Governing Passion (9 page)

“What time did she leave?”

“Just before midnight, as usual.”

“Right. That confirms the time of death at
about twelve-fifteen. Thank you for that.” Cobb paused and then
said, “You and Sarie had – ah, cordial relations?”

Clough was startled by the abruptness of the
question. “Of course. She was a sweet girl. I’ll – I’ll miss her
very much.”

“Did she know who you were?”

“Of course not. She knew me only as
Lancelot.”

“But she knew this house, where you live,
didn’t she?”

“How else could she get here?”

“She could easily figure out who lived
here.”

“But she didn’t, did she?”

Cobb wasn’t convinced by the vehemence of
this response. He sensed a touch of panic in it.

“What are you driving at anyway?” Clough
said.

“I was just thinkin’ that you might be
willin’ to pay a lot fer keepin’ yer secrets safe from yer
wife.”

“You think Sarie was blackmailing me? That’s
preposterous!”

“If she was, that is a good motive fer
murder, isn’t it?”

“But she wasn’t! And I may be a fool, but I’m
no killer.”

Cobb realized he had, in his zeal, gone too
far. “I’m sorry fer bringin’ it up, sir.”

“I should think you would be!”

“You been very helpful.”

“Carswell will show you out.”

Via the roundabout route, Cobb thought.

***

Now that he had established the likely time of death
– twelve-fifteen – Cobb went back to the police quarters to seek
permission to use two or three constables to do a house-to-house
inquiry in the block around the alley where Sarie Hickson had been
murdered.

“Good work, Cobb,” Bagshaw said when Cobb
told him he had discovered the time of the murder from Clough..
“And I trust you treated the gentleman properly?”

“With kid gloves, sir.”

“I’ll let you organize the house-to-house.
Now fill me in on what else you’ve found out about this second
murder.”

“Well, sir, I’m convinced we’re lookin’ at
one killer and two crimes.”

“What do you base this bizarre conclusion
on?”

“Bartholomew Pugh was a witness to the first
crime, and he’s given us a clear description of Sally Butts’s
killer: a tall gentleman with a fur hat, dark overcoat and big
boots.”

“That should prove helpful for finding the
killer of the first girl.”

“Well, we may get lucky and find a witness
for the second crime, too. At least we’ll be able to compare
descriptions if we do.”

“But what’s the evidence for one killer?”

“The boots are the clearest link. I found
boot-tracks again – large boots with a star-shaped pattern on the
sole. And Pugh says he saw a man with big boots.”

“Leading away from the scene?”

“Leading to Jarvis Street this time. Where
they vanish.”

“But I told you before you cannot know
whether these prints were made at the time of the murder. They
could be just some gentleman on his way home.”

“But both girls were blond, sir. Sally had
her own hair and Sarie was wearin’ a blond wig. I’m sure that Sally
was taken fer a whore and Sarie was a known whore in Devil’s Acre.
Those boots belong to a gentleman. So we’ve got a gentleman killer
who’s got it in fer blond whores, or just whores. He’ll kill again,
I’m sure of it.”

Bagshaw leaned forward, taut as a spring. His
tiny eyes shook in their sockets. “Now see here, Mr. Detective,
you’re jumping to several conclusions at once. What do you want to
do, spread panic through the city by saying we’ve got a maniac with
a knife on the loose? No woman will feel safe on the streets!”

“But the crimes are in Devil’s Acre,
sir.”

“And Devil’s Acre is full of respectable
people every night of the week! No, Cobb, you’ve got two murders on
your hands. I want you to pursue John Kray for Sally Butts’s
murder. He’s just the type of person to go off the deep end when
jilted. Get a warrant and search that house for a knife and a
glove.”

“I’ve also got a gentleman’s scarf I found
near the second scene with a ‘P’ on it,” Cobb said stubbornly.

Bagshaw’s gaze narrowed. “I know what you’re
thinking, Cobb. I don’t want you near Pugh again. You’ve bothered
him enough, and you disobeyed me by seeing him without making an
appointment.”

“I was thinkin’ of interviewin’ Simon
Whitemarsh, sir. He was at the brothel last night and left about
midnight. He might’ve seen somethin’.”

