The Widow's Demise

by Don Gutteridge

  It was sometime later when he woke up. The barkeeper’s face swam before him.

  “I think you’ve had one too many, young man.”

  Snow looked around. The bar was empty except for one person seated alone at a table.

  “Oh, you’re awake, are you?” Rutherford said, without getting up from the table. “Come on over here, John. I’ve got something important to say to you.”

  Snow got up slowly and staggered over to Rutherford. “I don’t feel so good,” he said, sitting down clumsily.

  “How are you fixed for money?” he said.

  Snow grimaced. He wasn’t sure how he had become involved with this importunate fellow and couldn’t remember how much of his personal life he had confessed to.

  “I’m doin’ all right.”

  “That’s not what you said earlier, my friend.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I am a bit strapped fer cash.”

  “How would you like to earn five dollars?”

  Snow’s eyes widened and made his head hurt. “How would I do that?”

  “Quite simple. Just turn around and drive home to your good wife.”

  Snow thought he had misheard.

  “Why would anyone give me five dollars fer doin’ that?” He thought that Rutherford must be pulling his leg. But the notion of five dollars was tantalizing. He could picture a fresh banknote.

  “I’ve got it right here,” Rutherford said, flashing the money. “And I believe so strongly that farmers shouldn’t vote that I’m willing, on behalf of an unnamed benefactor, to give you this cash for staying away from the poll.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am. So what do you say?”

  Snow hesitated. He desperately needed cash – as most farmers did – and could visualize handing the note to his banker and buying time on his mortgage. On the other hand, he was a lifelong supporter of the Reform party, and felt deeply the obligation to vote. But LaFontaine would win by a landslide, wouldn’t he? Baldwin had won the riding by several hundred votes. What use was his lonely vote?

  “I’ll take the cash,” Snow said.

  “Good man,” Rutherford said, grinning from ear to ear. “You won’t regret it.”

  Snow took the money.

  “Here,” Rutherford said, “ have a cigar.”

  ***

  This time the meeting was held in the Hinck’s library. Present were Hincks, Baldwin, LaFontaine, Gagnon and Marc. The first item of business was the discussion of a speech that Louis had given out in York County. All agreed that it had been a powerful and successful address, focussing on the achievements of the coalition in the opening session of the new Parliament. In forceful English Louis had detailed the legislation: the establishment of extensive public works, a reduction in the rate of postage and a speeding up of mail delivery, bills to improve the navigation between Lake Huron and Lake Erie to the ocean, the development of a legal framework for municipal self-government, and promise of a law setting up a system of common schools. In addition, the Imperial Parliament had agreed to guarantee a loan of one and a half million pounds sterling. On a lesser scale, Louis had adumbrated, were laws to reduce the severity of capital punishment and revision of the provincial tariff, and a commission to study the abolition of seigneurial tenure in Quebec. All this was achieved because the Governor and his Executive had tailored their legislative program to suit the wishes of the majority group in the Legislative Assembly, that is the rouge-Reform alliance of Louis LaFontaine and Robert Baldwin. All of this had been done without the presence of the leader of the French half of the alliance. Just think of the accomplishments achievable when both men were in Parliament. And, as if that were not enough, the Governor had introduced a motion that in practice guaranteed he would not act without the advice and consent of the Assembly. In effect, he had accepted the basic principle of responsible government.

  Louis had been cheered by the majority of the farmers in attendance, and indeed he had persuaded many to cast their vote for him. There had been a few discordant jeers, soon drowned out, and one or two brief scuffles. But all in all the meeting had been peaceful.

  “That was a masterful speech,” Hincks began.

  “I don’t see any need to alter it,” Robert said. “Just give it a few more times in the locations we’ve designated, and the election is ours.”

  “Your presence was a great help,” Louis said. “You’re sure you don’t wish to speak as well?”

  “I would only dull the sheen of your splendid oration,” Robert said.

  “May I raise another point?” Gilles Gagnon said in English.

  “Please, do,” Robert said.

  “I’ve got word that the Tories are up to their old tricks.”

