The Widow's Demise
Page 15
***
Marc began his defense of Gilles Gagnon by calling to the stand Vera Mitchell, Delores Cardiff-Jones’s personal maid.
“Miss Mitchell,” Marc began, “other than the killer, you were the last person to see Mrs. Cardiff-Jones alive, were you not?”
“Yes, sir. I helped my mistress get ready to go out.”
“And where was she going on the evening of her death?”
“She was going to visit Marion Stokes, her best friend.”
“And when or how was this visit arranged?”
“A handwritten message was delivered by a boy to the front door and passed along to me.”
“A message ostensibly from Marion Stokes?”
“Yes, sir. It was signed from Marion Stokes.”
“What was the gist of the note?”
“It said that Marion needed to see Madam right away.”
“And you showed the note to your mistress?”
“I took it up to her room – ”
“What time was this by the way?”
“About seven-fifteen.”
“So you took the note into your mistress, and?”
“And I told her what it said – it wasn’t in an envelope, so I couldn’t help reading it. She said, ‘I’ll go right away.’ And I helped her to get ready to go.”
“So your mistress did not actually read the note?”
“No, sir. I put it on her dressing-table.”
“And I, Milord,” said Marc, “would like it to be Exhibit A for the defense.”
The judge took the note, glanced through it, and handed it to his clerk.
“Now, Mrs. Mitchell, tell the court when you learned this note was forged,” Marc said.
At this point, most of those in the galleries leaned forward.
“The next day,” Vera said, “when Mrs. Stokes came to pay her respects, I mentioned that my mistress was heading out to visit her when she was killed. I mentioned the note. Mrs. Stokes said she did not write it.”
“So this fake note was obviously used to lure Mrs. Cardiff-Jones out of her house right away. At about seven-thirty, as it turned out.”
“It would seem so, yes.”
“Possibly sent by the killer?”
“Milord,” McBride said, teetering on his tiny feet, “Mr. Edwards is testifying.”
“You must not speculate or ruminate, Mr. Edwards.”
“Sorry, Milord,” Marc said, then turned back to the witness. “To your knowledge, ma’am, would anyone outside the immediate family know that Mrs. Cardiff-Jones and Marion Stokes were best friends? And that Mrs. Cardiff-Jones might respond right away to a request for help?”
“I doubt it, sir. Theirs was a very personal, private friendship.”
“So, if the killer sent the note to lure the victim onto that public walk at seven-thirty, the killer would have to be someone intimate with her family and their relationships?”
“I suppose so.”
“Now, to your knowledge, did Mr. Gagnon, the defendant, ever visit Rosewood?”
“Only once, sir. He had a short meeting with the master.”
“And as the defendant had been in Toronto for only two weeks, it is highly improbable, is it not, that he knew of the friendship between the two women?”
“Very unlikely.”
“So he couldn’t very well have sent that note?”
“I doubt it.”
“Your witness, Mr. McBride.”
Marc sat down, well satisfied.
“Miss Mitchell,” McBride said with an ingratiating smile, “do you go out with your mistress when she has occasion to leave the house?”
“Not usually, sir. Sometimes she takes me along to carry parcels when she’s shopping.”
“And your mistress went out often?”
“Oh, yes. She was very sociable.”
“So you would often have no idea where she went or who she went with?”
“Sometimes, but not always, no.”
“She could have been meeting with Mr. Gagnon, could she not? On numerous occasions during his two weeks in town?”
“It’s possible.”
“And in the course of their conversation could he have learned about the friendship between Mrs. Cardiff-Jones and Marion Stokes?”
“Well, it’s possible, but – ”
“So, it is conceivable, is it not, that the defendant could have written that forged note?”
Vera hesitated, then said quietly, “Yes, it’s possible.”
“No more questions, Milord.”
McBride had made his point but only by stretching credulity. There was no evidence that Gagnon and Cardiff-Jones had met at all outside the dance. And Marc would hammer that point home in his summation.
“Redirect?” the judge said to Marc.
“Just one question,” Marc said. “Miss Mitchell, did your mistress confide in you? Tell you about her personal relationships?”
“Well, she did quite often. I often wished she didn’t tell me her secrets because I didn’t like keeping them and sometimes lying to the master.”
“Did she tell you about her gentleman friends?”
“Yes, sir,” Vera said, blanching and looking decidedly unsettled.
“Her lovers?”
Vera blushed, then said in a whisper, “Yes.”
“So it is very likely you would have known if your mistress were carrying on with Mr. Gagnon during his two weeks in Toronto?”
“Definitely, sir.”
“And you heard nothing of such a relationship?”’
“No, sir.”
“No more questions,” Marc said, and sat down.
The next witness was Miss Constance Brown. Beth had suggested to Marc that he had put too much emphasis on the murder as the crime, when it really was the tossing of the acid that was the primary offence. And that was a crime of revenge, and more likely to be a woman’s method. And Constance Brown was a woman seething with hurt and rage. At the moment she seemed relatively calm, but puzzled as to why she was here.
