The Widow's Demise

by Don Gutteridge

  Trueman looked at the glove with distaste. “It is not, sir.”

  “Would you mind tryin’ it on?”

  “I would – ”

  “Please, humour me, sir.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  He slipped the glove on easily.

  “It’s too big,” Trueman said quickly.

  “Looks fine to me,” Cobb said, retrieving the glove.

  “But I don’t wear gloves that colour. Ask anybody.”

  Cobb smiled. “Thank you, sir. You been most helpful. I’ll see myself out.”

  ***

  The Reverend Olgilvie lived only a few doors from Trueman’s place. The Reverend was in, fortunately. He was a pale man with an extra ring around his waist and a pair of side whiskers. Cobb interviewed him in his office.

  “How can I help you, Constable?” he said with a friendly smile.

  “I’m checkin’ on an alibi by Mr. Lionel Trueman. It’s in regard to the death of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones. He says he was here playin’ whist two nights ago. From six o’clock on.”

  “Well, sir, we were certainly playing cards that evening, and Mr. Trueman arrived shortly before six. But he wasn’t here the whole evening.”

  “Oh?”

  “About six-thirty a message arrived for him from a friend who wished to meet him at his house. It’s just half a block from here. He left right away. He didn’t come back till almost eight o’clock. But I’m sure he had nothing to do with any crime. He’s a respectable gentleman.”

  “Did he meet his friend?”

  “No, the friend didn’t show up. Trueman waited a while, then came back here.”

  “I see,” Cobb said, getting up. “Thank you fer that information.”

  “I trust it’ll be useful. Good luck in your investigation, Constable. It was a horrendous murder, and the killer needs to have justice done.”

  Cobb made his way out to the street. So, he thought, Lionel Trueman had no alibi for the critical time of seven-thirty, unless someone in his household remembered him there at that time. Cobb couldn’t actually see a motive for Trueman, unless he was indeed the jealous type and had been betrayed or rebuffed by the lady. Love scorned could quickly turn to hate – and rage.

  Horace Macy, the chemist, was up next. As Macy’s shop was on King near Jarvis, Cobb took the opportunity to stop at the Police Quarters on Front Street. Gussie French, the police clerk was as usual sitting at his table in the reception area copying out a document of some sort. He glanced up at Cobb for the half-second it took him to skip a comma, and went back to his scribbling.

  “I need you to take down some notes, Gussie.”

  Gussie’s pen stopped its stuttering.

  “I gotta finish this warrant, first,” he said.

  “You c’n do that later. My notes are important.”

  “If you insist, Detective,” Gussie said. Ever since Cobb had been promoted, Gussie had taken it as a personal affront. Even though he liked to boast of his ability to take shorthand, he seemed to resent Cobb’s cavalier way with note-making and dictation. Cobb, on his part, got even by dictating at a pace just faster than Gussie’s pen could keep up with.

  “You want me to copy yer notes and fix them up?” Gussie said.

  “Oh, no, I’ll dictate them. They’re a mite messy.”

  Relying more on his prodigious memory than the jottings in his notebook, Cobb dictated the results of his interviews with Lionel Trueman and the Reverend Ogilive. Gussie’s pen flew across the page. There was no time to pause for blotting. Gussie cursed under his breath, but his pride would not let him stop and complain.

  When Cobb had finished, he thanked Gussie, who grunted a response, as Cobb headed out the door before the Chief could corral him.

  Cobb walked up to King and over to Jarvis. The chemist’s shop was a dingy little place sandwiched between two more prominent shops. Cobb had heard that Macy’s business was failing, and he could well believe it as he went into its murky interior. A small window in the front provided the only light. Apothecary jars and wooden boxes cluttered the room. Macy himself was standing behind a counter at the end of the room, itself agog with scales, spoons, bottles and boxes. Macy looked surprised to see a potential customer enter, and he dredged up a smile.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’m Detective-Constable Cobb, sir, and I’ve come to ask you a few questions about the death of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”

  Macy’s face fell. “Damn tragedy, that. What sort of nut would throw acid in a woman’s face – and kill her?”

