Minor Corruption (7 page)

Hincks spoke first. As editor of the party
organ, the
Examiner
, and a voluminous correspondent, Hincks
had an appreciative ear to the ground and a grasp of nuances that
were invaluable in the pursuit of political ends. “I don’t think we
have any choice, gentlemen. There’s to be a general meeting of the
western-district Reformers in just two weeks time. Our plan to form
a secret coalition with Louis LaFontaine and the
rouge
will
certainly be discussed there behind closed doors.”

“It’s hardly secret any longer,” Dr. Baldwin
said dryly.

“True,” Hincks said, “but the Tories don’t
really believe it’s anything more than a clever ruse on our part to
throw them off the real scent. I suppose that a year ago I too
would have been among the skeptics. But since then I’ve had the
advantage of reading Louis’ letters and, of course, debating with
him in person.”

“And LaFontaine’s been able to line his own
troops up and keep them there?” Dr. Baldwin asked.

“He has, father,” Robert said. “I just got a
letter from him yesterday afternoon, in which he assures us that
matters are progressing satisfactorily. Of course, as we expected,
the Act of Union contained an entailment that permitted a fair
amount of gerrymandering in favour of the so-called English ridings
in Quebec. For example, the two Montreal ridings, predominantly
English and Tory, have been made double constituencies for good
measure. And Louis complains that his French opponents are pushing
to have him defeated in Terrebonne, where he will be contesting a
seat. But he has fully convinced his supporters that Baldwin and
Hincks do not have horns or cloven feet.”

“The man commands respect just by being
present in a room,” Marc added.

Hincks cleared his throat. “I don’t see any
way around it, Robert. You must attend the London confab on the
sixteenth and, I hesitate to say so, but you must somehow find the
time and energy to visit beforehand with as many delegates as you
can. Show them our correspondence. Get to them before they arrive
in London and have their minds made up for them.”

“You’re thinking of places as far afield as
Port Sarnia, Sandwich and Goderich?” said Robert Sullivan, the
suave Irish-looking gentleman with the velvet tongue, who had,
while no rabid Reformer, served them all well in presiding over the
Legislative Council and steering the Union Bill over the political
shoals last Fall.

“He is,” Robert sighed. “But there is so much
to do here, in Toronto and in these chambers.”

“And it has to be you, cousin and
brother-in-law,” Sullivan said. “The Baldwin name is magic in this
province.” He glanced slyly at Dr. Baldwin and added, “That’s why I
chose it for a middle name.”

“How many cases do you have at the upcoming
assizes?” Hincks asked him.

“We have five,” Sullivan said. “All minor,
wouldn’t you say, Marc?”

Marc, who had offered to help with two of
them – a forgery and an embezzlement charge – replied, “So far,
yes. Nothing that Bob and I cannot handle in your absence.”

“And I would be happy to take up the forensic
cudgel once again, if need be,” Dr. Baldwin said. He had had a
distinguished career as a barrister and a Bencher of the Law
Society before medicine and then architecture and business had
taken hold of his many-faceted curiosity. “I don’t fancy standing
up and preaching before a periwigged justice any more, but I could
help with research and preparation.”

“And I understand you now have your uncle to
assist Clement in the profit-making half of these chambers,” Hincks
said with a wink at Robert.

Though meant as an ironic sally, Hincks’s
remark came closer to the truth than he had anticipated. He was
quite aware of the foibles and follies of Uncle Seamus, having been
to several picnics and soirées out at Spadina since the old
gentleman’s arrival last July. But after an initial spree of pranks
yesterday morning, Uncle Seamus surprisingly had settled down to be
of material assistance. Indeed, by the end of the day both he and
his nephew were in good spirits. Robert had confided to Marc that
for the first time he held out real hope that his uncle would be
able to work his way out of what was evidently a form of manic
depression, wherein he swung between moods of deep depression and
exhilarating episodes that almost always involved the children or
the young servants. Only when he went trout fishing did he seem to
find a becalmed, median place where his spirit could rest and
breathe. Even though the imminent freeze-up would end all trout
fishing, the kind if crusty presence of Clement Peachey and the
routine tasks they shared throughout the day seemed ready to
provide a reasonable substitute. To balance this there were the
Baldwin children next door and weekends away at lively Spadina.
“I’ll keep a close watch,” Marc had reassured him, and then added,
“on the macaroons.”

