Bloody Relations

by Don Gutteridge

  The magistrate, who had taken many a shocking deposition in his day, showed little emotion during Marc’s ten-minute peroration. When Marc finished, Thorpe said matter-of-factly, “You’re suggesting this affair started out as a Tory plot to embarrass Lord Durham and inadvertently ended up as a murder?”

  “I am.”

  “But if Badger is guilty, why go to such lengths to demonstrate that he was, in effect, bribed to carry out what was intended to be no more than an elaborate and ill-advised prank?”

  “A prank that could get Lord Durham recalled!” Marc was indignant.

  “I’m speaking of the law here, Mr. Edwards. You yourself have just insisted that Mr. Hepburn’s plot was to lure young Ellice into at worst a compromising situation. Handford Ellice is an adult. He has a free will. He can say no to a glass of whiskey. So, unless you can prove that the lad was drugged and his comatose body literally dragged to the door of this brothel, you have no case against Alasdair Hepburn—for conspiracy, public mischief, or anything else.”

  “I have testimony about the note.”

  “Ambiguous at best, sir. After all, Badger was a sometime employee of Hepburn, and his sister’s been the household maid for several years. The mere fact that they communicated by letter is not an incriminating or even a suspicious activity.”

  Marc was flabbergasted. He felt like accusing this blue-blooded Tory of protecting his own but bit his tongue instead.

  “Don’t look so disconcerted, Edwards. If Lord Durham hired you to find the whore’s killer and disentangle Ellice from the mess, then it is to his advantage if Badger turns out, as you imply, to have murdered for purely personal motives. In that way, we can charge and hang him without any reference to who was sleeping beside the victim, since it’s irrelevant to the case. Nor has Badger any certain knowledge that it was Ellice. I take it that the madam is unaware of his identity?”

  Marc nodded grimly.

  “Well, then, Ellice is out of it, eh?” Thorpe gave Marc an avuncular and well-meant smile. “My advice to you is to leave the conspiracy stuff alone. It can only harm your effort to protect Lord Durham.”

  “You are refusing, then, to give me a warrant to search Hepburn’s house and have him formally interrogated?”

  “I am, but not for the reasons I just gave you as my personal advice. Until you produce Badger for me, you have not enough concrete evidence. No magistrate in the province would issue you a warrant on such flimsy grounds as you’ve provided.”

  Marc sat too stunned to even nod his thanks to Thorpe for hearing him out or to say a courteous good-bye as the justice left the room. Still dazed, he thought he heard Cobb clumping up the walk. Marc hauled himself out of Gussie’s chair and went out to relay both the exciting and the galling news. As he closed the door behind him, he heard an exasperated squawk: “Where the hell’s my cheese!”

  Sure enough, a constable was puffing red-faced towards the station, but it wasn’t Cobb. It was Ewan Wilkie.

  “You’ve got news?” Marc asked, seeing Wilkie wide-eyed and abnormally awake.

  “You gotta come, Mr. Edwards, sir,” he huffed, clutching his side. “I run all the way.”

  “You’ve found Badger!” The world rolled upright again.

  “Nestor Peck found him up on Jarvis Street. Cobb’s there now.”

  “That’s great news, Constable. But why didn’t you and Cobb bring him down here? I need to question him.”

  “That’ll be kinda hard, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “He ain’t breathin’.”

  THIRTEEN

  Marc hurried to the corner of Lot and Jarvis, where the twisting lane to the Tinker’s Dam and satellite shanties met civilization, and where Wilkie, now two blocks behind, had said the body of Michael Badger lay. Marc tried not to think about how hopeless their situation now was. Without Badger’s testimony, no legally warrantable link could be made to the conniving whist players. And unless he could force a confession out of one of them or anyone else who might be involved, even Badger might posthumously be exonerated. It was after all only Marc’s theory that connected Badger to the invasion of the brothel and the stabbing of Sarah McConkey. He realized, though, that the temptation for the police to pin the murder on a known scoundrel would be strong and, as Magistrate Thorpe had hinted, Ellice might be kept out of it entirely. But Lord Durham professed to be interested in the truth, and Lady Durham needed to have her own disturbing doubts about her nephew’s sanity and sexual conduct unambiguously clarified. If only Beth had not relayed the tale of Ellice’s sordid affair in his father’s stable, then perhaps Marc too would be willing to go along with the events that seemed to be unfolding in their own way, despite his best efforts to deflect them closer to a true trajectory.

