“How do you figure that?”
“Well, Simon Whitemarsh was a man, not a woman. And I reckon our killer has it in for young, blond women – of any class. And Sarie Hickson was wearing a wig as well. She was not really blond. Our killer, I figure, goes after what he sees.”
“So you figure Miss Pettigrew was frightened by a peeping Tom?”
“Most likely. I don’t see any connection to our case.”
Bagshaw’s thin lips quivered. “Well, I’m afraid she does and she happens to be a member of an important family. Her father was in solid with the Family Compact.”
“But we can’t very well patrol Devil’s Acre and Birch Grove, too.”
Bagshaw’s beady eyes grew beadier. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“You’re takin’ one of the men off the Devil’s Acre patrol?”
“I am. And I intend to have this constable go out to Birch Grove and stay there overnight, from dusk to dawn, until the madman is caught. We’re here to protect the respectable members of society, who pay our wages with their taxes.”
“Who’re ya gonna send?”
Bagshaw grinned deliciously. “You,” he said.
***
Cobb felt his new assignment as the ultimate humiliation. After all, he had been selected from among the original four constables, by former chief Wilfrid Sturges, as the best candidate for the new detective position. Selected because he was by far the best of the patrolmen. He had worked with Marc Edwards on more than half a dozen murder cases, all of them successful. He had learned from the Major (as he called Marc), and made himself into an investigator, while using his network of snitches to further his duties as patrolman. Now he had been given a baby-sitting job for a frightened young woman who, having escaped the mad killer of blondes, was now in no danger as long as she stayed in her home.
An order was an order, however galling, so at seven o’clock that evening Cobb found himself using the bell-pull on the front door of Birch Grove, a rambling clapboard manor set in a grove of birch trees off north Jarvis Street. The door was opened by a black-suited butler. The man’s features were squeezed into the middle of his round face, as if he had sucked in his breath and the expression had frozen. It gave him a look of permanent distaste for the world he looked out upon.
“The tradesman’s entrance is around back,” he said sepulchrally.
“I ain’t trade,” Cobb snapped back. He was in no mood to put up with a butler’s shenanigans. “I’m the police. And I been ordered here to protect yer mistress.”
“Ah . . . I got a note saying a Constable Cobb was due. Are you he, sir?”
“I am. And I’m gettin’ cold toes standin’ on yer stoop.”
“Then you’d better come in,” the butler said stiffly.
From farther within the house, Cobb heard a female voice say, “Is that the constable, Gulliver?”
“It is, ma’am. But he’s come to the wrong door.”
“Well, show him in, do.”
Cobb took off his helmet and plunked it in Gulliver’s automatically outstretched hands. Gulliver winced, as if a cold fish had been dropped there, but held his ground as Cobb removed his coat and draped it over the helmet.
Christine Pettigrew, in a plain grey dress, came up behind Gulliver and held out her hand. “We meet again, Mr. Cobb. It’s good of you to have come.” The plain dress could not disguise the tall, regal beauty in it. Her blond hair shimmered, but in her pale blue eyes there was a wariness bordering on fear, ready to shy away from whatever it saw before it that might be too painful to bear.
“I hope me bein’ here will make you feel safer,” Cobb said.
Just then an elderly woman swept into the room from the other side. She was a crone with bony features that might have once been handsome but were now fleshless and sharp-edged. Her brown eyes seized upon what they took in, seemed to draw one inward to a powerful and confident personality. This woman had ruled some roost for a long time.
“Come, come, Mr. Cobb,” she said brusquely, coming up to him and Christine. “There is no need for you to have actual contact with Miss Pettigrew. There’s a cup of tea waiting for you – in the kitchen downstairs.”
“I was just gettin’ acquainted,” Cobb said gruffly.
“Well, you’ve gone far enough in that direction, sir. Follow me.”
As Cobb turned to obey, he spotted Gulliver tossing his coat on a nearby stool.