“Well, then, gentlemen,” Robert now said to
his associates, “I take it I have been volunteered to reconnoitre
the hinterland. What do you say we get right down to practical
details. I’ve got a list here of the men I ought to be bearding
before the London meetings. I need from you specific suggestions
for dealing with each one. What about Ferguson in Port Sarnia?”

The pause that followed Robert’s request was
ended not by sage political advice but rather by the door opening
halfway and Clement Peachey poking his head in warily.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but Constable
Cobb is in the vestibule. He wants to see you, Robert, right
away.”

“But we’re – ”

“He says he’s come with bad news. Very bad
news.”

***

The news of Betsy Thurgood’s death at the hands of
an abortionist cast an immediate pall on Baldwin House. Dr. Baldwin
was saddened and outraged. Betsy had been coming to Spadina off and
on since she was twelve, helping out on special occasions and soon
becoming a favourite of the family and of the cook, Mrs. Morrisey
and her husband Herb, the gardener. Then late last July, just after
she had turned fifteen, she had asked Dr. Baldwin for a permanent
position, and had been obliged. Now she was dead, two months into
her sixteenth year. Robert was shocked and similarly outraged. He
sent a note to the coroner to have the girl’s death investigated
immediately. He suggested to Cobb that the police locate Elsie
Trigger and keep her in custody on some pretence until the inquest
could be held. While Robert and his father would like to have seen
her charged with manslaughter, they knew that the “accidents” of
midwifery were notoriously ambiguous. But they would see her in
prison on
some
charge, there was no doubt about that.
Meantime, the plans for Robert’s trip were superseded for the time
being, despite the risks.

It was the effect of Betsy’s death on Uncle
Seamus, however, that assumed primary importance in Baldwin House.
The old fellow collapsed in Robert’s arms and had to be revived
with smelling salts. When he was told, tactfully, about the cause
of her death, he broke into an uncontrollable weeping, punctuated
with great wrenching sobs. The Baldwins knew that Uncle Seamus was
fond of all their children and the two young servants, but, if
asked to comment, would have named Edie Barr as his personal
favourite. For it was Edie who regularly played the dummy for Uncle
Seamus’s ventriloquist act and Edie who seemed most flattered by
his teasing and tickling. Betsy was a shy girl, and although it was
clear that she admired Uncle Seamus, she did not naturally take to
his boisterous sense of fun. Obviously the Baldwins had been wrong.
Such an unmanly display of grief was proof positive that Uncle
Seamus had had a deep and abiding affection for the youngster. He
had to be half-carried from Clement’s office to the domestic side
of Baldwin House, where he was put into the care of Diana Ramsay.
Dr. Smollett was sent for.

“I’ll have to stay for the funeral,” Robert
said to Marc as the latter was preparing to leave. “And the
inquest, if it’s held soon. My father has already sent the girl’s
pay for this month and an additional ten pounds to help the family
with funeral expenses.”

“We’ll squeeze in another strategy meeting
before you go,” Marc said helpfully.

“It’s my uncle I’m most concerned about. This
dreadful business could throw him into another depression.”

“Let your father and I deal with that, at
least in the short term. The future of the province and our battle
for responsible government depends on our efforts in the next two
or three months.”

“Don’t remind me,” Robert said. “On second
thought, keep reminding me. We’ve come too far to be sidetracked
now, haven’t we?”

“I promise you, Robert, your cousin and I
will hold the fort here, and I’ll help your father and mother deal
with Uncle Seamus. I’ll ask Beth to help. You know how good she is
with people.”

“Thanks, Marc.” They were at the door. Robert
sighed: “Now I’ve got to find a way to break the news to Eliza and
the other children.”

