Minor Corruption

by Don Gutteridge

  “I take it you or yer husband had asked Betsy who the father of her babe was when she first hinted she was pregnant?”

  “We did, but she said nothin’. Then later when she was wild with the fever I asked her again. And this time she answered. She said it was Seamus.”

  “Seamus Baldwin?”

  Auleen looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “No. Just Seamus. But she said it twice. She said, ‘Seamus . . .please . . . Seamus.’ We all heard it.”

  “I know you did. Mrs. Cobb told me the same. But you see, it could’ve been any Seamus. And I’m worried about the word ‘please.’ Sounds more like she was callin’ fer him.”

  “’Cause he was her lover!” Auleen cried. “’Cause he seduced her! A child! A girl’s who’s only had her monthlies since last March!”

  Cobb squirmed at such bold woman-talk, but said kindly enough, “Please, calm down, ma’am. I’m here to get at the truth, not to doubt yer word.”

  “What about the five pounds? No mill-hand ever saw a note like that. The only people within three miles of here that could’ve had that kinda money are the Baldwins. And Betsy’s worked up at Spadina for over two months.”

  Cobb nodded as if he agreed, then said, “Any of them mill-hands named Seamus?”

  “I thought you was lookin’ into the charge Burton made against Seamus Baldwin?” she cried, defiant. Then she put her head onto the table and wept.

  “I take it there aren’t?” he said softly.

  She shook her head without raising it.

  “Mind if I take a peek at Betsy’s room?”

  Auleen nodded miserably. Cobb got up and entered the cramped cubicle that had served as the dead girl’s only private space. The bloodied pallet had been removed entirely, leaving only a home-made night-stand as the sole piece of furniture. Two crude drawers had been fashioned and attached to the underside of an apple-box. A shard of broken mirror lay on its top, the girl’s pathetic looking-glass. In the first drawer he found several pairs of cotton underwear and two strips of cloth that were probably used for her menstrual periods. Cobb blushed at the thought, and was about to shut the drawer without further search when he heard the rustle of paper underneath the cloths. Slowly he drew into the dim light a half-sheet of writing paper. Cobb went to the oil-papered window and was just able to make out the pencil scrawl:

  Dear Uncle:

  Thank you for the five-pound note. It’s

  a lifesaver and you are an angel. I love you.

  XOXOX

  Betsy

  p.s. See you at Spadina

  Oh dear, Cobb thought. This complicates things. On the face of it, this letter was a thank-you note that Betsy meant to give to Uncle Seamus for his generosity. But the “uncle,” in conjunction with “Spadina” and her death-bed cry of “Seamus,” pointed towards only one person who would answer to all three references. And it sure looked as if there had been a five-pound note, one that had passed from benefactor to pregnant girl to abortionist. Cobb had no choice now. He would have to interview Seamus Baldwin. He returned to the night-table and opened the second drawer: there could be more. But there wasn’t. In it he found a rabbit’s foot, a sling-shot, several marbles and half a dozen Indian arrowheads. An odd collection, he thought, for a girl.

  He went back into the kitchen, where Auleen was sitting upright with a mug of tea clasped in all ten fingers.

  “I’m goin’ to talk to yer husband, ma’am, but first I need to go over to Spadina. I got reason to believe Seamus Baldwin may be mixed up in this unhappy business. It’s way too soon, though, to conclude he was a seducer and a rapist.”

  “I just want us to be left alone,” she said, setting her tea aside, “but if that man did do it, I’d like to see him punished.”

  “So would I, ma’am.”

  At the door he turned and said, “I found a bunch of things in Betsy’s room that looked more like the keepsakes of a lad than a lass.”

  Auleen smiled wanly. “Oh, them things belong to my son Tim. He and Betsy shared that room when they were both children. Tim’s only four years older.”

  “But he don’t live here any more?”

  “He run off and got married at the end of July.”

  “And you had an older girl?”

  Auleen’s eyes narrowed. “We did. Lottie. She was a wild one. Seven years older’n Tim. She run away years ago.”

  “So Betsy was yer last?”

