“That’s right.”
“So how do you know the killer didn’t retreat instead of going on ahead? If it was one of the denizens of Devil’s Acre, he probably sneaked off to his hidey-hole somewhere in that garbage heap – not out to Church Street.”
“It’s possible, sir. But how do we account for them big bootprints?”
“Someone who left the place before the murder? Or just after? Someone who didn’t feel like reporting it? You see, there’s no way we can connect them definitely to the murder.”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“I do. And I must say, I’m not overly impressed with your detecting skills on the basis of this first report. Why didn’t you and Wilkie knock on doors to see if there were any witnesses to the crime?”
“Nobody up there ever sees or hears anythin’,” Cobb said rather defensively. “We were lucky the gambler decided to report finding the body, or it could’ve been days before she was found or missed.”
“Well, you ought to have tried. I think you were taken too much with boots and gloves and gentlemen.”
“I could try now, sir.”
“Don’t bother. It’s not as if Sally Butts was a wholly respectable girl doing a wholly respectable job.”
“She was just singin’ in the whorehouse, not whorin’.”
Bagshaw grunted an acknowledgement and said, “What do you propose to do now? With the time I’m so generously giving you?”
“I’m going to visit Sally Butts’s parents. It’s likely she was killed by someone who knew her, so I’ve got to learn more about her.”
“And you’re going to leave Sir Gawain and his friends out of it?”
Cobb had no intention of doing so, but he said, “For now, sir.”
***
Cobb found the split-log cabin that housed the Butts family on Newgate Street near Simcoe. He knocked on the door and waited. A minute or so later it opened to reveal a small, middle-aged woman whose red and swollen eyes indicated a serious bout of weeping.
“You’ve come about Sally, then?” she said in a hollow voice.
“I have, madam. I’m Constable Cobb, the detective assigned to find your daughter’s killer.”
“We told her not to work in that evil place,” Mrs. Butts said, stepping back and letting Cobb enter the modest interior. It was simple, neat and clean. A bald-headed man sat at a table with his sleeves rolled up and his head in his hands.
“This is Constable Cobb,” Mrs. Butts said to him. “He’s from the police.”
“You should be in Devil’s Acre,” Butts said with a feeble attempt at anger. “That’s where her killer is, amongst that riff raff.”
“That’s quite possible, sir, but I’ve come to ask you a few questions about yer daughter.”
Butts looked up, the anguish stark in his face. “She was our only child,” he said.
“I’m terribly sorry fer yer loss, and sorry to intrude like this – ”
“When will we be able to have the body?” Butts said.
“Right away, I should think. The coroner has finished his examination.”
“Did she suffer?” Mrs. Potts said, coming to stand behind her husband. Cobb stood with his helmet in his hands. It was at times like this that he thought plainclothes made sense.
“She did not, ma’am. Death was quick and painless.” He only half believed this, thinking of the girl lying there waiting helplessly for her blood to run out.
“Thank God.”
“What do you need to ask?” Butts said wearily.
“Did yer daughter know anyone who might wish her harm?” Cobb said.
“Not unless it was someone working at that whorehouse,” Butts said bitterly.
“Did she have a gentleman friend?”
Mrs. Butts answered. “She was a beautiful girl, Constable. She was born with those beautiful, blond curls. She had lots of boy friends – always.”
“But she wanted to sing,” Butts said. “And so she ended up in that place.”
“Was she seein’ anyone recently?”
Neither Butts spoke. Mrs. Butts placed her hands on her husband’s shoulder and squeezed. He spoke at last. “There was Mr. Kray. John Kray.”
Cobb’s antennae went up. “What about this Mr. Kray?”
“Well, he was quite taken with her,” Mrs. Butts said cautiously.
“He asked her to marry him.”
“She agreed, but later turned him down.”
“I see,” Cobb said. “And did he take this news calmly?”
Some real anger showed in Butts’s face. “He did not. He kept coming around here and pestering her and us. I had to read him the riot act.”
