The Widow's Demise

by Don Gutteridge

  “And you were annoyed? Jealous?”

  “I told her I didn’t believe her, and she got very angry.”

  “And yer jealousy turned to rage?”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “Maybe you came to Rosewood to have it out with her.”

  “With a vial of acid in my pocket? You’re being ludicrous, sir.”

  “Mr. Gagnon says he saw a man throw a vial of acid in the lady’s face, then turn and run off around the east side of the house.”

  “And you think I could be that man?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But I loved the lady. I was the favourite among her suitors. Why would I try to destroy her?”

  “Love and jealousy do strange things to men.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Constable, but Mrs. Cardiff-Jones and I had a brief tiff on her front stoop, then she went back inside to get ready for her so-called appointment, and I went directly back home to see if my friend had arrived late, then on to the Reverend Ogilvie’s.”

  Trueman’s story might seem incredible, but it did fit the time-line well. If the argument did take place closer to seven than seven-thirty, then that would leave time for Mrs. Cardiff-Jones to go back into the house, fetch her maid Vera, and dress for her meeting with her friend, Marion Stokes.

  “And you’re stickin’ with that story?” Cobb said.

  “I am because it’s the truth.”

  Cobb thanked Trueman and was shown out. Trueman’s tale might be dicey, Cobb thought, but a smart lawyer could make much of it during a trial.

  ***

  With Gussie’s help, Cobb wrote up a full report on the investigation thus far, and left it on the Chief’s desk. He hoped that Trueman would decided not to complain, although if he were thrown off the case now, it would not be a calamity. He had followed up almost every lead he could, except for John Perkins, the disaffected servant. Of course, Itchy Quick might come up with something. It remained now for him to make another report to Marc Edwards.

  ***

  “That’s a very interesting set of facts you’ve dredged up on Lionel Trueman,” Marc said. He was dandling young Junior on his knee as he spoke with Cobb in the parlour of Briar Cottage. Squeals of laughter could be heard coming from the next room. “It puts a third party in the vicinity, and the presence of a third party is critical to my defense of Gilles Gagnon.”

  “The timing’s a little off, Major, unless my witness got it wrong. Or Gagnon.”

  “I don’t think Gagnon did. He left Baldwin House at seven-fifteen, and it’s only a ten-minute walk to Rosewood. That puts him there close to seven-thirty.”

  “I see. And Vera the maid says her mistress went out a little before that.”

  “Of course, there’s no reason why Trueman had to throw the acid at five after seven. We only have his word that he returned to his card game immediately. He could have lingered at the side of the house, brooding and unobserved, until the lady came out again at seven-thirty.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “It’s enough for me to work on for the trial. My strategy always is to look for viable alternatives. And you’ve given me plenty.”

  “Would you put Constance Brown in with them?”

  “It’s far-fetched, but she could have been wearing a man’s coat.”

  “She seemed like a very determined person. And she sure hated Mrs. Cardiff-Jones. I think she had a lot more motive than poor Mr. Gagnon.”

  “And there’s still this John Perkins to question,” Marc said. “You’ve done a good job in shaking up the alibis of the others. I’ve got more than I need, I believe, to mount a strong defense. I should be able to get Gilles acquitted.”

  “You got time to work on it, what with the election and all?”

  “It’s been difficult,” Marc said, giving Junior another jounce. “I’ve used the mornings mostly. In the afternoons I hire a fast horse and patrol the back roads of the riding looking for intimidators. I’ve seen quite a bit of action – alas.”

  “Made you feel like a major again, eh?”

  “Well, I have had to brandish my pistol more than once.”

  “What’s the count?”

  “Pretty much even. But a lot more farm supporters are just finishing the harvest and will come in towards the end of the campaign.”

  “If they can run the gauntlet, eh?”

  “It’s my job to protect them,” Marc said. “And also to see Gilles Gagnon acquitted. Fortunately I’ve persuaded a judge that Gagnon be granted bail. He’s due to be released tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, he’s in good hands,” Cobb said.

