Desperate Acts (11 page)

He was just ambling west along Wellington
Street when he saw someone zigzagging along the side-path towards
him. Some drunk, no doubt, beetling home before the wife’s curfew,
or dander, was up. And young, too, by the slimness of figure and
quickness of step. Cobb spread his feet and stood his ground. The
fellow almost crashed chest-first into him before coming to an
abrupt stop.

“Jesus, what’re you doin’ out here like this,
Brodie Langford?”

Brodie stepped back, bent over, and gasped
desperately for breath.

“Somebody chasin’ you?”

Brodie straightened up. His face was crimson
and his eyes wild. “Is it you, Cobb?” he panted.

“Last time I checked my trousers it was,”
Cobb said, giving Brodie the once-over. “You ain’t drunk, are
ya?”

“You’ve got to help me, Cobb. Please.”

Cobb glanced over Brodie’s shoulder, but
could see no-one menacing behind him.

“Then you better tell me what’s goin’
on.”

“I have just assaulted a man. In the alley
behind The Sailor’s Arms.”

“What’d he do? Try an’ rob ya?”

“I punched him hard on the cheek and he
collapsed. Look at my knuckles. I may’ve broken them.”

“Was he layin’ in wait there?”

“No, no. He was trying to extort money from
me. But I had no cause to strike him. I intended to haul him down
to the police quarters and have him dealt with there. But I lost my
temper, I – ”

“An’ you decked him, eh? That’s pretty much
what I’d’ve done, lad. No need to make a fuss about it. A villain’s
a villain.”

“But I might’ve killed him.”

The young man was clearly distraught. “A tap
on the cheekbone never killed nobody,” he said, helpfully, as a man
of much experience in such matters.

“Would you go back there with me, Cobb? I
should never have run off. I don’t know why I did.”

“Human nature, likely. I’ll go down there
right now, but there’s no need fer you to come. Why don’t you go
along to our quarters? The Sarge an’ Gussie, our clerk, are workin’
late tonight. You can tell the chief yer version of what happened,
whilst I wake the bugger up an’ drag him back there as soon as I
can.”

“Yes. Yes. I think that’s for the best. Thank
you.”

“No need to thank me, lad. It’s been a borin’
night – till now.”

***

As Brodie approached the new police quarters at the
rear of the City Hall, he was relieved to see a light still on in
the reception area. The ten-minute walk here had given him time to
catch his breath and get a grip on his nerves. He also began to
think clearly for the first time since he had grabbed the
blackmailer by the lapels. It seemed that, inexplicably, the fellow
had got wind of Diana’s indiscretion. He had, had he not, mentioned
a baby
girl
in
Montreal
? Many people knew that Diana
had come from Montreal to serve as governess to Robert Baldwin’s
children. The reference to the baby girl could have been a lucky
guess, but then if it had proved a wrong guess, the entire
blackmail scheme would have collapsed. The villain, whoever he was,
must know
something
. And if Cobb succeeded in hauling him
before the law, would he blurt out what he
did
know, as he
had threatened to? Would he be believed? That was a chilling
thought, for it was not only a question of Diana’s suitability as a
wife (he loved her and had already forgiven her everything) but of
her general reputation. Bearing a child out of wedlock, although
common enough, was damaging to women of the “better classes” or
those in positions of trust, like tutors or governesses. Diana’s
employer was a kind and a fair man, but at the moment – in the
delicate political climate – he could not afford to have the
slightest breath of scandal blow over his household. He would have
no choice but to dismiss Diana. She was devoted to those children.
She would be devastated. And that, of course, was the reason he had
decided to confront the blackmailer and end the threat. But it now
appeared he had made the situation worse.

In addition to this anxiety, Brodie was
extremely upset with himself for the intemperate nature of his
outburst in the alley and the fact that, in striking the fellow in
response to a mere verbal threat and an ineffectual knee in the
thigh, he had broken the law – by using excessive force. He had
been raised in a legal household. Both his father and the man who
became his guardian were lawyers. Brodie had been taught to revere
the law, and abhor violence. In one blind, passionate moment, he
had violated both codes.

He entered the police quarters to find the
chief constable, Wilfrid Sturges, sitting at a table beside
Augustus French, the police clerk. They were poring over a pile of
official-looking papers.

