Governing Passion

by Don Gutteridge

  “Go away! I’m busy workin’.”

  “I need to talk to you – about the murders in Devil’s Acre.”

  “I didn’t do it, so go off and leave me alone.”

  “I insist you open up, madam!”

  The door squealed open and a large woman filled the doorway. She was flushed and sweating, the beads of sweat rolling down her plump cheeks and settling in the folds of her multiple chins. Her blue eyes were round as buttons and stared out at the world with sustained belligerence.

  “I told you, I ain’t no murderer!”

  “I didn’t say you were, ma’am. But I believe you may have seen the killer on the night when Sally Butts was killed.”

  “I remember the night that poor lass had her throat cut, but you can’t get round me with that ‘ma’am’ business. I’m no ‘ma’am,’ just plain Gracie.”

  “May I come in for a minute, then?”

  “You gonna help me with my laundry? I got a tubful ready to come out.”

  Cobb glanced at the far side of the room as he walked in, spotting several steaming tubs, a pair of washboards and a mangle. Gracie Fitchett was indeed hard at work.

  “I just need to ask you one question,” Cobb said, shutting the door behind him.

  “Since when do bobbies ask people questions? I thought you bashed in the heads of drunks and robbers.”

  “I’m a detective,” Cobb said, as if that explained all.

  “What in hell is a detective?”

  Cobb winced, but said evenly, “I investigate serious crimes like murder and robbery. My job is to go around and ask people questions.”

  “And they pay you fer that?”

  “They do, and I’d appreciate it if you’d answer one fer me.”

  “All right, then. But I’ve got to get them sheets out of the tub before they boil to death.”

  Cobb waited patiently until Gracie was finished and came back to him, puffing and panting.

  “Were you in Devil’s Acre the night that Sally Butts died?”

  Gracie thought about the question, then said, “I was. What’s it to ya? I told you I didn’t stab that poor girl. Why would I?”

  “What time were you there?”

  “I don’t know fer sure. Between nine and ten o’clock. I had a load of laundry to pick up at Purdy’s place.”

  “Purdy’s is over near Church Street, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What of it?”

  “You left Devil’s Acre by Church Street?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s the nearest exit.”

  “Did you see anyone else come out of Devil’s Acre at that time?”

  “Say, you’re way past yer one question.”

  “Please, just answer me.”

  “I didn’t see a soul – that time of night.”

  Cobb was hugely disappointed. Surely this was the figure the watchman had seen that night. But she herself had seen nothing.

  “Thank you fer yer help,” Cobb said.

  Gracie’s expression softened as she said, “I hope you catch the bugger.”

  ***

  Cobb went to Bartholomew Pugh’s house once more, and was once more snubbed by the butler. He found Pugh in his billiard room, practising his bank shots.

  “You again,” he snarled. “What is it this time? I’ve given you a description of the killer. Why haven’t you caught him?”

  “You were at Madame LaFrance’s again the night before last, the night Mr. Whitemarsh was murdered.”

  “Damn shame that. You’re not accusing me of killing my own friend?”

  “We believe the killer mistook him for a woman. It was dark and the mistake is quite understandable.”

  “But I saw the man in woman’s clothing in the brothel. I knew, didn’t I?”

  Pugh was making a valid point.

  “But you left Madame’s right after I did.”

  “And walked directly west, as I always do, not south – like Simon.”

  “And Mr. Clough?”

  “He turned east, as usual.”

  “So you saw or heard nothing?”

  “How many times must I repeat myself?”

  “Thanks fer yer help, sir.”

  Cobb found his own way out, avoiding Smithers.

  At Gardiner Clough’s Cobb got the same frosty reception, and the same response. Nobody saw or heard anything.

  ***

  “So,” Cyril Bagshaw said to Cobb, “you’ve finally eliminated two of the town’s finest gentlemen?”

  “Not really, sir. They had means and opportunity for all three killin’s. A knife is an easily concealed weapon.”