“And that worked, did it?”
Another pause. Mrs. Butts said, “Sally told me that he used to follow her to work, in Devil’s Acre. Sometimes he’d be waiting for her when she finished work at one in the morning.”
“Said he was worried about her safety,” Butts added. “But it was a lot more than that.”
So, Cobb thought, Sally Butts was being stalked by a jilted lover. Had they quarrelled a last time? Had he taken out his anger in the most violent way possible?
Cobb obtained Kray’s address, apologized again for disturbing the Butts in their grief, and left with a promising lead.
***
According to Butts, John Kray lived with his mother in a small cottage near the corner of Church and Hospital Street. Cobb found it without difficulty. His knock was answered by an elderly, grey-haired woman with spectacles that made her squint.
“I’m lookin’ fer yer son, John,” Cobb said.
“I’m lookin’ fer him, too,” Mrs. Kray said.
“He’s not here, then?”
“He ain’t been home fer two days.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It is. He’s a good boy, but he tends to drink and gamble a bit when he’s feelin’ down.”
“Do you know where he gambles?”
“At Ned Dowd’s dive in Devil’s Acre.”
“I’ll have a look fer him there, then.”
“Tell him to come home, will you?” Mrs. Kray asked in a pleading tone.
“I’ll do that,” Cobb said.
***
Devil’s Acre was as quiet as a tomb during daylight hours. It felt like a ghost town to Cobb as he walked through the narrow alleys that served as streets. He had stopped in at the Crooked Anchor and bearded one of his snitches, Itchy Quick, concerning the whereabouts of Dowd’s gambling joint. It turned out to be about a block west of LaFrance’s brothel and a block and a half from the scene of the crime. Cobb rapped loudly on the door until he finally roused someone inside.
The door inched open a crack. “We’re closed fer Christ’s sake. Go away.”
“I’m the police,” Cobb said, “and I need to talk to Ned Dowd.”
“You’re lookin’ at him,” the fellow said grumpily. “Whaddya want?”
“I need to know if John Kray is here or hereabouts.”
“Ah, Kray. He’s inside somewhere, sleepin’ off a mighty drunk. Do you want me to kick him awake?”
“I do. I’ll wait outside here fer him.”
Cobb stood on the snow-covered stoop and waited. Three or four minutes later a young man with a shock of red hair and puffed eyes came out, shivering in his overcoat.
“What’s this all about?” he said nervously.
“I’ve come to talk to you about Sally Butts.”
The young man’s expression softened. “My Sally?” he said, puzzled. “Has anything happened to her?”
If he were faking his ignorance, he was doing a good job, Cobb thought. “I’m afraid I have to tell you that she’s dead,” he said.
“Dead? How?”
“She was murdered last night, not two blocks from where we’re standin’.”
“Oh, my God! That’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is. I seen the body myself.”
John Kray sat down on the stoop, put his head
in his hands and wept. Cobb stood beside him, much embarrassed. He hoped Kray wasn’t putting on a good show. Or perhaps he was weeping because of regret, not sorrow.
“Who did it?”
“We don’t know. Someone came up behind her and slashed her throat.”
“My God, that’s terrible. I begged her to leave that place.”
“I need to ask you, sir, where you were about ten o’clock last evenin’.”
Kray looked up, startled. “You can’t think I had anythin’ to do with her death?”
“Well, sir, I know she had turned down yer advances and that you were stalkin’ her right here in Devil’s Acre.”
“You’ve been talkin’ to her parents, haven’t you?”
“Were you or were you not followin’ her about town?”
“I just wanted to talk to her. I wanted to get her out of Madame LaFrance’s whorehouse. She didn’t belong there. Now she’s dead, because of it.”
“You ain’t answered my question yet.”
“I was in this dive, from eight o’clock onwards. I got thoroughly pissed. I just woke up a few minutes ago.”
“I guess Ned Dowd can vouch fer that.”
