses? They’re too cheap to cobble or macadam the main streets, for God’s sake.”
“They are. But I’ve got a long list of yer successful investigations to regale them with. Besides, serious crime is on the increase. Toronto would like to be the capital of the united provinces when Kingston drops the ball, so they’re much aware of our town’s safety and the success of our constabulary. Anyway, as long as you approve of the idea, I’m goin’ to push it as hard as I can.”
Cobb nodded his assent slowly. Then he said, “You sure that gout of yers ain’t gonna get better?”
***
Beth dropped Marc off at Baldwin House and continued on up Bay Street towards Smallman’s. Marc watched her awhile, marvelling yet again how competent she was around horses and most things practical, and at how content they both were at the life they had begun making together. Like many people in this colony, they had suffered the loss of those they had loved and themselves had had brushes with death. But they had survived and found each other. They had brought a daughter and a son into this world. They could do nothing to alter the whims of Fate or a vengeful God, but they could do all in their power to make the new Canada a place fit to live and prosper in. Politics was a human enterprise and, if possible, they would make sure it was humane as well. Beth had worked for the Reform cause – the redress of long-time grievances and the establishment of a responsible, cabinet form of government – all her adult life. It was she who had won him over to the cause, along with his heart. He watched her now, and marvelled anew until the buggy wheeled east onto King Street.
Marc turned back towards Baldwin House, which faced Front Street at Bay. Half of the splendid, two-storey brick building provided living quarters for Robert, his four children, their governess Diana Ramsay, and their servants. The other half contained the law chambers of Baldwin and Sullivan, the firm that Marc, as a barrister, assisted from time to time but one that he had so far resisted joining, as he had still not decided the precise direction his future would take. His assistance this morning, and for the next several weeks, would consist of writing letters on Robert’s behalf while offering guidance to and keeping a close watch on Seamus Baldwin as he settled in “to be of help.” Uncle Seamus had come into town yesterday evening, and was to make his inaugural appearance in chambers at nine this morning. Marc went immediately to his office, a small but comfortable room next to the suite of rooms occupied by Clement Peachey and his clerks – the place where the conveyancing and other fee-paying business was carried out. At the end of the hall lay two large and well-appointed chambers reserved for the firm’s partners.
Robert’s manservant had set a small fire in the corner stove to take the night chill off, and Marc had just walked over to dampen it down when he heard a sharp cry. It had come from next door, and sounded as if someone had jabbed something sharp into Clement Peachey. Marc ran out into the hall. The cry had evolved into a string of oaths, none of them complimentary. Marc opened Clement’s door and went in.
“What happened?” Marc said, but already the anxiety had gone out of his voice. Peachey was not injured. In fact he had not risen from his desk. He was holding aloft what appeared to be the firm’s seal, the one used to press hot wax onto the many official documents and letters he dealt with daily. He was glaring at it as if it had of its own accord chosen to alter its shape. He glanced up at Marc, scowled, then looked down at the document before him. Marc could see what might have been shards of clear glass scattered over it.
“Macaroons,” Peachey said bleakly. “Some damn fool glued bits of macaroon to my seal!”
Uncle Seamus had struck early.
***
It took Marc five minutes to get Peachey to cool down and even longer to have him see the comic side of Uncle Seamus’s prank. Robert was never far from a bowl of macaroons. Some wags at court referred to the firm as Macaroon and Sullivan. That its seal, its “coat of arms,” should include the macaroon could well be seen as both fitting and funny.
“That’s all very well, Marc, but we’ve got a business to run. While the two Roberts are off playing politics, it’s me here and you in court who keep the firm solvent. Tell Seamus Baldwin for me that I don’t intend to let any frivolous prankster loose in here amongst my papers and files. I do have a sense of hum
our, but it has no place in a law office!”
That may be the most appropriate place for it, was Marc’s thought, but he said, “I just heard Robert go down to his chamber. Uncle Seamus may be with him. I’ll sort this matter out right now.”
Marc left Peachey picking macaroon shards off the company seal and started down towards Robert’s office.
“What the Sam hell!” It was Robert, his voice raised to an unaccustomed level. He never swore, but was obviously coming close to doing so.
Robert’s outcry was followed by a huge guffaw.
Marc stepped into the room to find Robert with his wooden macaroon bowl clinging, it appeared, to all five of the outstretched fingers of his left hand.
“Gotcha!” Uncle Seamus roared, and clapped his hands to his belly. The old gentleman was impeccably turned out in his finest suit. Extra pomade and a centre-part had brought his sheaf of grey-white hair close to respectability. His boots had been polished till they bled. But nothing could really be done to disguise the gnome’s body or the impish dance of his blue eyes. The deep wrinkles of his troll-like features were contorted now into a most unlawyerly grin.
“Molasses!” Robert sputtered at Marc. “He’s stuck my macaroons to the bowl and poured molasses around them! They’re ruined!”
“It’s just a jest,” Uncle Seamus said when his laughter had subsided somewhat. “How many times have I seen you reach into your bowl blindly with your left hand? The temptation was just too great, nephew. You’ll have to excuse an old man’s fancy, eh?”
“I’ll have one of the girls bring you a towel and some water,” Marc said.
“Thanks, Marc. Otherwise I’d have to go next door and clean up.”
“You can see the humour of it, can’t you, Edwards?”
Marc could, but felt it impolitic to say so.
“Was that a cry of woe and despair I heard coming from Solicitor Peachey’s abode?” Uncle Seamus said, the impish grin unfaded.
“I’m afraid that Clement did not see the humour in the defacement of his seal,” Marc said.
“Good grief, Uncle, what have you done to Peachey?”
Minor Corruption Page 3
