Minor Corruption (8 page)

“None of yer bees-wax. Here’s a penny, and
you get the other two when we get there.”

The boy grabbed the penny and started to run,
but quick as a cat Cobb had him by the shirt-collar again, and his
scrawny legs thrashed uselessly in the air under them.

“Now then,
walk.
And you better know
where you’re goin’!”

The boy was not frightened, but rather looked
back up at Cobb with what might have been respect – admiration
even.

At any rate, five minutes later all three
were standing in front of a shack constructed entirely of ageing
pieces of packing crate with a tarred roof and one oil-papered
window. A crude door hung by a single leather hinge.

“This is it,” Cobb said. “Nobody could ferget
it, could they?” He flipped two pennies into the dirt. The boy
scooped them up and bolted. “Let’s go,” Cobb said, and kicked the
door aside.

Elsie Trigger looked up, momentarily stunned,
her mean grey eyes as round as saucers. “What the fuck do
you
want?” she yelled when her breath returned.

Seeing they had her penned inside, Cobb and
Wilkie stopped and stood near the doorway, noting the particulars
of the midwife’s “parlour.” The room was a shambles. Drawers had
been turned out and tossed aside. Clothing and blankets lay rumpled
in piles or draped crazily over the pathetic stick furniture. The
air stank of grease and sweat and offal. Half a dozen whiskey jugs
and bottles lay empty and discarded. Elsie herself, however, was
attired in a scarlet dress of some silky, shiny fabric. A
gem-embedded necklace graced her throat and the top of her meagre
bosom. Her white hair had been drawn up into a bun and pinned with
a gold clasp. She sported enough rouge, powder and mascara to
frighten a witch.

And she was standing before a table stuffing
clothes into the second of two large carpetbags.

“Goin’ somewheres, missus?” Cobb said with
soft menace.

“What’s it to you?”

“It’s a lot to me, Elsie. And I think you
know why we’re here. That little girl you butchered last night, she
up and died an hour after you left her bleedin’ and alone.”

“She wasn’t bleedin’ when I left her! And it
was all her idea to get rid of the babe. What was I to do? She
waved five pounds at me!”

“You c’n tell yer sad tale to the magistrate.
Which is where you’re goin’ right now.”

“You can’t arrest me. I know my rights!”

“Then why was you set to fly the coop, eh?
Wilkie, you keep an eye on her and have a peek through them bags.
You know what we’re lookin’ fer.”

“You won’t find nothin’ in there you
shouldn’t!”

Cobb ignored her. “I’m gonna search the other
room.” He pushed his way through a beaded curtain into Elsie’s
“boudoir.” It was every bit as chaotic as the parlour. The woman
had obviously been told of Betsy’s death and her purported role in
it – by one crony or another – and had jammed all her portable
valuables into a pair of her biggest carpetbags, preparatory to
fleeing the city. He rummaged about for five minutes, but found
nothing resembling a bloody knitting needle. He was about to give
up when he heard Wilkie cry out once, and then begin to sneeze.

Cobb raced out into the parlour. Wilkie stood
beside the table, plucking at his eyes with the fingers of both
hands – in between a series of gargantuan sneezes.

“Where in hell is Mrs. Trigger?”

Wilkie sneezed with the vehemence of the
seventh dwarf.

“How should
I
know,” he wailed. “I
can’t see nothin’ but the pepper she threw at me!”

Cobb stumbled outside, his anger boiling up
inside and leaving him breathless. He looked in both directions.
The sorry excuse for a street was empty. The wily old bird had made
good her escape – with both bags of goodies.

***

The funeral for Betsy Thurgood on Monday was a
solemn affair, and drew more than the usual attention that the
obsequies of a young servant would normally warrant, in large part
due to the appearance of William and Robert Baldwin in St. James
cathedral, along with their friends the Hincks and the Edwards. The
other servants from Spadina were also in attendance. Miller Whittle
had given his hands the day off and they too were out in force to
support and give what comfort they could to the grief-stricken
parents. The absence of Betsy’s brother and sister was noted but
not much remarked upon as they were assumed to have left not only
their home but the city itself. That Seamus Baldwin was not
present, however, did occasion a number of whispered remarks, not
all of them kind. His fondness for young servants and children had
already become the source of some speculation within the better
class of citizen, and his apparently overweening grief wondered
at.

