Minor Corruption

by Don Gutteridge

  the sound of your voice, as pure as poetry, as lilting as an Irish

  tenor’s. Your laugh turns me giddy and one glance from your

  sea-blue eyes is enough to carry me through an entire week. O

  my precious and unattainable knight!

  Your faithful admirer

  Betsy

  The effect on the courtroom was electric. Gasps of disbelief. Sighs of disappointment. Tuts of revulsion. Here at last was the direct connection between Seamus Baldwin and the love-struck teenager. Perhaps it hadn’t been rape after all. It had been worse, much worse. The brute had seduced her in that ugly horse-stall, and she had not resisted. Surely they had been carrying on their illicit affair for over two months! Ending tragically in abortion, death, and now disgrace.

  “Is this Betsy Thurgood’s hand as you know it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. And I saw her write this letter. She asked me to look over and check her spellin’ and commas and the like.”

  “I see. So even though there is no date on this letter, you can tell us when it was penned?”

  “Yes, sir. About the middle of September.”

  So, Marc thought, Edie had known about the letter and had deliberately left it where Cobb could find it. But why?

  “Do you have an opinion as to who this person is? The one whom Betsy admired ‘faithfully’?”

  “Milord!”

  “I’m going to allow it, Mr. Edwards. Miss Barr knew Miss Thurgood well. They shared a room and much else, it appears.”

  “It has to be Uncle Seamus, doesn’t it?” Edie said.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, it says here it’s someone she sees in the house every day. And that ‘shinin’ hair’ could only be Uncle Seamus’s big white hair, couldn’t it?”

  “Why, then, would she call him a knight?”

  “Oh, Betsy was always livin’ in a dream world, seein’ knights in shinin’ armour and all that sort of nonsense.”

  “Did Betsy ever confide in you that it was Seamus Baldwin she admired and was in love with?”

  “No, sir,” Edie, mindful of Robert Baldwin’s admonitions, said with some reluctance. “I did ask, but she wouldn’t tell.”

  “Did you ever see Betsy and Seamus Baldwin in a romantic embrace?”

  “No, sir. Just the teasin’ and stuff. And it was a crowded house. There ain’t any secrets in it.”

  “What about outdoors? Could they have met on the grounds?”

  Edie pushed out her dainty lower lip, reflected a moment and said, “They could’ve, though Uncle Seamus only went outside to play his pipes at picnics or to go fishin’ up by the mill in the little ravine there. Sometimes he told us he’d go up to the other pool, past the dam, but Mr. Whittle liked to fish there even though he was forbidden to, and Uncle Seamus liked his privacy.”

  “Privacy, eh? At the trout pool below the mill? The one we’ve already heard about? And the same mill where Betsy took her father’s lunch every day?”

  “That’s right.”

  With images of forbidden rendezvous in soft grasses beside still trout pools floating through the minds of the jurors, Neville Cambridge sat down, much pleased.

  Marc stood up. “Miss Barr, that is a love letter you have in hand, is it not? A love letter to a white knight?”

  “Sounds that way,” Edie said, curling her lip. She did not appear apprehensive, but rather looked as if she were anticipating yet another scene in the drama she had envisaged.

  “Did you ever write a letter like this?” Marc said sternly.

  Edie hesitated.

  “May I remind you that you are under oath.”

  “Might have.”

  “More than one?”

  More curling of lip. “Maybe. I guess so. Yes.”

  “You have several lovers, then, do you?”

  There was a collective intake of breath at this abrupt accusation.

  Edie flinched but held onto the railing. “No, sir, I do not. I’m a proper lady.”

  “Then why and under what circumstances would you have penned a love letter like the one written by Betsy?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. You’re confusin’ me.”

  “Did you and Betsy read romances? Fairy tales?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Edie had pushed her lower up and over her upper one.

  “Don’t young girls when they’re learning to write, often practice penning letters, letters they have no intention of sending to anyone?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Edie scowled at Marc, her jaw set.

  “Milord, I’d like Miss Barr declared a hostile witness.”