“Miss Brown,” said Marc, “were you at one time engaged to Mr. Horace Macy?”
“Milord,” snapped McBride, “what has that question got to do with the murder of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“Mr. Edwards?”
“It goes to motive, Milord.”
“Very well, then, go ahead. But don’t loiter. You may answer the question, Miss Brown.”
“Yes. I was engaged to Mr. Macy,” Constance said.
“And was that engagement at some time recently broken off?”
“It was.”
“Who broke it off, you or Macy?”
Constance glanced down, then back up. “Mr. Macy,” she said in a low voice.
“Did he give you a reason?”
Constance hesitated, then said quietly, “He said he was in love with another woman.”
“Did he say who that woman was?”
“Yes. It was Delores Cardiff-Jones.”
This brought murmurs from the galleries.
“And how did you feel when he told you this?”
“I was . . . ah – disappointed.”
“And angry?”
“Yes, angry.”
“At Mr. Macy?”
“Yes.”
“But more at Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“Yes.. She was a flirt and a man-chaser. She was just toying with Horace.”
“Angry enough to throw acid in her face?”
“No!” Constance cried. “I’d never do that.”
“Where were you on the evening the crime took place?”
“I was at home. Preparing lessons. I’m a schoolteacher.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“No, I was alone the entire evening.”
“Do you know Mrs. Marion Stokes?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did you know that Mrs. Stokes and Mrs. Cardiff-Jones were best friends?”
Constance hesitated, unsure of the implications of
the question, then said, “Yes. Mrs. Stokes told me.”
“So you could have written a forged note to lure Mrs. Cardiff-Jones out to her death?”
“But I did not, sir!”
“Milord,” said McBride, snapping to his feet. “Miss Brown is not on trial.”
“You’ve made your point, Counsellor. Move on.”
“No more questions, Milord.”
McBride, in his rebuttal, got straight to the point. “Miss Brown, did you throw acid in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s face?”
“I did not.”
“Were you at home on the evening of the crime?”
“I was.”
“Thank you. No more questions.”
McBride had done what he could, but Marc had made his point. Constance Brown could conceivably have killed Delores Cardiff-Jones.
At this stage, the judge announced that he had to be out of town for a few days, and adjourned the trial until nine o’clock next Monday morning. Marc was disappointed, as he had three more suspects ready for interrogation. Moreover, he only had Constable Wilkie’s reference to Gagnon’s claim that there had been a third party present at the scene. What he needed now was a witness to the third party so that his suspects would seem even more plausible than they were. He now had five days to find such a witness.
TWELVE
When Cobb got home for lunch, he found his two children, Delia and Fabian, huddled over the stove and a large pot of stew.
“Where’s yer mother?” Cobb said.
“She’s lying down,” Delia said. “ She just got in.”
Cobb then remembered that Dora had not been in their bed when he woke up this morning. That meant she had been out on a call – some woman having a baby at a very inconvenient time of day, as usual.
“We got your dinner, Dad,” said Fabian proudly.
“But it’s yer mother’s job,” Cobb said, and headed for the bedroom.
Dora was not asleep. She was lying, all two hundred pounds of her, upon the duvet with her eyes closed and her clothes still on. “I’m tired through to the marrow of my bones,” she said to Cobb without opening her eyes.
“You been out all night, Missus Cobb?”
“Since three in the mornin’.”
“The kids’ve got dinner.”
“Bless ‘em.”
“I expect you’ll want to sleep.”
Dora struggled up and sat on the edge of the bed. “I do, but I got somethin’ that I gotta tell ya.”
“I don’t want to hear no details about the birthin’.”
“Oh, don’t worry, it was an easy birth. Mother and babe are doin’ just fine.”
“Remember, we got a pact.”
They had agreed that Dora would not speak of her midwifing activities if Cobb did not discuss the gorier aspects of his work.
“You’ll wanta hear this, believe me,” Dora said.
“All right, then. Go ahead.”
“Peggy Jane Doyle, the young maid at Rosewood, had her baby this mornin’ at ten o’clock.”
“But that part of town’s not yer territory.”
“Right. But the regular woman was on another call, so they come fer me in the middle of the night.”
“What has Peggy Jane Doyle got to do with me?”
“Well, she was a bit delirious, and I heard her say, ‘Oh, poor Mrs. Jones, poor Mrs. Jones.’ And I figured she was referrin’ to the night of her mistress’s death.”
“Very likely. Did she say anthin’ else?”
“She did. She kept repeatin’ ‘That man . . . I saw that man.’”
“She saw the killer?”
“I don’t know. She fell asleep. And probably still is.”
“This could be important information,” Cobb said.
“I thought you talked to all them servants.”
“All but Peggy Jane Doyle,” Cobb said, upbraiding himself silently for the omission. “I’m gonna go right over to Rosewood.”