  “You knew the lady?”

  Macy smiled slyly. “I did.”

  “How well?”

  “There’s no use in me pretending otherwise, Constable; I knew her very well. My daily visits to Rosewood – although supposed to be secret – were observed it seems by half the town. About the only one who didn’t know was her father. Who wouldn’t have approved. I have been devastated by her death.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about her father.”

  “Oh? Well, what does it matter now? He’s lost a daughter and I’ve lost a possible wife.”

  “And her fortune,” Cobb said, leaning on the counter.

  “Now, now, sir, there’s no need for that kind of talk. I was in love with Delores, not her money.”

  “Did you know that there were other suitors?”

  Macy blanched, then smiled grimly. “I fought a duel with one of them, remember? Why do you ask?”

  “I was wonderin’ if the lady chose somebody else to be her mate.”

  Macy glowered. “You’re not thinking I had any reason to throw acid in her face? I thought you had arrested the killer?”

  “We have a suspect, sir, but he claims he saw a third party at Rosewood on the night of the incident, and I have to make sure our case against the fellow has no holes in it.”

  “Well, the lady was about to choose me, sir, and I was at home in my study reading in the early part of the evening.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that, sir?”

  “There is. My maid Gladys was in the next room the whole time. You can ask her.”

  “Where do you live?”

  Macy told him.

  “Now, sir, you can help us in another way. We’re tryin’ to find a motive fer the arrested man, Mr. Gilles Gagnon. And it turns out, accordin’ to him, that they only met while dancin’ at the Charity Ball. You, sir, were at that ball, were you not?”

  “I was there, yes. And this Gilles Gagnon was one of the two Frenchman who came in about nine o’clock.”

  “Yeah. He was with Mr. Lafontaine.”

  “I saw them both.”

  “Mr. Gagnon danced with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, didn’t he?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “You’re sure he did, aren’t you, sir, because you would’ve kept a close eye on yer lady.”

  “Is that unreasonable?”

  Cobb ignored the question. “Did Gagnon and the lady talk while they were dancin’?”

  Macy paused to think this over. “Yes, now that I think back on it, I’d say they had quite a little chat.”

  “They were friendly?”

  “Oh, I’d say more than friendly. The fellow was smitten with her. I saw him make moon eyes at her. And when the dance was finished, he followed her to the drinks table and continued to talk at her.”

  “But she didn’t return his talk?”

  “No. She was a proper lady, Constable. And she was in love with me. She had done her duty as hostess, and she rebuffed him. He went scuttling back to his friends on the other side of the room.”

  Oh, oh, thought Cobb. He would have to include this remark in his report, and some fancy Crown prosecutor might construe it as a motive – slim as it was – for retaliation. That is, of course, if Macy were telling the truth. His account didn’t exactly jibe with Trueman’s, and he could be merely trying to show that his lady was a loyal soul and not an incorrigible flirt.

  Cobb switche
d tactics. “I understand you’ve got quite a temper.”

  Macy glowered again. “Don’t be impertinent, sir, or I shall have to complain to your superior.”

  “You were charged with assault last spring, and I caught you duellin’ the other day.”

  “You know I was charged with assault because you were the arresting officer.”

  “It was a fight over a woman, as I remember.”

  “Yes, it was. The blackguard I struck made insulting remarks about my fiancée.”

  “Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

  “Of course not. I was engaged at the time to Miss Constance Brown.”

  “When did you break off that engagement?”

  “A month or so ago. When I became serious about Delores.”

  “How did Miss Brown take it?”

  “I don’t see what business it is of yours, but the end of our engagement was amicable. Naturally Miss Brown was disappointed.”

  “Where does Miss Brown live?”

  “Surely you’re not going to bother her?”

  “Only if I have to.”