  The galleries were shocked. After all, Edie was only sixteen and very blond and, surely, innocent.

  “Granted,” said the judge. “Miss Barr, you must answer Mr. Edwards’ questions if you know the answer.”

  Edie hung her head, uncertain of what was to come but braced for the worst.

  “I suggest, Miss Barr,” Marc said with a sharp edge to his voice, “that you and Betsy, as young girls will do, sat together in your room and wrote many letters of this nature, practising the epistolary lessons that Seamus Baldwin so kindly offered to you girls. Isn’t that not so?”

  Edie nodded gloomily.

  “Please answer yes or no,” the judge said.

  “Yes,” Edie mumbled.

  “And you two did read romance novels generously supplied to you from the Baldwins’ extensive library?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you talked about and fantasized a white knight in shining armour who, like those in the fairy tales, would come and rescue you from your daily toil?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I put it to you, Miss Barr, that you and Betsy sat together and composed this letter, and that you did more than read it over for errors. Is that not so?”

  Edie began to tremble. “I did read it fer spellin’!”

  “But you also helped to write it, didn’t you? You made suggestions as you went along?”

  Edie hung her pretty head. “Yes,” she breathed.

  “You may even have had Uncle Seamus in mind, eh? Not because Betsy was romantically attracted to him, but because you yourself were! It was you who were in love with Uncle Seamus, wasn’t it? And when he failed to return your love and seemed to be grieving overly much at Betsy’s death, you gave this letter to the police to spite him.”

  “No! No! Stop! Please.”

  The cry came not from the witness-box but from the dock, and Uncle Seamus. The courtroom was stunned. The judge looked up sternly, but did not have to speak. Uncle Seamus had slumped into the arms of the deputy bailiff, all passion spent.

  Edie Barr burst into tears, devastating her blond prettiness.

  “Counsellor, that is enough,” cried the judge. “You’ve overstepped your bounds. And you’ve made your point.”

  “No more questions, Milord.”

  Cambridge glanced over at Marc, then peered over at the jury. They did not look pleased with the defense counsel’s performance, having been moved, like the spectators, by Uncle Seamus’s heartfelt cry.

  “I have no further questions of this witness,” he said.

  Behind him, Marc heard Robert whisper, “Marc, you cannot keep doing it this way.”

  “We’re almost there, Robert.”

  But where was there?

  ***

  Just as Marc was expecting the judge to adjourn the court until the afternoon, when the defense would begin presenting its case, Justice Powell called the two attorneys to the bench. It was Neville Cambridge who spoke, however.

  “Milord, some new evidence pertinent to the Crown’s case has just been handed to me. I’d like to look it over and make a decision as to whether to call another witness.”

  “Is that witness available?”

  “Yes, sir. It would be Dr. William Baldwin.”

  Marc paled. What on earth was Cambridge up to? Was he calling Dr. Baldwin deliberately to blu
nt Marc’s intention to use him as a character witness? But Cambridge could go at him at leisure in his cross examination. Character testimony was wide open. More importantly, what was this new evidence?

  “I’d like to see this evidence,” Marc said.

  “Of course,” Cambridge said cheerfully. “But only after I’ve assessed its probative value. Its precise use, I’m afraid, will only be made clear when Dr. Baldwin responds to my questions concerning it.”

  “Then, as it may affect the presentation of my case,” Marc said to the judge, “I’ll need extra time to prepare.”

  “If you do, sir, we’ll postpone defense witnesses until tomorrow morning.”

  With that, Marc was left to fret and stew over the long, long lunch-hour.

  ***

  Horatio Cobb was still steaming. He had had a near-sleepless night as his conscience fought with his indignation for supremacy. To make matters worse, he had had to sit through the morning session and watch Marc Edwards further dismantle the Crown’s case. The Chief had ordered Cobb to attend the entire trial, feeling that Cobb as a future detective ought to sit and observe what happened to evidence when barristers got hold of it. It was not a pretty sight. The only positive thing to come out of the morning, though, was the fact that Marc had gone too far, had been hoist on his own petard.

