Governing Passion (8 page)

“And what’s this?” Cobb asked as he bent over
and picked up the big blond wig that lay in the snow a foot or so
from the body.

“That’s the wig she wore fer the
customer.”

“It looks like some sort of stage-wig,” Cobb
said to Withers. “And that dress of hers looks like the costume
from some play.”

“But she had the wig on her head, I’d say,”
Withers said. “It just toppled off when she fell here.”

“So we’ve got another blond woman with her
throat slashed,” Cobb said.

“And it looks like the same knife, I’d say,
although I’ll need to examine the wound carefully to be sure – back
at my surgery.”

“Somebody don’t like prostitutes,” Cobb said,
gazing sadly down at the lifeless body. “Any guess as to the time
of death?”

“Well, rigor has subsided, even in this
weather, so I’d say early this morning or late last night.”

“I should be able to track her movements
anyway, and pin down the time.”

“You gonna look for bootprints?” Withers
asked.

“If I can find
any
prints,” Cobb said,
glancing at the crowd. “But it snowed fer an hour last evenin’. All
the traffic has come from the brothel side of the alley. I’ll go
down the other direction. If the killer went east, I could pick up
a trail.”

Cobb set off. Twenty feet past the body and
the mass of footprints left by the onlookers, he found what he was
searching for: a single set of giant bootprints. They swerved left
at the end of the alley and went farther east up a second alley. He
tracked them to where it opened onto Jarvis Street. There he bent
down and looked closely at them. The star-shaped pattern was
unmistakable. The same person had killed both young women.

The trail now went cold. Just before it did,
Cobb noticed that the killer appeared to have been shuffling about
at the end of the alley, as if waiting for the coast to clear on
Jarvis Street before venturing out. Cobb stepped onto Jarvis and
searched amongst the many competing sets of prints for any sign of
the star shape. He found none. It was as if the killer had suddenly
become invisible and vanished, or had somehow taken wing. Cobb was
thankful he didn’t believe in ghosts.

Just as he was turning back into the alley,
he noticed, on the Jarvis boardwalk, an object he had overlooked
before, half-buried in the snow. It was a white scarf. A
gentleman’s silk scarf. He picked it up. On one end it had a
monogram: a “P.” He put it in his pcoket. Then he went back to the
scene of the crime. The coroner had left, but Wilkie was now
present and keeping the curious at bay.

Cobb addressed them – a cross-section he
guessed, of the denizens of Devil’s Acre: gamblers, bootleggers,
pimps, whores and worse. “Did anyone here see anythin’ in the
night? Or hear anythin’ unusual?”

“We wouldn’t pay it no mind if we did,” one
of the men answered. “There’s lots of strange noises in Devil’s
Acre at night.”

“But we don’t go ‘round killin’ each other!”
a woman shouted. “What’re the police gonna do about it, eh?”

“Oh, they don’t give a damn about us up
here,” another added. “To them we’re just riff raff.”

“We are doin’ everythin’ we can to find the
killer,” Cobb said. “But I’ve got to get a witness, don’t I? And I
need yer cooperation.”

“I’ll wait here fer the undertaker,” Wilkie
said, happy to be just an ordinary constable.

“In the meantime, I’ll go on down to the
brothel,” Cobb said

Nell joined him and they walked slowly back
towards Madame LaFrance’s place.

As they neared it, Cobb said, “Were you and
Sarie friends?”

“We was. The best. I never ever thought
anythin’ like this could happen, even here. You might get beat up
and yer money stolen, but not yer throat cut – like that.”

“Do you know where Sarie had been?”

“I’m not allowed to discuss customers. You’ll
have to ask Madame LaFrance.”

“I intend to,” Cobb said.

***

Madame LaFrance brushed a single tear from her eye
and offered Cobb a cup of coffee. They were seated in a small den
that Madame obviously reserved for herself. It was comfortably
furnished and sported a modest fireplace, in which a pleasant fire
was now burning. Cobb loosened his collar and accepted the
coffee.

“Two of my girls murdered in cold blood,”
Madame sighed. “I’ve been here four years and never had one of my
girls assaulted, let alone murdered. What is going on, Mr.
Cobb?”

“I intend to find out, ma’am,” Cobb said,
sipping his coffee. “But I need yer help.”