***
Cobb was placed at a small table at one end of the kitchen, a mug of tepid tea in front of him. Mrs. Baldridge, the crone, went to the far end, where she engaged the cook and scullery maid in heated conversation. Cobb drank his tea, but his mood was hotter than the beverage.
“Where am I to be stationed?” he called out when he had finished.
“You can stay down here with the rest of the servants. When the household has settled down – my mistress retires at ten – you will go upstairs and sit, or stand, in the parlour. Of course, you may wish to make the rounds of the garden from time to time.”
Well, Cobb thought, this is going to be a long and boring assignment.
Just then a pretty upstairs maid arrived on the stairwell.
“What is it, Bridget?” Mrs. Baldridge said shortly.
Bridget blushed and stammered, “It’s Miss Pettigrew. She wants the constable to join her in the sewing-room.”
***
Miss Pettigrew ordered coffee and sweetmeats from Gulliver, who looked as if he might faint from chagrin at the sight of his mistress seated across a little table from Horatio Cobb and preparing to engage him in polite conversation. When Gulliver left, Christine said, “I have no-one to talk to around here except Baldridge, and she’s been here for donkey’s years.”
“She helped to raise you?”
“My parents died before I was twelve, so she’s been like a second mother to me. But one can’t spend all one’s time talking to one’s mother, can one?”
“What do you want to talk about?” Cobb said.
“Anything except what has to do with Birch Grove. It’s not the same around here since Christopher left me.”
“Your husband?”
“Oh, no. My twin brother. We’ve been separated only once before, you know.”
“You’ve got a twin, eh?”
“Yes. For twenty-five years we’ve been together, we’ve been soul-mates, and now he just up and leaves me. Do you think that’s fair?”
“Depends on why he left, I suppose.”
Christine’s expression darkened suddenly. “He left to get married, that’s why.”
“Ah. . . I see. And where’s he gettin’ hitched?”
“Away off in Kingston.”
At this point Gulliver arrived with coffee and chocolates. Cobb helped himself to both and earned a glare from the butler, who backed discreetly out of the room, his face squeezed perilously inward.
“Are you not goin’ to the weddin’?” Cobb said.
“I don’t see why I should, do you?”
“You’re the fella’s sister.”
“I have no intention of meeting this bride – ever.”
“Are they stayin’ in Kingston?”
“Oh, no. They think they’re coming back here. But I won’t have it, will I?”
“I can see you’re worked up about all this.”
“It’s his bride, you see. He tells me she looks like me, thinking that that would make me feel better about being abandoned, about being left here with an old crone of a woman servant and a big, old, empty house. But I won’t be appeased!” The blue eyes now blazed, and she seemed to be talking right past Cobb to some invisible soul farther into the room.
“You never met the bride?”
“I don’t have to! I know what she must be like. She’s selfish and cruel to steal my darling Christopher from me. Don’t you agree?”
“Well, I’d have to meet her, wouldn’t I?”
“She’s a witch! She’s bewitched my poor, helpless
Christopher. Damn her!”
“I think you’re gettin’ yerself all worked up, ma’am. Perhaps I oughta go and leave ya to yer thoughts.”
Christine looked over at Cobb with something like pity in her eyes. “You’re a man, aren’t you? I wouldn’t expect you to understand anything of what I’m suffering.”
“I know you’re upset, that’s fer sure.”
“Well, go, then. I’ll just have to talk to Christina.”
“Who’s Christina?”
In a faraway, plaintive voice, Christine said, “Oh, just a friend who comes by every once in a while. Perhaps she’ll come this evening. Do you think so?”
“I’m sure she will,” Cobb said. He got up, snatched a chocolate, and said, “I best be off to my post.”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. She was off in some world of her own – where twin brothers didn’t betray.
TEN
A day later, Marc returned to Marvin Leroy’s boarding-house. This time, Mrs. Soames, his landlady, was home. She herself answered the door. She was a tiny wisp of a woman with red hair and bright blue eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and invited Marc in.