  NINE

  John Perkins lived at the west end of Queen Street, near the edge of town. Cobb approached the half-log cabin and rapped on the door. The door was opened a few moments later by a young woman in bonnet and apron, who was very much pregnant.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” she said politely.

  “I’d like to speak with yer husband. I’m Detective-Constable Cobb and I’m here on a police matter.”

  “He’s just inside. Please come in.”

  Cobb stepped into the cabin. It was dark and gloomy, a single, sparsely furnished room with a curtained-off bedroom at the far end. A lone candle flickered on a rough-hewn table, upon which sat a teapot and two mugs. Perkins was seated at the table, his chin in his hands. He looked up when Cobb entered.

  “This is a detective from the police,” said Mrs. Perkins. “He’s come to see you.”

  “Police?” Perkins said, starting to get up. “What next?”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Perkins. My name’s Cobb. I’ve come to ask you a few questions about the death of your mistress, Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”

  “But I know nothing of that business,” Perkins said, sitting back down.

  “That’s what I’ve come to find out,” Cobb said.

  “Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Perkins said. “It’s fresh.”

  “That would be nice,” Cobb said.

  Mrs. Perkins went to an open cupboard and took down a mug. She passed Cobb a mugful of steaming tea.

  “I heard the lady was murdered,” Perkins said.

  “She had acid thrown in her face and died when she fell on a spike on her fence,” Cobb said, sitting down and taking a sip of tea.

  “That’s horrible,” Perkins said. “I had no love for the woman after what she did to me, but nobody deserves to die like that.”

  “You mean firin’ you?” Cobb said.

  Perkins looked startled, and a flash of fear went across his face. “You know about that?’

  “I do.”

  “She fired me for no reason whatsoever. Said I was spying on her, when all I did was answer a question from the master – truthfully.”

  “So you had good cause to be mad?”

  “Of course I was angry and upset. I’ve got a wife who’s expecting a child this month and debts to pay off. And the woman refused to give me a reference even though I’ve worked there satisfactorily for eight years.”

  “He won’t be able to get another job easily,” Mrs. Perkins said, hovering behind her husband.

  “I’m sorry about that. But you, sir, were overheard threatenin’ to do harm to Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Never mind about who. You said you’d get even, isn’t that right?”

  “He never meant it, did you, John?”

  “I was very upset,” Perkins said. “I just flew off the handle a bit, that’s all. In front of the maids. I meant no real harm.”

  “But the lady is dead shortly thereafter,” Cobb said quietly.

  The fear came back into Perkins’ eyes. “You don’t think that I had anything to do with her death?”

  “Where were you on the night of the crime?”

  Perkins tried to catch his breath. “I was . . . I was home here. All evening. I was drinking a little, to drown my sorrows.”

 
; “And can Mrs. Perkins vouch fer you?”

  “Liz was out visiting her sister.”

  “I didn’t get back until ten o’clock,” Mrs. Perkins said. “John was here. A little drunk. I put him to bed.”

  “So you were all alone the rest of the evenin’” Cobb said to Perkins.

  “Of course I was. We have no money to be entertaining guests.”

  “Were you mad enough to throw acid in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s face?”

  Perkins flinched. “I was not! Where would I get acid?”

  “At any apothecary’s.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Why would I? When I had time to cool off, I realized my best hope was to throw myself on the mercy of Mr. Cardiff and ask him for a reference. He liked me a lot.”

  “But he fired you?”

  “He didn’t want to, but she had control over him.”

  “Maybe he’ll take you back,” Mrs. Perkins said. “Now that she’s dead.”

  “I’ve got a glove here I’d like you to try on, Cobb said.

  “What ever for?” Perkins said.

  “It was found near the body.”

  Cobb pulled the glove from his pocket.

  “But that’s a gentleman’s glove. It’d be a month’s wages.”

  “I need to see if it fits.”

  “Very well.” Perkins pulled the glove awkwardly towards his right hand. It slipped on easily.

  “But it’s not mine!”