“There you go again! You’re obsessed with
gentlemen! That place is crawling with low-life and you’ve got to
pursue proper people.”

“Are you sayin’ I can’t talk to
Whitemarsh?”

“Oh, go ahead. But I want Kray pursued, do
you hear? And I expect the house-to-house to turn up something
useful, considering the extra help I’m giving you. Now get out of
here!”

Cobb was more than happy to leave.

***

While Rossiter and Wilkie took the description of
the killer and went house to house in the area of each of the
crimes, Cobb got a search warrant from Magistrate Thorpe and went
to Kray’s cottage. Mrs. Kray answered the door, and was not pleased
to see the warrant Cobb brandished.

“You won’t find anything here, Cobb,” Kray
said, trying to calm his mother. Cobb spent the next hour
fruitlessly searching the Kray cottage. He felt foolish and very
annoyed with Bagshaw. It was so clear that the crimes were
connected and that Kray had no motive whatsoever for killing Sarie
Hickson.

“My son was home here all last night,” Mrs.
Kray said in response to Cobb’s question. “From suppertime till
breakfast.”

Cobb wasn’t surprised. He hoped, however, to
be surprised by the house-to-house inquiry. When he got back to the
station, however, he learned that no-one in Devil’s Acre had seen
or heard anything. It was as if they had all been struck deaf and
dumb. Fortunately the Chief was not there to hear the bad news: he
had been summoned to the Mayor’s office upstairs. Cobb decided to
go and beard Whitemarsh – without an appointment.

Simon Whitemarsh answered his own door.

“I’m Constable Cobb.”

“I remember you, sir. What do you want?
You’ve come at a very bad time.”

Cobb took a good look at Whitemarsh, whom he
remembered from Madame LaFrance’s place as being a pasty-faced,
soft-fleshed character with sleepy eyes. But the man before him was
quite flushed, as if he had been drinking, with bright red spots on
each of his cheeks. And his eyes were stark and staring, as if
highlighted by kohl, with an unnatural brightness to them. Perhaps
he had been taking opium.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Cobb
said.

“About Sarie Hickson’s death, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then, come in. I can spare you
five minutes.”

“You live here alone?” Cobb said as he
entered the vestibule.

“My mother shares the house. The servants are
all out, as it happens.”

Whitemarsh did not move any farther into the
house, so Cobb removed his helmet and said, “You were at Madame
LaFrance’s last night?”

“You know I was.”

“I been told, yes, but I needed to hear it
from you.”

“I was there until about midnight.”

“When you left fer home?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you go straight home?”

“I did. I go south to St. James and King
Street.”

“Did you hear or see anythin’ unusual in the
vicinity of the brothel?”

“Nothing. It was very quiet.”

“Except fer the murder of Miss Hickson, which
must have happened only yards away from where you were shortly
after midnight.”

“I’m sorry to hear of her death, but I’m
afraid I cannot help you.”

“You ain’t lost a scarf?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“May I see yer foot, sir?”

“Good God, man, what are you up to?”

Cobb ignored him and glanced down at the
fellow’s feet. They were exceptionally large. “May I see the boots
you were wearin’ last evenin’?”

“You may certainly not. Do you think I had
anything to do with the murder? You must be crazier than you
look!”

“The killer wore boots with a special pattern
on the sole. I can stroke you off my list of suspects by checkin’
yer boots.”

“It so happens that the boots I wore last
night are at the repair shop today.”

“Then I’ll come back when they’re
returned.”

“Now, if that is all, I have business to
attend to,” Whitemarsh said, turning away.

Cobb put his helmet back on. “Thank you fer
yer
co-opt-eration
,” he said.

As he was going down the front steps, it
occurred to Cobb that the man’s lips had been excessively red.
Could he have been wearing make-up? Was he into playing games, like
Clough? What a nest of vipers he’d stuck his nose into!

***

Bagshaw was waiting for him in the anteroom. “I’ve
just come from the Mayor,” he said, his taut body quivering like a
tuning fork.

“Had a nice visit, did you?”

