“It better.”
Cobb sat silently and watched Itchy devour his meal, like a starving boar. Itchy wiped the grease off his lips with the back of his hand, took a last swig of ale, and looked across at Cobb.
“What I’m gonna tell ya – you gotta promise me not to go chargin’ my informant with anythin’.”
“That depends on what he’s done,” Cobb said, wondering where this was going, if anywhere. “And who’s this informant anyways?”
“Pussy Cramden. A friend of mine.”
“Pussy! He just got out of prison fer break and enter. He’s a second storey man.”
“So he is, and it was while he was reconoitrin’ Rosewood that he come up with the information you need to know about.”
“Rosewood? Did he see the crime committed? See anybody runnin’ away from the scene?”
“Oh, no, he wasn’t around near the front of the house.”
“What did he see, then, while he was casin’ the place fer a possible robbery?”
“He’s hidin’ out behind the house, fer two or three days runnin’, to see who comes in and who goes out, like, at what times and so on. And when they lock the doors or leave a window open – ”
“I don’t want to hear about Pussy’s criminal techniques. Get to the point.”
“Yes, sir. Well, the night before Mrs. Cardiff-Jones is killed, Pussy is hidin’ in the bushes when he sees, about eleven o’clock, a man go up to the back door. The fellow has a cape and hood, so Pussy can’t see who it is.”
“So what?” said Cobb, losing his patience. This certainly had little to do with the crime itself. He felt disappointed, and annoyed at having stood Itchy his dinner.
“So when the door opens, in the moonlight, he sees Mrs. Cardiff-Jones in the doorway, dressed in a kimono.”
“I see,” said Cobb, growing interested. “In her nightclothes?”
“Right. And what do you think? They kissed. Right there in the doorway.”
“But Pussy didn’t see who it was?”
“Not then. But he hung about, figurin’ he might be seein’ somethin’ he could turn to his advantage – ”
“Like blackmail?”
“A nasty word, Mr. Cobb. A nasty word.”
“But?”
“But when the fella comes out an hour or so later, he’s got the hood off and the moon is full, and Pussy sees who the guy is. He recognizes him.”
“Who was it? Spit it out!”
“Another ale?” Itchy said.
“Don’t push yer luck,” Cobb said.
“It was Cecil Denfield.”
Cobb whistled. “That’s worth two more ales,” he said. “And I’ll have one myself.”
***
It was about seven o’clock that evening when Cobb went around to Briar Cottage with the news. He and Marc sat in the parlour smoking. Marc told Cobb about the afternoon in court.
“You did a good thing with the glove,” was Cobb’s comment.
“Yes. It suggests a third party,” Marc said. “And my whole defense will be based on potential persons who had good reason to be that third party.”
“I got some news that may help.”
“You have?”
“From my snitch, Itchy Quick. He saw Cecil Denfield go into Rosewood the night before the murder, where he was embraced by the lady of the house.”
“My word, that is interesting. We know that Lionel Trueman and Horace Macy were courting Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, but Denfield was actually her lover. She was quite a woman.”
“And him a married man,” Cobb said distastefully.
“What if Macy or Trueman found out? They could have been enraged. We know their passions ran high because they fought a duel. That kind of passion turns easily to rage. My God, but there’s a strong motive for throwing acid at the faithless woman who strung them along like slack puppets.”
“How can you use it?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of a way. The Crown is still presenting its case. I’ve got lots of time to think about it.”
“I hope it helps.”
“So do I. We’ve had such a victory in the election, it would be a shame to see all the goodwill we have generated in Quebec go down the drain if Gilles is convicted of a crime he didn’t commit by an English-speaking jury.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow in court,” Cobb said helpfully.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Marc said.
ELEVEN
The trial resumed on Tuesday morning. The Crown called Lionel Trueman to the stand. He was sworn in and Sheldon McBride began his questioning.
“Mr. Trueman, did you attend this autumn’s Charity Ball?”
“Yes, sir.”
Trueman looked relaxed and confident in the witness-box.
“And did you have occasion to observe Mrs. Cardiff-Jones dancing with the defendant, Mr. Gagnon?”
“I did.”
“Would you describe his behaviour towards the lady as friendly?”
“Milord,” Marc said, rising. “Crown is leading the witness.”
“The witness may answer yes or no to the question, Mr. Edwards.”
“I’d say they were very friendly,” Trueman said.
“What did you actually see that would suggest they were more than friendly?”
“Well, sir, Gagnon couldn’t take his eyes off her. And she kept smiling back at him.”
“Did they converse at all?”
“Well, there wasn’t much time during the dance, but I noticed that whenever they came near to each other, they would exchange remarks and smile.”
“And did this conversing continue after the dance had concluded?”
“It did. They went over to the drinks table and continued to talk and smile at one another.”
“Then what happened?”
“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones stopped smiling. She seemed annoyed at the continued attention.”