  “I’ve heard the stories as well,” Marc said.

  “What’s been going on?” Hincks asked.

  “Well,” Gagnon said, switching to French, “Mr. D’Arcy Rutherford has been up to no good. He and others have been going about waylaying Reform voters, getting them drunk and persuading them not to vote. They’re even handing out five dollars per man as inducement. And there are reports of goon squads on Yonge Street to discourage timid voters, but so far there’s been no actual violence.”

  “This is very disturbing,” Louis said. “It sounds like Terrebonne.”

  “I don’t think it will tip the balance,” Robert said. “After three days, we’re ahead by fifteen votes.”

  “Still,” Gagnon said, obviously put out, “Humphrey Cardiff promised he would keep Rutherford in check, and he has already broken his word. That money is not coming out of Rutherford’s pocket, you can be sure of that.”

  “The wealthy members of the Family Compact more likely,” Hincks said.

  “I think I should go and speak to Cardiff,” Gagnon said. “We don’t want another Terrebonne on our hands.”

  “I doubt if it will do any good,” Marc said.

  “But I’ve got to try,” Gagnon said.

  “As you wish, then,” Louis said.

  ***

  Gilles Gagnon made his way along Front Street towards Rosewood, Humphrey Cardiff’s mansion. The sun had almost gone down, leaving the street in a hazy glow. Ahead he could make out the fence that ran across the front of the house, its white spikes just visible in the dusky light. He heard the front door open, and saw a woman step out onto the walk. At almost the same moment, a dark, male figure emerged from the shadows at the corner of the building and accosted the woman. She seemed to recognize him, for she said something to him and turned to face him. Just then an arm was raised suddenly, the hand at the end of it clutching something small and glittering. The woman jerked back as it struck, and threw both her hands to her face. A half-second later, she uttered a sharp cry and began to stagger backwards. She righted herself momentarily, and then fell forward onto the spiked fence.

  The male figure dropped the object in his hand, wheeled and ran off around the far corner of Rosewood. Gagnon, who froze initially, now sped as fast as he could towards the stricken woman. She had managed to jerk herself free of the fence, but blood was gushing from her throat. She was uttering low moans and writhing in pain. Then she slumped the ground.

  Gagnon reached her and knelt beside her. The gash in her throat was deep and pumping blood. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to staunch the flow. It was then that he noticed that the lower part of the woman’s face had been flayed open by some corrosive substance. The flesh bubbled. As he leaned closer to get a better view, the woman’s hand came up in a purely reflex action and clawed his left cheek. He winced and jerked away. That’s when he saw the vial lying beside her and picked it up with one hand. He had to get help. He took the woman’s wrist in his other hand and felt for a pulse. There was none. Her eyes were now blank. She was dead.

  “I think you can put that down now, sir.”

  Gagnon looked up. A police constable was standing beside him.

  “I think you done enough damage with that vial,” Ewa
n Wilkie said.

  FIVE

  Wilkie had blown his whistle until Constable Phil Rossiter had arrived, and the latter had set out immediately to inform his chief and the coroner. Meanwhile, Wilkie stood guard over the man he assumed to have been the cause of the havoc on the walk. The household of Rosewood had been disturbed by the commotion out front, and Vera, Delores’s maid, dashed to her dead mistress and began to weep and wail, much to Wilkie’s discomfort. Then Cardiff, the woman’s father, stepped out and went white with shock.

  “Is she dead?” he said to Vera.

  “She ain’t breathin’, sir.”

  “She ain’t got no pulse,” Wilkie said, who had checked after he had ordered the killer to sit on the stoop and not move a muscle. Gagnon, in shock, did as he was bid, but not before uttering a stream of French at the bewildered Wilkie, who took the foreign lingo as a sign of the fellow’s madness.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Wilkie said to Cardiff.

  “My god! Who has done this?” Cardiff cried, kneeling beside his daughter.

  “I believe it was the fella over there,” Wilkie said.

  Cardiff turned and stared at Gagnon. “What have you done?” he said, and made as if to move towards Gagnon.

