“Please tell me.”
“He would pick up the closest one, give him a bear hug until he said uncle, then tip him upside down and quietly shake him until the other boys laughed. Then he dropped him and laughed with them. They soon got to like Michael. He had his faults, but people liked him. And he was fun to be with. He could talk the ear off a donkey!” Her face lit up momentarily at the memory of what was past and would not return.
“Still,” Marc said hesitantly, “he became a bruiser in a brothel.”
“But don’t you see, sir, if he couldn’t sweet-talk a drunken sailor out of being belligerent, why, he’d just give him a bear hug and flip him topsy-turvy.”
“And Madame Renée didn’t entertain too many sailors?”
Una smiled. “Michael called her customers ‘pillow-puffs.’ His only worry was that he would meet one of them on the street and get in Dutch for recognizing him.”
Had Badger possibly encountered Hepburn at Madame Renée’s? Was that the reason for Hepburn’s “friendliness” towards him? Or was it a simple and deadly case of blackmail? What did it matter now anyway? Badger was gone and Hepburn was too clever to be implicated in either crime.
Una Badger suddenly grasped both of Marc’s hands. “Michael couldn’t have hurt any of those girls, not a hair on their heads. He liked them. He treated them like younger sisters. He took them little presents. He wouldn’t let any of the men be insulting to them. And he never touched them in that . . . that other way.”
“But—”
“Mr. Edwards, you’ve got to tell the police and the magistrate that my brother couldn’t kill anyone!”
• • •
UNA BADGER HAD LEFT TO GO up to Dr. Withers’s surgery to claim her brother’s body. Marc’s head was spinning too much for him to be able to compose a note for Wilfrid Sturges, but he did not need to, for the chief himself soon arrived. Marc rattled off a highly edited and barely coherent explanation of why he had bearded Alasdair Hepburn in his home, but his embarrassment was scarcely noticed. The chief was a happy and relieved man and cared not that a prominent citizen may have been needlessly bullied.
“Stop worryin’, Marc. We’ve all done our duty and then some. We’ll have this whole business wrapped up by noon tomorrow. We’ll make a sweep of the rot around the Tinker’s Dam, but it’s not likely we’ll ever find out who done us a favour by poppin’ off Mr. Badger. Still, we can safely go up and tell His Lordy-ship that his nephew’s off the hook.”
Marc nodded numbly.
“Do you want me to tell ’im?” Sturges offered affably.
“No. Thanks anyway. I’m to make a full report to him at eight o’clock. I’ll just go on home to have some supper and compose my notes.”
“Be sure and put in a good word fer us peelers.”
“That will be a pleasure, Wilfrid.”
Out on the stone walk, Marc found himself fighting for breath. Confused and frustrated he might be, but one thought rang in his mind clear and unequivocal: Michael Badger did not murder Sarah McConkey.
• • •
“MARC, STOP THIS PACING UP AND down,” Beth said, “you’re gonna wear a path in the new rug.”
Marc halted, said nothing, then began to pace again.
“You’re scaring Charlene.”
“She’s in the kitchen burning the dumplings.”
Beth laughed, and Marc sat down, his head in his hands.
“I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“I’ve never felt like this before. Don’t you see how impossible the situation is? In two hours I’ve got to walk up to Government House and inform Lord and Lady Durham that the police have attributed the murder to Michael Badger for reasons that have nothing to do with Handford Ellice. And everybody is supposed to be happy about it.”
“But you and Una Badger are the only ones who think he didn’t do it.”
“I’m certain of it. Just as I’m positive that Alasdair Hepburn lured Ellice to that scarlet door and bribed Badger to cause some sort of commotion in there—an elaborate prank perhaps, intended principally to embarrass Lord Durham and give him something besides Upper Canada to be concerned about.”
“But you said Badger wasn’t involved. You’ve lost me.”
“He was supposed to sneak in there, but if he did—and we’ll never know for certain—he must have got quite a grisly surprise.”
“You figure he may’ve found Sarah dead?”