  Auleen nodded. “There’s nobody now but me and Burton. We’re all alone.”

  ***

  A few rods back from the road, Cobb noticed someone working at the weir that served the mill. He tethered the horse and walked towards the figure, who stopped hammering at some lower section of the little dam and watched him approach.

  “You Burton Thurgood?”

  “I am. And you must be one of the bobbies.” Thurgood stepped up onto a platform.

  “I want to talk to you about the charge you made against Seamus Baldwin,.” Cobb said evenly. “I’ve been asked to investigate and make a report.”

  “Then why ain’t you over at Spadina doin’ yer job? I already told yer chief what happened Friday night and what I heard.”

  “I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Soon as I do, I plan on headin’ over to talk to Mr. Baldwin.”

  Thurgood, whose expression veered as close to a sneer as he dared, said, “I’ll believe it when I see it. I don’t really expect them swells to admit anythin’ to the likes of you.”

  Cobb bristled, but kept his temper. “Maybe so. But I still need to hear what you got to say – fer my report.”

  Thurgood grunted, and while Cobb took out his notebook and pretended to scribble in it, Thurgood gave Cobb an account of what happened that was not materially different from that of his wife’s, except in the pugnacity of its tone. Cobb had deliberately neglected to tell him he had already heard it from Auleen. The jibing of the two accounts confirmed the need for him to continue on to Spadina, as unpleasant as that might prove to be.

  Cobb thanked Thurgood and turned to leave.

  “Yer chief told me to come in and check on that report at seven o’clock this evenin’,” Thurgood said pointedly. “I’ll be there.”

  I’ll try not to be, Cobb thought. And headed for his buggy.

  ***

  “It’s good to hear you laugh again, Uncle,” Robert said.

  “That lass makes me do it, even when it hurts,” Uncle Seamus said, absent-mindedly putting the dominoes back in their box.

  “It’s a sad time for all of us. Father and I loved Betsy like one of our own.”

  “You have other children.”

  “And without them I’d never have survived Elizabeth’s death in ‘thirty-six. I trust you’ll lean on us and on Edie and the other servants to help you over this hurdle.”

  “She was so young. And full of promise. She needed someone to talk to. As I did.”

  Robert was pleased to hear his uncle talking of his loss. It was the first direct reference he had made to it since Betsy’s death.

  “I’ll have Miss Partridge see that Edie’s duties are lightened for a while so she can help cheer you up whenever you wish to have her do so.”

  “She’s a pretty little thing with a wicked sense of fun, but she’s not Betsy. Thank you, though, for that thought. I don’t wish to seem ungrateful to you or William. I know you’re doing all you can to help. Perhaps in a week or two I’ll feel up to chambers again.”

  “Whenever you say.”

  “And I know you’re needed in many other parts of the province.”

  “I’m not leaving until I’m sure you’re going to be all right.”

  “Your dad and Chalmers can look after my physical and spiritual needs. Please, go ahead and arrange your trip to London as you planned.”

  “Do you wish to stay here and read, or do you want me to have Chalmers fetch Edie back?”

  Uncle Seamus, having played the role so often and for so long, had evolved a jester’s face
: when it smiled every crevice and plane smiled in concert with his vivid blue eyes; but when it frowned, every wrinkle and rosy patch sagged in sympathy. At this moment, his smile was struggling to maintain itself. “Have Edie come back in. I promised to let her win.”

  Robert had put off the inevitable long enough. “I will, Uncle,” he said “but there is something I must tell you, even though it may upset you.”

  “I can’t think of anything that would upset me more than I have been.”

  “It has to do with Betsy.”

  “Oh?” Was it fear or merely a twinge of further pain in his eyes?

  “There’s no way to lead up to this, so I’m going to say it directly. Burton Thurgood claims that his daughter named you as the father of her babe.”

  The colour drained from the old man’s face, then returned immediately as he began to laugh – a dry, mirthless, bitter laugh. Finally he was able to speak. “That’s absurd,” he said more calmly than Robert would have imagined in the circumstances. “I was her ‘uncle’ and she was my precious little ‘niece.’”