  Cobb waved to him from a spot on the lane to the Tinker’s Dam about twenty yards from the end of Jarvis Street. Marc slowed and walked disconsolately to his partner.

  “Ya took yer time, Major.” Cobb was sweating in a brown suit coat that had replaced his soiled constable’s jacket, and his boots had been newly blacked and buffed. His hat had been tipped aside so that his spiked hair rose up like a terrified porcupine from its lair.

  “Where is the body?”

  “Good day to you, too.” Cobb pointed down the slope of a dry stream bed that wandered parallel to the path. “He’s been there a while. The stiffenin’ ain’t quite outta him yet.”

  “Yet no one found him till now?”

  “You can’t see him from the path unless you was lookin’ fer him.”

  In fact Marc had to take two steps down the slope before he could clearly discern the corpse of the orange-maned giant they had been hunting since Tuesday. Badger lay on his back in the long grass where he had tumbled after someone had blown a hole in his chest where his heart had once been. The blow of the bullet must have knocked him straight backwards. He had likely been dead before he hit the ground. His arms were at his side, and although still stiff with rigor, they appeared to have been in a relaxed mode before death ended further gesturing. The eyes were open, gray and glassy, and the mouth as well, as if in surprise. The corona of golden-red hair sizzled with flies. Marc went down to the body, being careful not to disturb anything that might be evidence. Cobb was beside him. Wilkie clambered up to the path above but was content to look out for Dr. Withers, whom Nestor Peck had been sent to fetch.

  “He could’ve stayed here till somebody smelt him,” Cobb said. “But I figure he was shot sometime in the night: rigid mortar and all that.”

  Marc was bent over the corpse. “I agree. But look at all that powder on his shirt. The shooter couldn’t have been more than two or three feet away.”

  “I forgot you seen a few bodies with bullet holes down there in Quebec.”

  “And I’d guess that a pistol was used, but Angus Withers may be able to give us more to go on.”

  “You plannin’ to solve this murder, too?” Cobb said with genuine surprise.

  “It has to be connected with Sarah’s death somehow.”

  “How do ya figure?”

  “It’s just too convenient that a few hours before I began closing in on that traitorous crew of whist-playing Tories, my star witness is himself murdered.”

  “But we ain’t a stone’s throw from the Tinker’s Dam and half the villains in the entire county.”

  “You think one of those he owed money to did this?”

  “That’s the most likely prop-up-hillity, ain’t it?”

  Marc thought that over. “But if he was killed here in the dark, up on that path, and the killer was standing three feet from him, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s no sign of struggle. The arms were not even raised in self-defence. If one of the gambling thugs did this, would he take a chance on walking right up to Badger in the dark before shooting him? Would you come within a yard of those grappling arms? The fellow was a bruiser, remember. And he had been on the run for almost two days, wary and de
sperate. Would he let a stranger accost him in the middle of the night?”

  “You’re sayin’ he was shot by somebody he knew and wasn’t ascaired of?”

  “I am. No other explanation fits the facts.”

  “Okay, I’ll give ya that, Major. But let’s say Burly Bettman or some other henchman decides to bribe one of Badger’s cronies to do him in?”

  “Now that’s a real possibility, though it’s hard to fathom how anyone would know where he could find Badger. However, if it comes down to that, I guess you and your fellow constables are the best people to handle the investigation.”

  “Well now, I ain’t lookin’ fer work,” Cobb said with a grin. Then he pursed his lips. “What’d’ya think that bulge is in his shirt pocket?”