  Still, Marc’s accusation in the wig-room rankled, not so much the charge that he was driven by ambition (because he simply was not) but the claim that he had not done his job properly. After a night of arguing with himself, he had started to accept, grudgingly, the possibility that he had indeed begun his investigation with a prime suspect in mind and had set out merely to prove or disprove that assumption. What if he had ignored Jake Broom and started with the opposite notion: that someone other than Uncle Seamus had committed the rape? Would he still not have eliminated the six-foot Sol Clift, the slicked-down redhead, Joe Mullins, and of course Jake Broom himself who was not stupid enough to get himself hanged by going to the police and accusing a prominent gentleman of a crime no-one had reported.

  Nonetheless, at noon, he returned to the Chief’s office – Sturges was home ill – and sat there for half an hour going over all his interviews and the testimony he had, as was his custom, automatically memorized. When the solution came it struck him like a tornado on a house of straw. He shouted, “I’ve got it!” so loudly that Gussie French’s pen jabbed into the document he was writing on and its ink spurted up onto his chin.

  Cobb was now sure how the crime had been committed. And he knew what he had to do – quickly.

  ***

  At three o’clock the Crown called Dr. William Baldwin as its final witness. At Baldwin House there had been much discussion and more speculation about what the Crown was up to. Dr. Baldwin, perhaps the city’s most illustrious and beloved citizen, seemed as puzzled as anyone else. And, Marc noticed, there lurked in him some uncharacteristic unease, anxiety even.

  Dr. Baldwin was sworn in. If it was possible for the onlookers to be any more riveted than they had heretofore been, it was now.

  Cambridge began by waving a sheet of paper in the air. “Milord, I have here a letter which I would like to enter into evidence as Exhibit C.”

  The clerk brought the letter to the judge, who had already read it. He nodded and it was returned to Cambridge. Marc, too, had read it a few minutes before, and could not yet see its relevance. But he was certainly worried.

  “This letter,” Cambridge continued, “is dated a month ago and is addressed to Bishop Strachan of this city. It lay unopened for over a week, having got lost among the Bishop’s many papers. It was read by the Bishop only this morning. He has kindly attested to these facts.”

  “Carry on, then,” said the judge.

  “The letter was written by one D’Arcy Boylan, a prominent barrister in the City of Cork, Ireland.”

  The Baldwin clan, including of course Uncle Seamus, were from the Cork region of Ireland. Marc held his breath.

  “It is addressed to Bishop Strachan. I would ask the witness to read aloud only that part I have marked with a pencil.”

  The letter was taken to Dr. Baldwin. The look of concern on his face had deepened. He read:

  Some disturbing news, Bishop. The story about Seamus Baldwin

  retiring because of a nervous breakdown turns out not to be true.

  It seems the fellow was entangled in some sort of scandal that

  was hushed up by his law partners. I shall keep probing for the

  details, which you might find useful in the future.

  Dr. Baldwin finished and stared hard at the prosecutor. But the letter was quivering in his hand.

  ***

  Cobb walked up to Frederick Street and knocked at the door of Wilfrid Sturges’ house. His wife showed Cobb through to the little den, where the stricken man lay suffering. However, what Cobb had to tell roused him considerably. He readily approved Cobb’s absenting himself from the trial and gave him carte blanche to carry out the further investigation he had sketched out for his mightily impressed chief.

  Cobb rented a buggy from Frank’s livery and drove straight up to Whittle’s mill. Neither the miller nor any of his crew had been in the courtroom this morning, so Cobb was certain they would all have returned to work. He found Whittle in his office. He came right to the point.

  “Sir, did you ever employ Tim Thurgood, Burton’s son?”

  “What’re you doin’ pokin’ about in this business now?” Whittle said, his natural cheerfulness disrupted by this unexpected visit from the police.

  “That’s fer me to decide, sir. Please answer my question.”

  “That’s easy. He never worked here.”

  “Where did he work, then?”

  “At Getty’s farm. It’s just up the road. You passed it on your way here. But he ain’t there now. He run off to get married.”