  “Very well, then, if it’ll satisfy you.” Macy mentioned a house on Berkeley Street where Constance Brown boarded. It had occurred to Cobb that Miss Brown may have been very upset at the broken engagement and might have decided to blame the other woman. It was worth checking out.

  “And since you’re insistent on talking with everyone even remotely involved with Delores,” Macy said, fiddling with his scales, “you shouldn’t overlook Cecil Denfield.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Denfield was one of Delores’s dance partners, and I thought he was cozying up to her in an outrageous way, considering he’s a married man.”

  What was obvious to Cobb was that Macy had kept a very close watch on his lady friend, and that, reading between the lines, she was quite a coquette. Could one of her male friends – besotted with her or her money – have taken rejection badly and decided to try out a little revenge, which had resulted in her death? It could have been Macy or Trueman, or even this Denfield fellow.

  Cobb now pulled out the glove. Macy objected to trying it on, but eventually relented. It fit perfectly.

  “But it’s not my glove,” Macy protested. “I’ve never seen it before. Half the men in town have a hand my size.”

  “Right you are, sir. Just tidyin’ up loose ends.”

  Cobb thanked Macy for his cooperation and left the shop. He went immediately to Macy’s house and rapped on the door. A pretty maid in a white cap and apron opened it.

  “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

  No snooty butler here, was Cobb’s thought.

  He introduced himself and said, “Would you happen to be Gladys?”

  The girl swallowed and said, “How did you know that, sir?”

  “I’ve just been speaking with your master at his shop. I’m a policeman investigatin’ a murder – ”

  “The one two night’s ago? Mr. Cardiff’s daughter?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I had to ask Mr. Macy where he was that evenin’ between seven and eight o’clock, and he said he was in his study readin’. He also said that you were in the next room all the time. Is that so?”

  Gladys blushed to the roots of her red hair. “Well, I was in the next room, doin’ some mendin’. But I’m afraid, sir, that I dozed off. You won’t tell the master, I hope.”

  “There’ll be no need fer that,” Cobb said soothingly. “So you’re sayin’ you were asleep between seven and eight o’clock?”

  The blush deepened. “I dozed off about seven and was woken up by the clock striking nine. Mr. Macy was in his study then.”

  “But you don’t know fer sure if he was there between seven and eight?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  Cobb thanked her, reassured her he would keep her secret, and left. So, he thought, Macy as well as Trueman had no alibi for the time of the murder. The glove could have belonged to either of them. And one or the other of them could have thrown that acid out of frustration at the lady’s faithlessness.

  Cobb decided to go straight to interview Cecil Denfield, though he considered the married man to be less of a suspect than the other two suitors. Still, Denfield was at the dance, and had danced with Delores. He could also have observed Gagnon and Delores dancing, and could therefore prove a useful witness, if nothing else. Denfield ran an import-export business with a warehouse on Wellington Street east, but Cobb thought he would try the fellow at home first.

  He used the bell-pull and waited.

  A butler with slicked-down hair parted in the middle answered the door. He looked down on Cobb as if from a great height.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective-Inspector Cobb. I’d like to talk to Mr. Denfield.”

  “A policeman?”

  “That’s right, and I’m here on police business.”

  “I’ll check with the master. Please wait on the stoop.”

  As the butler turned to walk down the hall off the foyer, Cobb stepped inside and closed the door. He sat down on a bench nearby and waited.

  The butler returned and bade Cobb follow him. Cobb was led to a den that was overheated and stuffy. Denfield, a bald man with sleazy eyes and the beginnings of a paunch, stood before the fireplace in his shirtsleeves.

  “You are a policeman, sir?” Denfield said with a slightly imperious air.

  “A plainclothes detective. I’m investigatin’ the death of Delores Cardiff-Jones.”

  “Ah, such a shame, that. I was shocked to hear of it. But I understood you had a culprit in custody.”

  “We have, sir. I’m gatherin’ evidence fer the trial.”

  “I see. How can I help?”

  “You were at the Charity Ball?”

  “I was.”