  “Don’t disturb anything until the doctor’s had his turn,” Marc said, as Cobb knelt down beside the body.

  “I’ll be real careful.” Cobb slid two fingers into the vest pocket of Badger’s shirt and drew out a familiar object.

  Marc whistled. “A key.”

  “And I’ll bet my wife’s bloomers what lock it’ll fit inta.”

  Marc tried to keep his hopes from rising inordinately. It had been a day of disappointment. “So Mrs. Burgess was right: Badger did steal the key to the hatch.”

  “Which don’t mean he used it.”

  “I realize that. But this definitely makes Badger our prime suspect once again.”

  “Maybe somebody in Irishtown suspected the same thing and decided to save us the price of a rope.”

  Cobb stared at the fallen giant, awed by his vulnerability despite his size. “Looks like he’s been sleepin’ rough,” he said. “Them burrs and bits of hay on his shirt front didn’t get there from the tumble he took inta the ditch.”

  “And what’s this?” Marc said, noticing for the first time something white and crisp sticking out of the side pocket of Badger’s overalls.

  “Better not touch the body, Major.”

  Marc ignored the dig and pulled out into the mid-afternoon light a single sheet of notepaper, its elaborate watermark clearly visible.

  “What is it?” Cobb asked, coming around to Marc.

  “What I’ve been looking for since Tuesday morning,” he said. He passed the handwritten note to Cobb.

  Tuesday, 2 p.m.

  Badger:

  Here is the 30 dollars you requested. My advice is to leave the city and all its temptations.

  Sincerely,

  Alasdair Hepburn

  Cobb’s eyes widened. “By golly, Major, I think you’ve got him.”

  Marc was patting the other pockets in the overalls, ignoring his own advice about contaminating the crime scene. There was too much at stake to fuss over protocol. “There’s a wad of something in this rear pocket. I’ll wager it’s thirty dollars’ worth of blood money.”

  “This sure wasn’t no robbery, then,” Cobb opined, “and I can’t see any of the thugs up here shootin’ him and not goin’ through his pockets.”

  “This looks more and more like the work of a quick-strike, paid assassin, somebody who knew exactly where to find his target. And I know who put him up to it.”

  “Where ya goin?” Cobb called, as Marc sprinted up to the path and startled Wilkie, who was dozing on his feet like a sun-drugged horse.

  “To bring a blackguard to heel,” Marc said, and disappeared down Jarvis.

  • • •

  WHEN UNA BADGER ANSWERED HIS KNOCK, Marc drew her quietly onto the stoop and, as he had promised, gave her the news that her brother had been found shot to death. Having braced herself for just such an eventuality, she accepted the news with stoic resignation. After a moment to collect herself, she thanked Marc, and then followed his advice that she go directly to the police station to wait for more details. She naturally assumed that one of Badger’s cronies had done the deed, and Marc did not disabuse her, even though he now knew the matter to be less straightforward and more sinister. But the sight of that brave, grieving woman gave him added incentive to do what had to be done. He entered the home of Alasdair Hepburn with all the tact of an outraged bailiff, striding the short distance to the door of the “whist club’s” lair and flinging it open.

  Hepburn was sitting alone at the card-table. He looked startled for an instant, but as soon as he saw who it was, he gave Marc a grimacing little smile and rose halfway in his chair. “Miss Badger usually does that,” he said with a glance at the open door.

  “Miss Badger had to go to the Court House on an urgent family matter,” Marc said, annoyed that he suddenly found himself short of breath. “I took the liberty of showing myself in.”

  Hepburn raised his brow slightly and said amiably enough, “So I see.” Evidently he had no inkling of what was to come, which suited Marc just fine. “Well, now that you’re fully in, please take a seat. Miss Badger said you had called earlier.”

  “I prefer to stand for what I have come to say.”

  “As you wish. As one of His Lordship’s amanuenses, I presume you’re here on some errand relating to the commissioner’s agenda here in Toronto?”