  It was at this point that Angus Withers arrived. He had been walking down King Street when Rossiter had encountered him, and had continued on down to Front Street via Bay.

  “We got a dead woman here,” Wilkie said, “with her throat cut and her face all riled up.”

  “It’s my daughter, Angus,” Cardiff said. “That fellow over there attacked her.”

  Withers said a quick hello to Cardiff, then knelt beside him near the body. At this point Cobb arrived, by accident, from the opposite direction. He had been investigating a break-in at the Palace just up the street.

  “What’ve we got here?” he said to Withers.

  “A murder by the looks of it,” Withers aid. “It looks as if acid or something corrosive was thrown in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s face, and she fell on that low, spiked fence, severing her jugular vein. She died quickly.”

  “I’ve got the vial the acid was in,” Wilkie said. “I found it in that man’s hand.” He pointed at Gagnon, who sat staring at the scene with blank eyes.

  Withers took the vial and passed it under his nose. “It’s acid all right. Probably hydrochloric.”

  “And what’s this?” Cobb said, bending down. He picked up a gentleman’s glove.

  “It was right there when I come,” Wilkie said.

  “Are you going to arrest this blackguard?” Cardiff said to Cobb. “Or do I have to give him a good thrashing first?”

  “I’ll need to talk to him,” Cobb said.

  “I’ll fetch him fer ya,” Wilkie said.

  “I want to know what you saw,” Cobb said.

  “Well,” Wilkie said, “I was just comin’ along Front Street here on my regular beat when I look up and see this fella bendin’ over somethin’ on the ground. I couldn’t tell then it was the lady of the house. I run up to him and I see he’s bendin’ over her and holdin’ that vial in his left hand. Then I see the blood on the lady’s throat and I know there’s been foul play. When the fella looks up, I see he’s got a fresh scratch on his face where the lady clawed him. Poor thing.”

  “Did the man say anythin’ to you by way of explanation?”

  “He started jabberin’ gibberish at me. I think he’s fer the loony bin.”

  “The woman fell or was pushed against the spiked fence,” Withers said, getting up. “She slashed her own throat. You can see her blood on that spike there.” He pointed to the fence, where indeed one of the spikes was dripping blood. “I assume the acid was thrown at her first, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Either way, we’re lookin’ at a grisly murder,” Cobb said. “You’ll check under her fingernails fer skin or blood?”

  “I’ll do that back at the surgery.”

  “Must you do an autopsy?” Cardiff said.

  “It is my duty to do so, Humphrey. I’m very sorry. But I’ll do it right away so you can have the body.”

  “This is all such a great shock to me,’” Cardiff said. “Why would anyone want to hurt my Delores? She never harmed a soul.”

  “I think the fella’s crazy,” Wilkie said.

  “Well, crazy or not, I gotta talk to him,” Cobb said.

  Cobb went over to the stoop. “What’s your name?” he said to Gagnon.

  Gagnon replied with a burst of French.

  “Please, speak English if you can.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize I was speaking French,” Gagnon said.

  “The constable here says he found you bendin’ over the body with a vial of acid in yer left hand. And that’s some nasty scratchin’ you’ve got on yer face.”

  “I did not harm the woman, Constable. I was walking along this street, heading for Rosewood to talk to Mr. Cardiff, when I saw a man greet the woman over there and toss something liquid in her face. She cried out and spun around, and I saw her fall over the fence. She jerked upward and then slumped to the ground. Meanwhile, the man dropped the vial and fled around the far side of the house.”

  “And what did this man look like?” Cobb ran his hands through his untidy hair, surprised yet again not find his helmet there. He still was not used to being a plainclothes detective, even though he had now been at it for almost nine months.

  “The man was short and slight. It was dusk and the light was poor. I just caught his outline, in a kind of blur.”

  “Well, he left his glove behind, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t know. But it’s not mine. I came away without my gloves this evening.”

  “Let us be sure,” Cobb said, and he went over to where he had set the glove and returned with it. “Here, try it on.”