  “We’ve never seen it before!” Mrs. Perkins said excitedly.

  “It don’t prove nothin’” Cobb said placatingly. “But neither does it eliminate Mr. Perkins as a suspect.”

  “Is there any more you want of me?” Perkins said.

  “No, sir. That will be all. Thank you fer yer cooperation.”

  Cobb drained his tea, and left. He heard a buzz of dialogue start up behind him. He felt sorry for Perkins, but the man was still very much a suspect, with motive and opportunity. Cobb went to the police quarters to write up his notes. Then he went straight to Briar Cottage.

  ***

  It was late in the evening when the meeting took place in Baldwin House. Present were Robert Baldwin; his father, Dr. William Warren Baldwin; Louis LaFontaine; Francis Hincks; and Marc Edwards. They had come to discuss the progress of the election and the release on bail of Gilles Gagnon the next morning. Louis, who had just come from a late visit to his lieutenant, looked pale and tired. It had been a gruelling campaign – before the voting and during it. And the weight on his mind of Gilles Gagnon’s life-threatening predicament was overwhelming.

  “Thank you for persuading the judge to let Gilles out,” Louis said to Marc when the meeting had been called to order.

  “There’s only a week till the trial,” Marc said, “but I didn’t want Gilles to spend one minute more in that dank place than was necessary.”

  “There’s a lot of anti-French sentiment being stirred up among the Tories,” Hincks said.

  “And not just the Tories, I’m afraid,” said Robert. “I’ve heard rumblings among our supporters in the township.”

  “That may account for the closeness of the race,” said Marc. “What is the latest count?”

  “Our scrutineers have it almost dead even. I think we may be two votes up,” Hincks said.

  “Well, a few of the farmers on our side are still taking their crops off the fields,” said Robert. “They’ll show up in the next few days and turn the tide.”

  “I’ve heard rumours of worse,” Dr. Baldwin said.

  “Oh. What is that?” Robert said.

  “There’s talk on the street of a big demonstration against Gilles and the Quebecers,” Dr. Baldwin said. “To be held outside the jail.”

  “Well, then, it’s a good thing we’re getting Gilles out of there at nine o’clock in the morning.”

  “He’ll be safe here in Baldwin House,” Robert said.

  “Perhaps we’d all better go to fetch Gilles tomorrow,” Hincks said. “Just in case any of the protesters decide to show up. They may have got wind of Gilles’ release.”

  “A good idea,” Louis said.

  “We can take our brougham,” Robert said.

  “How is the defense shaping up?” Louis asked Marc.

  “I’ve been given lots of evidence that points to three or four other suspects, and I intend to use it with all the skill I can muster,” Marc said.

  “That’s good enough for me,” Robert said.

  “Meanwhile, Detective-Constable Cobb is striving mightily to find the real killer – despite the objections of his superior.”

  “He’s a good man,” said Robert.

  “The best,” Marc said.

  ***

  The sun rose the next morning in a cloudless sky. It shone brightly on the east wall of the jail and upon the broad lawn in front of it. The jail and matching Court House next to it were two of the proudest public buildings in the city. But this morning the public, or a particular part of it, had something on its mind other than admiration. Long before nine o’clock, the streets and alleys leading to Church and King were marked by the presence of men who walked stealthily and steadily towards the jail. They did not speak to one another as they converged, but there was about them a purpose and a will. And it did not bode well.

  By quarter to nine the esplanade in front of the jail and Court House was jammed with outraged citizens. Some carried placards proclaiming “Death to the Frenchman,” “Hang Gagnon,” “No Bail for Killers,” and “Frogs Go Home.” The jailer, sensing trouble, sent for the police, and Constables Phil Rossiter and Ewan Wilkie arrived shortly thereafter.

  “Shall we try to move ‘em?” Wilkie asked Rossiter. They were standing in the front doorway surveying the crowd, who in their turn were hurling impolite suggestions to the police.

  “Not as long as they’re peaceful,” Rossiter said. “I don’t see no weapons.”