“How can I help?”

“You can tell me where Sarie Hickson was last
night and explain why she was walkin’ alone through Devil’s
Acre.”

Madame LaFrance put her coffee down. “I don’t
see how that can help you catch a knife-wielding fiend.”

“I need to know the time of death. When I
find that, I’m goin’ to have several constables turn this place
upside down lookin’ fer witnesses. Someone saw or heard
somethin’.”

“Well, if you must know, Sarie was out
visiting a client. I let my girls do private sessions in
gentlemen’s homes, provided I know who they are and how they’ll
behave.”

“So Sarie was at a gentleman’s house,
carryin’ out her duties?” Cobb felt a blush ease up his neck.

“She was scheduled for ten to twelve o’clock.
She left here at nine-forty or so. I assume she left the job at
midnight, as usual.”

“The gentleman in question could tell me so,
couldn’t he?”

Madame looked wary. “I don’t see any need for
you to know who he was.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“As you know, I don’t know his real name. The
arrangements were made in the name he uses here. We have his
address only.”

“What was his name here?”

“Sir Lancelot.”

Gardiner Clough, thought Cobb. “That will
do,” he said.

“You can’t think a gentleman had anything to
do with this?”

“Tell me, were the other two Cavaliers here
last night?”

Something like panic flitted across Madame’s
face. “They were.”

“What time did they leave?”

In a voice just above a whisper, she replied,
“Just past midnight.”

Cobb reached for his coat and pulled the
white scarf from his pocket. “Do you recognize this?”

Madame looked at the scarf. “Many gentlemen
have silk scarves like that,” she said.

“But do they have a ‘P’ on them?” Cobb said,
flashing the monogram.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at!”

“I’m thinkin’ that ‘P’ could stand fer Pugh,
the real name of Sir Gawain.”

Madame looked as if she wished to clamp both
hands over her ears. “My gentlemen are gentlemen!” she cried, much
exercised. “Not cutthroats!”

“I picked up this scarf not two blocks from
where we found the body.”

“Then you’ll have to ask the owner your
questions, won’t you?”

“I’ll do that, ma’am. Thanks fer the
coffee.”

“When can we have the body?” Madame asked. “I
figure on burying Sarie properly, seeing as she had no real mom or
dad.”

“Later today, I imagine. As soon as Doc
Withers gets through examin’ it.”

Madame LaFrance nodded, then turned to stare
at the fire. Cobb let himself out.

***

Cobb knocked on the front door of banker
Pugh’s residence. Smithers answered it.

“The tradesman’s entrance is around back,” he
said, nose in the air.

“I’m a detective with the police,” Cobb said,
liking the sound of that phrase.

“You have to use the rear entrance.”

“What I haveta do is speak with Mr. Pugh –
immediately. On police business. Is he in?”

“I’ll inquire,” Smithers said. Then as if he
couldn’t help himself he added, “Sir.”

Smithers left Cobb cooling his heels for a
good five minutes. He returned and said stiffly, “The master’s in
the library, and he has graciously agreed to see you.”

Cobb followed Smithers and eventually arrived
in said library. Pugh was standing by one of the shelves, fingering
a leather-bound tome.

“Well, Constable, what is it this time?” he
said, his eye still on the book.

“There’s been another murder, sir.”

Pugh put the book down. “What do you mean,
another
murder?”

“Another young woman, sir. Sarie Hickson.
Found not too far from the first one. Had her throat slashed. Bled
to death.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but what has it got
to do with me?”

“You were in Devil’s Acre last night. At
Madame LaFrance’s.”

“I don’t know how you found that out, but
it’s none of your business. And I trust you’ll keep that
information to yourself.”

Ah, yes, Cobb thought. The wife was not to
know. “But you were there and left about midnight.”

“I have no idea what time I left.”

“Madame LaFrance says it was midnight.”

“Then that’s the time I left, isn’t it? I
hope you aren’t playing games with me. I am not amused by your
interrogations.”

“Did you go straight home?”

“On my usual route, yes.”

Cobb withdrew the silk scarf. “Is this yours,
sir?”

Pugh looked startled. He came across the room
and took the scarf in his hands. “I have half a dozen white silk
scarves, Constable. So has every gentleman in town.”