  Gagnon tried unsuccessfully to pull the small glove over his large hand. “It won’t fit. It’s only half the size of my hand.”

  “Maybe the glove was lyin’ there all along,” said Wilkie.

  Cobb smiled, as Wilkie generally did not deploy logical thought or, if he did, preferred to keep it to himself.

  “You could be right, Wilkie.” Cobb took the glove back. To Gagnon he said, “How do you explain holdin’ a vial of acid in yer hand and bendin’ over the dead lady who managed to scratch you before she died?”

  “I was checking to see if she was still alive. I was going to rouse the household when the constable came along and more or less arrested me.”

  “But the vial?”

  “It was lying beside the woman. I could see her ruined face and I just picked it up out of curiosity.”

  “But why would the lady scratch you if she wasn’t afraid of you?”

  “She must have mistaken me for her attacker. You can’t think I did this. I don’t even know the woman.”

  “You never met Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

  “Only once, briefly. At the Charity Ball. I had no reason to throw acid in her face.”

  “You ain’t gonna believe that load of malarkey?” Wilkie said.

  “What do you think, Angus?” Cobb said to Withers.

  “Plausible, but not likely, eh? That scratch is pretty damning.”

  “I’d like you to come to police headquarters fer more questions,” Cobb said to Gagnon. “We’ll see what the Chief makes of all this.”

  “You’re not going to let him go?” Cardiff said, looking over at Gagnon and then at the members of his staff who had now all come out to see what was going on.

  “Not fer the moment, no,” Cobb said.

  He signalled to Wilkie to get Gagnon on his feet. Cobb was very excited. This was his first solo murder case.

  ***

  Chief Constable Cyril Bagshaw was waiting for Cobb, Wilkie and Gagnon, having been alerted to the general circumstances of the crime by Phil Rossiter. Bagshaw was whippet-thin. His uniform seemed to be ironed on him (it was his sergeant’s uniform from his glory days on the London Metropolitan Police Force). He sported
a brace of craggy brows, an outsize nose and a pair of pop-eyes that seemed manufactured for pouncing.

  “Rossiter tells me you found the perpetrator on the scene,” Bagshaw said to Wilkie as they came into the reception area.

  “I caught him red-handed, sir. With a scratch on his face and weapon in hand,” Wilkie said as he shoved Gagnon farther into the room.

  “You’ve questioned this fellow?” Bagshaw said to Cobb.

  “I have, sir, and I’m not certain we have the right fellow.”

  “What’s your name?” Bagshaw said to Gagnon.

  “I am Gilles Gagnon,” Gagnon said. “I am an associate of Louis LaFontaine. I am helping him with his election campaign, and I am innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  “You’re French, then?” Bagshaw said.

  “I am from Montreal. Monsieur LaFontaine is running in the fourth riding of York.”

  “I know who Mr. LaFontaine is, sir, and I know where and why he’s trying to get elected. But right now I’m interested in what happened up at Rosewood. I suggest we go into that off ice and discuss the matter.” He pointed to the office shared by the constables and used by Cobb to store his files and papers.

  Bagshaw, Cobb, Wilkie and Gagnon went into the office and arranged themselves around the table inside.

  “Wilkie, you were the first one on the scene, I take it?” Bagshaw said.

  “Yeah,” Wilkie said. “And I seen this man bendin’ over the dead woman – ”

  “Who is?”

  “Mrs. Cardiff-Jones,” Cobb said. “The daughter of the Attorney-General.”

  Bagshaw’s eyebrows shot up and quivered. “Oh, my. This is a calamity!”

  “It happened on her own front walk, in broad daylight,” Wilkie said.

  “Go on, then, Wilkie.”

  “I come up to this man and see him holdin’ a vial of some sort, and I notice that scratch on his face.”

  “Given by the lady?” Bagshaw said.

  “Yes,” Gagnon interrupted. “I admit she scratched me. I was bending down to see if she was still breathing and she must have mistaken me for her attacker because she lashed out. I didn’t jump back in time.”