“It’s possible. He arrived at Hepburn’s later that morning in terrible shape, according to Una. But one way or another, he did not kill Sarah. Everything I’ve heard about him so far suggests that he would not have murdered in a sudden rage, and certainly not one of those girls.”
“So an innocent man’s reputation will be sacrificed to keep the bigwig safe?”
“I don’t see how I can stop it.”
“You’re certain the key you found on Badger fits the little door?” Beth suddenly said.
Marc smiled. “Not yet. I suppose Cobb or Sarge will check that tomorrow. They’re in no hurry now that they’re sure they’ve got their man. Anyway, I wouldn’t bet one of Charlene’s dumplings on it.”
Beth nodded, then said evenly, “And there’s Lady Durham, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has her own doubts about Handford. If you tell her husband what you’ve just told me about Badger, then she’ll leave here never knowing for sure whether her sister’s boy is truly blameless.”
Marc groaned. It was getting worse. “But I can’t lie to Lord Durham. He wants the truth.”
“If he doesn’t ask, you could just leave out some of the details.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
There was a clatter of errant pots from the next room.
Beth said, “If Badger didn’t do it, then who did?”
“One of the women of the house or someone from Madame Charlotte’s, I suppose.”
“You don’t seem all that interested.”
“I would be if I could find a motive. But I’ll be damned if I can think of one. I’ve observed the women closely. While the two madams are rivals and routinely disparage each other, I saw them embrace at the funeral. Similarly, I could detect no serious tensions among the girls of either house. Sarah was stabbed to death with one brutal, savage blow. Petty jealousy and simple revenge do not seem appropriate to such a crime.”
Beth looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you considered betrayal?”
“Betrayal?”
“Sometimes love can turn to hate real quick.”
Marc was about to question Beth further when the first whiff of burnt food struck his nostrils.
From the kitchen came a mortified cry: “Help!”
• • •
COBB SAT ON A STOOL IN the summer kitchen and watched Dora prepare supper. Beads of sweat dropped from her nose and chin onto the bevel of her half-exposed bosom. Normally he found this sight both appetizing and erotic. Today, though, had been a long way from normal. The shock of seeing, close up, his second bloodied corpse in three days had unnerved him. He thought he now knew why the Major had tossed his uniform aside. It was one thing to face the sanguinary results of fistfights in dives or alleys, but the stilted, blank gaze of dead eyes was something utterly different: it was like encountering the moment after your own death.
Dora was humming, a deep and satisfied sound from the vast drum of her diaphragm. He found this, too, irritating, for what he needed most was for her to give him leave to talk about the events of the week and lay some of the angst upon her unwarranted contentment. But the pact they had made was solemn and inviolable: no talk about the travails of one’s profession without explicit, advance permission. Cobb realized, though never admitted it, that he was the principal beneficiary of this agreement, as it allowed him to escape yet another gory epic of childbirth and its messy aftermath. He shifted his bottom on the stool and coughed.
“Well, Mister Cobb, let’s have it. I ain’t gonna get
a peaceful minute till you tell me what’s eatin’ ya.” She continued stirring the stew.
Cobb proceeded immediately to pour out his complaint, providing Dora with enough detail to assuage his pent-up frustrations but not enough to give away any state secrets.
“But the worst of it was that bed with all the girl’s blood soaked into it and some so-called gentleman lyin’ stark naked on them bloody sheets. I been havin’ nightmares ever since.”
“Don’t I know it. You been pokin’ yer elbows inta me and mutterin’ more gibberish than you usually do.”
Cobb shook his head. “I don’t know how ya do it, luv—pullin’ babies inta this world covered with slime and muck—”
“And you say this happened in one of them shady houses up in Irishtown?”
Cobb closed his eyes. “Christ, I can’t get her outta my head! Poor Sarah.”
Dora stopped her stirring. “A girl named Sarah, you say?”
“Sarah McConkey,” Cobb said before he could catch himself. “Jesus! Nobody’s supposed to—”
“I heard there was a funeral fer her up on John Street, but I didn’t know how she died.”