“Don’t be funny, Cobb. The Mayor wanted to
know all the details so far. I told him the little bit you’ve
managed to gather. And by Christ, he agrees with you!”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! He’s convinced there’s a mad
killer on the loose in his town. And so are a number of citizens
who’ve heard of the second murder. He’s afraid of panic in the
streets. He thinks men will keep their wives indoors. He wants this
killer caught.”

“I’ve got to start over,” Cobb said. “I’m
sure the killer is a gentleman, one of the gentlemen at the
brothel. I’ve been lookin’ at the three Cavaliers, but there are a
dozen regulars or more in that whorehouse. I’ve got to go up there
and rout them out, one by one.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Cobb. You’ve
already upset enough gentlemen. Gussie told me while I was out that
Gardiner Clough came here and complained that you’d accused him of
murder. I told you to go easy there, but you’re incapable of
listening.”

“But we can’t just sit on our hands.”

“We’re not going to. We’re going to go back
to basic police work, the kind we did when I was with the Met.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean patrolling, that’s what. We’re going
to put three men on patrol all night in Devil’s Acre. If this is a
mad killer, then he’ll strike again. And we’ll catch him before he
can wield the knife. We’ll patrol for as many nights as it takes.
And I want you to quit playing detective and join Wilkie and
Rossiter on the patrols. I want experienced men out there. And I
hear you’re pretty good at wielding a truncheon.”

“But, Chief – ”

“No buts. You’ve failed as a detective. Let’s
see if you can remember how to be a policeman.”

Cobb went out – seething. His career as a
detective had been short, and not very sweet.

SIX

“A body?” Marc said to Robert in the dining-room of
the Clarendon Hotel.

“One of the workmen apparently. Found on the
site this morning by the other workmen when they arrived.”

“On the site? You mean the Parliament
building?”

“Yes. Bert Campion just passed the news along
to me.”

“An accident?”

“Afraid not. It’s definitely murder. The
fellow was pole-axed with a hammer. Died instantly.”

“But what was the man doing out there after
dark?”

“I don’t know, but he was definitely killed
overnight.”

“Do you think I should offer to help
out?”

Robert thought about the matter. Marc had
handled more than half a dozen murder investigations in the past
five years, and had been very successful in aiding the Toronto
police. But they were not in Toronto, and there were no municipal
police as such here in Kingston, only the magistrate and two
constables under his watch. “We need you here with us very much,”
Robert said at last.

Just then Bert Campion came into the
room.

“I’ve just been over at the magistrate’s,” he
said breathlessly. “And there’s news.”

“About the murder?”

“They’ve just sent a constable to arrest one
of the workmen, a Quebecer named Jacques LeMieux.”

“On what grounds?” Marc asked.

“It seems that the victim was killed with his
hammer.”

“Is that all the evidence?”

“No. He was heard in a dive last evening
making drunken death threats against the victim. One of the other
workmen was there and told the magistrate.”

“Who was the victim?”

“Earl Dunham, the foreman.”

“Oh, dear,” Robert said. “An English-speaking
worker murdered by a French-speaking one. That’s very bad news
indeed.”

“What do you mean?” said the architect.

“We’re involved in delicate negotiations here
with our French colleagues. This sort of thing could raise
tensions. And I suspect it would poison the workplace out at the
Parliament site.”

“That’s true,” Campion said with a sigh. “The
carpenters are due in to lay the floor of the Legislative Council
chamber next week, and half of them are French.”

“The magistrate is sure he’s got the right
man?” Robert said.

“It certainly looks bad for LeMieux,” Campion
said.

Robert looked at Marc. “Would you mind going
over to the magistrate’s, Marc? If LeMieux is guilty, we want the
proof to be incontrovertible.”

“And I could take you out to the site later,”
Campion said.

“I’ll look into it,” Marc said.

***

By the time Marc reached Magistrate Wilson’s house,
Jacques LeMieux had been taken to jail, protesting his innocence.
“They all say they’re innocent,” was the magistrate’s summary
remark. The murder weapon and an eye-witness statement as to the
nature of the threat made by LeMieux was all the proof he needed.
Marc was given permission to speak to the accused in jail.

LeMieux was a wiry man of middle height with
black hair and dark, protruding brows. The eyes were brooding and,
despite the surroundings, fiery and rebellious. Marc addressed him
in French.