Desperate Acts (17 page)

“What is it, Chivers?”

“There’s a vagabond at the door, sir, dressed
up in a peeler’s uniform, asking to be let in.”

“Then, show him the road,” Sir P. said
sharply, standing up.

Chivers never got a chance to reply, for he
was abruptly pushed aside, and the aforesaid vagabond barged into
the theatre, blinking in the glare of its chandeliers.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Sir.
P. thundered.

All eyes were now upon the intruder, none of
them welcoming.

“I
am
a policeman, sir. And I’m here
on official police business,” Cobb shouted across the room.

Sir Peregrine converted his scowl into a thin
smile. “Then, you’d better come in, constable,” he said.

NINE

Cobb found himself comfortably seated in the den
adjacent to the platform the Shakespeareans were calling a stage.
In here the chairs were leather and the fire cosy. On the sideboard
a crystal decanter of sherry winked back at the scented, blue
candles. Following Marc’s advice, Cobb planned to interview the
four club members who might provide him with useful evidence,
emphasizing that they were considered to be potential witnesses –
not
suspects. Further, he was advised to indicate that their
testimony could be vital in determining the fate of a fellow club
member, Brodie Langford. That one of them might be the actual
murderer, and lie through his teeth, was to be kept in mind, but
that was all. “If we spook them, we’ll get nothing,” Marc had
warned.

Cobb himself had decided on the order in
which he would see the “witnesses.” After informing Sir Peregrine
in the presence of the whole troupe that Brodie Langford was in
imminent danger of being charged with murder, Cobb indicated the
purpose of his visit, and announced that he would start his
questioning with the baronet, then move on to Dutton, Fullarton and
Crenshaw. The proposed second read-through of
The Dream
Sequence
was indefinitely postponed, and as Cobb and Sir
Peregrine had made their way towards the den, the others drifted,
muttering unpleasantries, towards the dining-room and the remains
of supper. Cobb had thought it best to interview the baronet first
because he wished to have Gillian Budge’s account of the members’
departures either confirmed or disputed. And since the chairman
usually left the meeting last, he should be able to recall exactly
when the others had departed.

“You were the last person to leave the
meetin’?” Cobb began.

Sir Peregrine, who had settled his bulk in a
chair opposite Cobb, decided to adopt a bemused expression, as if
he were the director watching himself play a scene. “Always,
constable. I invariably have papers to collect and re-organize. And
as captain, I feel obliged to be the last man to abandon ship, so
to speak.”

“I see. So you’d remember when the other
gents left?”

“There were only four of them – three after
young Brodie departed prematurely – just before half past the
hour.”

“You’re sure of the time?”

“I am. I requested Mrs. Budge to bring us
materials for a toast – at precisely nine-twenty-five. She was
three minutes late by my pocket watch.”

“So you an’ the fellas still there – Mr.
Dutton, Mr. Fullarton an’ Mr. Crenshaw – went on with yer
toastin’?”

“We did. But toasting is not an indefinite
sporting event, constable. We toasted our success at launching an
exciting new dramatic project, the fruits of which you may have
observed in the next room, and then we toasted the Queen.”

“An’ this would take how long?” Cobb had his
notebook open and his pencil poised, but he was mainly concerned
with checking the time-line he had sketched there, the one he and
Marc had worked out.

“Oh, about five or six minutes. Then I asked
the others to bring their scripts to up to me as I had some
last-minute alterations to pencil in on them, thoughts that
occurred to me only after hearing the members read their parts for
the first time.”

Which must have been quite a shock, Cobb
mused.

“So they didn’t leave right away?”

“No. Andrew Dutton came and stood beside me,
we went over two brief excisions, he said goodnight to us and
left.”

“Through the coatroom an’ down the back
stairs?”

“Yes.”

“Riskin’ any riffraff that might be in the
alley just to avoid the taproom?”

Sir Peregrine’s gaze narrowed slightly: he
could detect the intimation of an impertinence at fifty paces. “We
never experienced any difficulty in exiting via that route,” he
said coldly.

“So Mr. Dutton left about a quarter to
ten?”

“Or a minute before, perhaps.”