“Good grief, what brings a lusty lad like you
in here on a Wednesday evenin’?” Sturges said to Brodie in his
bluff, friendly manner.

“It’s a long story,” Brodie said.

“Well, then, let’s hear it, lad. Gussie here
needs to give his nib-finger a rest, eh, Gussie?”

Gussie had not bothered to look up at the
intruder. Nothing short of an earthquake under his chair could
dissuade him from finishing a sentence once he had started it. He
grunted an indeterminate response and speeded up his nib-finger,
splattering ink in three directions.

“You look like you stepped on a ghost’s
petticoat,” Sturges said, pulling out a chair and motioning for
Brodie to sit down opposite him. “Somethin’ happen out there? I
thought this was the night of yer Shakespeare meetin’.”

“Yes, sir. It was. But I damn near killed a
man afterwards.”

“How?”

“I punched him – hard – on the left
cheek.”

Gussie’s quill pen stuttered, then moved
on.

“Then you better come into the office where
we can talk about it undisturbed.”

“Yes. Thank you. But I’d like Mr. French to
come in with us.”

“Gussie?”

“I’d like to make a formal statement about
what happened half an hour ago – a sort of confession.”

“Jesus, Brodie. This sounds serious.”

“I’m afraid it is, sir.”

***

While Wilfrid Sturges listened and Gussie French
took notes in his private shorthand, Brodie told his story. He
began with the extortion note he had received the previous
Wednesday evening, providing all the details except the specific
nature of the blackmailer’s secret knowledge.

“It was a vague and obviously wild threat
against Miss Ramsay,” he said, fearing of course that more damning
particulars could be revealed if the fellow was apprehended. “But I
felt her honour was at stake.”

“So you planned to confront the fellow and
bring him to us?” Sturges said, trying to be helpful and still
mystified as to why this upstanding young man was insisting on
confessing to a common assault when it was likely that the victim
had already come to and scarpered – happy to have escaped with a
bruised cheek.

“Yes. I prepared a parcel of fake
banknotes.”

“Did you keep the extortion note?”

“No. I destroyed it.”

“Ah. It might have been useful. Still . . .
”

Brodie then recounted, move by move, what he
had done after leaving the club, up to the moment when he had
cornered the culprit and had begun to thrash him.

“I meant to bring him here, sir. I really
did. But he said something repugnant about Miss Ramsay and – ”

“And you gave him what he deserved?”

“I assaulted him. Viciously. He collapsed,
unconscious.”

“But he was breathin’?”

“Yes. I made sure of that – before I . . .
ran.”

“An’ you only give ‘im the one knock on the
cheek?”

“Yes. That was enough. I don’t know why but I
panicked and – ”

“No need to take on so, lad. Even if this
chap makes a complaint – an’ there’s less chance of that than
Gussie misspellin’ a word – it’s only a common assault charge, a
misdemeanour.”

“Even so, I’d like Mr. French to write up a
statement for me to sign. The law is the law: I was raised to
believe that.”

True enough, Sturges thought with a sigh. But
he had seen many a barrister – including Brodie’s guardian and
idol, Richard Dougherty – give it a few twists and turns in a
courtroom. “Well, son, if you insist. But why not wait to see if
Cobb brings the bugger in here, an’ we can sort this all out in
five minutes or less?”

“I’d like to get my account on the record
first,” Brodie said.

“As you wish. Gussie, poise yer pen!”

***

Twenty minutes later Gussie finished writing up a
one-page statement. At the table in the main room, Brodie read it
through and signed it. He had just handed it to Sturges to add his
signature as witness when the front door opened and Cobb came
in.

He was alone.

Looking relieved, Sturges said to him, “So
the villain buggered off, did he?”

“No, Sarge. I found him in the alley behind
The Sailor’s Arms, just like Brodie said.” He glanced across at
Brodie, seated beside Gussie.

“Then where is he now?” Sturges said,
catching the alarm in Cobb’s face.

“Right where I found him.”

“Out cold?”

“No, sir. Dead as a doornail.”

Brodie’s head shot up. “But I only hit him
once on the cheek!”

“That ain’t what killed him. His skull was
crushed in. Somebody bashed him good an’ proper – with
this
.”