“Of course he can.”
“I spoke to yer mother, son. She’s worried sick about you. I’d advise you to go home. And stay there because I might want to talk to you again.”
While John Kray staggered off, Cobb went inside the foul-smelling dive and spoke to Ned Dowd, who – to no-one’s surprise – backed up Kray’s alibi. But in the smoky confines of this gambling den a person could slip out easily and then slip back in again without being noticed coming or going. But of course Cobb couldn’t prove that that’s what had happened with Kray.
Perhaps his evening would be more productive.
THREE
Cobb spent the early evening with Dora and the kids, then went out again about ten o’clock. He walked to Devil’s Acre and made his way through the fresh snow to Madame LaFrance’s place. He did not go right up to the door, but waited in the shadows until a well-dressed gentleman appeared out of a side-alley and ascended the front steps. Cobb slipped up behind him. The fellow then gave a coded knock and the door was instantly opened by Madame LaFrance herself.
“Come in, good sir. We’ve been expecting you,” she boomed, then spied Cobb right behind and scowled.
Cobb pushed his way past the expected gentleman into the anteroom of the parlour.
“What is the meaning of this, sir?” Madame cried as Cobb continued on past her.
“I’ve come to interview the three gentlemen who left here just after Sally Butts last night. Please be kind enough to point them out to me.”
The expected gentleman had turned to leave, spooked no doubt by the sudden appearance of a policeman.
“Oh, don’t go, Merry Man,” Madame said. “It’s just the Constable wanting some business with a couple of my customers. There’s nothing to fear. Is there?” she added to Cobb.
“You can go on with yer business, such as it is,” Cobb said. “I just want to talk to those men who were here last night.”
“What if I said they were not here?” Madame said coyly.
“I’d say you was lyin’,” Cobb said, for he had already spotted three likely looking gentlemen together over by the fire.
Madame smiled rakishly. “They’re over there. But please be tactful. I’ve got a business to run.”
Cobb made his way through the smoke and opium haze of the parlour towards the designated customers. He went up to the overweight fellow and said, “Sir Gawain, I presume?”
Bartholomew Pugh gave a start, then tried a smile. “I go by that nomination in here. What do you want with me, Constable?”
“I want to talk to you three about Sally Butts.”
“Oh. Poor Sally. We heard all about it when we arrived. We’ve been discussing her as a matter of fact.”
“That’s what I’d like to do,” Cobb said, “but first I want to talk to people who’ve got names besides the knights of the Round Table.”
With obvious reluctance, Pugh, Gardiner Clough and Simon Whitemarsh introduced themselves, their voices barely above a whisper.
“I understand you admired Sally Butts,” Cobb began.
Pugh decided to be spokesperson for the group. “Yes, we did. She sang like a warbler. We came here mainly to hear her sing.”
“You were not attracted to her in any other way?”
Pugh feigned umbrage despite his surroundings, heavy with the scent of opium and tawdry sex. “Of course not. There are other girls here for that sort of stuff.”
“None of you decided to follow her after she left?”
“Why would we do that?” Clough said.
“I’m lookin’ fer witnesses,” Cobb said craftily. “Some sewer rat from Devil’s Acre slit Sally’s throat, and I need to know if any of you gentlemen, who left right after the girl, saw anyone suspicious lurkin’ in the area.”
“I did not,” Whitemarsh said, “but then I go south and I was told Sally was found some blocks west of here.”
“And if I see anyone suspicious in this place,” Clough said, “I look immediately the other way. I go east, and I don’t recall seeing anyone at all. And it was snowing, so you couldn’t see much anyway.”
“You go west, then?” Cobb said to Pugh.
“I do. As does Sally. But she was ten minutes ahead of us. And we must’ve taken different routes because I didn’t come across her body in that alley.”
“Sorry we can’t help you,” Clough said. And it was obvious from his tone that the Cavaliers did not see themselves as suspects.