“I see. She was getting weary of Mr. Gagnon’s blandishments?”
Marc started to rise, but sat down again.
“I’d say so,” said Trueman.
“And how did the defendant react?”
“He seemed annoyed. He turned and walked away.”
“His entreaties were rejected by the lady?”
“Milord,” said Marc, “ Mr. McBride is doing it again.”
“Don’t put words into the witness’s mouth, Mr. McBride,” said the judge.
“My apologies, Milord.”
McBride tuned back to Trueman. “No further questions.”
“Mr. Edwards?”
Marc rose to his lectern. “Mr. Trueman, when the couple were in their set dancing, how far away were you?”
“I was on the other side of the room, about twenty paces away.”
“And you were able to see the couple smiling and making eye contact from that distance?”
“Yes, I was.”
“You say they kept their eyes on one another. Is that not usual in the dance?”
“Possibly. But these were real stares.”
“And does one, following courtly manners, smile at one’s lady partner?”
“Possibly.”
“And make polite conversation when they meet in the course of the dance?”
“Possibly.”
“I submit, Mr. Trueman, that what you saw was not courtship but courtliness. That there was nothing out of the ordinary going on in that dance.”
“But they kept talking after the dance.”
“Ah, yes. At the drinks table. I was at that dance and I know that the drinks table is even farther away, across the room from where you were standing. How could you possibly tell the nature of that conversation and what expressions played upon the lady’s face and what words were spoken?”
“Well, I did.”
“You seemed uncommonly interested in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”
“She was a very attractive woman. And our hostess. Many eyes besides mine were on her that evening.”
“Don’t you think ‘rejected’ is too strong a word for what happened next?” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Gagnon merely asked for another dance and was politely refused?”
“She looked annoyed, and he left abruptly,” Trueman said doggedly.
“As far as you know, Mr. Trueman, did these two people ever meet before that evening?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Thank you. No more questions, Milord. But I reserve the right to recall this witness.”
“So granted.”
Marc had done his best on cross-examination, but Trueman’s testimony had gone some ways towards establishing a motive, flimsy as it was: the revenge of a rejected suitor, who happened to be a crazy, hot-blooded Frenchman. And the Crown would play upon the natural prejudice of an English-speaking jury.
Next up was Horace Macy. He was nervous in the box, fidgeting constantly.
“Good morning, Mr. Macy,” McBride said with a broad smile that made his Old Testament beard look even more intimidating. “Just a few questions. First, did you attend this year’s Charity Ball?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And during the course of that evening, did you have occasion to observe Mrs. Cardiff-Jones and the defendant dancing together as a couple in a set?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“I was dancing in the next set, only a few feet away.”
“How would you describe their behaviour?”
“They couldn’t take their eyes off each other.”
“Would you describe their behaviour as more than mere courtliness?” McBride glanced over at Marc and gave him a quick half-grin.
Marc was on his feet. “Milord, the answer calls for a personal opinion.”
“Since you introduced the point, Mr. Edwards,” said the judge, “I’ll allow it.”
Macy answered the question: “If you mean were they more than polite, I’d have to say yes.”
“Did you hear them converse at any time during the dance?”
“I did. Whenever they came together, they talked briefly – in French.”
“Could you hear what was said?”
“Only once, when Mr. Gagnon spoke English. He told Mrs. Cardiff-Jones that she was a most attractive hostess.”
“Most attractive, eh?” McBride said, and turned to the jury with what might have been described as a leer.
“He also said, in English, she would be most welcome in Montreal society, where they had the grandest of balls.”
“Most welcome, you say? And all the time staring into her eyes.” McBride turned and stared at the jury. Then he said, “And how did the lady react?”
Macy’s lip curled down as he said, “She seemed flattered by all this attention. She smiled, and, I think, encouraged him.”
“What happened after the dance?’
“I saw them go over to the drinks table, and they kept on talking.”
“But you were too far away to hear?”
“Yes, except to hear that they were jabbering away in French.”
“What happened next?”
“The defendant suddenly turned away and strode across the room to his friends.”
“‘Strode’, you say? Was he angry?”
“He may have been. He left awfully fast.”
“As if he had been rejected?”
“Milord,” said Marc. “Mr. Bride is putting words into the witness’s mouth, again.”
“I agree,” said the judge. “The jury will disregard that last remark.”
But ‘rejected’ had already been planted in the jury’s mind. It was too late to take it back.
The witness was now turned over to Marc.
“You say you were in the set next to the couple?” Marc began.
“That’s right,” Macy said, looking wary.
“How is it you were able to observe their behaviour so minutely if you yourself were dancing, and thus moving in several directions?”
“I couldn’t watch them all the time, but whenever I was turned their way, I took a good, hard look.”
“You seemed inordinately interested in the lady and her behaviour.”
“I must admit that I was myself attracted to the lady.”