“It may be too early.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?’
***
Cobb decided to approach Rosewood via the back door. Vera Mitchell answered his knock.
“Oh, it’s you, Constable Cobb.”
“I’d like to talk to Peggy Jane Doyle.”
“Oh, you can’t, I’m afraid. She’s . . .she’s not well.”
“I know she just had a baby,” Cobb said, stepping inside. “My wife delivered it.”
“So she did. I forgot she was married to you. But you see why Peggy can’t see you.”
“Would you mind seein’ if she’s awake. This is awfully important.”
“Well, if you insist.”
“I do.”
“Wait here while I check on her. She’s on a cot in the kitchen.”
Vera disappeared down a short hall. Moments later she returned. “Peggy’s awake,” she said, “but very weak.”
“Can she talk?”
“Yes. Follow me. And be very gentle.”
Cobb followed her into the kitchen, which was empty save for the maid and her baby, lying on a cot in the corner nearest the stove. Cobb hoped the babe wasn’t feeding.
“Peggy Jane, the constable would like a word with you. Can you answer some questions?”
Peggy Jane, very young and very pale, looked up from the babe in her arms and said in a soft voice, “I think so. I’ll try.”
“Mrs. Cobb heard you say that you saw a man on the night that yer mistress was killed,” Cobb said. “Is that so?”
Peggy Jane adjusted the sleeping infant and said, “Yes. I saw a man.”
“Where were you?”
“I was on the stairwell. There’s a window there.”
“And what did you see outside the window?”
“I saw a man runnin’ along the east side of the house.”
“What time was this?”
“About seven-thirty. Usually I’m workin’ upstairs.”
Cobb was elated. That was the time the acid was thrown and Mrs. Cardiff-Jones died. This was undoubtedly the third party that Gagnon had seen leaving the scene. Holding his breath, he said, “What did this man look like?”
“I just caught a glimpse of him. He was moving fast, But I don’t think he was a big man. He had on an overcoat and a hat. Grey, I think.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“No. I was above lookin’ down.”
“I think that’s all the time you should take,” Vera said. “Peggy Jane looks very faint to me.”
“That’s all I need to know,” Cobb said.
He thanked the women, and headed straight for Briar Cottage with his news.
***
Those people who crowded the Court House galleries the next Monday morning were treated to a surprise witness. A young girl, pale and weak, was helped up to the witness-stand, where she was allowed to sit. She gave her name as Peggy Jane Doyle. A buzz went through the crowd as Marc led her through her testimony, which was a summary of Cobb’s interview with her. She said she had been coming down the east stairs about seven-thirty when she happened to glance out the stairwell window and saw a male figure moving quickly along the east side of the house.
“Would you describe the man for us,” Marc said.
“I couldn’t see his face as he had a hat on and his coat was pulled up over his chin.”
“Was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”
“I only got a quick glimpse, sir. He wasn’t tall and I’d say he was on the thin side.”
“Let’s be absolutely clear. This figure, in a great hurry, was scuttling along the east wall and coming from the direction of the front of the house, where the crime took place about seven-thirty?”
McBride started to interrupt, thought better of it, and sat back down.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Doyle. We appreciate your testifying under difficult circumstances.”
Marc was elated. He had his third party – a thin man or a woman in disguise.
“Yes, sir. I always come down to do my evening chores at seven-thirty.”
“Did you look at a clock before you came down?”
“Well, no, I – ”
“How did you know it was exactly seven-thirty?”
“Well, I looked at the upstairs clock about seven-fifteen and I guessed it was about fifteen minutes later when I came down.”
“So you can’t be sure it was seven-thirty?”
“I guess not,” Mary Jane said very softly.
McBride glanced over at Marc with a small grin of triumph on his round face.
“Now, the east side of Rosewood – is that not an alley running between Rosewood and the building next door?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And do people not use it as a short-cut to the lane that runs behind Rosewood?”
“Sometimes.”
“So this so-called mysterious stranger could have been anybody wishing to take a short-cut through to the lane?”
“I suppose so.”
“At anytime between seven-fifteen and quarter to eight?”
“It couldn’t have been that late because when I got downstairs, a few moments later I was called to the foyer to see what the to-do was in front of the house.”
“But it could have been, say, seven-twenty?”
“Perhaps. I’m not sure.”
“No more questions, Milord.”
McBride had weakened parts of her testimony, but the essential part remained. There was now a third party in the vicinity about the time of the murder. It was now up to Marc to let the jury know that there were plenty of candidates for that role. The next candidate was John Perkins, the dismissed servant.
“Mr. Perkins,” said Marc, “you worked in the household of Mr. Humphrey Cardiff?”
“Yes, sir. I was assistant to the butler, Mr. Diggs.”
“And were you recently dismissed from that position?”
“I was.”
“Under what circumstances were you fired?”
“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones dismissed me because I answered a question truthfully put to me by Mr. Cardiff.”
“And you considered this unfair?”