“But notice the monogram on this one.”

Pugh looked at the capital “P.” He did not
flinch. “None of my scarves is monogrammed. This cannot be
mine.”

“Then you will not refuse when I ask you to
show me the gloves you normally wear when you go out in this
weather.”

“What are you driving at? I’ve already told
you I didn’t lose a glove three nights ago.”

“Then you won’t mind showin’ me the ones you
didn’t
lose.”

“I have several pairs the same. But since you
insist, I’ll humour you. But I shall have to report your behaviour
to your superior, Mr. Bagshaw.”

“I’ll wait,” Cobb said.

Pugh left the room and came back several
minutes later. He had a pair of leather gloves in his hand. He
thrust them at Cobb. Cobb took the glove he had found in the alley
out of his other pocket. He examined it closely, next to the ones
given him by Pugh.

“You see,” Pugh said, “I have a matched
pair.”

“But this one I brought is exactly the same
kind of glove,” Cobb said. “Somewhere you’ve got the missin’
mate.”

Pugh leaned forward and put both hands on the
library table, seething with anger.

“You were in that alley where Sally Butts was
killed,” Cobb said, “and you were loose in Devil’s Acre about the
time that Sarie Hickson was comin’ back from her appointment –
”

“Oh, damn it, all right!” Pugh cried
suddenly. “I was near the alley where Sally was killed! Are you
satisfied?”

“I see,” Cobb said, as surprised as he was
happy that he had elicited this admission. “But you didn’t kill the
girl?”

“Of course, I didn’t, you fool! I was
infatuated with her. Besotted with her.” He drew a deep breath and
said, “I was at the near end of the alley. I saw Sally towards the
far end. And there was between us a huge man in a black overcoat
wearing enormous boots. I saw him go up behind her and grab her
around the chest. I cried out and ran towards her. The dark figure
continued on up the alley and disappeared around the corner. I went
to Sally. Her throat had been slashed. She was dying. I panicked. I
thought I might be accused of killing her because everybody at the
brothel knew I was obsessed with her. I ran back the way I came and
sneaked off home by another route.”

“So the killer was a tall man with large
boots?”

“And a fur hat.”

“And you’re sure this ain’t yer scarf?”

Pugh shook his head. Cobb was almost inclined
to believe him. Certainly his description of the killer fitted with
the bootprints and their size. It didn’t seem probable that Pugh
was making all this up. And Pugh, as a discreet glance at the
fellow’s feet confirmed, had fairly small feet. Still, he wasn’t
fully in the clear as far as Cobb was concerned. The extra big
boots could have been worn by anybody. But he realized he was not
going to get anything more out of the man this day. He had a lot
though. He was pretty certain he now knew what the killer looked
like.

He left quietly, avoiding Smithers.

***

Carswell, Gardiner Clough’s butler, was not
standoffish at all. He seemed to be expecting Cobb, for he ushered
him straight in. Then, ignoring the main hall, he took him by a
roundabout route to the kitchen, where Clough, angular and
haggard-looking, was sitting beside the stove.

“Why the secrecy?” Cobb said, coming over,
removing his coat and helmet, and sitting on a wooden chair
opposite Clough.

“The wife,” Clough said.

Cobb had found out a little about Clough from
Bagshaw, who took it upon himself to know what needed to be known
about his betters. Clough had once been an active barrister, but
had married rich and was living nicely off his wife’s income. And,
Cobb assumed, she would not approve of his peccadilloes.

“I just need to ask you a few questions about
Sarie Hickson,” Cobb said.

“I thought you might. I heard about her death
an hour ago. It came as a terrible shock, as you can imagine.
Especially coming so soon after poor Sally.”

“She was killed the same way and by the same
person who killed Sally Butts.”

“Then you’ve got to catch him, don’t you,
before he kills again.”

“You can help us with that, sir.”

Clough looked up, his sharp features shadowed
with anxiety. “How?”

“Sarie was here last night.”

Clough nodded.

“She was a regular visitor?”

“Yes. Every week or so. Whenever my wife was
away.”

“We found her in a strange costume.”

A brief smile passed over Clough’s face. “Ah,
yes. She was playing Madame de Pompadour for me. She came and went
in costume.”