“I’m curious, sir, why you gents, all
belongin’ to a chummy club, seem to leave by yerselves. Didn’t you
ever walk home together? Or share a carriage?”

The baronet offered Cobb his well-oiled,
condescending smile. “But none of us have become friends yet, you
see. It is our intense interest in the Bard and his glorious works
that have brought us together. Except for Fullarton, whom I saw
often this past summer, I have met the others only at these
meetings and, at a distance, waved to them from my pew at St.
James. Moreover, we take different routes when we leave. I like to
walk up Peter Street in this fine weather and over to the
Government park, where my driver waits for me with the brougham.
Dutton goes east along Front to Jarvis. And Crenshaw usually rides
his horse here, leaving it in a stable around the corner.”

“What about you an’ Mr. Fullarton, though?
You’re friends of a sort, aren’t you?”

“We might have been, but, since August, I’ve
seen him only here and at St. James. He has an invalid wife, you
know, and rarely socializes. Ordinarily he leaves here quite early
in order to be home with her. Last night was an exception because
of our play-reading. Still, he was next to consult with me, and as
we had only minor changes to his part, he hurried out – through the
cloakroom – at about, say, ten minutes to the hour.”

“That’s very helpful, sir. So that would
leave just you an’ Mr. Crenshaw?”

“A salient deduction, constable. Crenshaw, I
could see, was unhappy about having been assigned the role of
Bottom, so I did not go over his part. I merely spent two or three
minutes explaining that it was the plum role.”

“Then
he
skedadelled?”

Sir Peregrine smiled. “I think that Yankeeism
aptly describes the nature of his departure.”

“So Mr. Crenshaw leaves through the coatroom
at about five minutes to ten?”

“A little before that, I believe. I know that
I immediately began sorting my papers and putting them in my
leather case. I looked at my watch as I got up to leave, and it was
three minutes to ten.”

Which, if the baronet were telling the truth,
would bring him into the cloakroom too late to be of any help to
Brodie. “Think carefully now, sir. When you were in the coatroom,
near that window, did you see or hear anythin’ from the alley?”

“I don’t have to think carefully, constable.
I did glance out the window as I put my cloak on.”

“What did ya see?”

“I saw someone running north up the
alley.”

Cobb’s mouth went dry. “Any idea who it
might’ve been?”

“It was dark and shadowy with swatches of
moonlight here and there. I can only say for certain that it
appeared to be a young person of slim build who could run with some
nimbleness.”

“A ruffian?”

“Hard to say. He was wearing a gentleman’s
coat, I’m pretty sure, from the way it was flopping. And proper
boots, I’d say.”

“You didn’t see anythin’ else?”

“No. That was all. I just assumed it was
someone in a hurry – nothing to do with me or the club.”

“An’ you went down the stairs and onto Front
Street through the narrows at the side of the tavern?”

“I did. And took my usual route to the
Government park.”

Cobb thanked Shuttleworth, who offered to
send along Andrew Dutton. While he was waiting, Cobb looked again
at the time-line in his notebook. Brodie had bumped into Cobb on
Wellington Street about ten o’clock – the fact that he didn’t know
the exact time was maddening – so Sir Peregrine saw either Brodie
or the murderer running away. Duggan had certainly been dead when
Cobb arrived on the scene shortly thereafter. Or else the baronet
was simply lying. If so, it could be because he himself was the
killer, having spotted the comatose Duggan in the alley and
slipping out there after the others had left to bludgeon him to
death. But Shuttleworth didn’t know who Duggan was, and was
definitely too late to have witnessed the altercation and deduced
from it the identity of the blackmailer (assuming, of course, he
was
being blackmailed). On the other hand, maybe
Shuttleworth did know who Duggan was – he could have hung around
his drop-point as Brodie had – but had lacked the courage to deal
with him until last night. If so, the situation in the alley was
tailor-made for a safe, secret kill.

Cobb’s head was still spinning with these
ideas when Andrew Dutton entered the room and sat down where the
baronet had been.