“Did any one of you lose a glove last night?” Cobb said abruptly.
There was a collective shaking of heads, and Cobb thought of pulling the glove from his pocket to see if it might prompt a startled look. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “I’d like your home addresses, in case I need to speak to you again.”
“Is that absolutely necessary?” Pugh said.
“I don’t see how we could help further,” Clough said.
“I live with my mother,” Whitemarsh said, “and she’s very easily upset.”
“It’s just a formality,” Cobb said, enjoying the feel of that big word rolling off his tongue. If this detective business kept up, he’d be sounding like a gentleman soon.
“Very well, then, if you insist,” Pugh said.
Cobb took down their addresses, then went over to the piano, where Madame LaFrance had been standing, keeping a close watch on him and her clients. “I’d like to speak to some of yer girls – alone, please,” he said.
“They’re all busy but Nell,” Madame said. “And I think I ought to be present when you speak with her.”
Sure you do, Cobb thought, so you can make certain she doesn’t say anything to disturb the smooth running of the business.
“Alone,” Cobb said.
“Very well. I’ll fetch her.”
Madame LaFrance went into an adjoining room and came out with Nell, a big-haired, florid woman with too much make-up and tired, world-weary eyes.
“Nell, this policeman would like to ask you some questions.” Madame LaFrance gave Nell a knowing look and drifted over to the Cavaliers.
“Sally and I were close,” Nell said, choking up.
“Good. Then you’ll know if there was anyone here in the house who might’ve been pesterin’ her in some way.”
“Many of the gentlemen was attracted to her,” Nell said. “It was that pretty blond hair. And, of course, she wasn’t available, was she?”
“That made her more attractive, did it?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Was there anyone in particular who stands out? Who might’ve pursued her more than the others?”
“Well,” Nell said hesitantly, “I really couldn’t say.”
“You want me to catch the man who killed yer friend, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. I’d like to strangle him myself.”
�
��Then tell me who the gentleman was, Nell,” Cobb said bluntly.
Nell paused, then said, “Mr. Gawain over there.”
“Did he approach her directly?”
“He’d come up to her after she finished a song and try to get her to go upstairs with him. In a banterin’ sort of way, but I know he was serious. I can always tell.”
“And she rebuffed him?”
“She was awful nice about it, but, yes, she did.”
“And did he keep on approachin’ her?”
“Just about every night he was in here.”
“And how often does he come here?”
“Three, sometimes four evenin’s a week. And always with his pals, the Cavaliers.” She stifled a giggle.
“Thank you, Nell, you’ve been a big help.”
“You won’t tell him I told on him, will you?”
“No-one will know what you’ve told me,” Cobb assured her.
As she turned to leave, Cobb thought of a final question. “Did anyone come in here tonight askin’ about a lost glove?”
Nell was taken aback for a moment. Then she said, “Yes, they did.”
“Who?”
“It was Mr. Gawain.”
Cobb thanked her and stared over at Pugh, who was busy chatting comfortably with his fellow knights. Cobb realized that he had to get Pugh alone and at a disadvantage to grill him about the glove and about his obsession with Sally Butts. His own home, with his wife hovering, would be the ideal place. And he had the address.
He nodded to Madame LaFrance and headed for the anteroom. Beside the several halltrees crammed with hats and coats sat two rows of boots – in assorted shapes and sizes. Cobb spotted one very large pair among them and turned one of them over. There was no design cut into the sole. Well, he thought, he couldn’t be that lucky. But he had found out a fair amount in a short time.
As he turned to go, Nell came up to him. “I forgot to mention that Sally had a boy friend.”
Cobb stared at her and said, “He came here?”
“Oh, you know about him, then? A Mr. John Kray.”
“I do. But I didn’t know he came here.”
“Oh, he didn’t come inside, ever. But we’d see him hangin’ about, and Sally told me he followed her sometimes. She wouldn’t speak to him though.”
Governing Passion Page 3
