The Widow's Demise (8 page)

The male figure dropped the object in his
hand, wheeled and ran off around the far corner of Rosewood.
Gagnon, who froze initially, now sped as fast as he could towards
the stricken woman. She had managed to jerk herself free of the
fence, but blood was gushing from her throat. She was uttering low
moans and writhing in pain. Then she slumped the ground.

Gagnon reached her and knelt beside her. The
gash in her throat was deep and pumping blood. He pulled a
handkerchief from his pocket and tried to staunch the flow. It was
then that he noticed that the lower part of the woman’s face had
been flayed open by some corrosive substance. The flesh bubbled. As
he leaned closer to get a better view, the woman’s hand came up in
a purely reflex action and clawed his left cheek. He winced and
jerked away. That’s when he saw the vial lying beside her and
picked it up with one hand. He had to get help. He took the woman’s
wrist in his other hand and felt for a pulse. There was none. Her
eyes were now blank. She was dead.

“I think you can put that down now, sir.”

Gagnon looked up. A police constable was
standing beside him.

“I think you done enough damage with that
vial,” Ewan Wilkie said.

Wilkie had blown his whistle until Constable Phil
Rossiter had arrived, and the latter had set out immediately to
inform his chief and the coroner. Meanwhile, Wilkie stood guard
over the man he assumed to have been the cause of the havoc on the
walk. The household of Rosewood had been disturbed by the commotion
out front, and Vera, Delores’s maid, dashed to her dead mistress
and began to weep and wail, much to Wilkie’s discomfort. Then
Cardiff, the woman’s father, stepped out and went white with
shock.

“Is she dead?” he said to Vera.

“She ain’t breathin’, sir.”

“She ain’t got no pulse,” Wilkie said, who
had checked after he had ordered the killer to sit on the stoop and
not move a muscle. Gagnon, in shock, did as he was bid, but not
before uttering a stream of French at the bewildered Wilkie, who
took the foreign lingo as a sign of the fellow’s madness.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Wilkie said to Cardiff.

“My god! Who has done this?” Cardiff cried,
kneeling beside his daughter.

“I believe it was the fella over there,”
Wilkie said.

Cardiff turned and stared at Gagnon. “What
have you done?” he said, and made as if to move towards Gagnon.

It was at this point that Angus Withers
arrived. He had been walking down King Street when Rossiter had
encountered him, and had continued on down to Front Street via
Bay.

“We got a dead woman here,” Wilkie said,
“with her throat cut and her face all riled up.”

“It’s my daughter, Angus,” Cardiff said.
“That fellow over there attacked her.”

Withers said a quick hello to Cardiff, then
knelt beside him near the body. At this point Cobb arrived, by
accident, from the opposite direction. He had been investigating a
break-in at the Palace just up the street.

“What’ve we got here?” he said to
Withers.

“A murder by the looks of it,” Withers aid.
“It looks as if acid or something corrosive was thrown in Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones’s face, and she fell on that low, spiked fence,
severing her jugular vein. She died quickly.”

“I’ve got the vial the acid was in,” Wilkie
said. “I found it in that man’s hand.” He pointed at Gagnon, who
sat staring at the scene with blank eyes.

Withers took the vial and passed it under his
nose. “It’s acid all right. Probably hydrochloric.”

“And what’s this?” Cobb said, bending down.
He picked up a gentleman’s glove.

“It was right there when I come,” Wilkie
said.

“Are you going to arrest this blackguard?”
Cardiff said to Cobb. “Or do I have to give him a good thrashing
first?”

“I’ll need to talk to him,” Cobb said.

“I’ll fetch him fer ya,” Wilkie said.

“I want to know what
you
saw,” Cobb
said.

“Well,” Wilkie said, “I was just comin’ along
Front Street here on my regular beat when I look up and see this
fella bendin’ over somethin’ on the ground. I couldn’t tell then it
was the lady of the house. I run up to him and I see he’s bendin’
over her and holdin’ that vial in his left hand. Then I see the
blood on the lady’s throat and I know there’s been foul play. When
the fella looks up, I see he’s got a fresh scratch on his face
where the lady clawed him. Poor thing.”

“Did the man say anythin’ to you by way of
explanation?”

“He started jabberin’ gibberish at me. I
think he’s fer the loony bin.”