And we’ll get back to that a little later in the trial, Marc thought.
“Do gentlemen not often say flattering things to their hostess as a matter of chivalry or courtliness?” Marc said.
“They may.”
“With only intermittent glimpses of the couple, how could you determine if what transpired between them was more than a bit of harmless wordplay? And some of it in French? With a bit of flirting on both sides?”
“They looked awfully intent to me.”
“That is your opinion, sir, not a fact. And could be the result of jealousy on your part.”
“He was playing up to her in my book,” Macy said with a trace of bitterness in his tone.
“Now, about this abrupt departure. You said that Mr. Gagnon strode across the room?”
“That’s correct.”
“Could he not merely have been anxious to return to his friends?”
“It’s possible. But he looked angry to me.”
“Again, sir, that is merely your opinion.”
After Marc requested permission to recall Macy, he sat down, happy with his cross-examination. The Crown’s efforts to establish motive were flimsy indeed. But then, with Wilkie’s testimony, they really didn’t need a strong motive. The ‘crazy’ Frenchman would do.
The Crown next called Cecil Denfield to the stand.
“Mr. Denfield, were you at the Charity Ball?” McBride began.
“I was,” Denfield said in a calm and confident manner.
“Did you see the accused dancing with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“Only briefly. I was otherwise engaged.”
“Did you observe the couple at any other time?”
“I did. After their dance they came over to the drinks table, and Mr. Gagnon fetched the lady a glass of champagne.”
“Were you close enough to hear their conversation?”
“I was.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why is that?”
“They were speaking mostly in French.”
“And you don’t speak French?”
“No, sir.”
“Could you describe their manner?”
“It looked like an intimate sort of talk. They were smiling at each other and jabbering away.”
“Then what happened?”
“He asked her, in English, if she would dance again with him. And she said she couldn’t because her dance-card was full.”
“And how did Mr. Gagnon, the defendant, react?”
“He said something sharply in French, then turned and walked across the room.”
“Would you say he was angry?”
“I’d say he was disappointed, surely. He had paid a lot of attention to her and she had turned him down.”
“So Mrs. Cardiff-Jones danced with many men that evening?”
“Yes. She was very popular.”
“And very much observed. Thank you.” McBride sat down.
Marc then began his cross-examination. “Mr. Denfield, you said the couple was speaking in French.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that they were discussing something intimate?”
“It seemed so.”
“But since you don’t speak French, they could have been talking about the weather, could they not?”
“I suppose so,” Denfield said grudgingly.
“Was there any particular reason you were eavesdropping on this conversation in French?”
“I just happened to be nearby,” Denfield said.
And you just happen to be the lady’s lover, thought Marc. But we’ll get to
that in due course.
Denfield was dismissed with the right of recall. The Crown rested its case and the court was adjourned for lunch.
***
Cobb began to wonder about the alibi of Cecil Denfield. He had been certain that Audrey Denfield was lying when she said he had been home with her all evening. But how to prove it? Then he thought of the servants. They always knew what was going on. So over the lunch hour he devised a plan. He walked to the Denfield residence, where he was sure the couple had gone for their luncheon. He situated himself behind a neighbour’s hedge and waited. Sure enough, about one-thirty, the door of the Denfield house opened, and the Denfields emerged. They headed south towards the Court House. Cobb then went around to the back door and knocked. A uniformed maid answered his knock.
“Good afternoon, miss. I’m Detective-Constable Cobb of the Toronto police. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
The maid relaxed a little, but still seemed wary.
“May I come in?” Cobb said.
“Oh, of course.”
Cobb followed her into the kitchen, which was quite warm, the fire in the cooking stove not having gone out yet. The maid motioned Cobb to a chair, and sat opposite him.
“What’s this all about?” she said.
“What’s your name, miss?”
“Sarah. Sarah Teasdale.”
“Well, Sarah, do you remember the evening when Mrs. Cardiff-Jones was killed?”
“Yes, I do. That’s the day I burned my finger on the stove.”
“I need to know where your master and mistress were that evening – from seven o’clock onwards.”
“Now let me see if I can recollect,” Sarah said, pausing to think. “Oh, yes. The master had a headache and went to bed right after supper. The mistress went out about seven o’clock to visit her cousin in town. I didn’t see her leave, but I know she went.”
“Were you here all evening?”
“Oh, no. I was feeling poorly, too, and went to my room.”
“Are you the only servant?”
“Yes, sir. I clean and do the cooking.”
“So you couldn’t be absolutely sure your master never left the house?”
“Why would he?”
“If he did, you wouldn’t have heard?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Thank you. That’s all I need to know.”
And it was enough. He had proven that Mrs. Denfield had been dutifully lying for her husband’s sake. Cecil Denfield had no real alibi. The Major would be very keen to know this. Cobb excused himself and headed straight for the Court House.
The Widow's Demise Page 14