  “But you have no motive, man. Where is your brain, in your truncheon?”

  “Our killer is crazy in the head, sir. Look at what we’ve got so far. Three victims, all blond young women or mistaken fer such. The killer has it in fer blondes. Perhaps a blond lover jilted him or he hated his blond mother. Something triggers his madness for the murders are two or three nights apart. When the sickness comes on, I figure it comes real sudden and can’t be helped. He goes huntin’ fer blond women, and as soon as he sees one, he cuts her throat and skedaddles. He’s dressed like a gentleman, with a greatcoat, a fur hat, and proper boots, so nobody will take a second look at him in Devil’s Acre, where gentlemen are forever comin’ and goin’. So far he’s lucky not to have been seen. He heads straight out of the place as soon as the murder’s done, back to his home – with nobody the wiser. You see, Pugh or Clough could look normal to you and me, and suddenly the urge to kill takes over and they go stark mad. Afterwards they go back to bein’ themselves. And don’t forget, they did drop a glove and a scarf.”

  “But you haven’t been able to trace those to Mr. Pugh or Mr. Clough.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ve got a fanciful theory, Cobb, but no real evidence and two unlikely suspects. I’d say you’ve come to a dead end.”

  “He’ll kill again. I know he will.”

  Bagshaw gave Cobb a sardonic grin. “And we’ll catch him, won’t we. On patrol!”

  ***

  The following night Cobb had been on patrol for only an hour or so, but he was already cold. With a fourth constable, Brown, on duty each man’s patrol was even more confined and more boring. If they did come across another murder, there would be no bootprints to follow because every alley was trampled flat by policeman’s boots, and there was no fresh snow this evening. Still, what were the odds, with four constables in the area? Although this was, Cobb recalled, the third night following the murder of Simon Whitemarsh.

  Then, when he was almost completely numbed and thinking about Madame LaFrance’s fire, a shadow flitted past the end of the alley he was in. A dark figure, moving quickly. Cobb’s heart skipped a beat as he strode forward. Just as he reached the corner, he heard someone cry out, a female cry. He raced around the corner and there in the next alley lay a crumpled figure. Cobb looked ahead of it, but could see nothing. Torn between stopping to check on the victim (who he felt was dead or dying) and pursuit, he chose the latter, hurrying to the end of the alley and looking both ways at the T-junction. Nothing. He looked for tracks but found only the maze of his previous bootprints, the snow scuffed and hopelessly trampled. He blew on his whistle, and sped back towards the victim, filled with dread.

  The girl was beginning to rise from the ground. She was clutching her neck. She was pretty and very blond.

  “He tried to – kill me,” she gasped. “He had a knife.”

  Cobb breathed a sigh of relief. He had come running just in time, not to catch the killer but to scare him off. Perhaps the fellow would run into one of the other constables. Cobb blew his whistle again.

  “What were you doing in Devil’s Acre?” he said to the girl

  Weeping, she said, “I was taking a shortcut to my cousin’s. I – I got lost.”

  “Well, you’re all right now, miss. I’ll take you to your cousin’s.”

  “I’d like to go home.”


  “Where is that?”

  “Birch Grove.”

  “What’s yer name, miss?”

  “Christine. Christine Pettigrew.”

  EIGHT

  Marc hired a one-horse cutter and drove out the Hospital Road looking for Bernie’s dive. He went by it the first time, as it was a mere half-log hut tucked into a cedar grove some thirty yards off the main road. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Marc hoped to catch the proprietor alone to question him about the events of the night of the murder. It was not to be, however. When Marc stepped into the smoky interior, he found it crowded with customers. Several men – farmers obviously – were slouched over a makeshift plank bar, sipping cups of whiskey that had been dipped out of a large barrel nearby. In one corner four men huddled over a stump table on which they tossed a pair of dice. In another three men were sitting on stools, cup in hand, and staring through the smoke-haze with malevolent eyes. Behind the bar, in a filthy apron, stood the tall, angular man who must have been Bernie, the proprietor.