  “I spotted a club or two, near the back,” Wilkie said.

  “Come to protect the murderer, have you?” someone shouted.

  “We’re here to see that justice is done!” someone else cried.

  “We’ll let the judge decide that,” Rossiter hollered over the general din.

  Just then a black brougham pulled by two horses wheeled onto the path that circled in front of the jail and surrounded the crowd. In it were Louis LaFontaine, Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks; on the driver’s seat sat Marc Edwards. The top was folded down, exposing them all to the sudden shouts of derision from the gathering.

  “Go home, LaFontaine!”

  “Nothin’ but the noose for Frogs!”

  Very slowly the horses nudged their way through the crowd, its members parting reluctantly before the horses’ progress. At this point a jailer appeared at the door with Gilles Gagnon. A great whoop of anger rose from the assemblage. Wilkie and Rossiter stepped forward towards the brougham as it drew up before the door.

  “Get in, quick!” Marc said to Gagnon.

  The crowd began to push in on the vehicle. The horses snorted and grew restless. Gagnon stepped between the two policemen and into the rear seat of the brougham. Suddenly the carriage began to rock back and forth. Hands reached over the doors and grasped at the occupants.

  “Hang the frogs!”

  This single cry quickly became a chant, and the brougham rocked dangerously.

  “Do something, Wilkie!” Marc cried. He was using the reins to snap at several grasping hands.

  Wilkie and Rossiter drew their truncheons.

  “Make way!” they hollered, stepping into the mob and swinging their weapons.

  Marc cracked the reins over the horses’ backs and they plunged forward. Wilkie and Rossiter had managed to clear a vee in front of the team, and they were able to begin to move ahead. Once they got some momentum up they were able to force their way through the mob and out onto King Street.

  “Follow them!”

  “On to Baldwin House!”

  “We’d better get there before they do,” Hincks
called up to Marc.

  “Are you all right, Gilles?” Louis said.

  “I’m fine,” Gagnon said. “But I’ll feel a lot better when we’re safe at Baldwin House.”

  As they turned west on King Street, the mob streamed after them, leaving Rossiter and Wilkie bruised and alone in front of the jail.

  “Get up some speed!” Hincks called up to Marc.

  “I can’t,” Marc said. “They’re too many ruts in the road.”

  The August rains had left the gravelled street in poor condition. Deep ruts criss-crossed it everywhere, the result of heavy cart traffic. With the dry spell that had followed the rainy weather, the ruts had hardened into iron-like ridges. Even at a sedate pace, the brougham jounced and rocked. This slow progress allowed the mob to follow closely behind. The leading members were only four or five yards behind the carriage.

  The brougham and its pursuers reached Bay Street. Marc looked down towards Front where Baldwin House stood, and his heart sank.

  “Some of them are already there!” he shouted. “They must have guessed where we were going.”

  “What’ll we do?” Louis said.

  “We’ll head on out to Spadina,” Marc said.

  “Great idea,” Robert said.

  Spadina was the country house of the Baldwin family, father and son. It lay a few miles north-west of the city boundary, and was accessible only via Spadina Road, which had been specially cut through dense forest.

  Marc pulled the team back onto King. The mob, somewhat winded, nonetheless continued to follow them thirty or forty paces behind. The intersection of York and King was particularly pock-marked. Marc should have slowed to a walk, but he didn’t. There was a loud crack as the rear axle snapped in two. The brougham lurched sideways and backwards, and its occupants grabbed anything near them to prevent themselves from tumbling out.

  Marc swung into instant action. He unsnapped the horses’ harness and detached them from the carriage. The mob was closing in, clubs brandished.

  “Quick, Giles. We’re going the rest of the way on horseback!”

  Gagnon, dazed, staggered out of the carriage and came over to Marc. Marc cupped his hands for a stirrup, and Gagnon climbed aboard the larger of the two horses – bareback. Marc hauled himself up, clutching the horse’s mane, and managed to sit on the beast in front of Gagnon.