“Positive. I got a gentleman’s glove and a gentleman’s scarf found near each crime scene, a pair of gentleman’s boots makin’ clear signs in the snow, and a fistful of gentlemen at the brothel two blocks away. That’s enough fer me.”
“There are other brothels.”
“But Madame LaFrance’s is the only one caterin’ to real gentlemen.”
“How long is Bagshaw gonna keep you on night-patrol?”
“I’m afraid it might be till we catch the killer.”
“Well, it sure is a nuisance havin’ you around here all day tryin’ to sleep.”
“I’ll be sure and tell Bagshaw about yer objection.”
***
Cobb met Wilkie and Rossiter, his fellow patrolmen, at the cathedral entrance to Devil’s Acre at eight o’clock that night. A light snow was falling on the gravestones in the cathedral’s cemetery, and Cobb shuddered under his turned-up collar. Cobb told the others that he would take the west side of the maze, and suggested, as they had done the previous night, that Wilkie do the north-east and Rossiter the south-east. Cobb was not looking forward to the night’s work. He felt that no murderer, however mad, would come out knowing that his territory was being policed by three constables. And their presence was well known to residents and visitors alike. The word had spread quickly, and on more than one occasion an angry resident had left his business establishment to complain that his customers, respectable citizens all, were being frightened off by the police presence. Madame LaFrance had come out onto her stoop and shooed Wilkie away (he was dozing on the lower step).
“We gotta tramp around here till sun-up,” Cobb said to his associates. “And it’s cold enough tonight that we’ll have to keep movin’ or freeze to death.”
With that advice Cobb walked into Devil’s acre and swung west. After two previous nights of wandering around not knowing where he was, Cobb felt that he had finally figured out the lay of the land. But if you didn’t stay alert, you could soon find yourself coming up against a dead end or re-entering an alley you had just come out of. The snow made it even more difficult to see the shape of buildings or the far end of an alley, and Cobb realized that the killer would be able to carry out his crime and escape notice, despite the police. Throat-slashing was a silent business and the snow would camouflage a getaway.
Cobb had been meandering for about an hour – his feet were already cold – when he thought he saw a shadow up ahead, moving stealthily across in front of him. He ran towards it and skidded to a stop at the end of the alley. He looked left. He saw nothing. Without warning something heavy and grappling slammed into him and knocked him over. He rolled to one side, expecting at any second to feel a knife-blade at his throat.
“Gotcha!” Wilkie cried, pouncing on Cobb as he lay helpless on the ground.
“Fer Christ’s sake, it’s me you’ve caught. Get off!”
Wilkie rolled away. “I heard somethin’ comin’ up behind me,” he said, breathless, “and so I ducked aside until you went by. I was sure you was the killer.”
“Well, I ain’t, and you’re patrollin’ my territory!”
“It’s so easy to get turned around in here. I’m – I’m sorry.”
“And you’ve gone and got me all covered with snow,” Cobb complained. “My balls are already frozen solid.”
“Maybe that madam would let us warm our toes fer a bit.”
Cobb brushed the snow off his greatcoat and trousers. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight,” he said.
They made their way, after missing several turns, to the brothel, and Cobb gave the coded knock. Madame LaFrance answered.
“We was wonderin’ if we could warm ourselves by yer fire,” Cobb said.
“You might as well,” Madame said with a sigh. “You’ve scared off most of my customers. I guess they’ll not come back till you fellas have caught the killer. I might as well be of some help.”
“Thank you,” Cobb said.
They entered the parlour and made their way to the roaring fire. The room was empty, of customers and girls.
“We’ll just stay a minute,” Cobb said. “Until our toes thaw out.”
“Can I get you something warm to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Just then Bartholomew Pugh and Gardiner Clough came down the stairs and stopped when they spotted the constables. They turned and went back up the way they had come.
“I guess they ain’t worried about killers,” Wilkie observed.
“That’s because one of them might be a killer,” Cobb said. To Madame LaFrance, seated at the piano, he said, “Is the other one here as well?”