  All talk ceased the moment Marc’s presence was noted, and all eyes followed him as he went over to the bar and said to the barkeeper, “Are you Bernie?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Marc Edwards. I have been asked by the magistrate to look into the death of Earl Dunham, who was bludgeoned to death last night out at the hospital.”

  Marc was not exaggerating about his official status: over the lunch hour Robert had gotten permission from Magistrate Wilson for Marc to investigate the crime.

  “We heard about the murder,” the barkeeper said.

  “And you are Bernie?”

  “I am. And this is my establishment.”

  “I need to ask you about what took place here last night.” Marc felt the rest of the room listening, even though the other customers had resumed their activities.

  “Just the usual night in here.”

  “Two workmen, Greg Mason and Marvin Leroy were in here last night, were they not?”

  “They’re regulars. After work, every day. Stay till midnight or so.”

  “Was it midnight when they left last night?”

  “Well, I don’t keep track of time in here, but I guess that would be about right.”

  “And they left together?”

  Bernie looked surprised. “Why, no, as a matter of fact they didn’t.”

  “They left separately?”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. Manson left first, I’m sure. Leroy was caught up in a dice game and didn’t want to leave while he was winnin’. Manson cursed him and left.”

  So, Marc thought, both Manson and Leroy had lied to him in saying they had left together. To cover for one another. Unless their landlords gave them an alibi, they were both loose and apart with time to go back to the hospital building and club Denham to death.

  “A Frenchman, Jacques LeMieux was also in here last night. Did you hear him making any threats?”

  “I know the fella. But he was cursing somebody in French. I paid no heed to it.”

  “Thank you, Bernie. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Not today, thank you.”

  “Too good fer us, eh?”

  This latter remark came from a heavy-set fellow with a permanent scowl on his flushed face, exaggerated by two broken front teeth. He had left the dicers and come up beside Marc at the bar. The other bar-flies immediately pulled back into the shadows.

  “Now, Joe, take it easy,” Bernie said evenly.

  “You’ve got the strut of an army officer,” the fellow called Joe said to Marc.

  “That’s because I was an officer in the army,” Marc said, facing the man down.

  “We don’t take to barn-burning soldiers around these parts,” Joe said, edging closer to Marc.

  “I didn’t burn barns, sir. I did my duty.”

  “Let it go, Joe,” Bernie said with a hint of warning in his voice.

  “I’m about to leave,” Marc said to Bernie, and made the mistake of turning away from Joe to head for the door. Joe wound up and sucker-punched Marc on the back of the neck. It was a glancing blow and succeeded only in pitching Marc a couple of steps forward. Marc wheeled and faced his adversary, towering over him. But Joe had already launched himself at Marc and pushed him over a stool. Marc fell backwards in a heap, and Joe was instantly on top of him.

  “Let him have it, Joe!”

  “Don’t let him up!”

  Marc heard the cries of Joe’s supporters and realized he had walked into a hornet’s nest. These men were drunk and itching for a fight, at least itching for their champion to have a fight.

  Joe had both hands around Marc’s throat, and Marc felt his breath being slowly squeezed off. He tried to buck the fellow off but was unable to detach him. Suddenly Joe’s fingers relaxed, and he rolled sedately to the floor beside Marc. Standing over them both was Bernie, a chunk of firewood in his right hand.

  “It’s a crude weapon, but it works,” Bernie said. “Now, mister, you better go before things get ugly in here.”

  Marc got up, brushed himself off, and left. But he had got what he’d come for.