“I’ve come to ask you a question about the night that Earl Dunham was murdered,” Marc said. “Two nights ago.”
“Well, come in and have a cup of tea,” Mrs. Soames beamed, her friendly face seemingly arranged in a permanent smile. “It’s not every day I get to meet a gentleman.”
“Please, don’t go to any trouble. This will just take a minute.”
“I don’t hurry in my business, young man. If I did, I’d never stop running. I’ve already got the kettle on the boil. I’ll just make us a fresh pot. Come along into the kitchen.”
The Soames’ kitchen was spacious and comfortable. Mrs. Soames made the tea and put out a plate of tarts. She settled down at the kitchen table opposite Marc, who had removed his hat and coat and placed them on a chair. The room was warm and cosy. It reminded Marc of Briar Cottage and the family he hadn’t seen for over a week.
“Now then, you had a question you wanted to ask me,” Mrs. Soames said, sipping her tea.
“Yes, I’m investigating the murder, and I need to know what time Mr. Leroy, your boarder, arrived home the night it happened. Did you hear him come in?”
“I’m a light sleeper. I remember hearing the clock strike one, and I hadn’t heard the door open and close by that time.”
“So Leroy could have arrived much later?”
“I suppose he could. I fell asleep after one.”
So Leroy had no real alibi. And no real motive either.
“You are married?” Mrs. Soames asked.
“Yes, and I have two children.”
“How wonderful. Mr. Soames and I have not been so blessed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“But I take a keen interest in the young men who board here.”
“So you know Mr. Leroy well?”
“He’s only been with us six months, but he’s a talkative fellow and we hit it off right away.”
“And he’s an honest, upstanding fellow?” Marc asked, seeing his chance to get some background on Leroy.
“Oh, yes. Despite the sad life he’s led.”
“Oh? He’s suffered some tragedy?”
“Not directly. It was his sister who was the tragic figure.”
“They were close?”
“Very close.”
“What happened? Did his sister die?”
“Oh, no, sir. Worse than that. She was left standing at the altar, if you can believe it.”
“Her husband-to-be didn’t show up?”
“That’s right. Backed out at the last minute.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“It was. And I’m afraid Mr. Leroy bears a hatred for the man to this day.”
“It would be hard to blame him.”
“And then he comes from Montreal and finds out he’s got to work right next to this dreadful man.”
“Out at the hospital?”
“That’s right.”
“Who would that be, ma’am?”
“Why the man who was killed – Earl Dunham.”
***
So, Marc had now come up with three viable suspects: Michel Jardin, Gregory Manson and Marvin Leroy, each with strong personal motives and no real alibi. Of the three, Manson had definitely been out at the building site after midnight. But if he did leave Dunham alive, then either Leroy or Jardin could have come along afterwards and done the deed. But how was Marc to get any closer to discovering which one did it? The murderer did not seem likely to confess, and Marc had no physical evidence other than Manson’s lost button and the murder weapon, LeMieux’s hammer. He explained all this to Robert back at the hotel.
“You’ve done good work, Marc. But we’ve reached a dead end, eh?”
“It looks that way, Robert. But if I can’t find the real killer, I’m pretty sure I can get an acquittal for LeMieux in court.”
“But that won’t be for several months at the Spring assizes,” Robert said. “And I understand the small French community in town is quite upset at LeMieux’s being charged. There’s talk of a revolt by the French workmen out at the site. And with negotiations still going on between Louis, us and the other potential French members of our alliance, the whole enterprise could be put in jeopardy, especially if this unrest among the French here grows worse. In short, we can’t wait for the assizes.”
“Well, I’ll think of something,” Marc said.
“Meanwhile, I need you to accompany young Pettigrew to Cornwall on the chance that Thériault will be lured there by Pettigrew’s most recent letter. The murder investigation will have to be put on hold.”