Dutton was a distinguished-looking fellow,
Cobb thought. He had a full head of grey hair that had bleached
evenly with age. With his trimmed goatee, well-cut clothes and
compact build (no pot-belly here), Cobb could see how he might have
attracted two wives. As a barrister he had never been considered
more than competent, but his father had been a successful member of
the ruling Family Compact and had made sure his son prospered from
that association. Now, though, there was more of a hangdog
expression in his face than the settled satisfaction one might have
expected in a comfortably retired worthy. Having twice been made a
widower may have taken its toll.

“How may I be of help, constable? Broderick
Langford is a young man of sterling character, and I would stand up
in any court and say so.”

“We need to know, sir, what you saw or heard
when you left the meetin’ last night.”

“Right. The answer is, alas, brief. I was the
first to leave, perhaps fifteen minutes after Brodie. I did look
out the window in the cloakroom but saw only the moonlight and
thought about how pleasant my walk home might be.”

Cobb pressed Dutton further, but there was
nothing he could add. Dutton said how sorry he was, and left the
room.

Well, Cobb mused, if the fellow
was
lying – an unlikely event – he could have heard the very beginning
of the altercation between Brodie and Duggan as he was descending
the stairs, grown curious, and hid in the shadows near the alley
until the other gents passed by onto Front Street, then slipped out
and used Brodie’s walking-stick on the blackmailer. And Dora might
get her girlish figure back!

Fullarton was next. He was eager to quiz Cobb
about Brodie’s situation, the concern clearly visible in his face,
but Cobb gently reminded him that the best way to help his young
protégé was to state exactly what he saw and heard as he was
leaving the clubroom.

Fullarton took a deep breath. “Right you are,
constable. Well, as I was reaching for my cloak, I heard voices
raised in anger – coming from the alley below. I looked out and saw
two figures grappling.”

Cobb stared at the banker. “But you told Marc
Edwards this mornin’ that you saw nothin’ when you left the
meetin’!”

Fullarton sighed, and looked down at the
carpet. “I am sorry about that. I told Mr. Edwards the truth – in a
way. I said I didn’t see anything that would help my young friend.
I was upset and confused.”

“Then you better tell me the
whole
truth. Right now. You seen two men grapplin’, you say. Was Brodie
one of em?”

“That’s just the point, constable. I wasn’t
sure. Their faces were not in the beam of moonlight, but for an
instant I thought one of the two might be Brodie. Then I thought:
it couldn’t be because Brodie had left fifteen or twenty minutes
before and would be halfway home by now. I assumed – and I have
spent a sleepless night regretting it – that it was a pair of
drunks brawling in the alley, a not-uncommon occurrence around that
tavern. Had I gone back to assist the lad, none of this tragedy
might have happened.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No. When I got to the bottom of the stairs,
the voices had stopped or become inaudible. I just continued on
down to Front Street.” He stared down at the carpet again. When he
looked up, he said, “But you don’t really believe Brodie Langford
could kill a man?”

“It don’t matter what
I
believe, sir.
Duggan was beaten to death with Brodie’s walkin’-stick.”

Fullarton paled. Marc Edwards had not given
him this damning detail. “I see. But there must be some plausible
explanation – ”

“I hope so.” Cobb felt his own voice
beginning to wobble. “Thank you, sir, for yer help.” He wanted to
offer Horace Fullarton some comfort, but knew that his duty lay in
being calm and objective.

Fullarton slumped out.

Cobb did not have to reflect very long before
realizing that, so far, he had not uncovered any evidence to
exonerate Brodie. Dutton had seen nothing. Fullarton had heard the
beginning of the altercation, but was unable or unwilling to
identify Brodie as one of the participants (though Brodie himself
had already done so in his ill-considered “confession”).
Shuttleworth had seen someone (possibly the killer) running away up
the alley. What they needed was a witness who had seen Brodie punch
Duggan once and immediately take flight, without his cane. Cyrus
Crenshaw was the last hope.

Crenshaw was not terribly forthcoming. He
appeared to resent Cobb’s intrusion into their gentlemanly
frivolities. But, then, Brodie Langford was hardly known to him,
and as a Legislative Councillor and self-appointed Tory, he may
have felt little sympathy for the Yankee émigré and former ward of
the much-maligned Richard Dougherty.