  ***

  After supper Marc drove along Front Street past the limestone façades of Kingston’s business section and on towards the mighty fort, the fort that had held rebel prisoners after the revolt had been put down. He turned off onto a narrow side street until he came to a substantial limestone house that he had been told was the boarding place of Michel Jardin, the French-Canadian lather. Jardin had said he went for a walk about ten o’clock and didn’t think his landlady heard him come in a little later on. Marc wanted to check out the details of that story. If no-one heard Jardin come back in, then he would have had time to walk out to the building site and kill Dunham. The walk could be done in less than half an hour, even in the winter weather. Marc went up and knocked on the door. After a bit the door was opened by an imposing dark-haired woman in her late thirties. She had a ready smile for Marc, but there was a wariness in her deep brown eyes, as if experience had taught her to be cautious with her smiles.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Marc said in French. “My name is Marc Edwards and I’m investigating the murder of Earl Dunham out at the Parliament building last night.”

  “Yes. Michel told me about it just a few minutes ago. Terrible thing, eh?”

  “A brutal killing, yes.”

  “You don’t think Michel had anything to do with it?”

  “I’d like to eliminate him and you could help by answering a question or two.”

  “Then please come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Marc followed her into a large kitchen in which the supper dishes were still being put away. A cooking-stove in one corner looked red hot, and the room itself was exceedingly warm. Marc took off his coat and hat.

  “I’m Madame Poulin,” the woman said. “I run this boarding-house with the aid of my son. I’ve got water already hot. I’ll just make the tea.”

  While Marc watched, she made a pot of tea and served Marc a mug. He sipped at the tea appreciatively.

  “Now, how can I help you?”

  “Well, Michel told me that he was in here all evening, but went out for a walk about ten o’clock. Did you see him do so?”

  “Yes, I did. I heard the clock striking ten when he told me he felt like a walk. He hadn’t slept well since that foreman fired his brother Denis off the job. Denis boards here with his brother.”

  “Were you awake when he got back?”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t. He has a key for the front door. He must have let himself in.”

  So, Jardin had no real alibi, and a strong motive: revenge for the firing of his brother and Dunham’s general mistreatment of French-Canadians.

  “So it might have been very late?”

  Madame Poulin looked puzzled. “I shouldn’t imagine he was more than an hour or so, but as I said, I was fast asleep.”

  “Thank yo
u. That’s helpful information.”

  They sipped at their steaming tea.

  “You’re one of them Reformers that are meeting at the Clarendon, aren’t you?” Madame Poulin said suddenly.

  “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  “I saw you coming out of the hotel yesterday and you were with Mr. LaFontaine.”

  Marc looked up, alert. “So you are familiar with politics?”

  “One has to be, eh?”

  “Well, I am indeed an associate of Mr. LaFontaine.”

  “And Robert Baldwin?”

  “And Robert Baldwin.”

  “We hear that you are planning some sort of alliance.”

  “I see that word has reached ground level,” Marc said with a smile. “What is your opinion of what we are doing?”

  “Well, like most French people, I am surprised that you would try, let alone succeed. There is so much bitterness between the races – ever since the rebellion.”

  “That is precisely why we feel we must try to reconcile the two races, especially at the political level. We Reformers by and large did not support armed rebellion, but we did sympathize with its aims.”

  “So you are radicals, too? And you hope your radicalism will be enough to overcome your natural dislikes?”

  Marc realized he was in the presence of a fine intelligence. And decided here was a chance to get some feedback from the French trenches.

  “You are an admirer of Mr. LaFontaine?” he said.

  “Yes and no. He has been strong and consistent in his denunciation of the terms of the union, and yet now he is proposing to take part in the new Parliament and cooperate with those he’s denounced for four years. He is a puzzle.”

  “But you are willing to accept his judgement on the matter of an alliance?”

  Madame Poulin paused, and finished her tea before saying, “He is a great man, a great Frenchman. Many people I know are willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “But he will have to tread carefully?”

  Madame Poulin smiled, unwarily. “Indeed he will. And he won’t be helped by this murder.”

  “Oh. How so?”

  “Well, Michel tells me they’ve charged one of his mates just because he’s a Frenchman. And here you are, coming around to see if Michel might be part of this thing.”