  “I agree wholeheartedly. But three witnesses heard her reply ‘Seamus’ to the question ‘Who is the father of your child?’. One of the witnesses was Dora Cobb, the midwife.”

  “But Betsy would have been delirious. She’d been butchered by that witch.”

  “Exactly what I said to Thurgood when he came here yesterday looking for money in exchange for his silence.”

  “I trust you sent him packing!” Some fire had come back into the old man’s face, a slight re-animation of the laugh-lines. Robert began once more to hope that his uncle’s recovery was beginning. Certainly this conversation was going a lot better than he’d expected

  “He threatened to take his case to the police, Uncle, but I don’t imagine they would act on such a flimsy accusation. If he does and they do, I’ve a mind to report the attempted extortion.”

  “Be kind,” Uncle Seamus said. “They’ve suffered dreadfully over there.”

  At this point there came a tap at the door and Chalmers half-entered.

  “There’s a Constable Cobb at the door, sir. He is asking to see Mr. Seamus.” Chalmers raised his eyebrows in a quizzical gesture that implied an impertinence had been approached but his response remained uncertain.

  Robert sighed. “At least it’s Cobb.”

  ***

  In the hall, Robert explained to Cobb how fragile a state his uncle was in. Cobb suggested that Robert remain near the door so that he could be fetched if Uncle Seamus required assistance. Cobb also promised to be tactful, insofar as he understood that ambiguous term.

  Uncle Seamus sat at the library table waiting for him. He struck Cobb as a character out of Shakespeare, a Feste or Touchstone in a down moment, the kind they must have had when the duke wasn’t looking. Right now his gnome’s head seemed too large and heavy to be borne.

  “You aren’t putting any credence in Thurgood’s charge, are you?” he said wearily when Cobb sat down opposite him.

  Cobb did not take out his notebook. “We are obligated to look into it, sir, that’s all.”

  “So you want to know if dear Betsy and I had ever been lovers?” Uncle Seamus said with a fine edge to his sarcasm.

  “Somebody put a baby into her,” Cobb said quietly.

  “Well, sir, it was not me. I loved that lass, but as a parent. She was a lonely girl whose own father and mother saw her merely as a cash-cow. She was very intelligent. She could read and write. I gave her the run of the library. I made her laugh – ” He could not continue. A held-back sob broke. He coughed it away and, to Cobb’s embarrassment, looked up at him with tears running down both of his scarlet cheeks.

  “So you are denyin’ you ever ‘interfered’ with the girl?”

  “I am, as God is my witness.”

  “Well, that’s a good start, then.”

  “A start?”

  “Yes. I need you to give me a causible explanation for this letter I found in Betsy’s bedroom.” He drew the note from his pocket and handed it across to Uncle Seamus, who read it through carefully.

  “Well, sir?”

  “It’s a thank-you note for the five pounds I gave her last week.” His voice faltered as he added, “That’s her handwriting.”

  “But you don’t understand, sir. That five pounds was handed by Betsy to Mrs. Trigger, the abortionist. You give the girl abortion money.”

  “I did no such thing. She never told me she was pregnant. If she had, none of this would have happened, I guarantee you. She told me her mother had a tumour that needed to be removed by a surgeon. Obviously, and sadly, she lied to me. But I gave her the money for that purpose alone – and will swear to it, if need be.”

  Cobb cleared his throat. “What do you make of that ‘I love you’ business at the end of the letter?” he said diffidently.

  For the first time anger showed in Uncle Seamus’s eyes. “Good Christ, man, don’t you love your children? Don’t they love you?”

  Cobb blushed, and the wart beside his left nostril quivered. “I see what you mean, sir.”

  That burst of anger seemed to use up the last reserves of the old man’s energy. His face, his entire body, just sagged. “I’m awful tired,” he said, barely audible, and with that he slumped against the table.

  Cobb went to the door and called for Robert. Chalmers was right behind his master.

  “I’ll see to him, sir,” Chalmers said, scowling at Cobb.

  Robert turned to Cobb. “This is a sorry affair,” he sighed.

  “And I’m sorry fer upsettin’ the old gent,” Cobb said. “But it was a useful conversation.”