“The woman fell or was pushed against the
spiked fence,” Withers said, getting up. “She slashed her own
throat. You can see her blood on that spike there.” He pointed to
the fence, where indeed one of the spikes was dripping blood. “I
assume the acid was thrown at her first, but I can’t be sure.”

“Either way, we’re lookin’ at a grisly
murder,” Cobb said. “You’ll check under her fingernails fer skin or
blood?”

“I’ll do that back at the surgery.”

“Must you do an autopsy?” Cardiff said.

“It is my duty to do so, Humphrey. I’m very
sorry. But I’ll do it right away so you can have the body.”

“This is all such a great shock to me,’”
Cardiff said. “Why would anyone want to hurt my Delores? She never
harmed a soul.”

“I think the fella’s crazy,” Wilkie said.

“Well, crazy or not, I gotta talk to him,”
Cobb said.

Cobb went over to the stoop. “What’s your
name?” he said to Gagnon.

Gagnon replied with a burst of French.

“Please, speak English if you can.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize I was
speaking French,” Gagnon said.

“The constable here says he found you bendin’
over the body with a vial of acid in yer left hand. And that’s some
nasty scratchin’ you’ve got on yer face.”

“I did not harm the woman, Constable. I was
walking along this street, heading for Rosewood to talk to Mr.
Cardiff, when I saw a man greet the woman over there and toss
something liquid in her face. She cried out and spun around, and I
saw her fall over the fence. She jerked upward and then slumped to
the ground. Meanwhile, the man dropped the vial and fled around the
far side of the house.”

“And what did this man look like?” Cobb ran
his hands through his untidy hair, surprised yet again not find his
helmet there. He still was not used to being a plainclothes
detective, even though he had now been at it for almost nine
months.

“The man was short and slight. It was dusk
and the light was poor. I just caught his outline, in a kind of
blur.”

“Well, he left his glove behind, eh?”

“I wouldn’t know. But it’s not mine. I came
away without my gloves this evening.”

“Let us be sure,” Cobb said, and he went over
to where he had set the glove and returned with it. “Here, try it
on.”

Gagnon tried unsuccessfully to pull the small
glove over his large hand. “It won’t fit. It’s only half the size
of my hand.”

“Maybe the glove was lyin’ there all along,”
said Wilkie.

Cobb smiled, as Wilkie generally did not
deploy logical thought or, if he did, preferred to keep it to
himself.

“You could be right, Wilkie.” Cobb took the
glove back. To Gagnon he said, “How do you explain holdin’ a vial
of acid in yer hand and bendin’ over the dead lady who managed to
scratch you before she died?”

“I was checking to see if she was still
alive. I was going to rouse the household when the constable came
along and more or less arrested me.”

“But the vial?”

“It was lying beside the woman. I could see
her ruined face and I just picked it up out of curiosity.”

“But why would the lady scratch you if she
wasn’t afraid of you?”

“She must have mistaken me for her attacker.
You can’t think I did this. I don’t even know the woman.”

“You never met Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“Only once, briefly. At the Charity Ball. I
had no reason to throw acid in her face.”

“You ain’t gonna believe that load of
malarkey?” Wilkie said.

“What do you think, Angus?” Cobb said to
Withers.

“Plausible, but not likely, eh? That scratch
is pretty damning.”

“I’d like you to come to police headquarters
fer more questions,” Cobb said to Gagnon. “We’ll see what the Chief
makes of all this.”

“You’re not going to let him go?” Cardiff
said, looking over at Gagnon and then at the members of his staff
who had now all come out to see what was going on.

“Not fer the moment, no,” Cobb said.

He signalled to Wilkie to get Gagnon on his
feet. Cobb was very excited. This was his first solo murder
case.

***

Chief Constable Cyril Bagshaw was waiting for Cobb,
Wilkie and Gagnon, having been alerted to the general circumstances
of the crime by Phil Rossiter. Bagshaw was whippet-thin. His
uniform seemed to be ironed on him (it was his sergeant’s uniform
from his glory days on the London Metropolitan Police Force). He
sported a brace of craggy brows, an outsize nose and a pair of
pop-eyes that seemed manufactured for pouncing.

“Rossiter tells me you found the perpetrator
on the scene,” Bagshaw said to Wilkie as they came into the
reception area.

“I caught him red-handed, sir. With a scratch
on his face and weapon in hand,” Wilkie said as he shoved Gagnon
farther into the room.