  Marc bristled at the barb but decided to maintain his post on the moral high ground. “I am here representing both His Lordship and the Toronto constabulary.”

  The banker’s brow again lifted a single notch. “Indeed. Then you have my undivided attention, for I hold both offices in high regard.”

  “Do you?”

  “Is that a question, sir, or an accusation?”

  Marc ignored the riposte. “I have come here to ask you some questions in regard to the events of Monday evening and early Tuesday morning, and I demand—in the name of His Lordship, the governor of the Canadas—that you give me straightforward and truthful answers.” With a sinking feeling, Marc realized that he should have brought Cobb with him, for even if he compelled incriminating testimony from Hepburn, he would have no witness to it, and it could all be retracted and contradicted after the fact.

  “I have never been known to do otherwise, young man, though I would appreciate your putting your queries with a more courteous tongue.”

  “I’m not seeking a mortgage!” Marc snapped.

  “You may thank your lucky stars for that.” Hepburn calmly opened a humidor beside him. “Would you care for a cigar?”

  “No, thank you.” Marc began to feel a tad ridiculous standing in front of the card-strewn whist table while the accused sat peacefully in his favourite armchair. “Now, about the events of Monday evening.”

  “I assume you are referring to the unfortunate death of a whore somewhere in Irishtown.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “My wife told me. It’s the talk of the town, apparently. You see, we don’t often have murders of any kind here in Toronto—unlike London.” He gave Marc the practised, pecuniary smile of a self-satisfied banker. “But I fail to see how I may have anything to contribute to your investigation, if that is what you are about.”

  “I intend, sir, to show you exactly how you did contribute to the death of Sarah McConkey.”

  “Then please, proceed. You have me intrigued.” Hepburn reached for his tinderbox. “Do you mind if I smoke while you talk?”

  “Let me start with the fact that, according to Mrs. Hepburn, you and she were driven, alone, out to Spadina.”

  “That is true and is our usual custom on such occasions.”

  “But I put it to you that her claim that you two rode home together in the same manner is not true!”

  “Is that so? Are you now about to tell me that it was the anonymous ‘jewel thief’ you described to Mrs. Hepburn with such fanciful mendacity who joined us on the way back?”

  Marc winced but was able to play his trump card: “Not at all. It was Handford Ellice you brought here to the city, Lady Durham’s nephew.”

  The brow lifted again. “You are referring to the shy young man whom we invited to join us at whist in Baldwin’s card room?”

  “Don’t play the naif with me, sir.
You are perfectly aware whose ego you flattered and whom you plied with drink for two hours before midnight.”

  “To be truthful, and I presume that’s what you wish of me, the lad was too shy to introduce himself, but yes, one of the attendants indicated who he was sometime after he’d sat down at our table.”

  “Are you denying that you and your accomplices took young Ellice off to the drinks table at regular intervals, until he was thoroughly drunk?”

  “This lad, though diffident, was old enough to insist on his right to drink whiskey. We accompanied him in order to limit his consumption, not increase it.”

  “The result was the same, either way. By midnight he was inebriated and ostensibly slipped away to his chamber to sleep it off.”

  “Ostensibly?” Hepburn lit a tinder stick and applied it to the end of his cigar.

  “Someone in your group suggested to Ellice that a ride to town and its potential pleasures awaited him at the stables, should he so wish to take advantage of it.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “We have testimony from several servants and grooms that place Ellice in a fancy barouche some minutes past midnight, when many of the older guests were departing.”

  “There were many such vehicles there when Mrs. Hepburn and I left about that time.” The cigar end reddened and Hepburn took a soothing puff.

  “But I am certain that it was your carriage that contained Ellice.”

  “Which implies that both my wife and I are lying.”

  “Yes.”

  Hepburn appeared not to take offence at this unseemly imputation, but his eyes did narrow perceptibly. “And what are we supposed to have done with the lad? Dumped him onto Front Street in the middle of the night in a strange city?”