“I’ll go and see Pettigrew right away. We’ll leave this afternoon.”
Marc went immediately to Christopher Pettigrew’s room The young man answered the door in an agitated state.
“What’s the matter?” Marc asked.
“It’s my sister,” Pettigrew said, waving a sheet of paper at Marc. “She’s had a terrifying experience. I’m needed at home right away.”
“Is that a letter from her?”
“Yes. You’d better read it.”
Marc took the letter and read:
Dear Christopher:
You had the gall to send me a miniature of your harlot. I spit upon her yellow-headed image! How dare you choose someone who resembles me? Do you not have a heart? Have we not shared our lives for twenty-five years. Can you forget the thousand childhood hours we spent in each other’s company? Even Mother and Father could not keep us apart for more than a minute. Why do you think I dressed as a boy and had my hair cut short when we were eleven? I could not bear to have you go off hunting with Father while I sat in our rooms tatting doilies. I hunted as keenly as you did. And wasn’t it you who cried the first time you shot a rabbit, and wasn’t it you who were afraid of father’s skinning knife, even when he showed us how to use it, and later in our room I consoled you and swore the next time I would cry along with you just so you wouldn’t be embarrassed? These were the moments that bonded us as close as if we were identical and not fraternal twins.
I think of these matters in the midst of my pain, with only old Mrs. Baldridge to try to soothe it away, when all I need is my loving brother near me. If you do not come back immediately, I feel I will sink permanently into the blackness that engulfs me whenever I think upon your absence and your lies and that wanton creature you claim will take my place and leave me forsaken forever!
And just now a horrible thing has happened. I have been attacked in the street by a madman, and almost killed! I was so lonely I went off to see our cousin at ten in the evening. I got lost in Devil’s Acre. And had to face – alone – a knife-wielding killer. And why was I alone? Because you’ve abandoned me!
Come home. At once. Without your harlot!
Christine
Marc went and sat down beside Pettigrew’s desk. Pettigrew, anxious an
d sweating, sat down opposite him.
“This is a very disturbing letter,” Marc began.
“She has a right to be upset.”
“I agree. But it’s the first part of the letter – written, it appears, before the incident she mentions at the end – that I find disturbing. The language is extreme and seems unwarranted by the circumstances. You’ve only been gone a few weeks.”
“But she was almost killed!”
“It appears so. And it looks as if there’s some kind of killer loose in Toronto.” Marc thought of Cobb and their previous investigations together. “Still, I don’t believe your sister is in danger now. She’s escaped an attack and surely will stick close to home. But she’s certainly emotionally upset.” Marc was more puzzled and concerned about the tone of the letter than he was letting on to Christopher. But, then, Marc had no experience with twins or their eccentric behaviour.
“Do you think I ought to go there?” Pettigrew said.
Marc hesitated. They really needed Pettigrew to go to Cornwall to meet Henri Thériault, but Marc felt obligated to give an objective answer, at least as objective an answer as he could. “Look at it this way,” he said. “If you do go back, you’ll have to leave again, won’t you? Unless you’re thinking of not going through with your wedding plans.”
“I can’t cancel them. I’ve committed myself as a gentleman. So, yes, I could only stay for a few days.”
“And would Christine not see your leaving a second time as another betrayal? Remember, it’s your bride who is the problem here, not your absence as such.”
“I see what you mean. It’s clear that Christine doesn’t want me to marry,” he said miserably. “Perhaps not ever. But I must. And she must come to accept it.”
“Then I’d advise you not to go back, at least not now. Give her a chance to recover from this attack, and keep on writing her reassuring letters.”
“All right. I’ll do that.”
“You’ve got time to write a reply,” Marc said. “Then you and I are going to head for Cornwall.”
Where the hopes of the alliance now lay.
***
Just as Marc was preparing to go out to meet Christopher Pettigrew on the cutter he had hired, Robert came into the foyer with a package in his hand.
Governing Passion Page 13