“You’ve questioned this fellow?” Bagshaw said
to Cobb.

“I have, sir, and I’m not certain we have the
right fellow.”

“What’s your name?” Bagshaw said to
Gagnon.

“I am Gilles Gagnon,” Gagnon said. “I am an
associate of Louis LaFontaine. I am helping him with his election
campaign, and I am innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“You’re French, then?” Bagshaw said.

“I am from Montreal. Monsieur LaFontaine is
running in the fourth riding of York.”

“I know who Mr. LaFontaine is, sir, and I
know where and why he’s trying to get elected. But right now I’m
interested in what happened up at Rosewood. I suggest we go into
that off ice and discuss the matter.” He pointed to the office
shared by the constables and used by Cobb to store his files and
papers.

Bagshaw, Cobb, Wilkie and Gagnon went into
the office and arranged themselves around the table inside.

“Wilkie, you were the first one on the scene,
I take it?” Bagshaw said.

“Yeah,” Wilkie said. “And I seen this man
bendin’ over the dead woman – ”

“Who is?”

“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones,” Cobb said. “The
daughter of the Attorney-General.”

Bagshaw’s eyebrows shot up and quivered. “Oh,
my. This is a calamity!”

“It happened on her own front walk, in broad
daylight,” Wilkie said.

“Go on, then, Wilkie.”

“I come up to this man and see him holdin’ a
vial of some sort, and I notice that scratch on his face.”

“Given by the lady?” Bagshaw said.

“Yes,” Gagnon interrupted. “I admit she
scratched me. I was bending down to see if she was still breathing
and she must have mistaken me for her attacker because she lashed
out. I didn’t jump back in time.”

“So you admit what Wilkie saw?” Bagshaw
said.

“I cannot deny it, but I did not harm the
lady.”

“How did the lady die?” Bagshaw said to
Cobb.

Cobb gave the Chief a brief summary of Dr.
Withers’ examination at the scene.

“She had her throat cut open by a spike on
the fence?” Bagshaw said, incredulous.

“Dr. Withers thinks she was reacting to the
acid thrown in her face,” Cobb explained.

“And I caught Mr. Gagnon red-handed,” Wilkie
said. “And he started babblin’ like a madman.”

“He was speakin’ French,” Cobb said.

“The evidence is all against you, sir,”
Bagshaw said to Gagnon.

“But I actually saw the real killer,” Gagnon
said. “I saw him commit the crime. I saw him toss the acid and then
run off around the far side of Rosewood. He was a short, slight
fellow, dressed in gentleman’s clothes.”

“A convenient story, I’m sure,” Bagshaw said.
“I’m going to lock you in our holding cell until I can get an
arrest warrant from the magistrate.”

“You’re charging me with murder?”

“I am.”

“But I hardly knew the lady. Why would I kill
her?”

“You met her at the Ball,” Wilkie chimed
in.

“I danced with our hostess. That’s the only
contact I’ve had with the woman,” Gagnon protested.

Bagshaw made a mental note to question
witnesses to this dance at the Charity Ball. Perhaps there had been
something more than a simple dance. “I don’t know why you would
want to throw acid in the lady’s face and cause her death, and I
don’t really care. You were caught standing over the body of a
person who had just been killed.”

“That’s what the doc said,” Wilkie added.
“She was still warm.”

“But I’m innocent! I want a lawyer!”

“In due course,” Bagshaw said. “You’ll
certainly need one.” He turned to Cobb. “Put Mr. Gagnon in our
cell, then go and write out a complete investigative report for me.
It looks like we won’t need a lot of fancy detective work on this
case.”

The police quarters contained a small
holding-cell. The main jail was only a block or so away on the
corner of Church and King. Cobb did as he was told. He locked up
Gagnon, still protesting his innocence. Gagnon said to Cobb as he
turned to leave. “Will you send a message to Marc Edwards for
me?”

“You want him fer yer lawyer?”

“I do. And he’ll let LaFontaine and Baldwin
know what’s happened.”

“You’ve got some
in-flew-ential
friends, I see.”

“It looks like I’m going to need them,”
Gagnon said.

***

Cobb went outside the police quarters where, as
usual, he found a street urchin lurking.

“Hey, Nosy, I want you to take a message to
Mr. Marc Edwards. You know where he lives?”