“You know her?”
“I oughta. I helped deliver her baby a couple of months ago.”
Cobb listened with increasing interest as Dora narrated the story of her involvement with Sarah McConkey. One day in late March or early April, a message arrived around midnight that a young woman needed the midwife. Dora picked up her bag, which was always packed and ready for use, and headed out into the chilly dark as she had hundreds of times in her long career as a midwife. The anonymous lad led her up to some place around Hospital Street. She couldn’t be certain of the exact location because it was an abandoned barn and they approached it through a field. To her surprise the barn was fitted out with a proper bed, two chairs, and a few domestic utensils. In the late stages of labour was a young, pretty, brown-haired girl who managed a gritty smile and said only that her name was Sarah. “McConkey,” the boy had added before the woman’s male companion shoved him away.
When Dora had requested hot water, the man, who was very nervous and obviously concerned, replied that he and his woman were impoverished squatters and had no access to hot water or anything else not already in the barn. Accustomed to such situations, Dora never pressed for more information than she needed to know. Her task was to deliver babies while doing her best to keep their mothers alive. While Dora tended to these duties, Sarah’s man paced up and down near the door of the barn. About two hours later Dora pulled the infant into the dank air of that profane stable. It was dead. Sarah moaned and mercifully passed out. The delivery had seemed normal, but the child had choked on the cord and died moments before entering the world. Dora set its still body beside her and knelt down to look to the afterbirth. She heard the man come up behind her. In the lantern’s light the dead gaze of the babe stared upward.
“He let out a cry of anguish the likes I’ve never heard before in all my years in this business.”
Dora assured him that Sarah had come through the ordeal in good shape. She gave him a vial of laudanum and instructions how to administer it. She offered to take the corpse and see to its burial, but he said he would do so himself.
“It was such a beautiful child,” Dora said, giving the stew a motherly stir. “A boy it was, with the brightest orange hair you ever did see.”
It was Cobb’s turn to go unnaturally still. “What did this so-called husband look like?”
“Big fella. With a bushel and a half of hair, just like the babe’s.”
• • •
COBB HAD NO NOTION WHAT DORA’S unexpected revelation might mean. But he knew the Major would want to hear it, and with less than two hours before he was scheduled to appear before His Lordship, Marc would want to know now. So it was that Cobb left one supper suspended without explanation and fatally disrupted another. He rushed into the Edwardses’ cottage without knocking and burst straight into the dining room.
“I got somethin’ to tell ya!” he cried, and his look alone prompted Marc to get up, push aside a charred dumpling, and lead Cobb onto the front porch.
“Let’s have it, then, old friend,” Marc said, alarmed at Cobb’s beet-red face and anguished breathing. “Take your time. The world isn’t about to end.”
As coherently as he could under the circumstances, Cobb relayed to Marc the gist of Dora’s tale.
Marc said nothing for half a minute, then, “Are you sure it was Sarah McConkey?”
“There ain’t a doubt. And who else could the father be besides Badger?”
Marc nodded. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“To beard a lioness in her den!”
Trotting dutifully in his partner’s wake, Cobb was heard to mutter, “Not again!”
FIFTEEN
Marc’s mind churned all the way to Madame Renée’s, but he was not yet ready to share his thoughts with Cobb. They arrived to find the place shuttered and still.
“They’re gone off!” a voice called to them.
Cobb recognized the urchin loitering nearby: it was one of the lads who had tossed obloquy upon his nose the day before.
“All of ’em?”
“Yup. I seen ’em luggin’ their things up the road.”
Cobb threw him a penny. “I’m gonna ask fer a raise in pay,” he said to Marc.
“I think Mrs. Burgess is still in there,” Marc said.
“It sure looks deserted. They’ve scarpered, as Sarge likes to say. And why do ya figure the birds’ve flown the coop?”
Marc pounded on the door with his fist. “I know you’re in there, Mrs. Burgess. Open up, please. I must talk with you.”