“Sir Galahad?”
“That’s the one.”
“He left just a few minutes ago.”
“Then I guess we better get back out there,” Cobb said to Wilkie. “I don’t trust any of these so-called gentlemen.”
He and Wilkie headed out into the still-falling snow. Cobb went directly west, along the route that both Pugh and Sally Butts had taken several nights ago. Wilkie turned south. Ten minutes later, Cobb was just enjoying the return of feeling in his feet when he heard Wilkie cry out.
“Where are you, Wilkie?” he called.
After a brief pause in which there was nothing but silence, Wilkie blew on his whistle (Chief Cyril Bagshaw had insisted that all his patrolmen be equipped with whistles to be able to alert fellow constables of their whereabouts when needed). Cobb moved in the direction of the sound, but there was, of course, no direct route. But Wilkie, bless him, continued to blow. He’s discovered the killer, was Cobb’s first thought. And could be in danger himself.
Cobb finally rounded a corner and saw Wilkie standing in the middle of an alley with the whistle stuck in his teeth. The snow had stopped, and he was clearly visible. So was the bulk of the body lying at his feet.
Cobb raced up to Wilkie who was still blowing on the whistle.
“I’m here, Wilkie. You can stop that now!”
Wilkie, as pale as the snow around him, pointed at the ground. “I found her,” he stammered. “Another one.”
Cobb knelt beside the body. Fresh blood was still leaking into the snow, from a slashed throat. “You’re right. It’s another woman. And just killed.”
Cobb stood up and glanced farther up the alley. There, among the competing ones, were the bootprints he expected to see. “He can’t have gotten far,” he said. “Go and inform the Chief and the coroner. I’m going after the bastard.”
He set out on the trail of the bootprints, fresh and stark in the snow, their star-pattern winking up at him like a taunt. The trail zigzagged several times, but eventually led to an alley that opened onto Jarvis Street to the south-east. Again as Cobb arrived there, he saw evidence of a shuffling about, as if the killer were waiting for the all-clear on Jarvis before stepping out. But this time, with fresh snow, the trail ought to have kept going. However, just as Cobb was about to move onto the street, a squall of snow erupted in his face. He saw a shadow flit into an alley or side-street to the north, but a gust of wind blew snow up into his face and he could see nothing. Not even the boot tracks that were, like everything else, swallowed up in the maelstrom. He walked a block north, but the trail, if there was one, had gone cold. Cobb cursed the snow, and headed back to Devil’s Acre, retracing his own prints before they too were obliterated. He came again to the body. Wilkie was gone but Rossiter had come up to assist.
They looked down at the body, slumped on its side. It was warm all right. She was wearing a fur coat and a ladies’ fur hat and ladies’ button boots. Cobb was not surprised to see the thick, blond hair under the hat.
“Looks like an older woman,” Rossiter said. “And these are fancy clothes. This is no whore.”
And that spelled trouble. If somehow a respectable woman had found her way into Devil’s Acre, then the consequences of her death would go straight to the mayor’s office. The public outcry would be a clamour.
Rossiter bent over to h
ave a closer look at her face, now clouded by the rapidly falling snow. “There’s somethin’ wrong with her hair,” he said.
Cobb took a look. “It’s a wig,” he said. Then: “And this ain’t no lady. It’s Simon Whitemarsh – in ladies’ clothing.”
***
Leaving Rossiter to wait for Dr. Withers, Cobb headed straight back to the brothel.
“There’s been another murder,” he said to Madame LaFrance in the vestibule.
“Who? My girls are all safe.”
“Simon Whitemarsh, yer Galahad.”
“Oh, my!”
“He was dressed in ladies’ clothin’. Do you know anythin’ about that business?”
“Of course, I do. Galahad was fond of cross-dressing. He was here earlier – with the other two Cavaliers – and got all dressed up, with make-up and everything. He made quite the lady. I sold him some clothing from time to time.”
“What time did he leave?”
“About ten minutes before you and that other constable did.”
“What about Gawain and Lancelot?”