  At this point the door opened and a brisk little woman with ringlets and an overly large nose entered the room.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you had company, Cecil.”

  “It’s just a policeman asking questions about the Ball.”

  The woman blanched at the word “Ball”.

  “This is my wife, sir. Mrs. Audrey Denfield.”

  “Pleased to meet ya,” Cobb said, giving a slight bow as he had seen Marc Edwards do.

  “I’ll just go, then,” Audrey said.

  “No, please stay, ma’am. I understand you were at the Ball with yer husband.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Did either of you see a Mr. Gilles Gagnon dancin’ with Delores Cardiff-Jones?” Cobb asked.

  Denfield glanced at his wife and said, “I did.”

  Audrey nodded but did not speak.

  “Did they talk while they danced? Did they seem friendly?”

  “What an odd question, Constable. As far as I could see, they just danced, as people usually do.”

  “Did they talk together afterwards?”

  “Yes.” It was Audrey who spoke. “I remember saying to Cecil that those two seemed awfully cozy.”

  “Surely you exaggerate, dear.”

  “I do not. Delores is a flirt, and you know it.”

  “You danced with her as well,” Cobb said to Denfield.

  “What of it? She was the hostess.”

  “Were you a particular acquaintance of the lady? A friend?”

  “We knew the woman socially. That was all,” Denfield said.

  “Mere acquaintances,” Audrey said, giving her husband a sharp glance.

  “Pardon me fer askin’ this, sir, but where were you between seven and eight o’clock on the evenin’ of the murder?”

  “What a strange question,” Audrey said.

  “You don’t suppose I had anything to do with the crime?’ Denfield said, indignant.

  “We need to be sure the defense council don’t try to throw suspicion at others who knew the victim,” Cobb said.

  “I see. Very well, then. I was home here all evening. Is
n’t that so, my dear?”

  “We were together the whole time,” Audrey said with so much conviction that Cobb was certain she was lying. Still, it was hard to see Denfield as an outraged suitor, even if he had perhaps been overly friendly with the flirtatious Mrs. Cardiff-Jones. Denfield wasn’t a candidate for husbandhood or a seeker after her fortune: he was married and well-off.

  “Would you mind tryin’ on this glove?” Cobb said suddenly.

  “Why on earth?” said Denfield.

  “Humour me.”

  The glove slid on easily.

  Cobb thanked the surprised couple and left. He stopped at The Cock and Bull for a draught of ale, then went to the police quarters and dictated his notes to Gussie French. But this time he was not so lucky at avoiding the Chief, who stepped out of his office into the anteroom and shouted, “Cobb! In here. Now.”

  Gussie smirked and Cobb followed Cyril Bagshaw into his office.

  Standing behind his desk, Bagshaw said, “Well, Cobb, you’ve gone and done it again. You’ve ruffled the tails of the high and mighty.”

  “I have?”

  “I’ve had Horace Macy in here accusing you of treating him as a suspect for murder.”

  “I was just quizzin’ him about the Charity Ball, sir. I was lookin’ fer a motive for Gagnon.”

  “You questioned him about his whereabouts on the night of the crime!” Bagshaw’s eyebrows shot up and shook.

  “Well, sir, I thought that Marc Edwards, who’ll be Gagnon’s defense attorney, would try to suggest other men with motives could’ve done the deed. I wanted to eliminate Macy as a suspect.”

  “While suggesting he was one!”

  “I’m sorry he took it the wrong way.”

  “Not as sorry as I am. I want you to cease interviewing people of quality who might’ve seen something to do with Gagnon at the Ball. You are to ruffle no more feathers. Besides, we’ve got enough to hang Gagnon without a motive.”

  “Am I off the case, then?”

  “No, as long as you develop evidence against the accused, not go on fishing expeditions that enrage the decent citizens of the town.”

  “I can do that, sir.”

  “And stay away from Marc Edwards!”

  Cobb left the office, duly chastised. He went immediately to Briar Cottage to talk with Marc Edwards.