Dora Cobb, sitting discreetly behind the pews
of the mourners, was wondering at the restraint shown by Burton
Thurgood in light of the wild charges he had laid at the Baldwins’
doorstep immediately following Betsy’s death. Robert and his father
sat not twenty feet from the Thurgoods, but neither husband nor
wife signalled the least animosity towards them, in word or
gesture. The ceremony was sad and solemn and tearful, and otherwise
wholly ordinary. Dora was beginning now to be certain that she had
made the right decision in telling no-one, not even Cobb, of
Thurgood’s accusation against Uncle Seamus. The claim had been the
product of extreme shock and grief, nothing more.

Next morning the inquest was held in one of
the meeting rooms of the American Hotel. Only three witnesses were
called: Thomas Thurgood, Auleen Thurgood and Dora Cobb.

Auleen was first, and despite several pauses
in which she fought for control, she told her story in a
straightforward manner. Early on Friday evening last, Betsy – home
for a short stay to nurse her ailing mother – had complained of
abdominal cramps. On close questioning by her father, the girl
admitted that she may have become pregnant. Auleen said that she
soon realized that the girl was still ignorant of the ways of men
with women. Her father, looking as stern as she had ever seen him,
demanded to know if any man had “interfered” with her, which had
caused his daughter merely to weep and grow silent. It was Auleen
who suggested that they fetch the midwife to speak with her,
examine her, and try to determine just what had actually happened
to her. The midwife in their area was Mrs. Elsie Trigger. Mr.
Thurgood objected to her on the grounds that she had a growing
reputation for drunkenness and incompetence. Tearfully but bravely,
Auleen admitted she had prevailed, insisting that it was only to be
an examination, not a full-scale childbirth. A neighbour lad was
sent to bring Mrs. Trigger to them. An hour later, with Betsy
feeling nauseous but no worse, the woman arrived, in the early
stages of inebriation. She took Betsy into her bedroom and ordered
the parents to stay out. Auleen could hear a prolonged conversation
between Elsie and her daughter, but could make out none of the
words. After fifteen minutes the conversation stopped. Mr. Thurgood
had just returned from a brisk walk, to calm his nerves, when Mrs.
Trigger emerged with a triumphant smile on her face.

“What, if anything, did she say to you?” the
coroner asked.

Auleen gave out a brief sob, then looked up
slowly. “She said, ‘Yer girl had a bun in the oven, but everythin’s
okay now.’ She had a bloody knittin’ needle in one hand and a
five-pound note in the other. We was stunned. And she was out the
door off into the dark before we could blink.”

Their concern was Betsy, however, not the
drunken midwife. They rushed in to find her bleeding and in serious
pain. Auleen wanted to send for Dr. Smollett, but her husband
refused. They compromised by sending another neighbourhood lad for
Dora Cobb.

Burton Thurgood corroborated his wife’s
account in every important aspect, though he was more forthright in
his opinion of Mrs. Trigger and what she had done to his daughter.
Several times he was made speechless by anger and grief. He
described Mrs. Cobb’s arrival and, in general, her valiant attempt
to save Betsy’s life. He had to be helped from the witness-box.

Dora’s testimony dealt exclusively with what
she saw upon her arrival – an aborted foetus, internal bleeding and
a raging fever – and her specific efforts to help the stricken
girl. The coroner did not ask whether Betsy Thurgood had made any
death-bed confessions or accusations, and Dora did not venture to
mention them on her own. Dr. Withers then gave a summary of his
autopsy findings.

In short order, the jury found that the
victim had died at the hands of an incompetent and drunken
abortionist. A province-wide warrant for her arrest would be issued
in due course.

So, Dora thought, Thurgood had definitely
thought better of dragging Seamus Baldwin’s name through the mud.
If he had been going to do so, this inquest would have provided him
with both the appropriate opportunity and a most public forum. And
just as well, too. There was enough unavoidable grief in the world:
folks didn’t need to manufacture it on their own.