“They were spooked by your being here. I told you that you were ruining my business. They headed out right after you. And threatened not to come back.”
So, Cobb thought, his two chief suspects were still in the picture. One of them could have caught up with Whitemarsh and slashed his throat, taking him for a blond woman. He would have to interview them again, if he were allowed back on the case. And that was problematic as the Chief could be furious that the murder of a respectable gentleman (albeit a cross-dressing one) had taken place right under their noses. With a sigh, he headed back to talk to the coroner.
***
The next day the news of the ghastly murder of Simon Whitemarsh spread throughout the city. No mention was made of the fellow’s eccentric haberdashery, only the fact that he was an upstanding citizen in his prime. It was assumed that he had by mistake wandered into Devil’s Acre or that he had been partaking of one of the gentlemanly pleasures offered there. And this was the third murder in just over a week! Was no-one safe on the streets of Toronto? The mayor was feeling the pressure, and when he did, he made sure his Chief Constable suffered likewise.
Cobb had his report ready for Bagshaw by early afternoon. He was drowsy and irritable, but waited patiently while Bagshaw read the lurid details. (Cobb was desperate to get home and get some sleep in case the Chief wished to continue the night patrolling of Devil’s Acre.) Whitemarsh’s throat had been cut with a serrated knife and he had rapidly bled to death, unable to cry out for help. The star-shaped bootprints had been present again, suggesting strongly that they were looking for one mad killer.
“So you think Mr. Whitemarsh was mistaken for a woman,” Bagshaw said when Cobb had seated himself in Bagshaw’s office.
“He had a wig and was plastered with face paint,” Cobb said. “I even sniffed some fancy perfume. And all his clothes were ladies’.”
“I trust there’s no need for these details to come out?”
“Well, sir, any inquest will have to know he was the third blond victim to be murdered in the same part of town.”
“I suppose so. But the coroner’s holding off for now.”
“I found the bootprints again.”
“And these were in fresh snow?”
“No, but I’m sure the killer made them, sir.”
“But you lost the trail at Jarvis Street?”
“I did see someone up ahead, to the north, but lost them in the snow.”
“And so you conclude our killer is a gentleman with large boots?”
“Probably, but it did occur to me that he could be putting on oversize boots to throw us off the scent.”
“You’re giving the madman a lot of credit. And may I remind you that gentlemen are not given to such mad behaviour.”
Though they are cross-dressers occasionally, Cobb thought. But he said, “It’s the fancy pattern of the bootprints that tells me this fella is a gentleman, a gentleman who hates blond-haired women.”
“My God, Cobb, Devil’s Acre has three miscreants for every house, and you’re still harping on your gentlemen. Those boots could be stolen, and probably were!”
“All three murders have taken place within a stone’s throw of Madame LaFrance’s. I know it’s where we oughta be lookin’.”
Bagshaw folded his hands together on the desk. “Now, Cobb, what I want to know is how a murder could happen right under the noses of three experienced constables?”
“The killer must’ve seen Wilkie and me go into the brothel fer five minutes to warm our feet.,” Cobb said evenly.
“You left your post!” Bagshaw quivered to the roots of his brittle hair.
“Just fer five minutes. I wanted to see what gentlemen were in there.”
“Looking for suspects, were we? Instead of doing honest police work!”
“The murder must have happened just as Wilkie was gettin’ back on his patch. The killer knew we weren’t gonna catch him in the act.”
“And you certainly didn’t.”
“That place is such a maze, sir. If the killer knows his way around, he could murder someone right under our noses.”
“But surely you know your way around by now.”
“Not really. Wilkie still bumped into me earlier.”
“Are you saying my patrols are useless?”
“I’m sayin’ I think I need to investigate some more, that’s all.”
Bagshaw sat back and grinned nastily. “What I’m going to do is add a fourth constable to the night-patrol there, and have you investigate in the daytime, if you think it will help. But I don’t want to have any complaints from gentlemen you’ve disturbed. I’ve already got the mayor and three aldermen on my case. Now go home and get some sleep. You’ve got a long night and a day ahead of you.”