  “I see. And he never come back here to visit?”

  “I don’t like tellin’ tales outta school,” Whittle said, indicating that he never missed a chance to do just that, “but father and son didn’t see eye to eye. It’s common, alas.”

  “Thanks fer yer time.”

  At the door, Cobb turned and said, “How’s the fishin’ up at the trout pool there above yer dam?”

  Whittle looked puzzled but replied happily enough. “Tryin’ to catch me out, are ya?” he laughed.

  “Catchin’ you out at what?”

  “Poachin’, of course.”

  “Ya mean ya can’t use them two great trout pools no more?”

  “Not since the old uncle come last summer. I been forbidden on pain of losin’ my lease.”

  “I always thought the Baldwins were easygoing?”

  “Oh, they are. But that uncle loves his anglin’ and he prefers to angle alone.”

  “Well, Whittle, that uncle may not be around much longer, eh?”

  Whittle gave a wary chuckle and watched Cobb head for his buggy. Cobb had got what he had come for, and more. He headed off now to find the Getty farm. He found it exactly where Whittle had directed him. A young fellow was repairing a snake-fence on the driveway into the farm. Cobb hailed him.

  “What can I do for you, constable?” The lad had a kind, generous face but looked wary just the same.

  “You was a good friend of young Tim Thurgood, I hear,” Cobb said, stretching the truth a little.

  “We were mates, yes. But Tim’s married now and nobody’s seen him since.”

  “So I was told. What I need to know is where he is now.”

  “He never told me where he and Marian were goin’. He doesn’t want anybody to know.”

  “Didn’t get along with Papa, I hear.”

  “That’s right. Tim just wants to be left alone.”

  “I can’t imagine he’d not tell his best friend where he’d got to.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” The Getty lad glanced down just enough for Cobb to be sure he was lying.

  “Son – ”

  “Will.
The name’s Will Getty.”

  “Will, a man’s life depends on me findin’ Tim Burton before tonight. If he’s anywhere near Toronto, you’ve gotta tell me.”

  “But he made me promise. I can’t let him get into any trouble.”

  “He’s not in any trouble, son. You have my word on that. But he has information in a life-and-death trial now goin’ on in the city. Without his help an innocent man’ll perish in prison.”

  Will Getty hesitated but, in the end, he gave in.

  ***

  “What do you make of that paragraph, Dr. Baldwin?” Neville Cambridge said with disingenuous relish.

  “Sounds like rumour-mongering to me,” Dr. Baldwin said forcefully, but the unease showed plainly in his eyes. “The Irish have been known to indulge from time to time.”

  A slight ripple of laughter went through the jury. They were hanging now on every word, every nuance. Here before them was one of the first citizens of the colony, a gentleman among gentlemen, on a witness-stand defending as best he could his reprobate Irish brother.

  “That may well be, doctor, but I believe you know otherwise.” Cambridge stared hard at Dr. Baldwin, holding him gaze for gaze.

  “I don’t know what you are implying, sir.”

  “I’m not implying anything other than this: tell this court exactly how much you know about why and how Seamus Baldwin came to leave his law firm in Cork, Ireland. And remember, you have sworn an oath before God to tell the truth.”

  Dr. Baldwin bridled. “I know what an oath before my God is, sir.” Then he paused and looked slowly up at his brother slumped against the bailiff’s man in the dock. A great sadness overwhelmed him. He dropped his gaze, struggling with some deep, insurgent emotion. “The truth is this. I’ve had it from Seamus’s law partners in correspondence and from Seamus himself.”

  The courtroom was silent. A crow cawed in the distance.

  “John McCall, the senior partner, discovered that Seamus was paying court to his daughter.”

  “And how old was the daughter?”

  “It was his youngest child. She was almost eighteen.”

  “Thus still a minor. And Mr. Baldwin was fifty-nine or sixty?”

  “Sixty, then.” Dr. Baldwin spoke in a monotone, the better perhaps not to hear the treachery his words were effecting.