Fearing his friend had slipped a gear, Cobb touched Marc on the shoulder. “I think ya oughta let it go, Major. We done our damnedest.”
Marc wriggled the door handle. The scarlet door swung open.
Mrs. Burgess was sitting in the near-dark in her customary easy chair. The air in the parlour was heavy and stale, but she appeared to take no notice of it, nor of Marc when he sat down across from her.
“Mrs. Burgess?”
She did not look up or reply, but her slumping posture and gray pallor told Marc that here was a woman on the verge of collapse.
“Please leave me alone.” The voice was hollow and without emotion despite the plea.
“I can’t do that,” Marc said. “There are important matters that you and I must discuss, however badly you feel.”
No response.
“Where are your girls?”
“Sarah’s dead.”
“I mean Carrie and Molly and Frieda.”
“I sent them away.”
“For good?”
“They’ll be fine.”
“You’re closing up shop?”
“Ruined,” she mumbled. “All ruined.”
“Cobb, would you bring Mrs. Burgess a glass of brandy from the sideboard?”
Cobb poured a generous glass from a decanter and brought it over. Marc put it into Mrs. Burgess’s hands, noticing how icy cold they were, and helped raise the glass towards her lips. To his relief she drank a mouthful, coughed, then drank another.
Cobb and Marc sat waiting. After what seemed an eternity and with a clock ticking nearby as a reminder of the eight o’clock deadline, Mrs. Burgess looked up and let them feast upon the devastation of her face.
“You loved Sarah,” Marc began. “So I need to know why you killed her.”
“Why do we do anything?” she replied.
“I’m going to describe what I think happened on Monday last, then I want you to tell me where I’m wrong, if I am. Do you understand?”
“I’m not deaf and dumb,” she said with an echo of her former aplomb.
“I’ll begin with events you may not know about. Out at the governor’s gala on Monday evening, one of your regular gentleman customers—”
“Callers.”
“Callers—got a youn
g man drunk.”
“The pale gentleman.”
“Yes, who happened to be Lord Durham’s nephew.”
“A toff’s toff.”
Cobb ahemed loudly but was ignored.
“This so-called gentleman got young Handford Ellice drunk and drove him from Spadina to Hospital Street, then guided him here. Using the coded knock, he got you to open the door even though you were shutting down for the night. He pushed the lad inside and ran off. However, I’m certain that you knew who it was.”
Mrs. Burgess shook her head, discreet as ever.
“I accept your account of what happened next. As it was Sarah’s turn, she led the pathetic and near-comatose fellow into her room, where, in all probability, he fell deeply asleep without doing a thing he had paid for.”
“He paid for her time. The performance was up to him.”
Marc was encouraged that his comments provoked some of Mrs. Burgess’s familiar feistiness.
“Meanwhile, you and the girls went to your own bedrooms. When Molly fell asleep beside you, you got up—ostensibly to check on Sarah, if anybody asked—and padded into her chamber. As you expected, Sarah was slumbering and her gentleman caller snoring like an exhausted hog.”
“And?”
“And you slipped to the bedside, slid a hand under Sarah’s pillow, pulled out her dagger, and stabbed her once—viciously—in the throat.” Marc delivered these words with an emphatic hiss.
Mrs. Burgess’s response was almost plaintive: “Why would I want to kill dear, sweet Sarah?”
“That is a question I asked myself on Tuesday and in every hour since, but I found no answer convincing enough to accuse you or your girls of murder. But I’ll come back to that in a moment.”
Mrs. Burgess took another swallow of brandy. She was now watching Marc with a mixture of wariness and defiance.
“As Sarah’s lifeblood spouted from her body, you scuttled back to bed and lay down beside Molly. A little while later, probably while your heart was still pounding with the enormity of what you had done, the wretched Ellice—awakened but groggy with drink or worse—discovered the horror beside him, cried out, instinctively pulled the knife from Sarah’s throat, then fainted dead away. When you and Molly reached the room, you found Sarah dead and her caller unconscious with the knife in his hand.
Bloody Relations Page 20