***

Angus Withers, the coroner, went out to the Thurgood
house before noon. The body and the foetus had already been removed
and brought to his surgery for examination, but Withers wanted to
hear the Thurgoods’ account of events to see if it jibed with his
findings. The girl had been mauled by a sharp instrument, and if
Cobb’s report, based on his wife’s summary of what happened, was
accurate, a two-month-old foetus had been brutally aborted. Burton
Thurgood did most of the talking, even though he seemed to be in a
state of shock, but it was Elsie Trigger whom both parents pointed
to as the culprit. “The murdering bitch” was Thurgood’s colourful
phrase. At any rate, Withers had seen enough to call for an
inquest, which he set for the following Tuesday, the day after the
funeral. The police were asked to pick up Mrs. Trigger and hold her
as a material witness.

***

Cobb and Ewan Wilkie had worked together in the
Toronto constabulary for five years, ever since its inception, but
career-wise had gone in separate directions. Wilkie had been
content to plod along on his assigned patrol, putting forth only
the effort required to avoid outright dismissal. He was steadfast
enough when it came to supporting his colleagues in breaking up a
tavern brawl, if his attention were sufficiently engaged, but
couldn’t spot a thief if the fellow were fleeing a jewellery store
masked and draped with gems. Cobb meanwhile had been fortunate
enough to have been teamed up with Marc Edwards to help investigate
and solve seven murders, during which experience he had learned to
use his brains as much as his brawn. And at this moment, heading
into Irishtown in quest of Elsie Trigger, he might require
both.

Irishtown was a squatters’ “paradise” that
sprawled unchecked above Queen Street in the north-central section
of the city. Its entrance was hidden from respectable view by a
screen of scrub trees and scraggly bushes, but Cobb knew it well.
He also knew that, contrary to popular opinion, most of the
denizens of Irishtown suffered from the crime of poverty, and did
not break the law, in any serious way, any more than did their more
fortunate counterparts in the visible sections of town. However,
there
were
brothels and bootleggers’ dives and even opium
dens scattered throughout the maze of shanties and shacks. And the
warren of twisted alleys and hovels provided an effective, if
temporary, refuge for thieves and swindlers. In addition, over the
past year an influx of impoverished immigrants had swollen the
populace and exacerbated the multitudinous sufferings and
inconveniences. This in turn had led to a dramatic rise in petty
crime in the city proper, and had increased tenfold the dangers of
any outsider entering Irishtown – including, alas, police
constables.

As they entered the main section of the
place, Cobb suggested to Wilkie that it might be prudent for him to
keep his truncheon out of sight instead of brandishing it in his
right hand like a drum-major.

“We ain’t come to beat anybody up, Wilkie.
And some of these folks are like dogs. They can smell fear. Just
walk along beside me
non-gallantly-like
and we’ll be
okay.”

Wilkie sheathed his weapon, but kept a wary
eye on their rear, while squeezing his nostrils shut against the
variegated stenches wafting up into the bright sunshine of the
Indian summer day. “You know where we’re goin’?” he asked for the
third time.

“No, but I’ll know when we get there,” Cobb
said grumpily. The tale of Betsy Thurgood’s horrible and senseless
death, as relayed to him at six o’clock this morning by an upset
and fulminating Dora, had disturbed him mightily. He only hoped he
could restrain himself when they caught up to Elsie. (“Remember,
you’re goin’ to gather evidence, Cobb,” the Chief had warned him.
“You’re an investigator. We’d like that knittin’ needle and, if she
ain’t spent it on booze already, that five-pound note.”) Dora had
not, as was her custom, speculated on who had fathered Betsy’s
child.

After three left turns and two to the right,
Wilkie was hopelessly lost. If Cobb was, he was not about to admit
it. Suddenly Cobb stopped and made a sideways lunge into a stinking
alley.

“Gotcha, ya little bum!” Cobb emerged with an
eight-year-old ragamuffin dangling by the scruff – kicking and
screaming. “If you stop that
cat-er-bawlin’
, you might make
a penny or two,” Cobb said sternly as he dropped the lad into the
dust of the path they were treading.

The boy shut up instantly, as if a hand had
been clamped over his mouth. “How many pennies?” he croaked through
a chest thick with a cold, or worse. His face was blotched and
black, and something dripped out of one eye.

“Three if you can take me to the house of
Mrs. Elsie Trigger.”

“What you want with the likes of her?”