  “You are satisfied he had nothing to do with Betsy’s death?” Much relief was evident on Robert’s face.

  “He denies bein’ the father or in any way approachin’ the girl improperly. And he had a perfectly logical explanation for a letter I found from Betsy to him. As far as I can see, it’s his word against the Thurgoods. And my Dora’ll swear the girl was delirious to boot.”

  “Thank God. It’s time we let this matter lie. For everybody’s sake.”

  “I agree, sir. Now I got to head back to police quarters and dictate my report. Good day to you.”

  Robert shook Cobb’s hand and led him to the front door. He didn’t know it, but it would be some time before they would be able to shake hands like this again.

  SIX

  Cobb had intended to be well away from police quarters when Burton Thurgood arrived to read his report at seven o’clock. Thurgood would find little in it to please him. Cobb had dutifully recounted his interviews with Dora, Auleen, Burton himself, and Seamus, and attached Betsy’s thank-you note. After discussing the matter with Wilfrid Sturges, Cobb agreed with his chief that the investigation had produced a stalemate. Seamus Baldwin’s denial and plausible explanation for the contents of the girl’s note had to be balanced against the questionable “confession” of Betsy Thurgood. There was no way to prove that Seamus was the father of her babe or that the five-pound note had been provided for an abortion. Betsy had spoken his name; she had obtained money from him; she had given that money to Mrs. Trigger; Mrs Trigger was directly responsible for her death. Those were the facts as they presently stood. No formal charge could be laid against Seamus Baldwin or recommended to Magistrate Thorpe.

  Alas, Cobb was still at work when Thurgood arrived promptly at seven o’clock. He should have been at home eating a hearty supper, but Gussie French had been called away on an emergency (his son had the mumps, it turned out) and by the time he had got back, there was just time for Cobb to finish the report and discuss it with the Chief. Cobb spotted the wiry little man stomping up the walk, and ducked into the constables’ room. It was the Chief’s job to deal with him.

  For a few minutes he heard nothing from the office next door. Then he thought he could detect the drone of the Chief’s voice – reading the report aloud, no doubt, to the illiterate mill-hand. Then silence again. Then:

  “What
! You’re gonna let that rapin’ bastard get away with this!” Thurgood’s voice was already loud and tight with rage. “You call that an investigation? The bastard says ‘no’ and you walk away believin’ him? My poor girl called out his name on her death-bed! She swore to me and to God that Seamus Baldwin raped her and put her in the family way! Let the bugger come inta court and deny it. I won’t take anythin’ less!”

  “Please calm down, sir.”

  The two men were in the main room now, visible to Cobb, who was beginning to feel like a coward for stowing away from the fireworks. Thurgood was actually backing the Chief up with the force of his anger, and Sturges was hobbling and flinching as he retreated towards the door.

  Cobb came out. “You got complaints, sir, you make ‘em to me. I was the fella that did the investigatin’.”

  “He admitted he give her the abortion money!” Thurgood shouted. His bold black eyes blazed and his sheaf of black curls shuddered with each bob of his jaw. “She wrote them words about lovin’ him in her letter. What more do you need? The man’s a pervert. He oughta be gelded and then hung!”

  “There’s no proof,” Cobb said, coming between Thurgood and Sturges. “It’s her word against his deny-all. And Mrs. Cobb is willin’ to swear that the girl’s words did not sound like she was accusin’ him.”

  “But she’s yer wife! A policeman’s wife!”

  “She’s an honest woman and I’ll flatten the man that says she ain’t!”

  Thurgood stepped around Cobb, jostled past the Chief and strode to the door. He turned to face them. His anger slowly evolved into a contemptuous sneer. “This ain’t the end of this! I’m gonna go to the magistrate and bring my own suit against that bigwig bastard. We’ll see what a jury of ordinary folk thinks!”

  “That’s your right, Mr. Thurgood,” Sturges said, wincing. “But that won’t change the evidence. All you’ll be doin’ is draggin’ a gentleman’s name through the muck.”

  “And the magistrate may see it the same way we did,” Cobb added.