Cobb slunk out, exhausted and not a little peeved.
***
Even Dora was sympathetic.
“Why don’t that man try ploddin’ in the cold fer a night in Devil’s Acre,” she said, pouring Cobb a cup of hot tea.
“He wants me to investigate,” Cobb said, sipping at the tea, “but he won’t give me any leeway. And I gotta patrol to boot.”
“You got any new leads?” Dora said.
“I’m gonna talk to Pugh and Clough again. They were both there last night.”
Dora put out a plate of biscuits. “You remember tellin’ me about a laundry woman on Church Street, after Sally Butts was killed?”
“That’s right. She might’ve got a close look at our killer and doesn’t know it.”
“Why don’t you try and find her?”
“But she could be anybody takin’ laundry in to any of them dives or brothels.”
“There’s somebody who might know, though, isn’t there?”
“Itchy Quick,” Cobb said, and Dora grinned.
***
After a cold, fruitless night patrolling Devil’s Acre, Cobb decided to have a morning’s sleep and then go back to his detective work. First up, about two o’clock that afternoon was a visit to one of his old haunts, the Cock and Bull. In a far corner, in a shadowy alcove, sat his current snitch, Itchy Quick. (Nestor Peck, his long-time snitch now had a regular job in a chicken hatchery and no longer needed the occasional boost to his income that a little tattling would supply.) Itchy was anything but quick. His several hundred pounds saw to that. His movements were slow as a sloth in hibernation and his thought processes only marginally speedier. But he spent a lot of time in taverns, cadging pennies for a drink and selling information he picked up in his travels.
“How’s it goin’, Itchy?” Cobb said, sitting down.
“My flagon is empty, Mister Cobb,” Itchy said sorrowfully. “Like my life.”
“Would a fresh ale improve yer spirits any?”
Itchy thought about the offer for several seconds, rubbing the back of his scalp. “It just might.”
Cobb waved at the barkeeper, who, seeing it was Cobb, hu
stled over.
“A flagon of your finest,” Cobb said.
“You payin’?” the barkeeper said.
“I’m payin’,” Cobb said.
“Thanks, Cobb.”
“Now that I’ve done you a favour,” Cobb said, “how about doin’ me one?”
“You want some information?”
“I do.”
“On the murders we been havin’ the past week?”
“Somethin’ to do with them, yes. You been hearin’ anythin’ on the street or in here?”
Itchy scratched his scalp again. “What I been hearin’, it ain’t the fault of any of the regulars of Devil’s Acre.”
“That’s been my feelin’, too.”
Itchy took hold of the flagon that had just arrived and downed half of it, slowly but surely. “They tell me it’s terrible fer business. They need respectable folk to feel safe in there. They wouldn’t do anythin’ to ruin their own prospects.”
“So it’s got to be somebody from outside, doesn’t it?” Cobb said, more to himself than to Itchy, who was in the midst of a second swig.
“Some crazy person, that’s fer sure.”
“But what I wanted to ask you, Itchy, is about the laundry women who might go into Devil’s Acre.”
Itchy looked at the empty part of his flagon longingly. “Well, the big brothel, Madame LaFrance’s, does its own laundry. But there’s a smaller brothel, Mrs. Purdy’s, up near Church Street that uses somebody from the outside.”
“And you know who?”
“I believe I do, yes.”
Itchy drained his ale with a meaningful slurp. Cobb sighed and waved at the barkeeper.
“Gracie Fitchett. She lives on Berkeley Street, this side, two houses up from King.
Cobb tossed a coin on the table and got up. “That’s what I needed to know,” he said, and hurried out.
***
Cobb found the house on Berkeley Street. It was a ramshackle cottage, unpainted, with a roof that sagged, and tired-looking oil-paper windows. A wreath of black smoke poured out of its single chimney. Cobb rapped on the door.
“Who’s there?” The voice was female, but sharp and low, like a witch’s cackle.
“Constable Cobb, with the Toronto police.”
Governing Passion Page 9