From behind his right leg Cobb held up a
silver-tipped walking-stick with a wolf’s-head knob. “It’s got his
blood an’ brains all over it.”

“But . . . but that’s
mine
,” Brodie
gasped. “I must’ve left it in the alley.”

***

Gussie had been sent home to the tender mercies of
his hen-pecking wife. Cobb, Sturges and Brodie were sitting in the
Chief’s office, lit only by a single, flickering candle.

“I didn’t kill him,” Brodie said for the
fifth time.

“We’ll get to that in a minute, son,” Sturges
said. “First, I need to know all the other facts. Cobb, did you
find out who this fellow was?”

“I did. I didn’t know him myself, though I’m
sure I’ve seen him here and there in the taverns about town. His
face wasn’t crushed, only the back of his skull. I saw the mark on
his cheek where Brodie says he hit him.”

“Someone in The Sailor’s Arms would know him,
then?”

“Right. That’s what
I
figured. I
tucked the shillelagh under his coat – I didn’t want anybody
slippin’ away with it – an’ went around to the taproom.”

“The Shakespeare gents had all cleared out?”
Sturges said, recalling the comic events of Wednesday last in that
upper chamber.

“No lights up there anyway.”

“You found Budge, the chap who runs the
place?”

“Yeah, but the bugger said he was too busy
tryin’ to keep his booze flowin’ to come out with me. I was about
to read him the riot act when the missus says she’ll come out an’
have a gander. She give Budge a dirty look – I figure she gives him
plenty of those – an’ followed me out. When we get back there in
the alley – nothin’s been disturbed – I see that Nestor Peck’s been
bringin’ up our rear.”

“Nestor?”

“Seems he was workin’ at the taproom tonight.
The girl Etta was sick.”

“Some help he’d be.”

“Turned out he was more’n a help. He knew
right off who the dead bugger was.”

Brodie leaned forward. “Who was it?”

“Chap named Albert Duggan, his so-called
cousin from Montreal. They been livin’ together at the far end of
town in the old Mulligan cottage beside the hatchery.”

Sturges looked at Brodie.

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Gillian Budge told me she’d seen Duggan in
the taproom once or twice before,” Cobb said. “Last week he made a
pass or somethin’ at young Etta Hogg, an’ Budge threw him out.”

“Sounds like a fine fellow all ‘round,”
Sturges said.

“We found a paper parcel, half-opened, near
the body.”

“Did you send fer Dr. Withers?”

“I sent Nestor off to fetch him. He seemed
terribly shook up by what he saw. But he did manage to find the
coroner. Didn’t come back with him, though! As soon as Angus come,
I showed him the walkin’-stick. By then somebody had lassoed Phil
Rossiter from his patrol, and I left him there to guard the area
till the body can be taken to the surgery. Then I come straight
here.”

“There’s no doubt Duggan’s death was due to
blows from Brodie’s cane?”

“None, I’m afraid. Angus looked at the bloody
knob, an’ told me to bring it here as evidence. He said the fella’d
been hit at least twice on the back of the skull.”

“I only struck him once, on the cheek,”
Brodie said.

Sturges sighed. He needed a smoke badly, but
his pipe was in the other room and he had to think now, quickly.
“Cobb an’ me know you, Brodie. We’re inclined to believe you. The
question of the moment, though, is what Magistrate Thorpe will
believe. On the face of it, it looks bad. You’ve admitted, in
writing, that you an’ Duggan had a rendezvous in that alley, an’
you rigged up a trap fer him, an’ bearded him, punched him
unconscious, an’ took off, leavin’ yer cane behind. You also had a
good reason to want the fella dealt with – one way or another.”

“But I confessed to the crime I
did
commit,” Brodie protested, “not murder.”

“Thorpe may see that as a clever ploy on your
part. You’re a very clever young man.”

“But I didn’t kill him! I abhor
violence.”

“Why don’t we think about who else might’ve
done it?” Cobb said, moving easily into the role of
investigator.

“Good idea.”

“Let’s say that Brodie did exactly what this
awful-davit
says he did,” Cobb said, holding up the signed
statement he had given a quick read. “He leaves the club before the
others to deposit the fake money in the ashcan. The other gents in
the club are still upstairs. I was up there myself last week – as
everybody now knows – and I spotted a window in the coatroom at the
back. It overlooks the alley.”