On Tuesday afternoon Robert and his father
put Uncle Seamus in a carriage and drove out to Spadina. Although
the old gentleman was up and around, he remained melancholic and
uncommunicative. He was like a court jester out of his humour, and
hence all the more pitiable. That he would be no use in chambers
for some time was obvious, but Robert hoped that a return to the
familiar surroundings of Spadina, Mrs. Morissey’s cooking, and the
constant care of the servants would conspire to re-ignite his
spirits and, yes, even his pranksterism. Betsy’s absence might be
the more noticeable out there, but she was gone from his life
wherever he might go or be. He was taken straight to his room,
where Faye Partridge and young Edie Barr found numerous excuses to
visit in an attempt to cheer him up. Herb Morissey, the gardener,
dropped by to boast about the summer-fat trout that were lying in
wait for a well-tied fly.

On Wednesday morning Uncle Seamus came down
for breakfast, made brief but courteous conversation with his
brother and nephew, and expressed a desire to sit in the library
and read. Robert sought out Edie Barr and asked her to fetch the
domino set and take it into Uncle Seamus.

“He taught you how to play, didn’t he, Edie?”
Robert said to her in the hall.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. Edie, her flawless,
pale skin still blotched from periodic bouts of weeping, had taken
Betsy’s death as hard as any of the servants. The girls had been
close in age, and had shared a room since Betsy had come on steady
near the end of July. But Edie was putting on a brave face and, of
course, she was fond of Uncle Seamus and dreaded seeing him so
depressed. “I now beat him quite regularly,” she said. “But I’ll
let him win this mornin’.”

“I’ve never seen you two together for more
than five minutes,” Robert said, “without one or the other caught
in a fit of laughing.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I have to go back to the city for an
important meeting, but Dr. Baldwin will be in residence for the
rest of the week. Go to him directly whenever you want help or
advice in caring for my uncle.”

“I will, sir.” And Edie went off to fetch the
dominoes.

Robert was just about to ask Chalmers for his
hat and coat when the butler emerged from the vestibule with a
pained expression on his usually imperturbable countenance. “What
is it, Chalmers?”

“A person at the
front
door, sir, who
insists on seeing Dr. Baldwin.”

“Did he give a name?”

“I’m afraid he did, sir. It’s
Mr
.
Thurgood. From the mill. In his work clothes.”

Betsy’s father. Robert had not spoken to him
except to offer his condolences at the funeral service. Betsy’s
monthly salary and a bonus had been hand-delivered by John Burge,
the Baldwins’ stableman and driver. The fellow must have come to
thank Dr. Baldwin for his kindness.

“
I’ll
see him, Chalmers. Show him into
the little den.”

Burton Thurgood was shown into the den, where
Robert was waiting. He was clutching his cap as if Chalmers had
threatened to steal it. His smock was dusty white from his work in
the grist mill. Robert motioned him to a chair, but the man
hesitated, uncertain.

“Go ahead and sit, Mr. Thurgood. It’s a
leather chair. It can be dusted readily.”

“Thank you, sir.” He sat down gingerly on the
edge of the seat, cap in hand, dipped his chin to his chest, and
peered up from under his thick brows. Robert could see the chaff or
flour-specks in his heavy black curls. This submissive posture
seemed to Robert to be out of character for the Burton Thurgood he
had heard about over the years. While neither tall nor burly, he
gave the appearance of coiled strength, of muscle ready to be put
to whatever use demanded of it. His employer, Seth Whittle, often
described him as surly, “with a chip on his shoulder as big as a
mill-wheel,” and swore he kept him on only because he was a
tireless worker who complained only after the job was done. And it
was always done right.

Robert simply waited for the fellow to
begin.

With only the tips of his eyes showing and
his cap twisting in his fingers, Thurgood said, “I’ll get straight
to the point, sir. I know yer time is valuable, and Mr. Whittle
only give me thirty minutes to walk up here and back.”

“No need to hurry,” Robert said politely. He
had enormous sympathy for the man, having himself suffered the
sudden death of a beloved one, his Elizabeth, and ever after
revisiting that horror whenever he attended the funeral of another
or looked into the grief on another’s face. Nor had he any
inclination to play the country squire.

“I wanta thank you and yer dad fer the extra
money. That was awful kind.”

“We thought a great deal of your daughter.
Our whole household is in mourning. We will miss her very
much.”